in a constant state between wanting and needing

The nightmares don’t stop when he wakes up. That’s the thing nobody tells you. They linger in the corners of his vision, in the fluorescent flicker of the Family Video lights, in the static hum of the television playing previews on loop.

He keeps moving. That helps. Movement means he’s not back there, not strapped to that chair with his face throbbing and blood in his mouth and Robin screaming his name through the drugged haze. Movement means he’s here, now, stocking shelves and rewinding tapes and pretending he’s a person who works a normal job in a normal town where normal things happen.

The coke helps too.

He’s not proud of it. That’s the thing— he knows what it is, knows what he’s doing, knows the way his hands shake when he’s been too many hours without a bump, knows the way his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. He knows his mom would die if she knew. His dad would probably laugh, then disinherit him properly this time instead of just threatening it.

He's done it once or twice in high school. Tommy H and Carol would bring it over— back when they were still speaking, back when Steve's house was the designated party spot because his parents were never home and nobody cared what happened to the furniture.

He remembers those nights in fragments. The way the high made everything sharper, brighter, faster. How his fingers would drum relentlessly on the armrest of his dad's leather recliner while some movie played that none of them were watching. Tommy and Carol would start making out on his parents' couch within twenty minutes, every time, like clockwork. Then they'd escalate— clothes coming off, Carol straddling Tommy's lap, the wet sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Steve would try to focus on the TV, but Tommy would catch his eye. Would grin at him, wolfish and mean, and force Carol to look over too. They'd give him a show— moaning louder, moving slower, making sure he saw everything.

And Steve would sit there, half-hard at best despite his sex drive being kicked into overdrive, palming himself through his jeans because that's all his body would cooperate with. The coke made him want it but wouldn't let him have it properly, and that made him feel even more pathetic, more lonely. So he'd sit there listening to Tommy and Carol fuck on his couch, high off coke, nursing whiskey stolen from his dad's cabinet, feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

But it keeps him awake. Keeps him sharp. Keeps the edges of everything bright and manageable instead of soft and suffocating.

He does a line before his shift. In his car, in the Family Video parking lot, because he’s run out of places where he feels safe enough to let his guard down for the thirty seconds it takes. His hands don’t shake when he does this part. Muscle memory, maybe. Or maybe this is the only thing he’s good at anymore— the efficient mechanical process of self-destruction.

The powder burns going up. Always does. He tips his head back, pinches his nose, blinks hard against the sting. Then comes the drip, bitter and medicinal down the back of his throat, and he swallows it down with the dregs of yesterday’s Dr. Pepper from the cupholder.

The world sharpens. Everything gets louder, brighter, faster. His heartbeat kicks up— too fast, probably dangerous, definitely not sustainable— but god, it feels better than the alternative. Better than the gray nothing that settles over him when he’s sober, the weight that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s still somehow alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

When he walks into Family Video, he’s smiling. It’s not real— hasn’t been real in months— but it’s there. Keith barely looks up from his magazine. Robin does, though. Robin always does.

She’s behind the counter, reorganizing the candy display with the kind of focused intensity that means she’s either avoiding her own thoughts or overthinking his. Probably both. She glances up when the door chimes, and her eyes do a quick assessment, that flash of concern she tries to hide but never quite manages.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s careful. Everything with Robin is careful now, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong word will shatter whatever’s holding him together.

Maybe she’s right.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice comes out too bright, too fast, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane. Well, not insane, but you know, backed up near the… anyway, I’m here. I’m good. We good?”

Robin’s mouth does something complicated. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him either.

But he moves, because that’s what he does now. Stocks the returns, alphabetizes the new releases, helps a middle-aged woman find something “fun and sexy” for her Pamper-Chef party. His hands move too fast, fumbling tapes, dropping things. His jaw works constantly, chewing nothing, grinding teeth, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.

He talks too much. Knows it, can’t stop it. Words pour out of him like water from a broken faucet. It’s jokes that don’t land, observations nobody asked for, rambling tangents that lose their point halfway through. Robin listens, responds when she can, but he sees the way she watches him. The way she’s always watching now.

“You okay?” she asks during their break, sitting on the curb behind the store, watching him smoke a cigarette he doesn’t actually want.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good. Great, actually. Feeling really good today.”

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Robin.”

“Steve.”

He takes a drag, hands trembling slightly, and doesn’t meet her eyes. The sun is too bright. Everything is too bright. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore, like he’s wearing someone else’s body and doing a shit job of pretending it’s his.

“I’m handling it,” he says finally.

“This isn’t handling it.” Her voice cracks slightly. Even though she probably has no clue what “this” entails, she knew it was something to worry about. She saw right through him now, even when they’ve only been friends for less than a year. 

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and knowing doesn’t change anything. Knowing doesn’t make the nightmares stop. Doesn’t make the mall go away. Doesn’t bring back the version of himself who existed before that summer, before the Russians, before he learned exactly how much pain a human body can endure before it stops feeling like a body at all.

He finishes his shift. Smiles at customers. Makes change. Recommends movies he hasn’t seen and probably never will. When it’s over, when he’s back in his car in the empty parking lot, he does another line because the crash is coming and he can’t face it sober.

The high doesn’t feel as good the second time. Never does. But it keeps him moving, keeps him functional, keeps him from having to think about the fact that he’s nineteen years old and his life has already ended twice.

He drives home with the windows down, radio too loud, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. The Harrington house is dark when he pulls up. It’s always dark. His parents are in Indianapolis, or maybe Chicago, or maybe they’re dead and nobody bothered to tell him.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he sits in his car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, and tries to remember what it felt like to want something. Anything. A future, a purpose, a reason to keep doing this day after day after day.

Nothing comes.

So he turns the car back on and drives until the tank is almost empty, until the sun starts coming up, until the coke wears off enough that exhaustion finally drags him under.

And tomorrow he’ll do it again.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.-.-.-.

Another thing Steve Harrington is strung out on is sex.

Steve Harrington has been fucking. A lot. It gives him almost the same rush as the coke does— that brief obliteration of self, that momentary escape from his own head.

Steve loves sex. Loves the heat of it, the mechanics, the way bodies fit together in configurations that make sense when nothing else does. He loves watching a girl take him, the way her face changes when he pushes inside, the small adjustments her body makes to accommodate him. He loves when they call out his name— proof that he exists, that he's real, that he's here. He loves the pretty sounds they make, the gasps and whimpers that mean he's doing something right. He loves when they tell him he's good at this, that he's making them feel good, because it's the only thing he's still good at anymore. He loves giving those praises right back, feeling them tighten around him when he calls them “pretty” or a “good girl.” He loves pleasing them, loves the focused simplicity of it—read the signs, adjust accordingly, make her come. He loves the rush, the high, the brief euphoria when he finishes, that thirty-second window where his brain goes mercifully quiet.

Then it's over and he's alone again and nothing's changed except now he's sticky and tired and the girl is getting dressed and he has to pretend he'll call.

Tonight when he gets off work, the loneliness hits him the moment he steps inside his empty house.

Robin didn't work today— had the day off, probably spending it with her mom or locked in her room listening to records. He'd been stuck with Keith for the entire shift, and Steve had tried his hardest to handle it. 

He can quit anytime he wants. That's what he tells himself. He knows how and when. So it's no big deal that he kept disappearing to the bathroom to get a bump, something he needed to survive eight hours of Keith's breathing and Keith's commentary and Keith's existence.

On his third trip, Keith had made some joke about him shitting his pants— loud enough that the pretty customer Steve had been on his way to help could definitely hear. The girl he'd been planning to flirt with, get her number, take her out, fuck her, forget her.

Now it's Friday night and Robin is busy. Dustin is busy with whatever nerdy shit he does nowadays. And Steve is bored and alone, still wearing his Family Video vest and polo and jeans, standing in his kitchen that echoes with emptiness.

He'd taken another hit twenty minutes ago and he's never felt more alive, more awake, more like his skin is electric. And unfortunately, with the wake comes that desire— low and insistent in the bottom of his belly, pooling heat that demands attention.

It's almost ridiculous that he doesn't question who to call.

It's not like you and him are anything. You're a good friend. Kind. Pretty in this understated way that sneaks up on him. And maybe if things were different, if he were different, if the world hadn't ended and restarted and ended again—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

He dials your number, the one he knows by heart now. 

"Hello?"

Soft. Slightly cautious because it's late.

His eyes are already dilated but he feels them expand wider when your voice comes over the line.

"Steve?" You sound surprised but not unhappy. He hasn’t even said anything to let you know who it was. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that he’s the only one who calls at this hour. "It's almost midnight."

"I know, I know." He laughs, pacing across the kitchen, cordless phone pressed to his ear. "Are you busy?"

"I'm reading." There's a smile in your voice. "Why?"

"Come over."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm bored out of my mind and—" He stops, switches tactics, drops his voice lower. "Come on, honey. You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you?"

It's code. You both know it's code. This isn't about drinking and it never has been.

You sigh, but it's fond. "You're ridiculous."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me twenty minutes." You arrive in twenty-two, and he's still wearing his Family Video vest because somewhere between hanging up and you knocking on his door, he'd decided— high and wired and restless— that the kitchen needed to be deep cleaned.

Now.

At 11 PM on a Friday.

He's reorganizing the spice cabinet when you walk in, letting yourself in because he always left the door unlocked for you. He can hear you giggle when you find him in the kitchen. 

"Were you cleaning?"

"Maybe." He grins, abandoning the paprika to pull you into the living room. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Within thirty minutes you've killed three bottles between you and migrated to the couch, your legs tucked under you, his arm stretched along the back cushions. The conversation flows easy. It’s of work stories, Robin's latest drama with Keith, the new arrivals at Family Video, but there's an undercurrent humming beneath it all.

You lean in and kiss him.

It starts slow, exploratory, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. But it escalates fast. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap. Your fingers grip the green fabric of his Family Video vest, clutching it tight for leverage as you deepen the kiss.

Steve groans into your mouth, hips already rolling up against you. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, thankfully, and he grinds against your thigh desperately, seeking friction. The vest bunches under your grip, polyester crinkling, and his hands slide up your back under your shirt.

Your skin is so soft. The coke makes him hyperaware of every texture—the cotton of your shirt, the smoothness of your back, the slight roughness of the couch fabric under his knees. But mostly it's you. The heat of you. The way you feel pressed against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, humping your leg like a teenager, unable to stop himself. "You feel so good."

You make a small sound. It’s like a half-laugh and half-moan, and you grind down on him harder. 

In one swift move he lays you down. 

Now you're kissing him harder, your back against the cushions and him half on top of you. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, pushing up under your shirt to feel bare skin. Your mouth tastes like beer and something sweet— gum, maybe, or chapstick— and he chases the flavor of it with his tongue. 

He's hyperfocused on every detail. The way your lips are slightly swollen already from kissing. The way your chest rises and falls with your breathing, faster now. The little sounds you make when his tongue finds yours. You're so responsive, so fucking perfect under him, and the high he’s on makes him feel like he could do this for hours, could map every reaction, could learn exactly what makes you gasp and whimper and moan.

You're still holding tightly to the green vest, as he desperately humps your leg, his cock aching. He can feel the heat of you even through layers of clothing and it's driving him insane.

God, you're beautiful like this. Hair mussed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He wants to memorize this. Wants to burn this image into his brain so he can recall it later when he's alone and the house is too quiet and he needs something good to hold onto.

But he's jittery. Coming down from the last high, and his hands are shaking as he tries to unbutton your blouse. The buttons are small, slippery, and his fingers won't cooperate. He fumbles, curses under his breath, tries again.

"Fuck," he mutters, laughing awkwardly because he can feel you watching him struggle. "Sorry, I…long day. My hands are—"

He can't sit still. The exhaustion is creeping back in around the edges, that bone-deep tired that the coke usually keeps at bay. He's desperate for you, wants you. He wants to see more of you, touch more of you, taste more of you, but his body isn't responding the way it should and his brain won't slow down and he needs—

"I need—" he starts, then stops himself.

He stands up abruptly, crosses to where his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His hands find the baggie in the inner pocket— muscle memory, autopilot— and he's back at the coffee table before he's fully processed what he's doing.

He pulls out his dad's credit card. The one they left behind with a note: For groceries and bills. Don't spend it on anything stupid.

He cuts sharp, clean lines on the glass surface with practiced efficiency. One swipe, two, three—the scraping sound of plastic on glass loud in the quiet room. He leans down. Inhales one line, quick and sharp, the burn immediate and familiar. His throat closes around the drip, bitter and chemical.

He notices the silence then. How quiet you've gotten.

He freezes, finger still pressed to his nose, and slowly looks over at you.

You're watching him. Not moving. Not speaking. Your eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. They’re still swollen from kissing him, and even now, even caught like this, he thinks about how good you look. Hair messed up from his hands, shirt rumpled, sitting there looking at him like... he can't read the expression on your face. Something between shock and concern and something else he doesn't want to name.

Steve sniffs hard, licking his lips where the drip is already coating them. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops, swallows. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

You should leave. He knows you should leave. He's shown you the ugliest part of himself and now you're going to walk out and he'll deserve it and he'll be alone again and—

"Can I try?"

The words don't compute at first. He stares at you.

"What?"

"Can I try it?" you ask again, and your voice is steady, certain.

His eyes dance across your face, trying to see any inclination that you don't mean it. But all he sees is you. You’re pretty and patient and here and you’re looking at him like you actually want to understand this part of him too. The coke makes his heart race faster, makes the moment feel surreal and heightened, makes you look almost ethereal in the low lamplight.

His buzz has his mind like mush, thoughts moving too fast and too slow simultaneously. He should say no. Should tell you to go home, to forget what you saw, to stay away from him and his shit and everything he's become.

Instead he hears himself say, "Yeah. Come here."

You move from the couch to the floor, kneeling beside him at the coffee table. And god, the sight of you like that. On your knees next to him, looking at him with those wide eyes. It sends a bolt of heat straight through him that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with how badly he wants you.

He cuts another line for you— smaller than his, because you've never done this before and he's not completely gone yet. The scraping sound seems louder now, more obscene. He watches you look at it, sees the slight tremor in your breathing. Even nervous, you're gorgeous. He wants to touch you, pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck.

"Like this?" you ask, leaning forward slightly, and the movement makes your shirt gape at the neckline. He can see the curve of your breast, the shadow between them, and he has to force himself to focus.

"Wait." His hand comes up, gathering your hair back from your face. The strands are soft, slipping through his fingers, and when his knuckles brush the nape of your neck you shiver. He feels the goosebumps rise on your skin and it makes him want to put his mouth there, feel you shiver under his lips. "Yeah. Like that. Cover one nostril with your finger. Atta girl... now inhale through the other. Quick and sharp. Don't stop halfway or you'll waste it."

You hesitate for a second, and he can see the war happening behind your eyes. Then you lean down and do it.

The sound— the sharp inhale, the slight catch in your throat— makes his cock twitch. There's something so intimate about this, watching you do this, teaching you, sharing this fucked-up thing with you. He shouldn't find it hot. Knows he shouldn't. But the coke strips away his ability to lie to himself and the truth is he's never been more turned on in his life.

When you come back up, your face is already changing. Eyes watering immediately, nose scrunching, one hand flying up to cover your face. Even like this— eyes red, nose running— you're beautiful to him. Everything about you is beautiful to him right now, heightened and perfect and his.

"It burns," you say, voice strained and slightly nasal.

"Yeah. That's normal. It'll pass." He reaches out, thumb swiping at the residual powder dusting your nostril. Your skin is so soft under his touch. He wants to touch you everywhere. "Open your mouth."

You do, lips parting, and the sight of your mouth opening obediently for him sends heat pooling in his gut. He rubs the powder on your gums— slow circles with the pad of his thumb that make your eyes go darker, pupils starting to dilate. The bitter taste will hit your tongue, will numb your mouth slightly, and you'll chase that feeling for hours after.

He's watching your face so intently. The way your eyelashes flutter. The way your lips look wrapped around his thumb. The pink of your tongue visible behind your teeth. The coke makes him feel like he could stare at you forever and still find new details to fixate on.

As he starts to pull his thumb back, your lips close around it. Your tongue swirls, wet and warm, cheeks hollowing as you suck, and the sight of it punches the air from his lungs.

When his thumb comes out it's with a wet pop that goes straight to his cock.

"Christ," he breathes.

You're going to ruin him. He knows it with absolute certainty. This moment, this image of you on your knees with your pupils blown wide and your lips wet and swollen, is going to live in his head rent-free for the rest of his life.

Then you're on him, kissing him hard, and it's different now. Rougher. More desperate. You're both chasing something— the high, the heat, the obliteration of thought— and your mouths crash together with bruising force.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and yours meets it immediately, tasting him, and the kiss is wet and open and obscene. The sounds fill the room— gasping breaths, the slick slide of tongues, the wet smack of lips separating and meeting again, small desperate noises from both of you that might be pleasure or might be something else entirely.

Steve's hand finds your cunt through your jeans and even through the denim he can feel how wet you are, heat radiating through the fabric. "Fuck," he groans against your mouth, voice wrecked. "So wet already."

But the coke has him in its grip, and despite how badly he wants you, his cock is only half-interested. The blood hasn't rushed south yet, too busy keeping his heart racing at dangerous speeds and his brain firing in every direction.

You rock your hips against his hand, seeking friction, and he helps you. He guides you from the floor back onto the couch, positions himself under you, between your legs.

You grind against him, desperate and needy, your hips rolling in a rhythm that's almost violent. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, gripping through your shirt, holding you steady as you drag your pussy against his growing bulge. The denim-on-denim friction is too much and not enough, the scrape of it audible in the quiet room. The fabric on fabric, your breathing getting harsher, small gasps punching out of you with each roll of your hips.

He's getting harder now, finally, blood responding to stimulus even if delayed. But you don't stop. You keep moving, keep grinding, and he keeps pulling you down harder, rougher, the sounds getting wetter somehow even through all the layers. Your arousal soaking through your jeans, his cock straining against his zipper.

His mouth finds yours again. It’s sloppy and open, tongues sliding together, panting into each other's mouths. He can taste the chemical bitterness on your tongue, mixing with beer and something that's uniquely you. He pulls back to kiss down your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping skin. You whimper and it’s high and needy. The sound makes him grind up into you harder.

He pulls your shirt aside roughly, mouth finding your collarbone, and sucks a mark there. Hard. Intentional. His teeth close on skin and you moan, back arching, pushing your breasts toward his face.

His lips find them through your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it's wet and you're squirming. His eyes when he looks up at you are completely blown. His pupils are so wide the hazel is almost gone, swallowed by black, and when he sees your face he knows you look the same. Wrecked and wild and desperate.

"Need to touch you," he mumbles against your breast, words slurring slightly. "Need to feel you come."

His hand works between your bodies, fumbling with the button of your jeans. He finally gets it open. The pop loud in the room, zipper rasping down, and slides his hand inside your panties.

You're soaked. Swollen and hot and so wet his fingers slide through your folds with no resistance, the obscene slick sound of it making him groan. He finds your clit, circles it with firm pressure, and you cry out loudly.

"Steve!"

He fingers you fast and rough, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb works your clit, and it's frantic— the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you mixing with your gasps, the squelch of it indecent and perfect. He’s still kissing you open mouthed and sloppy. The pace of his fingers are too quick, the pressure too hard, but you're there, you're close, he can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, can hear it in the pitch of your moans climbing higher.

"Come on," he urges, voice rough and desperate. "Let me feel it. Come for me. Come on my fingers."

You do, crying out his name. "Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your whole body goes rigid before the orgasm tears through you. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight it almost hurts, and he works you through it, fingers gentling slightly, the wet sounds continuing as he draws it out.

When you finally go limp against him he pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining, coated in you, and without thinking he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. The taste of you— salt and musk and something sweet underneath— makes him groan.

You're both panting, sweating, hearts racing from the coke and the exertion and the need that still hasn't been fully satisfied.

He's still only half-hard, the coke keeping his body from catching up to his mind, and he needs more. Needs the friction, needs the build, needs something to chase.

"Keep going," he rasps, hands gripping your hips. "Don't stop."

This time when you grind down the angle is different. It’s harder, more focused. He can feel himself getting there, blood finally rushing where it needs to go, his cock filling out properly against the confines of his jeans.

The sounds are obscene. The fabric scraping, your breathing harsh and ragged, the small mewls punching out of you with each roll of your hips. He's gripping you so hard his knuckles go white, bruises blooming under his fingers, and you're chasing it too, chasing that edge you can't quite reach through the chemical haze.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, keep going. Almost there."

When he's finally fully hard, aching and straining against denim, he doesn't wait. Can't wait. He lays you down on the couch, your back hitting the cushions, and you're both fumbling with clothes. Buttons, zippers, fabric pulled and shoved and discarded until you're bare beneath him.

He can't even wait. Can't take the time to appreciate the sight of you spread out on his couch, can't slow down enough to make this good. He lines himself up and pushes inside in one thrust.

You cry out. It’s sharp and high, and he groans, the sensation muted but present. He can barely feel it, knows it's the same for you, but he can tell you're being stretched. Can see it in the way your mouth falls open, the way your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders.

One pump. Two. Then his pace is fast. His hips slapping against yours, the wet crack of skin on skin filling the room, rhythmic and filfthy and loud in the quiet house. He's gripping the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, knuckles white, the other splayed across your hip hard enough to bruise. One knee is up on the cushions, giving him the angle to really take you, to drive deep, and the couch creaks beneath the both of you with every thrust.

It's rough. Unrelenting. The coke has numbed you both out and he's chasing sensation through a fog, trying to feel anything beyond the muted pressure. So he goes harder, faster, like he can fuck his way through the chemical wall if he just doesn't stop.

The little punched-out ah, ah, ah sounds you make with each drive, involuntary and breathless, building on top of each other like a song he wants to memorize.

"Feels so good," you moan.

He changes angles, dropping his weight onto his forearm, bending over you to kiss you. Your tongues sliding together, wet and messy, his mouth swallowing the next gasp before it can escape. Then his mouth finds your neck, and he sucks hard. His teeth scraping skin until you twitch beneath him. Another hickey blooms under his mouth, darker than the first, and he drags his lips lower.

His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until you arch up into him with a sharp cry that echoes off the walls. He does the same to the other. It’s so wet a string of salvia between his lips and your tit, leaving matching marks. He then pulls back to watch.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the movement hypnotic, and he could watch it forever. Your mouth is forming shapes. Os and gasps and his name broken into syllables, “Ste—, Steve—, oh—” the sounds dissolving into each other. You look so sexy like this. Wrecked and flushed, sweat already clinging to your skin, hair fanned out across the cushions, whiny little gasps punching out of you with each drive of his hips like you can't help it, like he's making you make those sounds and you have no say in it.

You're trying to grab at him, trying to match his pace, nails raking down his back hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.

Then he stops.

The sudden absence of movement is almost violent. The room goes quiet. It’s only your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch settling. 

You're so oversensitive, so lost in it, that you don't notice at first. Your hips roll forward chasing friction that isn't there anymore. Then your eyes snap open. They are confused, glazed, pupils swallowed whole by black, and you're about to ask what, why, please— when he slips out of you and reaches for the baggie on the coffee table.

He's back in seconds.

He makes a line between your breasts— careful, practiced, the white powder stark and almost pretty against your damp skin. Then he leans down, nose pressing into the valley between them, one hand splayed flat against your sternum to hold you still. 

He inhales sharp. One smooth, practiced drag, the burn immediate, his exhale warm and humid against your chest. The excess dusts your skin in a fine scatter and he doesn't pull back. Just presses his nose into you, sniffing, breathing you in, his face buried between your breasts, moving it back and forth. His stubble dragging rough against your skin, and you laugh, startled, the sound bright and real and so you that something in his chest does a complicated thing he doesn't have words for.

Then his mouth finds your nipple again and the laugh cuts off into a moan.

He sucks hard, and you cry out, "Steve!" The sensation cutting through the numbness for one sharp moment.

You catch him off guard then, both palms flat against his chest, and push. He goes easily. He falls back against the couch with a breathless laugh, sprawling, looking up at you with blown pupils and that crooked grin that does something unfair to his face.

"Your turn," you say, voice sweet and breathless, and the combination of the two— the sweetness, the breathlessness— makes his stomach clench.

He's grinning as he reaches for the baggie. Makes a line at the curve of his stomach— right above where soft meets the trail of dark hair leading down, the skin there pale and vulnerable. His hand shakes slightly, the powder scattering more than he means it to, and he struggles to concentrate because he can already feel the ghost of your breath against his skin as you lean in. 

"Hold on," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don't hold on.

Your tongue licks up his happy trail first, wet and warm, and he gasps. His abs contracting involuntarily, the baggie nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Christ—"

You smile against his skin. He can feel it.

You kiss the bottom of his belly— the soft part he's always been self-conscious about— and the second he finishes the line his hand is in your hair. Fisting the strands, gathering them back from your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. He can feel his own pulse in his palm where he grips you. 

You come up to his chest, kissing his pecs, your tongue circling his nipples, and god he wishes he could feel it properly but you look so fucking hot when you glance up at him. Eyes wide and innocent, pupils blown to black, lips parted and shining.

He hasn't told anyone. Wouldn't be doing this with anyone else. The thought hits him like a truck and he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s messy and wet and desperate. You bite his bottom lip hard enough that he should feel pain but the coke has stolen that too.

He gets you on all fours then, your knees dipping into the couch cushions as he kneels up behind you. He worships the curve of your spine with his hands, the nape of your neck with his mouth. The fat of your ass fills his palms and he grips it, spreads you open, then slips back inside.

And he's unrelenting again. Thrust after thrust, your body jolting forward with each one, gasps punching out of you in rhythm with his hips. He can feel you come again— the clench and flutter around his cock— as he circles your clit with determined fingers.

Your body shakes and he flushes his chest against your back, bicep coming around your throat in a loose headlock, his mouth finding your neck. The sounds are dirty— wet and slapping, skin on skin, your ass meeting his hips with each brutal thrust. He's being rough but it's controlled, purposeful, chasing something neither of you can quite reach.

"You feel so good for me," he whispers against your ear, breath hot and harsh.

You whimper.

"You're so fucking hot like this."

He knows his breath against your ear makes you feel something because you whisper, "Fuck, more Steve, please." the words broken and desperate.

He's gripping your ass now, guiding you to an even faster tempo, and he can feel the head of his cock brush against something deep inside you. His heavy cock twitches, finally getting close.

He lets out a curse when he feels your teeth sink into his bicep as you cry out. You give a loud moan muffled against his skin. The high makes him feel like he has to return it and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard.

He whimpers loudly back in your ear when he feels himself finally reaching the edge, that coiled tension in his gut starting to unravel.

Then his hand finds the middle of your back and presses. Flat and firm, pushing you down. Your hands clutch the armrest, knuckles going white, your forehead bowing down to meet it too as your back arches. The new angle wrings a sharp gasp out of you.

He pulls out.

The noise you make is immediate. High and bereft, hips rolling back on instinct, searching, finding nothing. Your ass lifts and wavers in the air and he watches it with dark blown eyes and says nothing for a moment.

"Stay still."

You don't.

You wiggle back toward him and it’s shameless and chasing. Steve’s palm cracks down.

"Harder," you gasp.

You wiggle again. Deliberately.

He spanks you harder, the sound sharp in the room.

"Steve." His name wrecked in your mouth. "Harder."

So he gives you harder. Everything he has behind it, palm connecting with a sound that's almost too loud, too much. The welt rises fast. The whole spread of his large hand mapped out on your skin in one angry blooming mark that he stares at for a beat too long. It feels like he has done another line right then and there of how euphoric he feels.

Then both hands grip you, nails biting in, spreading you open, and he drops his mouth to you.

His tongue finds your cunt first and he doesn't ease into it. The coke has him wired and single-minded, every nerve lit and humming, and it makes him relentless. His tongue works fast and hard, licking into you with a focused feverish energy that makes you cry out and scrabble uselessly at the armrest. He doesn't let your hips move. Holds you open with both hands and just goes, like he's trying to take you apart, like his brain has locked onto this and won't release until you're shaking.

Then he drags his tongue up to your rim and the sound you make is startled and high and desperate. He presses the tip there and works. It’s fast, hard circles that don't let up, his tongue pushing insistent and relentless, the coke driving him past any point of subtlety. A thumb keeping you open for him, as your other hand finds your cunt and rubs with the same frantic energy and you cry out something that might be his name or might be nothing at all. 

Your hand flies back, grasp his hair. Your grip is hard, fingers twisting into the roots and pulling, and the sharp tug sends a bolt straight down his spine. His breath stutters against you. Even through the coke the sensation cuts through, immediate and grounding, and something low in his chest clenches at the fact that you're holding on to him specifically. Not the couch, not the cushions. Him.

Then he guides you down. Fully flat, stomach to the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric. He lines himself up and drives into you in one stroke and the sound you make punches out against the fabric. It’s breathless and broken and loud.

He doesn't stop. Flesh against flesh, the wet slap of it filling the room, mixing with his grunts and the broken syllables he's making of your name, incoherent and desperate and not quite swearing but not quite words either.

Finally he can feel the numbed-out bubble popping in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he's coming. He can't quite tell through the haze, but he continues making faltered thrusts into you anyway, riding it out. 

He pants between your shoulder blades, forehead dropping there too, both of you completely still for a moment except for the heaving of your lungs. His hands are braced on either side of you, trembling slightly. Beneath him you're still clutching the cushions, knuckles slow to release, fingers uncurling one by one as the tension drains out of you. 

He thinks about the mess underneath you both. He's going to have to flip over the cushions later, hide the evidence.

He can feel the aftershocks moving through you. Little waves, involuntary, your body still working through it. You’re twitching and shivering under his weight, hips making these tiny helpless rolls that you probably aren't even aware of. Like your body hasn't gotten the message yet that it's over. Like it's still chasing something, still wringing the last of it out.

He watches it happen. Stays still and just lets you ride it out beneath him, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath evening out slowly while yours does the opposite. Those soft broken sounds still escaping you, little exhales that aren't quite moans and aren't quite sighs.

Your whole body is flushed and damp, trembling in waves, and he can feel every shiver of it against his skin.

He presses his lips to your shoulder blade. Then between them. Quick and soft and almost reverent… almost. A string of kisses down your spine that don't match anything that came before them.

Eventually the trembling slows. Your breathing deepens. The grip on the cushion finally releases completely.

He eases back. Offers you his hand without thinking about it.

You both sit up slowly, carefully, like the room might tip if you move too fast.

He's still high but he looks at you with concern. "You okay, right?"

"Yeah." Breathless. Smiling. Your voice still hasn't fully come back.

He hates how good you look like this. Wrecked and soft, hair tangled, lips swollen, that particular fucked-out looseness in your expression that the high and the orgasm have conspired to put there. If he really tried— another bump, maybe two— you could probably go again. Go all night. His body is already filing the suggestion away somewhere dangerous.

But something in his chest twists at the sight of you.

The mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes. The marks blooming across your collarbones, your shoulders, your neck— purple and red and unmistakably his. Your hair messed beyond repair. All of it his doing, every bit of it, and the high isn't quite enough to make that feel uncomplicated.

"You sure you're okay?" He asks it before he can stop himself, and he hears it—hears the shift in his own voice, that particular register he falls into. Concerned. Careful. The boy who checks on people, who makes sure everyone got home safe, who asks twice because once never feels like enough.

There he goes again. Falling into it with someone he considers his friend. Someone he secretly, quietly, in the part of himself he doesn't examine too closely… wishes could be something more.

At first it's just the high and the afterglow doing the looking— soft eyes, dopamine-loose smile, drinking in the sight of him equally wrecked. You find the bite mark on his bicep, already darkening. The hickies scattered across his neck and chest that he didn't feel forming, that his body couldn't register through the chemical wall. You look at all of it with something warm and unhurried.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's subtle— only a flicker behind your eyes, there and gone— but he catches it. He's been watching your face all night. He knows its geography now.

Sadness. Worry. Something that looks uncomfortably close to longing.

He knows. Doesn't want to know, but knows anyway— the way you always know the things you're trying hardest not to. You're worried about him. Have been for a while, probably. Tonight wasn't just want, wasn't just the hour and the high and the phone call pulling you here. Some part of you came because you didn't want him to be alone with it.

And some part of him— the part he keeps quietest— knows you want more too. Has known for a while. Files it away in the same place as another bump and just one more night and all the other things he tells himself he'll deal with later.

"I am," you say.

But you aren't looking at him when you say it.

You end up going upstairs to his room anyway, leaving behind the mess. He turns off the lamp. The two of you navigate the dark staircase side by side without touching.

He wouldn't have asked you over if he didn't have the house to himself tomorrow. That's what he tells himself.

He'll probably stay awake anyway while you sleep.

Neither of you shower. His bed is unmade, same as always. You crawl in from opposite sides, the mattress dipping, and normally there'd be talking. There's usually talking. It’s the easy, rambling kind that fills the dark, nothing important, everything comfortable. But the crash is already pulling at him, heavier than usual, the coke's debt coming due all at once. His eyes go leaden. His thoughts slow and blur at the edges.

He thinks, distantly, that he should stay awake. Keep watch. Old habit.

He doesn't.

.-.-.-.

Sunlight hits him first.

White and merciless through the gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he surfaces with a groan already forming in his chest. His head is a closed fist. 

Migraine.

It’s the specific kind that lives behind his left eye, the kind that's been his companion since that summer, another reason the sunglasses are never far, another thing he doesn't explain to people.

He turns over slowly.

Stops.

You're still asleep. Your face is toward him, lashes dark against your cheek, mascara tracked down in faint smudged lines you don't know are there yet. Your brow is slightly furrowed even now— not peaceful, not quite. Like sleep hasn't fully convinced you to let go of something.

That feeling in his chest does what it always does when he looks at you for too long. Pinches. Pulls. Fills up with something warm and complicated and shot through with shame— at the marks on your skin, at the smudged mascara, at the furrow in your sleeping brow that he put there. That he caused, one way or another. The mess downstairs. All of it.

He gets out of bed carefully. Doesn't let himself look at you again.

The living room is exactly what he left it. The coffee table. The scattered clothes. The cushions are slightly out of place.

His hands are shaking before he's fully reached the bottom of the stairs. That familiar morning tremor. He’s anxious before he's had time to think of something to be anxious about, dreading the day before it's started, bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't touch.

He crosses to the coffee table on autopilot. Sits on the ground, his back against the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

There’s still white lines on the surface of the coffee table, patiently waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time.

He thinks about you upstairs, brow furrowed in sleep. He thinks about Robin behind the Family Video counter, watching him with that careful, knowing look she tries to hide. He thinks about Dustin calling him Steve the Babysitter like it's an insult that's actually the best thing anyone's ever said to him. He thinks about all the kids. Max and El, even sometimes Mike. All of them. They look at him like he’s someone to look up to. 

He thinks about the mall.

His eyes sting. He pinches at the corners hard, jaw working, forces it back down. He's not doing this. Not right now. Not here when it’s seven in the morning.

He swipes his hand across the table.

The powder catches the light as it goes. It’s white and fine, almost pretty, and scatters into the carpet like snow that's already melting.

He sits there for another moment.

Then he gets up. Finds the vacuum in the hall closet. Runs it methodically over the carpet until the floor is clean, until there's nothing left to see.

After, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out ingredients to make breakfast. 

Pancakes. He can do that.

He hears you pad softly into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes sleepily. You're wearing one of his shirts and it falls to mid-thigh on you.

"Good morning," you say groggily.

"Good morning," he answers back, voice rough from sleep and chemicals and whatever else.

You hop up on a bar stool, cheek in your hand, watching him. He asks, "How do you feel?"

You mumble, "I'm tired."

Steve smiles softly. Nods. "Yeah. Me too."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."

He turns back to the stove. He watches the batter spread slow and pale in the pan.

And he lets himself have it. The tiredness, the quiet, the strange aching ordinariness of standing here while you sit there. He doesn't reach for anything. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t feel like he has to to get another bump to get through the morning. 

He stands in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning and lets it all be exactly as heavy as it is.

The music thumped loudly against the floor as you stood with your back pressed against the wall, patient eyes trained on the door. House parties were never your scene— and living in such a small town, not to mention the one you grew up in, house parties were basically just a petri dish for regrets, rumors, and worst-case scenarios.

But tonight was different, you hoped. At least that's what you told yourself in your bathroom mirror as you doused glitter onto your eyelids.

The guy you were seeing, James, had invited you out tonight to his old college buddy’s house party. You agreed to meet him under the guise of finally being introduced to some of his friends. He told you he’d meet you right after he ran a few errands straight from work and yet, an hour into the party, two weak ass drinks later, James was nowhere to be found.

You sighed with your eyes still glued to the front door, hoping it would just swing open and reveal the face of the person you were waiting for. Someone you knew, at the very least. 

Your dress clung to your back like it resented you, sweat beading at the base of your neck. Could have been nerves, could have been the clear lack of air conditioner running through the house. Either way, you weren’t a fan of sweating like this. Who told them it was wise to host a party in mid-August with no AC?

Your little silver clutch was slung over your shoulder, the chain pressing into your collarbone in the most irritating way; you hadn’t noticed it when you first arrived, nor when you put it on at home. And now, since you’d started waiting, you could feel every single sliver of fabric that stuck to your skin, every piece of jewelry that dawned your chest and wrists, every stroke of nail polish painted onto your fingers. It was wildly overstimulating. Your head was pounding in time with whatever shitty Top 100 song was playing over the speakers, and when you pulled your phone out to check the time, the pounding got worse.

9:47. An entire hour and a half of waiting. You ran your thumb down the side of your phone, tracing the volume buttons absentmindedly and squinting down at the time in disbelief. You were just about ready to let your fingers fly in the text bubble beneath James’s contact but he, unfortunately, had beaten you to the punch.

He had finally responded to the where are you text from an hour ago. And his reply was short– whether it was sweet can be left up for debate:

Look, you’re really sweet and this has been fun but, I don’t think this is gonna work out. Sorry.

As your eyes scrolled across the screen, a familiar prick of embarrassment, no, humiliation, stings at your tear ducts. Rejection almost never phased you, you were smart enough to know that the number one rule of playing the field required thick enough skin to get pushed into the dirt. But for some strange reason, you took quite a liking to James. He was sweet, and well mannered. He worked a quaint job as a bank-teller and wore ties that matched his pocket squares. He took you out on ice cream dates and drove the long way home to watch the sunset.

Sure, James lacked some of the more rugged attributes that you fancied in a guy, but in this moment, at your age now, stability was something you’d felt like you needed in your life. He wasn’t a tornado that ripped through you and left you beaten, battered, and heartbroken.

James was normal.

Now attempting to fight the burning sensation that rose up in your throat, you furiously shoved your phone back into your clutch, your back still stuck to the hallway almost hoping that the door would swing open, James would be standing there, and this entire thing was just a fluke in your imagination.

People were still funnelling into the party fashionably late, you felt nailed down to the floor as you helplessly watched yet another large group of girls funnel over the threshold. You expected there to be some stragglers, a piece of you still thinking this was all too fucked up to really believe.

However, you didn’t expect to look over that sea of party updos and messy beachwaves and lock eyes with your worst nightmare.

Gator fucking Tillman.

You froze at the sight of him; those familiar hazel eyes not once leaving yours as the pack of girls he was herding all squished their way down the hallway. You wanted to think he looked away because he didn’t recognize you; though the coil that snapped in your stomach as he licked his lips and fought a smile made you certain that that wasn’t true.

“A’right ladies, keep it movin’,” he shouted above the music at the girls, all of their high pitched, phony giggles reaching your ears and making them ring, “We’ll getcha’ all fulla’ liquor in no time.”

With wide eyes, you scanned his frame; he was in his civilian clothes. The typical cargo pants and a simple black tee that strained against his biceps, the fabric curling up a little as he ushered the bottle blonde that walked in front of him, his hands pressed wrists-up into her back. She squeaks when his fingers slip down to pinch her ass, your stomach immediately performing backflips at the sight.

The playful, cocky smirk that dawns his face makes you want to cave in on yourself even more. You took notice of the backwards trucker hat he wore, the one that he’d probably had for at least five years and hasn't washed since he was given it by the station. His combat boots commanded the floorboards as they thumped when he walked; if there was one person who knew how to make an entrance that made the room groan, it was Gator Tillman.

The history between you and Gator was complicated— if you could even consider it history at all.

The two of you met in your freshman year of community college, you being the smartest person in your 300 level English class and Gator being half a letter grade away from flunking out entirely, the two of you were paired up in a peer tutoring program.

It was chaos at first sight.

He would constantly tease you, crumpling up the notes you’d taken for him, telling you that you were ‘wound too tight’ and needed to ‘live a little’ when all you wanted to do was study while he had your back pressed against the autobiographies section in the library, trailing open mouthed kisses down your jaw. You weren’t sure how things had escalated so quickly. Gator was cute, sure. And you were more than willing, hungry for the rush that came with sneaking between library shelves for a hook up. 

Your attraction was merely transactional. Every time you saw Gator on campus, he acted like you didn’t exist. Not in a way that was intended to hurt you, but simply because he was too much of an airhead to consider how that might make you feel. He was offputting, bleeding the Tillman family heirloom of cockiness, but was somehow still a gentleman about it. He walked with a potent arrogance that made you want to scream yet there were, undeniably, butterflies floating around your stomach every time your phone pinged with a message from him.

we studyin tonight little lady?

u should wear them gray shorts u got. drive me fuckin crazy.

As much as you tried to push back on Gators advances, attempting to recenter your studies once that dreaded peer tutoring program came to an end before the last bit of the fall semester, you simply couldn’t stay away. The more he persisted, the more he grew on you. 

Sneaking out at odd hours and trying not to wake up your roommate to meet Gator in the parking lot, letting him drive the two of you in circles for hours in his truck before pulling off into a deserted overlook and fucking your lights out. How sometimes he would walk you back and forth between campus buildings when your art classes ended late, not dropping you off without stealing a sloppy kiss or pulling an orgasm or two from you with his fingers in the vacant dorm hallways.

It was all too enticing to give up; he was the vice between your virtues. The slice of your life that you let Gator into was sweet.

Until it wasn’t.

Once Gator had dropped out of his associates program to join the police academy, your casual (yet towing the line about it) relationship had seemed to just crumble beneath your feet. What was once an occasional hookup had turned into something off kilter, with Gator becoming less and less courteous of the fact that you were, indeed, a human too.

As you finished off your studies, building yourself a respectable resume and a bulletproof reference list, Gator lost himself in the power trip of law enforcement. He was less respectful, more demanding, expecting everything he wanted, when he wanted it. You were too busy to entertain a dumb ego death, and Gator couldn’t wrap his head around it. It had only taken seeing him once after he graduated the academy to realize just how much he’d really changed. The first time you actually built up the courage to stick up for yourself when it came to him bit you right in the ass, leaving three and a half years of your weirdly-tumultuous situationship to end with a screaming match in the general store parking lot.

That was the last, and final, time you spoke to Gator Tillman. From that night on, you had decided that you hated his guts.

Surely, he felt the same about you.

“Long time no see, little lady.”

The smell of strawberry kiwi fogged your senses, a puff of vapor fanning across your face as the figure stood before you made himself known. He was propped up like there was a hand up his rear, his thumbs slung into the pocket of his stupid cargo pants.

“Gator,” you address him, your expression lifeless, as if he were simply a familiar stranger.

Technically, he was.

“That ain’t no way to greet an ol’ friend. S’been a while, hasn’t it?”

You swallow at his words, dodging his eye contact like it were bullets shooting from his face.

“It has.”

Gator lets a dry chuckle slip past his plump lips as he puts his hand up to prop himself against the wall above you. You shiver at the closeness— wondering how he could be so forward after all this time. Especially after the way things ended.

“Has ta’ be years since I last seen’ ya. What were ya’, twenty? Y’ were real cute n’ sweet back then.”

You fold your lips in on themselves, still avoiding eye contact by any means necessary. The last thing you needed after being stood up by a man who felt like he could’ve been your calm before a storm was to be approached by the storm in question.

“What do you want, Gator?”

His eyes darted down at the way you were still clutching your purse, smirking down to himself at the way your fingers twitched. You were always slightly trembly when it came to him, and Gator remembered it well.

He always used it to his advantage, anyway. How could he forget?

“Don’t want nothin’ but yer’ time, little lady,” he says, “Y’don’t think I’ve been curious about what’cha been up to?”

“Nothing to be curious about.” Your arms are now crossed against your chest, acting almost as a shield. He hasn’t changed a bit since college, and the realization was hitting you now.

“Don’t be too sure, missy. This town ain’t that big, y’know. I‘ve got eyes ‘n ears everywhere.”

Gator’s hand had dropped from the wall, back into his pocket. You stiffened when he stepped a millimeter closer, hoping that the uncomfortability of your body language would be the hint he needed to back off.

Hint not taken.

“Shouldn’t you be following around that flock of birds you came in with?” you ask, the bitterness and sarcasm oozing from your tongue.

“Birds,” he scoffs, tongue clicking against his teeth, eyes finally disconnecting from yours for a moment, “Yer’ sense a’ humor ain’t changed a bit.”

There’s a pause in your interaction, but it isn’t awkward. There was just simply nothing that could fill the space of three years of history. Three years of dancing around the obvious and however many more of pretending it never happened. It was a silence that only you and Gator knew, and it somehow decided to come back to haunt you at the worst possible time. 

Your body was more relaxed as you stood there, silently, watching Gator as he looked behind his shoulder at the crowd of girls he came in with while taking a long pull of his vape. You could tell by his body language, he didn’t care for any of them— they were simply just pieces of ass to distract from how fucked up of a life he has. Despite feeling satisfied in coming to that conclusion, you resented the fact that you could still read him like a book.

God, you fucking hated it.

“So, yer’ here alone tonight, eh,” he lets out a deep breath, chest falling, “where’s Jamsey boy?”

Gator breaking the silence, and mentioning James, made your entire body tense up. Stiff as a board, you raise an eyebrow, the words barely tripping off your tongue, “H– How do you— what?”

He laughs, yet the smile on his face quickly recedes into his signature snarl, “How do I know about James? Yer’ askin’ dumb questions, lil’ lady. Told ya’ I got eyes n’ ears everywhere. Hell, I got ‘em on the front and back of my fuckin’ head.”

You frown, your brows woven into a tight line.

“Who told you about James?” You felt your blood start to pump red hot, Gator’s knowledge of your personal life feeling like the utmost intrusion.

“Nobody told me shit.”

“Gator,” you warn, the anger you felt making headway to tinge your cheeks pink, “I’m not fucking around.”

“Neither ‘m I.” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, hand curling around his jaw before speaking again, “Friend’a mine’s hostin’ this party. May ‘er may not ‘ve gotten some insight. Y’d know that if ya’ socialized a bit. ‘Stead’a standin’ in the corner n’ starin’ at the door like a weirdo…”

He’s close enough now for his breath to fan across your face, his condescension permeating through the warmth of his chest as he ducked down to whisper in your ear.

“...Waitin’ for a loser that you know damn well ain’t comin’.”

Without much of a thought, you splay out your hands onto his chest and shove him backwards. He stumbles a few steps, not phased much by your force, and puts his hands out and up to feign innocence. The side of his mouth curves into a smirk, the gum he was chewing on poking out between his teeth.

“Fuck off Gator, I mean it,” you spit, your tone bratty. Bitchy.

“What did’ja see in that dummy anyway? Just an uptight prick, workin’ at the bank like some lame ass.”

“He was a good guy,” you murmur, your voice much weaker than you intended, “Had his head on straight, worked a decent job; he was good to me.”

“Yeh? That right?” Gator’s hand is back on the wall above your head. He is completely unphased by you pushing him, completely unmoved by the fact that you told him to leave you alone several times within a few minutes. He continued egging you on, something he always found joy in doing, even before the police academy fucked his personality sideways.

“Yeah, he was— nice.” You reiterate. You aren’t sure how else to say it.

“Hm. Nice. That’s what y’decided t’ settle for?”

You don’t reply.

Gator scoffs, the hand of his that wasn’t against the wall moving to sit against his hip. He’s closer to you now, as close as he was when you pushed him away, “Little lady settlin’ for nice after she used ta’ let me bend ‘er over th’ hood’a my truck n’ fuck her ‘till she couldn’t stand up. Ain’t so inta’ nice back then, huh?”

Your entire face was flushed red, your fists balled up at your sides. You wanted to walk away, the hurt from James standing you up still lingering like a fresh wound, Gator’s colorful tongue just digging the knife deeper, a knot of heat forming in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about me like I’m one of those bimbos you walked in here with Gator,” you finally snap, your head jerking towards his face, “you know damn well I meant a’ hell of a lot more to you than that.”

For once, Gator stammers, the loudest man in the room at a loss for something to say. He lets his tongue jut out to wet his bottom lip, leaving it pouty, glistening. You hone in on it for a moment, but shake your head upon remembering exactly where you were.

“Yer’ enterin’ dangerous territory here,” he says, voice subdued and hoarse as ignores the weight of what you said, “‘nd when’d’ja get so bitchy, huh? Jamsey boy couldn’t fuck the sense outta’ ya like I could?”

You gasp softly when his hand connects to your waist— a lightning bolt of electricity shocking you the same way it did all those years ago. His hands felt larger now; more weathered, more experienced. His index finger danced between one of the side cutouts of your dress. 

You had no choice but to let him.

“This isn’t about that,” you mumble, your hip leaning into his touch involuntarily. Like you couldn’t dial it back and control it.

“Then what’s it about?”

For a moment, you see the glass in his eyes shimmer— the browns and greens that swirled together, deepened by a lack of sleep and the haze from a beer or two. Gator Tillman was the king of intensity, the champion of eye contact. The heat rising between your legs as he blinked slowly was proof of that.

“Be honest with yerself now, sweetheart. Did ya’ think that you were gonna’ come t’ this party tonight in this tight little thing, with ‘yer eyes all sparkly n’ yer tits practic’ly screamin’ t’ get outta that dress… t’ go home to Jamsey boy?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna’ be here, asshole.” You let the insult hang in the air for a minute. But Gator’s eyes just widened, a shit-eating smirk followed. You’d just given yourself away.

“C’mon little lady, I ain’t talkin’ t’ a wall here. If y’ say that sex ain’t what this is about, then what is it?”

Your jaw ticks as you begin to mutter, “Nothing. This– this is– nothing. This is stupid and dumb and I cannot believe you, of all people, have me fuckin’ cornered here right now. God I— I should’ve just fuckin’ stayed home.”

Gator laughs. He laughs at your internal struggling, the pain you once felt now twinging into something deeper. A little more existential. Truth was, you really just wanted this to be over.

Even though the both of you knew exactly how this night was going to end.

“James’s a fuckin’ jerkoff.” Gator’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to study you.

“So are you, Gator.”

“Y’know what, maybe we do have that ‘n common. You’ve got yerself’ a type,” he shrugs, that hand of his still ghosting around your waist, letting his pinky slip just below the fabric of your dress to press against your hip, “But you know damn well he ain’t makin’ you scream the way you know I can.”

Without even a second to collect yourself, your body is betraying your mind and any sense of reason you had left. You grabbed a hold of Gator’s wrist, wrapping your fingers around it tightly as you made a beeline for the door that you’d been staring at for the better half of two hours now.

Gator’s boots thump clumsily behind you, attempting to keep up with your angry strides as you guided him through a short sea of drunken partygoers. He mumbled and laughed from behind you, watching you swing the door open out to the cool summer breeze and wincing to himself when the knob practically made a dent in the wall inside.

“Slow th’ hell down lil’ lady,” he grunts, forcing you to skid to a stop at the lip of the patio stairs, “Gotcha’ all worked up f’no reason.”

“You drove here?” you pant, ignoring the pleasantries, still unsure of what demonic spirit was possessing you at the moment.

“Shit, yeh, I drove here. Always fuckin’ do. Why?”

You shake your head and wince, as if the angel and devil on your shoulder were fighting to the death right in front of your nose. Were you still recovering from the blundering awkwardness of being stood up by a guy you really liked, at a party that he invited you to? Sure. What’s not to be embarrassed about.

However, the desire to leave that suffocating party wasn’t because of the bile that rose up in your throat when you read a text that let you down so awfully gently, no. You knew you wanted to leave this party the instant you saw those honeyed, hazel eyes. The ones you’d sworn off the existence of. The ones that helped you through some of your toughest days, your most sleepless nights. 

The ones that you didn’t realize still meant anything to you at all.

Gator rests his hand on your elbow, that cocky, devil-may-care attitude slightly faltering as he watches your eyebrow twitch whilst you contemplated existence.“The fuck’s gotten inta’ y’—”

But before you could even stop yourself, tell him to fuck off or shut up like you normally would, your lips were on his.

After all this goddamn time.

Gator’s shoulders tensed when you cupped his cheeks, the action much more tender than you’d hoped, your lips pressing against him roughly enough to push him back a few steps. Despite the initial shock, he molds against you, the concerned grip he had on your elbow loosening and dropping down to hold your waist. He sighs, almost melting, a faint dreamlike sound vibrating against his throat.

The party continued on around you, though neither of you seemed to care.

The kiss deepens and in no time at all, your arms are tangled around his neck, your body pressed flush against his front, the strong, woodsy smell of his signature mahogany teakwood cologne flooding your nostrils.

His broad arms held you upright, palm splayed against your spine, your back curving slightly as he leaned in to meet the fervor you kissed him with. His tongue pleaded entrance, albeit much politer than you were used to, prodding against your lips and parting them as he slid his tongue across yours.

You couldn’t help but let your hands fall to the nape of his neck, down past his shoulders, pressing against his chest. Not necessarily to push him away, but to keep yourself grounded in the fact that what you were doing with Gator right now was, more than likely, a huge mistake.

“Y’— y’ain’t changed one bit,” Gator blurts, the words knocking against your teeth as he comes up for air, only to occupy it, “eager lil’ thing, ain’t’cha?”

You pull away from him, making sure your eyes sparkle with eagerness and a hint of something more— sinful.

“If I were you, Tillman, I’d stop talking and get me to your truck before I change my fuckin’ mind.”

Like a soldier at ease, Gator salutes you, motioning for you with his head to follow as he thumped down the porch steps and practically jogged down the front walkway.

“Parked a bit down th’ street. Hope ya’ don’t mind walkin’,” he comments, spitting out his gum a few steps ahead.

You follow behind and before you know it, you’re approaching a blue pickup. That same one he’d driven all those years ago, with that same dent in the front bumper and that same scratched up—now sun-bleached and weathered—heart shaped bumper sticker on the passenger side door. Your stomach lurches as you recall the day you slapped it on without Gator knowing, after buying it at a gas station that he brought you to to grab a Redbull before one of your study sessions.

Once he found out, he was, of course, pissed. But had gotten over it mere seconds after you’d tucked his dick into your cheek that same night.

“You still drive this hunk of shit?” you ask him as you jiggle the back door handle, hearing its familiar squeak and chuckling in disbelief.

“With style n’ grace, lil’ lady. They say Fords ‘er s’posed t’ run forever.”

You hold back an endearing chuckle as Gator steps beside you, “Yeah? Who’s they?”

“Dunno’. The people who put test dummies in their driver’s seats.”

“From test dummies to real dummies,” you tease, pressing your finger against his chest between his pecs, “they know their consumer market well.”

“Yer’ bullshit vocabulary don’t intimidate me no more, missy,” Gator’s eyes narrow, “I know y’ just wanted a reason t’ call  me a dummy.”

“Insulting you is free therapy.”

You hum when Gator’s closeness forces your back against the side of the truck with a thud, his eyes low as he dips in close, lips ghosting over yours, “So is lettin’ me fuck ya’ ‘till ya can’t remember how t’ talk.”

Gator scoops his hands in yours, pressing them against your chest as he kisses you again. You groan, a delayed reaction to his comment, but are quickly shut up by him wedging his knee between your thighs.

“Gator—” 

You immediately fold at the pressure, his name knocking off your lips onto his.

He hums, merely reactionary to hearing his name, giving you a moment before nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

In a flurry of sloppy kisses, wandering hands and shifting body weight, Gator opens the backseat door without disconnecting once. He backs away from you when it flings open, his eyes wide, and hazy.

“Gonna’ feel like old times,” he comments lackadaisically, making your stomach hurt, “haven’t had a chick in th’ back seat since the night we called it off.”

“I find that hard to believe. You walked in with like, 10 different girls.” You suck in a deep breath. You hadn’t intended to be rude but— that was your gut reaction.

“I know,” Gator scoffs, stepping one foot up onto the platform of his truck, his hand gesturing for you to hop in, “Who said I ain’t have one or two of ‘em up in the front?”

You smack him on the shoulder before stepping up into the truck, the scent of old leather and cologne in the backseat hitting you like a train. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.

Gator slides in shortly after you, wasting no time in taking hold of your sides and pushing you into the opposite door with a rough kiss.

“Gator,” you can’t help but giggle, “the door’s still open.” 

“So what? Let ‘em see. They were all in our business in college, askin’ questions n’ shit. How ‘bout we give ‘em somethin’ new t’ talk about?”

That first part was true. Living in such a small town caused rumors about you and Gator to spread like wildfire. The sheriff's cocky son, and the only journalism major in the entirety of the city. The amount of bullshit lies that had gotten told at your expense within the three years you were casually seeing Gator were enough to turn a small village upside down. 

Most of them got back to Gator right away; though he never denied nor confirmed them. He was the more infamous half of the two of you, knowing more people through his last name, and through the countless girls who would attempt to throw themselves at him.

But he never picked any of them.

Not that you knew of, at least.

When his cool hands slid beneath the side cutouts in your dress, you shivered; the open door essentially creating a wind tunnel for the summer breeze. You groan, Gator’s mouth sloppily disconnecting from yours and trailing down to your jaw. Down to your neck. Down to your chest. The only thing he’d noticed is the way the cold air perked up your nipples through your dress.

“Gate– fuck, Gator. The door, please. It’s— ‘m chilly.”

“It’s August.” He deadpans, his face halfway buried in the crook of your shoulder.

With a huff, you pull his face up to meet yours, but rather than looking into his eyes and telling him off like you intended, he’s swooping back in for another kiss. It’s much rougher than the first few, his body somehow slotting between your legs perfectly, despite being propped awkwardly in the back seat.

“Y’ were always so fuckin’ stubborn. Never let shit jus’ happen. Always used ta’ get on ya’ fer bein’ too uptight. Thought I’d squeezed that last bitta’ stubbornness outta’ ya’ in school but, shit. I dunno’.”

“I– I’ve changed a lot, y’know,” you say, breathless from his lips knocking the air out of your lungs, “Learned to stand up for myself.”

“And who do ya’ have t’ thank fer that?”

When you intend to reply, the sound is swiped right out of your mouth. Gator is pawing at the straps of your dress, dropping one, then the other, off your shoulder. Wordlessly, you watch him as he attacks your chest with openmouthed kisses and scratchy love bites, assisting him in his travels by lifting your back off of the door so he could shimmy you out of the top half of your dress. 

Gator always had a thing for marking you up; you figured it was just a machismo thing. But one night cozied up in your twin XL dorm bed, after an athletic post-study fuck session, he admitted how much he loved, not liked, loved, everyone on campus knowing exactly who you belonged to.

“Y’eard me?”

You shake your head out of its daze, completely enraptured by the way his tongue dragged across your collarbone just seconds ago, “Huh?”

“I asked who ya’ had t’ thank fer growin’ a damn spine.”

“You’re fucking annoying,” you scoff.

Gator eventually shimmies your top half out, leaving you in a lacy bralette— the only one that looked good enough to wear under this sad excuse of fabric that they called a dress.

“Say it,” he persists, eyes honed in on yours, the contact intense enough to make you dizzy.

“No.”

His hand slides down your side, all the way to the bottom hem of your dress. His fingertips curve around it, hesitating for a moment.

“You know I hate it when y’ don’t listen, little lady.”

“Gator.” Your warning packs absolutely no heat, face flushing when his hand finally slides over your thigh. You wanted to curl up into a ball of embarrassment at just how worked up you were from a few kisses and his fingertips running feathery lines up and down your legs. You were swimming in his eyes, a sea of gold and green. 

If you drowned, you wouldn’t fucking complain.

“Wanna’ hear you say it. Wanna hear’ ya admit I made ya’ into this new little firecracker y’are now.”

Without saying anything, or egging you even more, Gator frees your breasts from the bralette. He massages them for a moment, mirroring your stammering, open mouth as he circles one of your peaked nipples with his thumb.

“C’mon, baby— shit, missed these fuckin’ tits.”

He interrupts his own train of thought by taking that same nipple he’d been teasing fully into his mouth, your stiff peak aching as he soothes it with the swirl of his tongue. You moan on impact, getting a glimpse of the outside when he ducked his head down. There was not a person, nor a car in sight. Nobody to walk by and hear the obscenities flying from your lips into Gator’s ears, the hushed rhapsodies egging him on enough to let him know just how eager you were for him.

Maybe he was right. You were still a bit uptight.

“You, Gator,” you finally moan when he gives one last rough suck to your nipple, disconnecting from it with a pop and glancing up at you, satisfied, through his lashes. “It was always you.”

“S’what I thought,” he smiles, the faint freckles splattered across his nose and beauty marks that dusted his cheeks more prominent than ever in the moonlight, “Love it when y’say my name.”

Your eyes flutter closed, the arousal that pooled in your panties getting harder and harder to ignore. You rolled your hips and let your dripping pussy grind slightly against the leather as Gator slid down your body. He inched lower, and lower, taking that same hand from before and using it to fully push up the lower half of your dress.

“Haven’t missed this,” he joked, now on his knees on the floor, crammed in the backseat, eye level with the— now soaked —underwear that you had misfortunately chosen to wear beneath this dress.

He pauses for a moment and admires you, reaching down, arms crossed, pulling off his shirt as he just stares at the wet spot that had formed against the heather grey.

“Jesus, lil lady. Really gotcha’ worked up,” Gator puffs, while you just can’t help but trace your index finger gently against the beauty marks smattered on his shoulders.

“Yeah.” Was all you could manage. You’d soon realized that he’d taken his shirt off because of how much you hated being the only one exposed. It was mindless. Inherent, even. The fact that he remembered made your head spin.

Gator immediately moves into action, he cups your thighs with his hands and yanks you forward, a quiet squeak falling from your lips as you shift down in your seat. He smiles up at you, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. The only thing separating his mouth from where it absolutely wanted, needed, to be was a thin layer of cotton. He eventually hooks his fingers around the waistband, sliding your panties down and off. Your legs are quickly tossed his shoulders, his face now caged between your thighs.

“‘Bet Jamesy boy ain’t getcha’ wet like this while countin’ pennies at th’ bank. I’ve barely fuckin’ touched ya’.” Gator’s astute observation makes your face hot. 

You cup your face in your hands. “Shut the fuck up,” you murmur, before reaching down and knocking the trucker hat right off of his head. The brim thunks when it hits the floor, and Gator just smirks, his hair now tousled and pomade free.

Just the way you liked it.

Gator wastes no time diving into your throbbing heat, his tongue languid and loose as he licks a long stripe up your slit. He savors the taste of you, after being deprived of your essence for all these years.

“Fuckin’— shit.” He curses, more or less under his breath, but your body reacts viscerally upon hearing it; the sound of his voice so unadultured and saccharine. You grab a handful of his hair, your cunt clenching around nothing as he continues his torturous drawl.

Gator was always a giver; skilled with his tongue, even more of an ace when his fingers were involved. He never held back, including now, lapping up your juices like a man starved as they continuously dripped out of your needy slit and made a mess of his leather interior. The hums and quiet moans of delight that he let slip past the concentrated expression on his face made your stomach heave.

“Gator, fuck, feels so— ah.” You can barely form a coherent string of praise, his clipped brown locks spread between your fingers. You give them a tug at the root, earning yet another sweet mewl from deep within Gator’s throat.

You nod, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, biting down on it so roughly that it was sure to be tender later tonight and into tomorrow. The obscene sounds of your arousal being lapped up by Gator’s eager tongue makes your legs shake. He stiffens his tongue and dips it into your heat, fucking it in slowly and drawing it back out within a second. You whine, even the slightest feeling of him filling you being ripped away was making you needier than you ever wanted to admit.

He fucks his tongue into you a few more times, alternating between that and suckling at your clit; the sensitive bud shooting lightning bolts up your back, causing you to tug even tighter against his hair.

“Fuck.”

That was the only word uttered as Gator came up for air; he was panting, his face glistening with a mix of saliva and your secretions, dawning his chin and lower lip like a trophy. He smiles and his lips shine, not long before he’s gathering more saliva from his cheek, taking two fingers to spread you open, and spitting directly onto your already needy cunt.

“God,” Gator puffs, concentrating now on the way his two fingers sink into your pussy with ease, “she’s a fuckin’ greedy thing, ain’t she?”

“Gatorrr,” you whine, tossing your head back against the car door. He begins to pump his digits within you, scissoring them open every so often and curling them just enough to press against the sweet spot that made you see stars on the backs of your eyelids.

You’d wondered what he was doing to occupy his mouth, since he’d kept quiet for a few minutes. But your question was soon answered as you felt him press a few feathery kisses onto your inner thigh, still curling moans out of you like he was mining for gold.

“Fuckin’ soaked fer’ me, huh? Can’t believe how long it’s been since I got a good taste a’ ya’, sweet girl.”

Sweet girl. That fucking nickname. You could've come then and there. You remember so vividly the first night he’d pulled that one out; a similar scenario to the one you were in right now. Your legs were tossed over his shoulders as he coaxed a second orgasm out of you. “Come for me, sweet girl. Can’t believe this pussy’s all fuckin’ mine.”

Distracted by your own reminiscing, your body jolts when you feel a welcomely familiar sensation; down past your dripping heat, Gator took his time and lapped slow circles around your rim. You moaned in pure shock, in delight, in bliss, that handful you had of his hair becoming more of a lifeline than just a habitual thing.

His tongue worked in tandem with his fingers, their relentless paces syncing up to drive you nearly up the wall. His tongue prodded at your hole while his fingers fucked into you deeply— you couldn’t help but glance down and watch the concentrated notch in his brow turn into a face of pure ecstasy the moment he felt your walls tighten up around his digits.

“Gonna come fer’ me, sweet girl? Yeah, I know— feels good, don’t it? C’mon baby gimme’ a good one. Let it aaaaaall out.” 

And just like that, you were coming undone. Adding to the list of hundreds of orgasms that Gator had coaxed you through with only his mouth. Your body falls limp, your back slick with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to the leather. You felt tangled in your dress; Gator could tell.

“Y’good?” Gator asks, his hands pressing against the tops of your thighs and massaging the last bit of pleasure through your veins.

“Fine,” you choke, shifting up in your seat and reaching up to shimmy yourself out of your clothes. Gator sits back on his knees, watching you undress.

He chuckles to himself, sounding appalled simply by the sight of you, “Ain’t seen ya’ naked in a long time.”

“No shit,” you quip back, kicking your dress off of your ankle and letting it stay where it landed; draped over the driver’s seat headrest. Gator hadn’t moved much at all, only shifting his weight back on his heels to watch you. You felt overexposed; his eyes alone sending shock waves down your spine as heavy silence hung in the air. You swallow hard, looking over his shoulder to the outside, then back to him.

“Gator—” 

You bat your eyelashes, your knees now tucked to your chest, legs crossed at the ankle. He takes you addressing him as his permission to slide back up to the seat, crowding your space once more with his broad frame. His hand slides down to part your legs again, humming in delight as they relax when his lips attach to your neck. You writhe beneath him, your own hands crawling up and down his arms, settling against his shoulders.

“Could’ taste y’ fer hours. Every last bit’a’ ya’. Missed it. Missed ya’.”

His last words were more muffled than the others, giving you the impression that they were ones you weren’t meant to hear.

Your hand tangles in his hair when he sucks on your neck, finally getting around to leaving the bruises you know he just couldn’t get enough of. Gator took his time with you, he always did, worshipping your body like you were Venus herself. It didn’t take much to get Gator worked up when it came to you, though— you felt his cock straining against the dual layers of fabric that kept him confined, his hips rutting it only slightly against your thigh as he engulfed your lips in yet another kiss.

“Gate—” you say, easing him to sit with his back against the seat, you now on your knees. He unexpectedly reached up to grab your face, calloused palms gently scraping your cheekbones.

“Want y’ t’ ride me,” he admits; shameless, voice hoarse and wanton, “Like old times.”

You don’t reply, only cracking a seductive smile and nodding as you reach down and begin to undo his belt. He joins you in doing so, lifting his hips to let you slide it out of the belt loops. He chuckles, but it seems impatient, less condescending than usual.

“Takin’ yer’ sweet ass time,” he teases, though there’s a rawness to his voice that feels like a punch to the gut.

“You just fucking whipped me through space and time, Gate’. A minute to catch my breath would be appreciated.”

A cocky smile breaks through onto his cheeks, your face still being held now by only one of his palms as the other mingled with yours to undo his button and fly, “Ladies first.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?”

You eventually get his pants down, but not fully; he stopped halfway to reach into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a clunky, neon green vape. You watched with a slack jaw as he leaned forward to toss the vape into the cupholder in the front seat, then flip open his wallet and pull out a familiar black and gold wrapper.

“‘Came prepared, I see,” you comment, gesturing towards the condom as he discards it at his side for a moment, “unless you’ve got a magic condom in there that regenerates every time you use it.”

“Y’know I ain’t like that.”

“Do I really?”

“I really oughta’ shut up that big mouth a’ yours.”

The rest of Gator’s undress continues through a sloppy, frantic kiss. Your hand that rested against his chest, tangled within the patch of thick chest hair, slowly slid down towards his stomach. You sighed, pawing at the bit of muscly pudge that sat right above the band of his boxers. Gator hissed when your fingertips breached just below the elastic, his teeth knocking against yours.

“Yer’ a fuckin’ tease,” he murmurs into your lips, his hands unable to keep still as the traced every curve of your body like it were muscle memory. He stopped in all of the right places, groping and giving attention to the ones that made you shiver.

“I got mine,” you shrug, voice languid and sultry, stretching your leg over his hips to straddle his waist, “I guess I better I help you get yours.”

“You want this as bad as I do, lil’ lady. ‘S written all over that gorgeous face.”

You blush, the compliment making this feel all the more real. Surely you weren’t dreaming when you locked eyes with Gator as he walked through the door tonight. And you definitely weren’t dreaming now.

You palmed Gator’s aching cock through his boxers, his mouth falling open and letting airy breaths tumble from within him. His head falls back, eyelashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open.

“Fuckin’— can’t do this slow shit no ‘more. Need ‘ya on my dick. Now.”

You raise an eyebrow, still palming at him, now making it a point to squeeze his shaft through his briefs, watching with a satisfied, almost evil smile as his face contorts in pleasure.

“Listen, you may have taught me how to stand up for myself,” you begin to say, stroking him still, managing to find the head of his cock through the fabric by the stain of pre that graced them, “but who taught you the art of patience?”

“Fuck ‘re you sayin’?” Gator strains, the words sounding almost painful coming out of his mouth, “Buncha’ bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Gator. You’d be a fuckin’ bottle rocket if it weren’t for me. I taught you to be patient, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna be for me now. You hear me?”

Gator’s eyes shoot open. You think he’s about to bite back, raising that spiteful, malicious tongue that you worked so hard with him to manage. But rather than letting loose on you, using his words as armor, he simply settles in his seat.

“Loud n’ fuckin’ clear.”

He pulls you in by the back of your head for yet another deep and desperate kiss, fumbling around blindly to aid you in getting his briefs off. You waste no time in straddling his hips as his tongue licks into your mouth, the hand that cradled the back of your head moving down to lay flat against your spine.

You break away for a moment, glancing down between your eager, sweaty bodies. His cock was already fully perked up, tip red and angry, glistening with the bit of pre-cum that was already evident through his underwear. You take a hold of it, and Gator practically whines.

“Gonna’ kill me, little lady,” he pants, your hand jerking him slowly and watching his stomach contort with wide, hungry eyes, “I fuckin’ mean it. Y’keep lookin’ at me like that n’ I’m gone.”

You meet his eyes, already looking fucked out yet without even having a taste; his hair is mussed up with a few rogue strands framing his russet eyes like curtains. There was something different about Gator in this moment; he was pliant and timid, a stark contrast to how he usually behaved. You almost felt like reaching up to pinch his cheek, rewarding him for good behavior.

But you felt like that may ruin the moment.

“C’mon baby,” Gator cuts the silence, the moment you’d taken to admire him interrupted, “fuckin’— please.”

“Patience, Gator,” you accentuate your sentiment with a roll of your hips, letting his cock slide between your slick folds as you let out a deep breath of your own, “patience.”

Gator shudders, the bare minimum of contact seeming almost too much for him. He tilts his head back to rest against the leather, still slightly panting as you start a slow rhythm, rocking your hips. He grips your waist tightly, squeezing the soft flesh like it were the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth.

He just can't help but pull you in, attaching his lips to yours with fervor that packs a punch. His tongue glides across yours, exploring your mouth as if to memorize exactly how you taste, holding you close, chest to chest.

You let out a few wracked moans of your own at the feeling of his length sliding between your folds, the ridges of his cock nudging against your clit at just the right angle. You could tell that Gator’s patience was wearing thin; he had detached himself from your waist to blindly feel around for the condom. He grabs it, and you hear the crinkle. But you grab his wrist, stopping him before anything.

“What’dja do that fer?” Gator asks, eyes wide.

“A lot’s changed since we last saw each other,” you say crudely, plucking the condom from his fingertips and holding it between your faces, “Tonight’s your lucky night.”

Gator can’t do anything but laugh, jaw slack in astonishment as you toss the condom aside, “Holy shit. You’ serious? Yer’ messin’ around, ain’t you? That’s fucked up if y’ are—”

You really didn’t feel like explaining that you’d started taking birth control a few months after you’d stopped seeing him. So instead, you took his face in your hands, his eyelashes fluttering when your nose brushed slightly against the tip of his.

“Just— shut up and fuck me, Gator.”

Soon enough, Gator is lifting your hips, and reaching down to angle his cock against your entrance. The both of you sigh; Gator at the newfound feeling of fucking you raw, yourself because it’s been a few weeks since you’d gotten any action.

James was far less generous than Gator was.

“Oh my God,” Gator breathed, watching his cock disappear as you sank down onto his lap. The initial pressure of his girth stretching you made your face pinch, attempting to savor that first stroke with everything inside of you. But Gator was just too eager; too willing and ready to find out just how much he actually missed you.

“Gator, oh my—” you moan, bracing your hands on his shoulders, beginning off slowly by rolling your hips, rather than bouncing. You were afraid Gator might explode if you moved any faster.

“Holy shit. Holy fuckin’— yer’ so tight ‘round me, sweet girl. Missed fuckin’ this pussy.”

You kiss him, seemingly for the millionth time tonight— eager, amorous, starved. You craved this feeling again more than you ever considered. Gator pants into your mouth, his lips disconnecting momentarily only to latch right  back onto your neck. He suckles at the taut flesh, leaving more bruises in his wake. Your head falls back as though it weighed a ton, while Gator takes it upon himself to start to bounce you onto his cock.

“Gator,” you sigh, it’s almost a plea, “you feel so fucking good. F–feel you everywhere, baby.”

Your walls tighten around him when he kisses the tops of your tits, the lewd sounds of your arousal combining with that of his mouth as he sucks at your nipple. If there was one thing Gator was good for, it was paying attention to you, to the signs that you wanted— needed —more.

“That’s it,” Gator praises, watching you unravel and fall apart, piece by piece, “ride my fuckin’ cock, sweet girl. Ain’t so sweet now, are y’?”

You could tell that now, after getting acclimated to the feeling of you with no restraint, with no small layer of latex holding him back, he was gaining his confidence right back. You never doubted it, not for a second, that vulgar mouth of his was still very much alive.

“Ridin’ me like a damn’ cowgirl, shit. Milkin’ me fuckin’ dry, lettin’ me fuck you raw? Jesus Christ, lil’ lady. Jamesy boy don’t know what he’s fuckin’ missin’.”

“Don’t—” you stutter, the feeling of him filling you whole a bit too distracting, “don’t bring him up. N-not now.”

He groans, and it's borderline pornographic. “Y’don’t like when I talk bad ‘bout yer’ little boyfriend, huh?”

“Gator, fuckin’ stop it,” you bark, though you didn’t sound tough at all.

You pinch your eyes shut, Gator’s bouncing you fast, and hard, his hips bucking up to meet yours as yours come down.

“Bet he don’t know ‘ve got his girl in my truck… Fuckin’ her senseless. He ain’t know how good he had it.”

You whine, the words he spoke into the crook of your neck making you dig your fingernails into his back. That only egged him on to fuck into you harder, his tip plunging against your g-spot with each and every stroke. You were so, so close to your second orgasm of the night; Gator attaching his thumb to your clit and rubbing it in quick circles was exactly what you needed to get you there.

“Cum inside me Gate— need t’ feel you.” You blurt it out before you could stop yourself, him filling you to the brim and fucking you within an inch of your life had driven any and all logic and reason to leave your body.

“M’so close. So so close.”

Gator’s blubbering, you’re whining, the sound of his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs was echoing around the inside of his truck and making your ears ring. Everything about this was so overwhelming— you had gone from not seeing Gator in almost five years straight to this. You’d sworn to yourself all that time ago, you hated his guts from then on out.

But with the way his eyes sparkled, drunk on your essence and completely enamored with the way your face melted, not once breaking eye contact as the two of you chased your orgasms and let loose in perfect synchronicity—

Maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

Your body finally relaxes, your rhythm coming to a slower, more managable pace. Gator’s release shooting out in hot spurts, filling you up and dribbling out as he stays tucked inside of you. Your own orgasm had left you seeing stars, Gator milking the last bit of those aftershocks out of you by gently circling your clit, amused as he watched you twitch.

“As good as y’ remember?” he asks quietly, as if not to disrupt the peace of the afterthought.

“Better, somehow,” you admit, smiling at him through the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes. He reaches up and pushes it away, letting his thumb linger on your cheek.

“Yeah? That right?”

“We’re older now,” you shrug. It was obvious he’d kept things pent up since you called it off, but you humored him, “maybe it’s that.”

Gator nods, completely unphased by still being inside of you, unperturbed by the open truck door. “You’re prob’ly right.”

You chew at your bottom lip, your hands still slung lazily over his shoulders.

“I always am,” you smile, before swiping one last kiss from his pouty lips.

—

A few hours passed and you were still in Gator’s truck. Only now, you were perched in the passenger seat, dawned in the emergency clothes that Gator kept in his gym bag— a loose and worn Stark County Sheriff t-shirt and a pair of sweats with a couple of holes in the thighs.

The two of you did nothing more than just talk, catching up on the years of news you’d missed in your time apart. Gator was leaned back in the driver’s seat, cargo pants back on, his legs spread comfortably as he took a pull from that strawberry kiwi vape you’d seen earlier.

“I know I kept sayin’ y’ain’t changed but, I think y’did. ‘Think we both did.”

You pause for a moment, but nod nonetheless, “As I said, we’re older now. Both having lived more life did us in, I’m sure.”

Gator’s hands fidget mindlessly down in his lap, the black tee from earlier replaced with a grey one that almost matched yours identically. “Y’know, maybe livin’ more life did a good thing.”

He seemed apprehensive, the thought coming out not as complete as you expected. Gator was always sure of himself but right now, that wasn’t the case.

“What are you trying to say, Gator?”

His hand reaches up behind his neck, scratching it gently, before adjusting the brim of his hat that he had annoyingly put back on after you told him you’d preferred him without it. The sound of crickets and summer night’s ambiance took the reins for a moment as Gator collected his thoughts.

“Y’think y’ might be willin’ to give this another try? Y’know,” he points vaguely at the space between you, “us?”

Your eyes widened; that was the last thing you were expecting to hear from Gator Tillman tonight. Hell, it was the last thing you’d ever expect to hear from him at all. 

You hadn’t considered what you had with Gator a relationship in the slightest, and that was back when the two of you thought your on again, off again hookup phase was more important than Gator’s failing English grade. You weren’t willing to have a boyfriend who wasn’t dependable, who would vanish like a ghost and leave you guessing. But you kept him around because you knew he was capable of being that sweet and caring guy you’d dreamed about.

You had to just peel back the surface and you, unfortunately, realized that a little too late.

“I don’t mean t’freak y’out but, I dunno’. I’m real different now. I was a piece a’ shit back then. Y’ain’t deserve a man like that. Y’don’t have to answer me now, give yerself some time t’think on it. Maybe sleep on it. Y’still have my number, r—?”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

You swallow, taking a second to process your own affirmative before doubling down, “We can try again, if you really want.”

You locked eyes with Gator, his face had lit up ten fold, the boyish charm he exuded when you first met him flooding in hues of brown and green as the moonlight lit up his irises. You smile in return, blindly reaching for his hand. He takes it without a question.

“Serious?”

“Serious, but— don’t fuck it up. I’ll kill you. For real, this time.”

Your small hand is engulfed by his larger one as he pulls it to his lips, tenderly kissing your knuckles. He shakes his head, pure disbelief written all over his face.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.

“Just tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”

Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—” 

“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.” 

You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should. 

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms. 

“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air. 

He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."

"We're still by the door."

“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.

Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. 

You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.

Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones. 

"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”

"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"

"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.” 

His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”

“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”

“Clearly.”

“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”

Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.

“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you. 

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”

"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.

"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.

"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."

"Hi."

His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"

"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"

“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."

He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.

"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."

"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.

“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?” 

He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.

"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.

"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin. 

His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped. 

A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”

“Yeah.” 

“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”

“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”

His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.

"Steve—"

"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—

Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body. 

Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well. 

It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning. 

“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.

Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.

But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—

“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”

The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps. 

“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”

You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”

"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"

"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"

You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.

"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"

"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."

"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."

Steve went very still. "What?"

“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”

“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer. 

You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…

Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.

"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”

“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”

You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."

You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.

“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”

“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.

“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”

“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”

"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."

“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”

He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”

The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?

"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."

"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.

"I know how that sounds—"

"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"

"No—"

"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"

"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.

“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.

“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—” 

“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh. 

He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”

The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face. 

As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed. 

You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that. 

You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking. 

“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried. 

His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”

You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.

"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"

“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."

"Steve—"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—

"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.

His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"

"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."

"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."

You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"

"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."

You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.

"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."

Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.

"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."

"Okay."

He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."

Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.

He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.

"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.

He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—

"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."

His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."

The door closed softly behind him.

Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again. 

But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.

Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.

You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.

And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.

And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember. 

He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars. 

A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening. 

His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.

You were leaving.

The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—

His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.

You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—

“You just gonna sneak out?”

You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?

You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”

And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did. 

“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. 

“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”

“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”

“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” 

“You’re right.” He held up his hands. 

“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”

You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life. 

He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”

You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”

Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.

You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.

Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.

You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered. 

You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere. 

What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.

There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.

“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”

Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air. 

“Is it Nancy?”

You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out. 

His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”

Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart. 

“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.

“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”

His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now. 

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.

“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”

“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”

“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.

“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.

"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”

You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.

“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”

“I know—”

“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”

“I don’t know—”

You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”

“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!” 

The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways. 

You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”

“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?” 

“That is not what I meant—”

“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”

“No—”

“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”

His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”

You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.

“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”

“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”

His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there. 

He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier. 

But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this. 

“I should go,” you said quietly.

“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”

You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”

You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.

You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.

You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.

You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm. 

So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.

You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.

But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.

Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.

Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.

You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.

Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”

“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.

Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.

He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.

"Hey."

The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.

Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.

“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.

“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.

“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.

“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.

Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”

“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”

Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.

"I should—" you started.

"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.

You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"

It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.

You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.

So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing. 

When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?” 

“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.” 

“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed. 

Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when. 

“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve. 

The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.

It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"

"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."

Emily took her position. The music started.

And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.

"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."

"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.

“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”

“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”

Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him. 

“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.” 

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”

“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”

“It’s good.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.” 

You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.

"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."

"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.

Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”

You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”

He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”

You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym. 

You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot. 

“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you. 

Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”

“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”

“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”

“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”

"Emily, I swear to god—"

Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.

“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."

"Steve—"

"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."

You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

He had her on her back with her smooth thighs over his and his teeth on her throat, and she was making these small, bitten-off sounds that drove him fucking crazy, and Gator was not thinking about anything except the immediate, which was how he preferred it. No past, no future. Just the heat of her cunt around him, the slick drag and press of it, the way she arched up into him like she couldn’t help it.

That was the thing about her. She didn’t perform, she just responded, honest and eager, and he’d told himself early on that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just how she was, and he’d mostly believed it.

He bit down lightly at her throat and she gasped out his name, her fingers tightening in his hair, hips rolling up to meet him, and he groaned against her skin and moved harder, faster, chasing that particular feedback loop they’d gotten good at over the last few weeks. She knew what she liked and she wasn’t shy about it - a hand guiding him, a shift of an angle, a quiet “there, harder” that went straight to his cock - and he liked that about her, the lack of performance, the directness. He liked her -

He cut the thought off. Rolled his hips and felt her clench around him and focused on that instead, on the physical, which was simple and easy and good and the only thing he was here for.

Right, he thought. It’s just fucking. That’s all this is.

Then she shifted.

Her hand moved from his hair to rest against his jaw, and he felt her thumb at the corner of his cheek, and fuck he was about to - he was in the middle of - and then despite him being balls fucking deep she said it, quiet and easy like it just spilled out of her -

“God, Gator, you’re so good…”

He turned his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. He hadn’t decided to do it. It had just happened, like something in him had answered her praise without asking his permission first.

The half-second immediately after was very very loud in his head.

He didn’t do that. He didn’t - that was not something he did. He was a mouth-on-the-throat man, a hands-and-dick-and-momentum man, a fuck-them-and-move-on man, not - not that. Not something that careful. Not something that gentle.

He felt her go still beneath him. Just for a split second. Then she exhaled, something soft and hopeful escaping with it, and her fingers pressed a little harder against his jaw.

She didn’t make anything of it. That was almost worse.

Shit, he thought, with great clarity, and then he didn’t think about it again - or, at least, he tried not to. He tried to put it back in the box and nail the lid down shut - and then he finished, inside her, because if nothing else he was a man who finished things, and that was fine, that was normal, everything was completely normal and fine and not weird at all.

****************

He was fully dressed in four minutes. Possibly three.

“Headin’ out,” he grunted, which was not a question and barely an announcement.

She was sitting up against the headboard, watching him pull his jacket on, and she had that look on her face - the one he’d noticed on her before and had chosen not to catalogue - something quiet and a little careful, like she was deciding whether to say something big. She didn’t. She just said ‘okay, see you later’, low and casual, and didn’t ask him to stay.

He told himself, on the drive back to Lehigh, that this was exactly why their little arrangement worked.

****************

He didn’t text her.

Three days. Four. He kept his phone in his back pocket and didn’t look at it more than necessary and when her name floated to the surface of his mind he pushed it back down with the focus of a man who had been managing the pieces of himself for a long time.

This was fine. This was, in fact, the correct move. He’d gotten… a little mixed up. Turned upside down, somehow. Let something get under his skin that had no business being there. The solution was obvious and clean - space, distance, the gradual return of perspective. He’d done harder things than this. He’d done considerably harder things than this before breakfast. Ghosting a bitch was a no brainer.

By day five he was miserable.

Not restless - he knew restless, and this wasn’t it. Not frustrated either, which he also knew, and which had a solution. He’d jerked himself raw over the first three days before he’d realised that wasn’t what he needed - and since when was that not what he needed? This was something different, and worse. This was a specific, nagging absence, like a song he’d gotten used to that had suddenly stopped, and now the silence was its own kind of noise.

He caught himself, on the sixth day, thinking about something she’d said three weeks ago. A throwaway comment about someone from the office, funny in a dry, understated way that had surprised a real laugh out of him. He’d thought he’d forgotten about it immediately. Apparently he hadn’t.

He sat with that for a while.

Then he thought about her wrist. Her exhale. He’d been thinking about both of those things, on and off, for six days, which was… that was the part he couldn’t get a handle on. Why those two things? Why did they keep coming back? She hadn’t even made anything of it, and he couldn’t get them out of his head.

Shit, he thought, again. A sequel. Part two of Gator Tillman’s pathetic, fucked up, emotional boogaloo.

****************

He drove to her street on the seventh night and sat outside in his truck for longer than he was going to admit.

The lights were on in her house. She was home.

He could leave. He didn’t have to be here. He could put the truck in drive, go home, pour a drink. It’d be fine. Nobody was waiting on him. She didn’t even know he was out here, sitting in the dark like a fucking stalker, so it wasn’t like he’d be letting anyone down or freaking anyone out. He could just go. He’d done it before - walked away from things that weren’t worth the complication, and this wasn’t any different, really. He’d be fine. It’d work itself out.

He sat there.

The thing about need - and Gator had spent considerable effort in his life actively not needing things - was that it didn’t negotiate. Want you could starve out. Want you could redirect into someone else, and he had. His need just waited. It sat in his passenger seat and looked at the light in her windows and did not pretend to be anything it wasn’t.

Fuck it. He was going to have to go up there.

He was going to have to knock on her door with nothing in his hands and nothing to offer except the fact that seven days without her had felt like something he didn’t want to repeat. She was going to open the door and look at him, and whatever was on his face was going to be true, and he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about that.

He’d done harder things.

He kept telling himself that.

Gator Tillman sat outside her little house in the dark, hating this with both hands, and reached for the door handle anyway.

****************

She answered on the second knock, wearing the huge Nirvana shirt again, her hair left messy, and for a half-second something moved across her face before she got it under control and careful.

“I’m not fucking you, Gator.”

Not cruel. Just a fact, laid out there on her doormat and left for him to decide what to do with it.

He stood there in the porchlight and thought about turning around. Thought about laughing it off. Thought about the twelve different versions of himself that would have done exactly that, would have held up both hands and said “fuckin’ fine, whatever” and walked back to his truck and been fine by morning.

“That ain’t what I need,” is what he said instead.

The words fell out of him, and he watched her take them in. Watched her try to work out if he meant it, if this was some new angle, or some play she hadn’t seen yet. She knew him well enough to check. He didn’t blame her for that.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her, even though his hands hurt from not touching her. Just stood there with nothing else to offer and let her look at his face, which was telling the truth whether he liked it or not.

She looked at him for a long time.

"You're right, that doesn't matter," Hopper said with an annoyed scowl. He was a lot scarier when he was living off the grid and was unbound by laws. And in that moment, he was looking at you like you were a liability. Which, to be fair, you kind of were. "What matters is that by getting involved in this, your life will constantly be in danger."

Robin sighed and gave you a sympathetic frown. "I hate to say it, but Hopper's right. This doesn't just put a target on your back if you slip up and say the wrong thing around an MP… all of the creepy, otherworldly shit out there tends to circle this group like sharks."

Max, Barbara, Billy. Eddie Munson, who you bought weed from once before a party. Mr. Newby, who fixed your Walkman when you dropped it out of the Beamer's window on the way back from a party it wouldn't stop skipping. So many people who tangentially crossed paths with the group had died. Heather and her parents. Carol and Tommy.

Maybe the pattern would keep. Maybe you'd become monster food, or have your bones snapped, or something even crazier that they'd yet to experience. Maybe a demo-thing would lay eggs inside of you and they'd come popping out like in Alien. Just your fucking luck.

You swallowed. "I feel better knowing," you insisted. "I mean, sure, my instinct was that you were selling drugs or something, and now I'm going to nightmares about freaky monsters for the rest of my life, but I'd rather know what's out there than go on thinking everything is normal, especially with Sam in the picture."

Sam squirmed, irritable, and reached over for you. With a soft smile, you pulled her into your lap and pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. You didn't mind playing the baby card when you needed to, and you watched Jim Hopper's brow soften slightly.

You could work with that.

"Alright, can we cut it out with the third degree now?" Steve said with a sigh. "I think we all get it by now. I shouldn't have said anything, I never think, I'm hurting the sanctity of the group… can we move on?"

The group dispersed, and you could tell by the tension in Steve's shoulders that he needed an escape route. You bounced Sam on your hip for a second, watching as he combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

Steve didn't want to be seen as impulsive or careless, but in telling you, that's how he came across. And, sure, people would get over it and understand eventually, but it didn't make it any easier on him then.

Right then, it looked like he wanted to be as small as possible. So you nudged him gently and pulled his mind back to reality. And that reality wasn't the millions of things that could possibly go wrong and prove his friends right— it was on you and Sam, right there, safe and sound. "Hey, I think Sammie wants her dad," you said with a gentle smile. "See? I'm working on it. Nicknames, being parents… huge swings for me."

A tiny attempt at a smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he accepted her into his arms. "I'll feed Peanut, then we can hit Bradley's on the way home. Lucas said his mom managed to snag some Pringles after this morning's restock."

You widened your eyes in exaggerated excitement and gasped. "Wow… our lucky day, huh? We should buy a lotto ticket and get out of here."

Steve rolled his eyes and brushed past you, heading towards the small kitchenette where he could get Sammie's bottle warmed. You watched him fondly, then swallowed hard as you were left alone in the lion's den.

Quickly, you surveyed the room, looking for your best course of action. Robin had already grabbed a few records and closed herself into the booth with Jonathan, which left Nancy Wheeler as your only other peer.

It wasn't that you didn't like Nancy, you were just very, very intimidated by her. She was so confident and determined, which were two traits you were lacking. And at the moment, she was heads down with a series of maps, marking down some findings from their mission the night before.

The boys were all in their own little huddle, going over the details of the previous crawl. There was no real desire to interrupt them, so, instead, you sat down on the springy, uncomfortable couch and picked the last few flakes of your manicure off into your lap. The couch dipped after a few minutes, and you looked beside you to be met by curious brown eyes peering into yours.

Eleven, Jane, El. You still weren't entirely sure if there was a preference in how she should be addressed. She sat close, turning so her knees nearly pressed against yours. She wore boxy, formless clothes that you figured were boys' hand-me-downs. Her hair was a mop of thick curls, short cropped, just begging to be styled.

"I know that you are not Steve's girlfriend," she insisted. "Mike and Dustin say that you are, but you say that you are not. And you would know better than stupid boys."

A smile split your features and you nodded. "Well, Steve and I are confusing," you admitted. "He's not my boyfriend, but we live together and have a baby. Too difficult for stupid boys, I guess, but obviously not for you."

El laughed, scooting closer. "I like your hair," she said. She reached out hesitantly, and touched a curl under her fingers. It was a little sticky with hairspray and fried from consistent use of heat tools, completely different than her glossy, natural curls. "It's so pretty."

"Not as pretty as yours," you countered. "I have to pay for this, yours just grows out of your head. But if you want, I can teach you how to use hot rollers to style yours. It's super easy."

She nodded happily. "I can use the tunnels," she offered. "Will says there is a tunnel in the woods behind Steve's house, so I can come over."

A tunnel? You wracked your mind to try and remember where the tunnels had come from. You remembered, vaguely, Steve mentioning tunnels the night before. But they'd never been brought up again, so you just figured they'd collapsed, or disappeared, or something.

You nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, sure, you can come over tomorrow, if you want," you offered. "And when you do, you can take a look at my friend Carol's clothes and see if there's anything you like. You're about the same size, so you can take whatever you want."

El gave a giddy nod. "And maybe Nancy and Robin can come over too," she suggested. "Girls Night. No boys allowed." The giddy, hopeful look in her eyes was so endearing that you couldn't tell her no.

"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," you said. "It's been a while since I've had a girl's night, it'll be fun."

When she finally got up to leave with Hopper, she sent a tiny wave in your direction, which you quickly returned. And with your one companion gone, you stood and slowly approached Nancy and her maps.

"I'm hosting a girls night, apparently," you began, trying not to mess up any of the pages laid out as you brushed against the table. Her gaze snapped to yours— icy blue and intense. "For El. And she wanted me to— I wanted to— extend the invite."

She looked back at her maps and gave an absentminded, "Uh-huh… I don't know if a girls night is really what I should be focusing on right now, you know?"

You swallowed, nodding. Right. "Oh, yeah, of course. End of the world stuff, sorry," you said, stumbling over your words. "But, um, if you change your mind, it'll be tomorrow at my place— Steve's place. Our… place…"

She gave a thumbs up and a tight lipped smile, and you took the hint to walk away and lick your wounds. With a sigh, you stood against the wall and watched everyone talking and planning their days.

Everyone had their roles, even Steve. Steve was the muscle, the big brother. It was like he'd totally grown and shaped himself around what he could do for these kids and to help keep everyone safe. And you were… Steve's not-girlfriend.

Hey everyone, you wanted to say. I know I seem kind of purposeless now, but I can be super helpful! I was the one who patched Tommy up after he rode his dirt bike into a tree and got a nasty gash in his side. I can be useful to keep around!

That probably would have been more humiliating than sitting through another half-hour of being lectured at, so you swallowed your pride and accepted that, for now, you had no real place in the group dynamic. Outside of being Steve's… something.

You glanced into the kitchenette and your expression softened at the sight of Steve holding Sam in his arms and rubbing her back gently as her meal settled. He grabbed the empty bottle and diaper bag in his other hand and joined you in the sitting area.

"All good?" He asked. You eased the diaper bag from his grip and tucked the empty bottle inside as you nodded weakly. "Good. 'Cause no one is mad at you for knowing. They're just worried."

You nodded. "I'm all good," you insisted, but the itching feeling of wanting to do something crept up your spine until the words spilled out. "I just feel kind of useless, you know? I should be contributing somehow. I'm, like, the only person here who has one semester of college under their belt, and that's… y'know… something."

Steve's expression tightened, and he shook his head. "Hey, you don't need to do anything," he insisted. "I don't want you anywhere near any of this."

You sighed and crossed your arms. You find out that the world is ending, and you're expected to just… ignore it? Wasn't that crazy?

Or maybe it was that gnawing feeling of being on the outside looking in that made you want to shove yourself into the fray. To make yourself show that you were supposed to be there, and not just because of Steve.

God, that was stupid. Wanting to risk your life just to prove you fit in… but you'd never really sat well with being shoved to the side.

You exhaled and swallowed. "I'm kind of hosting a girls' night tomorrow. And you're not invited, because Eleven said it was no boys allowed."

He grinned. "You sure? I can do face masks, and paint nails, and watch John Hughes movies and all of that other girly shit," he said, nudging you with an elbow. You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile.

"God, you're a total chauvinist," you teased. He blinked a few times, brows furrowed, but eventually just shrugged. "C'mon, let's get your stupid Pringles."

He smiled and twirled his keys around his finger. Sam followed the shiny movement with an amused smile and reached out to grab at it with her soft, clumsy hands. You leaned over to kiss her forehead, which made you step even closer to Steve.

He was wearing cologne that he didn't usually wear—a soft, warm, spicy scent that made your heart flutter a little. It was nice, inviting. "Is that new?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "The cologne, I mean."

Steve's cheeks went a sheepish shade of pink, and he gave a bashful nod. "Oh, um… yeah," he stammered. "Well, not exactly brand new. I found it under my dad's sink and stole it. He probably got it as a gift and hated it and put it away. I just felt like trying something new, I guess."

He paused, eyes scanning your face as you stood back up. There was the tiniest flicker of disappointment at the distance placed between you two again, as infinitesimal as it was. "Do you like it?" He asked.

"Oh, um… yeah," you said, instinctively crossing your arms as best as you could with the diaper bag hanging from the crook of your elbow. "Yeah, it's really nice."

Steve smiled again, and gave his keys another twirl before heading out to the car. Your heart thrummed as you watched him go. He had a crewneck on, a dark color so if Sam drooled it wouldn't be too obvious. His Levi's were fitting a little tighter, clinging to his thighs and ass. Which you weren't looking at, obviously.

On your way out, you tapped on the glass to the recording booth and grabbed Robin's attention.

Come over tomorrow, you mouthed. She squinted, so you repeated it, again and again until Jonathan stepped in and translated. Once she understood what you were asking, she offered a thumbs up.

The radio station had been crowded and a little overwhelming. It wasn't usually that hard to be around Steve's friends, but the knowing threw a wrench into everything. They weren't playing pretend for your sake anymore— you saw through to the gritty reality. The planning, the worry, the desperation.

Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe the girls night was frivolous and stupid in the face of imminent danger via inter-dimensional forces beyond your comprehension. Or maybe giving them one night to put aside their fears and relax was charitable work.

Either way, you were glad to finally be in the car. Steve was driving for once, which meant you were reacquainting yourself with your old friend, the Beamer. It was hard to sit in the front seat and not think about the ever-relevant memories made in the backseat. Memories that inconveniently ruined your date the night before.

As he drove, he slung an arm around the back of your seat while his hand gripped the steering wheel. Every once in a while, he'd spare a glance at you; at a stoplight, or when he was on a long stretch of road.

This tiny, stirring look that said you were on the same team, that he was right there. Your tummy fluttered uncomfortably, and you had to turn to look out the window before your face got too hot.

Things felt different— charged. Every neuron that wasn't firing off about crazy monsters or Sam was thinking about Steve, Steve, Steve.

Earlier that morning, you woke up with your head resting against his chest and his warm arms around you. His soft breath fanning across the crown of your head, the lightest ghost of his lips there. Big, strong hands tugging you closer as you slowly woke up, like he didn't want you to pull away.

It was nice, but you were still so hesitant to let yourself give in to that feeling. Both you and Steve were so impulsive at times— so quick to feel things in big, overwhelming ways that you'd regret later. Fuck, even Steve's admission of his feelings came from you two blowing up on each other. You couldn't just let yourself do something because it felt good, you had to think about the long term— about Sam.

At the grocery store, while you bought the only decent looking lemons in the scant display, Steve juggled oranges to make Sam (and you, admittedly) laugh. He caught them all and gave a bashful smile when one of the clerks called him out for bruising the produce. You rolled your eyes and grabbed the oranges from him, biting back a smile.

"You're so annoying," you muttered with a shake of your head as you dropped them down into a little plastic bag and put them in the cart.

"You have a cute laugh," he said, and you felt that stupid, persistent flutter in your chest. "I'm just trying to impress my girls."

Oh, fuck off, you wanted to groan. He made it so impossible to be the responsible one. "Why don't you go find your precious Pringles, huh?" You asked, giving him a nudge. Like a well-trained golden retriever, he went to fetch.

The nearest entrance to the tunnel was dug inside Steve's pool shed, just narrowly missing all sorts of pipes and pumps that led to the pool. You were really glad that they had managed to avoid those when they dug up through the earth, because you thought Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would literally kill you if something happened to their precious home on your watch.

Eleven crawled up from the tunnel with bits and pieces of dirt and earth clinging to her hair and smiled happily at you. Jim Hopper kept his jaw set tight as he helped her up the ladder.

"She does not go outside, you keep the windows drawn, you do not invite anyone who wasn't at the station yesterday, and if anything happens, you radio immediately," he said firmly.

You swallowed and nodded. "She's in good hands, I promise," you insisted. "I mean, when I was her age you were busting me and my friends for underage drinking so, I feel like we could be doing much worse…" He narrowed his eyes and you nervously cleared your throat. "Um… sorry, not important. I won't be giving your underaged daughter alcohol. I'll take good care of her."

He must have believed you, parent to parent, because he nodded and let her join you in the house. He'd be back to pick her up at 9:30, no later. You listened to him muttering about the goddamn hike back to the cabin as you shut the sliding doors.

"Your house is so fancy," El said as she looked around. "It's even bigger than Mike's house."

You'd never been to the Wheeler's place, but you nodded and accepted the compliment. Since moving in, you'd done your best to warm the place up. A few framed photos, lamps, and throw pillows could work wonders… as could the constant clutter of raising a baby. It turned the Harrington mausoleum into something that felt like a home.

You led her into the bathroom— all pink tile and gold fixtures, and her eyes widened in amazement. "C'mere, sit on this stool here and I'll fix your hair." She sat on the plush pink velvet and crossed her legs beneath her.

Gently, you combed her hair with your fingers, picking out the little specs of dirt that clung to her brown curls. "Your hair is so healthy," you said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "It's so soft and shiny. Are you sure you want me to put it on rollers? I can always just clip it back."

El shook her hair ardently. "I want to try the hot rollers, please," she insisted.

You nodded and grabbed a comb to remove any small snags and knots. "Alright, the rollers really are hot, so just tell me if I catch you with it and burn you, okay?" She nodded and you smiled. You reached over and pressed play on your cassette player, and Madonna played through the speakers. "M'kay, let's see what we can do, yeah?"

Fifteen minutes later, her hair was twisted up and pinned in the rollers, and you were sitting on the pink marble countertop so you could dust makeup over her face. "Stop squinting, hon," you chided as you swept a tiny sponge with the lavender pigment over her lid. She giggled and tried her best to relax. "So, you and Wheeler, huh? He's your boyfriend?"

She blushed, and it was only accentuated by the pink powder you'd previously dusted onto her cheeks. "Yes," she answered, and peeked her eyes open to look at you. "Do you like a boy?"

There was something endearing about her curiosity, like you were sharing secrets at a sleepover. Steve told you that he was pretty sure that she and Max had been close before she moved to California, but you wondered if she had very many girl friends in her life. But it felt like she was relying on you to provide that for her now, so you leaned in entirely.

"There's a guy, but it's complicated," you said. You pulled a frosty blue eyeshadow single from your makeup bag and swiped it onto your finger. She closed her eyes so you could dab it onto her lid.

Her brows furrowed. "Who is he?" She asked. "Steve?"

"What? No," You insisted. When you finished applying the eyeshadow, she peered up at you. "Let's just say his name is, uh… Stan."

"… Stan," she echoed.

You decided, impulsively, that she needed more blush, so you grabbed the compact and ran the fluffy brush through the startling pink. "So, let's say me and Stan have a lot of history, and it's mostly bad," you began, and swept the blush over the apples of her cheeks. "Like, I spent so long pining after him, and he rejected me constantly. Like, he was a total asshole and we got in this huge fight and didn't talk for about a year, but then we finally…" You squinted and thought for a moment, "kissed, and it was like… super exciting and could have totally been something, you know?"

El gave a tiny nod. "Kissing is good, right? It means he likes you."

You huffed. "Okay, not quite, because he totally went radio silent on me and then I went to college, and when I came back, we were suddenly…" You sighed. "Sharing this puppy. And we both love this puppy, and it's very charming to see each other interacting with this puppy, but do we really have a future, or is it just this puppy making us totally see things that aren't there? Because all of a sudden, Ste— Stan is making these, like, confessions of love and it's, like, how can I believe him if what he says is the total opposite of how he's acted before?"

El's eyes flew open. "You have a puppy?"

You dropped the blush brush on the counter and sighed. "Hypothetically." Her brow creased further and you tried a better explanation. "Um… it's like, making something up to explain. The puppy represents something else."

"You are right," she said with a frown. "Complicated."

You gave a wry laugh and grabbed a pink lipstick. "Yeah, tell me about it. " You held her chin between your fingers and gave a weak smile. "Alright, lipstick, then I'll show you my best trick for putting on mascara."

El was a perfect student; she gave every tip and demonstration her rapt attention. She let you talk color seasons, because she was totally a true autumn, and you helped her sift through some of Carol's clothes from the boxes growing dust in the garage.

Robin arrived bearing gifts not soon after El's makeover was complete. A rented tape, pizza, and Nancy Wheeler. Well, really Nancy Wheeler had arrived bearing Robin and her gifts, because Robin still couldn't drive.

Apparently, you were unable to school your expression, because Nancy gave a tight lipped smile at your confusion and offered a meager explanation. "Robin said I needed to relax and let myself think about something completely unrelated to the Upside Down," she explained as she sat on the couch. "And I love Pretty in Pink."

When you were all settled in the living room and the tape was in, you relaxed as best as you could on the sofa. It was your first girls night without Carol, and it just felt like there was this hole in the night. A blurry shape in the periphery of your vision that disappeared when you looked directly at it.

But if Carol were still here, you would have gone back to school, she would be back in her little starter home with Tommy, and you never would have spent time with any of the people under the roof. You were beginning to accept that things happened for a reason, and for whatever reason, you were supposed to be here.

The pizza wasn't incredible— quarantine meant food shortages and subpar ingredients. But, really, it was a marvel that a pizza place was even open at all. The soda that Steve had grabbed for you was the best he could do— Tab.

But El seemed so content to be participating in what you felt was a boring girls night. When the credits rolled, she turned and looked at you expectantly, like you were the final word on what to do.

"Um…" You took a sip of your soda and wrinkled your nose in discontent. "We can play truth or dare. Have you played?"

El nodded and drummed her fingers on her knees as she thought. "Nancy, truth or dare?"

Nancy took a slow sip of her Tab and gave a tiny shrug. "Uh… truth, I guess," she said, and offered El an encouraging smile.

El thought for a moment, and looked a tiny bit disappointed that Nancy hadn't chosen dare, but her eyes widened and she smiled. "Are you happy to have Jonathan back in Hawkins?"

You glanced back at Nancy, who took another long sip as she thought for a moment. "Yeah," she said finally, but you could hear a hint of hesitation. "I mean, obviously we need him and Will and Joyce back home for everything."

"And, you know, he's your boyfriend," Robin chimed in.

Nancy's cheeks went a soft pink and she nodded. "Well, yeah, of course. That's… that's a given." She shook her head like she was shaking away some secret thought and turned to Robin. "Alright, Buckley— truth or dare."

Robin smirked and sat a little straighter. "Dare."

"I dare you to do fifteen push ups."

Robin's expression twisted in annoyance. "What? You're supposed to tell me to eat something gross, or make a prank call, or go jump in the pool. This is just punishment" Nancy shrugged and nodded towards the floor.

Begrudgingly, Robin managed, but her face was pinker when she sat up. She said your name and your stomach sank in anticipation. "Truth or dare?"

You didn't want to eat something gross, or jump in the pool, or do pushups, so you took the boring route. "Truth, I guess."

Robin thought for a second and met your gaze. "What is the worst date you've ever been on?"

"Oh, god," you muttered. El sat up, eyes wide with interest. Your lips turned into a grimace as memories from your date a few nights ago flashed through your mind. "Um… okay, Friday night—"

"What? Who? The hot guy?" Robin demanded. You waved a hand in her direction and continued on.

"So I was on a date with the hot guy, and the dinner went great. I mean, he took me to Enzo's and it felt really easy. But we were making out in his car, and I said another guy's name, which totally killed the mood and ruined everything. That awkward ride home was one of the low points of my life."

Nancy's brows furrowed. "Whose name did you say? Steve's?"

You forced a laugh and shook your head. "That would be so dumb, no."

"I bet she said Stan," El supplied. "The boy she shares the hypothetical puppy with."

Robin's eyes narrowed, and the slow smile that spread across her lips made you burn with mortification. "A puppy, huh?"

You groaned and hid your face in your hands. "Okay, El, your turn— truth or dare?"

By the time Hopper arrived back in the pool shed, El had a fresh manicure, a duffel bag full of clothes, and a box of hot rollers to take back to the cabin and try out herself. "I had so much fun," she said as she climbed the rickety ladder back into the tunnel. "Thank you for the clothes, I love them."

You smiled and brushed it off like it was nothing. Really, it was comforting to know that Carol's clothes were going to this sweet girl instead of sitting in a donation bin to rot. "Hey, you're welcome any time, okay?"

Hopper gave a wave, and you thought he seemed at least a little thankful that you had included Eleven and let her have one night as a normal teenager. Even if Hawkins was in danger. Even if the world was slowly ending.

You stayed outside a little longer and watched a pond-skater glide along the surface of the pool. Glide, stop, glide, stop. It left pretty v-shaped paths as it moved along the surface. In the woods, the crickets chirped, and you could swear you heard the rustle of raccoons or opossums. With a sigh, you left the warm summer night and opened the sliding door back into the house.

Nancy and Robin waited on the couch, and you steeled yourself for the delayed interrogation as you settled onto the left cushion and tucked your legs beneath you.

"So… You said Steve's name, huh?" Robin grinned and nudged you. "You two are so insanely stubborn, you know? You should just get over your drama and get together already."

With a snort, you shook your head. She sounded so much like Carol and Tommy that it was almost laughable. You understood their shared knowing glances and exasperation in hindsight, but that was before. Things weren't as easy as just forgiving and forgetting anymore.

"It's not that simple," you said defensively. "I mean, Steve says he's interested now, and no one else is turning his head, and that's great. But who's to say how he'll feel in a few months? In a year? Maybe quarantine gets lifted, and Steve goes back to being Steve, and then I'm the bitter co-parent who hates to be around him and only talks to him in passing when we hand off Sam in a parking lot."

You hated that you could see that so clearly, because it mirrored the rest of your experience— You love Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fuck Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fall for Steve, Steve falls for you…

You knew what came next.

Call it cynicism, call it realism, but you couldn't risk caving to those impulses. Not when you both had a rotten track record. What was best for you, for Sam, was to remain friends, and nothing more.

"I think it's smart," Nancy insisted. "Practical. You're giving yourself time to figure out if these feelings are real, or… if you're being too hasty."

You nodded, relieved to have someone supporting a decision that felt like a form of self-punishment. It wasn't just that you were keeping yourself from being happy, it was a logical course of action. You could always change your mind, give in, decide that this is what's right.

Unless Steve changed his mind and it was already too late. A frown pulled at your lips and you sighed. "What about you and Jonathan?" You asked. "I felt a little hesitation earlier."

Nancy laughed and shook her head. "What? No." But her tone was pitchy and defensive. "Of course I'm happy he's back, but living together is an adjustment. I mean… one second he's across the country, and the next he's sleeping in my basement with his whole family. That'd be… an adjustment for anyone."

A wry smile spread across your lips. "God, tell me about it."

It turned out, you had a decent amount in common with Nancy Wheeler. Dead best friend? Check. Unfortunate living circumstances? Check. Tumultuous history with Steve Harrington? Check.

You weren't going to immediately be best friends, but it made you feel like you weren't so alone anymore. Sure, you had Steve, but that was an entirely different can of worms.

In the middle of your next movie, the front door swung open and you watched as Steve lugged himself, the diaper bag, and the baby carrier over the threshold. He dropped the carrier onto the coffee table and eased a sleeping Sam out. She stirred, expression crinkling, and nuzzled into Steve's chest.

You watched as he rocked her slowly, soothingly, and then frowned down at the crumby, smudged glass of the coffee table. "Gross, you're all animals," he huffed. "I can't believe this is the state of the house when I'm gone. I'd expect this from Henderson, but not you guys."

"Sorry, mom," Robin teased. "We'll clean up after ourselves so we don't get grounded."

Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Thin ice, Rob."

His gaze fell on you and he gave you that doe-eyed, smitten look that had been driving you so crazy. You swallowed and tried to ignore the way your heart started to flutter. He bounced Sam and turned to look at her, and that buzzy feeling dissolved away like cotton candy on your tongue. "I'm gonna take Peanut up to bed and get out of your hair. I'll just make a note to vacuum in the morning."

When he was gone, Robin and Nancy gave you a look. You tried to focus on the movie.

A few days later, and neither of you had been brave enough to address the comically large, heart-eyed elephant in the room. Which was inconvenient, considering every time Steve gave you that sappy, lovey expression, the elephant just got bigger and bigger.

It was simple evasion— you knew that. The irrational, squishy part inside of you didn't want to tell Steve that you didn't trust either of you to jump into a relationship, because that same part of you was just aching to give in.

"Hey, be careful!" Steve yelped. You narrowed your eyes as you looked at Steve in the mirror, a comb in one hand, the other working through his damp hair. A smile played at your lips as you ran the comb through his hair again, which made him wince. "Ow!"

"You're so tender-headed," you said when he winced again. You parted the hair just above his left ear and your eyes went wide. "Holy shit… you have a bald spot here."

His eyes widened and he smacked your hands off. "I do not," he insisted, fingers going up to touch at the bare spot on his scalp. You pushed his hands away again and parted the hair to look at it.

"Yeah, it's a jagged little spot. Maybe it's a cowlick, or genetics, or the stress of fatherhood taking its toll," you teased, tracing the line with your fingers. He shivered at the contact, shoulders tensing.

"My dad has great hair, it's not genetics," he said defensively. He was almost pouting. He loved his hair, and that's why you were surprised he even let you attempt the quick trim over the sink. But he sat on the pink velvet stool with a fluffy towel around his neck, his hair damp and hanging in his face.

Although, teasing him about the bald spot was probably not helping his trust in you. "I think it's a scar," you said finally, squinting down at the shape of it. "Who do you think did it? The Russians or the bats?"

His expression soured. "Billy Hargrove," he said, and looked a more than a little bitter. "Fall of senior year. One second he's smashing a plate over my head… the next I'm in his car with the kids and a thirteen year old girl driving. I still can't remember much of what happened."

You parted his hair normally and the scar was covered, like it wasn't even there. It was kind of a wonder he'd never noticed it before. "Well, apparently he got his chest hole-punched by a gross gooey monster, so…" you trailed off and shrugged. "Karma. Besides, he was a total asshole and a pig and you're still here."

He huffed. "With a bald spot."

"With a scar." You grabbed the scissors from the countertop and bit your lip as you looked at his hair. Just a little trim. You could handle that. "Alright, don't move or I'll slice your ear off and give you a new scar to worry about."

You stabilized his head between your hands and tilted his head down, just slightly. You held your breath and took the scissors to the long hairs curling at the nape of his neck. For a moment, you thought that it was probably what your father felt when he performed heart surgery. Or… probably not.

By the time you were done, Steve was left with a wonky, choppy cut. He shook it out and ruffled it with his fingers, and tried not to look to alarmed. The right side of his head was cut a little shorter than the left, and overall it was a lot shorter than he'd worn it since graduating. Hell, since Junior year.

"Oh, fuck… It's bad," you said, eyes wide as you looked at the fucking hack job you'd done. "Shit, I feel awful."

"No!" He insisted. He grabbed a bit of mousse and worked it through his damp hair, but there wasn't much to be done until it grew out a little. "No, it's actually fine, I promise. I can find a good way to style it, and maybe I'll actually like it like this better."

You sighed and ran a hand through your own hair with a skeptical look. "Are you sure? You can be mad. I'd throw a bitch fit if I were you."

He just shook his head and there it was, that goddamn lovey expression that made you want to melt into a puddle. There were no defenses against it— like it was a look engineered to cut through every instinct and burrow into the vulnerable parts of your soul.

"Why don't you let me take you out to make up for it?" He suggested. "It'll be just you and me. We can, uh, do a picnic at that nice park by Loch Nora. Or, I mean, I can cook us a nice dinner at home. But I just figured you'd want to get out of the house for once."

You swallowed and felt your stomach go fluttery. "Steve," you began. A frown creased your features as you tried to find the words you wanted to say. "I just… I don't think I'm— that we're ready for that yet."

He visibly deflated, and you thought he looked even more pathetic with the awful cut you'd given his hair. "What?"

"I'm just… not entirely confident that this is the best idea right now," you said. "Like… I think we're both feeling a lot of things, like, chemically—" He tilted his head, his confusion at your words was palpable, but you pressed on. "And I feel like jumping into this when there's no real way of knowing if these feelings are real or just circumstantial is irresponsible. Especially with Sam in the mix."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Um… right," he said, but his disappointment was evident in the sullen tone of his voice. "Yeah, of course. You know Sam is the most important thing in my life. Not thing, she's a baby, but I mean— don't we owe it to her to try? And not because we have a baby and it's what we should do, but because we want to be together and it'll be good for all of us. And we can give her a home that's warmer and better than the ones we grew up in."

"Steve," you said softly. "I'm not saying never. I just have to make sure that whatever this is has staying power."

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. "That's… yeah," he agreed. "Smart. You've always been the smart one between the two of us." Before you could say anything more, he kissed your forehead and went for the door.

You grabbed his hand quickly, and the flash of hope in his eyes made your heart hurt a little. "You're gonna get hair everywhere," you said softly, and eased the towel from around his neck.

He swallowed hard and gave a wry laugh. "See? Smart one."

You watched him walk out of the pink bathroom and wondered if this was how Steve had felt in the stock room of Scoops Ahoy just a year ago. It was funny, how quickly things could change.

The rest of the summer was tense. Not in a particularly bad way, really. Steve would never punish you for turning him down. But those feelings, those secret wants lingered.

Things were normal, or as close as you'd ever been, but with a new flavor of repression that tasted like you were back in high school. Bitter and full of longing.

Steve offered to move into his old room to give you space, but you didn't want space. You wanted the right answer to fall into your lap, even though it felt like whatever you chose, something would go wrong.

"He's not dating anyone," Nancy told you over the phone one day. It was meant to be a reassurance, but it made you feel a little worse, like you were holding him hostage emotionally. "I mean, you'd know if he was. The second he leaves the station, he's practically sprinting to his car to get home to you two."

Any sane person would take that as a sign— he was committed, even if you weren't. He could've been drowning his sorrows in any girl who looked his way, but he wasn't. But distrust and insecurity was rooted inside of you, rotten and unshakeable. There was some part of your brain that swore that the second you got something good, it would be ripped right out of your hands. You'd gotten used to that feeling— it had grown up alongside you.

Summer turned to fall, and Sam changed more with every day. She crawled, then she stood. Her hair was longer and had darkened into a warm auburn that you clipped on top of her head to keep out of her face. You wanted to give her a haircut but… well, you'd seen how that could go.

Steve's hair had grown out well enough, and from then on, when he needed a trim, he called Mrs. Byers, who was more than familiar with a pair of shears. In fact, he was annoyingly good looking, and seemed to look better and better every day. The comfort of domesticity softened his edges, his body, his face. It just suited him.

The routine you settled into had been simple. Steve worked the station in the morning, and he got the rest of the day with you and Sam. You divided up chores and tried to give each other a bit of time during the day to take a break, but, usually, you both wanted to spend every waking moment with Sam. Every other Friday, the military went through the gate in the square, which meant there was time for another crawl and Steve would be out all day.

"I hate you doing this," you finally said in October. They'd made it to crawl number seven, and it was beginning to feel like they were all pushing their luck. How was it that no one else seemed to feel it too?

But Steve was standing by the door, twirling his keys around his finger while you picked at your cuticles and worried. The sun was going down— honestly, he was already late— but you didn't want to let him leave. "You have a history with the lab, your name is probably on a government list, and you're driving around tracking Hopper in the world's most conspicuous van."

"I'll be fine," he insisted. "I just drive the route with Dustin and let him complain about how I'm driving, and the music I'm playing, and how annoying I am to be around. Even if we got stopped, there's nothing for them to hold us on. It's radio station business."

You swallowed hard and sighed. Sam tugged at your hair, winding a curl around her chubby hands. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid," you said, his expression tightened and you met his gaze as you continued. "I'm not saying you're stupid, I'm asking you not to take any unnecessary risks. Don't volunteer to go into the upside down, or… I dunno. Just don't do it."

"I won't," he said. "I'm driving a car, that's all." He stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Sam's forehead. "If you need me, I turned the walkie to the right frequency."

What choice was there but to let him go? He twirled his keys and waved to the both of you. Sam had just learned to wave back, which made him smile happily as he backed out of the drive and headed to the station.

"Just us girls, huh?" You said softly, nuzzling against her hair. "How about we practice walking… and dance to some good music… and have some butter noodles for dinner… is that a good plan?" You mimed nibbling her hand and she laughed giddily and wiggled in your grasp.

Sam had gotten pretty good at walking when she was assisted. You held onto her little hands and helped her waddle around the entire first floor of the house. She'd get tired, plop down on the floor, and crawl around while you chased her.

Her appetite was endless since she was growing up so fast. She'd eat anything you put in front of her, but was particularly fond of noodles. You wouldn't be caught dead complaining about a baby who wasn't a picky eater, especially considering your own habits as a kid. It was probably something she got from Tommy, who'd been easily convinced to eat actual dirt for five bucks.

Anyways, the night routine was easy. A quick bath and a few books in the rocking chair. You read Oh, The Places You'll Go and cried, then cheered yourself back up with Peter Rabbit. She dozed off to the sound of your voice, one hand still wrapped around your finger.

Just a few months ago, you'd felt so crushed by boredom doing this same sort of thing. But there was a comfort to it now that you relished in.

With everything awful going on, the simplicity and routine made you feel grounded in reality. You couldn't exactly stop the apocalypse from crashing down on Hawkins, and frankly, you knew it was best if you didn't try. But you could do your best to keep your promise to Carol and Tommy by taking care of your girl.

Steve got home after midnight, sneaking in like he expected the house to be sleeping. You waved at him from the bed, where you were flipping through an old Cosmo and waiting for him, and tried to stifle a yawn.

"You didn't have to stay up," he said, but the smile on his lips betrayed his gratitude. "It's late and you had Peanut all to yourself tonight."

You shook your head and dogeared the magazine. "No, it's not that late, really," you insisted. "Besides, she had a really good night. She's always having a good night. And she's getting so good at toddling around with help and cruising around the living room. I think she'll walk before her first birthday."

Steve smiled proudly at that. You watched him strip his clothes off— a bulky sweater tossed into the hamper on his side of the bed, followed by the plain white tank he always wore beneath.

The sides of his abdomen were covered in delicate, scarred skin— Bat bites, you had come to know. You could see the spots where their teeth had sunk in deep, and others where they'd just torn at the flesh.

Worst of all, you remembered seeing it when it was fresh and raw, when you had to touch the swollen stitches. Your lips turned and Steve's eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes.

"It's bad, huh?" He asked. When your head tilted in confusion, he nodded down to his body. "Yeah… Not a pretty sight."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head. "I wasn't thinking that." You swallowed and put the magazine onto your nightstand and sat up straighter. "I'm just thinking about how much it must have hurt. And how sorry I am that it happened."

Steve swallowed and glanced away. "No, it's uh… y'know… comes with the gig."

"But it can't," you said firmly. His gaze flicked back to yours and you tried to look at him as gravely as you could manage. "I— we need you home safe and sound. Okay? I want you to promise me that."

There was a flicker of hesitation… but he nodded. "I will come home safe and sound every time. I promise."

That had to count for something.

He ambled towards the en suite kicking the door shut behind him. He hummed as he brushed his teeth, a habit you'd grown quite fond of. When he came out and flopped lazily onto his side of the bed, you turned over to look at him.

"How'd it go tonight?" You asked.

He shrugged and sighed, then rolled over to meet your eyes. "Total dud," he huffed. "Hopper came up empty handed, and Dustin was being a total asshole the entire night. The good thing is, Hopper searched this neighborhood and it was totally quiet so…"

A wave of relief washed over you at that. It was reassuring to know that there weren't any demogorgon nests… or lairs… or whatever lurking on the opposite side of the covered rifts. That couldn't stop them from moving, or creating new rifts… but it meant there wasn't an imminent threat lurking and growing underneath Sam's feet.

"Well… no news is good news too, right?" You asked. "I mean, seven months ago the ground split open and there was freaky red lighting. And now… y'know… no demo-anythings, no trances, no people dying in freaky ways."

Steve sighed. "Well, Hawkins is big, he could still be out there." He swallowed and rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

The clock on your bedside ticked over to midnight. You exhaled and rolled over onto your back. Your childhood bedroom— just a small stretch of woods away— had glow stars stuck to the ceiling. They were put up when you were twelve, so you and Steve had to jump on your mattress to slap them up high enough. When you laid in your bed at home, you looked up at a galaxy of clumsily, thoughtlessly arranged stars and thought about simpler times.

You missed it then. Simpler times.

You should have known that things could only go right for so long. That eventually, your number would come up and the comfort of routine and stability would be rattled.

Crawl nine was late in November, the day after Thanksgiving. There hadn't any turkey, or macaroni and cheese, but you'd made really great mashed potatoes and Steve had roasted a chicken. You missed the fancy Thanksgivings at home— pumpkin pie, Brussels sprouts, a big juicy turkey, fresh cranberry sauce, creamy mac and cheese.

You had wondered if your parents were having that— if they'd somehow bought their way to a traditional, picture perfect meal. You called them before you ate just to wish them a happy Thanksgiving and tell them you missed them. The call was cold and strained, but, then again, so was most of your adolescence. They loved you, you knew, but there were conditions to it. And for that moment, you weren't meeting those conditions.

As for your thanksgiving, it was small and close knit. Hopper and El came over since there was nowhere else for them to go. It might have been nice… under different circumstances. A nice, happy dinner, a little football, and a really shitty batch of brownies that you and El butchered in the kitchen during halftime.

You were still sleepy and full from the big day before when Steve kissed Sam's forehead, then promised not to do anything stupid, the same promise you made him give for the past few crawls. And, really, you should have known that it was an empty promise when he couldn't meet your eye and was wearing camo, but you brushed it off.

You watched Sleeping Beauty with Sam, which really meant Sam toddled around the living room while Sleeping Beauty played on the TV. By nine, she was asleep in her crib and you were trying to follow along to the very vague instructions on making sugar cookies that Steve's Mimi had left in a recipe tin.

Later, you laid on the couch as you flipped through a "new" copy of Cosmo. It was two months outdated, and the best Bradley's could do, but it had piqued your interest on the shelf.

The articles, "why friends make the best lovers," and, "the joy of resuming an old romance," probably wouldn't solve your problems… but they couldn't hurt either. Every sign seemed to point towards just giving in— including the cheesy advice from magazines.

By the time you were crawling into bed, you'd made a too-crispy batch of cookies, finished the bodice ripper you'd borrowed from Claudia, and done all of the laundry in the house.

And even though you'd read Cosmo cover to cover, you were no less confused.

In the morning, you wanted to take Sam to the makeshift library operating out of the abandoned church on Miller Road. She'd never been before, but you could both stand to branch out your reading selection. You'd love to have a new bedtime story other than Hop on Pop, and Robin told you that Carrie was actually really good and not overrated at all.

The radio on the bedside table buzzed to life after midnight. It stirred you from a shallow rest, and you blinked the sleep from your eyes as Dustin's voice rang through the speakers.

"What's going on?" You asked sleepily. "'s everything okay?"

"Can you get to The Squawk? Soon, please?"

You sat up. "The station? Sam's already down for the night."

"Yeah, it's just... we— uh— need someone who can give stitches. And—"

"I'll be there," you said, cutting him off.

You scrambled to pull on clothes. You grabbed the first things in the dresser— an old Hawkins Basketball crewneck that may have belonged to Steve and a thick pair of flannel pajamas.

Shamefully, you felt a little excited to be looped into everything, despite Steve's warnings. But then you remembered that Hopper might have gotten seriously hurt in the crawl and forced yourself to ignore that feeling.

With your tennis shoes quickly thrown on, you hurried up the stairs to ease Sam from her crib. She wailed, angry to be roused in the middle of the night, but you couldn't exactly wait to call Claudia at this hour.

"Sorry, Peanut," you said gently as she screamed in your ear. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."

By the time you made it to the station, Sam was red in the face and exhausted from her crying. You had a sinking feeling of dread as you approached the glass double doors with your arms full of your daughter and your bags.

Maybe being involved wasn't so great after all.

Dustin was waiting, flushed and avoidant of your gaze. Still, he opened the door and ushered you in. You bounced Sam as you walked alongside him, trying to soothe her a little. "Sorry it took so long, but I had to get Sam buckled up, get the diaper bag, pack my first aid kit— where's Hopper?"

Dustin stopped you with a hand on your arm before you could go down into the basement. "Okay, don't be mad, but—"

You pushed past him before he could finish that sentence, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as you could without jostling Sam too much.

At the bottom of the steps, you paused and exhaled sharply. Because there was Steve, bloody and bruised on the couch, surrounded by the rest of the party. He lifted a hand weekly in greeting, which only added insult to injury.

"Someone take my baby," you said, not breaking eye contact with Steve. "Right now."

El was the one to step forward and ease the crying Sam from your arms. In your periphery, she retreated back to Joyce. Hopper was nowhere to be seen but no one seemed too bothered by that, whatever the hell that meant.

You gritted your jaw and took a deep breath through your nose, then crossed the room to the little metal sink in the corner to wash your hands. "What happened?" You demanded.

At once, multiple voices rang out— Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Mike, Lucas. You shook your head and tried to keep control of your temper. Deep breath, in through your nose, out through your mouth. "No— One person."

You dried your hands and knelt at Steve's side. His shirt clung wet and sticky to his torso, which made you grimace. You lifted it and had to close your eyes at the sight of a deep slice across his ribs.

"Steve and Nancy filled in for Hopper tonight because he's sick," Robin explained, slowly, like she was trying to avoid punishment. "They were searching sector K— which are the really old, creepy houses off of Old Cherry. And we kind of figured, like, well, Vecna was in a creepy house before, so it would make sense for him to be in one now—"

Dustin sighed and spoke up. "Steve fell through the ceiling when he was searching an attic."

"Because he saw me about to step on a rotten board and pushed me out of the way," Nancy interrupted. "But he got a pretty bad cut on his side."

Steve huffed and struggled to sit up. "I'm not dead, I could have explained it myself," he muttered. He met your gaze and swallowed. You thought he looked a little guilty, which served him right. "I'm fine. Everything was going just fine, we just weren't thinking about... uh…"

"Structural instabilities," Nancy supplied.

You swallowed, because you couldn't talk to him in that moment, and pulled out your first aid kit. Everything was housed in a pink Caboodles case, which felt a little tonally inappropriate with an injured Steve bleeding beside you, but you'd been thinking this kit was going to be for scraped knees and minor kitchen accidents, not this.

You grabbed your needle and thread, and your rubbing alcohol and gauze. You closed your eyes for a moment to collect yourself, but all you could hear was Steve continuing to go on and on about how he had it handled and this was a freak accident and how could he have known—

"For the love of god, shut up, Steve," you snapped. You watched his mouth shut and his throat bob as he did exactly that. The rest of the room went deathly quiet too, save Sam, who was still weakly crying as she fought her sleep. "We'll talk later."

You uncapped the rubbing alcohol and met his gaze. Without warning, you doused the cut, which made him cry out in pain. He panted, torso rising and falling rapidly, cheeks pink. It might have made you feel something if you weren't so angry.

You used a bit of cotton gauze to clean up the area around the wound, jaw ticking as your thoughts just grew more and more bitter. He winced, glaring up at you for a moment as you dabbed at the tender skin.

"Can we have the room, please?" You snapped, glancing back at the literal crowd of people watching as you cleaned up the wound. "I've got it handled."

There were soft murmurings and the ambling shuffle of feet as the group dispersed. You exhaled slowly and met Steve's gaze. "I'll warn you before I go in," you said as you threaded the nylon thread through the needle. He swallowed and nodded, watching as you prepared the needle.

You'd never actually given a human being sutures before… but there was a first time for everything. You steeled yourself and swallowed hard… then pierced the needle through his skin.

He swore loudly and his stomach tensed at the feeling of the needle going through his skin. "What happened to warning me?" He panted.

You gave a faux sympathetic pout and pushed the needle through the other side of his skin. "Stop talking, I'm trying to focus."

Ten minutes later, the laborious process was over. You'd gone slow— partially to torture Steve, but mostly because you wanted to make sure you did everything right. He was stitched and bandaged and sulking, and you weren't feeling too cheerful either.

You grabbed a WSQK crewneck from across the room and threw it at him. "If you leave your bloody, dirty clothes on you'll get an infection. And I'm not dealing with that again."

"I'm sorry," he called after you as you climbed the stairs, but you weren't listening. It was just so like him that you should've expected it.

Upstairs, Sam was sleeping in El's arms, and everyone else just seemed to be waiting for you to come back. You dropped your caboodle and the diaper bag onto the coffee table and sighed. The adrenaline of being woken up in the middle of the night to be involved in one of their schemes had worn off, leaving you tired and frustrated.

"Don't worry, the patient survived the operation," you deadpanned, and ran a hand through your messy bedhead. No one said anything. Tough crowd. "El, do you wanna help me get Sam into her car seat? We're heading home."

She nodded and stood quickly. Dustin grabbed your things and followed you outside to your car. It was messy, and dinged up from shitty parking jobs. Someone keyed it in high school (probably Stacey), you never bothered to fix it. The paint job was scuffed at your bumper from backing into a mailbox… it was overall a great representation for how you felt lately.

As El eased Sam into the car seat, Dustin found a spot for the diaper bag and Caboodle on the floorboard, beside a winter coat, two empty purses, and a box of clothes you'd meant to donate a few weeks ago.

"You can't be mad at him over this," Dustin said as he shut the car door, gently so Sam didn't stir.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. You had a million reasons to be mad, and absolutely none to be surprised. "He promised me," you said. "This isn't just about him anymore, and he knows that. I lost my best friends to this shit without even knowing, and now—" Your voice cracked, and you felt a little mortified at how upset you really were.

How come he seemed to bear all of the scars? It wasn't just the emotional weight of it all, it was a physical toll. You hated that for him. You hated that he was all-too willing to martyr himself for the cause, even with Sam counting on him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew how you felt, how scared you were of finally getting something that you could lose just as quickly. And still…

He ambled out of the station with Robin not far behind. It was amusing, you thought, that they apparently thought he needed a bodyguard to come outside.

"Car," you snapped. "Now."

Robin's expression softened, and you watched her look guiltily between the two of you. She gave a small wave and disappeared back inside. Steve obeyed, slipping into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh. He winced as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest. Served him right.

Dustin said nothing as he went back in, but you thought he should at least understand your fears. Hadn't he just lost a best friend? Was he seriously okay with risking another?

"Bye," El said, and wrapped you in a tight hug. You sighed and hugged her back just as snugly. Over the past few months, you'd grown so fond of her. You wanted to surround her in bubble wrap and keep her from all of the bad shit going on. But, like Steve, she resisted.

They wanted to be in the thick of it, whether you liked it or not.

Inside the car, it was silent. Sam slept in her seat, her breathing slow and steady. You cranked the car and pulled out of the gravel drive, heading back towards the town center. Once the roads went from uneven deathtraps to neatly paved, Steve looked over at you. "Are you mad at me?" He asked.

You scoffed at the audacity and rolled your eyes. "Oh my god, what do you think?" The leather of the steering wheel squeaked as you readjusted and tightened your grip. You had no good reason to white-knuckle it, but you were seriously holding back from yelling with Sam sleeping in the back.

You never wanted to yell around her. Not now, not ever.

"Yeah," he said dejectedly. "You have your crinkle again."

"Oh, fuck off, Steve. I do not want to talk to you right now," you snapped. At a stop sign, you glanced over at him. "Seriously, can you just sit and think about why I might be mad right now? Silently, for the love of god."

He huffed, turning towards the window, and watched Hawkins outside. By the time you pulled into the driveway, you were still seething and he was still pouting. You grabbed Sam, he grabbed the bags, and you both walked into the house without a word.

Sam stayed asleep, even as you nestled her down in her crib. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent apology for the chaos of the night. "Sleep tight, Peanut," you whispered.

You shut the door on your way out, squinting in the dark of the house as you padded your way downstairs and into the bedroom. Steve was sitting on the bed already, wringing his hands. The WSQK crewneck was stripped— vibrant blue peeking from the laundry basket. He was left bare chested, the white of his bandage visible even in the low light.

Just before he opened his mouth to speak, you gave a firm shake of your head. "Not tonight," you said sharply. "It's half past one, and I'm tired, and I'm so fucking angry at you."

"I said I'm sorry," he said weakly. He scratched the back of his neck and rubbed at the bandage on his ribs. "I mean, really sorry."

You laughed wryly as you stripped off the clothes you'd hastily thrown on so you could change back into your real pajamas. There was no need to worry about modesty when the person you were sharing a space with had literally been inside of you. "You're sorry, huh? For what? Because I have a whole list of sorrys I'm still waiting for."

"Give me a list, I'll apologize for everything," he insisted, his gaze locking on your eyes so they didn't wander. "I'm sorry for going into the Upside Down without telling you. And I'm sorry for getting myself injured."

You pulled on your discarded pajamas and rolled your eyes. "You should be sorry for doing it at all, not just keeping it from me," you groaned, annoyance and hurt coursing through your veins in equal measure. "You promised me, you asshole."

"I know," he said. His voice was earnest, his eyes so soft. It tugged at something in your chest. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said, and you exhaled shakily.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? You were scared from the moment Dustin stopped you in the station until you tied off the sutures. Your heart still held that fluttery feeling— the rush of adrenaline fading as you accepted that he was okay.

"So don't do it again," you said, and you were embarrassed that your voice wavered. "I mean, what if this all goes on for another few years? Five? Ten? Do you just expect me to be okay with you risking your life until everything is settled? If it's ever settled? It seems like you all just assume the problem is solved, then a year later all of the nasty, evil shit comes crawling out of the woodwork."

Steve's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he said. "But it's unfair of you to ask me to pick between what you want and what I need to do to keep you safe. Sure, Hopper's got it covered most of the time, but if you're making me choose between risking the Upside Down and putting off a crawl for another two weeks because he's benched, I'm taking the risk to keep my family safe."

The words deflated the anger— popping it like a sad party balloon. With a sigh, you sat at the foot of the bed beside him, legs tucked beneath you. Before you could react, Steve's hand was on your jaw, big and warm and rough. Part of you wanted to joke about how he needed to borrow some of the hand cream his mom left behind, but it felt like the type of moment that you shouldn't cheapen with nervous jokes. Your throat clicked as you swallowed hard and met his gaze.

A small, scared voice inside wanted to argue more and insist that he give it all up, but maybe he was right. Maybe, for the sake of everyone you cared about, you'd have to worry for a while. And maybe you'd have to let yourself trust him. Maybe you owed it to the both of you.

"Apologize again," you said weakly, nearly pouting. "I'm still mad at you for lying and going out in stupid army gear. And I'm mad I didn't even question it."

A shiver ran down your spine as he ran his thumb along your cheek, stroking gently, fondly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I felt bad lying, but if I dropped the ball and it got you or Samantha hurt… I couldn't live with that. Honest to god, that would kill me."

You closed your eyes as he brushed a curl back behind your ear. You knew that your perm was overdue for a touch up, but Steve didn't seem to notice, or even mind. The tiniest smile played on his lips, and you felt oddly shy when you noticed it.

"I'm really lucky to get to come home to you, even when you're angry at me," he said. That expression came back— that soft, affectionate one that made something tug inside of you. It didn't feel so bad anymore. "I feel sorry for all of the other chumps who don't, and I want to make sure I can keep coming home to you, and to Sam.

"So I'll stay in the van with Dustin from now on. And if there's an emergency and I have to go through the gate I'll tell you about it. I'll keep you posted on the walkie, I'll check in every two minutes, I'll even let you come with me if you w—"

He made a noise of surprise against your lips, but relaxed just as quickly. His mouth softened, parting as you pressed a slow, sweet kiss to his lips.

You'd kissed Steve on two very different occasions. Once, in the closet in Carol's basement— stiff mouths and all nerves. Then again at the wedding— desperate and hungry, full of intention. This was different, it was loving and affectionate, mournful, angry, absolutely infatuated. It was a decade of knowing each other in one kiss, and you felt the intensity of it down to your bones.

The hand on your face moved into your hair, tangling into your curls, holding you against him. Your hands would have fisted into his shirt, if he was wearing one. Instead, your palm rested on the soft hair at his chest and felt the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. If his hand moved down, if it rested at your throat, he'd feel your own heartbeat racing at his fingertips.

You pulled back, just to look at him for a moment. The line drawn between his brows, the way his lips still pursed, like they were frozen in the kiss you'd just interrupted. And his pretty eyes, dark with wanting.

"Did I do something wrong?" He asked.

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. "Usually? Yes. But right now? Not at all," you answered.

His head tilted to the side, and he laughed nervously. His nails scratched gently at your scalp, and he eased you forward until your lips met his again. Steadier, hungrier. His tongue eased into your mouth and you let him deepen the kiss.

A soft noise of contentment vibrated against his mouth, and he must have taken that as a sign to keep going. His free hand moved into the small of your back and pulled you closer, until your knees bracketed his thighs and you were settled on top of him.

The rational part of your brain told you to slow down. End the night with a kiss, deal with everything else later. But, for once in your life, you didn't want to be rational. You were so tired of stealing the joy from your life before you even got a chance to embrace it.

Steve was infuriating. He could be careless, and selfish and impulsive. But he was also so kind and nurturing, loving and devoted. He made you laugh, he brought a lightness to your life that felt impossible after the rifts opened and your life changed forever in ways you never knew that it could. He made you feel loved and wanted, and you wanted to give him all of that and more.

It was his turn to pull back and meet your eyes, searching. "Maybe we should slow down," he whispered, his lips brushing yours with each syllable. "Like… take a breather and just… make sure this is what we really want."

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to your lips, briefly, before meeting your eyes again. "It's like you said before, about… staying power, or whatever. I remembered because of the Queen song, and—"

You laughed and his brows furrowed with mild offense. "Sorry, it's just… do you want to stop?" He flushed, and you heard the softest huff escape his lips as he shook his head. "I don't either. And so you know… I've been torturing myself for months by keeping myself from being with you."

A smile broke across his features, and you sighed softly as he leaned in and kissed along your jaw. "You're so stubborn," he mumbled against your skin. "Can you believe I love that about you?"

Your tummy flipped at his words, a soft, light feeling that rushed through your veins. He moved his mouth to your throat, lips brushing against the ticklish spots at the hollow of your throat. "You're so stubborn," kiss, "and smart," kiss, "and beautiful," kiss, "and stubborn."

You laughed softly as his tongue traced over a spot that gave you chills. Goosebumps pebbled the skin on your arms, and you trembled slightly. "You said that already."

"Worth repeating." He kissed his way back up to your jaw, then to your lips. You smiled into the kiss, and you laughed when his teeth knocked against yours clumsily. "God, sorry, I'm nervous."

He was nervous? You wanted to laugh. God, you were shaking with nerves and anticipation. Your palm flexed against his chest, where his heart was pounding. You leaned back, meeting his gaze, and moved his hand from your back and under your shirt.

Slowly, you slid his hand up, over your stomach, until it rested warm and steady over your heart. His fingers flexed against your overheated skin, and he swallowed hard. Your forehead knocked against his, and you planted a slow kiss to his lips.

"This is exactly what I want," you said softly. A smile spread across his lips, easy and charming. "But I'm still kind of mad at you for almost dying."

His smile fell into a pout, and you grinned as he flipped you onto your back and pinned you beneath him. His knee pressed between your thighs, and you exhaled shakily at the slightest pressure. "I didn't almost die," he insisted. Hiss mouth moved back to your throat, moving closer to the neckline of your top. "I got a scratch. It barely even hurts."

He moved his fingers to the buttons of your top, and you were suddenly really embarrassed to be wearing thick flannel jammies. His mouth pressed against your sternum, tender and sweet. He popped the top button and the pale pink fabric parted slightly, granting him access to more of your body.

Another button, another kiss. Over and over until your shirt fell open and you had to shiver at the chill of the room. His hands moved up, burning hot against your skin, just to grope at your exposed tits. You squirmed, arching to meet his touch, and he moaned soft, just above your waistband.

He sat up, squinting down at you in the dim light. "Jesus christ," he hummed— he might as well have wolf-whistled. "I didn't get to see these last time."

"Can you even see them now?" You teased. He rolled his eyes and reached over to the bedside table, and you giggled when he fumbled with putting his glasses on one-handed.

He blinked a few times and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Much better. Perfect, beautiful, gorgeous…" He lowered himself back down and moved his mouth to your breasts, worshiping the newly exposed flesh with hungry kisses. The metal of his frames knocked against you, and you thought that his lenses must've been smudged to hell.

You whined at the feel of his hot mouth sucking on your nipples, the graze of his teeth against the hard bud. He moaned against your skin as you ground up against the knee between your thighs, rocking unsubtly as your body sought friction.

"You need more?" He mumbled against you. "I'll give you anything you want, beautiful. Gotta take care of my girl."

As soon as the words left his lips, a thrill ran through you. For once, you let yourself embrace that title entirely. Steve Harrington's girl. The thing you'd dreamed about for all of your early adolescence made reality.

And, somehow, it was better than all that you'd imagined. This wasn't a meaningless high school fling, or a thoughtless hook up. There was gravity to it, a seriousness that you felt in your chest as you looked up at him and nodded.

You can take care of me, you thought as he kissed down your torso, leaving a wet trail of kisses as he went. Now, forever, as long as we can. If Hawkins broke open again tomorrow and one of the freaky monsters made you their lunch, you'd go out with one less regret.

He slid your pants down your legs, and your pulse quickened as he kissed over the cotton of your panties. A sly grin spread across his lips as he looked up at you. "These are cute," he said, running a thumb over the soft embroidered butterfly on the front.

A shiver ran through you as his attention went lower, so he rubbed over your clit through the fabric of your panties. The muscles in your thighs twitched at that tiny amount of contact, and you watched his eyes darken as his gaze moved to the saturated patch covering your core.

"Stop staring, you're embarrassing me," you huffed, only half-serious. You reached down, easing the frames from his face so he didn't mess them up somehow. He laughed weakly and muttered a soft, thanks as you placed the glasses onto your nightstand.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband and he slowly eased your panties down your thighs. "Pretty girl," he said, and you felt yourself go hot as he spread you open on his fingers, you could feel how wet and sticky you were, so you knew he could see it. "Just let me do this. Gotta show you how sorry I am."

His lips pressed against your clit once, twice… soft and sweet. Your toes curled at the sensation, and you sighed weakly as his lips wrapped around the sensitive bud and suckled. And you knew he relished in the way he pulled soft gasps and whines from your lips.

His tongue parted your folds, feasting on you. You gave a keening cry as he licked a broad stripe from your dripping entrance back to your clit. When gripping the bedsheets weren't enough, you moved your fingers into his hair. One little tug and he was a goner, eyes fluttering, moans vibrating against your cunt.

Of course guys had gone down on you before. You tried to date gentlemen, but none of them had seemed to relish in it the way that Steve did. Eyes closed like he was savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Moaning and mumbling praise against your slick flesh as he nuzzled closer and devoured everything you had to offer.

"You taste so good," he murmured, and you felt the words more than you heard them. Your head lolled back against the pillows as he eased a finger inside of you, sinking deep inside of your tight, hot center. It curled, pressing against the spongey, sensitive spot inside and you choked back a desperate moan. "That's it, just take what I'm giving you."

Every nerve in your body felt alight with desire. Your nails scratched dully against Steve's scalp as he eased a second finger alongside the first, fucking you slow and deep while he practically made out with your cunt.

It had been a while since you'd felt anything like this, and even then, your exes weren't exactly cutting it. Pleasure licked at your nerves like fire, and you felt hot all over as he brought you to the edge with his mouth and tongue. "I'm almost— god— I'm so close, Steve," you panted.

He moaned against you like he was the one seconds away from cumming, or maybe just that getting you there was the hottest thing he could imagine. Either way, his enthusiasm really did it for you. His lips sealed around your clit and he gave you just the right amount of suction as he rubbed over your g-spot. Really, you would've loved for it to have lasted longer, but you were careening towards your finish and it had been months since you'd been touched like this.

And, suddenly, the band in your stomach snapped and wave after wave of euphoria washed over you. Your thighs twitched, clamping on either side of his head as you ground against his hot, eager mouth. You felt your walls squeezing around his fingers, tightening as he gently worked you through your orgasm.

He laughed weakly when he finally pulled back, mouth slick with your release, wearing a dopey, lovey smile. He planted a sweet kiss to your inner thigh and eased his fingers from inside of you. "You know I've been dreaming about that?" He asked, and kissed his way up your body and back to your mouth, settling comfortably between your legs.

You grinned and leaned up, kissing his hungrily. You felt warm and floaty, which you partially contributed to the orgasm he'd pulled out of you, and mostly contributed to just letting yourself relish in the nice, warm feelings you felt towards him. It was a marvel, what releasing yourself from self-implemented shackles could do for your soul.

"Actually dreaming," he continued, the words mumbled against your mouth. You could taste your own release, heady on his tongue as he licked into your mouth, like he couldn't get enough of any part of you. "It makes sharing a bed with you very inconvenient."

You grinned, thinking of all of the times that you had woken up tormented by sex dreams about him. It was funny that the entire time, you'd been having the exact same problem. But, y'know, you weren't going to say that.

"Usually, I'd have offered to return the favor," you said, peering up at him. "But… you did something really reckless and thoughtless today, so I don't think you deserve it."

"That's probably for the best," he said, and he had a certain sheepishness to his expression that endeared you. "I, uh, haven't slept with anyone since before… everything."

Your brows furrowed. Because, yeah, technically that made sense— you hadn't exactly seen Steve go out and hook up with anyone. Reasonably, you knew he'd been either at home with you and Sam, running errands with the baby, or at the station.

It was almost impossible to imagine that Steve, your Steve, who seemed to have an endless line of girls begging for a chance to sleep with him, had been effectively celibate for at least eight entire months.

"Wow… call Guinness." He rolled his eyes, but there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that pulled at your very tender heartstrings. "This has to be the longest you've gone since you lost it in the first place. You're practically a virgin again."

He scoffed, but he didn't argue. "I'm just saying, like… I'm in a dry spell, and I've been wanting this so bad, I just don't want to disappoint you if I…" He swallowed hard and a wry smile spread across your lips.

"If you blow your load too fast?" You teased. "Honestly… after all of this build up, I'd be offended if you didn't."

He rolled his eyes and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before sitting back to undress fully. You watched with unabashed hunger as he shucked off his pants and briefs, until he was completely bare before you.

You let yourself gawk at him— at the man he'd become while you were too busy resenting him. The softness of his body that masked the strength beneath, the pale scars spotting his sides, the hair that tapered down to the part of him that your memories somehow didn't manage to do justice to.

He was bigger than you remembered. You thought that maybe your brain had to ignore how perfect his dick was so you had a chance of moving on. But, god, when you weren't crammed into the backseat of the Beamer and trying to see around the tulle, he was annoyingly perfect.

"Now you're embarrassing me," he said, as he shifted on top of you again, blocking your stare. His arms rested on either side of your head, caging you in entirely. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm not lasting a minute."

You glanced over at the night stand and frowned. "I didn't exactly plan for this. All of my condoms are at my dorm," you admitted. The flash of jealousy in his eyes sent a thrill through you that you'd have to explore later. "Do you have anything?"

He swallowed, blinking out of his thoughts. "Uh, I could go grab one from upstairs," He offered. And then the thought of him sleeping around before spring break flashed in your mind, and you were flooded with a sting of possessiveness.

You were both deeply insane people.

You shook your head. Sam just went down, and the thought of Steve accidentally waking her and setting off another wailing fit was enough to make you frown. "We'll be fine. Just try to pull out."

He groaned, burying his head in your shoulder. "Try?"

"Try," you echoed. "I mean, I'm not ovulating or anything, but better safe than pregnant."

His cheeks flushed and he nodded. "Yeah," he panted. "Yeah, okay."

His warm hands grabbed your thighs and spread them further. You wrapped them around his hips and let your ankles lock around his lower back. Your breath caught as he rocked his hips, just a bit. The head of his cock nudged at your clit, slick and hot and hard against you.

It was so different than it had been in his car. There was a certain intimacy to fucking in the bed you shared— bodies bare and warm, pressing against each other. But then his eyes met yours, soft and eager, and you knew it wasn't just fucking. It never had been.

He kissed you just as he pushed inside, nice and slow, as if either of you could take much more. You gasped into his mouth, eyes fluttering as you tried to hold his gaze. One hand grabbed onto yours, fingers tangling, squeezing.

The stretch was a dull ache, but not unpleasant. It made you think of being sore after a workout, the promise that it would get easier with time. And you had time.

When he was fully sheathed within you, he kissed you, slow and deep. His tongue tangled with yours, hungry, as his hips rocked deeper. It felt like every nerve in your body was alight, until you were overwhelmed with pleasure and with raw need. "God, Steve," you panted. "Feels so good."

His forehead knocked against yours, and your free hand grabbed at his bicep as he built up a solid rhythm. His moans vibrated against your lips, and it felt like there was no end or beginning to either of you. A stupid, cheesy feeling like you were two parts of one soul, or whatever you had read in Cosmo.

"I love you," he panted softly. In the dim light of the room, his eyes almost shone with feeling. With a strange tug of untraceable emotion, you realized he meant it. And you knew that even though you couldn't say it back, you felt a stirring of something in your chest— old and unmistakable.

So you kissed him again and hoped he could taste everything you couldn't let yourself say on your tongue. Your legs wrapped around him tighter, and you pulled him closer, forced him deeper. He groaned into your mouth and tightened his grip on your hand.

He was so deep, grinding against those sensitive spots inside with each shallow thrust. Your head was thrown back, so Steve moved his mouth to your throat, where he peppered your skin with small nips and kisses. "Jesus, you feel perfect," he whispered against your skin. "So fucking perfect."

With each thrust, you ground up to meet him, until you were both moving in perfect harmony. You moved your hand between your bodies to rub at your oversensitive clit, aching for just the tiniest push over the edge.

It overtook you like a slow burn, but completely unavoidable. Soft, choked sobs of pleasure escaped your lips as a sweet euphoria washed over you. "Steve," you panted, and he shuddered above you. You felt him give a few clumsy thrusts before he pulled out and came onto your tummy with a shaky moan.

You expected him to make an excuse to save his ego, about usually lasting longer, or his long dry spell, but he just collapsed beside you and laughed breathlessly. "God, you're perfect," he sighed. "I haven't come that hard in… like, ever. Definitely not since the wedding."

He leaned over and kissed you again, soft and slow. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

You sat up on your elbows and watched him go, leering at him as he disappeared into the en suite and grabbed one of the fancy, fluffy towels within. When he came back, he wiped the mess from your stomach and between your thighs, then placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"How're your stitches?" You asked, sparing a glance to the white gauze bandage.

He grimaced and glanced down. "Uh… fine? I don't feel anything bad. Must be the adrenaline, or hormones or something. I'm on cloud nine."

A fond smile played on your lips as Steve flopped onto his stomach. You reached over, playing with the ends of his hair until he got a full body shiver and groaned. He turned his face to look in your direction and his lips twitched in amusement.

You took a manicured finger and ran it along the slope of his nose, then traced along his mouth. He had a small scar on his bottom lip… and another on the bridge of his nose. A tiny one at his cheekbone… And his freckles were another thing entirely. You traced them with your nail like you were playing connect the dots, all while Steve's eyes got heavier and heavier.

You nestled into his side to sleep, and it felt like you belonged there. Maybe you always had.

You slept through Steve leaving— which you took as a sign that he had really worn you out. He'd scribbled a message on a sticky note on the fridge, which you couldn't help but smile at when you saw it.

Good morning, beautiful. Couldn't wake you up, you looked so peaceful.

In the morning, with Sam in her playpen, you worked on addressing the invites to her first birthday. You'd given Will forty bucks to design it, with little anthropomorphized peanuts dancing around a cake, and had made copies at the high school since the library and office supplies school didn't exist anymore.

It was hard to believe that in two weeks, your little peanut would be one. In a few more months, it would be a year since everything happened, since you became her mom. You took the pen to paper and addressed one invite to your parents, and wondered if they'd bother showing up. You hoped so, at least.

The phone rang in the kitchen, so you hopped up and promised Sam you'd be right back. You yawned as you leaned against the wall and grabbed the phone. It had been a very late night, and you were fucking beat.

"Harrington residence," you answered.

"You sound so hot saying that." Steve's voice rang through the line and you couldn't help but laugh. "I wanted to tell you that I'm getting to cover an hour of the radio station. Robin has to go to a lady doctor or something, I dunno actually. But I'm going to be DJ-ing starting at noon."

"That's a good time slot," you said. "Lots of ears. Are you nervous?"

He laughed softly. "Uh, no, not really," he said. "I have it all planned out. Robin gave me notes, but… I'm just gonna go for it. Will you listen?"

You always listened, even when he was just playing random sound effects or switching tapes. But there were some things you didn't need to tell him. "Mhmm, are you gonna dedicate a song to me, loverboy?" You teased. "That'd be so corny."

"Just listen. Twelve o'clock. I'm starting with Hall & Oates."

"Alright, I'll listen."

He did, in fact, dedicate a song to you. Two songs specifically, but the entire set was so corny and mushy that you felt your face go hot just listening to it.

Steve Harrington was a loverboy at heart, and now everyone you knew would know that you were together. And it wasn't that you were planning on hiding it, or changing your mind. It was the thought of him changing his mind and everyone knowing that you weren't enough that scared you.

After lunch, you put Sam in the car and drove somewhere you neither of you had been before.

Their headstone wasn't even in place yet. The Perkins' and Hagan's had picked it out together— a joint headstone with a little marble heart between their names. But there were a lot of headstones for the small funeral parlor in Hawkins to have to make, and a limited amount of materials available in quarantine. You figured your friends must have been pretty low on the list.

In its absence, their empty plot was marked by a sad plastic marker with water-spotted paper. The damage made their names nearly illegible smudges, their birth and death dates inky streaks on the cardstock. There was nothing to bury, no part of them that was particularly tethered to this plot, but there you were.

You were wrapped in a puffer jacket, and Sam was bundled up in a coat and held tight against your chest. It was the first time you'd brought her to visit them… if there was a part of them tethered to this spot at all.

"Carol Perkins, you fucking bitch," you began, with a sad smile at the inky smudge on damp paper. "I bet you'd both really be loving all of this, you know? If you were here, you'd be sharing those stupid, smug glances and playing dumb about how long you've known."

Sam babbled and nuzzled closer. The cold made her nose go an adorable shade of pink, and you thought she was the most precious thing in the world.

There was a certain comfort in talking to your friend, even if you had no way of knowing if she could hear. "I think it's what you both would want though," she said. "Steve says he loves me, and I… don't know. I mean, we've never been on a date, we're doing everything backwards…"

You sighed. "But I care about him, and I want this to last, and I want Sam to grow up in a house where she's loved, and she's surrounded by love. I want her to have what I didn't, you know?"

The wind whistled through the trees. A few yards away, the plastic wrapping of a bouquet crinkled in the wind. It felt a bit like a hug, you thought. Or maybe you just missed them so much that you'd imagine anything to feel them that close ever again.

"Tommy, you'd give Steve so much shit for his nicknames," you said with a grin. "And honestly, Peanut is sticking. Like, she kind of is our little peanut, y'know? We're having a peanut themed birthday party for her, and on Halloween she was Mr. Peanut."

You sighed. She was getting fussy from the cold, so you knew you'd have to leave soon. "Anyways… it's just been too long. I guess I thought today of all days, I needed to see you." You put your fingers to your lips, and touched that soggy marker with a wobbly smile. "I really wish you'd just told me. You know I've always been stubborn."

Steve was waiting at home with a slightly wilted bouquet and a sleeve of Oreos. You grinned and kissed his cheek fondly as he eased Samantha from your arms. When you opened the sleeve, there were already three cookies missing.

"Sorry, I got impatient," he said, bouncing your girl on his hip. "But Murray got them for you. He can get whatever you want, so… y'know. Just tell me and I'll tell him."

You couldn't help the smile that warmed your features. "Wow… this is the Steve Harrington girlfriend experience, huh? Showered with gifts and attention and song dedications."

He lit up, his smile growing. "You're my girlfriend? 'Cause I was going to ask, and it was going to be a whole thing. A nice date, more flowers, more gifts, more songs—"

You shut him up with a sweet kiss. "I think that all sounds great," you said. "I can pretend I'm not your girlfriend until then, if you want."

He shook his head insistently. "Oh, no, that's… I think girlfriend is perfect. That didn't… I mean you being my girlfriend is perfect." He scratched the back of his neck and kissed your forehead. When Sam whined at the lack of attention, he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head.

It was all so easy, you wanted it to be easy. You wanted to let yourself fall in love with Steve Harrington. But, for the time being, just this felt like what you needed.

A/N: YAYYYYYYY!!!!

Now it's Steve's turn to get walked like a dog and beg for scraps while reader works up to acknowledging their feelings!!! Everyone cheered!!

I hope you enjoyed this!! I had the best time writing this, it was truly a labor of love. I wanted to throw in a new reader friendship, so of course I had to pick my beloved angel El Hopper <3 I just felt like she needed an older mentor to take her under her wing!!

Steve has imagined this many times. Standing at the altar, hands shaking with nerves, waiting for the love of his life to make her way down the aisle of this very church. The same one his parents used to drag him to every Sunday, ignoring his huffs and puffs and muttered remarks. He stopped going when he turned eighteen, but he always figured he’d be back, if only for the one event.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

As the bride glides past him, taking measured steps over pink petals, he’s reminded that this perfect day does not belong to him.

Steve’s features melt into a look of longing as he turns his head in your direction. Your lips are pursed. When you catch him staring, you offer him a tight-lipped smile and take his hand. Your fingers squeeze around his. He doesn’t know if the gesture is a silent “hello” or an act of comfort. He chooses not to dwell on it as the officiant begins to speak.

The wedding is lovely. Beautiful, and everything Steve would want for his own.

Thinking about his own wedding should fill him with anticipation. Instead, he feels a sinking sense of dread. Even if he were to have the most lovely wedding, with all his loved ones filling the pews like those that have shown up for his old friends today, the one true wish he has may never come true.

While he may be gazing around this church, fondly imagining a similar future for himself, the ceremony is surely having a different effect on you.

For you, this wedding serves as a reminder of everything you’ve never wanted.

It was easier to ignore your differences when you and Steve were younger. Marriage and babies and settling down were such fantastical notions. Things for a future version of yourself to consider. Things that didn’t even cross your or Steve’s minds when he took you to the prom or snuck you into movies.

Now, there are things you can’t seem to avoid. Not when all your high school friends are mailing wedding invitations to Steve’s address with your name on them too. Not when past teachers and parents of old friends ask when Steve’s gonna pop the question whenever you run into them at the grocery store.

Your misalignment has been weighing heavily on you regardless, but these constant reminders certainly don’t help.

Sometimes, when you're particularly impulsive, or Steve can’t swallow his anxiety, one of you will say the quiet part out loud. He’ll mention how affordable the three-bedroom Craftsman on Sawyer Street is. You’ll say you’ve finally saved enough to transfer from your little community college to that big school in New York.

You’ll both end up guilty and sad, and you’ll drown it with a few drinks and easy conversation that reminds you why he became your first love.

The small glasses of champagne from the bar are not nearly enough to make you forget your troubles tonight, as you all toast to the newlyweds.

Steve sees the look on your face when the bride gushed about the babies in her near future. You don’t miss the glint in his eyes, and you feel like you want to cry.

You push around bits of white cake on the plate in front of you. Your appetite disappeared sometime between the couple’s first dance and the groom's parents asking Steve if he’s next.

“I wonder how much the band cost them?” He tries to make casual conversation, not intending to sound like he’s planning already, but he sees his mistake in the way you clench your jaw. He swallows the last few sips of his drink. “Let’s dance.”

You don’t move when he stands from his chair and offers his hand to you.

“I think we should…”

Talk. The word is right there, but you can’t spit it out.

“Not tonight,” he pleads, his thick brows pinching together beneath the chestnut strand that has fallen from his otherwise perfectly behaved hair.

You steel yourself with a deep breath and place your hand in his.

On the dance floor, Steve cracks a few jokes to see you smile. Your laughter carries him through three whole songs. The tempo drops on the fourth, and you rest a hand on his chest, the other arm wraps behind his neck. He draws you in by the small of your back and doesn't say a word until the second chorus.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips pressed against your hairline. “New York’s gonna love you.”

“Steve…”

“Shh, it’s okay.” One of his hands comes up to the back of your head, cradling you against his chest. “I know I said we wouldn’t talk about it, but-” Steve swallows. “But I need you to know that I believe in you. You’re the smartest, most capable person I’ve ever met. And I’m not gonna stand in the way of your dreams.”

“But if I leave…” you whisper. Your voice trembles on every word, “I’ll be getting in the way of yours.”

Steve’s breath is momentarily caught in his throat.

“You’re happy in all of my dreams,” he murmurs, holding you tighter.

You can read between the lines. No matter what you choose, his dreams will never come true. Not when they involve keeping you in this town, making your future a marriage and kids you never imagined yourself having.

“I love you so much,” you choke out, his rented tuxedo dampening with your tears as you turn your face into his chest.

“So… dance with me for a little longer.”

Steve shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine a first dance he'll never have with you. You'd be in silvery white. Or maybe not. Maybe something softer. Maybe even something less traditional. He would have thought you were the picture of beauty, no matter what it looked like. Your hair, done up but natural, the way he loves it most. And your hand in his would have a ring on it. Simple, modest, because he'd been setting money aside since he was seventeen and held his first job lifeguarding at the local pool, and it still hasn’t amounted to much.

He imagines the song they'd play. Whether you'd cry. Whether he would. He knows he would.

He imagines leaning down and saying something stupid in your ear to hear you laugh. He can’t think of anything now.

He sways you gently, back and forth, no matter what song plays. No matter how many people abandon the dance floor around you. Too afraid that when he stops, when he lets go, that means it’s over.

Maybe it does.

Wedding guests begin to filter out. Jackets are collected, and ties come loose. Aunties from both sides claim the centerpieces. The band plays its last song.

And Steve, who still hasn’t opened his eyes, just keeps holding you.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

The sky is a bruise, purple and darkening, by the time Jonathan says he has to get home. You all follow him down, the chatter trailing you into the stairwell and Steve’s hand warming the small of your back as he takes up the rear. There are goodbyes, it was great meeting you and so good to see you again and we’ll have to do this again soon. You notice that Nancy gives Steve a quick rub between his shoulders when they hug, which is friendlier than the hug she gives you, but that makes sense because they are friends and you only just met for the first time tonight, so. It’s fine, actually. 

When Steve’s hand splays over her back in turn, you find yourself trying to remember how he hugs you. Is it as close? Does it last as long? Does distance really make the heart grow fonder? 

You forcibly derail that train of thought, refusing to tumble down into feelings you can’t easily claw your way out of.

“Hey,” says Steve, when he starts his car and you still haven’t reached for your seatbelt. 

You blink yourself back into focus, reaching for it. “Sorry.” 

“You okay?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Yeah?” He leans over, frowning when you find reason to mess with a rip in your jeans rather than meet his eyes. “You don’t feel good, or what?” 

You soften, guilty at his concern for you. “I’m good.” 

Steve is unconvinced. “Did you not like them?” 

“No, they were great.” 

“It’s okay if you didn’t.” 

“Steve.” You try to give him a smile. Steve slots his palm alongside your cheek, and your stomach flutters weakly. “They were really nice. That’s not it.” 

His eyes search yours. “Then what is it?” 

“They’re going to notice we’re just sitting here in the car and not leaving.” 

“I don’t care.” Steve’s got that notch between his brows. It should make him look severe, but his eyes are only softer than ever, melty brown. He strokes your cheek achingly slow, like he’s trying to coax something to the surface. “You’re being weird. What’s up with that?” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. Looking away from him again, if only so you don’t have to see the realization of your clichéd-ness register on your boyfriend’s face. “I think the whole Nancy thing just felt more real tonight.” 

“The whole Nancy thing?” Steve’s tone is edged with humor. 

You look at the floormat, silently pleading with him not to make you say it. 

“Baby,” he says, softer now. “That was forever ago. Do you want me to not hang out with her now because we went out in high school?” 

You shake your head, heat in your face. 

“Do you think I would cheat on you?” 

If it’s bait to get you to look at him, it works; you sit up, stricken. “No.” 

Steve looks relieved, though it does little to dilute the hurt in his expression. “Then what, honey? What are you worried about?” 

“There…” Your voice thins into nothingness, and you have to try again. “There are other things.” 

“Other things?” 

“Like you thinking about her, or…I don’t know…” You think this has to be the stupidest anyone’s ever felt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be—” Steve sighs, his hand leaving your cheek to bury its fingers in his hair. You try not to let it sting. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” you say, hardly above a whisper.

“You know I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t want to be, right?” 

Somewhere deep inside your ribcage, something trembles. “Right,” you lie. 

“Good.” Steve looks at you, firm in a way he isn’t usually. “‘Cause I wouldn’t. And not that it matters, but I’m pretty sure Nance would rather eat uncooked chicken than think about me that way again.” 

You gnaw your cheek as you ask, “Do you want her to?” 

“No,” says Steve. So easy, so certain. 

It’s the certainty that settles you. It doesn’t feel like a brush-off or a thoughtless denial, something said to end the argument. From Steve, it feels like an obvious truth. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, sheepish. 

“Baby,” he sighs, but there’s a smile now playing on the ends of his mouth, “stop saying you’re sorry. Let’s just be honest here, okay? Even if I wanted to, I do not have the skills to run around with more than one girlfriend.” 

Your lips twitch. “Don’t be mean to yourself.” 

“I’m serious! I mean, you have to be a dick, first of all, but you also have to be a dick smart enough to keep two women happy and hide them from each other. I’m not that smart.” 

“So, that’s the only reason you won’t cheat on me?” you ask boldly. 

Steve rolls his eyes. You smile as his hand snakes across your shoulder, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. “No. I’m just a one-woman man.” 

“Bummer for the other women,” you murmur, letting him bring you closer for a kiss. 

"So, who's the lucky girl tonight?" you asked.

Steve looked back at you, eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Don't- don't say it like that."

"Say it like what?"

"Like- that!"

You shrugged as if you were innocent. You weren't.

You had come to Family video just to enquire about Steve's new date tonight. He'd kept in the low, incredibly mysterious and not like him at all. He bragged about every girl he got a date with, Stacy, Amy, Angie- whatever.

He forgot their names by the time he was inside of you, pulsing and only chanting yours in prayer.

"Natalie, she's moved back after collage, she was a year above in school," he said, re-piling the same old pile of tapes he had been all night.

"Nice.... Natalie," you said slow as if testing the name on your lips.

Steve watched.

It had been like this for you'd forgotten how long. It was sometime ago, after one of Steve's many failed dates and one too many drinks on both parts that had you detailing everything wrong with the girls, how you'd never deter Steve. Somewhere along those lines hands had been lost in hair and you had been pushed back on the bed, clothes stripped and thrown.

Every time Steve tried to date he ended up alone, with you. A girl he never dated.

"Anyway I was just asking cause I have a date tonight and I won't be home."

Steve couldn't have pretended to be less shocked. His elbow slipped on the counter, knocking a poster for a 'weekend only deal'. "A date?"

You nodded, a glint in your eyes. "Yeah."

"Who?" he asked. "Who? Where- where're you guys going?"

You watched as he tried to remain casual but Steve had never been much good at pretending (unless it came to inter-dimensional beings and places). His intentions to know made you a little happier about the date you hadn't wanted to go to in the first place. "I don't ask all these details for your dates, do I?"

Steve blushed. "No-no but-"

"But nothing," you leant over the counter a little bit more, just to push your chest up a little more, drawing his attention before pushing yourself up and heading out. "Hope the date goes well! Tell Robin I said bye!"

"Aw shit- fuck baby," Steve seethed as you bobbed your head around the tip of his cock just the way he liked.

How you knew he liked it done.

You'd escaped your date half way through after the guy had talked through the first half of the movie about himself and his goals and aspirations and everything he wanted in a woman. You fled to the 'bathroom' and quickly drove yourself home.

Where Steve was waiting at your steps, sat, hunched over.

You'd hardly got out the car before he had you pinned against it, arms circling your waist and kissing you like he was trying to steal your breath.

Steve moaned, hands running through his hair. "God baby take me good, so good."

Your lips curled up around him as you slowly released him, letting a trail of saliva run down his cock. You licked up the side of his hardness. "Better than Natalia?" you teased.

Steve reached down, taking your chin in his fingers. It wasn't harsh but hard enough to prove a point. His skin was glossy with sweat, shirt sticking to him. His lips were pink from the kisses and how hard he was biting down on his lip to stop the obscene noises that would fall from him. "Don't wanna hear any other name, okay?"

You nodded, a smirk forming on your lips as you bent your neck, taking Steve's thumb into the warmth of your mouth.

Steve fell back onto your bed. "Jesus..."

You released his thumb, flicking your tongue against the skin before you returned to worshiping his cock.

His own pants were a cushion for your knees, the rest of your clothes dumped around your room in a haphazard mess.

You swirled the tip of his cock with your tongue, working your hand around the base and running your hand up and down slowly.

Steve groaned. "God baby, take me in your mouth... c'mon, know you can do it." He looked down at you, lip bitten and you couldn't help but comply, opening your jaw and taking him in deep.

You gagged around him, the obscene noise driving you on further as you repeated.

"Oh-sh-shit!" Steve moaned out, hands falling into your hair to stir on your movements. It only lasted a minute before you were moving off him again.

He whined. "Baby, baby, please."

"Tell me about her," you said, jerking him off with one hand while the other made a home in fondling his balls, full with need.

"W-what?" Steve stuttered, eyes fluttering in pleasure.

"What was wrong with your date this time?" As much as you didn't want to hear the details of his date you wanted to try to match the patterns. What was it exactly that had Steve running to you every time.

Steve did not want to talk about it but he looked down, finding your wide pleading eyes next to his cock and he was a man floored. A man who'd do anything for you. "I didn't like her laugh, she spoke constantly about her ex, said-said she didn't like my car-"

You gasped. "What a bitch."

Steve chuckled breathless as you squeezed around the base of him. "I- mmph- I couldn't stop thinking about you. Of coming back to you. Of how much I love your laugh. Thinking of all- all the times we've screwed in the back of my car-"

"And the front," you added, licking a stripe up his cock and collecting the pre-cum you'd coaxed out of him.

In one swift movement Steve was sitting up, tugging at your hair until your face was in front of his.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you. All of you," he said low and breathless, eyes dark with want. "Wanted to end it as soon as it began so I could ruin that date you were only going onto mess with me."

You pursed your lips in attempts to stop a smile. "Did it work?"

His tongue poked out his cheek. "Yeah, it fucking worked. Drove myself mad thinking about it, almost crashed my car. Needed you so badly. And you needed me to, huh?"

Two fingers dragged through your pussy, curling in the right spot as Steve watched every contort of pleasure your face gave him.

"Right?"

You nodded, whimpering and melting into his hand. "Yes! Yes! God, yes!"

Steve smirked, his fingers slowly leaving you and smearing your want over your needy pussy. "Right. Now be a good girl and suck my cock."

His hand gently pushed you down but you sucked his cock into your mouth deep until you had him stuttering and groaning. Steve kept himself propped up on his hand to watch as you bent to take him in, gagging repeatedly and dragging your mouth up and down.

"Ah fuck-fuck-fuck-" he chanted, falling back onto his forearm as he smoothed back your hair.

Your ass wiggled in the air as you got yourself lower until you reached the hilt of him.

"Jus like that, jus like that babygirl," he uttered, watching you take him deep. "You can do it, my god-"

You released him, catching your breath.

Steve's hand found the flesh of your ass, pulling and pushing at the plump skin before he slapped it light enough to watch the flesh ripple but not to sting.

"Steve!" you moaned out.

"Like that baby?"

You nodded, eyes looking at him wide through your lashes as you lowered down on him again, sucking him deep and slow.

Steve's eyes fluttered shut, his mouth hanging open as you hollowed your cheeks. You felt his entire body clench at you.

You did it again, fingers curling low against the hairs of his stomach.

"Baby, if you do that again I'll- I won't-"

Whatever it is, you wanted him. You wanted everything that was Steve Harrington, that was why you never argued when he knocked or climbed the drain pipe to tap-tap at your window.

You gagged around him, hollowing your cheeks and digging your nails into his skin.

Steve's mouth hung open in a lifeless moan as he fisted the bed sheets in one hand, your hair in the other. "Sh-shit!"

He released down your throat in hot, thick ropes but you took him all, swallowing and licking the mess he was creating while he praised you, only getting you wetter where you needed him most.

"There you go baby, all for you, my girl, only girl, Steve's girl."

You licked up every last drop as you released his cock, taking a leak of his cum onto your finger and sucking it off while he watched.

He chuckled, cheeks flushed and shaking his head. "You-"

"What?" you asked, teasing as you fell back on the bed, legs spreading and showing off your heat, slick for him.

Steve didn't even look. For a moment, his eyes were warm and not with want but something else. Desire of a different kind. "I just..." but he didn't finish his sentence. In a way, he didn't have to.

You liked to think you knew what he was going to say.

At once Steve smirked, grabbing your ankles and pulling you until you were flat on the bed, laughing at the sudden boldness as Steve threw off his sweat stained shirt.

"My turn," he said before sinking his head of curls into your heat.

Slowly, dread settling in your stomach, you noticed shapes hovering just slightly too close behind your shoulder. The boys were attempting subtlety, which meant they were failing spectacularly at it.

Dustin was practically leaning sideways to read the card. Will stood beside Mike, who was mouthing him what he was seeing. Lucas was trying to peek and Gareth hovered near the couch like he might need to duck for cover at any moment.

You didn’t even have to turn fully to know Eddie was right there too, eyes narrowed in interest, already invested in whatever drama this was about to become.

You slowly glanced at them from the corner of your eye.

Every single one froze.

Your glare worked instantly. They scattered backward in clumsy unison, suddenly fascinated by walls, furniture, and absolutely anything that was not the invitation.

You sighed, shoulders dropping as exhaustion replaced irritation, and finally turned around to face them properly, the card still clutched in your hand.

It was honestly impressive how quickly a group of boys who regularly fought interdimensional monsters could become terrified of one mildly upset woman.

For a moment, no one spoke. The boys exchanged looks, silently nominating a spokesperson the way people did before approaching a wild person.

Eddie, unfortunately for him, seemed to win that silent vote.

He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight as he eyed you cautiously. “So,” he started, gesturing vaguely toward the card, “uh. . . what’s wrong?”

You stared at him.

He winced a little but pushed forward anyway, or more correctly, was pushed forward by Garreth. “Well,” he added, “are you going to go?”

You planted your hands on your hips immediately. “Gee, I don’t know, Ed,” you said, pacing slowly across the room. “Do I want to go to the wedding of my ex who broke up with me because I wanted to get married and he didn’t?”

You turned, continuing before anyone could interrupt, frustration spilling out faster now.

“And now,” you added, gesturing at all of them, “now I’m here playing a stupid game with you stupid boys while he’s getting married to a probably gorgeous girl.”

Lucas slowly raised his hand like he was in class. “It sounds like you don’t.”

You stopped pacing and stared at him in disbelief.

“Of course I don’t.”

Mike blinked at you for a second before shrugging with complete sincerity. “Well,” he said, like the solution was painfully obvious, “then don’t go.”

You stared at him.

Then your face broke into the sweetest, most exaggerated smile imaginable, the kind that immediately made Dustin take one cautious step backward.

“Wow,” you said warmly, nodding slowly. “Why didn’t I think of that? You’re so smart, Michael.”

Mike straightened slightly, unsure whether he was being praised or threatened, but Dustin immediately clapped him on the shoulder with proud enthusiasm anyway. “That’s my boy,” Dustin said, beaming.

Your smile dropped instantly.

“Of course I have to go, you idiot!”

Dustin’s proud expression vanished as he smacked Mike lightly on the back of the head. “You ruined it,” he muttered.

You began pacing again. “Because if I don’t go,” you explained, “then it’s going to look like I still love him. Which I don’t. I absolutely do not. I am completely over him.” You paused, pointing at the card. “But I also can’t go because I’m not even dating anyone.”

The room absorbed this logic in silence.

Gareth frowned thoughtfully. “Since when did weddings become a thing people couldn’t go to if they weren’t dating someone?”

You turned your head slowly toward him and gave him a look.

Gareth visibly swallowed mid-breath, posture collapsing as survival instincts kicked in. “Okay,” he muttered quickly, sinking back into the couch cushions, “bad question. I see that now.”

Will spoke up cautiously. “Well. . . you could always pretend you’re dating someone,” he suggested. “Like take a fake date.”

Your head turned toward him slowly, eyes widening.

The boys immediately looked between the two of you. Dustin’s eyes went huge. “Abort, man. Abort,” he whispered urgently to Will, as if the suggestion could still be taken back.

Instead, you lit up completely.

A laugh escaped you as you crossed the room in two quick steps and pulled Will into a tight hug, nearly knocking him off balance. “I swear you’re the smartest person in this room,” you declared happily. “I always knew you were my favourite.”

Will turned pink instantly, awkward but pleased, while the rest of the boys protested at once.

“Rude,” Eddie said from behind you, sounding deeply offended.

You pulled back from Will and turned toward Eddie with mock innocence. “I’m sorry, do you have a problem, Edward?”

Eddie hesitated, clearly weighing his options very carefully. “I want to say no,” he admitted cautiously.

You stared at him for a moment, thinking, your gaze sharpening as an idea began forming. Slowly, your eyes traveled up and down him, assessing in a way that made Eddie immediately uncomfortable.

He pointed at himself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Your expression brightened suddenly. “Say, Edward,” you said sweetly, clasping your hands together, “how would you like to help out a girl in distress?”

Eddie recoiled instantly. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out,” he said, shaking his head before you even finished. “I’m terrible at gatherings. You know this. People expect eye contact and normal behavior. I can’t provide that.”

He looked at you expectantly, clearly waiting for reassurance, for you to insist he’d be perfect, for emotional persuasion to begin.

Instead, you nodded thoughtfully. “No, you’re right.”

Eddie blinked, caught completely off guard.

You turned away from him immediately, scanning the room until your eyes landed on Gareth.

Gareth sat upright. “No,” he said quickly. “No, no, not me.”

You stepped toward him anyway, smile widening. “C’mon, Gareth. I thought we had something.”

“Yes,” Gareth said firmly, scooting backward into the couch like he might disappear into it, “we do. It’s called fear. I’m scared of you.”

You looked around the room at the collection of boys and felt a deep disappointment settle into your bones. Your shoulders slumped as you pointed accusingly at all of them, one by one.

“You’re terrible,” you announced. “The lot of you. I need new friends. Except you Will, you're an angel.”

Will grinned as Dustin gasped, hand coming to his chest as if personally wounded.

You sighed heavily, pacing again. “I cannot believe none of you are willing to help me avoid humiliation,” you muttered. “Unbelievable. After everything I’ve done for this group.”

“What have you done?” Mike asked genuinely.

You ignored him completely.

There was a brief silence while everyone thought. Then Dustin suddenly straightened, eyes lighting up with the unmistakable excitement of someone who believed he had just solved everything.

“I have an idea,” he announced.

Every head turned toward him.

He grinned proudly. “You could take Steve.”

You blinked. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said eagerly, warming to his own brilliance. “He’s awesome. And he’s very good with the ladies.” He nodded confidently. “Like, he’s probably your best option.”

You stared at him for a second, processing.

Then your face slowly brightened, realization settling in.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, pointing at him, “there’s another genius. Good job, Dust.”

Dustin puffed up immediately under the praise, looking unbearably pleased with himself as the others groaned.

You grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair with sudden determination. “I’m going to talk to him,” you declared, already heading toward the door like this plan had been inevitable all along.

“Right now?” Lucas asked.

“Yes, right now,” you said, slipping your shoes on without slowing down. “Before I can think about it too much and realize this is probably a terrible idea.”

Eddie watched you go with narrowed eyes. “Oh, this is absolutely a terrible idea,” he called after you.

You pointed at him without turning around. “Too late!”

And then you were out the door.

Dustin frowned, leaning closer to Will with clear disappointment. “I didn’t get a hug,” he muttered.

Will shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The closer you got to WSQK, the more your confidence began quietly packing its bags and leaving without telling you.

At first, the walk had felt empowering. Of a woman with a plan. But somewhere between your street and the radio station, reality started creeping in.

This was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea.

Eddie had been right. Which was already upsetting enough on its own.

You slowed your pace as the building came into view, your steps losing momentum while doubts piled up one after another. You didn’t even know Steve that well. Sure, you existed in the same orbit. Group hangouts, occasional movie nights and there had been that one month at Scoops Ahoy.

But that was it.

You weren’t close-close.

Not fake-date-to-a-wedding close.

Steve Harrington had clearly moved on with his life. He had a job, responsibilities, hair that somehow always looked professionally styled despite zero visible effort, and absolutely no reason to get dragged into your revenge against fate.

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous this felt.

By the time you reached the front steps, you were already mentally backing out. Maybe you shouldn’t ask Steve. Maybe you should just. . . move to another country. Yes. That was mature. Or, you could ask Nancy instead. Nancy liked you. You were almost certain she would let you borrow Jonathan for a day if you explained the situation properly. Jonathan had a calm, trustworthy face. Wedding-appropriate.

You nodded to yourself, fully convincing your brain this was the new plan.

Okay. Good. Crisis averted.

You turned slightly, already preparing to leave before anyone noticed you had even come, when a voice cut cleanly through your thoughts.

“Hey?”

You blinked.

Your brain took a second to catch up. You looked up, refocusing, and suddenly realized Steve Harrington was standing directly in front of you at the WSQK door, one hand still resting on the handle like he had just opened it.

You froze.

When had he gotten there?

More importantly, when had you gotten there?

You glanced behind you briefly, as if retracing your steps might magically explain how you had apparently walked all the way here, approached the door, and knocked without registering any of it.

“Steve— hey,” you said, still slightly disoriented. “When did you get here?”

Steve frowned at you immediately, concern replacing confusion as he looked you over. “Are you sleepwalking again?” he asked, completely serious. “I told you to go to a doctor about that.”

You stared at him.

Not because of the question itself, but because he remembered.

Out of everything, that was what caught you off guard. The sleepwalking thing had come up once—one single conversation months ago during a late group hangout when you’d mentioned waking up in your kitchen holding a spoon for no reason. You hadn’t even thought he’d been listening.

And yet here he was, looking genuinely worried about it.

“I’m not sleepwalking,” you said slowly, still trying to catch up with reality. “I think.”

Steve’s frown deepened as he watched you and he leaned a little closer. “Okay,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

You blinked at him like you had almost forgotten why you were there in the first place. The weight of the invitation in your pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had a minute ago. “I might want to sit down for this,” you admitted.

That was apparently all the confirmation Steve needed that something was seriously wrong, because his posture shifted instantly into full caretaking mode. “Yeah, okay, yeah,” he said quickly, stepping aside and holding the door open wider. “Come in.”

You walked inside as Steve guided you toward the small seating area near the lobby. Your brain, meanwhile, had already begun spiraling again, rehearsing possible ways to ask someone to pretend to date you without sounding completely insane.

You glanced around automatically. “Where’s Robin?”

Steve froze for half a second.

“She’s out to see V—” he started, then abruptly stopped himself. “—Venus.”

You blinked. “Venus?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, nodding too firmly. “She’s out to see Venus. The planet.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You decided, very consciously, not to question it. Whatever that meant was a problem for another day. Right now you had a fake romantic proposal to survive.

You shifted on the couch, nerves rising fast. “Actually,” you said, glancing up at him, “you might want to sit down for this too.”

That definitely did not help.

His eyes widened slightly as he lowered himself into the chair across from you. “Is everything okay?”

You gave a small, helpless smile. “Not so much.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the wedding invitation and handed it to him Steve took it carefully, brows furrowing as he opened it and scanned the front.

There was a brief pause.

Then he looked back up at you, confused. “I think you got it wrong,” he said gently. “This is not mine. I don’t know this guy.”

You blinked. “What? No. This is my ex.”

Steve looked back down at the invitation, confusion deepening. “Then. . . why are you giving me your ex’s mail?” he asked. “Did the mailman send this to you by mistake and you want me to give it to him or something?”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “No, what are you talking about?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

You inhaled sharply, sitting up straighter. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself, hands gripping your knees as you forced the words out before courage could abandon you.

“Myexisgettingmarriedandineedyoutocomeasmyfakedate.”

Steve blinked.

Silence filled the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting a hand to his temple. “I think I just had a stroke hearing that. Could you say that more slowly?”

Your face burned, but you nodded, forcing yourself to repeat it, this time enunciating every word like it physically hurt. “My ex is getting married and I need you to come as my fake date.”

Steve stared at you.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “Wow. Okay. Uh.”

He leaned back slightly, processing.

“Uh,” he repeated.

You waited, hands clasped tightly together in your lap.

“Okay,” he tried again, nodding once like that might help his brain catch up. “Wow. Uh.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the ceiling like answers might be written there. “Okay,” he repeated again, voice drifting as he processed. “That’s. . . wow. That’s a sentence.”

You waited, hope and embarrassment wrestling violently inside your chest as he continued making small thinking noises.

“Okay uh. . . wow, fake date. . . wedding. . . okay.”

This went on for an impressive amount of time. He continued making variations of that exact noise for a solid five minutes, running a hand through his hair, blinking at the invitation.

Finally, he looked back at you.

Your expression must have betrayed exactly how much you were counting on this, because something in his face softened immediately.

He sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

The relief hit you so fast you practically launched out of your seat, a delighted sound escaping before you could stop it. You moved forward instinctively, arms lifting to hug him and then realization slammed into you halfway there.

You froze.

Awkwardly, painfully, you stopped yourself and stepped back instead, clearing your throat like nothing had happened. “Thanks,” you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Steve hid a small smile, pretending not to notice it. “On one condition,” he added.

You nodded immediately. “Okay.”

He pointed at you firmly. “You’re going to be the one telling Robin. Because she will actually kill me if I tell her.”

You considered that for approximately half a second. “Okay.”

Steve had been on the phone with Robin for exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, which was approximately twelve minutes longer than he had hoped the conversation would last.

He stood in the middle of his living room in a half-buttoned suit, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear while he aggressively polished one shoe against the back of his pant leg like the extra shine might somehow help his argument. His tie hung loose around his neck, crooked from multiple failed attempts at tying it properly, and every few seconds he paced a small anxious circle before stopping again.

“I know it sounds bad when you say it like that,” he insisted, lowering his voice even though you were still in the other room getting ready.

Robin’s voice crackled loudly through the receiver, disbelieving even from several feet away. She had been talking almost nonstop since the day you’d explained the situation.

“Steve,” she said, “it doesn’t just sound bad. It is bad. This is a terrible idea.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s just one wedding.”

“It’s a fake date to her ex’s wedding,” Robin corrected immediately. “Those words individually are terrible. You can imagine how they must be together.”

Steve hummed noncommittally, switching the shoe he was polishing. “Mm.”

“And don’t ‘mm’ me,” she continued. “You know why this is a disaster.”

He hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

Robin pounced. “Because you’re in love with her, Steve.”

He nearly dropped the shoe.

“I am not,” he said quickly, voice pitching higher than usual.

Robin laughed, the sound equal parts fond and exasperated. “You absolutely are. You have been for, like, forever. You do that thing where you pretend you’re not listening but then remember every tiny detail she’s ever said.”

“That’s just called being attentive,” he muttered weakly.

“You remembered her coffee order from that one time you brought it for her six months ago,” Robin shot back. “You don’t even remember my birthday half the time.”

“That’s different,” he said defensively, immediately regretting how guilty that sounded.

“Steve,” she said, “this is going to end terribly. You’re going to spend an entire night pretending to be her boyfriend while watching her deal with her ex, and then what? You think your feelings are just going to politely sit in the corner and behave?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, he knew she was right. Every logical part of his brain had screamed that this was a bad idea the moment you’d asked. But then he remembered the way you’d looked at him—hopeful and nervous and trying so hard not to seem like you needed the help as much as you did—and something in his chest had completely folded.

“She just. . . needed someone,” he said.

Robin groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

He smiled faintly despite himself, continuing to polish his shoe, humming absentmindedly as she continued listing all the consequences he was absolutely ignoring.

“And when this blows up,” she went on, “I want it officially on record that I warned you.”

“Mhm,” he said, distracted now as he checked his reflection in the window, adjusting his collar.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Mhm.”

“Steve—”

He never heard the rest because at that exact moment, your bedroom door opened.

He glanced up automatically and then completely forgot how functioning as a human being worked.

You stepped into the room in your dress, smoothing it nervously as you walked forward, clearly unsure whether it looked right, whether it was too much or not enough, whether this entire situation was as surreal as it felt.

Steve’s head snapped upright so fast it was almost audible.

The phone slipped straight from his shoulder and dangled by the cord, swinging gently near his chest.

His jaw followed shortly after.

For a long second, he just stared.

Every coherent thought left his brain at once. All Robin’s warnings, all his careful mental preparation, every argument he’d made about this being manageable vanished instantly. You looked. . . breathtaking.

He swallowed, attempting to stand straighter and immediately fumbling with his tie instead, fingers suddenly useless. “Uh—hi,” he managed, voice slightly hoarse.

You smiled shyly. “Is it too much?”

His brain short-circuited.

“No,” he said immediately. Then, realizing that sounded too fast, he added, “I mean, no. It’s— you look—” He gestured vaguely, words completely abandoning him. “Good. Really good.”

The phone swung slightly, and faintly, Robin’s voice could still be heard shouting through it.

“. . . Steve? Steve! Tell me you didn’t just zone out while I was making a very important point—”

She paused and there was a beat of silence.

Then, resigned and deeply unsurprised, her voice floated through faintly. “Oh my god, she walked in, didn’t she?”

Steve did not respond, still staring at you like he’d forgotten gravity existed.

Robin sighed. “Yeah. You’re on your own, dingus.”

A click followed.

The line went dead, the phone still hanging uselessly by its cord as Steve finally seemed to remember it existed, grabbing it awkwardly and setting it back in place without ever fully taking his eyes off you.

You shifted your weight nervously under his stare, suddenly hyperaware of every tiny detail about yourself. The dress had felt right when you picked it out, but now, standing in front of Steve while he looked at you like the concept of blinking had personally offended him, doubt crept in fast.

You smoothed your hands down the fabric for the hundredth time. “It’s not too formal, right?” you asked, turning slightly to check the hem even though you’d already checked it three times in the mirror. “I mean, it’s a wedding, but it’s not my wedding, so there’s probably like a criteria I’m supposed to follow.”

Steve nodded immediately.

Then realized he hadn’t actually processed a single word you’d said.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Totally.”

You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes a little. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” he lied automatically, still staring.

Because he was, unfortunately, completely gone.

There was something deeply unfair about how you looked right now. Not just pretty—Steve knew pretty—but real and nervous in a way that made his chest ache. You kept adjusting the dress like you weren’t sure you deserved to feel confident in it, and all he could think about was how insane it was that anyone had ever let you feel unsure about yourself at all.

His brain kept supplying unhelpful thoughts like she’s trusting you with this and you get to be the one standing next to her tonight and do not ruin this by being weird.

He was already being weird.

You turned back toward the small table, picking up a delicate pendant necklace and frowning at the clasp behind it. “Can you help me with this?” you asked casually, holding it up. “I can never get these stupid things on.”

Steve froze for half a second before walking over, every step suddenly careful, like he was approaching something fragile.

“Yeah,” he said.

You turned around, lifting your hair away from your neck without thinking, exposing the soft curve of your shoulders. The movement was simple, absentminded even, but Steve’s brain immediately stopped functioning again.

Up close, he could smell your perfume and the faint warmth of your skin. His hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before he carefully took the necklace from you, fingers brushing yours briefly.

The contact was quick but it still sent a small shock straight through him.

“Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself, focusing very hard on the clasp.

You stood still, waiting patiently, completely unaware of the internal crisis happening two inches behind you.

His fingers trembled slightly as he brought the chain around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone while he tried to line up the tiny hook, concentration intense but constantly disrupted by how close he was. Every small movement meant his knuckles brushed your skin and each touch made his breathing a little less steady.

“Sorry,” he muttered softly when his fingers slipped. “These things are. . . tiny.”

“It’s okay,” you said gently, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re doing great.”

That did not help him at all.

He swallowed, leaning closer without meaning to, breath brushing the back of your neck as he finally managed to hook the clasp into place. His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, adjusting the chain so it sat neatly.

Neither of you moved right away.

His hands slowly fell away, but he didn’t step back immediately, caught in that small space between finishing and letting go. Steve felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.

“Done,” he said softly, voice rougher than he intended.

You turned back toward him, smiling. “Thanks.”

And for a second, standing that close, Steve forgot this was supposed to be pretend.

You turned toward the mirror to check the necklace, fingertips brushing lightly over the pendant as you tilted your head from side to side, making sure it sat right. For a moment you were focused entirely on adjusting the chain, smoothing your hair back into place, trying to ignore the nervous flutter still bouncing around your stomach.

Then your eyes shifted slightly in the reflection and you paused.

Steve stood just behind you, still a little too close, looking like he had forgotten where to put his hands or how to exist normally. But that wasn’t what caught your attention.

His tie was, how do you put this politely, tragic.

It hung slightly crooked, the knot uneven and pulled too tight on one side while somehow still loose on the other.

You squinted at the mirror. “Oh my god.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

You turned toward him immediately, already reaching out. “Your tie. What did you do to it?”

He looked down defensively. “I tied it.”

“With what, hatred?” you muttered, stepping closer. “Hold still.”

He did.

Like someone had pressed a pause button.

Your fingers gently grabbed the knot, loosening it slightly before straightening the fabric. Steve’s entire body went rigid the second you touched him, shoulders locking as his brain short-circuited all over again.

Up close, you were focused, completely unaware of the effect you were having. You tugged lightly at the tie, smoothing it down his shirt, your brows pulling together in concentration.

“You were just going to leave it like this?” you asked, half amused, half horrified. “You’re supposed to be my impressive fake date.”

“I am impressive,” he said automatically, voice quieter than usual.

You hummed skeptically, adjusting the knot again. “Debatable.”

Your fingers brushed his collar as you fixed the fold beneath it, and Steve forgot how breathing worked for a second. He stood perfectly still, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, terrified that moving even slightly might break whatever this moment was.

He could see every detail up close now—the small crease between your brows when you focused, the way your lips moved slightly as you muttered to yourself, the soft shine of the pendant he had just fastened resting against your skin.

His heart was beating embarrassingly fast and he just hoped it didn't burst out and embarrass him in front of you.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere just above your head because looking directly at you felt dangerously overwhelming. His brain supplied one very clear thought: I am down catastrophically bad and Robin is never wrong.

“There,” you said, giving the tie one last satisfied adjustment. You leaned back slightly to inspect your work, nodding approvingly. “Much better.”

Steve didn’t respond.

You glanced up at him, noticing the way he’d completely frozen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, voice a little breathless. “Yeah. Totally.”

You smiled, oblivious, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his jacket before stepping back fully. “Good.”