manu✩

your parents called it a 'family meeting' which already put you on edge before you even reached the dining room.

family meetings were never about family in the soft, warm sense of the word. they were about decisions that had somehow already been made without you.

you stood in the doorway with your arms crossed and your eyebrows raised, taking in the scene. your mother had that hopeful too bright look she got whenever she thought she was being especially reasonable, your father was leaning against the table with a cup of coffee in his hand, and a leaflet sat between them.

“sit down” your mom said gently, which was never a promising sign.

“i’m standing.”

“please.”

you exhaled through your nose and pulled out the chair, letting yourself drop into it with as much dramatic resignation as you could manage. if they wanted a performance, they were going to get one.

your father glanced at your mother, then at you, like he was already tired of whatever this was going to become.

“we think,” your mother began, and you immediately hated the phrase, “that it would be really good for you to do something meaningful this summer.”

“i have plans.”

“you don't” your father said.

your mother slid the leaflet across the table.

it stopped in front of you with a little scrape of paper against wood. camp nowhere, it said in big cheerful letters across the top with a little painted sun rising behind a line of trees. beneath that was the slogan, printed in a font so corny it was almost offensive.

where memories are made and trails are conquered.

you stared at it for a second, then barked out a laugh despite yourself. “that's awful.”

your mother did not appreciate the reaction.

“it’s not awful,” she said. “it’s charming.”

“it’s embarrassing.”

“you’re being dramatic.”

“i learned from the best” you muttered.

that earned you a look from both of them.

your mother reached for the leaflet, tapped it twice, and said, as though she were explaining something obvious to a toddler, “we filled out the application for you.”

for a moment, the room went silent.

you looked from her to your father. “you what?”

“well,” your father said, with the deeply irritating calm of a man who had decided he was already in the right, “you have the summer free.”

“that does not mean you get to sign me up for camp.”

“it is not camp,” your mother said. “it is a leadership experience.”

“it is literally camp.”

“and a leadership experience.”

you leaned back in the chair slowly, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer divine intervention. it did not.

“you’re joking.”

“we’re not,” your mother said. “we think it will be good for you. you’ll meet people. get some fresh air. have some responsibility.”

“i have responsibility.”

your father raised an eyebrow. “you left a plate in your room for three days.”

“that is not the kind of responsibility i meant.”

“you’ll be a counsellor,” your mother went on, undeterred. “for the younger group. you’re good with kids.”

“i'm not good with kids.”

“you babysat mrs. leon’s twin boys for a whole afternoon and they said they liked you.”

“they also ate crayons.”

“and they still liked you”your mother smiled, entirely too pleased with herself. “it’ll be good for you.”

“you said that already.”

“because it’s true.”

“you are both insane.”

“we’re trying to give you an experience,” your father said, “you’ve had a long school year, and this will be good for you. your mom and i loved camps.”

“of course you did,” you said flatly. “you two were probably the kind of kids who volunteered to hold hands during songs.”

your mother’s mouth twitched. “there is nothing wrong with holding hands during songs.”

“there is when you’re making me sign up for weeks in the woods because of it.”

they had that look on their faces now, the one that meant they thought they were being kind. it was the most infuriating version of cruel because you could tell they genuinely believed it. they genuinely thought this was a gift, they genuinely thought one day you would thank them for the privilege of spending your summer in the middle of nowhere supervising children while wearing some horrendous camp shirt.

you looked back down at the leaflet. camp nowhere. even the name sounded like a joke somebody had made too late at night and then somehow gotten approved by a committee.

the pictures were almost annoyingly nice, though. a lake at sunset. a row of cabins with lights glowing in the windows. kids canoeing in bright life vests, smiling wide enough to make you suspicious. a campfire ring with marshmallows skewered on sticks. it all looked like the kind of life that happened in movies, in those glossy summer scenes that always seemed to end with someone falling in love under the stars.

you hated that your first instinct was to think, well. maybe it won’t be completely miserable.

“we’ll let you pack what you want,” your mother said, as if this softened the blow. “summer clothes, comfortable shoes, things like that. and maybe something a little nicer for the closing ceremony.”

“closing ceremony?”

“there’s a big games day at the end.”

“of course there is.”

“it’s very exciting” she said.

you let your head fall back for a second, eyes closed. “so i'm being banished.”

“you’re not being banished.”

your father laughed into his mug. your mother smiled that annoying, fond smile she got when she thought your misery was amusing.

“you’ll be fine” she said.

you opened one eye and looked at her. “that’s an optimistic thing to say for someone who just ruined my summer”

“you’ll thank us later.”

“i doubt that.”

“you’ll see.”

you didn’t say anything after that. there was no point. they had already won, and you all knew it. that was the worst part. not the camp, not even the prospect of months of forced social interaction and bug spray and whatever else people did at forests disguised as leisure. it was the certainty that your parents had made up their minds and expected you to eventually become grateful for it.

so you took the leaflet, stood up, and left the room without another word.

you could hear your mother call after you that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes, but you ignored her and kept walking until you reached your room and shut the door behind you.

for a long time, you just stood there.

then you threw the leaflet onto your bed as if that might help and sank onto the edge of the mattress, staring at the wall with deep, bitter offense.

you picked up your phone, dialled your friends, and when they answered you gave them the full story in the kind of voice that suggested you might actually be on the verge of murder.

by the end of the call, they were laughing at your fate and claiming they miss you already.

when the room went quiet again, the anger settled into something heavier, quieter. not quite defeat, but not far off. you flopped backward onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of your parents downstairs. plates clinking. drawers opening and shutting. normal life continuing as if your entire summer hadn't just been stolen.

you rolled onto your side and dragged the leaflet back toward you.

camp nowhere.

you read through it properly this time, they had activities. a lake. nature walks. canoeing. arts and crafts. team events. singing around a fire. a “positive, inclusive atmosphere for campers and counsellors alike.”

you snorted at that.

but then, grudgingly, your eyes landed on the photos again. kids with painted faces and crooked grins. counsellors laughing beside them. sunlight filtering through tall trees. a rope bridge over water. docks. firelight. someone holding a guitar. no, it did not look as miserable as it had any right to. in fact, it did look pleasant.

you turned the leaflet over and over in your hands, slowly letting your irritation drain into a tired kind of curiosity.

kids were fun, sometimes. and maybe camp would be okay.

maybe you would learn something useful, maybe you’d get to row a canoe or climb a wall or become one of those annoyingly competent people who could tie knots and start fires without suffering. maybe you’d spend a few weeks away from home and come back with a good story, maybe it would be one of those summers you remembered later and treasured.

maybe.

you were almost annoyed at yourself for thinking it, but the thought had already taken root.

by the time evening came around, you had made yourself a little less miserable. you still gave your parents a dramatic, dignified silence, which they both endured with remarkable patience, and you still muttered something rude when your father asked whether you were excited. but underneath all of that, under the sulking and the resentment and the very real desire to fake your own disappearance, there was a tiny flicker of something else.

not hope, exactly.

something softer than that.

-

the next few days passed in the strange blur that always came before going somewhere you did not want to go.

suddenly every drawer needed sorting, every shirt had to be judged, every pair of shoes you owned was either too dirty, too nice, or too wrong for camp. you packed summer clothes with the stubborn optimism of someone who had no clue what the weather would be but determined to trust the glossy pictures in the leaflet anyway. shorts. t-shirts. worn-in trainers. one slightly nicer jumper for evenings.

you also packed your walkman, because there was no universe in which you were surviving a long car journey with your parents’ conversation and your father’s taste in music without some kind of escape.

the morning of departure arrived in bright, cheerful sunlight that felt personal. of course the day you were being shipped off to the wilderness would be beautiful, of course the sky would be blue and the world would smell like grass and warm pavement.

your parents were infuriatingly upbeat.

your father loaded the car with the kind of practical efficiency that suggested he had been waiting for this day and your mother hovered around the porch making sure you had everything, every now and then pressing some last-minute item into your hands like a send off blessing. bug spray. a towel. an extra water bottle. snacks for the road. a notebook. sunscreen.

you climbed into the back seat, shut the door and immediately looked out the window so you wouldn't have to see their faces until the very last second.

the drive was long enough that the scenery gradually changed from town streets to long stretches of road to dense green blur. the farther you went, the more the world seemed to empty out around you.

houses disappeared. shops disappeared. familiar landmarks became occasional gas stations and fields and then nothing but trees. your father’s music played low through the car speakers, something from the sort of band he always claimed was “good for the soul” which you were increasingly convinced meant it was good for him and terrible for everyone else.

your mother kept glancing back at you with a smile that was far too hopeful for such a stupid situation.

you pulled your walkman from your bag and slid on the headphones.

peace. maybe not full peace, but at least now it was happening with a soundtrack you chose yourself. you leaned your head against the window, let the music fill the space where your irritation had been and watched the world flick past in green and gold streaks.

somewhere in the middle of a song, you drifted into that strange half-sleep that happens when you are too tired to be properly awake but too uncomfortable to fully rest. the road became a hum. the trees became shadows. your parents became blurred voices under the music. every now and then the car would dip or sway and you’d surface just long enough to see a sign that meant absolutely nothing to you before sinking back again.

when you finally startled awake, it was because the car had slowed.

you blinked, sitting up straight, and pulled the headphones off one ear. ahead, through the windshield, was a huge wooden sign standing at the edge of a long gravel driveway. camp nowhere. the same slogan from the leaflet was painted underneath in cheerful, obnoxious letters. somewhere beyond it, you could see the roofs of cabins tucked between trees and the shimmer of water through the trunks.

it really did look like the kind of place a movie would use for a summer setting.

as you got closer, the scene came into focus in frustrating detail. a big bus parked off to one side. coloured banners strung between trees. kids running in clusters dragging bags or waving at each other, looking wildly excited in a way you couldn't quite understand.

adults in bright team shirts moved around with clipboards and wide smiles, shepherding everyone toward some unseen centre of camp.

once you stepped out, there was no pretending this was temporary anymore. this was it. this was your summer.

your mother turned around in her seat. “ready?”

no, you thought.

instead you said, “i hate that you’re enjoying this.”

she smiled. “we’ll miss you.”

“that is the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”

your father leaned back from the driver’s seat and gave you a look in the rearview mirror that was almost soft. almost. “you’ll be fine.”

your mom kissed your forehead before you could dodge it, and then you were climbing out of the car.

the air smelled like pine and lake water. you shut the car door behind you and stood for a second with the sun on your face, blinking against the brightness.

then a man in a green camp shirt came striding toward you and he was beaming.

“welcome to camp nowhere!” he said, “you must be our new counsellor.”

he held out a dark green shirt toward you.

you stared at it. “leafy team?”

his grin widened as if your reaction delighted him. “that’s right. you’ll be with the leafies this summer.”

“leafies” you repeated slowly, because there was no way that was a real sentence.

“we keep it fun around here.”

“right.”

he laughed and told you to head inside the main hut for orientation. you took the shirt mostly so he would stop talking then followed the path toward the building with the rest of the new staff.

inside, there were rows of folding chairs, a long table at the front and a whole mess of counsellors already gathering in clusters and laughing too loudly. everyone seemed weirdly polished as if they’d been born knowing how to wear a whistle around their neck without looking stupid.

you found yourself gravitating toward the back because it was easier to glare from there.

the man from outside, apparently in charge, stood at the front and called for everyone’s attention. he introduced himself, introduced the rest of the staff, and then started going through the teams. the names got progressively more dramatic in a way that made you increasingly suspicious. the hawks. the wolves. the foxes. the bears. the eagles.

and then, finally, with the kind of smile that suggested he found this hilariously unfortunate, he said, “and we’ve got the leafies too.”

there was a ripple of laughter through the room, a couple of counsellors even made sympathetic noises.

you turned and realised that the other teams had somehow all landed on names that sounded bold or fierce or at least vaguely respectable.

why the hell were you a leaf?

“each team gets two counsellors,” he said. “they will together run their group of kids over the summer-”

the door to the hut opened.

a guy stepped in, one hand already raised in apology, hair slightly mussed like he’d ran here. he looked a little flushed, a little out of breath and immediately too handsome for the situation.

“sorry,” he said, voice easy and warm even while he looked mildly embarrassed. “got held up.”

the man at the front waved him in with the patience of someone who had seen this before. “ah, there he is. steve, you’re with the leafies.”

steve.

the name suited him in a way that was irritating.

he crossed the room with easy confidence, though there was still a lingering edge of breathlessness around him. he looked around the room, took in the crowd, and then his eyes landed on you.

for a second, something in his face shifted. just a small flicker of curiosity, maybe confusion.

when the leafies were finally announced as the team that apparently always lost the trial at the end of camp, steve let out a low sound of disbelief.

“you’re kidding” he said.

“they’re a spirited group.”

“spirited?” steve repeated.

“well,” the man said, “they’ve got heart.”

the meeting dragged on after that, full of instructions and schedules and rules and warnings about the lake, the trails, the snack shed, the canoes and the importance of not leaving children unattended near anything remotely fun. you half listened, half watched steve across the room when you could get away with it.

he wasn't paying attention in the way the others were. he looked like he was trying, which somehow made him more interesting than the ones who were pretending to know exactly what they were doing. every so often he would lean down and scribble something on the paper in front of him, then glance up again with that same observant look. when he noticed you looking, he lifted his brows slightly, like he’d caught you stealing a glance.

you looked away so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

by the time the meeting ended, the room had broken into that noisy, confused shuffle of people collecting notebooks and standing up too quickly.

you gathered your things and headed toward the door, already preparing yourself for whatever disaster would be your cabin assignment.

“hey.”

the voice came from close behind you, easy and casual and just loud enough to stop you.

you turned.

steve had caught up with you in the doorway, his bag slung over one shoulder, one hand shoved into his pocket. up close, he looked even more annoyingly put together in the not-quite-put-together way that seemed effortless. there was a little flush still in his cheeks and his expression had shifted from mildly annoyed to something like curiosity.

“yeah?” you asked.

“you’re on leafies too, right?”

you lifted your chin. “tragically.”

that got a real smile out of him.

“cool,” he said. “so we’re both doomed.”

“seems that way.”

he held out his hand. “steve.”

you looked at it for a second before taking it. his hand was warm, his grip firm, and there was something disarmingly normal about it, like he wasn’t trying too hard to be impressive or charming or anything at all. he just was.

you told him your name.

he repeated it, like he was trying it out. “okay, cool. nice to meet you, officially.”

“nice to meet you too.”

he glanced toward the rest of the staff dispersing, then back at you. “so, i’m guessing you heard the part where our team is the camp equivalent of a bad omen?”

“i did.”

“excellent.”

“excellent?”

“i like being warned in advance,” he said. “means i know what i’m working with.”

you snorted. “what exactly are you working with?”

he looked at you for a beat, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “a team called the leafies.”

that got another laugh out of you, softer this time, and the sound seemed to settle something in the air between you. the weirdness of the day didn’t disappear, not by any stretch, but it shifted.

you walked out of the hut together, shoulder to shoulder in the warm late afternoon light and the camp spread out around you in all directions.

kids ran past with water bottles and whistles and little canvas bags. somebody called for a canoe to be brought down to the lake. somewhere a hammer was hitting wood, and somewhere else music drifted faintly from an open cabin window.

steve shoved his hands in his pockets and looked over at you. “so, what do you think?”

“about what?”

“about this whole place.”

you looked around before answering. “it’s aggressively wholesome.”

“right?”

“one inspirational speech away from becoming a cult.”

he laughed, proper this time and the sound made you glance at him again before you could help it.

“i mean,” he said, “i was gonna say rustic.”

“rustic is a nicer word for it.”

“leafies” he said again, shaking his head. “what kind of name is that?”

“the kind that loses.”

“yeah, well,” he said, with mock solemnity, “we’re gonna change that.”

you tilted your head. “are we?”

“absolutely.”

you studied him for a second, taking in the way he talked like he'd already decided the summer wasn’t going to beat him. he looked like the sort of person who could walk into a room and make it feel a little less hostile simply by existing in it.

“you’re very optimistic for someone who arrived late and is assigned to a cursed team” you said.

he shrugged. “what can i say? i like a challenge.”

“sounds suspicious.”

he laughed again, and this time there was a tiny pause afterward, just enough for the two of you to register that you were both standing there smiling at each other like idiots in the middle of camp.

then he cleared his throat, very slightly embarrassed, and said, “our cabins are opposite each other.”

you blinked. “how do you know that?”

he pointed vaguely over his shoulder. “i saw the assignment board.”

you stared in the direction he had indicated, and sure enough, after a moment of squinting through the crowd and the bright afternoon glare, you could make out the line of cabins stretching along the path. your own cabin stood at one side of the clearing, and opposite it, was steve’s.

“of course they are” you murmured.

“well,” he said, with a grin, “guess we’re neighbours.”

the sound of dinner being called from somewhere near the hall pulled the camp into motion around you. staff began herding children toward lines, counsellors started shouting names, the whole place buzzed with movement charged energy of summer.

steve stepped back just enough to gesture toward your cabin path. “guess this is where we split up.”

you nodded.

neither of you moved for a second then he said, “see you around, leafy.”

“don’t call me that.”

“too late.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you turned around, and you knew he had seen it.

the trees overhead were still too green, the air still too warm, and the camp was still camp nowhere, but now there was something else in the mix too.

a boy with a crooked smile and the unnerving habit of making your irritation disappear.

you stepped into your cabin, dropped your bag onto one of the bunks, and stood there in the dim wooden quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the camp outside.

then, slowly, you smiled to yourself.

because maybe your parents had been wrong about a lot of things. maybe they had no idea how much you would hate being here at first, maybe they had been annoying, and unforgivably smug.

but maybe, just maybe, they had accidentally done one thing right.

because if fate and the stars and whatever stupid summer magic camp nowhere had tucked between the trees were feeling generous, then this could be the kind of summer that changed things.

and if steve harrington was as charming as he seemed, and not some secret asshole hidden under that easy grin, then maybe this whole disaster might turn out to be something else entirely.

-

when you finally got into bed that night, changed and exhausted, listening to the low murmur of the camp settling around you, you turned onto your side and stared out through the cabin window at the darkening trees.

somewhere across the path, steve was in his own cabin, probably doing the exact same thing. though you had no way of knowing that yet, the thought was enough to make the edge of your mouth lift again.

you fell asleep with that thought still warm in your chest, and for the first time since your parents had sat you down at the table, you did not feel entirely trapped.

only curious, only a little hopeful.

-

the first morning started way too early.

you woke up to sunlight cutting through the thin cabin curtains directly onto your face and the sound of somebody outside blowing a whistle. for a few seconds you forgot where you were completely, still half asleep enough to think you were at home.

then you looked up at the wooden ceiling. camp, right.

you groaned quietly and pulled the blanket over your face for another minute before finally forcing yourself up. outside your cabin window the camp was already alive. kids running around in oversized shirts, counsellors carrying boxes and clipboards, somebody laughing loud enough to echo through the trees.

you changed into your leafy team shirt with deep reluctance.

the dark green honestly was not terrible, the name still was though.

when you stepped outside with your shoelaces half tied, the morning air hit you all at once. warm already, but still carrying that coolness from the night before. the lake nearby reflected sunlight through the trees and somewhere off in the distance music was playing quietly from a radio.

and then there was steve, sitting on the steps outside his cabin with a coffee.

he looked up when he heard your door shut.

“wow,” he said immediately. “you look thrilled to be alive.”

you squinted at him. “i was until i heard that whistle.”

he stood up, stretching slightly before walking over toward you. his hair was still messy from sleep, and somehow that combined with the stupid green shirt made him look unfairly good this early in the morning.

“ready for bonding day?” he asked.

“sounds threatening.”

“apparently we’re building something in the woods.”

“sounds more threatening.”

“i heard one of the counsellors say teamwork exercise,” he added, lowering his voice dramatically. “so i think we should prepare for the worst.”

“knew this place was a cult.”

he grinned at that, and before you could say anything else a group of kids came barreling across the clearing toward you both.

your group.

the leafies.

all six of them looked half awake and overly excited at the same time, talking over each other before they’d even reached you.

“are we really going in the woods?”

“do we get tools?”

“sam said we’re building houses-”

“can i climb stuff?”

“i saw a frog earlier.”

“what if there’s bears?”

steve blinked slowly at the chaos before glancing sideways at you. “maybe we should’ve prepared more.”

you snorted.

but honestly?

the kids were kind of great.

there was maya, who talked so fast she practically tripped over her own words. adam, who seemed determined to touch every single thing he passed. twins called rosie and molly who argued every thirty seconds but got defensive if anyone else did. liam, who had decided steve was the coolest person alive within five minutes. and noah, quieter than the others but weirdly hilarious whenever he actually spoke.

by the time breakfast ended and all the groups were led out toward the forest trails, you already liked them more than you expected to.

the challenge itself sounded simple enough. each team had to build a shelter using only things they found in the woods. sticks, leaves, branches, whatever.

strongest structure won.

“this,” steve announced once your group reached your section of forest, “is where the leafies begin their comeback story.”

“okay,” you said, clapping your hands together once. “new rule. we’re not losing.”

“exactly,” steve said, pointing at you, “that’s the energy we need.”

“what's our team called again?” maya asked.

“leafy team!” adam yelled proudly. steve failed to hide his bitter look.

somehow, though, once everybody started actually working, it became fun quicker than either of you expected.

the kids took the assignment incredibly seriously.

within minutes they were running around the forest searching for sticks like their lives depended on it. rosie and molly dragged over branches twice their size while arguing about direction. liam kept bringing steve the most useless tiny twigs imaginable. maya was determined to decorate the shelter instead of structurally support it.

“we need cuteness” she insisted.

“we need walls” you told her.

“same thing.”

at one point noah quietly pointed up toward a thick branch stuck high in a tree and said, “that one would be good.”

steve looked up at it, then at all the kids staring expectantly at him.

“absolutely not.”

“come on” you said immediately.

“no.”

“steve” maya whined, already dragging him toward it.

five minutes later he was halfway up the tree muttering complaints under his breath while all of you stood below giving wildly unhelpful advice.

“a little left!”

“your other left!”

“don’t fall!”

“i hate all of you” he called down.

“you love us” you shouted back.

he looked down at you then, sunlight catching through the leaves around him, and there was this quick crooked grin on his face before he snapped the branch free.

“yeah,” he said. “you wish”

by the middle of the afternoon all of you were sweaty, covered in dirt, and weirdly invested in a stick house.

it looked good. really good, actually.

somehow, between all eight of you, the thing had become a proper little den tucked between trees.

“this is sick” liam breathed.

the camp leaders came around checking everyone’s shelters near the end, and when they reached yours, both of them looked genuinely impressed.

“leafies” one of them said, sounding surprised.

steve put a hand over his chest. “your faith in us is inspiring.”

you elbowed him lightly while the kids giggled.

before leaving that morning, each group had been handed a disposable camera. apparently every team got one for the summer, with enough film to document basically everything.

“first photo” maya declared suddenly.

all six kids immediately started yelling over each other about where to stand.

eventually all of you squeezed into the shelter together, knees shoved awkwardly against branches and shoulders pressed together because there really was not enough room for eight people.

“everyone fit?” steve asked, holding the camera out awkwardly.

“no,” you laughed. “your arm is in my face.”

“tragedy.”

“move.”

the kids were already laughing before the photo was even taken.

steve finally clicked the button while half leaning backward out of the den, and the flash went off at completely the wrong angle.

“that is definitely blurry” you said.

“adds character” he argued.

“sure.”

still, when the photo developed eventually, you knew it would probably end up being one of your favourites.

all of you crammed together under that badly made roof. smiling too wide. steve barely in frame because he’d taken it himself.

it felt like the start of something.

the walk back to camp afterward was loud and chaotic in the best way. the kids were all talking over each other again, replaying every part of the day.

“we’re definitely winning” adam announced confidently.

“obviously” steve agreed.

you looked over at him. “we should probably stop promising things.”

“why?”

“because what if we lose?”

he looked offended by the suggestion. “have some faith in the leafies.”

you laughed.

and weirdly enough, you did.

over the next few days, things settled into a rhythm.

you woke up early. complained about it with steve. spent the day chasing kids around activities while somehow getting way too competitive yourselves.

the leafies became known very quickly for trying way too hard at absolutely everything.

rock climbing day turned into a full team mission to reach the highest point possible. even the kids who were scared ended up cheering everybody else on from below while you and steve yelled encouragement from the ground.

fire building day became weirdly intense.

“ours has to be the best one” steve said seriously.

“you say that like there’s prize money.”

“there should be.”

you spent nearly an hour trying to keep your fire alive while smoke got in everybody’s eyes and the kids kept dramatically coughing like they were dying.

“i can’t see” rosie complained.

“that’s cause you’re standing in the smoke” you told her.

“whose fault is that?”

“probably steve’s.”

“hey.”

somehow, despite all of it, your fire ended up being the strongest one there.

archery day nearly destroyed all of your confidence.

none of the kids could hit the bullseye.

you couldn’t either.

neither could steve, despite loudly claiming at the start that it was “probably easy.”

“this thing is rigged” he muttered after missing again.

the kids had started making fun of you both by the end of the session.

“i thought counsellors were meant to be good at stuff” noah said.

“that’s actually a really hurtful stereotype” steve replied.

you were crying laughing by the time your final turns came around.

“okay,” steve said, pointing at the target. “bullseye before we leave. that’s the mission.”

“that was not the mission.”

“it is now.”

everyone went quiet when you pulled the arrow back.

you honestly did not expect it to happen. but then the arrow flew and hit dead centre.

for a second nobody reacted then suddenly all seven of them were screaming.

the kids launched themselves at you immediately while you stood there laughing in complete shock, and somehow steve ended up grabbing your shoulders at the same time while yelling, “no way! no way!”

“i did that!” you shouted.

“you actually did!”

“holy shit-”

“language” he said automatically.

“oh, now you care?”

everyone was practically jumping on top of each other and the camp instructor looked deeply exhausted by all of you.

you did not stop smiling for the next hour.

-

lake days became your favourite, mostly because everybody relaxed more there.

the kids loved swimming, even if half of them were terrible at it, and steve apparently had taken some lifeguarding class back in high school which transformed him into the bossiest person alive near water.

“no running!”

“you literally just ran” you pointed out.

“that was different.”

“how?”

“i’m trained.”

canoeing somehow became even worse. or better, depending on perspective.

you and steve got paired together every time because the kids insisted it was funniest that way.

they were right.

you flipped the canoe over so many times it became embarrassing.

“lean left!” steve shouted.

“i am leaning left!”

“your other left!”

“don’t start this again-”

seconds later both of you were underwater.

the kids were screaming laughing from nearby canoes while you surfaced spluttering.

“we’re actually worse than them” you gasped.

steve pushed wet hair out of his face, laughing hard enough to barely breathe. “yeah, this is humiliating.”

afterward, though, while helping teach the younger kids how to tread water properly or swim stronger laps across the shallow end, things always slowed down a little.

you learned things from steve during those quieter moments.

how to float properly without panicking, how to spot when one of the kids was getting overwhelmed before they actually said anything.

and outside of activities, usually late at night sitting on cabin steps after everybody else had settled down, you learned other things too.

about his parents never really being home. about his dad sending him here after a terrible report card and acting like camp would somehow “fix” him. about the way he shrugged things off when they probably bothered him more than he let people see.

and he learned about you too.

about your parents springing camp on you out of nowhere. about your music. your favourite songs. the stupid things you wanted to do after school even if you had no idea how to get there yet.

somehow conversations with steve became easy before you even noticed it happening.

you stopped thinking before speaking around him.

he started showing up beside you automatically during meals or activities like it was instinct.

the kids noticed too.

especially maya, maya noticed everything.

“you guys act married” she informed you both one afternoon.

you nearly choked on your drink.

steve looked horrified. “we absolutely do not.”

“you bicker like my parents.”

“not helping.”

the kids all started agreeing loudly while you covered your face in embarrassment. but secretly? you didn’t mind it. because somewhere along the way, between the lake and the woods and the late night conversations and the terrible team name, you had stopped caring so much about proving people wrong.

the whole plan to turn the leafies into camp champions slowly faded into the background.

not because you stopped trying but because suddenly the important part was this. the kids. the laughter. steve sitting too close beside you at campfires.

all eight of you ending every day exhausted and smiling anyway.

you didn’t notice the camp leaders watching your group more carefully than the others, didn’t notice the little smiles they exchanged whenever your team passed by.

because while some counsellors treated the camp like a competition or free babysitting or something to survive until summer ended, you and steve cared.

genuinely.

about the kids, about the team, about making every day fun for them and maybe, without fully realising it yet, about each other too.

-

the weeks kept going after that, somehow getting better instead of repetitive.

which honestly felt unfair.

you had expected camp to become one long blur eventually. same cabins, same trails, same activities over and over until you were desperate to go home. but instead every day somehow ended up feeling different. mostly because of the kids. and because of steve.

you learned very quickly that while your team was weirdly good at physical activities, teamwork and making disasters fun, there were two things all eight of you absolutely sucked at.

hiking and orienteering.

the second the camp leaders handed steve a map and compass, you knew it was over.

“okay,” he said, staring at the paper like it had personally insulted him. “why does this look like ancient scripture?”

“that’s a normal map.”

“there are too many lines.”

you laughed while the kids immediately crowded around him trying to help in the least helpful ways possible.

“i think we go left.”

“what’s north?”

within twenty minutes all of you were lost.

not deeply lost but definitely not where you were meant to be. the trail kept splitting off into smaller paths, the compass never seemed to agree with the map, and steve was getting increasingly dramatic about the whole thing.

“this thing is broken” he said for the fourth time, aggressively shaking the compass.

“i don’t think that helps.”

you were crying laughing by that point while the kids ran ahead collecting leaves and shouting every time they found anything remotely interesting.

part of the hike involved an animal checklist booklet each team had been given. the goal was to tick off every creature you spotted during the walk.

birds, squirrels, frogs, deer. stuff like that.

rosie had claimed responsibility for carrying the booklet almost immediately, holding onto it like it was state property.

at first the kids took it seriously.

“red squirrel!” maya yelled at one point.

“that’s a branch.”

“oh.”

but somewhere around hour two, after getting lost for what felt like the fifth time and finding absolutely none of the animals they needed, the whole thing slowly dissolved into nonsense.

it started with noah pointing at a weird shaped tree root and saying it looked like a “mud goblin.”

rosie immediately wrote it down in the back pages of the booklet.

after that, it became a game.

one of the kids would point at something random or badly imitate an animal and everybody else would invent names for it.

twig rat, swamp horse, wet pigeon beast. none of them made sense, the spellings somehow made even less sense.

rosie wrote every single one down in messy handwriting while laughing so hard she could barely hold the pencil straight.

you and steve tried very hard to stay out of it.

-

arts and crafts days became another unexpected favourite.

technically those days were mostly for the kids, but steve always somehow managed to get extra supplies for the two of you.

he shoved a marker toward you. “draw me”

“absolutely not.”

“coward.”

eventually you did. badly, very badly. you drew his hair too big on purpose and his jaw weirdly square and somehow made one eye slightly higher than the other.

when you slid the paper toward him, steve stared at it for a full five seconds.

“wow,” he said quietly. “you really captured how exhausted i look.”

you laughed so hard you had to put your head down on the table.

“hold on,” he said. “my turn.”

his drawing of you somehow looked both nothing like you and exactly like you at the same time. the proportions were terrible. the nose was questionable at best. but the smile looked real enough that your stomach weirdly flipped when you looked at it.

you looked up at him then, he was already looking at you, and for a second neither of you laughed.

the kids yelling nearby snapped the moment apart before it could become anything else, but after that things between you shifted again.

subtly at first, small things. his hand brushing yours more often, the way he’d lean closer when talking to you, the way he always looked for you first in a crowd. the teasing changed too, less just joking more.. something else.

“you missed me?” he asked one evening after you’d spent half the day separated during activities.

“desperately” you said flatly.

he grinned. “good.”

and the annoying thing was, he probably knew you meant it a little.

you tried not to think about it too hard because you really liked him now.

you liked hearing about his day even if you’d been there for most of it. liked the way he made the kids laugh. liked how patient he was when one of them got upset. liked the way he’d quietly check if you were okay whenever camp got overwhelming.

and sometimes you’d catch him already looking at you before you even said anything, like he was thinking too much too.

you just didn’t know if it meant the same thing.

until the shed.

every friday night, two counsellors got assigned clean-up duty for the activity shed, which sounded simple enough until you actually saw the shed. it was chaos. boxes half open, board games missing pieces, paint supplies everywhere, footballs shoved into corners, friendship bracelet string tangled around literally everything.

the sun had mostly gone down outside by then, leaving the shed lit in soft yellow light from the flickering bulb overhead. the door barely shut properly, warm night air drifting through the gap every few minutes along with distant campfire sounds from deeper in camp.

the two of you sat on the floor sorting through boxes while talking about absolutely nothing important.

you were halfway through telling him about some weird noise you’d heard outside your cabin the night before.

“i swear it sounded human at first,” you said, sitting cross legged while untangling skipping ropes. “like genuinely terrifying, then i looked outside and it was just two raccoons fighting near the bins.”

steve snorted from beside you, you shook your head, still smiling slightly while reaching for another box.

“and then this morning maya tried convincing everyone raccoons are technically burglars-”

you stopped mid sentence. because steve was looking at you. not casually, not distractedly, really looking at you.

his arms rested loosely over his knees, expression softer than usual somehow. quieter. like he’d drifted away from the conversation completely and was just focused on you instead.

your stomach flipped.

“what?” you asked softly.

for a second he didn’t answer then he moved before you could think too hard about it.

the kiss caught you completely off guard. warm and quick and careful all at once. your brain stopped working for a second because steve was kissing you. steve.

and maybe because you froze in shock, or maybe because he thought he’d completely misread everything, he pulled back almost immediately.

“shit” he said quietly.

you blinked at him.

“sorry. i’m sorry, i don’t know why i just-”

he was already shaking his head at himself, embarrassed flushing across his face.

“forget it. that was stupid, i just thought maybe-”

you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back toward you before he could finish.

his surprise lasted about half a second before he kissed you again. properly this time, slower. his hand came instinctively to your waist while yours stayed twisted lightly in his shirt, and suddenly every stupid little moment from the past few weeks made sense all at once.

you could feel him smiling slightly into the kiss after a second, like he still couldn’t fully believe this was happening either.

“okay” he mumbled quietly against your mouth.

you laughed softly. “okay?”

“just checking i didn’t imagine that.”

“you definitely didn’t.”

he kissed you again after that. still careful, still smiling. it never got too heated, mostly because you were sitting in a poorly built shed with a door that barely worked and children definitely still awake somewhere nearby, but honestly that almost made it better.

when you finally pulled apart properly, both of you were still grinning like idiots.

steve leaned back against one of the shelves, rubbing a hand over his face. “wow.”

“wow?” you repeated.

“shut up.”

you laughed again, unable to stop smiling yourself.

“you have no idea,” he said, looking at you again, “how long i’ve wanted to do that.”

your heart did something deeply embarrassing.

“really?”

“really.”

you ducked your head slightly, smiling to yourself.

“good,” you admitted quietly. “because i wanted you to.”

after that, things changed.

stolen kisses when nobody was looking. quick ones behind cabins, soft ones during late-night clean ups, sometimes just his hand brushing yours secretly under tables during staff meetings.

you kept it quiet mostly because neither of you knew if counsellors dating was technically allowed and honestly it felt smarter not to ask questions you probably didn’t want answers to.

especially at a children’s summer camp.

but keeping it secret almost made it sweeter somehow.

because it wasn’t just kissing, it was everything else too. the talking, the late nights, letting each other in properly. you and steve started sitting outside each other’s cabins after the kids went to sleep, talking quietly until ridiculous hours of the night.

about what happened after camp. about real life about how weird it was that you actually didn’t live that far apart.

“you should come visit” steve said one night without hesitation.

you looked over at him. “yeah?”

“obviously.”

“what if i hate you outside camp?”

he grinned. “not possible.”

you nudged his shoulder lightly with yours.

“you should visit me too” you said after a second.

“i will.”

and the thing was, you believed him immediately.

the leafies stayed close through all of it.

your team never really lost that feeling from the first week. the easy closeness, the way everybody genuinely wanted to be there together.

even when you did badly at activities, it never actually felt bad because every disaster somehow became funny instead. every failure turned into another story, another joke, another thing all eight of you would laugh about later.

and through all of it, unnoticed by you and steve completely, the camp leaders kept watching your group with quiet smiles.

because the leafies had stopped being the losing team. not because they were suddenly the best at every activity but because they’d become the team everybody else wanted to be around.

the kids were happier, more confident, and every time the leaders looked over at your group, they saw the same thing:

you and steve right in the middle of it all.

completely unaware of how obvious it was that you cared about every second of this summer.

-

it was that same kind of quiet bliss all the way through to the end of summer.

camp started feeling like a place you just existed in, like it had always been part of your life in some weird way you couldn’t explain.

the days stopped dragging and started disappearing instead. one moment you were laughing around a campfire, the next you were waking up again with dirt on your shoes and the smell of lake water still in your hair.

the leafies never really got better at canoeing.

you and steve especially were still, objectively, a disaster on water.

“i’m telling you, it hates us” steve said for what felt like the hundredth time as the canoe tipped slightly to one side.

“it’s a canoe,” you said, gripping the edge. “it doesn’t have opinions.”

“this one does.”

you flipped over again about thirty seconds later.

none of you ever trusted the compass either.

it became more of a symbolic object than a useful one, passed around occasionally and immediately ignored.

but everything else worked.

slowly, without anyone really planning it, the leafies got good at things.

rock climbing became something you all actually looked forward to. fire building turned into a competition you somehow always won. hiking stopped being 'getting lost' and became manageable. and even the quieter kids started speaking up more, like they finally believed someone would actually listen.

it flew by in that strange way good summers do, where every day feels long while you’re in it but impossible to separate afterwards.

until suddenly it was the last week.

and that hit harder than you expected.

you didn’t really say it out loud, not properly, but steve knew. you could tell he felt it too in the way he lingered a little longer after activities, in the way he watched the kids more when they weren’t looking.

so you both did what you always did.

you didn’t talk about it too much you just made the week count.

meals turned into louder, messier versions of what they’d been before. long tables full of shouting and laughter and people stealing food off each other’s plates. activities stopped being about winning anything and became about how ridiculous you could make them before the instructors gave up correcting you.

and at night, it was just you and steve again.

running around camp like you owned it.

once, late enough that most of the cabins were already dark, you both snuck down to the lake.

it was absolutely not allowed.

“if we get caught,” steve whispered, pulling off his shoes, “i’m blaming you.”

“you’re the one who suggested it.”

“yeah, but you agreed.”

the water was cold when you got in, colder than you expected, but neither of you got out. just floated there for a while, half laughing, half shivering, staring up at the sky like there was nowhere else you needed to be.

“this is definitely how we die in a horror movie” you said.

“we’re too good to die in a horror movie” steve replied.

when the final games day arrived, there wasn’t really nervousness anymore just excitement and this strange, steady feeling that whatever happened, it wasn’t going to matter in the way you used to think it would.

but still, you all wanted to win. not because of the score because it felt right to end it that way.

from the moment it started, the leafies were loud.

every time one of your kids stepped up for a challenge, all of you cheered like they’d just done something impossible. even when they were struggling, especially when they were struggling, you and steve were there at the edge of every activity shouting encouragement like it was the most important thing in the world.

“you’ve got this, adam!”

“rosie, that was amazing!”

“noah, that was strategic and i respect it!”

steve was worse than you in the best way.

he treated every small win like it deserved a celebration and the kids absolutely fed off it.

by the time the counsellor vs counsellor game rolled around, the energy was unhinged.

it was something simple. competitive relay-style nonsense that nobody was taking seriously except everyone was taking seriously.

you and steve won by a narrow margin. barely. but it didn’t matter at all because the second it ended, you were already laughing, breathless, turning straight into him without thinking.

“we did it” steve said, grinning like an idiot.

“we barely did it” you corrected.

“still counts.”

and then the kids were running down toward you both, shouting, piling into the moment like it belonged entirely to them. you didn’t even get to finish talking before you were all in a messy group hug that nearly knocked you over.

steve’s arm ended up around your shoulders without hesitation, yours stayed around his waist. neither of you really clocked it, it just felt normal.

by the end of the day, after everything had been played and cheered and exhausted into the ground, everyone sat together for the final announcement.

the main camp leader, mark, stood at the front with a clipboard and that tired but fond expression he always had at the end of busy days.

“this has been,” he said, looking around, “a genuinely brilliant summer. every team has brought something special to camp nowhere this year.”

there were cheers and tired laughter across the room.

you sat with steve and the kids squeezed in around you, all of you leaning into each other in different ways, listening without really thinking about it.

your fingers were loosely linked with his without either of you noticing.

mark kept talking.

“but there’s one team that really stood out.”

the room quieted slightly.

“their teamwork, their attitude, and the way they looked after each other… it’s exactly what this camp is supposed to be about.”

you felt steve glance at you, you glanced back.

neither of you said anything.

“their counsellors,” mark continued, “started off the least enthusiastic pair we had in the first meeting.”

a ripple of laughter went through the room.

you snorted softly.

“but they ended up being some of the most involved, most caring, and most consistent leaders we’ve had in years.”

steve’s thumb brushed lightly against your hand.

you didn’t look down.

“and,” mark said, smiling now, “they’ve won camp nowhere. well done leafies.”

for a second, there was silence then the room exploded.

the leafies all jumped up at once. you and steve followed a second later, completely swept into the chaos, laughing as the kids basically tackled you both in celebration.

“we won!” maya screamed.

“we actually won!” liam shouted.

steve grabbed your hand properly this time without thinking and pulled you into him as everyone shouted around you.

you were both laughing too hard to breathe properly.

later, after the chaos had settled and medals had been handed out and mark had made some speech about pride and effort and whatever else leaders say at the end of things like this, he pulled you and steve aside.

“just so you know,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “if you two ever want to come back next summer… we’d happily have you back as a team for the leafies”

steve blinked. “seriously?”

mark smiled. “seriously.”

you looked at steve, then back at mark and somehow that felt like a bigger moment than the medals.

after that came ice cream, because of course it did, and more celebrating, and the strange slow realisation that it was actually ending.

the final night hit differently. not loud like the rest just soft, like camp holding its breath.

steve ended up in your cabin that night without either of you really discussing it. there was no big moment, it just happened the way everything important between you had started happening lately.

you didn’t do anything dramatic, you just lay there together, tangled up under the blankets, talking quietly until you both drifted off.

his hand stayed in yours until you fell asleep.

the next morning came too fast.

you helped each other pack in between moments of pretending it wasn’t real. folding clothes. checking under beds. finding random lost things that belonged to the kids and setting them aside.

then came the goodbyes.

the kids were loud about it, as expected. too many hugs. too many “don’t forget us”s that felt completely unnecessary because there was no chance you were going to.

parents arrived one by one, and every time one of them saw you and steve with their kid, they had that same expression. the one that said they’d clearly noticed something had happened over the summer, even if they didn’t know exactly what.

stories were already being told before you’d even finished saying goodbye properly.

“they made the best fire!”

“we won games day!”

“they were the coolest counsellors!”

steve looked at you once like he didn’t know what to do with that, you just smiled.

at the end, when most of the camp had already started to empty out, steve pulled out the disposable camera.

still not developed.

“keep it?” he asked.

you nodded. “yeah.”

he hesitated, then shook his head. “actually… no. i want you to get it developed. and send me the pictures.”

“or,” you said, “you could just come get them.”

that made him smile immediately.

“yeah?” he asked.

“yeah.”

he stepped closer then, just for a second, and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. then your cabin door opened behind you both and reality caught up again.

you said goodbye properly a few minutes later. too many pauses, too many half sentences. steve handed you a folded piece of paper with his number on it, you put it in your bag carefully like it mattered more than it should.

“call me tonight” he said.

“i will.”

“you better.”

“or what?”

he smiled. “i’ll come find you.”

“dramatic.”

he started to look like he might overthink it, so you grabbed the pen from his hand, pulled up his sleeve, and wrote your number on his arm instead.

“just in case” you said.

he looked down at it like it was something important then back at you. and for a second neither of you moved.

then he kissed you once more before you had to leave, like a promise that didn’t need words.

when you finally got into the car, your parents already knew, they didn’t even have to ask. your mom just smiled a little as you looked out the window.

“good summer?” she asked.

you didn’t answer immediately, then you glanced back at camp disappearing behind the trees.

“yeah” you said.

you were definitely coming back next summer.

leafies had a reputation to keep, after all.

-

He shrugged, a smirk forming on his face. He challenged you right back: Yes. 

A sharp, disbelieving laugh tore out of you. Your fists clenched as you stepped in again, deliberately invading his space. “Maybe we should hand you over to him next,” you snapped, your voice rising with fury. “Then we’ll see how fast you realize nobody asks for this.”

“From the looks of it, I’d think he’d prefer you.”

“Oh-”

Before you could finish, Aaron intervened, gently yet resolutely grabbing your elbow. He held back the Sweetheart that threatened to pass his lips. "Agent. A word, please."

"Get your men in order. It's disgusting." You snapped at the chief as he joined the rest of you, arriving too late to stop what had already been said.

Your glare didn’t waver as Aaron began to guide you away. You allowed him to do so, even as anger burned hot in your chest, your hands still trembling at your sides. His grip was grounding, even as your pulse still pounded, rage coursing through your veins.

"I don't care if I was out of line." You started rambling as soon as the conference room door shut behind the two of you. "I wasn't going to stand there and let him belittle that poor girl."

Now, finally able to use the endearments he’d grown accustomed to, Aaron tried, “Sweetheart-“

"The fucking audacity.” You let out an exasperated sigh, beginning to pace. “Again, I don’t care if I overstepped, I don’t care how ‘unprofessional’ it was. He had no right - none - to speak about her like that, to twist what happened into some sick joke.”

"That's not why I pulled you away. I was afraid you'd start swinging at the guy."

You scoffed, averting your eyes, though the tension in your expression didn’t ease. Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you shook your head, your jaw set. "He deserved it."

"He did. He was out of line, and thought he could get away with it without consequence. You made sure he didn’t.“ Aaron's lips tugged into a smile, referring to you barking at the person in charge. "And you did my job for me. Maybe you should do it more often."

You laughed gently, but it faded as quickly as it came. You felt yourself coming back down, the anger no longer flaring but settling into something quieter, heavier. 

“Hey.” His hands rested gently on your forearms, holding you still and steadying you once more. While appropriate, an outburst from you was rare. "Do you want to talk about it?"

As Aaron studied you, his brown were soft and full of concern. He could see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your shoulders carried the weight of the past few days. The empathy you felt for the victim. 

He was infuriated by the way the officer had spoken to you, and in moments like this, he almost wished he didn’t have a badge - or the restraint that came with it; sometimes it would be nice - and warranted - to be able to use his fists to make a point. He ached at the thought of how it must have made you feel, even as a quiet sense of pride settled in at how you’d handled yourself. 

You shrugged, biting on the inside of your cheek. To hold back tears? Buying time to answer? You weren’t quite sure.

Quickly glancing around to make sure no one was coming, he pulled you into his arms and held you close. There were no words that felt right - sometimes, that was just how it was. So he held you tighter, hoping it might be enough to say what he couldn’t.

You sank deeper into his touch, letting out a sigh as he pulled you close. For the first time in days, the tension in your shoulders began to ease. His embrace was familiar and loving, a quiet refuge from everything that had come before. If only you could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet safety, shielded from all that was cruel and ugly.

"It's getting to me too." He offered softly. You weren't the only one visualizing yourself as one of the victims, and the thought unsettled him deeply. 

You hummed sadly into his chest, burying your face deeper into it. For a moment, you were overtaken by the juvenile notion that you could hide here forever. 

Much too soon, a knock on the door signaled that the two of you were needed. Aaron sighed and pulled back reluctantly, maintaining his hold on you. “Do you need another minute? Can I get you anything?”

Did you? Maybe you could manage, but the thought made your stomach twist into knots. Back into the suffocating atmosphere of the bullpen where horror awaited. Back to the misogynist asshole who thought he could belittle and poke fun without consequence.  It would be much easier to stay here and hide - concealed and safe. But you couldn’t. You owed it to the victim. You had to see it through.

At your prolonged silence, and from the expression of unease that grew quietly on your face, Aaron decided for you. “Take all the time you need, sweetheart.”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you started to protest, rather unconvincingly - the shakiness in your voice giving you away. “I just want to catch this son of a bitch unsub.” 

“Take two more minutes.” Aaron pressed a kiss to your forehead, reaching for the doorknob. 

“Is that an order?”

season one:

chapter one: the vanishing of will byers

chapter two: the weirdo on maple street

chapter three: holly, jolly

chapter four: the body

chapter five: the flea and the acrobat

chapter six: the monster

chapter seven: the bathtub

chapter eight: the upside down

season two:

chapter one: madmax

chapter two: trick or treat, freak

chapter three: the pollywog

chapter four: will the wise

chapter five: dig dug

chapter six: the spy

chapter seven: the lost sister

chapter eight: the mind flayer (part one)

chapter eight: the mind flayer (part two)

chapter nine: the gate

season three:

chapter one: suzie, do you copy?

chapter two: the mall rats

chapter three: the case of the missing lifeguard

chapter four: the sauna test

chapter five: the flayed

chapter six: e pluribus unum

chapter seven: the bite

chapter eight: the battle of starcourt

chapter nine: the epilogue

season four:

chapter one: the hellfire club

chapter two: vecna's curse

chapter three: the monster and the superhero

chapter four: dear billy

chapter five: the nina project

chapter six: the dive

chapter seven: the massacre at hawkins lab

chapter eight: papa

chapter nine: the piggyback

chapter ten: the epilogue

season five:

chapter zero: the prologue

chapter one: the crawl

chapter two: the vanishing of holly wheeler

chapter three: the turnbow trap

chapter four: the sorcerer

chapter five: shock jock

chapter six: escape from camazotz

chapter seven: the bridge

chapter eight: the rightside up

You pull on a sweater and wander out into the hallway. The mirror at the end of it still makes your chest tighten, but you keep walking, eyes fixed on the doorway instead of your reflection. Steve looks up when you enter the kitchen. “Morning,” he says quickly, like he was worried you might disappear again if he waited too long.

“Morning,” you answer, your voice rough with sleep.

He gestures vaguely with the spatula in his hand. “I made eggs. And toast… I think—I mean, it’s definitely toast, but I might’ve overdone it.”

You peer at the counter, the toast is dark around the edges but not burned, and the eggs look fine. You nod, “looks good.”

He exhales like that mattered. “Cool. Uh. Sit. Please. I mean—yeah.” You take a seat at the table you’ve started thinking of as yours, the chair you always use without anyone saying so. A mug slides in front of you a second later, already filled. “I didn’t know if you wanted coffee or tea,” Steve says. “So I made both. You don’t have to drink both. That would be… a lot.”

You wrap your hands around the mug. “Coffee’s good.”

He smiles at that, small and relieved, and goes back to the stove. Breakfast is quiet but not uncomfortable. Steve eats standing up, leaning against the counter, pretending not to watch you every time you pause or zone out. You notice anyway, you always do. When you’re done, you carry your plate to the sink automatically, then stop, staring at the knobs on the dishwasher like they’re asking you a question you don’t know how to answer. Steve notices immediately. “Hey—uh, it’s broken,” he says quickly. “Sort of. Don’t worry about it, I’ll do it.”

“Oh,” you say, stepping back. “Okay.”

He rinses the plate and sets it in the drying rack, movements practiced and careful, like he doesn’t want to make noise. Later, you sit on the couch with a blanket over your legs, flipping through a magazine you’ve already read twice. Steve paces a little, then stops, then pretends he needed to check something in the hallway before coming back and sitting at the far end of the couch. “Robin’s stopping by later,” he says casually. “Just to check in. No pressure or anything.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “I like her.”

He nods. “Yeah. She likes you too.”

The house feels lived-in now in a way it didn’t before: your shoes are by the door, your sweater is draped over the back of a chair, and there’s a toothbrush in the bathroom that no one questions anymore. You glance down the hallway again, toward the mirror. Steve shifts slightly, just enough that he’s in your line of sight instead of it. You look back at the magazine and keep turning pages.

---

The laundry room smells like warm metal and soap, the air thick and a little too still. You’re standing in front of the washing machine with your arms crossed, staring at the row of knobs like they might rearrange themselves if you wait long enough. The machine hums faintly, plugged in and ready, completely unhelpful.

Steve leans against the doorframe, watching you pretend this isn’t happening. “You know,” he says, breaking the silence, “these things look way more complicated than they actually are. Like, they’re trying to scare you.”

You glance over your shoulder. “It has six knobs.”

“Yeah, but only, like… two of them matter,” he says confidently. Then he squints at the machine. “Okay, three. Maybe four. But still.”

You step aside a little, giving him room. “I don’t know which one does what.”

“That’s fair,” Steve says quickly. “Totally fair. I mess this up all the time. Like, constantly.” He steps in front of the machine and points at the biggest dial. “This one? That’s the cycle. Normal, gentle, heavy. You want normal unless you, I don’t know, fell into a mud pit or something.”

You nod, following along carefully. “And this one’s the water temperature,” he continues, turning it slightly and then turning it back. “Hot for whites, cold for colors. Which—don’t ask me why. That’s just… laundry law.”

You glance down at the pile of clothes in your arms. “What about sweaters?”

Steve makes a face. “Sweaters are a gamble, I ruined one once and my mom still brings it up.” You let out a small laugh before you realize you’re doing it, he notices anyway but pretends not to. “Detergent goes here,” he says, pulling open the little drawer. “Not too much, that’s how you get the weird crusty stuff. I learned that the hard way.”

You lean closer, watching as he measures it out. “How do you know how much?”

“I don’t,” he admits. “I just… eyeball it and hope for the best.”

You hand him a sweater and hesitate. “Is this okay to put in?”

He takes it gently. “Yeah, we’ll do it on cold. If it shrinks, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“That seems expensive.”

He shrugs. “I’m very irresponsible with imaginary money.” He loads the clothes into the machine, narrating every move like he’s hosting a very low-budget instructional video. “Okay, now we close the lid. Important step. Very technical.”

You watch as he presses the final knob and the machine roars to life, water rushing in loudly. You flinch. “It’s loud,” you say.

“Yeah,” Steve replies immediately. “It does that. I can turn it off if you want.”

“No,” you say, steadying yourself. “It’s fine.”

He nods, like he’s proud of you but doesn’t want to say it out loud. You stand there together for a second, the machine chugging away, Steve rocking slightly on his heels. “So,” he says, casual. “Now you know how to do laundry. Huge life skill. Very impressive.”

You glance at the machine, then back at him. “I’m still not doing it alone.”

“That’s cool,” he says easily. “I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

You don’t comment on that. You just nod and step back toward the doorway with him, the sound of the washing machine following you down the hall like proof that some things really do keep moving forward.

---

The kitchen is quiet in that lazy mid-afternoon way, sunlight slanting through the window and catching on the chrome edges of things you don’t fully trust yet. You’re standing in front of the counter with a mug of coffee that’s gone cold, staring at the microwave like it’s personally offended you. It hums faintly when Steve plugs it in again, the digital clock blinking 12:00 like it’s mocking you.

Steve leans against the counter across from you, arms folded, watching carefully without hovering. “Okay,” he says, too casually. “This one’s easy. Promise.”

You glance at the buttons. “It has words.”

“Yeah, but most of them are lying,” he replies. “You only need this one.” He reaches over and taps the button that says COOK. “You press it, then you turn this knob for time. That’s it. No explosions.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re not sure.”

“I’m, like, ninety percent sure,” he says, then grins when you don’t laugh. “Okay. Ninety-five.” You hesitate, then place the mug inside and close the door carefully, like it might bite you if you’re rough with it. Steve nods approvingly. “Good,” he says. “Always close it all the way, otherwise it just yells at you.”

You turn the knob the way he showed you, slow and deliberate. “How long?”

“For coffee? Uh. Thirty seconds. Maybe forty if you want it lava-hot.” You settle on forty and press the button. The microwave whirs to life immediately, louder than you expect, you stiffen but don’t move away, watching the mug rotate slowly inside like it’s on display. Steve notices your shoulders tense. “It’s supposed to sound like that,” he says quickly. “If it goes quiet, that’s when you worry.”

“That’s… comforting,” you reply.

You wait, counting the seconds under your breath without realizing you’re doing it. The machine clicks and hums, steady and relentless, until—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

You jolt hard, heart leaping into your throat as you stumble back a step, nearly knocking into the table. Steve’s reaction is instant. “Hey—hey, it’s okay,” he says, moving closer but stopping short. “That’s just it being done. It always does that.”

You press a hand to your chest, breathing uneven. “Why does it sound like that?”

“Because it’s rude,” he says. “And dramatic.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound shaky but real. “It didn’t warn me.”

“It never does,” Steve replies. “Zero consideration, I’ve complained.” He reaches over and opens the door for you, the beeping cutting off immediately. “See? Nothing bad happened.”

You lean in cautiously, peering at the mug like it might have changed while you weren’t looking. Steam curls up gently. “It’s fine,” you say.

“Totally fine,” Steve agrees. “And now you know.”

You take the mug and wrap your hands around it, warmth seeping into your palms. “It just surprised me.”

“I get it,” he says, quieter now. “We can… turn the sound off next time. Or I can stand closer. Or I can warn you when it’s about to yell.”

You glance at him. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugs. “I kinda do. I’m home all the time.”

That lands heavier than he probably means it to. You nod and take a careful sip of your coffee. “It’s hot,” you say.

Steve smiles, relieved. “Told you.” You carry the mug back to the table, moving slower this time, more aware but less afraid. Behind you, Steve reaches over and resets the clock on the microwave like it matters.

---

The nightmares come in waves—some sharp, some blurry, some so real you wake up convinced the walls are breathing again. One hits you a little after midnight; you jolt upright in the dark, breath catching in your throat, fingers curled into the sheets so tight your knuckles ache. The room looks wrong for a second—too wide, too empty, too still. You blink hard, trying to separate dream from memory, memory from fear.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway. You freeze, staring at the door, then a soft knock follows. “Hey,” Steve calls gently. “You awake?” You don’t answer right away, still waiting for the shadow you half-expect to see standing in the corner. But the hallway light spills in when Steve opens the door a crack, and the only shape behind him is his own. He keeps his voice low. “I heard you.”

Your hands loosen slightly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says immediately. “Can I—?” He gestures toward the room like he needs permission. You nod and Steve steps inside and sits on the floor next to your bed like it’s normal now. His hair’s a mess, and he’s wearing an old Hawkins High sweatshirt that looks older than both of you. “How bad was it?” he asks quietly.

You pull your knees up a little. “I couldn’t move. And I kept hearing… something. Like he was behind me.” Your voice cracks near the end, enough that you turn your face away.

Steve doesn’t touch you—not until you shift closer, just enough that your foot brushes the edge of the mattress near his shoulder. “He’s gone,” he says. “This house is real. You’re here. And I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m right here.”

You stare at the window across the room. The glass shows only your reflection and the faint outline of Steve on the floor beside you. You watch for movement anyway, waiting for something that never comes. “He used to show up behind me,” you admit. “In mirrors.”

Steve nods slowly. “Okay, then we won’t use mirrors for a while.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he says. “You get to have whatever rules you need.” A long silence settles in. You lie back down, still tense, still expecting the room to shift into another shape. Steve waits until your breathing evens out a little, then speaks again. “If you want,” he says, “I can stay until you fall asleep. Right here. I won’t snore, I swear. Robin complains but she lies all the time.”

You let out a faint sound—something between a laugh and a sigh. “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his head back against the bedframe, “I kinda do.”

Your eyes close because they’re tired, not because you’re ready. The nightmare still clings to you, sticky and sharp around the edges, but the sound of Steve breathing near the bed shifts the room back into something quiet and familiar. A few minutes later, he shifts just enough to look at you. “If you wake up again,” he says softly, “I’ll hear you.” You don’t respond, but he stays anyway—quiet, steady, keeping watch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

---

The grocery store is louder than you remember it being. Carts rattle over the tile, radios hum faintly from somewhere behind the counter, and people keep passing too close, brushing shoulders, reaching in front of you without warning. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, too flat, washing everything into the same sharp color. You stop walking without meaning to, Steve notices a few steps later and turns around, already frowning. “Hey—what’s up?”

You glance around, trying to orient yourself. “I don’t… I don’t know where we’re supposed to go.”

He looks at the aisle, then back at you. “Okay, that’s fine. We don’t have to know.”

“There’s too much stuff,” you say quietly. “And everyone’s moving.”

Steve steps closer without touching you, angling his cart so it’s half in front of you, half beside you. “Alright,” he says. “Rule number one: we’re not in a hurry. Rule number two: we only get what’s on the list.”

“What list?” you ask.

He taps the folded piece of paper tucked into his back pocket. “This list, written by me, which means it’s probably wrong, but that’s not your problem.”

Someone bumps the cart behind you and mutters an apology. You flinch and step closer to Steve without thinking, fingers curling into the back of his jacket. He doesn’t comment on it, he just starts walking again, slower this time, making sure you’re still there. “Okay,” he says, narrating as he goes. “Produce first, that’s the rule. I don’t know who made it, but everyone follows it.”

You stay close, eyes fixed on his shoulder as he moves through the aisle. The displays blur together—apples, oranges, stacks of cans with labels you don’t recognize. A woman reaches across you for a box and you freeze again, chest tightening. Steve shifts immediately, stepping between you and her without making it obvious. “Sorry,” he says easily, smiling like nothing’s wrong.

You exhale shakily once she’s gone. “I feel stupid.”

“Nope,” Steve replies. “Grocery stores are chaos, everyone knows it, they’re just pretending they don’t.” He hands you the cart handle. “Here, if you push, it gives you something to do with your hands.”

You take it, gripping tighter than you need to. The weight of it helps, grounding in a way you weren’t expecting. “What are we getting?” you ask.

He checks the list. “Milk. Eggs. Bread. Something frozen because I forget to eat lunch sometimes.”

You glance at the freezer aisle ahead. “That’s a lot.”

“Then we’ll take it one aisle at a time,” he says. “And if it gets bad, we leave, there are no rules about finishing.” Someone laughs loudly a few aisles over and you tense again, but Steve’s right there, close enough that you can see the small scar on his knuckle. “You’re doing fine,” he says quietly. “Just stay with me.”

You nod and push the cart forward, letting him lead you down the aisle while the store keeps moving around you. By the time you reach the cereal aisle, the store feels even tighter. The shelves stretch high on both sides, boxes stacked in loud colors and cartoon mascots grinning down at you. People keep stopping short in front of you, carts squeaking as they change direction without warning. Someone’s kid is whining somewhere nearby, the sound sharp enough to make your shoulders creep up toward your ears. You stick close to Steve, close enough that the back of his jacket brushes your knuckles when he stops. “Too much?” he asks, not turning around yet.

You nod. “I don’t remember how this works. Like… do we just pick things? How do people decide?”

Steve snorts quietly and turns to face you. “They don’t. They just grab whatever they bought last time and pretend it was a choice.” That earns a faint huff of a laugh from you, but it doesn’t last long. A cart clips yours as someone squeezes past, and the sudden jolt sends a spike of panic through your chest. Steve’s hand comes up immediately, steadying the cart. “Hey. You’re good.”

There’s a couple arguing softly a few feet away, and someone else is scanning boxes like it’s life or death. The noise layers on itself, pressing in from all sides. You swallow, “I feel like I’m in the way.”

“You’re not,” Steve says. “But if it helps, we can act like everyone else is.”

“Which is?”

“Annoyed and in a rush,” he replies. “Classic grocery store vibe.” He turns the cart sideways a little, blocking part of the aisle so people naturally flow around you instead of into you. It’s subtle, but it works; the space around you opens just enough to breathe. “Okay,” he says, pointing at the shelf. “Cereal. You pick.”

You stare at the boxes. “I don’t know what I like.”

“That’s fine,” he says easily. “Pick the one with the least amount of lies on it.”

You scan the shelf, then tentatively reach for a plain-looking box. “This one?”

Steve nods. “Solid choice. Boring. Reliable. Very on brand for us.” You put it in the cart, a small sense of accomplishment settling in your chest. A few aisles later, you pause again, suddenly unsure which way to go. The signs overhead blur together, words refusing to stick. Steve notices immediately and slows. “Hey. Still with me?”

“Yeah,” you say, then quieter, “I just don’t know where we are.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “We’re by frozen foods. The freezers are loud and cold, so we won’t stay long.”

“Good.”

He smiles a little. “Thought you’d say that.”

As you move again, you trail just behind him now, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket like a guide rope. He doesn’t comment on it, he just keeps walking at a steady pace, glancing back every few steps to make sure you’re still there. When you finally reach the checkout line, your legs feel tired but steady. “That wasn’t so bad,” Steve says.

You nod slowly. “It was… manageable.”

He bumps the cart forward an inch. “High praise.”

The cashier starts ringing things up, and you watch Steve fumble for cash and coupons like this is the most normal thing in the world. The store still hums around you, loud and crowded and messy, but you’re not lost anymore. You stayed with him the whole way.

---

The kitchen is louder than usual, crowded in a way it hasn’t been since before everything went wrong. Dustin is already talking the second the door shuts behind him, arms full of grocery bags. “Okay, we brought options. Like, a lot of options. Because apparently you’re allowed to have opinions now.”

“I was always allowed to have opinions,” you say, stepping aside as they pile into the kitchen.

“Yeah, but now we get to find out what they are,” Max adds, grinning as she drops onto one of the stools. “Which is way more interesting.”

Robin sets a couple cartons down on the counter. “Ice cream,” she announces. “And don’t worry, Harrington, I diversified.”

Steve groans. “Thank you. Last time you let Dustin choose, we ended up with mint and something that tasted like cough syrup.”

“That was green apple,” Dustin says defensively. “It’s science.”

You hover near the counter as they unpack everything—bags of chips, soda bottles, a box of cookies, three different ice cream cartons. Steve pulls bowls out of the cabinet, setting one in front of you like it’s instinct now. “Okay,” he says, holding up a carton. “Chocolate, a classic. Everyone likes chocolate.”

You eye it warily. “Do they?”

“Yes,” Steve says immediately. “This is not up for debate.”

You shrug and take the spoon when he hands it to you, scooping a small bite. You hesitate for half a second, then taste it. You grimace almost instantly.

The room goes dead quiet. “That bad?” Lucas asks.

You swallow. “It’s… heavy.”

Dustin stares at you like you just confessed to a crime. “Heavy.”

Steve blinks. “You don’t like chocolate ice cream?”

You take another small bite just to be sure, then push the bowl away. “No.”

Robin lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh my god.”

Steve looks genuinely distressed. “I have never met someone who doesn’t like chocolate ice cream.”

“Well, now you have,” Max says smugly.

Dustin points at you. “This changes everything.”

Steve grabs the bowl like it personally offended him and swaps it out for another carton. “Okay, fine. Not chocolate. Try vanilla.”

You scoop a bite and nod slowly. “This is okay.”

“Okay?” Steve repeats.

“Better,” you add. “Less… aggressive.”

He snorts. “Aggressive ice cream. Noted.”

Robin slides another carton your way. “Strawberry?”

You taste it, pause, then smile faintly. “This one’s good.”

Steve brightens instantly. “Great. Strawberry. We can work with that.”

Dustin squints. “So no chocolate. What about peanut butter?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know.”

“We’ll save that experiment for another day,” Steve says quickly. “One crisis at a time.”

You relax a little as the conversation moves on, the noise settling into something familiar. Steve keeps glancing at you like he’s cataloging this information carefully, like it matters more than it probably should. You take another spoonful of strawberry ice cream and lean back slightly in your chair. “Do I have to like the same things as everyone?”

Steve looks at you, surprised by the question. “No,” he says immediately. “You don’t have to like anything.”

You nod, relieved, and keep eating while the kids argue about movies and Robin steals chips off the counter. Steve watches you for a second longer than necessary, then turns back to the freezer and rearranges the cartons so the chocolate’s pushed way to the back.

---

Steve’s quieter than usual on the drive, hands steady on the wheel, radio turned low to something soft and familiar. You notice it about halfway there, the way he keeps glancing over at you like he’s checking that you’re still okay. “Are we going somewhere specific?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, then clears his throat. “Uh—before we get there, I should tell you something.” You tense a little despite yourself, and he notices immediately. “Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “Promise. It’s just… there’s gonna be people. And a cake. And no one’s gonna yell or jump out or do anything weird.”

You blink. “Okay.”

He exhales, relieved. “Okay. Good.” When he pulls up in front of the Wheeler house, the lights inside are already on, warm and steady. He parks but doesn’t get out right away. “So,” he says, turning toward you. “This is… kind of for you. Nancy found your birthday in some records. We didn’t know if you’d want to do anything, so we kept it small. You can leave whenever you want, and I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

You study his face for a moment. “What’s today?”

“Your birthday,” he repeats gently. “You’re turning twenty-two.”

You let that sit there for a second. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he replies. “That’s okay.” He gets out first and comes around to your side like he always does now, offering his hand but not insisting. You take it, and together you walk up the front steps. The door opens before Steve can knock.

Nancy smiles immediately, not too big, not too loud. “Hey,” she says. “Happy birthday.”

Inside, the living room is full, but calm. Mike and Lucas are on the couch, with Dustin perched on the armrest. Max sits nearby, Eleven beside her, fingers laced together. Robin and Jonathan are leaning against the wall, Joyce is hovering near the kitchen doorway, and Hopper is standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. No one shouts and no one claps. They just look at you, warm and careful. Dustin lifts a hand. “We were told not to yell.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice already a little unsteady.

Steve stays close, shoulder brushing yours as Nancy guides you toward the table. A grocery store cake sits in the center, white frosting slightly uneven. Two candles are stuck into it: a 2 and another 2. Joyce smiles at you. “We figured simple was better.”

You nod, staring at the cake. “It’s… nice.”

Steve leans in slightly. “We can skip this part if you want.”

“No,” you say quickly, then softer, “I want to try.”

They light the candles, the small flames flickering gently. Everyone waits, quiet, watching you instead of rushing you. “You can wish for anything,” Will says.

You look at the candles, then around the room at all of them. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to wish for.”

Hopper clears his throat. “You don’t have to say it out loud.”

You nod and lean forward, blowing the candles out in one breath. A few people smile, and someone claps once, then stops. Robin grins. “Nailed it.”

Cake is cut and passed around. Steve hands you a plate, watching closely as you take a bite. You swallow, surprised. “This one’s good,” you say.

He lets out a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Good. I checked—no chocolate involved.” You laugh, the sound catching you off guard as much as anyone else. As the room settles into quiet conversation, you stand there with your plate in your hands, feeling full in a way that has nothing to do with food. Steve glances over at you. “You okay?” he asks.

You nod, blinking fast. “Yeah. I just… didn’t think anyone would do this.”

He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Of course they would.”

You look back at the cake, the empty candle holders, the people talking softly around you. It’s not overwhelming—it’s kind. You step a little closer to Steve without thinking, and he stays right there, solid and steady, like he’s not going anywhere.

---

The house is quiet in that deep, late-night way where every sound feels louder than it should. You’re half-asleep on the couch, blanket pulled up to your chin, the TV long since gone dark. The clock on the VCR glows red from across the room, numbers steady and unmoving. Steve’s upstairs, you know that much. You heard his door shut earlier, footsteps pacing once or twice before settling.

A soft sound pulls you out of the edge of sleep. It’s not loud. Just… wrong enough to make your eyes snap open. You sit up slowly, heart already beating faster, listening hard. The sound comes again—something shifting near the hallway, a faint scrape like a shoe against wood. “Steve?” you call, keeping your voice low.

No answer.

You push the blanket aside and stand, bare feet sinking into the carpet as you move toward the hallway. The light from the living room doesn’t quite reach the far end, leaving the mirror by the bathroom in shadow.

You stop a few steps short of it. For a second, your breath catches. The dark shape in the glass looks taller than it should, wrong at the edges, and your stomach twists hard as you brace for a face that doesn’t belong to you. Nothing moves. You take another step, closer now, forcing yourself to look fully.

It’s just you.

Your reflection stands there, eyes tired, shoulders hunched slightly like you’re still learning how to take up space again. The shadow behind you is just the doorway, the angle of the light playing tricks like it always has. You exhale shakily. “Okay,” you mutter. “Okay.”

A floorboard creaks upstairs. You jump despite yourself, spinning around just as Steve appears at the top of the stairs, hair sticking up like he ran a hand through it too many times. “Hey,” he whispers. “I heard you moving. Everything alright?”

You nod, then hesitate. “I thought I heard something.”

He comes down the stairs quietly, stopping a few feet away so he doesn’t crowd you. “Probably the house. It does that.” You glance back at the mirror once more, just to be sure. Nothing has changed. Steve notices, he steps slightly to the side, blocking part of the reflection without making it obvious. “You wanna sit back down?” he asks. “I can make tea. The fake kind that’s mostly hot water.”

“That sounds good,” you say.

He heads toward the kitchen, moving like he’s not in any rush, like the night isn’t fragile at all. You follow a few steps behind, glancing over your shoulder one last time. The hallway stays empty. And when you sit back on the couch, mug warming your hands, the house feels normal again. The shadows don’t stretch the way they used to.

The silence doesn’t press in. Henry doesn’t speak.

Steve settles into the chair across from you, eyes half-lidded but alert, keeping watch without making it feel like a job. Whatever’s left of the shadow, it’s weaker now. And you notice, because for once, the quiet holds.

---

You’re sprawled on the living room floor with a magazine upside down, flipping pages out of sheer obligation rather than interest. The radio’s on low, some song you don’t recognize but feel like you should, and the afternoon stretches thin and empty in that way that makes time feel sticky. “This is boring,” you say finally.

Steve looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, remote dangling uselessly in his hand. “Yeah,” he agrees immediately. “I was thinking the same thing.”

You glance at him. “You weren’t doing anything.”

“Exactly,” he says. “It’s unbearable.”

You sit up, resting your chin on your knees. “Is there anything normal people do when they’re bored?”

He considers this very seriously. “We could go for a drive.”

You hesitate. “I don’t know how.”

Steve blinks. “Drive?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Cars. That.”

He watches your face for a second, then sits up straighter. “Okay. We don’t have to. I was just—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to try.”

That makes him pause. “…Okay,” he says, slower now. “I can teach you. If you want. No pressure. Empty roads. No yelling.”

You stand, already pulling on your shoes. “You promise you won’t yell?”

“I swear on my hair,” he says solemnly. “Which is a big deal.” The car smells like old leather and air freshener, the kind shaped like a tree hanging from the rearview mirror. Steve walks you around it first, pointing things out like he’s stalling on purpose. “Clutch,” he says, tapping the pedal. “Brake. Gas. This one’s manual, so we take it slow.”

You nod, absorbing it all.

When you slide into the driver’s seat, something settles in your chest unexpectedly. The wheel fits your hands and the seat feels right. Steve watches you closely from the passenger side, one hand braced on the door. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, surprised by how true it feels.

He explains it again, carefully. “Clutch in. First gear. Ease off slow. No rush.” You do exactly that. The car rolls forward smoothly, no stall, no jerk. You shift without thinking, hands moving like they’ve done this before. Steve stiffens slightly beside you. “…Okay,” he says. “That was—uh—good.”

You blink, glancing down at your hands. “Was it?”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Like. Really good.” You steer down the quiet street, foot light on the gas, checking the mirrors automatically. You didn’t plan it. You didn’t decide to do it right, you just did. Steve lets out a slow breath. “So. Either you’re a natural. Or…”

“…or I already knew how,” you finish softly.

You shift again, smooth, easy. The road opens up ahead of you, empty and calm. Steve looks at you like he’s seeing something important but doesn’t want to scare it away. “You wanna keep going?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

He smiles, wide and genuine, then catches himself and reins it in a little. “Okay. Take the turn up there.” You do, and the car keeps moving forward, steady and sure, and for once, the feeling doesn’t scare you.

---

Steve doesn’t remember deciding to notice these things. It just… happens.

Like the mug. There are six of them in the cabinet, all mismatched, most of them chipped in some way, but you always reach for the same one—blue with faded lettering, the handle cracked just enough that he’s told himself three times he should throw it out. Every morning, you open the cabinet, pause for half a second like you’re checking something in your head, and then take that one. If it’s already in the sink, you hover until he washes it.

He catches himself doing it one morning, already rinsing the mug before you even ask. “Thanks,” you say, quiet, like you don’t want to make it a thing.

“No problem,” he answers, too fast, like this is normal and not something his brain filed away without permission.

At night, it’s worse.

There are different sounds you make when you wake up from a bad dream, and he knows them now. One kind is a sharp inhale, sudden and loud, like you’re surfacing from underwater. That one gets him out of bed immediately. Another is quieter, a soft whine in your throat, barely there. That one means you’ll sit up and freeze, eyes open but not seeing anything.

He doesn’t need to check the clock anymore. He just knows. He’s halfway down the hall before he realizes he moved, knocking lightly and opening the door just enough to see your silhouette in the dark. “Hey,” he whispers. “You’re okay.” Sometimes you nod, sometimes you don’t. Either way, he stays until your breathing matches his again.

During the day, it’s the way your eyes lose focus. It doesn’t look dramatic. You don’t sway or go quiet right away. Your shoulders go still first, your hands stop fidgeting, and your gaze drifts just past whatever you were looking at, like the world slipped half an inch to the left.

The first time he noticed it, he thought you were just tired. Now he knows better. “Hey,” he’ll say casually, stepping closer, putting something solid in your line of sight. “You wanna sit for a second?”

You almost always say yes.

He doesn’t tell anyone about this stuff. Not Robin. Not Nancy. Not even himself, really. He just adjusts without thinking, moves things where they’ll be easier for you, learns the patterns and pretends it’s coincidence. It scares him a little, how natural it feels. Because somewhere along the way, without meaning to, Steve Harrington learned you.

---

The arcade hits you all at once the second Steve pushes the door open. Noise crashes over you in layers—machines chiming, games buzzing, someone yelling triumphantly near the skee-ball lanes. The lights flash in uneven colors, reflections bouncing off glass and metal until it’s hard to tell where one thing ends and another begins.

You hesitate just inside the doorway. Steve feels it immediately, he doesn’t stop walking, doesn’t turn around in a way that would draw attention. He just slows and lets you catch up, your hands slipping around his arm without you thinking about it—both arms, tight, like you’re anchoring yourself. He stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, keeping his pace steady. “You good?” he asks quietly.

You nod, pressing closer. “Just stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replies, just as quiet.

Dustin bolts ahead the second they’re inside. “I call Dig Dug!”

“You always call Dig Dug,” Lucas shoots back.

You stay with Steve as he heads toward the counter, your grip firm on his arm as people squeeze past in both directions. He shifts slightly so you’re shielded on his side, guiding you through the crowd like it’s instinct. The guy behind the counter rattles off the prices, and Steve answers automatically, reaching for his wallet. “What do you want?” he asks you, not looking down at you but tilting his head so you can hear him.

You glance at the glowing machines, then back at the counter. “Whatever you’re getting.”

He nods once. “Two Cokes,” he tells the guy.

When you step back, you don’t let go of his arm. You stand just behind him in line, forehead almost brushing his shoulder blade as the noise swells and dips around you. He stays still, doesn’t tease, doesn’t comment, just lets you be there. Max watches the two of you from a few feet away, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. When Steve finally glances over, she meets his eyes and gives him a look that says very clearly: don’t screw this up.

He swallows and looks away. You end up sitting right next to him at a racing game, knees pressed together, one hand still wrapped around his arm like it belongs there. He doesn’t move it, even when Dustin heckles him from behind. “You gonna drive or cuddle?” Dustin asks.

Steve shoots him a look. “Shut up.” You smile faintly and keep holding on.

The lights flash again, louder this time, but you’re grounded—Steve’s arm solid under your hands, his presence steady and real. The kids laugh and argue around you, but none of them say anything about how close you are.

Sometime later, Steve ends up at a Galaga machine before he really thinks about it, mostly because it’s a little off to the side where the noise dips just enough to breathe. “You wanna try?” he asks, turning toward you.

You glance at the screen, then at the joystick, then back at him. “You’ll tell me what to do?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “I am an excellent teacher. Very patient. Known for it.” You let go of his arm when you step closer, shifting so you’re half in front of him instead. He hesitates, then moves in behind you a little so you can reach the controls, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “Okay,” he says. “This moves. This shoots. Try not to panic.”

You smile slightly. “That’s a lot to ask.”

The game starts with a loud chime, and you flinch, shoulders jumping. Steve immediately lowers his voice. “You’re good. Just the game being dramatic.”

You nudge the joystick tentatively, eyes tracking the little ship as it slides across the screen. The enemies descend in neat rows, blinking and shifting. “I’m gonna die,” you say.

“Everyone dies in Galaga,” Steve replies. “It’s part of the experience.”

You press the button and the ship fires—one of the enemies explodes into pixels. You blink in shock, “I got one.”

Steve grins, wide and proud. “See? Natural.”

Dustin appears at your shoulder. “Wow. Look at that. Steve teaching someone else how to play a game and not immediately taking over.”

“I’m growing,” Steve says flatly.

You keep playing, movements growing more confident, leaning back slightly when things get hectic. Steve adjusts automatically, stepping closer so you don’t bump into anyone, one hand hovering near your waist without touching.

“Left,” he murmurs. “Okay—shoot—now right.”

You follow his directions, heart racing but steady. When your ship finally explodes, the game blares its defeat jingle and you flinch again, then laugh softly. “I lost.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “but you lasted longer than I expected.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Max steps up next to Lucas, watching the score tick up. “Not bad,” she says. “Especially for a first try.”

You glance back at Steve. “Can we do another one?”

His eyebrows lift. “You want to?” You nod. He feeds another coin into the machine without hesitation. “Your call.”

The second round goes better. You relax enough to lean into him, back pressing lightly against his chest as the lights flash and the noise swells. He stays right there, steady, close, letting you take the lead while he watches your hands instead of the screen. When the kids wander off to another game, you don’t follow right away. You stay where you are, sharing the small pocket of quiet in the middle of all that noise. “Thanks,” you say, eyes still on the screen.

Steve shakes his head. “Anytime.”

And for a few minutes, the arcade feels manageable—just blinking lights, a joystick under your hand, and Steve right behind you, making sure you don’t get lost.

---

Steve doesn’t clock it all at once. It sneaks up on him in pieces, like realizing you’ve been standing in the same spot for too long and only now noticing your feet hurt. It hits him one night when you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, sorting through a stack of records Robin brought over. You pause, fingers hovering over one sleeve, and Steve says, without even looking up, “skip that one. It’s loud at the start.”

You glance at him. “It is?”

“Yeah,” he replies, already reaching for another record. “This one’s better.”

You nod and go with it like that’s normal while Steve freezes halfway to the turntable. Because it is normal, for him. He knows which noises make you flinch. He knows which ones you can handle if he warns you first. He knows strawberry ice cream is fine, chocolate is a no, coffee has to be hot and not warm, and you get quieter when you’re tired instead of cranky. He knows when to distract you—jokes, TV, something familiar—and when to ground you—steady voice, eye contact, something solid to hold.

He knows all of that. And the moment that realization lands, his stomach drops. Later that night, after you’ve gone to bed, Steve finds Robin in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with a bowl of cereal she definitely doesn’t need at midnight. He leans against the sink, arms crossed, staring at the floor. “I think I fucked up.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Oh, fun. How?”

“I—” He stops, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I think I like her.” Robin doesn’t say anything right away. “I mean,” he rushes on, “not like that. Or—maybe like that. But I’m not doing anything. I wouldn’t. She lives here. She’s… she’s healing. And after everything that happened to her—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

Robin slides off the counter and stands in front of him. “Steve. Breathe.”

He exhales sharply. “I don’t want to be another person who takes something from her. I don’t want to cross some line I can’t uncross.”

Robin studies his face for a long moment. “Have you touched her in a way she didn’t ask for?”

“No.”

“Have you pressured her to feel anything?”

“No.”

“Have you made her world smaller?” she asks. “Told her she needs you instead of letting her grow?”

Steve shakes his head immediately. “No. God, no.”

Robin nods slowly. “Then you’re not him.”

Steve swallows. “But what if she thinks she needs me because I’m here all the time?”

Robin sighs and nudges his shoulder. “You’re here because you chose to be. There’s a difference.” He looks unconvinced. “Listen,” she continues, softer now. “You’re allowed to have feelings. What matters is what you do with them. And from what I can tell? You’ve been doing everything right.”

Steve leans back against the counter, staring at the ceiling. “I don’t trust myself.”

Robin snorts. “You babysat six kids through multiple apocalypses and didn’t turn evil. I think you’re good.”

He huffs a laugh despite himself, then sobers again. “I just don’t want to scare her.”

Robin’s expression gentles. “Then don’t. Let her set the pace.”

---

The couch feels bigger than it used to. You notice it the first night Steve sits at the opposite end instead of beside you. Not far—just far enough that there’s space where there wasn’t before. The TV hums softly, some rerun you’ve already watched twice, and you shift slightly, instinctively leaning the way you always do.

You don’t hit him, you stop halfway, confused, glancing over. Steve’s sitting stiffly, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the screen like it’s holding him hostage. You settle back where you are, blanket pulled tighter around your legs.

A few minutes pass, and when a loud noise comes from the TV, you flinch without meaning to. Usually, Steve’s hand would land on your arm, solid and grounding, or he’d mutter something dumb under his breath to distract you. This time, he doesn’t. He notices—too late. His hand twitches like he almost reached out, then pulls back, fingers curling into his palm. “You okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Yeah,” you say, even though your chest still feels tight. He nods and turns the volume down a notch, like that fixes it.

Later, you’re standing in the kitchen, rinsing out your mug—the blue one—when Steve passes behind you. Normally, he’d brush your shoulder, or rest a hand briefly at your back so you didn’t jump. This time, he detours around the table instead. You watch him do it, brows knitting together. “Did I do something?” you ask quietly.

He stops short. “What? No. Why?”

“You keep… moving away,” you say, unsure of how to explain it. “Like you’re trying not to touch me.”

Steve opens his mouth, closes it, then runs a hand through his hair. “I just—didn’t want to crowd you.”

“You weren’t,” you reply immediately.

He nods, but it’s too fast, too forced. “Okay. Good. Just—wanted to make sure.” That night, when you wake from a nightmare and wander halfway down the hall before realizing what you’re doing, Steve meets you there anyway, like he always does. He stops a step away instead of pulling you into a hug, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “You okay?” he asks again.

You nod, but your eyes sting. “Can you sit with me?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Of course.” He follows you back to the couch and sits beside you this time—but careful, a measured distance, like he’s afraid of something neither of you can see.

You curl your hands into the blanket, staring straight ahead. “You don’t have to stay up if you’re tired.”

Steve looks at you, surprised. “I’m not.”

“Oh,” you say. “Okay.” Silence stretches between you, heavier than it’s been in weeks. You shift closer without thinking, just a few inches, enough that your knee brushes his. He freezes, then, slowly, he scoots back an inch. Your throat tightens, but you don’t say anything. You just pull your knees up to your chest and stare at the dark TV screen, trying to understand what changed. Steve sits there, heart pounding, convinced he’s doing the right thing. Neither of you realizes yet how lonely it’s making you feel.

---

The house is quiet in the middle of the afternoon, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re supposed to be doing something. Steve’s in the garage, you know that much. You can hear him faintly, metal clinking, the radio crackling in and out. He told you he’d be out there for a bit, fixing something that probably didn’t need fixing.

You stand in the kitchen, staring at the counter. You tell yourself you’re fine, you tell yourself you can do one thing without help. The stove is right there; you’ve watched Steve use it a dozen times. Turn the knob, wait for the click. Flame. Pan. Easy.

You twist the knob and the burner lights with a soft whoosh, louder than you expect. You flinch, hand jerking back, heart slamming into your ribs. The sound echoes in your head, sharp and wrong, and suddenly you’re breathing too fast. “It’s fine,” you mutter to yourself. “It’s fine.”

You grab the pan anyway, hands shaking just enough that it rattles when you set it down. Oil goes in next—too much, and it splashes slightly, hissing when it hits the heat. The noise spikes and you step back hard, bumping into the counter behind you. The pan tilts, oil sloshing toward the edge, and that’s when you panic fully, lunging forward to fix it and knocking the spatula onto the floor instead, clattering loudly.

“Hey!” Steve’s voice cuts through from the garage. He’s in the kitchen in seconds, breathless, eyes scanning the room. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m fine. I just—I was making something.”

He reaches for the stove immediately, twisting the knob off, then looks at you again, hands hovering uselessly like he doesn’t know where to put them. “You scared me,” he says, voice tight. “I heard the pan and—”

“I didn’t need help,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. “I can do things on my own.”

Steve recoils slightly, like he walked into something he didn’t see. “I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“You didn’t have to,” you say, throat burning. “You keep pulling away. I figured you were tired of—of all this.”

He blinks. “Tired of what?”

You gesture vaguely at yourself, the kitchen, the mess. “Me.”

“That’s not—” Steve stops, jaw tightening. “I’m not tired of you.”

“Then why do you keep acting like you don’t want to be near me?” you ask, voice shaking now. “Why won’t you even sit next to me anymore?”

Silence drops heavy between you. Steve runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to burn something off. “I was just trying to do the right thing.”

You laugh weakly. “You don’t get to decide that without telling me.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I didn’t want to mess this up.”

“Well,” you say quietly, eyes stinging, “now it feels messed up anyway.”

Steve looks at the stove, the spilled oil, then back at you. His voice comes out rough. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“But I didn’t,” you reply. “And you can’t keep treating me like I’m going to break.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he insists.

“It feels like it,” you say. Neither of you knows how to fix what’s sitting in the air now. Steve grabs a towel and starts wiping up the spill, movements tense and jerky. You step back, hugging your arms to your chest. “I’m going to my room,” you say.

“Okay,” he answers immediately, too quickly. You leave the kitchen without looking back, and Steve stands there long after you’re gone, staring at the cold burner, chest tight with fear he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

---

Sleep takes you hard and fast, the kind that doesn’t ask permission. You’re standing in the kitchen again, but it isn’t Steve’s. The counters are too clean, the light too warm, and the windows showing nothing but trees where Hawkins should be. A pan sits on the stove, something simmering quietly, and for a moment it feels almost calm. You move automatically, stirring, reaching for salt without thinking about where it came from. The house hums softly around you, familiar in a way that makes your shoulders drop.

Footsteps sound behind you. “Careful,” Henry says mildly, his voice close enough that you feel it against your neck. “You don’t want it to burn.”

You don’t jump, that’s the worst part. You just nod and adjust the heat like you’ve done this a hundred times before. “I was trying something different,” you say.

He hums, amused. “You always do.”

Something in the pan changes. The smell shifts, sharp and wrong, like metal instead of food. You wrinkle your nose and lift the spoon to check, and when you do, the liquid inside has gone dark, thick and red, bubbling too fast. “That’s not right,” you say.

Henry’s hand settles on your wrist, too tight. “It’s fine.”

“No,” you reply, pulling slightly. “It’s not.” The kitchen lights flicker and the walls stretch just a little, the corners of the room pulling away from each other like they’re breathing in. You turn toward him fully now, heart starting to race. “I don’t want this,” you say.

His expression doesn’t change, but his grip tightens. “You don’t know what you want when you get like this.”

You wrench your hand free and step back. “Let me go.”

The house creaks, low and angry, and suddenly the door at the end of the hall slams shut on its own. Henry sighs, disappointed. “Why do you always do this?”  You don’t answer, you just run. Your feet slap against the floor, the hallway stretching longer with every step. Doors appear where there weren’t any before, all of them locked, the walls closing in as you reach for them. You hear him behind you now, not rushing, not worried. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” he calls out calmly.

You shove at a door anyway, shoulder screaming as it refuses to budge. The lights go out all at once, plunging the hallway into darkness broken only by the sound of your breathing. A hand grabs the back of your shirt. You scream and wake up at the same time. You bolt upright in bed, breath tearing out of your chest, hands clawing at the sheets like they’re the only solid thing left. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts, ears ringing as you scan the room wildly. “Henry—” you gasp, voice breaking.

The door flies open and Steve’s there instantly, hair wild, eyes wide with panic. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. It’s me.”

You shake your head, still trapped halfway between worlds. “He was—he was right there.”

Steve crosses the room without thinking and drops to his knees beside the bed. He doesn’t touch you at first, hands hovering like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing again. “You’re safe,” he says, steady but urgent. “You’re here. Look at me.”

You do, finally, and the room snaps back into place around him. The dresser, the posters, the soft glow of the hallway light behind him. Your breathing breaks into something smaller, shakier. “I couldn’t get away.”

Steve swallows hard. “You did. You woke up.”

You press your palms to your eyes, shoulders trembling. “It felt so real.”

“I know,” he says quietly. He hesitates for half a second, then gently takes your hand. You cling to it immediately, fingers tight, grounding yourself in the warmth and the pressure. “I’m here,” he says. “I’ve got you.” You nod, tears slipping free now that you’re awake enough to feel them. Steve stays exactly where he is, holding your hand, not pulling away, not saying anything he can’t take back. The nightmare fades slowly, leaving you exhausted and shaky, but the room doesn’t twist this time. And Steve doesn’t let go.

---

Mornings start changing in small ways. You still wake up early, still drift into the kitchen before the house really feels awake, but you don’t wait for Steve anymore. When the coffee pot gurgles and sputters, you flinch and then force yourself to stand there until it finishes, even though your hands curl tight around the counter the whole time. Steve notices when he comes in a few minutes later and sees you already pouring a mug. “Oh,” he says. “I was gonna—”

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly. “I did it.”

He nods, smiles like that’s a good thing, and doesn’t say anything else. You take that as confirmation. You stop asking him to sit with you during the day. When the TV gets loud, you turn the volume down yourself instead of looking over at him. When you can’t find something, you keep searching instead of calling out.

One afternoon, you’re standing on a chair in the hallway closet, stretching for a box on the top shelf. Your balance isn’t great yet, and your legs start to shake as soon as you’re fully extended. Steve rounds the corner and freezes. “Hey—what are you doing?”

You glance back at him, startled. “I’m fine.”

“That box is heavy,” he says, already stepping forward.

“I’ve got it,” you insist, fingers brushing the edge of the cardboard. The chair wobbles slightly and your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay upright.

Steve’s hands hover near your waist, not touching. “Just let me—”

“No,” you snap, harsher than you meant to. You grab the box awkwardly, almost losing it, and hop down too fast. Your knees buckle a little when you land, but you don’t fall. The box hits the floor with a thud. You straighten immediately. “See?”

Steve looks pale. “You could’ve fallen.”

“But I didn’t,” you say, already backing away. “I’m okay.” You pick the box up yourself and carry it down the hall, even though your arms ache and your grip slips halfway there. You don’t ask for help when you drop it again in your room.

At dinner that night, you sit a little farther down the table than usual. When Steve reaches automatically to pass you something, you take it without your fingers touching his. “You don’t have to—” he starts.

“I know,” you say quickly.

He nods again, that same careful nod, and goes quiet. Later, when the house settles and the lights dim, you lie awake listening to Steve move around upstairs. You don’t go to him when sleep won’t come, you don’t knock on his door. You tell yourself this is what he wants, you tell yourself you’re helping. Steve lies in his own bed, staring at the ceiling, heart twisting every time he hears you move and doesn’t hear you call his name.

---

The house feels different without Steve in it, quieter in a way that makes you more aware of every sound you make. Joyce sets the bags she brought on the kitchen table, already talking as she does it. “I wasn’t sure what size you’re wearing now, so I got a few things. And—oh—these were on sale.” She taps a stack of books. “Math. Figured you might like something to work on.”

You glance at them and nod. “Thank you.”

Hopper’s standing near the doorway, arms crossed, doing what he always does—scanning the room like he’s checking for cracks in the walls. Eleven sits on the couch with Will, flipping through a magazine neither of them is actually reading. “So,” Joyce says gently, leaning against the counter. “How are you really doing?”

You shrug, focused on lining the books up by size. “I’m okay.”

Hopper snorts softly. “That wasn’t the question.”

You pause, then go back to what you’re doing anyway. “Steve’s been… busy.” Joyce and Hopper exchange a glance. A few minutes pass while Joyce asks about the grocery store, about the driving lesson, about whether you’ve been sleeping. You answer everything honestly, carefully, like you don’t want to make it sound worse than it is. It’s while you’re kneeling on the floor, opening one of the books Joyce brought, that the thought slips out. “Do you think I could live with you?” you ask Hopper, tone casual, like you’re asking about the weather.

Hopper stiffens. “What?”

Joyce’s head snaps up. “Honey—what do you mean?”

You look between them, confused by the reaction. “I mean… maybe at your place. I don’t think Steve wants me here anymore.”

The room goes very still. Hopper’s voice lowers immediately. “Why would you think that?”

You shrug again, smaller this time. “He doesn’t sit next to me anymore. He doesn’t touch me. He keeps moving away like he’s afraid of doing something wrong. And I keep messing things up.”

Joyce’s face softens, something like pain flashing across it. “Oh, sweetheart…”

“I know I’m a lot,” you continue, eyes on the book in your hands. “And he didn’t ask me to leave or anything. I just… don’t think he wants me living with him.”

Hopper exhales sharply through his nose. “That boy,” he mutters.

You glance up. “It’s okay, I don’t mind moving. I don’t want to be in the way.”

Hopper crouches in front of you, forcing you to look at him. “You are not in the way. You hear me?” You nod in response, even though you’re not convinced.

Joyce rests a hand on your shoulder. “Steve cares about you. Sometimes people get so scared of hurting someone that they end up doing exactly that.”

Hopper stands, already tugging on his jacket. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

“You don’t have to,” you say quickly.

“Oh, I really do,” Hopper replies, tone dark and determined. “Because if that idiot thinks pulling away is protecting you, he’s got another thing coming.”

Will looks up from the couch, sensing the tension. “Is everything okay?”

Joyce forces a smile. “It will be.”

Hopper heads for the door, jaw tight. “Stay here. You’re fine where you are.” You watch him leave, heart twisting uncomfortably in your chest, still not entirely sure what you did wrong.

---

Steve’s halfway through complaining about the price of movie tickets when Hopper’s truck pulls up next to the curb like it owns the place. Steve blinks. “How did he—”

Robin squints out the window. “Wow. That’s… unsettling.”

Hopper gets out slowly, shutting the door with more force than necessary. He doesn’t wave, he just looks straight at Steve. “We need to talk,” Hopper says.

Steve’s stomach drops instantly. He’s already moving, already scanning Hopper’s face for signs of blood or panic. “Is she okay? Did something happen?”

Hopper jerks his head toward the sidewalk. “Outside. Now.” Steve doesn’t even argue. He follows, heart pounding, Robin trailing a few steps behind before Hopper turns and fixes her with a look. “Not you,” Hopper says. “This is a him problem.”

Robin winces. “Ouch,” she mutters, but stays put.

They stop a few feet away from the cars. Hopper crosses his arms, jaw tight. Steve shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. “Just tell me what’s wrong,” Steve says. “If she’s hurt—”

“She’s not hurt,” Hopper snaps. “Not physically.”

Steve exhales, shaky. “Okay. Okay.”

Hopper steps closer. “She asked if she could live with Joyce and me.”

Steve freezes. “What?”

Hopper’s eyes narrow. “Wanna guess why?”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. His throat feels dry. “I—I don’t know.”

“She thinks you don’t want her there,” Hopper says bluntly. “She thinks she’s in your way.”

“That’s not true,” Steve blurts out immediately. “I would never—”

“Then why does she feel that way?” Hopper cuts in.

Steve stares at the pavement, jaw working. “I was just trying to be careful.”

“Careful,” Hopper repeats flatly.

Steve finally looks up. “She’s been through hell. I didn’t want to mess things up or cross some line or—” He stops himself, shoulders tensing. “I didn’t want to be another person who took something from her.”

Hopper studies him for a long moment. “You like her.” Steve’s silence is answer enough. Hopper exhales through his nose, visibly annoyed. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve says quickly. “I haven’t done anything—I wouldn’t. I pulled back because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.”

“And instead,” Hopper says, voice rising, “you made her think she had to disappear to make you comfortable.”

Steve flinches. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Hopper says, surprising him by softening just a little. “But intent doesn’t mean a damn thing if the outcome still hurts her.”

Steve rubs at his face. “I thought giving her space was the right thing.”

“Did she ask for space?” Hopper presses.

“No.”

“Then stop deciding for her,” Hopper snaps. “She’s already had enough people doing that.”

Steve swallows hard. “She asked to leave?”

“Yeah,” Hopper says. “And she said it like she was trying not to be a burden.”

Steve’s chest tightens painfully. “She’s not.”

“Then act like it,” Hopper says. “Because right now, she’s learning that the one place she thought was safe might not want her anymore.”

Steve nods slowly, shame flooding his face. “I screwed up.”

Hopper watches him for another second, then points a finger at his chest. “You hurt her again, and we’re gonna have a very different conversation.”

Steve meets his gaze, serious. “I won’t.”

Hopper turns back toward his truck. “Good. Now go fix it.”

As Hopper walks away, Robin finally jogs over, eyes wide. “Okay. So… that looked intense.”

Steve drags a hand through his hair, heart racing. “I need to go home.”

Robin nods immediately. “Yeah. You really do.”

Steve drives faster than he probably should, knuckles white on the steering wheel, Hopper’s words replaying on a loop in his head. He barely remembers parking, he just knows he’s at the front door, keys shaking a little as he jams them into the lock. Inside, the house is quiet again. You’re in the living room, sitting on the floor with one of the math books Joyce brought, papers spread out around you in careful little piles. You look up when the door closes, startled. “Oh,” you say. “You’re back.”

Steve stops a few feet away, chest rising and falling too fast. “Hey.”

You study his face for a moment, then look back down at the page in front of you. “Joyce dropped some stuff off. And Hopper.”

“I know,” Steve says. His voice cracks just enough that he clears his throat and tries again. “I ran into Hopper.”

You nod slowly, like that explains something. “Okay.”

There’s a long pause. The clock ticks loudly on the wall, every second stretching thin. “I heard something today,” Steve says finally. “From Hopper.”

Your pencil stills, but you don’t look up. “Oh.”

“He said you asked about living somewhere else.”

You swallow. “I was just asking.”

“Why?” he asks, quietly.

You shrug, eyes fixed on the book. “You don’t seem like you want me here anymore.”

Steve takes a step closer immediately. “That’s not true.”

“You keep moving away,” you say. “You don’t sit with me, you don’t touch me. I thought maybe you were tired of… all of this.”

“All of this?” Steve echoes, incredulous.

You gesture vaguely around the room. “Me. Needing help. Messing things up. I figured you didn’t want to say anything.”

Steve crouches in front of you, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Hey. No.”

You hesitate. “Then what is it?”

He rubs a hand over his face, breath shaky. “I was scared.”

“Of me?” you ask softly.

“Of hurting you,” he says immediately. “Of doing something wrong. I thought if I backed off, it would be safer.”

You frown. “It didn’t feel safer.”

“I know,” he says. “I know that now.”

Another silence settles, heavier but steadier this time. “You could’ve just told me,” you say.

“I should’ve,” Steve admits. “I’m really sorry.”

You watch him for a long moment, then nod once. “I don’t want to leave.”

His shoulders sag in relief. “Good, because I don’t want you to.” Tentatively, like you’re testing something fragile, you shift closer. Steve doesn’t pull away this time; when you lean into him, resting your forehead against his shoulder, he freezes for half a second—then wraps his arms around you carefully, like he’s holding something precious. “You’re not a burden,” he says quietly. “You hear me?”

You nod, pressing closer. “Okay.” Steve stays there with you on the floor, arms firm and steady, like he’s finally stopped trying to run from something that’s already chosen him.

---

The kitchen smells like batter and coffee, the radio murmuring softly from the counter because Steve insists it helps him “cook better,” even though it’s just some morning DJ rambling on about nothing. You’re standing at the counter with a bowl in front of you, carefully measuring flour while Steve mans the stove like it’s a dangerous animal. He’s already warned you twice about the heat, not in a panicked way, just factual. “Okay,” he says, flipping one pancake cleanly. “This part stays with me.”

You glance at the pan, then back at him. “Can I try?”

Steve pauses mid-reach for the spatula. “You want to?”

You nod. “Just one.”

He studies your face for a second, then hands it over. “Alright. But—gentle. Pancakes are fragile. Emotionally.” You snort and step closer, gripping the spatula like it might betray you. The pancake bubbles unevenly, edges slightly too thin. “Okay,” Steve says, leaning on the counter beside you. “Slide under, wrist flick, confidence.”

You slide the spatula under and flick your wrist. The pancake folds in on itself, batter splattering across the stovetop and dotting the counter in pale blobs. There’s a beat of stunned silence as you stare at the mess. “…I think I broke it.”

Steve blinks, then bursts out laughing, loud and unrestrained. “Oh my god.”

“I did exactly what you said!”

“You absolutely did not,” he says, still laughing as he grabs a towel. “You hesitated. Pancakes can smell fear.”

You laugh too, surprised by how easily it comes, leaning back against the counter as Steve wipes up the batter. Some of it ends up on his shirt, a pale smear across the fabric. “You got it on you,” you point out.

He looks down. “Worth it.” He takes the spatula back but nudges you gently with his elbow. “You can pour the next one. Less… airborne.” You do, carefully this time, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. Steve flips it without incident, setting it onto a plate. “That one’s yours,” he says. “Survivor.”

You carry the plate to the table and sit, watching him move around the kitchen like he belongs there. He brings over a stack of pancakes a minute later, sliding into the chair across from you. You take a bite and hum softly. “These are good.”

Steve grins. “See? Domestic bliss.”

You smile back, smaller but real, and take another bite. There’s batter still on the counter, a towel draped over the oven handle, Steve’s shirt smeared with evidence of your failed flip. It’s messy and ordinary and warm. And for the first time in a while, the quiet doesn’t feel heavy at all.

---

The movie’s been on for a while before either of you really notice what’s happening. You’re both stretched out on the couch, the VCR humming softly, the glow from the TV washing the room in muted blues and oranges. Steve’s sitting at his usual careful distance, one arm draped along the back of the couch, the other resting on his knee like he’s trying not to fidget.

Halfway through the movie, you shift. At first it’s small—just adjusting your legs—but then you slide a little closer, enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. You freeze for half a second, waiting for him to move away, but he doesn’t. You settle there, breathing steadying as you let your weight rest just slightly against him. Steve’s arm tenses, then relaxes, like he’s reminding himself to stay still. A few minutes later, you lift your hand and rest it on his forearm. Not gripping, just there. “Is this okay?” you ask quietly, eyes still on the screen.

Steve swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s okay.” You nod and keep your hand where it is, fingers warm against his skin. The movie continues, dialogue rolling past without either of you really following it. When a loud sound crackles through the speakers, you flinch. This time, Steve doesn’t pull back. He turns the volume down immediately and shifts just enough that his shoulder presses into yours more firmly. “You alright?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.” Your head tips sideways, resting against him without asking. He stills again, breath hitching once before he exhales slowly. After a moment, his arm lifts and settles around your shoulders, loose enough that you could move away if you wanted.

You don’t.

Steve doesn’t tighten his grip. He doesn’t say anything else. He just stays there, steady and warm, letting the contact exist without rushing it or labeling it. By the time the movie ends, you’re half-asleep against him, fingers curled lightly into his sleeve. Steve doesn’t move when the credits roll. He reaches for the remote with his free hand and clicks the TV off carefully, like even the sound of the button might be too much. He stays like that until your breathing evens out, letting the quiet wrap around you both.

---

The week turns heavy without announcing itself. It starts small, you lose time standing at the sink, hands in soapy water, staring at a plate until Steve gently says your name from the doorway and you blink like you’ve just woken up. It happens again two days later while you’re folding laundry, the same shirt slipping through your hands over and over until Steve reaches out and stills them. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’re here.” You nod, embarrassed, and keep going like nothing happened. By Thursday, it’s harder to pretend. You drift more often, eyes unfocusing in the middle of conversations, body still while everything else keeps moving. Steve starts checking in again the way he used to, voice low, saying your name like it’s an anchor instead of a question.

That night, the nightmare hits harder than the others. You’re back in the house, but it’s not the hallway or the sunroom this time. It’s the bedroom—your room there. The one with the bed too neatly made, the window showing nothing but the woods. You’re standing by the dresser, fingers brushing over familiar objects, trying to remember how you got there. Henry’s voice comes from behind you, close enough that you feel it in your spine. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

You turn, heart pounding. “I didn’t call you.”

He smiles, slow and patient. “You don’t have to.”

The walls shift inward, the air thickening like it’s hard to breathe. You back away until your knees hit the bed, and suddenly his hand is on your shoulder, firm, claiming. “Stop,” you say, trying to pull free. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

He leans closer. “You always say that right before you get scared.”

You wake up screaming. Steve’s there immediately, hands gripping your shoulders, voice urgent and steady all at once. “Hey. Hey. You’re awake. Look at me.”

You gasp for air, eyes wild as you search the room for corners that don’t exist. “He was—he grabbed me—”

“I know,” Steve says, pulling you upright against his chest without thinking this time. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his shirt as your body shakes. He holds you firmly but carefully, rocking you just enough to keep you grounded. “He said he didn’t need me to call him,” you whisper.

Steve’s jaw tightens, anger flashing across his face before he reins it in. “He’s gone,” he says. “He doesn’t get to come back.”

You nod against his shoulder, breathing slowly matching his. The room stays solid, the walls don’t move, and no shadows creep closer. Steve doesn’t leave when you calm down. He stays sitting on the edge of the bed until morning light creeps through the curtains, his hand resting over yours like a promise he doesn’t have to say out loud.

---

Nancy brings it up like it’s no big deal, which is how you know she’s thought about it. “We were gonna go to the mall,” she says, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “Me, Robin, Max, El. Just… walk around. Look at stuff.”

Robin perks up immediately. “Very low-pressure. No obligations. We can leave whenever.”

You hesitate, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve. “Steve won’t be there.”

Steve looks up from the table a little too fast. “I don’t have to be.”

“No,” you say quickly. “I just—”

He’s already thinking, you can tell. “Dustin’s been begging me to go to the comic store in the mall anyway,” he says. “We could… be nearby. Just in case.”

You glance at him. “You wouldn’t be mad?”

“Mad?” Steve repeats. “No. I’d be bored and broke, but not mad.”

Max smirks. “Wow. A true hero.”

You take a breath, then nod. “Okay. I can try.”

The mall is bright in a way that makes your eyes ache at first. Music plays from somewhere overhead, echoing off tile and glass, and people move in loose groups that constantly shift and rearrange. You stay close to Nancy instinctively, her shoulder brushing yours as you walk. Robin chatters nonstop, pointing out window displays and making commentary no one asked for. “I’m just saying, if shoulder pads get any bigger, they’re gonna start blocking doorways.”

Max snorts, and Eleven watches everything quietly, fingers laced together, eyes flicking from store to store like she’s cataloging the world. You stop in front of a clothing store, mannequins posed stiffly behind the glass. “I don’t know what I like,” you admit.

“That’s fine,” Nancy says gently. “You don’t have to buy anything.”

Inside, you touch fabrics, running your fingers over denim and cotton, pulling a sweater off the rack only to put it back. No one rushes you. And when the noise gets too much, you step back toward the wall and Max wordlessly shifts to stand between you and a loud group of teenagers. “You’re doing good,” she says quietly.

You smile at her, small but real. A little while later, you spot the comic book store across the corridor. Through the glass, you see Steve inside with Dustin, gesturing animatedly at something on the wall while Dustin talks over him. Steve glances out automatically, eyes finding you in the crowd. You lift a hand; he relaxes visibly and gives you a thumbs-up.

You turn back to the group, warmth settling in your chest. When you finally leave the mall, bags light and spirits steadier, you feel tired but not wrecked. Steve meets you near the exit, Dustin already complaining about how Steve doesn’t understand collectibles. “You okay?” Steve asks softly, eyes scanning you.

You nod. “Yeah. It was… good.”

His smile is quiet and proud. “Good.”

---

The first time you go out alone, you don’t make a big announcement. You lace your shoes quietly and pause at the door just long enough to steady your breathing. Steve’s in the living room, pretending to read a magazine he’s already flipped through twice. “I’m just going around the block,” you say.

He looks up immediately. “Okay.” You wait for him to add something—be careful, take me with you, maybe another time—but he doesn’t. He just stands and hands you a few crumpled bills from his pocket. “In case,” he says.

You take them, surprised. “Thanks.”

He nods, casual but alert. “I’ll be here.”

The air outside is cooler than you expect, the neighborhood quiet except for a dog barking a few houses down. You walk slowly at first, counting steps without meaning to, then loosen your grip on your jacket as the tension eases. You make it all the way around the block and back without stopping. When you open the front door again, Steve’s already halfway off the couch, but he catches himself and stays put. “Hey,” he says.

“I did it,” you tell him, breathless but smiling.

He grins back, wide and genuine. “Yeah, you did.”

A few days later, you try the grocery store alone. You go early, when the aisles are emptier, list folded neatly in your pocket. You stick to it exactly—milk, bread, strawberries, coffee—and ignore everything else. When you get home, the bags cut into your hands and your heart’s still racing, but you don’t drop anything. You set them on the counter and lean there for a second, grounding yourself. Steve comes in from the garage and stops short. “You went out?”

You nod, lifting one bag slightly. “I got everything.”

He checks the list, then the bags, then looks back at you. “I’m really proud of you.”

Your chest warms at the words, unexpected and steady. “I was nervous.”

“I know,” he says. “You did it anyway.” Later that night, you take another short walk, this time without telling him first. When you come back, he’s at the window, pretending he hasn’t been watching the door. “You good?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles softly. “Good.”

---

The living room is full in a way that feels familiar instead of overwhelming. Mike’s sprawled on the floor with graph paper, Lucas leaning over his shoulder arguing about rules, Dustin pacing like he always does when he’s excited. Will sits on the arm of the couch next to Max, sketchbook balanced on his knee. Eleven’s curled up near the end, quietly listening to everything at once.

Steve’s leaned against the wall near the doorway, arms crossed, half-participating, half-keeping watch like he always does when the house gets crowded. “…I’m just saying,” Dustin says, gesturing wildly, “if the Mind Flayer had stats, they’d be completely broken. Like, unfairly broken.”

Mike scoffs. “You can’t just give it infinite hit points.”

“Why not?” Dustin argues. “It’s an interdimensional horror!”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor near the coffee table, listening more than talking, fingers absently tracing the edge of a notebook. The argument keeps going back and forth, louder and more animated by the second. Will sighs. “You’re both missing the point.” Everyone looks at him and he shrugs. “Do or do not, there is no—”

Before he can finish, you say it. “—there is no try.” Your voice drops into a perfect gravelly imitation, cadence spot-on, even the pause in the right place.

Silence slams into the room. Dustin slowly turns toward you. “Did… did you just—”

You blink, confused. “What?”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “Was that Yoda?”

Mike stares. “That was really good.”

You glance between them, genuinely puzzled. “It was?”

Steve’s stomach flips, because it wasn’t hesitant, it wasn’t practiced. It just came out of you like muscle memory, like something that’s always been there. Dustin breaks into a grin. “Okay, now you have to play D&D with us.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t know how.”

“You just quoted Yoda unprompted,” he says. “You’ll figure it out.”

Steve finally laughs, low and warm, shaking his head slightly. “I think you might be more of a nerd than I realized.”

You look up at him. “Is that bad?”

“No,” he says immediately. “It’s… kind of great.”

As the noise ramps back up and the kids launch into a new argument, Steve keeps watching you—not worried this time, not bracing for something to go wrong. You laugh more now. You interrupt. You tease Dustin when he gets dramatic. You lean back on your hands, relaxed, like the floor is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

This isn’t a memory of fear or control or being watched. It’s just you. And Steve realizes, standing there with his arms crossed and his heart doing something inconvenient, that whoever you were before everything broke… he likes this version too.

---

The store smells like dust and plastic and something vaguely sweet, the kind of place that sells a little of everything and nothing you actually need. You trail behind Steve as he wanders the aisles, hands in his jacket pockets, pausing to inspect things like he might suddenly become interested in wicker baskets or picture frames. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, not too loud, just enough to remind you they’re there.

You slow near a shelf lined with candles. They’re simple—glass jars, paper labels, nothing fancy. You pick one up and turn it over in your hands. It smells like vanilla and something warm you can’t quite place. Steve notices you’ve stopped and doubles back. “Find something?”

You hesitate, thumb tracing the edge of the label. “Could we get this?”

He doesn’t ask why, he doesn’t even look at the price like he’s calculating whether it’s worth it. He just nods. “Yeah,” he says. “If you like it.” You smile, small but pleased, and set it in the basket. At the register, the cashier rings it up without comment, and Steve pays, sliding the bag toward you like it’s already yours. Back at the house, you carry it inside carefully, setting it on the coffee table. You stand there for a second, turning it in your hands like you’re deciding something important. “Where do you want it?” Steve asks.

You glance around, then point toward the end table by the couch. “There?”

He moves the lamp over without questioning it, making space. You set the candle down, step back, then nod to yourself. Later, after dinner, you light it for the first time. The flame flickers softly, the scent spreading through the room, subtle but comforting. Steve glances up from his magazine. “Smells good.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It does.”

You sit on the couch, the candle glowing nearby, and the room feels warmer somehow—not brighter, just lived in. Steve doesn’t comment on it again, but when you turn the light off later, he leaves the candle burning until you fall asleep.

---

The radio’s on low in the living room, one of those afternoon stations that plays whatever it wants without explaining itself. Steve’s in the kitchen messing with the sink, something rattling that he swears is an easy fix, and you’re on the floor near the bookcase with a small stack of paperbacks spread out around you.

A song comes on halfway through—nothing dramatic, just familiar. The opening notes barely register before your mouth moves. You hum first, quiet and offhand, then the words slip out under your breath, easy and sure. Not all of them, just the parts you know best, timing perfect without thinking about it. Steve pauses at the sink. You don’t notice. You keep going, voice soft, eyes still on the books in your hands as you slide one back onto the shelf.

You’ve stopped lining them up by height without realizing it. Instead, you group them: math and science together, paperbacks with creased spines in another section, fiction separate from everything else. You hesitate once, then move a novel from the end to sit beside another that looks nothing like it, except in a way that makes sense to you. The song ends and you blink, like you’re coming back from somewhere nearby. “…Was I singing?” you ask, faintly amused.

Steve leans in the doorway, towel over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

You smile, a little embarrassed. “I don’t remember knowing that one.”

“You knew it pretty well,” he says lightly.

“Huh.” You slide another book into place, then stand and look at the shelf, hands on your hips. “This feels better.”

Steve glances at the books, then back at you. “Looks good.”

Later, you flip through the newspaper at the table, automatically folding it into neat sections before setting it aside. When you make coffee, you rinse the mug before filling it, even though it’s already clean. None of it comes with a rush of recognition or a headache or anything dramatic. It just… happens. Steve watches from the corner of the room, quiet, letting it unfold. You don’t look lost when these things surface—you look steady, comfortable in your own movements. Whoever you were before didn’t vanish completely. She’s just finding her way back in pieces.

---

The movie’s been on long enough that the plot’s stopped mattering. You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked in, head resting against Steve’s shoulder. The lamp by the end table is off, leaving the room lit by the TV’s flickering glow and the small candle you picked out, flame steady and quiet. At some point, your breathing changes. Steve notices right away; it always softens first, then evens out, your weight settling more fully against him like your body’s made a decision before your mind has. He shifts just enough to keep you comfortable, careful not to jostle you awake.

On the screen, someone’s yelling and Steve turns the volume down again. You don’t stir, and he looks down at you, really looks, at the way your lashes rest against your cheeks, the faint crease between your brows that never fully goes away even when you’re asleep. His hand hovers for a second, unsure what to do with itself, then settles lightly on the back of the couch behind you.

He leans in without meaning to. You smell like the lotion Joyce brought over last week, clean and faintly floral. Steve’s lips hover just above your temple, close enough that he feels the warmth of your skin. He stops and pulls back before he can cross whatever line he’s been so careful around, jaw tight, heart beating too loud in his chest. He tells himself it’s better this way. Safer. For you. For him.

That’s when you stir. Your brow furrows, and your head shifts slightly against his shoulder. You sigh, soft and sleepy, and your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “Steve,” you murmur, barely louder than a breath.

He freezes. “Yeah,” he whispers, even though you’re not really awake. “I’m here.”

You relax again, sinking back into sleep like that’s all you needed to check. Steve stays exactly where he is, afraid that moving even an inch might wake you, or worse, make you pull away. The movie ends and the screen goes blue before the VCR clicks quietly as the tape runs out. Steve doesn’t turn it off.

He sits there long after the candle burns low, long after his arm starts to ache, eyes fixed on the darkened screen while your name echoes in his head in your voice. When you finally wake later and shuffle off to bed, half-asleep and mumbling goodnight, Steve waits until your door closes before standing. He doesn’t sleep much after that.

---

The house feels too quiet by mid-afternoon. You notice it first when you glance at the clock on the wall for what feels like the fourth time in ten minutes. The hands haven’t moved enough to justify how antsy you feel. Steve left after lunch, keys jingling as he headed out the door, saying something about Hopper needing help with paperwork and a ride somewhere.

He said he’d be back later, but later keeps stretching. You try to read for a while, sitting on the couch with your legs tucked under you, but the words won’t stick. You get up and wander into the kitchen, then back into the living room, then down the hall like you’re checking rooms in a house you already know is empty. The radio’s on, low, but even that doesn’t help much. You look at the clock again. “Come on,” you mutter, not even sure who you’re talking to.

You fold laundry that doesn’t need folding. You water the plant you bought even though the soil’s already damp. You sit back down, bounce your knee, then force yourself to stop when you realize you’ve been doing it for a while. It’s not panic, not fear. Just… wrong.

When the sound of a car finally crunches up the driveway, your head snaps up before you can stop yourself. The front door opens a second later, familiar footsteps crossing the threshold. “Hey,” Steve calls out.

You’re on your feet immediately, heart settling like it’s been waiting for that exact sound. “In here,” you say.

Steve appears in the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair a little messier than when he left. He pauses when he sees you standing there, looking at him like you’ve been holding something in. “Everything okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. I just—”

You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Steve steps farther into the room anyway. “Sorry I took so long. Hopper talks in circles.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “That tracks.”

He drops his jacket on the chair and glances at the clock. “You eat?”

“I waited,” you admit.

Steve’s mouth twitches. “Next time don’t.”

“Okay,” you say, even though neither of you believes it.

You sit back down on the couch, and Steve joins you without hesitation this time, close enough that your shoulders touch. The restlessness drains out of you almost immediately, like it didn’t have anywhere to go once he was there. Steve notices, he always does. “You good now?” he asks gently.

You nod again, more certain this time. “Yeah.” He smiles, easy and quiet, and reaches for the remote. The house feels right again.

---

Steve’s in the kitchen arguing with Dustin about whether cereal counts as dinner, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed like he’s already lost the fight. Dustin’s digging through the cabinets, mumbling about nutritional value. “You can’t live off this stuff,” Steve says, exasperated. “There are rules.”

You glance over from the table without looking up from your notebook. “Says the guy who thinks toast is a meal.”

Dustin snorts. Steve blinks. “…Excuse me?”

You look up then, brow lifting slightly. “Toast isn’t dinner. It’s bread that got ideas.”

There’s a beat of silence before Dustin bursts out laughing. “Oh my god.”

Steve stares at you like he’s just been hit with something. “Where did that come from?”

You shrug, already back to your notebook. “I don’t know. It felt accurate.”

Later that week, Joyce brings over a box of groceries, setting them on the counter with a cheerful hum. She pulls out a bag of marshmallows and smiles at you. “I thought you might like these.”

You peer inside, then wrinkle your nose. “No, thank you.”

Joyce pauses. “You don’t like marshmallows?”

“They’re just sugar pretending to be useful,” you say politely.

Steve chokes on his drink. “Okay,” he says, coughing. “That’s—wow.”

Joyce laughs, amused rather than offended. “Fair enough.”

The stubborn streak shows up the next day. Steve’s trying to convince you to let him carry a box upstairs, even though it’s light enough that you’ve already picked it up. He reaches for it automatically. “I’ve got it,” you say.

“I know, but—”

“I’ve got it,” you repeat, firmer this time, stepping around him.

Steve opens his mouth, then stops himself. He watches you climb the stairs, box balanced against your hip, moving slower but steady. When you make it to the top without help, you turn and look down at him. “See?”

He raises both hands in surrender, smiling despite himself. “Yeah. I see.” That smile lingers longer than it needs to. It’s not just that you’re healing. It’s that you’re you again in ways no one has to prompt or protect or pull out of you. And Steve recognizes it instinctively.

---

The argument starts the way most things do when Dustin’s involved: loud and unnecessary. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with his math homework spread out like evidence, waving his pencil around as he talks. Mike and Lucas are half-listening, Will’s leaned back against the couch, and Max is watching with that familiar look that says this is about to get good. “I’m telling you,” Dustin says, voice pitched up, “there’s no way to prove it without circular logic. You just assume the thing you’re trying to prove, and that’s cheating.”

You tilt your head slightly. “That’s not true.”

Dustin spins toward you. “Oh? And you know that how?”

You shrug. “Because there’s a proof.”

He scoffs. “Yeah? Show me.”

Steve, who’s leaning against the doorway with a soda, mutters, “here we go,” under his breath.

You reach for a piece of scrap paper without any hurry. “It’s not hard. You just don’t isolate the variable correctly.”

Dustin’s eyes narrow. “Okay, no. No, that’s not how it works.”

You glance up at him. “Do you want me to explain it, or do you want to keep being wrong?”

Mike lets out a sharp laugh. “Oh, damn.”

Dustin points at you. “Alright. Fine. Bet.”

You pause. “Bet?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning now. “Five bucks. Whoever actually writes a valid proof wins.”

Max raises her eyebrows. “You have five bucks?”

Dustin hesitates. “…Conceptually.”

Steve sighs. “Why do I feel involved in this?”

Dustin turns immediately. “Steve, spot us.”

Steve straightens. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” Dustin says. “Educational gambling.”

You look at Steve. “It’s fine. He’s going to lose.”

Steve presses his lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re very confident for someone who doesn’t own money.”

“You’re funding it,” Dustin says brightly. “It’s like investing in science.”

Steve rubs his face. “I hate all of you.”

You and Dustin both start writing. Dustin mutters to himself, erasing aggressively, tapping his pencil like it might start cooperating. You sit quietly at the table, filling the page in steady lines, occasionally pausing to think before continuing. Five minutes pass, then ten. Dustin groans and drops his head onto the paper. “This is stupid. This problem is stupid.”

You finish the last line, glance over his work once, then slide your paper toward him. “You forgot to define your base case.”

He lifts his head, scans your page, and goes very still. “…Oh.”

Max snorts. “Oh is right.”

Dustin stares a second longer, then slumps back dramatically. “This is a nightmare.”

Steve pushes off the doorway. “So… who won?”

Dustin points at you without looking. “Her.”

Steve sighs, digs into his pocket, and hands you the five dollars. “Congrats.”

You take it, surprised, then glance at Dustin. “Do you want it?”

He shakes his head miserably, then sighs. “No. I lost fair and square.”

Steve smirks. “Wow. Growth.”

Dustin looks up at you. “You’re terrifying.”

You smile a little. “Thank you.” Steve watches the whole thing from a few feet away, something warm and incredulous settling in his chest. You’re relaxed. Confident. Stubborn in a way that feels solid instead of sharp. And when you tuck the five dollars into your notebook like it actually belongs to you, Steve thinks—without panic, without doubt—that this version of you isn’t fragile. She’s just been waiting.

---

Summer drags in long, hazy chunks, the kind where the afternoons blur together and the air inside the house feels heavy no matter how many windows are open. The fan in the living room hums nonstop, papers on the coffee table fluttering every time it oscillates.

You finish another book and set it aside without ceremony, fingers already reaching for the next one. Steve notices the growing stack on the end table, spines cracked, pages bent where you’ve dog-eared them out of habit. “Didn’t you just start that yesterday?” he asks from the kitchen, where he’s leaning against the counter with a glass of iced tea.

You shrug. “It was short.”

He squints at the book. “That thing looks like it could knock someone out.”

You smile faintly but don’t say anything else, already flipping pages again. When you finish that one too, you don’t pick up another. Instead, you grab your notebook and start filling a page with numbers, crossing things out, starting over, working through something only you seem to know exists.

Steve watches from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, but he doesn’t interrupt. Later, he finds you standing in the hallway, not really doing anything. One hand rests against the doorframe, your gaze fixed out the front window where the sun’s starting to dip low enough to throw orange light across the lawn. “You good?” he asks gently.

“Yeah,” you say, but you don’t move.

The days start to follow that pattern. You pace from room to room, pausing in thresholds like you’re waiting for instructions that never come. You reorganize the bookshelf twice in a week. You solve math problems on scrap paper and leave them scattered on the table. You take walks, then longer walks, then come back and sit quietly like you’ve run out of places to go. One afternoon, Steve finds you in the doorway to his room, just standing there. You don’t step inside, but you don’t leave either. “You need something?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. I just… didn’t want to sit down.”

He nods, accepting it without pushing. “Okay.” That night, you sit together on the couch, the radio playing low, and you get up three times before the song changes. Steve doesn’t comment, but his eyes follow you every time. When you finally sit again, you pick at the seam of the cushion and stare at the wall like you’re trying to see through it. Steve clears his throat. “You’re allowed to be bored, you know.”

You glance at him. “I know.”

There’s a pause, stretched thin. “You’re allowed to want more, too,” he adds, carefully.

You don’t answer, but you don’t argue either. Your gaze drifts back toward the window, toward the darkening street beyond it, and Steve gets the sense that the house—safe and warm and familiar—is starting to feel just a little too small for you.

---

Joyce brings it up the way she does most things now—carefully, like she’s testing the ground before stepping on it. She’s at the table with you, folding laundry she insists on doing even though you tell her you’ve got it. Hopper’s leaning back in a chair nearby, coffee in hand, half-listening like he always does when he pretends he’s not paying attention. “So,” Joyce says, smoothing a shirt before setting it aside, “have you thought about what you might want to do next?”

You look up from your notebook. “Next?”

“Yeah,” she says gently. “Not right away. Just… eventually.”

Before you can answer, Hopper clears his throat. “I mean, college is always—” He stops himself almost immediately, grimacing. “Sorry. That was… forget I said that.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “That was before.”

Joyce pauses her folding but doesn’t look at you like she’s correcting you. “Before what?”

“Before everything,” you say. Your pencil taps once against the paper. “Before I got stuck.”

Hopper shifts in his seat, uncomfortable now. “Doesn’t mean it can’t still be an option.”

You shake your head. “It’s not… I’m not—” You trail off, then settle on, “I’m okay here.”

Joyce nods, accepting it without pushing. “Okay.”

The conversation moves on—Hopper starts complaining about paperwork, and Joyce tells a story about Eleven burning toast earlier. It all flows like normal. But Steve, standing in the doorway with a bag of groceries balanced on one hip, sees it. The way your shoulders tense when Hopper says the word college. The way you go quieter afterward, flipping your pencil between your fingers without writing anything. The way your eyes don’t quite settle on the page anymore. Later, when Joyce and Hopper have gone, Steve sets the groceries on the counter and glances your way. “You hungry?”

“Not really,” you say.

“You didn’t eat lunch.”

“I know.”

He waits, leaning against the counter, giving you space to say something if you want to. You don’t. Instead, you stare out the window again, like there’s something out there you’re trying to remember how to reach. Steve watches you a moment longer, something uneasy settling in his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but the word Hopper almost said lingers anyway, hanging in the quiet like it’s waiting for the right moment to land.

---

Steve doesn’t plan the conversation. He just shows up at Nancy’s house one afternoon, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shifting his weight like he’s about to back out even as he knocks on the door. Nancy answers with a stack of papers tucked under her arm and pauses when she sees his face. “…You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, then immediately adds, “No—I mean—can I come in?”

She steps aside without comment, setting her papers down once they’re inside. Steve hovers near the edge of the living room, clearly out of place, eyes flicking around like he’s looking for an exit. “So,” Nancy says finally, arms crossing, “this feels serious.”

Steve lets out a breath. “I need help.”

That gets her attention. “With what?”

“With her,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “With… not screwing this up.” Nancy softens a little, motioning for him to sit. He does, perching on the edge of the couch like he might bolt. “I’m scared,” he admits, staring at the floor. “Scared if I say the wrong thing, she’ll shut down. Scared if I don’t say anything, I’m keeping her stuck.”

Nancy sits across from him, listening. “She’s bored,” Steve continues. “Not scared bored. Just… restless. And Hopper said the word college and I swear I saw something flicker in her face. And I know about Chicago. I know what that letter meant.”

Nancy nods slowly. “The acceptance letter.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And I keep thinking—what if I’m the reason she doesn’t go? What if staying here is just easier because I’m here?”

Nancy leans forward. “Do you think she wants to go?”

Steve hesitates. “I think she’s afraid to want it.”

Nancy considers that. “Then she needs the option in front of her. Not pressure. Just proof it’s still possible.”

Steve looks up. “You think they’d even—after two years?”

“They will,” Nancy says without hesitation. “Especially with the records we have. Medical, police, everything.”

Steve swallows. “I don’t want her to think I’m trying to send her away.”

Nancy’s voice is firm but kind. “Then you don’t make it about leaving. You make it about choosing.” She stands and grabs a notebook from the table. “We’ll write them. Explain the gap. Ask what the process would look like if she wanted to enroll.”

Steve blinks. “You mean… now?”

Nancy smiles faintly. “Steve, she was accepted once. That doesn’t just disappear.”

He exhales, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Okay.”

Nancy pulls a pen from behind her ear and starts jotting notes. “We’ll contact admissions. I’ll help you draft it.”

Steve nods, gratitude plain on his face. “Thank you.”

Nancy glances up at him. “You’re not holding her back.”

He frowns. “How do you know?”

“Because you’re terrified of being the reason she stays,” she says. “People who trap others don’t worry about that.” Steve lets that sink in, nodding slowly as Nancy starts writing, the idea of Chicago shifting from something painful and lost into something tentative and possible.

---

The letter doesn’t come right away. Days, then weeks pass, and Steve checks the mailbox every afternoon like it’s nothing, flipping through bills and grocery ads, pretending his heart doesn’t jump every time he sees an unfamiliar envelope. You don’t notice at first, too busy with your notebook, the radio, the slow stretch of summer days.

Then one afternoon, he opens the mailbox and freezes. It’s thick, cream-colored, with a typed address. The university letterhead makes his stomach drop straight through the pavement. He looks around like someone might be watching him, then tucks it under his arm and walks back into the house like normal. Inside, you’re at the table, pencil tucked behind your ear, staring at a page full of half-finished problems. You look up when he comes in. “Mail?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, too casual, setting a small stack down by the door. “Just junk.” You nod and go back to what you were doing. Steve waits until you’re distracted before slipping the letter out of the pile and into the drawer by the phone. His hand lingers there a second longer than necessary. That night, he sits on the edge of his bed with the letter open in his hands, reading it twice, then three times. His jaw tightens, then relaxes. He presses his thumb against the crease like he might wear it smooth.

In the living room, you call his name. “Steve?”

“Yeah?” he answers, folding the letter carefully and sliding it back into the drawer.

“Do we have any more coffee filters?”

“Uh—yeah,” he says, coming out to help like nothing’s changed.

You don’t notice the way his eyes flick toward the phone table when he passes it. You don’t see the way he keeps glancing at the clock, measuring time in something that isn’t minutes. He watches you laugh at something dumb on the radio later, shoulders relaxed, feet tucked up on the couch, and his chest tightens.

---

The dream starts quiet, which is how you know it’s wrong. You’re standing in the house again, but it’s cleaner than it ever was, too perfect. The floors shine, the windows glow with soft afternoon light, and there’s a pot simmering on the stove with something warm and familiar filling the air. “You always liked it this way,” Henry says from behind you.

You turn slowly. He’s leaning in the doorway like he used to, sleeves rolled up, expression calm, fond. The version of him that never raised his voice. The one that smiled at you like you were a secret. “I didn’t,” you say, but your voice comes out thin.

He steps closer, shoes quiet on the floor. “You did. You just forgot.”

You back up, bumping into the counter. “I remember other things now.”

His smile tightens. “Those people put those ideas in your head.” The room shifts—the walls stretch, the hallway growing longer than it should be. Doors appear where there weren’t any before, all of them closed. “You don’t need them,” Henry says, reaching out. “You were safe with me.”

“Let me go,” you say, louder now.

He grabs your wrist. The house shudders and the lights flicker. His grip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. “You don’t get to leave,” he snaps. “Not after everything I gave you.”

You yank your arm back and run. Your feet slam against the floor as the hallway warps around you, doors slamming shut as you reach for them. You hear him behind you now, footsteps faster, closer, the house groaning like it’s alive.

“You can’t do this without me!” he shouts. You trip, hitting the floor hard. The air feels thick, like trying to breathe underwater. Henry looms over you, grabbing your shoulders, forcing you to look at him. “You’re nothing without me,” he says.

You scream and bolt upright in bed, breath tearing out of your chest, sheets twisted around your legs. Your heart is pounding so hard it hurts, the echo of his voice still ringing in your ears. “No,” you gasp. “No—”

The door to your room opens immediately. Steve’s there in seconds, barefoot and panicked, hair sticking up like he ran a hand through it too fast. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He’s at your side before you can say anything else, hands hovering until you nod desperately and grab his shirt. He pulls you into his arms without hesitation, one hand firm on your back, the other cradling the back of your head. “I’ve got you,” he says, low and steady. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, breath hitching as the dream bleeds away inch by inch. Steve rocks you gently, murmuring nonsense words that don’t mean anything except that he’s real and here and not going anywhere. “He was there,” you choke out. “He said I couldn’t—”

“I know,” Steve says quietly. “I know. He’s gone.”

You shake your head against his chest. “It felt real.”

Steve presses his forehead to yours. “Dreams do that. Doesn’t mean he gets to keep you.”

You slowly start to breathe again, the tightness in your chest easing as Steve stays exactly where he is, grounding you with his weight and warmth. After a while, your grip loosens. You’re still holding onto him, but it’s not desperate anymore. Steve doesn’t move away. “Do you want me to stay?” You nod immediately. “Okay,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He sits back against the headboard with you curled against him, one arm around your shoulders, the other resting over your hand like an anchor. The room is quiet except for the hum of the house settling, the nightmare fading into something distant. You don’t fall back asleep right away, but you don’t feel alone when you do.

---

Steve waits a whole day before bringing it to you. Not because he wants to delay it, but because you had the nightmare, and he won’t pile something heavy on top of that. He stays close all morning—cooking breakfast even though he burns the toast, hovering without hovering, glancing at you every time you shift in your seat. By afternoon, you’re at the table with your notebook, pencil tapping lightly. Steve comes in from the hallway, a thick envelope in his hand. He hesitates, then sits across from you. “Hey,” he says, voice softer than usual. “Can we talk?”

You look up immediately. “Did something happen?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” He clears his throat. “I just… I got something in the mail for you.” He sets the envelope on the table between you. You recognize the letterhead instantly and your stomach drops. Steve watches your face carefully. “It’s from Chicago.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He rubs his palms against his jeans. “Because Nancy and I reached out. Not to push you, I promise. We just—she thought, and I thought, that maybe having the option might help.” You don’t touch the envelope, and Steve exhales hard and leans forward. “I’m gonna say something, and you can hate it if you want, but… you deserve more than waiting around this house for the next thing to happen to you.”

Your throat tightens. “Steve—”

“You were accepted,” he says firmly. “Not as a fluke. Not because someone felt bad for you. You earned it. And then everything got taken. You didn’t get to pick anything—not the accident, not Henry, not the last two years.” You stare at him, barely breathing. “You can pick this,” he says. “If you want it. And if you don’t want it, that’s okay too. But I want you to have the choice.”

He pushes the envelope a little closer and then you push it back. “I can’t go,” you blurt out, voice breaking.

Steve goes still. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not ready,” you say. “Because I won’t know anyone. Because I don’t even know who I am yet. Because—” Your voice cracks. “Because I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t want to leave you.”

Steve’s eyes soften almost painfully. He reaches out but stops halfway, letting you decide. You close the distance, fingers curling around his lightly. “You won’t be alone,” he says quietly. “You’ll meet people, and you’ll figure stuff out, and you’ll mess up sometimes, and that’s life. And I’ll still be here, I’m not disappearing.”

You shake your head. “That isn’t the same.”

“I know,” he admits. “But you can’t stay small just because I’m scared of losing you.”

Your breath stutters. “You’re scared?”

“Of course I am,” he says, a shaky laugh under it. “But I’d be more scared of you waking up one day wishing you’d gone.” Silence hangs between you, thick and aching. “Just open it,” he says gently.

Your hand trembles as you reach for the envelope. You slide your thumb under the seal, the paper inside is crisp, formal, kind. They remember you. They want you. They lay out the steps, the options, the timeline. Your vision blurs halfway through and Steve reaches out again, slow and steady. “Hey.”

You let out a broken breath and press your forehead to his shoulder. He wraps both arms around you this time, holding you tight as you cry quietly against him. “I don’t want to go,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, voice low in your hair. “I know.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know,” he repeats, arms tightening. “But I want you to have a life. Even if it’s not here.” You cling to him like he’s the only steady thing in the room. He doesn’t pull away.

---

Joyce stops by two days later with a bag of groceries and that gentle, warm look she gets when she’s checking in without announcing she’s checking in. Steve’s gone to help Robin with something, leaving you alone with her in the kitchen. She sets the bag down and starts unpacking like she’s been doing it for you for years. “Got you the cereal you like,” she says lightly. “And some fruit. Hopper insisted on the bananas.” You hover nearby, folding the same dish towel over and over until Joyce finally glances at you with that motherly radar she can’t turn off. “You’ve been quiet,” she says.

You shrug. “Just thinking.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

You lower the towel. “I… don’t know how to want things anymore.”

Joyce softens, leaning her hip against the counter. “That makes sense.”

“I think I used to want things,” you say. “College. A career. A life. And then it all stopped. And now I don’t know if wanting things is… dangerous.”

Joyce reaches out, touches your forearm gently. “Sweetheart, wanting something isn’t dangerous. Not anymore.”

“It feels like it is,” you murmur.

She nods. “It’s scary because it’s new again. Because it means stepping out of the safe place you’ve been healing in. But that’s the point of healing. To get to want things.”

You look down at your hands. “What if I can’t do it? What if I fail? Or get lost again? Or—”

“Honey,” she interrupts, firm but warm, “what if you don’t?” Your breath stutters. Joyce pats your arm. “If you decide to go, Hop and I will drive you. No matter what. You won’t be facing anything alone.”

Later that afternoon, Hopper shows up like he always does—loud, heavy steps, keys jingling, a sigh as he lowers himself into a chair like he’s wrestling an invisible bear. Steve still isn’t home, so it’s just you and Hopper at the kitchen table. He opens a can of Coke, “heard you got a big envelope.” You nod and he grunts. “You thinking about going?”

“I don’t know.”

Hopper nods once, like he expected that. He stares at the can, then at you. “You know,” he says slowly, “people think choosing is easy. It’s not. Especially when you’re used to having your choices taken from you.” You blink at him. He continues, voice rough but honest. “When I came back from Vietnam, I didn’t know what I wanted. Couldn’t make a decision if you paid me. But I had to figure out that choosing something—anything—was better than living in fear of choosing wrong.”

You swallow. “I’m scared.”

“Good,” Hopper says bluntly. “Means it matters.” You let out a shaky breath. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen. If you decide to do this—if you say yes—Joyce and I will drive you. No questions, no debate. You won’t do the hard part alone.”

You look at him, really look, and something tight in your chest loosens just a little. “And if you decide not to go?” Hopper shrugs. “Then you stay here. With that idiot kid who’d follow you to the ends of the Earth if you asked.” Your heartbeat jumps painfully and Hopper pretends he didn’t see it. He stands and pats your shoulder with an awkward gentleness. “Just make the choice for yourself. Not for me. Not for Joyce. Not for Steve. You.”

You nod slowly and he leaves a minute later, the front door shutting with a solid thump.

---

Steve is in the living room when you finally work up the courage. It’s late afternoon, sunlight catching the dust in the air as he fiddles with the TV antenna. He’s muttering under his breath—something about static, something about how Channel 5 always dies when he wants to watch it—and you stand there in the doorway long enough that he notices the silence. He straightens. “Hey. What’s up?”

Your fingers twist together. “Can we… talk?”

Steve freezes for just a second, then nods quickly, stepping away from the TV. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. You okay?”

You sit down on the couch. He sits beside you, careful but close, like he’s trying not to spook you and trying not to look like he’s trying not to spook you. You take a breath the size of the universe, “I want to try,” you say quietly. “College. Chicago. All of it.”

For a moment, Steve doesn’t move. Then he smiles—soft, warm, and completely heartbreaking. “That’s great,” he says, but his voice cracks halfway through, just enough that you notice. He clears his throat fast. “I mean—really great. I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

You swallow. “You are?”

“Of course I am.” He nudges you with his shoulder, gentle. “You’re choosing something for yourself. That’s huge.”

You nod, but your chest feels tight. “It’s scary.”

“I know,” Steve says. “But you’re not doing it alone. You’ve got all of us. And Joyce and Hopper said they’ll help with whatever you need, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.” He claps his hands together, forcing cheer. “So first step is paperwork. We’ll figure it out. I’ve never helped anyone apply to college before, but I’ve read forms before, so that’s basically the same thing.” You laugh—small, real. Steve sees it, and something in his shoulders relaxes. “You, uh… you don’t have to rush anything,” he adds. “You can take as long as you need. Days. Weeks. Whatever.”

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He smiles again, but this one hurts deeper. Because you can see the way it reaches only halfway to his eyes. He’s happy for you and he’s breaking a little. But he covers it with that same stupid, wonderful Harrington confidence. “We’ll do it together. One step at a time.”

You breathe out. “Okay.” And Steve nods, like he’s sealing a promise he has no intention of ever letting himself break.

---

A Month and a Half Later

The car is already running when you step out onto the driveway. Joyce fusses with the trunk, making sure everything is tucked in just right even though you packed light. Hopper stands near the driver’s door with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to watch too closely. The morning air is cool, the sky pale and cloudless, like it’s trying to look neutral about all of this.

Steve stands a few feet away; he hasn’t said much since you came outside. Just a quiet “hey,” and a nod, like he’s afraid if he talks too much he won’t stop. He looks normal—jeans, jacket, hair a little messy—but there’s something tight about the way he’s holding himself.

You walk over to him. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then Steve exhales and opens his arms, and you step into them without hesitation. He holds you like he’s memorizing you, arms wrapped firm around your back, your face pressed into his shoulder. You don’t cry, not yet, your throat feels too tight for that. “You’re gonna be okay,” he says quietly, voice low enough that Joyce and Hopper don’t hear. “You’re good at this stuff. You always have been.”

You nod against him, fingers curling into his jacket. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” he says. “And if you do? You call me and complain about it.” That almost makes you laugh. He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands still on your arms like he’s grounding you. “Call me when you get there,” he says. “Not when you unpack. Not when you feel settled. When you get there.”

“I will,” you promise.

He hesitates, then lifts a hand and brushes his thumb lightly along your cheek, quick and careful, like he’s testing a boundary he doesn’t want to break. “I’m proud of you,” he says. “Really.”

Your chest aches. “I’m going to miss you.”

Steve swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

Hopper clears his throat from a few steps away. “We should get going.”

You hug Steve one more time, tighter this time, like you’re trying to take a piece of him with you. He holds on just as hard, then forces himself to let go. You turn away before you can change your mind. Joyce squeezes your shoulder before getting into the car. Hopper opens the door for you without saying anything. As you settle into the back seat, you glance back one last time. Steve’s still standing there. He lifts a hand in a small wave, smile strained but steady, and you wave back as the car pulls away.

---

The campus feels like a city dropped on top of itself. Buildings stretch higher than you expect, all stone and brick and wide steps worn smooth by years of feet. People move everywhere—students carrying boxes, parents giving last-minute instructions, bikes cutting through the crowds like they know exactly where they’re going. It’s loud in a way that’s busy, not dangerous, and that helps. Joyce keeps a hand at your back as Hopper hauls your single suitcase out of the trunk. “You sure you’re alright?” she asks for maybe the fifth time.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

Your dorm is quieter once you’re inside. Narrow hallways, bulletin boards covered in flyers, doors propped open by boxes and backpacks. When you unlock your room, you stop short. It’s small, but it’s yours. A single bed, a desk by the window, shelves already built into the wall. There’s a door to the bathroom right there, private and solid. The light hums softly when you flip the switch.

Joyce smiles. “This is nice.”

Hopper grunts approval. “Better than half the places I’ve lived.”

You set your bag down slowly, taking it in. Then, without really thinking about it, you cross the room and pick up the phone on the desk. Joyce raises an eyebrow. “You wanna—”

“I just need a minute,” you say gently.

She nods and ushers Hopper back into the hall, giving you privacy. Your fingers tremble a little as you dial the number you know by heart. Steve answers on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey,” you say. “I’m here.”

There’s a pause, then his voice softens. “You made it?”

“Yeah. Just got to the dorm.”

“You in one piece?”

You glance around the room again. “Yeah. It’s… actually kind of nice.”

He exhales, relief plain even over the line. “Good, I was picturing something way worse.”

You smile. “Of course you were.”

There’s a beat of comfortable quiet. “Have you unpacked?” he asks.

“No,” you admit. “I haven’t even sat down yet.”

He laughs quietly. “That tracks.”

You walk to the window and look out at the quad below, people crossing paths in every direction. “It’s big,” you say. “Everything feels… bigger.”

“Big can be good,” Steve says. “Scary, but good.”

“I know.” You pause. “I’m glad I called you.”

“Me too,” he replies without hesitation. Another silence, warm this time. “Well,” he says eventually, trying for light, “go claim your space. Make it yours. Call me later, okay?”

“I will,” you promise. When you hang up, the room feels less empty. You sit on the edge of the bed, take a breath, then stand and open the door, calling Hopper and Joyce back.

The first night is louder than you expect. Voices echo down the hall, doors opening and closing, someone laughing too hard somewhere nearby. You sit cross-legged on your bed with your suitcase half-unpacked, clothes folded into uneven stacks because you keep stopping to listen. You hang your jacket in the closet, then pause, adjusting it twice until it sits right. The desk feels too clean, so you place your notebook on it, then your pencil, then the five dollars folded carefully and tucked into the back pocket like a quiet joke only you remember.

You sit again, stare at the phone, then decide not to call. Instead, you head down the hall toward the common area. A few people are there already, awkwardly standing around with paper cups and nervous smiles. Someone asks your name and you answer. Someone asks where you’re from. “Hawkins,” you say, then hesitate. “Indiana.”

“Cool,” they say, like it is. It’s strange how easy that part is.

Back in your room later, you take a shower just because you can. The water’s hot, the tiles unfamiliar, but the door locks solidly and that matters. You change into pajamas and sit on the bed with damp skin, listening to the city sounds through the open window. A bus honks somewhere far away and music drifts up from below. You pick up the phone again, but this time you dial. Steve answers slower now, like he’d been half-asleep. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” you say. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he lies immediately. “What’s up?”

“I met people,” you tell him. “Just… small talk.”

“Look at you,” he says. “Already thriving.”

You smile. “I’m still scared.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”

You swing your legs gently, heel tapping the bed frame. “The room’s quiet now.”

“Good quiet or bad quiet?”

You think. “Good. I think.”

Steve hums softly on the other end. “That’s a start.”

You don’t talk about anything important after that. You tell him about the weird flyer on your door. He complains about Hawkins being boring without everyone around. You laugh when he says Robin ate the last Pop-Tart and blamed him. When you finally hang up, you lie back and stare at the ceiling, counting cracks that aren’t there. The room doesn’t feel borrowed. It feels… possible. You close your eyes, the city humming outside your window, and let sleep come without fighting it.

---

The house feels wrong without you in it. Steve notices it the first morning, standing in the kitchen with a mug of coffee he keeps forgetting to drink. By the third morning, he notices the candle you picked out still sits on the end table, unlit. He stares at it longer than necessary before grabbing his keys and heading out. The kids are already at the Wheeler house when he shows up, sprawled across the living room in various stages of chaos. Dustin’s arguing with Mike about something loud and incomprehensible, Lucas is flipping channels on the TV, Will’s sketching on the floor, and Max is perched on the arm of the couch.

Steve drops into a chair and exhales like he’s been holding it in all day. Dustin looks up immediately. “Wow. You look like hell.”

“Good morning to you too,” Steve mutters.

Mike squints at him. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes,” Steve lies.

Max doesn’t even look at him when she says it. “No, you didn’t.”

Steve leans his head back against the chair. “Can we not do this?”

Dustin swivels to face him fully. “You didn’t make a single bad joke yet. That’s not normal.”

“Yeah,” Lucas adds. “Usually you’d have insulted us at least twice by now.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He rubs his face with both hands and drops them back to his knees. “I’m just tired.”

Will glances up from his sketchbook, eyes soft. “You’ve been tired for days.”

There’s a pause; no one says your name. The TV keeps playing, some afternoon rerun nobody’s actually watching. Dustin breaks the silence. “So, uh. You wanna help me with this thing?” He holds up a piece of paper. “Because Mike’s being useless.”

Mike scoffs. “Excuse you?”

Steve forces himself to stand. “Yeah. Sure.”

He sits down at the coffee table with them, leaning over the paper, explaining something he’s only half-focused on. Every so often, his eyes drift toward the empty space by the couch where you always sat, legs tucked in, listening even when you pretended not to be. Max catches it. Of course she does. She doesn’t say anything. She just watches him for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at the TV. Later, when Steve’s walking out, Dustin trails after him onto the porch. “Hey,” Dustin says, quieter now. “You know… you’re allowed to be bummed.”

Steve stops, hands in his pockets. “I know.”

Dustin rocks on his heels. “You don’t have to pretend with us.”

Steve nods once. “Yeah. Thanks, buddy.”

Dustin hesitates, then adds, “she’d hate it if you stopped being yourself.”

Steve lets out a weak huff of a laugh. “Yeah. She would.” He gets in his car and sits there for a moment before starting it, staring straight ahead. The kids watch him drive off from the window. No one says anything, but they all notice.

---

Steve realizes something’s wrong when the days start folding in on themselves. He wakes up late. Stays up later. Eats whatever’s closest instead of anything that makes sense. The house feels too big and too quiet, and he keeps drifting into rooms like he’s forgotten why he went there. He flips channels without watching, leaves the radio on just for noise, then turns it off because it makes the silence worse somehow.

Robin notices by the fifth day. She’s sitting at his kitchen table, feet kicked up on an empty chair, flipping through a magazine she’s already read twice. Steve’s leaning against the counter, staring at absolutely nothing, nursing a soda he opened an hour ago. “You’re spiraling,” she says flatly.

He snorts. “I’m not spiraling.”

“You reorganized your sock drawer by color,” she replies. “And then you just… sat on the floor for ten minutes.”

Steve rubs his face. “I was thinking.”

“You were dissociating,” Robin corrects. “There’s a difference.”

He exhales and drops into the chair across from her. “I’m fine.”

Robin lowers the magazine. “You’re miserable.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. “She’s gone,” he says finally. “And I keep telling myself that’s good. That it’s what she wanted—what she needed. And I meant it. I still mean it.”

Robin watches him carefully. “But?”

“But I feel like an idiot for staying here,” he admits. “Like I’m stuck on pause while everyone else is… moving.”

Robin tilts her head. “You know you’re literally the only one, right?”

He looks up. “What?”

“Me and Nancy are going to school in Massachusetts, and Jonathan’s heading to New York.” she says, counting them off on her fingers. “Everyone our age is leaving Hawkins except you.”

Steve swallows. “Someone has to stay.”

“Why?” she asks immediately. “Why you?” He opens his mouth, then closes it. Robin leans forward. “You don’t have a job. You don’t have plans. You don’t even have a reason you’re telling yourself that makes sense.”

“I have responsibilities,” he says weakly.

“Name one that requires you to stay in Hawkins forever,” she shoots back. Steve stares at the table as his jaw tightens. Robin softens just a little. “You didn’t hold her back. You didn’t trap her. You did the hardest thing possible and let her go.”

He nods. “I know.”

“But letting her go doesn’t mean you’re supposed to stay behind,” she continues. “She chose herself. That doesn’t mean you don’t get to choose something too.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I’d even do.”

Robin shrugs. “You’d figure it out. You always do. You just… don’t want to admit what you actually want.”

He laughs quietly, humorless. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not easy,” she says. “But it is simple.”

Steve looks up at her. “You think I should go?”

“I think,” Robin says carefully, “that you don’t want to be the guy waving goodbye forever. I think you want to go where she went. Not because you need her. Because you choose her.”

Something in his chest shifts, sharp and undeniable. He pictures you in your dorm room—the way you’d sounded on the phone—nervous, excited, alive. He pictures himself still here in a house that echoes your absence. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”

Robin smiles, soft and proud. “About time, Harrington.”

He stands up suddenly, energy crackling through him for the first time in days. “I don’t know how yet.”

Robin grabs her jacket. “Good. We’ll start there.”

Steve reaches for his keys, heart pounding—not with panic this time, but with something steadier. For the first time since you left, staying behind doesn’t feel like loyalty. It feels like fear. And Steve knows, finally, that he’s done letting that decide things for him.

---

By the time Steve pulls up to Hopper’s cabin, he’s changed his mind three times. The truck is there, Joyce’s car too, and a lamp glows warm through the front window. Steve sits behind the wheel for a second with the engine running, gripping it hard enough his knuckles go pale. “Alright,” he mutters to himself. “Just ask. Normal. Be normal.” He kills the engine and heads up the path.

Hopper opens the door before Steve even knocks all the way, like he saw the headlights and decided to intercept whatever problem just drove up. He squints at Steve. “Why are you here?”

Steve blinks. “Hi to you too.”

Hopper’s eyes narrow. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Steve says too fast. “I just—uh—I needed to ask you something.”

From inside, Joyce calls, “Who is it?”

“It’s—uh—me,” Steve hastily replies.

Joyce appears behind Hopper with a dish towel in her hand, takes one look at Steve’s face, and immediately softens. “Steve, come in.”

The cabin smells like coffee and something tomato-based simmering on the stove. Eleven is at the table with a notebook, pencil in hand, glancing up at him quietly. Steve suddenly feels like he’s twelve. He hovers just inside the door, not sitting, not taking off his jacket. “I won’t stay long.”

Hopper crosses his arms. “Then talk.”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “I was, uh… wondering if you had her address.”

Joyce tilts her head. “Her dorm address?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, trying for casual and failing miserably. “And, like, the building name, maybe room number if you have it.”

Hopper’s expression changes immediately, suspicious and sharp. “Why?”

Steve glances at El, then back at Hopper. “I wanted to send a package.” Hopper just stares at him. “A package,” Steve repeats, weaker this time. “Like… care package. Candy and… stuff.”

“You don’t even mail your own bills on time,” Hopper says flatly.

Steve exhales through his nose. “Okay, wow, unnecessary.”

Joyce hides a smile and sets the towel down. “Steve.”

He drops the act a little, shoulders sagging. “I just need the address, alright?”

El looks between them and says quietly, “he is nervous.”

Steve glances over at her. “Thank you. Helpful.”

Hopper jerks his chin toward the door. “Outside.”

Steve winces. “Seriously?”

“Now.” Steve follows him out onto the porch, the screen door banging shut behind them. Crickets hum in the dark, and the air smells like damp wood and pine. Hopper walks him all the way back to the car before turning to face him. Up close, Hopper’s expression is less angry than it is deeply unimpressed. “What are you doing?” Hopper asks.

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m trying to get her address.”

“I know that,” Hopper says. “Why?”

Steve looks away toward the trees, jaw tight. “Because I can’t stay here.” Hopper says nothing and Steve keeps going, words tripping over each other now that they’ve started. “I thought I was doing the right thing, letting her go and giving her space and all that, and I still think she should’ve gone, but I—” He drags a hand through his hair. “I miss her and I’m miserable and I keep pretending I’m fine, and I’m not. I want to see her.”

Hopper studies him for a long moment. “See her.”

“Yeah.”

“Not drag her back here.”

Steve snaps his head up. “No. God, no, I’d never do that.”

Hopper steps closer, voice dropping. “Listen to me. She got out, she fought for her life, she rebuilt herself, and she chose something bigger. You show up there, you do not make that harder. You do not dump your feelings on her like she owes you an answer because you drove a few hours and brought flowers or whatever dumb thing you’re thinking.”

Steve goes very still. “I know.”

Hopper points a finger at his chest. “No, listen to me. You do not make her feel guilty for leaving. You do not make her responsible for your life. And if she says no to whatever this is—if she wants space, if she wants friendship, if she wants you to turn around and go home—you respect it.”

Steve nods once, serious. “I will.”

Hopper’s eyes stay locked on his. “Because if you hurt her—”

“I know,” Steve says quickly. “You’ll kill me.”

Hopper doesn’t blink. “Good, glad we understand each other.” A beat passes, then Hopper exhales and reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I wrote it down in case Joyce forgot where she put it,” he mutters, handing it over. “Dorm building, room number, campus address.”

Steve stares at the paper in his hand. “You had it on you?”

Hopper shrugs. “I’m a cop.”

Steve huffs a nervous laugh despite himself. “Right.”

Hopper steps back toward the porch. “If you’re going, go for the right reasons.”

Steve looks down at the address, then back up. “I am.”

From inside, Joyce opens the door and leans out. “Steve? If you’re driving tonight, come back in and eat first.”

Steve glances between them, still wound tight but steadier now. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Hopper points at him one more time before turning away. “Don’t make me regret this, Harrington.”

Steve folds the paper carefully and slips it into his pocket like it might fall apart if he breathes too hard. “I won’t.”

---

The knock comes in the middle of the afternoon, right when you’re sitting at your desk pretending to read and actually staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes. You glance at the clock, frown, and get up. Nobody has ever knocked on your door. The hallway outside is full of distant voices and doors opening and closing, but the knock comes again—gentle this time, like whoever it is already regrets it.

You open the door.

Steve is standing there with flowers in one hand and a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair windblown, jacket wrinkled, looking like he drove too far too fast and maybe forgot to breathe the whole way. You just stare at him. He lifts the flowers a little, awkward and breathless. “Hi.”

Your mouth opens, closes, the opens again. “What are you doing here?”

“Great question,” he says, nodding too fast. “I had, like, a whole speech in the car, and now I can’t remember any of it.”

You blink, then let out a startled laugh that turns into something softer when you realize he’s really here. “Steve—”

“I know,” he says, shifting the duffel on his shoulder. “I know I should’ve called first. I did call, actually, but then I hung up before it rang because that felt weird. And then I drove here anyway, which maybe was also weird, but—” He cuts himself off, takes a breath, and looks at you properly. “Can I start over?”

You nod, hand still on the door.

He holds out the flowers; they’re a little crushed from the drive, stems wrapped in paper, clearly bought in a hurry. “These are for you.”

You take them carefully, smiling despite yourself. “They’re kind of crooked.”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, glancing at them, “they had a rough trip.” You laugh again, and his shoulders drop a little, like hearing that gives him permission to keep going. “I miss you,” he says, quieter now. “A lot.”

The hallway noise fades behind him. You grip the flowers tighter, heart pounding.

“I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing staying in Hawkins,” he continues. “And maybe I was, for a minute. But then everyone kept moving on, and I was just… there. And I realized I wasn’t staying because I had to.” He swallows, eyes fixed on yours. “I was staying because I was scared.”

Your throat tightens. “Steve…”

He steps a little closer, careful, giving you time to stop him if you want to. “You left because you chose yourself. You were brave. And I—” He huffs a small, shaky laugh. “I want to be brave too. I want to choose something. I want to choose you.”

You’re crying before you realize it, tears slipping down your cheeks while you stand there in your dorm doorway holding bent flowers and staring at the boy who crossed state lines just to say the thing neither of you could say before. “I thought that was it,” you whisper. “When I left.”

Steve’s face softens. “Yeah. Me too.”

You set the flowers down on the shelf just beside the door because your hands are shaking too much to keep holding them. When you turn back, he’s still there, still waiting, not reaching, not assuming. You step closer until you’re almost touching. “Did you really drive all the way here without a plan?” you ask, voice shaky with a laugh.

He smiles, sheepish. “I had a map.”

“That’s not a plan.”

“It got me here.”

You shake your head, smiling through tears, and his expression changes—warmer, gentler, like he can’t believe you’re smiling at him like that.

He lifts his hand slowly, brushing his knuckles against your cheek, wiping away one tear. “May I… kiss you?” he asks, voice low.

You nod immediately, then laugh at yourself and say, “Yes. Please.”

Steve leans in carefully, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t. His kiss is soft and a little shaky, warm and real and nothing like a dream. One hand settles lightly at your waist, the other still cupping your cheek, and when you kiss him back he makes this quiet, relieved sound that nearly breaks your heart all over again. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Hi,” he whispers, smiling.

You let out a wet laugh. “Hi.” Somewhere down the hall, a door slams and someone yells about a missing box. Neither of you moves. Then you glance at the duffel bag and raise an eyebrow. “How long are you here for?”

Steve winces. “So, that depends on how you feel about me sleeping in my car.”

You stare at him for one second, then grab his jacket and pull him inside by the front of it. “Get in here, Harrington.” He stumbles in laughing, and you close the door behind him.

extra notes: i will say one thing (please don't take this as a promise) but i am thinking of an epilogue. i don't know if i'll ever make it, but just know i'm thinking of possibilities :) thank you so much for reading xoxo

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes

henry creel: @niahzzz @superawesomecool @lulukitten2

Robin doesn't smoke cigarettes. She'll drink until she's sick, will smoke weed until her eyes are red and glassy, but she's always drawn a hard line at cigarettes. "They're disgusting," she'd say whenever someone offered her one at a party. "I don't understand how anyone can stand them."

You close the door gently behind you, catching sight of yourself in the mirror mounted on the wall. Your face is splotchy and swollen, eyes puffy from crying, mascara smudged beneath your lashes like bruises. Your jaw sets, muscles tensing, because you know the night isn't ending yet. Know there's one more confrontation to survive before you can collapse.

You walk closer to the balcony, and Robin hears you over the sound of waves crashing below. She looks over her shoulder at you, her long straight chestnut hair whipping in the wind, catching the light from the room behind you and the moon above. Robin's face hardens when she sees you, jaw clenching, and she watches as you step out onto the balcony but keep your distance—standing close enough to talk but far enough that you won't accidentally touch.

Robin snaps her focus back to the ocean, and you see her grimacing at the cigarette in her hand like it betrayed her somehow, like she can't believe she's actually smoking it.

There's a beat of silence. Just the waves and the distant sound of music from a party somewhere down the beach and the wind rustling through the palm trees below.

And in the emptiness, you realize how long you've been angry at Robin. How long you've pushed it aside, buried it deep, ignored it for the sake of your friendship because losing her felt unthinkable. But it's been there all along, festering beneath the surface.

Robin takes another drag, exhaling smoke that gets caught by the wind and dispersed immediately. "Nancy broke up with me." Her voice is flat, dead. "Jonathan is taking her to the airport right now."

Your heart drops, stomach plummeting like you've just fallen off a cliff. You look out at the ocean again, listening to people laughing somewhere in the distance. Probably drunk college students having the time of their lives while yours falls apart.

But you don't say anything. You wish you could've seen Nancy before she left. Wish you could've hugged her, told her you understood, told her you were sorry.

Robin continues, shaking her head, and you realize she must have been crying before she came back to the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, nose running slightly. "We went looking for you, you know? After you left the restaurant. And I asked her if you were telling the truth. If she was actually miserable." Robin's voice breaks, cracking down the middle. "She told me she loves me. But she can't lie anymore."

Robin finally looks at you, tears streaming down her face, catching the moonlight. "Are you happy now?"

You scoff, the sound harsh and bitter. You take a moment to close your eyes and breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth, trying to steady yourself. "Why would that make me happy, Robin?"

"Because isn't this what you wanted?" Robin's voice rises, sharp with accusation. "Since you can't be with Steve, you have to break me and Nancy up?"

You twist your body to face her fully, nose flaring with anger. "Cut that shit out, Robin." Your voice is hard, uncompromising. "I have been there for you and Nancy from the beginning, and you know it. I have always been there for you two."

You take a breath, trying to contain the fury building in your chest. "Seeing you be your full self around her when you can—god, Robin, you have no idea how much it kills me that it's not enough. That neither of you can be happy hiding like this." Your voice softens slightly, but the anger is still there underneath. "Of course I didn't want you to break up. But what else is there to do when you won't admit the arrangement isn't working?"

You pause, gathering courage for the question you've wanted to ask for months. "Does Nancy really want it to be you, her, and Steve for the rest of your lives? Do you?"

Robin's face transforms immediately at the last part—sadness replacing anger, lips twisting as she tries not to sob. Tears run faster down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw. She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she deflects.

"Nancy told me I was pretending not to see that you and Steve like each other." Robin pauses, swallowing hard. "I wasn't pretending. I knew Steve liked you. He told me."

Your face drops. Your heart skips a beat, then starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

Robin swallows thickly, her throat working. "But I shut it down."

Your eyes flare wide, heat flooding through you—part anger, part devastation. "How?"

Robin's jaw ticks, muscle jumping under skin. She rubs her free hand over her face, takes another drag of the cigarette that's now barely more than a filter. "I told him what you told me. That you didn't like him like that and never would."

Your eyes dance over Robin's face. You’re searching, trying to understand, trying to process. Your mouth falls open, eyes going wider. "This happened on Friday, didn't it?" The pieces are clicking into place now, sharp and painful. "That's why you were so angry? That's why he—"

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You grip the balcony railing, knuckles going white from the pressure, trying to steady yourself as the world tilts sideways. Your breathing comes fast and shallow.

"What?" Robin's voice is defensive, aggressive. "I was telling him the truth that I knew. It's not my fault you kept lying to me about how you felt."

"And how the fuck was I supposed to, Robin?" Your voice raises, loud enough that someone in a nearby room might hear. You don't care. "When you told me not to? When you said he doesn't do relationships? Maybe he doesn't do relationships because of you. Because he thinks you're all he has."

Robin is taken aback, face crumbling like you've struck her. She looks young suddenly, vulnerable, scared and small.

But you can't stop now. The words are pouring out, months of frustration and hurt and swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "This isn't about me and him. This is about you." Your voice drops, going quieter but no less intense. "I have been nothing but understanding. But I don't understand why you still feel like you have to hide behind him. I'm not saying you need to come out to the world, but... maybe you should come out to yourself."

Robin lets out a choked sob, her whole body shaking with it. "I think you should leave."

You curl your lips inward, biting down hard enough to taste copper. You sniffle, wiping at your face. "Yeah. I was planning on it."

Robin stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray the hotel has set out on the balcony, grinding it down with more force than necessary. She gives you one more look—angry and hurt and betrayed all at once—before storming past you into the hotel room. The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.

You stand on the balcony alone, the ocean stretching out before you dark and endless. You let out a shaky breath and cry into your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

You finally collect yourself enough to go back inside. You pack your things, though you realize you hadn't really unpacked much from the first night anyway—like some part of you always knew this would happen, was always prepared to run.

You don't see anyone else you know as you slip through the hotel halls. They're all hiding in their respective rooms probably, licking their wounds, trying to figure out what happens next.

You wonder if Steve is safe. Wonder if he made it back to his room okay, if Jonathan or Eddie are with him, if he's still crying on that empty beach.

You almost—almost—go to the room you suspect he's sharing with Jonathan. Room 408, you think, or was it 412? You could knock, could make sure he's okay, could tell him you lied when you said you don't love him.

But no. You can't. You can't see him again, can't risk changing your mind, can't let yourself hope for something that will never work.

You hail a cab to the airport instead, throwing your duffel bag in the trunk and climbing into the backseat. The driver asks where you're going and you tell him Miami International, and then you sit in silence for the forty-minute drive, watching the city lights blur past the window.

At the airport, your eyes scan the departure board, tracking over different destinations. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. Dallas. Boston.

You have no idea where to go. You don't want to go back to college, back to that dorm room, back to staring at Robin's empty bed and being reminded of everything you've lost.

You sigh and walk up to the ticket counter, telling the worker where you want to go. Home. Back to your parents' house, back to your childhood bedroom, back to a place where things made sense before Steve Harrington and breaking your own heart.

Later, standing at a payphone with coins clutched in your sweaty palm, you dial your parents' number. It rings three times before your mom picks up.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" Your voice cracks on the word, and you bite back another sob.

"Honey? Are you okay? I thought you were in Miami—"

"I'm coming home." The tears are falling again, and you can't stop them. "Can you pick me up from the airport? Tomorrow morning?"

There's a pause, and you can hear the concern in your mother's voice when she speaks. "Of course. Of course, sweetheart. What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there," you lie, knowing you won't, knowing you'll smile and say spring break was fine and your friends were busy and you just missed home.

But your mom doesn't push. She never does. She asks what time your flight lands, tells you she'll be there, tells you she loves you.

You hang up the phone and stand there in the fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal, surrounded by strangers going to places you'll never see, and you feel more alone than you've ever felt in your life.

.-.-.-.

Sunday of spring break week, your parents drop you back off at school.

Your mom didn't ask questions during the week, thankfully. You'd spent most of it in your childhood bedroom, sleeping too much, eating too little, pretending everything was fine when you came down for meals. But you think maybe this time, if she had asked, you would've told her. Would've broken down and explained everything—Steve, Robin, the lies, the love, the loss of it all.

But she didn't ask, and you didn't tell, and now here you are.

Your parents smother you in hugs and kisses before you get out of the car. Your dad points at you, his usual joke ready. "Don't get pregnant." His way of saying I love you, I'll miss you.

Normally you laugh and roll your eyes and say, "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon."

But this time your stomach twists violently, and you feel like you could vomit at the thought. At the memory of Steve in the tent saying he'd imagined having kids for the first time, of him looking at that family at the campsite with longing in his eyes. And even though it took forever for you to see you like him, you knew with aching clarity that’s when your heart unzipped itself, letting him in. 

You manage a weak smile and a wave instead, then grab your bag and head inside.

Your dorm room is cold when you walk in, the heating apparently turned down over break. You throw your duffel bag on your bed, and the smell hits you immediately—yours and Robin's detergents mixed together, her perfume and your body spray, everything that used to mean home and safety and best friends.

Everything that reminds you that you used to be friends. Best friends.

You break down again, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing into your hands.

Dinner is lonely. The dining hall is mostly empty—most students haven't returned yet, won't be back until late Sunday night or early Monday morning. You sit by yourself at a table near the window, pushing food around your plate without eating much.

The library is lonely. You try to study, to get ahead on reading for your classes, but the words blur together and you can't focus.

Everything is lonely.

That night, when you eventually crawl into bed, you toss and turn. The smell of Miami still clings to your clothes—salt and sunscreen and heartbreak burning in your nostrils. You know it's late, maybe midnight, and you can't stop thinking about two weeks ago when Steve Harrington was standing outside your window, grinning up at you like an idiot, asking you to come downstairs.

You shut your eyes tighter, trying to burn the memory away, to erase it completely.

Then you hear it. The door opening, closing softly. The lock clicking into place.

You don't look over. You keep your eyes closed, your breathing even, pretending to sleep.

You hear slight shuffling. Movement across the room. The sound of Robin changing—fabric rustling, the soft thud of shoes being kicked off, a zipper being pulled.

Then she's getting into her own bed, springs creaking under her weight.

But not before you hear her pause. A sharp intake of breath, like she's been punched.

You'd left Robin's lamp on for her. The small desk lamp she always uses to read before bed, the one with the green glass shade that casts everything in a soft glow.

You swear you hear Robin sniffle—once, then again, trying to muffle the sound.

Then the light clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.

And you both lie there in your separate beds, in the dark, pretending you don't hear each other crying.

.-.-.-.

It's Wednesday morning, and you've managed to shut everyone out completely.

Monday, Robin didn't go to class—still asleep when you left for your morning lecture because she's always had a problem sleeping through her alarm. The shrill beeping goes off at seven, and she slaps at it without opening her eyes, rolls over, and falls back into unconsciousness within seconds.

Normally, you'd shake her awake. Poke her shoulder until she groaned and swatted at you, mumbling something about five more minutes. You'd turn on her desk lamp, pull her blanket off, do whatever it took to get her vertical and moving.

But you don't wake her up this time. You grab your books and leave while she's still snoring softly, one arm thrown over her face to block out the morning light filtering through the blinds.

Tuesday, you saw Sammy in the hallway outside the lecture hall. He was standing by the door with his satchel slung across his chest, clearly waiting for you, and when your eyes met, his face lit up with cautious hope.

But you bolted. Turned on your heel and pushed through the crowd in the opposite direction, even when you heard him call your name softly—tentative, questioning, hurt.

The weeks of school are thinning, winding down toward finals and summer break. A reminder of that comes in the form of a knock on your door Wednesday morning, just as you're pulling on jeans and trying to decide if you have enough clean shirts to make it through the week without doing laundry.

Robin answers it, still in her pajamas—an oversized Blondie t-shirt and shorts that are barely visible beneath the hem. Tessa stands in the hallway, holding out a piece of paper with an apologetic smile.

"Hey, guys. Housing forms for next year. Need them back by next Friday."

Robin takes the paper without looking at it, barely mumbling a thanks before closing the door. She immediately sets it down on her desk like it's contaminated, like touching it too long might burn her. She doesn't even glance at it before turning back to rummaging through her closet for clean clothes.

But you look at it.

You walk over to your desk and pick up the paper, scanning the options printed in neat administrative font:

REQUEST TO MOVE OFF CAMPUS

REQUEST TO MOVE TO A DIFFERENT DORM

REQUEST TO STAY IN CURRENT DORM

And underneath, the section that makes your stomach drop:

REQUEST TO KEEP SAME ROOMMATE — BOTH PARTIES' SIGNATURES REQUIRED

REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE

You set the paper on your desk carefully, like it might shatter. Your mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Another knock comes at the door, sharper this time. Robin groans from somewhere inside her closet, still searching for her other shoe. "Can you get that?"

You open the door. Tessa is still there, looking sheepish. "Hey, sorry again! Hot Shot, you have a call."

You furrow your brows, looking at your watch. It's barely eight in the morning. Who would be calling this early?

Robin emerges from the closet, one shoe on, and gives you an equally curious look as you slip past her into the hallway.

You make your way to the pay phone on your floor, the receiver hanging off the hook where Tessa must have left it to hold the call. You pick it up, the plastic warm against your ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank god." The voice on the other end is frantic, breathless.

"Max?"

"Look, I'm going to cut to the chase." Max doesn't wait for you to respond, words tumbling out rapid-fire. "Last night I called Steve for our weekly call, and he didn't answer. I mean, I wasn't too worried at first because I know he's studying and he's busy with that big test coming up, but yeah... okay..." She takes a breath, and you hear rustling like she's pacing, the phone cord probably stretched to its limit. "Last night I get a call from Dustin. Steve's here. In Hawkins."

You try to process this, to catch every word, but Max is talking fast and your brain feels sluggish, still not fully awake.

"I don't know what you want me to do," you say slowly, carefully.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache building behind your eyes. Out of the corner of your vision, you see Robin walking down the hall—looking anywhere but at you, studying the bulletin board with fake intensity—until you wave at her frantically.

Robin's confused, brows furrowed, but she walks over anyway.

You cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with your palm. "Steve is in Hawkins. Right now."

Robin's eyes widen, going almost comically large. "What?"

You pull the phone between you, both of your heads tilted in, temples touching, the receiver pressed between your ears. You can smell Robin's shampoo and it's so familiar it makes your chest ache.

"He won't say anything," Max continues, and you can hear the worry bleeding through her usually steady voice. "He's pretending to be fine, but god, he looks miserable. Dustin and I played hooky today to hang out with him. I asked what about his big test Thursday—you know? And he says there's no point. That he's going to fail it anyway."

Max sighs heavily, and you hear what sounds like her sitting down, springs creaking.

Robin's eyes are frantic now, darting around like she's searching for answers in the peeling paint of the hallway walls.

"Did you tell him it's probably nerves?" you suggest, grasping for something helpful to say. "That he's been studying so hard he's psyching himself out?"

Max hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, broken. "Hot Shot... he says he's going to drop out."

The words hang in the air, heavy and terrible.

Robin snatches the phone from you, nearly yanking it out of your hand. "Max, this is Robin. I'm on my way." She pauses, listening. "Mhm. Mhm. Okay. Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can."

She hangs up without saying goodbye, then immediately starts rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Robin," you call after her, following.

But she doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. Her bare feet slap against the linoleum as she moves.

Robin rushes through the lobby, weaving between students checking their mailboxes and the RA manning the desk. You hurdle past people, mumbling apologies, trying to keep up with her longer stride.

When Robin bursts through the front doors into the cool morning air, she's still walking fast, arms pumping with purpose.

"Robin, please," you jog up beside her and catch her wrist.

Robin stops, huffing with exertion, and turns to look at you. Her expression is almost annoyed—eyebrows raised, mouth tight—like she's asking what? without saying it out loud.

You're both breathing hard now, catching your breath. "Where are you going?"

"Hawkins," Robin answers simply, like it's obvious.

"Okay, but how?"

"Eddie will take me." Robin says it with complete certainty, no doubt in her voice. "It's not a far drive—only a few hours. If we leave now, I can get Steve and we'd be back by dinner. Plenty of time for him to study and get some rest before the test tomorrow." She's talking faster now, planning out loud. "He needs to take that test. He has to. His dad will kill him if—"

"Let me come with you," you interrupt.

Robin's face turns solemn, all the frantic energy draining out of her in an instant. "Do you think that's a good idea?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "You don't think it would make it worse?"

The question stings, sharp and sudden.

"I don't know," you shoot back, anger flaring hot in your chest. "I could ask the same for you."

Whatever moment of unity you'd shared. Your heads pressed together listening to Max, both worried about Steve, snaps clean in half. You're reminded with brutal clarity that you're not best friends anymore. You're two people who used to be close, standing in front of each other like strangers.

Robin shuts her jaw with an audible click, teeth grinding together. "This is my fault," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "I need to fix it." She says your name, eyes pleading, desperate. "He can't drop out because of me. Because of—" She cuts herself off, looking up at the sky like the clouds might have answers. When she speaks again, her voice is raspy, raw. "He's my best friend, and I screwed up."

God. After everything that's happened, Robin is still acting possessive over Steve. Still claiming him as hers and hers alone. Nothing is going to change that.

"Right," you snap, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. "Because my friendship with him never counted. Or yours with me, I guess."

Robin's face breaks for a second. Her eyes softening, mouth parting like she wants to argue, wants to tell you that's not what she meant. But she doesn't say anything. Can't, maybe.

You dig into your pocket and pull out your keys. You unhook the dorm key from the ring and hold out the car keys, looking Robin directly in the eyes with determination you don't entirely feel.

"It's quicker if you leave now. Take my car."

Robin doesn't take them. She's staring at the keys like they're a snake that might bite her. "I don't have my license."

"Wait, what about that night you drove Eddie and Steve— you know never mind. Just don't get pulled over. " You motion for her to take them again, shaking the keys slightly so they jingle. "I'll let Eddie know what's going on. And I'll take notes for you in class."

For a brief second, Robin smiles. It's small and sad and achingly familiar. It’s the smile of a friend, the smile of someone who wants to pull you into a hug and say thank you and I'm sorry and I miss you all at once. The smile that used to mean everything is going to be okay because you have each other.

But it falls away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something more guarded.

She gives you a curt nod, takes the keys from your outstretched hand—careful not to let your fingers touch—and runs toward the parking lot where your car is parked.

You watch her go, standing alone on the front steps of your dorm, and you wonder if this is what it feels like to lose someone piece by piece instead of all at once.

Later that night, you're at your desk pretending to do homework.

You've been avoiding all public spaces—the dining hall, the library, the student center—eating granola bars from the stash under your bed and telling yourself you'll go get real food tomorrow. Your American Lit textbook is open in front of you, reading the same paragraph four times without retaining a single word.

Your eyes wander to the housing form sitting to the side of your desk, partially buried under a notebook but still visible. The deadline looms: next Friday. One week to decide where you'll live next year, who you'll live with, whether you'll stay or go.

You turn in your chair to look at Robin's side of the room.

It's a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere—jeans hanging off her desk chair, a sweater crumpled on the floor, her denim jacket draped over her closet door. Books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Empty coffee mugs forming a small collection on her nightstand.

You've never cared about the mess. You're pretty messy yourself—your own clothes tend to migrate from the hamper to the floor and back again, and you're not above wearing the same jeans three days in a row if they pass the smell test.

But looking at Robin's side of the room now, you're hit with a wave of memory so strong it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

You had a horrible first roommate freshman year. Melissa, who passive-aggressively left notes about your "excessive" overnight guests (you'd had exactly two) and complained to the RA whenever you stayed up past ten studying. Who listened to terrible pop music at full volume when you were trying to study. Who made you feel like an intruder in your own room.

Robin came up to you after class second semester, Intro to Literary Analysis, a pre-req you both suffered through, and asked if you wanted to room together next year. You barely knew her. You'd seen her at a few parties, and one other class. You knew she was funny and hyper and incredibly intelligent. 

"I can't stand my roommate," Robin had said bluntly. “We should room together. And you always look like you know how to have fun."

And somehow, it had worked. You'd never found someone you could coexist with so easily—someone who understood that sometimes you needed silence and sometimes you needed to blast music and dance badly at two in the morning. Someone who would let you borrow her clothes and would steal your shampoo and would wake you up when you'd overslept but also knew when to leave you alone.

You don't know if you'll ever find someone like Robin again.

The thought makes your hand shake as you reach for a pen, pulling the housing form closer. You start to circle REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the pen hovering over the paper.

But you're stopped by the sound of the door unlocking.

Robin walks in, and she looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped, hair tangled like she's been running her hands through it. She freezes when she sees you sitting at your desk, clearly not expecting you to be there.

You quickly shove the housing form away, burying it under your textbook, and look up at her. You search her face for any telling details—did she get him back? Is he okay? Did it work?

Robin clears her throat, breaking the silence first. "I'm coming to grab my stuff. Me and Eddie are going to help him study." Her voice is rough, tired. "I think I might stay the night at Pike. I..." She holds up your car keys, and there's an awkward smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I only ran through one stop sign. But she's in perfect condition, and I filled up the tank."

You swallow hard, nodding. "You can put them on my bed. Thanks."

Robin does as you asked, setting the keys down gently on your comforter. The room fills with tense silence, the kind that's heavy with all the things you're not saying to each other.

You can feel her looking at you when you turn back to your textbook. And when you glance up from the corner of your eye, you catch her quickly looking away, pretending to search for something in her closet.

This happens three more times—both of you stealing glances when the other isn't looking, like teenagers with crushes instead of ex-best friends who can barely speak to each other.

Robin finally gathers her things—textbooks, notebooks, a change of clothes shoved into her backpack. She goes to open the door, then stops. "Hey."

She clears her throat when you don't respond immediately.

You look up at her. "Yeah?"

Robin takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. "Uh... thank you. For lending me your car."

"No problem," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel.

Robin stands there awkwardly, door half-open, letting the hallway noise filter in. Someone's TV playing too loud, a group of girls laughing as they pass. "Right. Okay."

She goes to leave, and then you hear yourself say, "Oh! Hey, Rob…in."

You catch yourself before you can finish the nickname, the syllables sticking in your throat. It comes out wrong, forced, like you're trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

"Yeah?" Robin turns back, and there's something hopeful in her expression that makes your chest hurt.

"I left your notes from class on your desk." You motion toward her side of the room, where the papers are stacked neatly. "From today."

Robin's whole face shifts. It’s something like relief, or gratitude, or maybe just surprise that you thought of her. She perks up and walks over to her desk, picking up the papers and awkwardly waving them. "Cool. Uh... thanks. This is—thanks."

"Yep."

"Right." Robin adjusts her backpack on her shoulder, the papers clutched in her other hand. "Bye."

"Bye."

The door closes with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You sit there for a long moment, staring at the space where Robin was standing, then pull out the housing form from under your textbook. Your pen hovers over REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the circle you started to draw still incomplete.

But you don't finish it. Instead, you set the pen down and push the form aside again, telling yourself you'll deal with it tomorrow.

.-.-.-.

The loneliness is creeping in again, settling over you like fog rolling in from the ocean—thick and suffocating and impossible to see through.

You're on your bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. There are seven that you can see from this angle, spiderwebbing out from the corner where the water damage bloomed last semester. It's Friday evening, the sun already setting, the room growing darker by the minute.

You only saw Robin briefly in class today. She didn't sit next to you—took a seat three rows ahead instead, on the opposite side of the lecture hall. But you could see her from where you were sitting. Could see her leg bouncing incessantly, the rapid tap-tap-tap of her pencil against her notebook, the frantic scraping as she took notes even though the professor wasn't saying anything worth writing down. She left quickly when class ended, gathering her things and disappearing through the door before you'd even closed your notebook.

Yesterday, Art History was cancelled. A note on the door said the Professor was out sick, class would resume Monday. You were grateful, relief flooding through you so intensely your knees went weak. You don't know if you could handle sitting in a room with Sammy, still with no answer for him about being his girlfriend, still not knowing what you really want for yourself.

You do know you want to stop being so lonely.

You let out a big huff, the sound loud in the quiet room, and swing your legs off the bed. You need to move, need to get out of this room that smells like Robin's perfume and your own sadness. You grab a jacket and head out, not really knowing where your legs might take you, just needing to walk.

There's a lot on your mind as you wander campus. Your anger at Robin, at Steve, at yourself. The sadness that sits heavy in your chest like a stone you swallowed and can't cough up. You wonder how Robin is really doing, not knowing how she's dealing with the breakup with Nancy beyond the bouncing leg and frantic note-taking. If Eddie and Polly are going strong, if anything changed when they came back to school after Miami, if they're actually together now or still dancing around it.

What the rest of the trip was like for everyone after you left. If Steve's test went well yesterday. If he actually wanted to drop out or if that was the alcohol and despair talking.

And of course—pathetically, predictably—you find yourself outside the Pike house.

You're still far enough away that no one would see you. Standing across the street, partially hidden behind a tree, feeling like a stalker or a ghost haunting the places you used to belong. You're looking at the window to Steve's room. It's dark, the curtains closed, no light bleeding through the edges.

And you know then that it doesn't matter what you're thinking or feeling or wanting. Now that Steve knows you don't love him—that you lied and told him you don't feel that way—he's probably moved on already. Out with Robin and Eddie somewhere, maybe with another girl, some new conquest to ruin with his lies and rules and that fake relationship he's trapped in.

Forcing her to play along too.

And that's when you realize it.

You're done being the secret. Done being the exception that isn't really an exception. Done waiting for something that will never happen.

It doesn't take long to walk to Alpha Tau. The house is quieter than Pike usually is—no party tonight, just the regular sounds of college guys living together. Video games from somewhere upstairs, someone's stereo playing too loud, the smell of microwaved popcorn and cheap cologne.

Sammy answers when you knock, and his face goes through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, hope, caution, guardedness.

"Hey," he says carefully.

"Can we talk?"

He lets you in, leading you upstairs to his room. It's neater than you remember, like he's been cleaning to cope with stress. His bed is made with crisp corners, textbooks stacked in precise piles on his desk.

You both sit on his bed, and you smile at him shyly, gathering courage. "I've, uh... thought a lot about what we talked about. Before break."

"Yeah?" His smile is cautious, hopeful but trying not to be.

You nod, looking at the ground because you can't look at his face while you say this. You take a breath to steady yourself, pulling air deep into your lungs. "I don't think casual stuff works for me either. I never really thought I wouldn't want it, you know? And I..." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "I always blamed others for not wanting anything serious. But maybe it was me who didn't. Like maybe, I was too scared." You take his hand in yours, feeling his palm, the lines etched there by genetics and time. "I'd like to give it a shot. Us. For real."

His hands just feel like skin. Warm and dry and completely unremarkable.

Sammy grins, looking away and chuckling like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "I thought about you a lot over break, you know?"

"Really?" you ask, looking into his green eyes.

For a split second, you manage to take that green and imagine it like the green that swims around in hazel pools—Steve's eyes in certain light, when the sun hits them just right. Your heart thrums painfully.

Sammy nods, reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from your face. But it falls immediately back into place, so he tries again. Finally you laugh—forced, brittle—and help him, tucking it behind your ear yourself and looking up at him.

And in the second before he leans in, you close your eyes and pray that it will be him you see. That this will be enough.

"Can I kiss you?" He says your name softly, tenderly.

You smile through the pain blooming in your chest. Nod.

Sammy's lips meet yours—soft but chapped, tentative at first then firmer. You kiss back, closing your eyes, letting your lashes flutter against your cheeks. And suddenly you're hearing waves, smelling salt on skin that isn't his.

He's laying you down on the bed gently, his knee slotting between your legs, and your eyes are still shut tight. The waves are getting louder in your head, crashing and receding and crashing again.

You feel him creep his hand up your shirt. Feel him touch your bare skin—stomach, ribs, the underside of your breast. And you're still back on that beach in Miami, hating that you never got a chance to go in the water. You can still feel sand under your clothes except that's Sammy's hands, not sand. His rough calluses, not the ocean floor.

Sammy is kissing your neck now, and you're letting him because you want this to work, need it to work. You can't open your eyes because if you do, you'll see it's not Steve and the illusion will shatter.

You feel his mouth trail up—jaw, ear—and his breath is hot when he speaks, voice rough with want. "Say you're mine."

You're breathing heavy, chest heaving, and you're being swallowed by the waves, pulled under, water filling your lungs. "I'm yours," you whisper.

Your face is wet. You're crying, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your breath is shaky, your voice cracked and broken when you say it again: "I'm yours, Steve."

Sammy stills immediately. His lips slowly leave your collarbone, pulling back like you've burned him.

When did your shirt come off? You slowly open your eyes, and Sammy is sliding off you, sitting up, putting distance between your bodies. His jaw is set tight, muscle jumping, and you're crying harder now, hands coming up to cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you sob, voice muffled by your palms. "I'm so sorry."

You're shaking, and in your head you're submerging back under the water, lungs screaming for air that won't come. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sammy doesn't say anything. He sits next to you on the bed as you cry, not touching you, not comforting you, waiting.

When you finally collect yourself enough to breathe without sobbing, you sit up. You see your shirt on the floor and pick it up, pulling it back on with trembling hands. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, leaving mascara streaks.

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. "Can you please drive me home?"

Sammy laughs, it’s loud and sharp and bitter. "You think I'm going to take you home now? After you embarrassed me like that?"

You twist around to look at him, anger sparking through the shame. "You're embarrassed?"

"You know what? You're right." Sammy's voice is cold now, cutting. "I’d be embarrassed wasting my time on a guy who won't give you the time of day— but I guess I have been wasting my time, huh? Steve Harrington is a complete douchebag who cheats on his girlfriend and has nothing else going for him. He's pathetic. And if you can't see that, then you're right there with him."

You stare at Sammy for a long moment, really seeing him for the first time. The bitterness twisting his features, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he's lashing out because his pride is hurt. Everything twisting ugly. 

"You don't know him," you say quietly, firmly. "And you don't know me."

You scoff in disbelief, pushing yourself off the bed and jerking his door open. But you stop in the doorway, turning back to look at him one more time.

"And you know what else?" Your voice is steady now, powered by anger. "You suck at kissing."

Not your best moment, but you're pissed off again, and it feels good to say. You slam the door shut behind you hard enough that it rattles in the frame.

When you get back to your dorm, you think you'll finally be able to relax, to collapse and process everything that just happened.

But Robin is there.

She's sitting at her desk, music playing from her radio—Madonna, you think. You’re unsure, it’s too loud for the small space. The window is open despite the cool spring air, letting in the sounds of campus at night and the smell of someone's cigarette smoke from outside.

Robin looks so normal. Acting like she hasn't ruined your life. Like she didn't tell Steve you don't have feelings for him, didn't sabotage any chance you had at happiness.

She should have never told you Steve wanted to sleep with you. Should have never mentioned that he begged for it. Then maybe you can erase any memory of when he looked at you like you were it for him. 

You should have never become her roommate in the first place, never let yourself get close enough to be destroyed like this.

You walk into the room, toeing off your shoes and lining them up by the door. You feel the overwhelmingness engulf you again—emotion rising like a tide, threatening to pull you under. Your head is pounding, temples throbbing with each beat of your heart.

You say politely, voice tight, "Can you turn the music down?"

Robin doesn't hear you. She's focused on whatever she's writing, head bent over her notebook, pencil scratching across paper.

You count to ten in your head, trying to maintain composure, then turn around to look at her. "Hey. Can you turn the music down?"

Robin still doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up. She's not listening, not being considerate, and something inside you snaps.

You storm over to the radio, pick it up. The plastic warm under your fingers, vibrating slightly with the bass. Before you can think about it, you walk to the open window and throw it out.

You watch it fall, tumbling through the air, before it crashes against the sidewalk below with a satisfying crunch of breaking plastic and shattering components.

"What the hell, dude?" Robin yells, jumping up from her chair. "What—"

You turn slowly from the window, gripping the sill so hard your knuckles go white. You lick your lips, steadying yourself. "I went to see Sammy tonight."

Robin's face softens immediately, anger draining away and replaced with something like concern. "Okay?"

You put your hand to your head, fingers pressing against your temple where the headache is worst. "I tried to make it work. I really tried." Your voice cracks. "And then I realized I was only doing it so maybe you would stop being mad at me. So we could forget about everything and go back to normal."

You drop your hand, looking at Robin directly now. "Then I thought... I don't care if you're mad at me anymore. Because I'm mad at you."

Robin looks at the ground, jaw working like she's trying to swallow something bitter.

Your face contorts with anger and hurt and months of swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "But I don't want to forget what happened. You and Steve fucking hurt me, Robin. And I hate that I still care about you despite everything." 

You look away from her, tears streaming down your face again, voice breaking completely. "I'm in love with him,” your voice shakes. You saying it out loud still didn’t feel real. “I love Steve, and I had to lie to him because of you."

You're crying harder now, face buried in your hands, and you've never felt more embarrassed—breaking down like this in front of Robin, exposing yourself completely.

And then you feel arms wrap around you.

Robin is crying too, holding you tight, and you're both sinking to the ground. She guides you down gently, and then you're sitting on the floor together, Robin's back against your bed, you tucked into her side. She's petting your hair the way she used to when you were sad about exams or life in general.

"It's okay," Robin whispers, voice thick with tears. "It's okay. I'm so sorry." She says your name like it hurts. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

She takes a shaky breath, still holding you. "You're right. I've been selfish. And fuck, I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to become like this."

You lean back to look at her, both of your faces wet with tears, lips quivering. Robin wipes her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak.

"You were also right about..." Robin's breath catches, shaky and uneven. "About me being scared." She looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "I told you Steve was the first person I came out to, yeah? And I've told a few others since then. And I know—" She taps her temple. "—in my head, I know I like girls. When I look at Nancy, I definitely know."

She pauses, gathering courage, and when she speaks again her voice is barely above a whisper. "But sometimes I look at Steve and I hate myself. Because I think, why can't things be easy? Why can't I just like him that way and have it all be simple?"

Robin's hands are shaking now, and she clasps them together to still them. "I don't think I've been able to look in the mirror and say it out loud to myself. That this is who I am." She laughs bitterly, tears still falling. "So I clutch onto any bit of what could make me normal. Because I don't want people to look at me and say 'oh, there's Robin Buckley the lesbian.' I just want to be Robin, you know? Just... me."

She looks at you now, really looks at you, eyes red and pleading. "And I know I take it too far. Like telling Steve you didn't feel the same way about him." Her voice breaks. "I should have never told him that. When part of me did know the truth."

Robin wipes her face with her sleeve. "I saw you two kiss. At the lake during the camping trip. I was coming to see if you two were ready to go… and yeah. Then I saw how you looked at each other afterward… but I never brought it up because I didn’t want it to be a big deal. And then I saw Sammy in the library… and I pushed for you to consider him because then maybe you’d forget about Steve." She closes her eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. "I knew. I knew exactly how you both felt, and I still—"

She puts a hand on her chest, over her heart. "I'm so sorry for what I said at dinner in Miami. For all of it." Her voice drops to barely audible. "I love you. You're my best friend, and friends don't treat each other like that. Ever."

You pull Robin in for another hug, and this time you're not sobbing. You're holding each other the way you used to. Before everything got complicated, before secrets and lies carved canyons between you.

"I love you too," you whisper into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo. "I missed you so much."

Robin holds you tighter, arms squeezing around your ribs. "I missed you too. So fucking much. I haven't been able to look at the housing form because it makes me feel sick."

You laugh. It’s wet and a little broken but genuine. "I tried to circle 'different roommate,' but it felt so wrong."

You sit there together as the room grows darker, the only light coming from Robin's desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls and the moon filtering through the open window, silver and cool. Outside, you can hear crickets starting their nightly chorus, someone's car door slamming, the distant thump of music from a party several blocks away.

Robin is the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. "I don't know what to do."

"About what?" you ask, pulling back slightly to look at her face.

"About it all." Robin admits, gesturing vaguely at the universe. "Steve and our whole thing." She puts her face in her hands and groans, the sound muffled. Then she flops backward dramatically onto the floor, arms spread wide like she's making a snow angel. "And Nancy. God, I really fucked things up."

She stares up at the ceiling, and you watch her throat work as she swallows. "Why is my life all… kaplooey." She grabs her thumb and makes a raspberry sound with her tongue, twisting her hand to demonstrate something being bent or broken. "All because I can't just say I like..." She pauses, gathering courage. "Boobies."

She laughs at herself, high and slightly hysterical, and you can't help but laugh too.

Robin shoots up suddenly, her limbs moving awkwardly like a newborn giraffe learning to walk. You watch as she scrambles to her closet, nearly tripping over her own feet.

There's rustling and curses muttered under her breath, the sound of plastic hangers clinking together like wind chimes. Suddenly clothes start flying behind her—left and right, an explosion of fabric. All her dresses and blouses, the ones she's worn to family dinners and church and formal events. The ones that made her look like the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect girl.

She even goes to her dresser, yanking open drawers with enough force that they nearly come completely out. She pulls out a bra and holds it up like evidence at a trial.

"I've always hated this bra!" she announces to the room, laughing chaotically. "It literally makes my boobs itch and feel weird."

After thirty minutes, there's a mountain of clothes on the floor. It’s pretty much Robin's entire closet reduced to a heap of fabric and false identities. She's breathing hard like she's been running a marathon, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion and exhilaration.

Then she scoops them up in her arms—as much as she can carry, which is most of it—and walks over to the still-open window. She tosses them out without hesitation.

You watch the clothes tumble through the air, catching moonlight, before landing in a pile on the grass below.

Robin looks almost pleased with herself, hands on her hips, when suddenly her eyes widen like she's remembered something crucial. She runs back to her closet and grabs an armful of high heels—the ones that pinch her toes, the ones she can barely walk in, the ones her mother bought her for special occasions.

She does the same thing, hurling them out the window one by one. They land with satisfying thuds.

When she's done, she stands at the window with her hands on her hips, grinning ear to ear, breathing hard and looking more alive than you've seen her in months.

"Hey," she says, turning to you with that wild grin still plastered across her face. "How about we go get our hair done tomorrow?"

.-.-.-.

You don't know why you agreed to this.

You're standing in the cramped entryway of Bellini's—the Italian restaurant in your college town, the one Sammy had brought you to a couple of times. 

It wouldn’t be so daunting, but you knew inside was Eddie, Robin and her parents and… Steve and his own parents. 

It's been two weeks since you and Robin made up, but that doesn't mean everything is fixed. It's still fragile, still distrust, like walking on ice that might crack at any moment. 

Robin hasn't been hanging out with Steve as much. She’s claimings it's because of end-of-semester stress, all the final papers and exams piling up. But really, you know it's to be mindful of you. To give you space from him. Or maybe Robin knows she needs distance from him too, needs to figure out who she is without Steve Harrington as her defining characteristic.

You've started hanging out with Eddie again. Smoking joints with him and Polly in the back of his van, Eddie's arm draped lazily over Polly's shoulders, her fingers playing with the rings on his hand. He never talks about Steve around you, except for that first time when he'd said, "Am I allowed to say I knew you two had been smooching all along?"

Polly had smacked him hard on the arm, leaving a red mark. "Edward!"

Later that night, when you'd climbed out of the van to head back to your dorm, Eddie had stopped you. He'd had remorse written all over his face, brows drawn together, mouth turned down.

"Hey, look, I feel awful, man." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "Steve told me you thought it was him and Polly in the next room. In Miami. And I really wasn't thinking about what it could've looked like." He'd spoken fast, words tumbling over each other. "Steve was nearly passed out drunk that first night on the beach, so everyone took him back to the hotel. But then he started begging—said he couldn't trust himself being in his room alone. We didn't know what that meant, so we left him with Jonathan. And then Polly and I started talking, and she didn't want to wake you up because you weren't feeling well, and she needed to shower..." Eddie had looked genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Hot Shot. I should've thought about how it would sound."

Maybe you were really high and feeling generous. Maybe you were tired of being angry all the time. But you'd forgiven him.

And maybe a little bit of that forgiveness was for Steve too.

There was one night though—about a week ago—when Robin was getting ready for bed and someone knocked on your door to say she had a call. She’d come back to the dorm already tired and stressed, grabbed her shoes. 

"Steve passed out at Murphy's," she'd said quietly, not meeting your eyes. "Have to go help get him home."

You'd almost offered to go with her. Almost. But you were afraid of what you'd feel if you saw him, afraid you'd break whatever fragile progress you'd made in trying to move on.

And you were correct to assume you would feel... sick is the easiest way to put it.

When you open the restaurant doors and walk to the table where everyone is gathered, Steve is the first pair of eyes you catch. You realize you haven't seen him in weeks. All that distance you'd put between you hasn't helped at all. None of it, because seeing him now makes you miss him more, not less.

It's reconfirmed by the way your heart swells painfully in your chest, beating too fast, reminding you that you still feel it. Love. A love he has no idea you carry, that you told him doesn't exist.

Robin had invited you a few days ago. Pike was having a family weekend event, and it had turned into Robin's parents coming to visit, which somehow evolved into a planned dinner. Robin had asked if you'd come because her parents specifically requested it, but she'd understood if you couldn't.

"Now or never, I guess," you'd said with a shrug, not looking up from the book you were reading on your bed.

And now you regret it. You thought you could be strong. Thought seeing him would feel like closure, like proof you were moving on.

You were wrong.

There isn't any closure yet between you two. Mostly because of you, because you're still hurt by what he said, but also because you know you hurt him too. Lied to him in the worst possible way.

His hair has grown out again. It’s longer at the nape of his neck, pushed back and fully chestnut. If it weren't for the dark circles under his eyes, he'd look completely fine and normal. He's wearing a navy polo tucked into Levi's, hands folded in his lap, sitting next to Robin.

On his other side is his mom, and next to her is clearly his father. You'd only heard Mr. Harrington's voice on the phone that one time, but seeing him now, you realize the Harrington genes are strong in Steve. Besides the graying hair on Mr. Harrington's temples, they have almost exactly the same features—the same jawline, the same straight nose, the same way of holding themselves with careful control.

His mom is on the plumper side with a kind face that's beyond beautiful. You can see where Steve gets his hazel eyes—the same mixture of green and gold and brown that shifts in different light.

"Sorry I'm so late," you say breathlessly, clutching your purse. "Lost track of time."

It's not entirely a lie. You had been in the parking lot for thirty minutes, sitting in your car trying to convince yourself to go inside even though you'd arrived early.

Robin's mom stands up immediately and engulfs you in a hug. She smells like floral perfume and hairspray, and her embrace is warm and maternal in a way that makes your throat tight.

"It's okay! I'm so glad you could make it. It’s so good to see you." She pulls back but keeps her hands on your shoulders, smiling warmly. Then she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "We haven't even ordered yet. They're kind of slow here."

And of course, the only open seat is directly across from Steve. Robin shoots you an apologetic look. Her eyes wide, mouth twisted in a grimace that says I'm sorry, I didn't think about the seating arrangement.

You force yourself to look at Steve fully. He's already looking at you, and when your eyes meet, something passes between you. It’s recognition, longing, hurt, love, all of it compressed into a single moment. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, and you can see his hand twitch on the table like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

Your heart clenches so hard it physically hurts.

You sit down, and immediately Steve's mom leans across the table, saying your name with warmth and familiarity. "Right? I'm remembering correctly?"

"Oh, yes." You stand awkwardly, half-bent over the table, and shake her hand. It's soft with perfectly manicured nails painted a subtle pink. You shake it firmly but carefully. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Harrington."

You glance at Steve, and he's staring at the table like watching this exchange physically pains him. But then his eyes go wide when you turn to his father, plastering on your most polite smile.

Mr. Harrington holds out his hand with a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, only nodding in greeting. His handshake is brief and perfunctory.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrington," you say, and then because you can't help yourself, you add, "Steve talks about you a lot."

Mr. Harrington's smile shifts slightly. It becomes more arrogant, more satisfied. It looks exactly like the upturned lips on Steve that you fell in love with, except colder, more calculated. "All good things, I hope?" He glances at his son, who quickly averts his eyes elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the breadsticks.

You hum, pretending to think about it, smile playing at your lips. "Still up for interpretation."

You think maybe he'll get upset at that, maybe call you rude or disrespectful. But he blinks at you, surprised, and then cracks a smile that actually looks genuine—amused, even. 

Steve's mom chuckles, her laugh bright and musical. "We've heard a lot about you from Steve," she says, eyes twinkling. "He said you're funny." She gives you a dazzling straight-toothed smile that lights up her whole face. "You're so pretty." 

She says it like she's cooing at a baby or a puppy, and you feel your cheeks flush hot.

Your brain supplies unhelpfully that his parents only know you as Steve's friend. If you're even that anymore—you're not sure what you are to each other now. But there's a moment where you pretend this is meeting his parents for the first time as his girlfriend, and you could walk away happy that you left a good impression.

You look up to catch Steve's eyes softening as he looks at you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he's pretending too.

But then Robin's mother speaks, sighing heavily. "I still don't know why you decided to do that to your hair."

She's speaking to Robin, and there's clear disapproval in her tone.

For as long as you've known Robin, she's had long chestnut hair. Always silky smooth, brushed until it shone, falling past her shoulders in perfect waves. Always with neat makeup carefully applied—eyeliner precise, lipstick never smudged. Perfectly manicured nails. Everything about her appearance carefully controlled and maintained.

But when you went to the hair salon last week—after the great closet purge—Robin had told the stylist to cut it off. All of it. Her hair now sits above her shoulders in a choppy, almost boyish cut that somehow makes her look more herself than she ever has.

Her eyeliner is smudged purposefully under her eyes now, giving her an edgy look. Her fingers are painted different colors on each nail, already chipped from a week of wear. And after feeling guilty about throwing her clothes out the window—both of you bringing everything back up to pack away for donations instead—she'd gone shopping for a whole new wardrobe.

She's wearing a striped green sweater tucked into her jeans tonight. But it's not the clothes that are different. It's like she cut off the strings of whatever puppeteer was controlling her. She slouches now, lets her limbs drape over furniture not in the careful, practiced way she used to, but naturally, comfortably. She's not pretending anymore.

She's finally relaxed. Finally herself.

Robin looks nervous at her mother's comment, but she still rolls her eyes. "Mom—"

"I like it," Steve offers quietly.

Mrs. Buckley waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, Steve, you're always such a sweetheart. But you don't have to like it because you're her boyfriend."

"I'm not."

Everyone's heads snap toward Steve. Eyebrows furrow. Even your eyes go wide, and you can feel your face betray you—hopeful, desperately hopeful that this means what you think it means. You look at Robin, wondering if they finally ended their fake relationship.

Steve clears his throat, seeming to realize how that sounded. He straightens in his chair. "I meant that I'm not saying that because I'm her boyfriend." He reaches over and squeezes Robin's hand on the table, the gesture practiced and familiar. "I like it because it's her."

Robin and Steve share a look, something passing between them that speaks of years of friendship, of secrets shared, of unconditional support. Robin smiles at him, and it's genuine and grateful.

Both of their mothers look at each other with matching expressions—bottom lips puckered, hands coming up to rest over their hearts in some universal salute of mothers who think they're witnessing true love. Their fathers maintain neutral, stony faces, both distantly clinking their whiskey glasses together in masculine solidarity.

You know you're looking at them with a mixture of sadness and fondness, unable to hide it from your face. They're so good at this—at playing the perfect couple, at making everyone believe it's real.

Eddie, who is normally loud and constantly talking, squeezes your hand under the table. His palm is rough from guitar strings and calluses, familiar and grounding. You look up at him and see his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed.

You want to laugh. He's mentioned before that parents make him nervous, that authority figures in general stress him out. No wonder he's been silent this entire time, he’s high off his ass from weed and anxiety.

Finally, the food arrives—steaming plates of pasta and chicken parmesan and breadsticks that smell like garlic and butter. The waiter sets everything down with practiced efficiency.

It's mostly the adults talking after that. Mr. Harrington discussing work, Mrs. Buckley sharing updates about people from Hawkins you don't know. Eddie hums beside you, a tuneless sound that you recognize as his anxious tic. Robin eats her food in a hurry like it might disappear if she doesn't consume it fast enough.

You catch Steve slipping his hand under the table, probably settling it on Robin's restless leg. You know she's bouncing her knee because occasionally the table shakes slightly when her knee comes up too high, jostling the water glasses.

Steve is picking at his food, barely eating. You try your best not to watch him, but you fail repeatedly. And he's doing the same thing, both of you stealing glances, eyes meeting briefly before darting back to your plates.

Robin's dad speaks, breaking the cycle. "Steve, Robin tells me you passed your College of Education entrance exam."

You can't stop the words before they burst out. "Wait, really?" You're smiling, genuine and wide and pleased for him.

Steve looks at you, and his cheeks dust pink. He's smiling too, eyes twinkling in a way you haven't seen in weeks. He nods, ducking his head slightly. "Uh, yeah." It comes out shy, and he glances back at Robin's dad. "I'll be officially majoring in kinesiology with education studies."

You notice Mr. Harrington taking another long drink of his whiskey, jaw tight.

But Mrs. Harrington beams, her whole face lighting up with maternal pride. "We're so proud of him." She leans over and smacks a big kiss on Steve's cheek, leaving a lipstick mark.

Steve laughs awkwardly, squirming away. "Ma," he complains, but there's a huge smile on his face. He takes his napkin and wipes the lipstick off his cheek, but his eyes catch yours again across the table.

You share another smile, and it feels like something precious and fragile, a moment of connection in the midst of all this pretending.

Mr. Harrington grumbles into his glass, "Well, Harold, I guess you'll need to start supporting those bills on giving teachers higher pay."

It's meant to be a joke, but the tone is bitter, cutting. The table becomes tense, conversation dying mid-word.

"Daniel," Mrs. Harrington warns, voice sharp. "Stop it."

Steve looks deflated, shoulders slouching inward, jaw ticking with tension. All the joy from a moment ago drains from his face.

Mr. Buckley chuckles, oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I guess I can catch up with the times—women making more money than their husbands and all that." He points his fork at Mr. Harrington. "But don't go telling the men at the club I've gone soft and switched over to the Democrats."

They laugh loudly, too loud, the sound forced and uncomfortable.

Robin, Steve, you, and Eddie all cringe simultaneously, sharing a look of mutual mortification.

Eddie speaks up, and Steve already looks like he's regretting every decision that led to this moment. "You know," Eddie says, eyes glassy and red, words coming out slower than usual, "teachers are like... the foundation of society, man. They're like..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "They're like the roots of a tree. And we're all the branches. Or maybe they're the branches and we're the leaves? I forget how trees work." He takes a bite of his pasta. "But they're important. Very important. Essential, even."

There's a moment of silence.

"Thank you, Eddie," Steve says flatly, rubbing his face with both hands.

The waiter comes by with a water pitcher, moving around the table to fill glasses. Mrs. Buckley clears her throat. "So, have you two discussed the timeline of when you're going to propose? Since Robin is considering law school?"

"Uh..." Robin and Steve say in unison.

"Are you thinking about eventually moving back to Hawkins?" Mrs. Buckley continues, not noticing their discomfort.

"Yes," Steve says surely, at the exact same moment Robin says, "No."

They look at each other, and the tension ratchets up another notch.

"We're still talking things through," Steve says slowly, carefully, like he's defusing a bomb.

Robin looks at her plate, sliding her fork through the remnants of spaghetti sauce, creating patterns in the red.

Mr. Harrington blows air through his nose in obvious disapproval. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, nodding at the waiter after his glass is filled. "This is why I told you decisions like that needed to be discussed thoroughly before making them." His voice is hard, disappointed. "It'd be different if you'd just met the girl. But you two have been together for years and have always planned on getting married. Is this really the first time you're talking about it?"

You make awkward eye contact with the waiter, who looks like he wishes he could disappear. You mouth sorry at him.

Eddie takes a huge bite of his food and announces to himself, but loudly enough that everyone hears. "I never thought I'd like zucchini."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow! Hot Shot," he whines, rubbing his side.

Everyone ignores it. Mrs. Buckley speaks, her voice soothing and placating. "Oh, they're still young, Danny. They'll figure it out. Harold and I didn't have it all planned out when we got married either." She smiles at Robin and Steve. "Besides, Robin loves Steve and knows that at the end of the day, he'll know what's best for them."

Suddenly, Eddie, still parading his fork with a piece of zucchini speared on it, accidentally knocks into the waiter's hand as he's filling Eddie's glass. The glass tips, falls, hits your glass, and water pours all over your lap.

You make an "oomph" sound as cold water soaks through your jeans, but you can't concentrate on the discomfort because you see Steve immediately scoot his chair back, eyes full of concern like you've been seriously hurt and he's about to climb over the table to get to you.

"You okay?" he asks, voice urgent.

You look at him, and the concern on his face makes your chest tight. Then you glance at Robin, who looks defeated and guilty, staring at her plate like she wishes she could disappear into it. Then you see the adults all looking at you, and the waiter is next to you apologizing profusely, his face red with embarrassment as he rushes off to get napkins.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You manage a smile, trying to be reassuring. "It's water."

He doesn't move at first, still half-standing, scanning you like he's checking for injuries. Only when you nod again does he sit back down, but his hands remain on the edge of the table, ready to jump up again if needed.

You and Steve can't stop looking at each other now. Your eyes feel like they're about to burn with tears, from embarrassment, from longing for the boy across from you who you can't have, from the sheer weight of everything unsaid between you.

You sniffle, thanking the waiter when he returns with a stack of napkins, dabbing at your lap even though it's mostly futile. Your face is heated with embarrassment and something deeper.

You notice Robin looking between the two of you, her jaw twitching like she's grinding her teeth. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they're glassy and serious. Determined.

She says in a hushed whisper, but loud enough that you can hear across the table: "Now or never."

"What, dear?" Mrs. Buckley asks, leaning toward her daughter.

You look at Robin, searching her face, trying to understand what she means. Tilting your head, Robin catches your eyes and holds them. You can see it there—resolution, fear, courage, love. She's telling you without words that she's about to do something big, something that can't be taken back.

And somehow, through that look, she's also telling you that it's going to be okay.

"Mom," Robin says, turning to face her parents. "Steve and I are not like you and Dad."

Mrs. Buckley laughs lightly. "Yes, I know you two are more modern and—"

"No." Robin cuts her off, voice firm. "I love Steve differently than you two love each other."

Steve's eyes go wide, lips parting. "Robin," he whispers, voice tight with warning or fear or both.

Robin looks at him, and tears are already forming in her eyes. But she smiles. It’s soft and grateful and apologetic all at once. She squeezes his hand on the table, turning it over so their fingers can intertwine properly.

"Steve was the best boyfriend a girl could ask for," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "He did everything I asked him to. Even when it cost him everything." Her eyes glance at you, holding your gaze for a moment before returning to Steve.

Steve turns to look at you too, something desperate and hopeful in his expression, before looking back at Robin.

"Was?" Mrs. Harrington asks, confusion clear in her voice. "Did you two break up?"

Robin sighs, and you can see her leg bouncing frantically under the table. She bites her bottom lip, takes a breath, and then says the words that change everything:

"We were never together."

"What?" You're not sure which adult asks—maybe all of them in unison, a chorus of shock.

Eddie leans over to you, whispering, "Is she really...?"

Your eyes cut to him sharply, silencing him immediately. He looks completely sober now, his usual grin gone, focused entirely on Robin.

Robin turns to her parents, and there's a sad but determined expression on her face. "Mom, Dad, I don't love Steve the way you two love each other."

"You said that already, dear," her mom says, voice tight with confusion and growing concern.

Robin tilts her head back, looking up at the ceiling like she's asking for divine intervention. Then she looks back at her parents, and you can see her searching their faces—hopeful, terrified, needing that approval, needing them to understand that she's still their daughter, still the same Robin they've always loved.

"Mom," Robin's voice cracks slightly, "I will never love Steve the way you love Dad. I will never..." She takes another breath, and you can see her hands shaking where they're clasped with Steve's. "I will never love a boy like that."

Robin is crying now, tears streaming down her face, sniffling. But she's also smiling. It’s small and fragile but real.

Her parents furrow their brows, confused. Then slowly, you watch understanding dawn on their faces. The creases in their foreheads smooth out, eyes widening with realization.

"Oh," is all Mrs. Buckley says. Just "oh," but the word carries the weight of revelation.

Mr. Harrington speaks, and his voice is sharp, cutting. "Are you saying my son has been your..." He can't even finish the sentence, disgust coloring his features. "What? Are you going to tell me he doesn't like girls either?" His eyes cut to Eddie accusingly. "Are you his boyfriend?"

Eddie chokes on nothing, nearly knocking over another glass. "No, sir! No! Absolutely not! Not that he isn’t my type—" He catches himself. “I meant that as—”

“Eddie, shut up.” Steve cuts in, running his hands down his face. 

“Yep.” Eddie agrees, shoving a mouthful of zucchini, chewing, with wide deer caught in headlight eyes. 

Mrs. Harrington isn't looking at Robin anymore. She's looking at Steve, who's staring at the table with his shoulders caved in, hunched over like he's trying to make himself smaller. She can see him rubbing his knees nervously under the table.

His eyes dart to yours across the table, and his expression softens when he sees you looking back. There's something there—apology, hope, love, all of it written plainly across his face for anyone to see.

Mrs. Harrington watches this exchange, and her face transforms. The confusion melts away, replaced by understanding and something that looks like sympathy. She smiles gently, reaching over to squeeze her son's shoulder.

Then she turns to her husband, voice calm and measured. "Daniel, I think you should pay the bill. And I think we all need to go back to the hotel and have a conversation. A real one."

Mr. Harrington looks more appalled at the idea of having to pay the bill than he did at the revelation that his son has been lying to him for over a year. He sputters, "Now? We haven't even had dessert—"

"Now, Daniel," Mrs. Harrington says, and there's steel in her voice that brooks no argument.

Mr. Harrington signals for the check with a tight expression, pulling out his wallet with sharp, angry movements.

Everyone leaves quickly, practically fleeing the restaurant while Mr. Harrington handles the bill. Eddie looks genuinely sad about abandoning his half-finished plate of pasta, reaching for it one last time before you grab his arm and pull him away.

Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, smelling like car exhaust and the Italian restaurant's kitchen vents pumping out garlic and tomato sauce. The parking lot is lit by yellow streetlamps that cast everything in a sickly glow.

Robin comes up to you and Eddie, and she looks completely frazzled. Her eyes wide, breathing fast, one hand clutching at her chest like she's checking to make sure her heart is still beating.

"Did I—did I do that?" She's looking between you and Eddie like she needs confirmation that what just happened was real. "Holy shit. I think I did that. I think I just came out to my parents at an Italian restaurant." She laughs, high and slightly hysterical. "In front of Steve's parents. And you guys. Oh god."

"I was honored to witness it," Eddie says solemnly, putting a hand over his heart.

You smile at Robin, chuckling softly at her spiral, then pull her into a tight hug. You never knew you liked hugs until you met Robin. It was a good discovery, finding out that physical affection didn't have to be uncomfortable or performative, that it could be warm and grounding and exactly what you needed without having to ask for it.

Your body feels warm and relaxed as you tighten your grip, holding her up while she processes what she's done, what can't be undone.

Eddie must feel left out because suddenly he's crushing you both with his arms, trying to pick you both up off the ground. You and Robin squeal in unison, half-laughing, half-protesting.

"Group hug!" Eddie announces, lifting you both an inch off the pavement before setting you back down.

"Eddie!" Robin shrieks. "You're going to break us!"

You're all laughing—breathless and giddy and riding the adrenaline of what just happened—when you see past Robin's shoulder to where Steve is standing with his mom.

They're by her car—a champagne-colored Cadillac that looks expensive and well-maintained. Steve opens the passenger door for her, but she's not getting in yet. She's looking at Steve with such gentleness it makes your chest ache. Her hand comes up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and you can see her saying something. Then her hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing.

Steve is nodding, listening intently. His shoulders are still hunched, defensive, but his face is open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.

He hasn't caught you watching yet, and you don't try to hide the fondness in your eyes. Don't try to school your expression into something neutral and safe.

Robin catches on to where you're looking. She follows your gaze and sees Steve with his mother, and she smiles, small and knowing. She shrugs, leaning into you conspiratorially. "You know, I think our relationship is kind of kaput now." She tries for lightness, joking. "He's fresh on the market."

You look at Robin, but you don't laugh. Can't find it in yourself to match her tone. You pinch your lips together, look down at the pavement where oil stains create rainbow patterns, and shake your head.

"Robin!" Steve's voice carries across the parking lot, breaking the moment.

Robin looks at you with that knowing expression again—the one that says she sees right through you, knows exactly what you're feeling even when you won't say it out loud.

"Go," you tell her, forcing your voice to sound normal. "I'll take Eddie home. I'll wait up for you, okay?"

Robin still doesn't look happy. That guilt-ridden expression is back on her face—the one that says something that was meant to be simple and easy turned everything sideways, turned it into chaos and hurt and complications none of you were prepared for.

But she nods anyway, then jogs over to Steve.

You watch as Steve gives you and Eddie distance, respecting the fresh wounds that are still raw and bleeding in all your lives. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he looks at you one more time, just a glance, brief but loaded with meaning, before wrapping his arm around Robin's shoulder and walking her to his car.

She leans her head against him, and they look like what everyone always thought they were. They are two people who love each other completely, who understand each other in ways no one else can.

The fact that it's not romantic doesn't make it any less real.

In the car, Eddie immediately reaches for the radio dial, turning it until he finds a station playing metal. The guitar riffs fill the small space, too loud, but you don't ask him to turn it down. He sits there pretending to play an air guitar, strumming along. 

You can't help but think about what just happened. Does it change anything for you? Does it change things for Steve? Robin and Steve are broken up—except they were never really together. So what does that mean?

Your mind spins in circles, chasing thoughts that lead nowhere.

You chew on your bottom lip, worrying the skin until it stings.

"Sooo," Eddie drawls out, turning down the music slightly. "That was pretty intense back there." He pauses, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I'm not sure." And it's the honest-to-god truth. Your thoughts are too jumbled, too complicated to articulate. "What about you?"

Eddie shrugs, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. "Finally," is all he says.

You nod, understanding what he means. 

Finally. Though, you’re not entirely sure how it ties into the future. 

A beat goes by in comfortable silence, just the music and the sound of your tires on asphalt.

"Have you forgiven him yet?" Eddie asks suddenly, voice careful. "I'd understand if not. Was wondering with all your staring tonight."

"I was not staring," you say defensively, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You were absolutely staring."

"Was not."

"Hot Shot.”

You huff, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I've forgiven him."

And that really is the truth. You think to yourself… is there such a thing as loving someone but not forgiving them? Can those two things exist simultaneously, or does one cancel out the other?

When you pull up outside the Pike house, Eddie gets out but then immediately turns around, motioning for you to roll down the window. You do, cranking the handle, and Eddie bends down, arms crossed on the window frame, smiling cheekily at you.

"What?" you ask, already exasperated.

He hangs his arms inside the car, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "What'd I tell you, Hot Shot?"

"Tell me what?"

"That you had Harrington all twisted up inside." He taps his forehead with one finger, grinning. Then he leans his cheek on his hand, sighing wistfully like a lovesick teenager. "I saw it coming from a mile away. Both of you. Just didn't think you'd fall this soon."

Your face burns hot, and you look away, trying not to smile. "Shut up."

"What did it for you, Hot Shot? What made you fall?" Eddie's eyes are twinkling with mischief. "Was it the glasses? I told him to be careful with those. Chicks can't resist a guy in glasses."

"Eddie, please go. Now. Before I drive over your foot." You're trying not to laugh, fighting to keep your expression stern.

"Or was it the hair? The tragic backstory? His encyclopedic knowledge of star facts courtesy of Dustin Henderson? He told me about your little date, by the way," Eddie starts laughing as you begin winding the lever to roll the window back up. He steps back just in time, head thrown back with laughter that echoes across the parking lot.

You flip him off before driving away, but you're smiling despite yourself.

And you think… maybe it was the glasses. Or maybe it was everything. 

Maybe it was just him. 

Steve Harrington, in all his complicated, messy, beautiful totality.

.-.-.-.

It's ten p.m. when Robin storms through the dorm room.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just rushes to her closet and pulls out her duffel bag. She starts shoving clothes inside with no apparent organization, just grabbing things and cramming them in. She's frantic, moving back and forth across the room, stopping randomly like she's forgotten what she was doing, then snapping back to attention and continuing her packing.

"Robin?" You sit up in bed, book falling closed in your lap. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Robin keeps shoving clothes in the bag. After a few minutes, it's like she's heard you. She perks her head up, face flushed, eyes wild and bright. "I'm going to Boston. To win back Nancy."

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. "What? What are you talking about?"

Robin runs her fingers through her short hair and starts pacing back and forth as she talks. The words come out rapid-fire, barely pausing for breath.

"Steve is driving me to Boston right now—well, not right now, he's waiting in his car downstairs—so I can go see Nancy. I never even got to tell her I love her, you know? I was such a mess back in Miami," She's gesturing wildly with her hands. "And tonight I told my parents about her. Everything. Including how much I love her. And they want to meet her. They asked when they could meet her."

"Wait." You hold up a hand, trying to slow her down. "So the conversation with your parents went okay?"

Robin stops pacing abruptly, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She smiles—soft and disbelieving, like she still can't quite process it. "Yeah. It went... really well. Like, too good to be true well." She laughs, the sound slightly manic. "They were mad at first, but only because I lied to them about Steve all this time. But then they said..." Her voice breaks slightly. "They said nothing is different. I'm still their daughter and they love me."

She swipes at her eyes, and you realize she's crying. They’re happy tears mixed with overwhelmed tears, all of it spilling over at once.

"My dad said he'll be okay. That he'll be there to support me and will deal with whatever the public says." Robin laughs again, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "And during all of this, all I could think about was running to call Nancy. But then I remembered—wait, Nancy broke up with me, you dingus." She smacks herself lightly on the forehead. "So I'm going to her instead. I'm going to show up and tell her I love her and that I want to be with her for real. No more hiding."

She zips up the duffel bag with a decisive motion. "I'm not sure when I'll be back. Maybe Monday morning if things go well. Or maybe never if they go really badly and I die of embarrassment."

"Robin, wait." You stop her, catching her arm as she reaches for the door. You smile at her. It’s genuine and warm and so proud you could burst. "I’m happy for you."

Robin stops, hand on the doorknob. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then turns to look at you. "You should come, you know."

The invitation hangs in the air between you.

You would say yes. You really would. Part of you wants nothing more than to pile into Steve's car and road trip to Boston, to be there when Robin tells Nancy she loves her, to witness what comes next.

But a larger part of you doesn’t want to. You can’t stomach facing Steve in the confined space of a car for hours, to sit in that tension with nothing left to say except what happens now? Where do we go from here? How do we move forward?

You shake your head, and for the first time in weeks, you don't lie. Don't make up an excuse about homework or projects or needing to study. You say simply, honestly, "I'm not ready."

Robin nods, understanding flooding her features. She doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. She walks over and kisses you on the cheek. It’s soft and quick and full of affection—then grabs her bag and heads for the door.

"Wish me luck," she says one more time.

"You don't need it," you tell her. "But good luck anyway."

And then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You walk to the window and look down at the parking lot. You can see Steve's BMW, the engine running, exhaust visible in the cool night air. Robin appears a moment later, tossing her bag in the backseat and climbing in the passenger side.

Steve looks up at your window, and even from this distance, you can feel his gaze. You step back into the shadows before he can see you watching.

The car pulls away, taillights disappearing into the night, carrying Robin toward her future and Steve toward... what? You don't know. Can't know until you're ready to find out.

.-.-.-.

News of Steve and Robin's breakup spreads like wildfire across campus.

It starts Monday morning. The whispers in the dining hall over scrambled eggs and burnt toast, hushed conversations in the library stacks, pointed looks and not-so-subtle stares whenever you're with Robin. Walking to class together, you can feel eyes on you both, hear the buzz of speculation following in your wake like a swarm of insects.

When you're in the dining hall, conversations pause as you pass tables. In the library, people crane their necks to get a better look at Robin, like she's suddenly become a celebrity or a curiosity. Even in your own dorm, girls stop by on flimsy pretenses—borrowing a pen, asking about summer plans— but really just trying to get a glimpse of Robin post-breakup, searching for signs of devastation.

Robin tells you that Steve didn't explain much to his fraternity brothers. Apparently, they all sat around the common room one night, and Steve had simply said, "Robin and I aren't dating anymore."

All the Pike brothers asked if he was okay, concern written across their faces because Steve and Robin had been together forever. 

And Steve had shrugged, said, "Never better."

His brothers took that as his asshole frat boy answer—that finally he wasn't tied down anymore, that he could do whatever and whoever he wanted now that he was single. You can imagine them clapping him on the back, making jokes about all the girls who'd been waiting for their chance, planning to take him out to celebrate his newfound freedom.

But you know what he really meant by those words.

Because yes, he can do whatever and whoever he wants now. But more importantly, he's free. Liberated from chains that had been binding him for over a year. It's like Robin and Steve had been handcuffed together this whole time, unable to find the key to unlock themselves. Maybe they never wanted to find it, never thought they could, never believed freedom was actually possible.

Until it was.

Most people are relatively normal about the breakup. There are the usual rumors circulating through Greek life. The whispers that Robin finally had enough of Steve's cheating, that she caught him with someone else, that the relationship had been dead for months. That he had enough of her not putting out. You hear fragments of these stories in bathroom stalls, in line at the dining hall, passed between sorority girls like currency.

When you see Sammy in Art History he gives you a soured look. His jaw is tight, eyes cold, and he deliberately chooses to avoid you at all costs. He probably thinks the breakup is your fault, that you're the reason Steve's relationship imploded.

Maybe, in a way, it is.

And that's something you struggle with. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, a constant weight you can't shake. Did you ruin Robin's life by falling for Steve? Did your feelings set all of this in motion?

Robin must sense it because one day while you're both studying in your dorm—you at your desk, her sprawled on her bed with a textbook—she randomly says, "You know I came out to my family because I was really ready, right? It had nothing to do with anyone else. Not you, not Steve, not Nancy. Just me."

You look up at her, startled by the unprompted statement. But there's a small smile on your lips, and you nod in acknowledgment. "I know."

"Do you?" Robin asks, sitting up slightly to look at you properly. "Because sometimes I see you looking guilty, and I need you to know that this—" she gestures around the room, at herself, at everything that's changed "—this is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You nod again, throat tight. "I know."

After a week of Robin and Steve being officially single, the vultures start circling.

Girls approach Robin everywhere— in the library, out on the quad, sometimes even in class. They always start the same way, with false concern and sweet smiles.

"Hi, Robin. How are you holding up?"

And then, inevitably: "So, I was wondering if it would be okay if I made a pass at Steve?"

The first few times, Robin just scoffs, collects her things, and leaves without dignifying the question with a response.

But now she has a new favorite tactic.

Like now, in the library. Amanda—the same girl who'd flirted with Steve at that party in the fall, who'd touched his chest and batted her eyelashes—is standing at the edge of your study table. She's smiling sweetly at Robin, completely ignoring your existence.

"Hey, I wanted to ask if you didn't care if I reached out to Steve—"

Robin's face immediately scrunches up, features contorting like she's in physical pain. She covers her face with her hands and starts shaking her head, fake sobs croaking out of her mouth. Her shoulders shake convincingly.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek hard to fight back your laugh, forcing your eyes elsewhere to maintain the illusion.

"It's still all so new," Robin chokes out, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't talk about this yet."

Amanda's eyes go wide, guilt flooding her features. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Robin. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have asked. If you need anything, I'm here for you, okay?"

Before she leaves, she glances at you. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, jaw ticking with what might be suspicion or jealousy or both. Then she hurries away, probably feeling terrible about herself.

Robin watches through her fingers until Amanda is completely out of sight. Then she drops her hands and laughs, eyes flicking to you.

But you only manage a half-hearted smile that doesn't reach your eyes, the humor not quite landing.

Robin's face falters immediately. "You okay?"

You furrow your brows, breaking from your thoughts. "Yeah. I know he's probably happy to have all this shameless attention now. I'm sure he's been having fun these past couple weeks." You brush it off, returning your gaze to your textbook even though the words blur together.

Robin sighs heavily. "Hot Shot, you know he isn't."

And you know Robin well enough now to recognize that wasn't a question. It was a statement. She's telling you something—something you already know deep down but are pretending not to know.

You're pretending Steve doesn't want to see you, doesn't want to talk to you. Pretending he doesn't love you.

When really, he's waiting.

The Saturday before finals, the fraternities come together to host one last end-of-semester bonfire at the dive spot.

Robin eventually convinces you to go, promising it'll be just the two of you and you can leave anytime you want. You don't hesitate to say yes. You need a break from studying, from the walls of your dorm room closing in, from the constant tension of avoiding Steve on campus.

So once Robin gets off the phone with Nancy—her girlfriend again, officially and happier than ever. 

The bonfire is already raging when you arrive, flames reaching ten feet high and casting dancing shadows across the cliff face. The air smells like burning wood and spilled beer and the lake water below, that particular scent of algae and fish and summer approaching. Music blares from someone's boom box—Journey or REO Speedwagon, something with a big chorus that people are singing along to badly.

You can hear the roar of conversation, the crack and pop of the fire consuming wood, glass bottles clinking together, someone's laughter cutting sharp and bright through the general noise. There must be fifty people here at least, maybe more, spreading out across the clearing and down toward the water's edge.

The last time you were here, everything changed. Nancy had kissed Robin. You saw Steve in a new light under the stars. You'd felt something shift that night, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet, and you hadn't even realized it was the beginning of everything.

Once Robin gets her drink, some mixture of vodka and fruit punch that looks radioactive, and you get your water since you're driving, you both start dancing.

It's free and uninhibited, jumping around to the music without caring how you look. Robin throws her head back laughing, short hair flying, and grabs your hands to spin you around. You're both breathless and grinning, moving without thought, without the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on you.

For the first time in a while, it feels like it used to. And you realize it's because there are no secrets anymore. No manipulation, no hidden agendas. Just you and Robin, best friends again.

The other night, you'd admitted to Robin that you miss Steve. You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them. Robin had climbed into bed next to you without a word, let you lay your head on her shoulder, and hadn't tried to pry or push you into being ready to see him.

She'd just held you while you cried.

You know you'll see Steve eventually tonight. You didn't expect it to happen so soon.

He spots you first, like he's been searching for you in the crowd. You feel his gaze before you see him, that prickle of awareness that makes you turn your head.

For the first time since their breakup, Robin doesn't leave to go hug him. He doesn't come over to kiss her cheek or wrap an arm around her shoulders. They only give each other a small wave of acknowledgment, friendly but distant, establishing new boundaries.

But then his eyes flick to you.

The firelight catches his jaw, illuminating the sharp line of it, the way his throat works when he swallows. He's wearing a backwards brown baseball cap, an old Hawkins High one you've seen before, and a plain white t-shirt that fits him perfectly, jeans that hang low on his hips. He looks so handsome it makes your chest ache. It’s that same feeling you get when you see something beautiful you can't have.

Your heart thrums in your chest, beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. You know by the look on his face, eyes soft and yearning and full of everything he's not saying, that he's thinking the same thing about you.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, and looks at the ground. Then he turns and walks over to where Eddie is standing.

You and Robin watch as Steve points his thumb behind him toward the parking area. Eddie, who's standing a few feet away from Polly, who's talking animatedly to a tall dark-haired boy, immediately searches the crowd until he finds you and Robin. He looks back at Steve and gives him a small nod, squeezing Steve's shoulder in comfort.

Steve turns around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, ducking his head, and starts walking toward the parking lot.

He's leaving.

You watch him go, taking a deep breath, your stomach twisting painfully. He's leaving because you're here, because being in the same space as you is too hard when you're not ready to talk to him yet.

Robin looks between you and Steve's retreating figure, chewing on her bottom lip. Without a word, she laces her fingers through yours and starts dragging you across the dirt.

"Robin, what are you—"

But she's not listening. She pulls you past the fire, and you feel the overwhelming sweltering heat hit you like a physical wall, making sweat immediately prick your forehead. Robin has long strides, moving so fast her short bob sways with each quick step. You have no time to ask what she's doing because she's already caught up to Steve, reaching out to grab his wrist.

He turns around, startled, and you catch the way his eyes are red-rimmed. Has he been crying?

His pink lips part in shock. "What—"

Robin brings both of you over to an area that's darker, away from the main crowd but not completely private. There are still people around—couples making out against trees, groups passing joints, someone throwing up behind a bush—but it's quieter here, more removed from the chaos.

She lets go of both your wrists, stepping back to look at you both with her arms crossed.

Then she looks at Steve and says firmly, "Ask her to dance, Harrington."

She turns to you. "And you're going to say yes."

You and Steve look at each other, then back at Robin. She crosses her arms, widens her eyes, and motions impatiently for you to get on with it.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, looking away like he can't quite believe this is happening.

You feel yourself starting to roll your eyes, ready to walk away because this is too much, too fast, too—

Steve grabs your hand.

It feels like your whole body sparks with electricity—head to toe, every nerve ending coming alive, tingling. He tugs you toward him gently, and that's his way of asking. Your way of saying yes is not hesitating to look in his eyes and place your free hand on his shoulder.

You search each other's eyes, not even moving yet. Robin is saying something—you can see her mouth moving, probably making some joke to cut the tension—but you can't hear it. Your ears are buzzing and your heart feels like it's been shocked back to life after weeks of barely beating. Blood rushes everywhere as you drown in his hazel eyes, those pools of green and gold and brown that shift like seasons.

Steve moves your hand from his, lifting it to place it on his other shoulder so both your arms are around his neck. Then his hands settle on your sides, just above your waist, like he's too scared to go lower, too afraid you'll pull away if he gets too familiar too fast.

And then you start to sway.

Unlike the couples next to you—grinding against each other, making out aggressively, hands wandering—and unlike the music, which is definitely not a slow song, you move together slowly. Carefully. Like you're both made of glass and one wrong move will shatter everything.

No words pass between you.

Robin is gone now, and you're not sure when she left. Probably slipped away as soon as you started dancing, giving you this moment.

Steve still makes no move to speak. His fingers flex against your sides when you step closer, closing the remaining distance until you're properly pressed against him. You feel the warmth of his soft stomach against your. You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, breathing faster than the gentle swaying warrants. If you were really brave, you'd press your palm to his chest to feel how fast his heart is beating.

Steve lifts one hand from your waist, fingers gentle as they brush your hair from your face so he can see you better. He tucks the strand behind your ear, and his thumb traces your jaw—barely touching, ghosting across your skin in a way that makes you shiver despite the warmth of the night.

Then he tilts your chin up with his finger so you have to look at him, can't hide behind lowered lashes or averted eyes.

His eyes are soft, vulnerable, laid completely bare. You see his throat working as he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

He says your name softly, reverently. "I'm so sorry."

You breathe in and then out, hating how easy it is for you to relax under his gaze, how quickly your body responds to his touch like it's been waiting for this. "I know," you say quietly.

He's still staring at you, and you wonder if all he can think about is the beach in Miami. The way you told him you don't love him, the way you walked away and left him there alone in the dark. Probably.

You know he's sorry. You can see it in every line of his face, feel it in the tremor of his hands on your waist. You know things can be different now—Robin and Steve are free, the chains are broken, the future is no longer predetermined.

You step even closer, hesitating only a moment before laying your head on his chest, looping your arms fully around his neck.

Steve goes completely still.

Then slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll change your mind, he slides his hands to your hips. His grip is firm but gentle, holding you like you're precious. You feel his nose press into your hair, breathing you in, and his fingers tighten on your hips in response to whatever he smells there—your shampoo, your perfume, you.

The music continues around you—louder now, something with a driving beat—but you're moving to a rhythm only the two of you can hear. Swaying slowly, barely moving, just holding each other.

You can feel it when his heart rate picks up, the thump-thump-thump against your cheek getting faster. It happens when you tilt your head to look up at him, and you find him already looking down at you.

His expression is so full of hope it breaks your heart. His eyes are searching yours like he's looking for answers, for permission, for any sign that this means what he thinks it means.

Your eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over. You sigh—long and shaky—and even though you don't want to, even though you could stay like this forever, you slowly break away.

His hands drop from your hips immediately, respecting the boundary, giving you space.

"Can we talk?" you ask, voice barely audible over the music and the fire and the noise of the party.

Steve nods, not trusting his voice. He gestures toward the path that leads away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

And you follow him into the darkness, heart pounding, finally ready for whatever comes next.

You end up at the swings.

The playground is abandoned this late at night, equipment casting strange shadows in the moonlight. The swings creak slightly as you both sit down, chains groaning with your weight. You plant your feet apart and sway gently, the motion familiar and soothing from childhood.

You can see smoke rising above the trees from the bonfire, hear the distant laughter and music and chaos you left behind. Out here, it's quieter—just the sound of the wind in the leaves, the rhythmic squeak of the swing chains, your own breathing.

Steve is staring at you. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you keep your eyes trained on the sky, trying to figure out what to say, where to start, how to explain everything tangled up inside you.

You want to be honest with him about everything. You don't know where to start, so you start with the simplest truth.

"I've missed you, Steve."

Steve's eyes gleam in the darkness, catching what little light filters through the trees. "I..." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. "I've missed you too."

You look over at him, smiling softly. He's just out of reach, so you lean over and put your hand on his cheek. He immediately melts into the touch, eyes closing briefly, like he's been starving for this and finally getting to eat.

"Steve," you say quietly, firmly. "I love you."

You nearly hear his entire being freeze and restart—his breath catching, his eyes flying open, the smile on his lips growing wider and more genuine than anything you've seen in weeks. He chuckles, and it sounds like relief, like joy, like he's been waiting for this since Miami. Or maybe his whole life. For someone to love him back the way he loves them.

He twists in his swing, chains tangling slightly, then reaches out to grab the chains on both sides of your swing. He pulls you closer, turning you to face him so you're looking at each other directly.

He looks nervous. So nervous his hands are trembling slightly where they grip the chains. He opens his mouth, then looks away, a blush dusting his cheeks that you can see even in the dim light. He takes a breath, looks at you again.

"Would you go on a date with me?" The words come out in a rush. "Like a proper one? Maybe before you leave for break? I could take you out to dinner or the movies. I don't know, I haven't—I've never actually—"

His face falls when you look down, pressing your lips together. Your breath comes out shaky.

"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, to not be a coward about this. "I love you, and I needed you to know that. But I'm having a hard time forgiving you right now." Your voice cracks. "And I don't know when I'll be ready."

Steve bites his bottom lip hard enough you worry he'll draw blood, but he makes no effort to move away or let go of your swing. His knuckles go white on the chains, tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.

"I'll do anything," he says, and his voice is steady despite the pain written across his face. "I know I can't make you forgive me, but maybe—" He trails off, looking at you with hopeful eyes, searching for any opening, any possibility. Then he sees your expression and understands. He nods, swallowing hard. "Okay."

That's all he says. Just "okay." But it's not the angry, bitter okay from before. It's disappointment and acceptance and resignation all wrapped up in two syllables.

You put your hand on his knee, feeling the muscle tense under your palm. "We can start by being friends again," you suggest. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's a contradiction, but even though you don't know if you can be with him the way you want to, you don't want a life without him in it. Even if it means he's only a friend.

Steve thinks for a moment, jaw working, before offering a sad smile. His eyebrows twitch with the effort of holding his expression together. "I can do..." He pauses, and you can see him forcing the word out. "That."

The hesitation tells you it probably tastes wrong on his tongue, that part of him doesn't mean it. But just like you, if this is how you can be in each other's lives, he'll take it.

"Okay then." You hold out your hand formally, like you're sealing a business deal. "Friends."

Steve lets go of one side of your swing, making you sway slightly, then grabs your hand. He shakes it slowly, deliberately, and his thumb brushes across your knuckles in a way that feels anything but friendly.

Neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "Friends."

After a moment, Steve lets go of your swing entirely and you both turn to face forward, staring out at the darkness. The silence stretches between you—not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with everything you're not saying.

Another beat goes by, and you start to move, ready to stand. "I think I'm going to go find Robin now."

"Wait," Steve says quickly.

You stop, turning to look at him.

His eyes widen when he realizes he actually needs to say something now, needs a reason for stopping you. He awkwardly clears his throat. "I, uh..." He sighs, adjusting the cap on his head, running a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. His curls shoot back out. "Do you mind if we sit here for a bit longer?"

You look at him—really look at him. At the vulnerability in his expression, the way he's asking for just a few more minutes of your time like it's a precious gift he doesn't deserve.

You settle back into your swing. "Yeah. Okay."

So you sit there together in the darkness, not speaking. Just the creak of the swings and the distant sounds of the party and your own breathing. The moon filters through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across both of you.

It's not everything. It's not what either of you wants. But for now, sitting on swings in the dark with someone you love who loves you back, it's enough.

.-.-.-.

Robin and you are hugging in your dorm room, arms wrapped tight around each other.

It's move-out day. Finals are done—finished yesterday with your Art History exam that you're pretty sure you aced despite everything. Summer break officially starts tomorrow, and you're driving back home as soon as you take the last box down and hand in your key.

There's not much sentiment or tears about the departure. You've already made plans to see each other over the summer—in a few weeks, you're going to Boston together to visit Nancy, and Robin might come see you at home after that. Or maybe you'll go to Hawkins, though that particular plan is still uncertain, still carries too much weight.

And then there's the promise of phone calls at least once a week. And the promise—made official when you both signed the housing form—of being roommates again next semester.

You break apart, and you grab your last cardboard box of things. The rest of your belongings are already loaded in your car, packed with the careful efficiency of someone who's done this before.

"Call me when you get home?" Robin asks, adjusting the box in your arms so it won't slip.

"Obviously." You smile. 

You leave the dorm, Robin waiting for Steve and Eddie to come help her load her things into Eddie's van. You're planning to leave as soon as possible, wanting to get on the road before traffic gets bad.

And definitely wanting to leave before running into Steve, even though part of you regrets telling him you want to be friends. But you know it's right. You know you need time.

Of course, as always, your luck runs thin.

You're going down the stairwell carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration as you navigate the narrow stairs with the box blocking your view, when you hear the door below clatter open. Quick footsteps pad up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

And immediately, his hazel eyes meet yours over the top of your box.

You have no time to protest before he's grabbing the box from your arms. "Here, let me help."

Then he's turning around and heading back down the stairs, leaving you standing there watching him go.

You take in his appearance as you follow—blue polo tucked into jeans with a white undershirt visible at the collar, his hair freshly washed and pushed back, and your eyes betray you by dropping lower to appreciate the fit of his jeans.

You follow him down the stairs, and you think he'll stop at the bottom, hand the box back, say goodbye. But he keeps walking. He only pauses for you to catch up, and then you're walking side by side through the lobby, outside into the bright morning sun, across the parking lot to where your car is waiting.

Steve opens your trunk and slides the box in with the others, having to lean on the trunk lid with his full weight to get it to click shut because it's packed so full. He chuckles to himself when it finally latches, grinning, biting his bottom lip, hands going to his hips like he's won a prize.

Then he looks at you, and you're smiling too because you can't help yourself when he's like this—boyish and pleased with such a small accomplishment.

You share a laugh, the sound bright and easy in the morning air.

"Thanks," you say.

"Yeah, no problem, Hot—uh—" He catches himself, stops.

You smile, tilting your head. "You can still call me that. I mean, it doesn't feel right when you don't."

What you don't say is that the nickname never really belonged to you in the first place. It was always his, and you want it to stay that way—only his nickname for you, something that belongs just to the two of you.

He grins, a little shy, ducking his head. "Right. Uh, well..." He clears his throat. "You excited for break? I mean, I know it's kind of already break, but you know. I guess, are you ready to go home? I bet you probably are."

You almost want to kiss the nervousness off his lips, smooth away the rambling with your mouth. But then your mind filters in the events of this year—all the hurt, all the lies, all the reasons you can't.

"Yeah," you say instead. "You?"

Steve shrugs, hands going back in his pockets. "Yeah, I guess. Probably working most of it. Not sure if Robin and I still have our jobs at Family Video. The manager there, Keith—total jackass, kind of hates me."

"I wonder why," you giggle.

He laughs, and the sound is genuine and warm.

Then there's another beat of silence as you look at each other, neither quite ready to say goodbye.

"Uh, Robin mentioned you're going to Boston together in a couple weeks," Steve says.

"Yeah." You nod. "I'm excited. Never been. And Nancy says she might introduce me to some people in publishing for an internship next year."

His face lights up. "Yeah? That's so cool." Then he pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, more careful. "Robin also said you might visit Hawkins too. If things work out."

"Yeah," you say, biting your lip nervously. You don't elaborate.

Steve seems to catch on to your hesitation, what you're not saying—that visiting Hawkins means potentially seeing him, and you're not sure you're ready for that yet.

"Right. Yeah." He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Well, I guess I'll see you then? Unless you have anything else upstairs you need help with?"

"Nope, this is it. I have to turn in my key, and then I'm all set."

God, now you wish you hadn't been so efficient loading your car if it meant you could talk to him like this a bit longer.

He nods. "Right. Okay." He repeats it like he's trying to convince himself. His face drops slightly, like he's thinking something over. Then, "Hey, I, uh... was thinking. Could I possibly get your number? Maybe I could call sometime over break?"

Your breath hitches, your brain scrambling, trying to remember which box has your notebooks and pens so you could write it down. But then you stop. You frown, looking at the ground sadly.

"I don't think..." You force yourself to look at him when you say it. "I don't want either of us to get the wrong idea."

You see Steve's face drop—another rejection, another door closing. But he doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That's cool. No problem." He takes a breath. "Well, I better go start helping Robin so we can get on the road soon."

"Yeah. Okay." You're gripping your car keys so hard they're digging into your palm. "I'll see you."

Steve's mouth twitches into something that's trying to be a smile. "Yeah. See you later, Hot Shot."

You watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, and you have to physically stop yourself from calling him back.

.-.-.-.

It's been two weeks of summer break, and you could not be more ready for Boston next week.

You've been out all day at your summer job—working retail at a clothing store in the mall, standing on your feet for eight hours, dealing with difficult customers and your manager who loves to micromanage. Your feet are killing you, and all you want to do is crash on the couch and turn on the TV.

Probably shamelessly turn on ALF, because Steve was right. It is a funny show, and it makes you laugh. And sometimes you pretend you're back in his room, holding his hand while you watch it together.

When you pass through the kitchen, you call out a greeting to your mom, who's making dinner.

She looks up from the pot she's stirring. "Oh, honey, you have mail. On the table."

You walk over, internally panicking when you see the official seal of your school on one envelope—probably final grades. You get ready to rip it open, prepping yourself for whatever's inside.

But then you see another envelope underneath. Green, not white. Your name sprawled across the front in handwriting you recognize, and your address beneath it.

You didn't think you were expecting any mail, but then your heart skips a beat when you look at the sender information in the corner.

Steve Harrington

You grab the letter quickly, nearly knocking over a glass in your haste, and run to your room. You shut the door like opening it in front of your mom would somehow make it more real, more dangerous.

You sit on your bed, holding the envelope carefully, running your finger over the ink. His ink. His handwriting—the same slightly messy scrawl you've seen on notes passed in class, on study guides, on the birthday card he gave Robin.

You open it slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear anything.

Inside are several pieces of notebook paper, folded neatly, and a photograph.

You look at the photo first, and immediately your heart beams, glowing warm in your chest.

It's the photo Jonathan took at the camping trip. Everyone standing together—Robin and Nancy with their cheeks smushed together, wrapped in each other's arms and grinning. Jonathan and Eddie with arms slung around each other, both making goofy faces. And you on Steve's back, both of you smiling so wide it looks like it hurt.

You hadn't realized in the moment, but in the photo you can see Steve trying to look back at you, his face turned slightly, and you can still see his smile. It’s bright and genuine and full of joy. Your eyes are closed from how big your own smile was.

You set the photo carefully on your bed, touching it gently like it might disappear, then unfold the letter.

Dear Hot Shot,

I was thinking about it. You never said I couldn't write to you. So here I am. If you don't want me to, you can write back and tell me to beat it. If you want to write back, then hey, I won't complain. However, if you don't mind, and I don't receive anything telling me to stop, I'm going to take that as the OK.

Jonathan came into town a few days ago and gave me this photo. He made copies for all of us but didn't have your address. Robin said she'd give it to you when she saw you in Boston, but I took the jurisdiction to do it myself. I hope that's okay. I can’t stop looking at it. I remember feeling nothing but happiness.

Not a lot has happened here. I'm ever so lucky and back at Family Video with Robin. Keith still hates me—today he made me reorganize the entire Horror section because he said I put "Friday the 13th Part III" in the wrong spot. I hadn't. He's just a dick. He also thinks it’s punishment putting me on shifts with my “ex-girlfriend.” So who has the last laugh now?

Max is good. She told me you called her the other day, which was cool of you. Then she made fun of me for asking if you'd asked about me. So I guess now you know I asked about you. Smooth, right?

I hope you're doing well. I hope work isn't terrible and that you're getting some rest. I hope you know that even though I'm disappointed about how we left things, I understand why. I get it. And I'll wait as long as you need.

You should know—I think you might be my favorite friend.

Yours truly,Steve

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SEASON TWO:

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user who are the parents of snoopy?

⤿ finnwolfhardofficial djotime is mom and yourusername is dad

djotime Maybe next season you'll post a nice picture of me

⤿ yourusername unless u die next season idk

sadiesink_ i'm in a yourusername photo dump i've made it😭

user season 2 out of ? with joe being featured

nattyiceofficial why is joe in time out

⤿ yourusername because he made my character cry this season

⤿ djotime That was literally in the script what else was I supposed to say

⤿ nattyiceofficial oh sit back in timeout.

⤿ yourusername stay there until next season joe.

⤿ calebmclaughlin Looks like Snoopy's staying with dad tonight...

SEASON THREE:

liked by maya_hawke, gatenmatarazzo and others

yourusername i was stuck in the fuckass scoops ahoy outfit all season so i might as well make a post about it... oh, well. if u wanna watch joe get beat up for a third season in a row, u know the drill😉

view comments?

user i can't tell if the writers are trying to get their characters together or that's just djotime and yourusername breaking character😭

⤿ user LITERALLY they have such chemistry i'll feel robbed if they don't kiss by next season

gatenmatarazzo Scoops Troop gather around!

⤿ yourusername yes sir!

⤿ djotime ✋

⤿ maya_hawke Here! (For yourusername)

⤿ djotime ...

⤿ priahferguson yessssss💜

user i'm SO obsessed with them

user "fuckass outfit" as if she didn't manage to pull it off for 8 episodes

user i demand we have this group together again next season (...with more steve and her character scenes... i'm not asking for much...)

djotime I've been promoted to 2 pictures in the dump this year

⤿ user and the photos are nicer, yourusername we're losing credibility...

⤿ yourusername i'm sorry it's hard to catch that pretty face off guard💔

yourusername deleted this comment!

⤿ yourusername i'm sorry, i'll take my job more seriously next season💔

⤿ user HELLO?

user so we're acting as if me and 3 other people didn't see her comment before she deleted it

SEASON FOUR:

liked by calebmclaughlin, josephquinn and others

yourusername what a whirlwind of a season! couldn't have done it without all my beautiful castmates, i love u all endlessly. one last ride together🤍

view comments?

user oh so she wants to make me cry on a random friday night

user wdym we have one season left... come back...

sadiesink_ the cutest

⤿ yourusername u get ittttt

user WHO IS THAT ON THE SECOND SLIDE

⤿ user her character literally wears that in the show so it HAS to be someone on set

⤿ user ...ever heard of people visiting their partners while they're filming

⤿ user god forbid a girl pretends yourusername and joe keery are dating

djotime Cool

⤿ yourusername cool

⤿ user OMG KISS

⤿ user ur so funny for this😭😭😭

finnwolfhardofficial yourusername Why are you taking pictures of Joe shirtless?

⤿ yourusername omg i'll literally block u

maya_hawke My favorite couple

⤿ maya_hawke Of friends

⤿ maya_hawke On set

⤿ yourusername maya my love i think it's best if we delete comments instead of trying to save face by adding more fuel to the fire😭😭

maya_hawke deleted this comment!

yourusername deleted this comment!

user maya tell us what we don't know!!!

SEASON FIVE:

liked by charlie.r.heaton, milliebobbybrown and others

yourusername and it's all over just like that. i can't thank u enough for the support u have given us over the decade and it breaks my heart that this is the final photo dump. oh, my beloved stranger things, u are so special to me.

so long, hawkins, u were terrifying don't get me wrong (!!!) but u were home.🤍🤍🤍

view comments?

milliebobbybrown just when i thought i was done crying

maya_hawke ❤️❤️❤️

user who else screamed when steve and her character kissed this seaosn

⤿ user i felt like i was intruding

⤿ user it was so ...intimate?

noahschnapp Love you :(((((

nellfisher_ thank you for making this experience the best year of my life❤️

⤿ yourusername oh nell ur so talented endlessly proud of u🥺🥺🥺

user DROP THE HARD LAUNCH

user get you a man who brings you flowers

nattyiceofficial memories to last a lifetime

⤿ yourusername i miss u already natty

djotime A beautiful performance from the most beautiful person❤️

⤿ yourusername oh, my joe🤍

⤿ user MY ?????

⤿ user WHY'S NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS

user not her hiding her boyfriend in the final stranger things post so we all forget to talk about it

yourusername steve harrington i miss u, u were so sexy

⤿ yourusername fuck wrong account

yourusername deleted this comment!

calebmclaughlin How did you get away with that comment yourusername?😭😭

⤿ yourusername i've never deleted something so quick in my life

⤿ user another day another yourusername comment we missed💔

POST-SEASON FIVE:

liked by djotime, noahschnapp and others

yourusername i take method acting very seriously

view comments?

user YOU'RE DJOKING.

user FUCK OFF

user HARD LAUNCH OF THE CENTURY

sadiesink_ the nonchalant post as if you didn't break millions of people's hearts

⤿ yourusername the first post of many i love my boyfriend

⤿ user HER. BOYFRIEND.

user am i dreaming or is that you harrington?

carabuono Such a beautiful couple. So lucky to watch you two fall in love.🤍

finnwolfhardofficial When can I come over

⤿ gatenmatarazzo Let them finish their hard launch and ask them later

⤿ gatenmatarazzo And ask them if I can join

⤿ calebmclaughlin Same

⤿ yourusername ??????

nattyiceofficial i've never seen you happier❤️

user i haven't recovered from their characters ending up together in the epilogue LET ALONE them dating irl😭😭😭

djotime I love you

⤿ yourusername i love u too

⤿ user KMS

⤿ user I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS

gatenmatarazzo When can I tell people that you two improvised the kiss this season

⤿ djotime I think you just did

⤿ yourusername hell yeah tell them i have no shame

⤿ user "improvised" as if it hasn't been named the best tv kiss on tiktok

liked by yourusername, carabuono and others

djotime I fell in love on set 10 years ago. Figured it was time to tell you all about her.

view comments?

user AND NOW HE POSTS ABOUT HER

user fell to my knees at the caption i'll settle for no less

user get married

maya_hawke You two keep getting cuter!!!

nattyiceofficial why's snoopy being squished

⤿ user FUCK OFF THEY DID NOT NAME THEIR CAT SNOOPY

⤿ user from naming their teddy snoopy to their shared cat i feel sick

⤿ user omg they're perfect😩😩😩

finnwolfhardofficial When can I come over

⤿ yourusername i know u didn't comment the same question u asked me on joe's account

⤿ finnwolfhardofficial Now that I know you're online can you answer me

⤿ yourusername idk tomorrow if u want

⤿ calebmclaughlin I'll be there then

⤿ yourusername U DIDN'T EVEN ASK THE QUESTION ????

⤿ gatenmatarazzo Ok I'll see you guys there

⤿ yourusername ur djoking

user reminder that we watched them fall in love with each season

milliebobbybrown this is the most adorable thing ever

yourusername joe i'm so in love with u

⤿ djotime I'm so so in love with you too

⤿ charlie.r.heaton But Stonathan is better

⤿ djotime Yeah definitely

⤿ yourusername oh

let me know if u liked this sort of post and i can do more bc it is so much funnnnn