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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Soooooo I'm in my slasher summer era after watching stranger things season three and fear streetđ«
How do we feel about a Steve Harrington and reader camp counselor little meet cute kinda like flirtyyy, maybe like a little bit of lifeguard Steve in theređ
camp nowhere
steve harrington x reader
desc - you were forced by your parents to sign up to be a counsellor at camp nowhere over the summer because they claim its great life experience. amazing. but.. it actually did turn out to be kinda amazing. thanks to the great kids, the lake with the perfect view, the surprisingly comfy bed and, of course, your brand new acquaintance steve harrington
val speaks - ughhhh obsessed w this!!!! camp counsellor steve is a big part of who i am i fear - anways i took it as you didnt want me to actually make this with a murderer involved.. but i could be oh so wrong n if so just be like hey i said slasher summer wheres the slash n i will cook up smth else queenie
this is also just my corny truth like i did try to keep it down but i cant
i also wrote this in like 4 straight hours w no breaks so.. yea apologies if its like wut and wow this many words in that time is lowk impressive for me
word count: 9.3k
I need hotch with angry bau reader đđ Iâm genuinely so pissed off recently and him calming me down would actually heal me
over the line
you and me both đŁ cw; bau fem!reader, established relationship, typical cm case descriptions, a misogynistic rude officer, hurt to comfort <3 wc; 1.2k
Youâd just finished another debrief on a case you already knew would be especially difficult. After all, it wasnât every day you were called out after only one victim; this one had been so brutal that nobody wanted to give the guy a chance to do much as think about making it serial.
Now, you were all gathered around the table, deep in discussion of victimology. But despite the focus, you still caught the murmur of a side discussion to the left of you.Â
"Donât know why weâre even trying to find this guy. Way she was flirting, sounds like she had it coming." One of the officers snickered under his breath, muttering to his colleague. He got a laugh in response. A laugh. Un-fucking-believable.Â
You were already in a bad mood hearing about the case on the jet, but rehashing it brought an even sicker feeling to your stomach. It didnât help that your features left you a practical mirror image to the victim. It may have well been you plastered up on that board.Â
You turned towards the officer, your expression full of shock and disdain. "What did you just say?"
Sharing a glance with his friend, he realized he had two options: retreat and shut up, or continue to be an asshole. Clearly he chose the latter, the option that fed his ego. âI said she had it coming. Look at her,â he added, gesturing towards the table with open disgust.
The crime scene photos. The victim bound and mutilated. The defense marks were clear as day, painting the image of her struggle in your mind as if youâd watched it happen right in front of you.
"She had it coming." You repeated, taking an authoritative, threatening step towards him. The rest of the group fell silent, their attention snapping to you. "You think she asked for this to happen? Is that what you think?"
marina saying tv taught me how to feel now real life has no appeal is more profound than whatever these post modernist scholars have to say about media
the thing we grow into - rewrite series masterlist
steve harrington x fem!reader
status: COMPLETED
summary: you have been jonathan byersâ closest friend since childhood, making the byers family feel like your own. when will disappears, you are pulled into the growing mystery surrounding hawkins, determined to help find him no matter the cost. The last person you expect to rely on is steve harrington â the same boy you've spent years resenting for how he treated jonathan. but as the dangers facing hawkins grow and loyalties begin to shift, hatred slowly gives way to understanding, and something far more complicated begins to form between them.
warnings: slow slow slow burn, 'strangers' to enemies to lovers, potential smut much further down the track, cursing, average stranger things violence, angst (will add more warnings when necessary)
note: I have been reading @snoopyracing and @angelicblondie 's series that follow along with the entire stranger things plot lines and have become OBSESSED with their work, to the point where I would like to give it a go myself. so I am rewriting a reader insert into the entirety of stranger things plot! big shout out to both of them and everyone who has done this. I hope I do it justice and you all enjoy <3 and message me if youâd like to be added to the taglist
AO3 link
---------------

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âmy wife?â
spencer reid x wife!reader
summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed â messy, exhausting, emotionally draining â but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
âAlright,â Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. âWe deserve a drink. Real one. Not whateverâs been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.â
Emily snorts. âSeconded.â
âThirded,â JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesnât look up at first. Heâs reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when heâs trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. âOne hour. Then home.â
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. âYou in, Pretty Boy?â
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered heâs in a room full of people.
âOh, um.â He glances at his watch. âI actually should probably head home.â
Morgan frowns dramatically. âSince when do you skip celebratory drinks?â
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
âMy wife doesnât love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.â
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morganâs smile drops.
ââŠYour what?â he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, âMy wife.â
Morgan stands up fully now. âYour what?â
Spencer looks genuinely confused. âMy wife? Why are you repeating it like that?â
âReid,â Emily says slowly, âyou donât have a wife.â
Spencer stares at her, âYes, I do.â
JJâs eyebrows shoot up. âSince when?â
Spencerâs forehead creases like theyâre the ones being ridiculous, âSince 2012.â
Morganâs mouth actually falls open. âTwo thousand andâ Reid that was years ago.â
âYes,â Spencer says patiently. âThatâs generally how time works.â
âSpencer,â JJ says gently, âwe would know if you were married.â
Spencerâs lips press together in mild disbelief, âI assumed you did know.â
âHow?â Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. âI wear a ring?â
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. âYouâre serious.â
Spencer exhales softly. âOf course Iâm serious. Why would I joke about that?â
Morgan runs a hand over his head. âOkay, okay. Hold up. Youâre married. To who?â
Spencerâs expression shifts immediately. Softens almost.
Like someone turned down all his sharp edges.
âHer name is Y/N.â
The way he says it makes the room feel smaller somehow. More intimate.
JJ tilts her head. âYouâve never mentioned her.â
Spencer hesitates.
And for the first time, he looks a little unsure, âI⊠didnât think it was relevant to work.â
Morgan stares at him. âReid, we share everything here.â
Spencerâs voice goes quiet but steady. âNot everything.â
Thereâs weight there.
Hotch, whoâs been silent this entire time, studies him carefully. âSheâs not in the Bureau.â
âNo,â Spencer says quickly. âSheâs not. Sheâs⊠normal. Civilian.â
Emily crosses her arms. âSo let me get this straight. Youâve been married for over a decade and weâve never met her?â
Spencer blinks. âWell⊠yes.â
Morgan points at him. âThatâs insane.â
Spencer looks offended. âItâs not insane.â
âItâs a little insane,â JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way theyâve never seen before.
âSheâs not a secret,â he insists. âI just⊠I donât bring her into this.â
Morgan narrows his eyes. âWhy not?â
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
âBecause this job takes things.â
The room stills.
âShe met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the⊠really bad stuff.â He swallows. âSheâs seen what this job does. To all of us.â
Emilyâs expression softens.
Spencer continues.
âShe was there when I couldnât sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldnât get the images out of my head.â
JJâs eyes glisten.
âShe was there when my momâs condition got worse. When I didnât know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.â
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
âAnd when Iââ
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
âWhen I was in prison,â he finishes softly, âshe visited every week. Even when I told her not to.â
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencerâs voice steadies, âShe wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that Iâd come home.â
Morganâs teasing expression is completely gone now.
âShe kept our apartment exactly the same,â Spencer continues, almost like heâs replaying it in his mind. âShe said she didnât want me walking into something unfamiliar.â
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, âSheâs been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who canât always leave work at work.â
His lips twitch faintly, âSheâs the only constant Iâve ever had.â
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than theyâve ever heard him.
âWhy didnât you tell us?â
Spencer hesitates, âBecause this job makes enemies,â he says quietly. âAnd I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.â
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. âSo you just⊠what? Go home every night and we never knew?â
Spencer gives a small shrug, âYes.â
Morgan exhales slowly. âReid, thatâs not something small.â
Spencer tilts his head, âItâs not small to me.â
Thereâs no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
âShe makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows Iâll be stressed. She reminds me that Iâm more than my IQ and my trauma.â
His voice softens again, âShe married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. Thatâs not small.â
JJ smiles through tears. âDoes she know what you do?â
âYes.â
âAnd sheâs okay with it?â
Spencer nods, âShe worries. But she says sheâd rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.â
Morgan shakes his head slowly, âReid, thatâs real.â
Spencer frowns slightly. âOf course itâs real.â
Emily laughs weakly. âWe just didnât know you had that.â
Spencer looks genuinely confused again.
âWhy wouldnât I?â
And there it is, the quiet confidence.
He doesnât see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.
Morgan finally smirks faintly. âAlright, so when are we meeting her?â
Spencer stiffens instantly, âThat seems unnecessary.â
âOh no,â JJ says. âVery necessary.â
Hotch allows the smallest hint of amusement. âAgent Reid, youâve withheld critical information from your team.â
Spencer sighs. âIt wasnât critical.â
Morgan claps him on the shoulder. âYou being married is very critical, pretty boy.â
Spencer checks his watch again, panic creeping in slightly, âI really do have to go. She made lasagna tonight.â
Morgan groans. âYouâre leaving us for lasagna?â
Spencer looks at him like heâs stupid, âYes.â
The team bursts into laughter.
Spencer gathers his bag, still mildly baffled by their reaction.
As he heads toward the elevator, Emily calls after him, âTell your wife we want to meet her!â
Spencer pauses and turns slightly.
And thereâs the softest smile on his face.
âIâll ask her if sheâs comfortable with that.â
And then heâs gone.
â
Later that night, Spencer unlocks the door to your apartment quietly.
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce greets him immediately.
You appear in the kitchen doorway in his oversized sweater, hair slightly messy, smile automatic when you see him.
âYouâre home.â
Spencer exhales like the world just unclenched.
You step into him, arms wrapping around his waist without hesitation and he practically melts instantly. Every sharp edge gone.
âLong case?â you murmur against his chest.
He nods, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.
âI accidentally told the team about you.â
You pull back slightly. âYou what?â
âThey seemed⊠surprised.â
You blink. âSpence, you never told them?â
âI assumed they knew.â
You laugh softly. âOh my God.â
He looks sheepish for exactly half a second before he recovers, âThey want to meet you.â
You study him gently. âAre you okay with that?â
Spencer looks at you. Really looks at you.
âYou are the best thing in my life,â he says simply. âI donât mind them knowing that.â
Your expression softens completely.
You reach up, cupping his face, âIâm proud to be your wife.â
His eyes warm immediately, âAnd Iâm proud to be your husband.â
He leans down, kissing you slow and steady, not desperate, not rushed. Safe.
Because no matter what the job throws at him. No matter who questions it. He always comes home to you.
And now? The team finally knows he has something worth protecting.
there is happiness.
summary: It's been a month since you started living at Steve's house since his parents are never home. You have to relearn almost everythingâhow to use the washing machine, what foods you like, everything. But through it all you still have to learn to live with the silence in your head. word count: 24.6k+ pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader notes: and here we are, the last chapterđi've truly loved writing this short series, it's been so much fun and so different from what i've written before. i hope y'all like the last installment <3 warnings/tags: no use of y/n, memory loss, trauma, ptsd, learning how to live (is that a tag?), being haunted by a dead man aka henry, nightmares, some henry cameos (aka nightmares), soft!steve, yearning, fluff, slight angst, protective!steve, steve will literally go to the ends of the earth for you, protective!hopper, happy ending series masterlist
Morning settles into the house slowly, like itâs testing whether itâs allowed to be quiet now. You wake up in the guest room with the light creeping in through the blinds, thin gold lines striping the ceiling. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and Steveâs cologne, even though he doesnât sleep in here. Your clothes are folded on the chair instead of shoved in a bag like they were at first, and thereâs a stack of library books on the dresser that you donât remember bringing in but recognize as yours anyway.
You sit up, feet touching the carpet, and listen. The house isnât empty, you can hear Steve in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing, a pan clanking a little too hard against the stove. Heâs humming under his breath, something without words, the kind of noise people make when theyâre trying not to think too much.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: angst. sammy jumpscare... hate that guy. knew what he was all along. n e way....... yearning. COMING OUT SCENE! hopeful future words: 21k (now. u guys know why it took forever) summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harringtonâ who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy oddsâ is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: okay first off hello. hi. there might be a bit of errors because its so hefty and i couldn't catch everything!!!!! also, i hope the coming out scene is done okay. this is why it took forever too. i just obviously don't know how thats like and i don't want anyone thinking robin came out for other people. this chapter means a lot to me now. masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 17
You're not shocked or surprised when you open the door to your hotel room and see Robin standing out on the balcony, silhouetted against the night sky.
Polly must be somewhere else. With Eddie, probably, now that you know the truth about who's been making those sounds through the wall.
Robin is smoking a cigarette.
đđ đđđđđđ đđ đđđđđđ đđđđ đđđ đ đđđđđđđđđ!
staying friends is safe, doesn't mean you should!
summary: soft launching your relationship with joe on instagram throughout the seasons.
smau & masterlist
SEASON ONE:
liked by nattyiceofficial, djotime and others
yourusername our new show stranger things is out now and u should definitely give it a watch (joe looks like this the whole season btw)
view comments?
djotime No I don't ignore her
‿ djotime But watch the show still
nine facts, one lie
summary: It didnât matter that your best friend Robin claims heâs changed, you do not like Steve Harrington. He used to be egotistical, a player, an asshole â and youâre not in any hurry to believe heâs changed his ways.
Never mind that he seems terribly kind now, compliments here and there, or even that heâll pick you up from a date gone horribly wrong⊠[16.5k]
[one sided enemies to lovers â you hate steve and by god, does he want to change that] dedicated to my dearest kenny
Fact #1: You did not, under any circumstance, like Steve Harrington.Â
It doesnât matter what Dustin says nor the smug roll of Robinâs eyes, you knew it yourself even if no one else believed it; you did not like Steve Harrington.Â
From everything youâve ever heard about the guy, it was a surprise that he still had any friends â especially with the likes of your friends, a fact that makes you gag when Robin brings it up.
Robin, lovely best friend Robin, who completely betrayed you by associating herself willingly with Steve.
Since the beginning of high school, the two of you had been thick as thieves. Gossip was spilled between the two of you frequently, juicy enough to make even Carol Perkinsâ head spin â you talked often enough that it got you split up during class time constantly, giggles too loud to be contained.Â
Being at the bottom of the social food-chain âor maybe worse, completely unseen to your peersâ there was nothing like sharing snarky remarks between you and Robin about the dunderheads who âruledâ the school through idiotic popularity.Â
Robin had a particular dislike for Tina Burgess ever since sheâd started the rumour that girls in band were freaks in the sheets and would put out to anyone who would ask. You werenât sure what had been worse: the obvious dig that Robin wasnât getting any or the slimy guys who believed it and had the guts to ask.Â
You, however, distinctly despised the likes of King Steve.

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All The Quiet Things | Steve Harrington
A Steve Harrington x Reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | popular!reader & popular!steve | slow burn | seasons 1â5 | strangers to⊠| +18 EVENTUAL SMUT Summary: You are Hawkins Highâs resident "Golden Girl"âbeautiful, brilliant, and destined for medical school. While you never asked for the popularity that follows you, you carry it with a quiet, unshakable confidence, spending your time helping others and noticing the subtle truths everyone else ignores. You donât hate Steve Harrington; you simply refuse to be another one of his distractions, giving him exactly the weight he deserves and nothing more. Over the years, Steve finds himself constantly pulled back to you, forced to face the only person who sees through his act and challenges him to be the man heâs afraid to become. Series Masterlist: All the quiet things
Chapter 21: The Week Is Long
You see him.
Steve.
Ridiculous sailor uniform, sleeves snug against his arms, hat tilted back just slightly like he knows exactly how he looks. Leaning against the glass counter, elbow braced, hand gesturing animatedly. Heâs smiling.
That smile.
Dimples out. Eyes crinkling. Effortless.
Across from him stands the girl with copper hair that catches the overhead light like polished pennies. She laughsâbold, easy, familiar. She leans in. He leans closer.
Dustin starts talking again, words tripping over each other. âWe canâother side of mallâfrozen yogurtâice cream-adjacentâthereâs always optionsââ
He stops.
Because youâve gone still. Completely.
Your gaze doesnât move. Not blinking. Not wavering.
Steve runs a hand through his hairâautomatic. Unconscious. The girl laughs again, touching his arm this time.
Dustinâs gaze follows yours with reluctant understanding, tracing the exact line of sight as though it were a physical thread pulled taut between you and the glowing storefront, and he takes in every incriminating detail at onceâthe intimate angle of Steveâs posture, the subtle way his body is turned inward, the narrowing of space between him and the redheaded girl as if the rest of Starcourt Mall has politely dissolved to give them room.
âShit,â he breathes, the word escaping in a soft exhale.
The bell above the door of Scoops Ahoy jingles again, slicing cleanly through the thickening quiet between you like a blade wrapped in cheerfulness. Laughter spills outward, high and unbothered. A child demands extra sprinkles.
The world, offensively, continues.
You inhale slowly, drawing the overly conditioned air deep into your lungs, letting it settle somewhere steady and contained, and then you exhale just as carefully.
âI donât actually want ice cream,â you say, your voice feather-light and impeccably casual, polished to a sheen that suggests this is nothing more than a minor change of plans.
There is a fractional pauseâprecise, measuredâbefore you add, almost conversationally, âFrozen yogurt sounds nice. Healthier.â
Dustin, who had been mid-step and mid-panic, freezes as though someone has pressed pause on him. His eyes widen in disbelief, then narrow in suspicion.
You smile at him. Or at least you try.
âLetâs go get that,â you say, turning with deliberate grace, as though you are exiting a stage you have already mastered rather than retreating from something that has quietly struck you at the center.
Dustin lingers for half a second longer, glancing back toward the glass storefront where Scoops Ahoy continues in full theatrical bloom. âYeah,â he says at last, snapping himself back into motion as he hurries to fall into step beside you, his words tumbling over each other in an attempt at normalcy. âFrozen yogurt. Great choice. Very, uh⊠probiotic. Extremely responsible.â
You nod solemnly, as though he has offered a groundbreaking scientific thesis rather than a desperate attempt at emotional triage. âExactly. Good for gut health.â
Your stride remains steady and impeccably even. You do not look backânot even accidentallyâand the glowing neon behind you is gradually swallowed by the layered soundtrack of the mall.
Dustin trails half a pace behind, studying you with the anxious attentiveness of someone who knows you well enough to recognize the difference between genuine calm and strategic composure. He notices the faint tension in your jaw, the way the strap of your gym bag presses diagonally across your chest and how your fingers adjust it just slightly. âYou okay?â he asks finally, his voice softer now.
You give a light shrug, effortless and dismissive, your gaze fixed straight ahead. âWhy wouldnât I be?â
He opens his mouth to argue, to point out the obvious, to say something brave and loyal and probably ill-advised, but the words dissolve before they form because the answer is written plainly in what you refuse to acknowledge.
Behind you, inside Scoops Ahoy, the bell rings once moreâbright, cheerful, oblivious.
Steve looks up automatically at the sound, propelled by habit and customer-service reflex. For the briefest fraction of a second, through the shifting crowd and the glare of fluorescent lights, he catches what he thinks is a familiar silhouetteâa high ponytail cutting sharply against the neon glow, a flash of denim, the unmistakable posture of someone who carries herself like she owns every room she enters.
His chest tightens abruptly, his heartbeat stuttering into a heavier rhythm that feels almost accusatory. The redhead beside him is mid-sentence, animatedly describing something about lake parties and music that sounds carefree and sunlit, but her voice blurs at the edges, dissolving into white noise as his attention fractures and lunges toward the glass.
He leans subtly, craning his neck to see past a cluster of children arguing over toppings, his fingers tightening around the metal scoop in his hand. For a fleeting second he is certain it was you, certain he saw the exact tilt of your head, the familiar line of your shoulders.
And then the crowd shifts.
The corridor is nothing but strangers and fluorescent glare.
You are gone.
A twist of frustration knots low in his stomach, and he almost speaks your name out loud. But reality settles heavily back into place.
âIdiot,â he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible.
âWhat?â the redhead asks, leaning closer with easy curiosity, her laughter tugging gently at his awareness.
âNothing,â he replies quickly, forcing his shoulders to relax, forcing the easy charm back into position like itâs part of the uniform.
It had to be someone else, he tells himself.
You wouldnât come in.
You wouldnâtâ
He falters internally, the unfinished thought splintering.
Wouldnât care? Wouldnât notice? Wouldnât be affected?
The uncertainty gnaws at him with quiet persistence.
The redhead taps his arm lightly, drawing him back with a bright smile. âSo,â she says, eyes sparkling, âyou were telling me why butterscotch is an experience.â
Steve blinks, his pulse still thrumming stubbornly beneath his ribs, and reconstructs his grin with practiced precisionâdimples, steady eye contact, effortless lean across the counter, the full performance of summer-boy confidence.
âIt is,â he says smoothly, the words flowing with a little too much polish, âbold and unexpected. Kind of sneaks up on you.â
Her laughter rings out, light and reckless.
He exhales slowly, attempting to tether himself to the present, to the scoop in his hand and the customer in front of him. âSo,â he continues, voice steady despite the restless undercurrent beneath it, âone scoop or two?â
âTwo,â she replies with a grin. âI like bold.â
He smirks instinctively, but his mind lingers elsewhere.
The frozen yogurt place greets you with the subtlety of a nuclear-grade sugar detonation, all neon glare and aggressively cheerful pastels, as though someone fed a Lisa Frank folder through a nuclear reactor and decided to franchise the result.
You walk straight toward the counter without hesitation, your posture composed. âTwo,â you say to the girl behind the register, who looks approximately sixteen and profoundly unimpressed with existence. âWhatever has the least emotional baggage.â
She blinks at you with the slow processing speed of someone who did not expect philosophy to accompany frozen dairy. âUh⊠vanilla?â she ventures uncertainly.
âPerfect,â you reply without missing a beat, as if she has just recommended a fine wine.
Beside you, Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot. His gaze ricochets across the roomâmachines, toppings bar, exit signsâbut it keeps drifting involuntarily toward the mall corridor, toward the distant blue-and-white glow of Scoops Ahoy.
You refuse to look that direction.
Instead, you focus on the yogurt machine as though it contains the answers to something far more manageable than heartbreak or espionage. You concentrate on the soft mechanical churn, on the faint chill rising from the metal nozzle, on anything that does not involve Steve Harrington leaning over a glass counter and laughing at someone else like the world has always tilted in his favor.
Once you have paid, you select a corner table. You sit, crossing one leg over the other with elegant composure, and take a measured bite of yogurt, chewing slowly, as if time itself has agreed to wait for you.
You nod once, considering. âOkay,â you say briskly, placing the pink spoon down against the edge of the cup with the finality of a judge setting down a gavel. âTell me about the Russians.â
Dustin straightens immediately, visibly grateful for the abrupt pivot into danger that does not involve romantic problems. He leans across the tiny plastic table at the mall, knocking his spoon over in the process, eyes wide and urgent.
âOkay. Right. Russians,â he says, dropping his voice about three octaves like heâs in a spy movie. He glances over his shoulder at the frozen yogurt machines. âI intercepted a transmission,â he continues, lowering his voice even further, like the fro-yo toppings bar might be working for the Kremlin. âShortwave. Very advanced stuff. I translated part of it, but thereâs more. And it soundsâŠâ He swallows dramatically. âNot good.â
You take a slow, methodical spoonful of yogurt. âHow not good?â
Your tone is perfectly even. Calm. Controlled. Like youâre discussing homework instead of espionage. Dustin blinks at you. Why are you like this.
âOkay, so,â he says, dragging a hand through his curls, âone of the phrases wasââ He leans even closer. âThe week is long.â
You stare at him. Silence. Then, flatly, âThat sounds like a detergent commercial.â
Dustin throws his hands in the air. âI KNOW!â
A nearby mom glances over. He lowers his voice again immediately. âThatâs the point! Itâs coded. Itâs supposed to sound stupid. Thatâs how secret messages work. You think the Russians are out there saying, âHey comrades, letâs open the secret evil gate under the mall at 3 p.m.â? No! They say cryptic nonsense like âthe week is longâ and thenâ boom. International disaster.â
You sigh softly and resume stirring your yogurt, slow, deliberate circles like youâre trying to hypnotize him into calming down.
âAnd why,â you ask at last, eyes narrowing just slightly, âam I involved?â
Dustin shifts under your look. Itâs deeply unfair that you can dismantle him with one eyebrow.
âBecause,â he says, voice wobbling between confidence and guilt, âwe needed help.â
Your spoon stills. âWe,â you repeat.
He winces. âYeah. We.â
Your gaze sharpens instantly. âDefine we, Henderson.â
He exhales like a martyr stepping into battle. âOkay, first of all, I resent the toneââ
âDustin.â
You do not raise your voice, yet it carries enough warning that he visibly winces.
He throws both hands up in surrender, curls bouncing as he backpedals. âFine, yes, Robin helped. Robin Buckley. From Scoops Ahoy...sheâŠshe works with Steve.â
Your spoon slows in its lazy orbit through melting yogurt, hovering midair like a verdict waiting to be delivered. One eyebrow arches with deliberate calm. âRobin,â you repeat, as though testing the weight of her name.
âYeah,â he says again, bracing himself like he expects incoming artillery.
You study him in silence long enough to make him shift in his seat, your gaze sharp and measuring. âDustin,â you say carefully, âwhy did you decide this required additional personnel?â
âBecause sheâs smart,â he fires back immediately, defensive and a little too quick. âLike, annoyingly smart. And she works at Scoops. And she was available.â
A soft hum escapes you as you resume stirring, though the motion has changed, slower and more precise, as if you are diagramming a sentence rather than blending strawberry and vanilla. âYes,â you reply mildly. âI know Robin.â
His eyes widen. âYou do?â
âWe shared History one year,â you answer, tone smooth and academic. âAnd I saw her yesterday.â
His forehead creases. âYesterday?â
âWhen I went for ice cream,â you say, with such careful casualness it feels rehearsed. You take another spoonful as though this is the least interesting detail in the world.
Dustin stares at you, gears visibly turning. âOkay, well, thatâs not important. What is important is that she helped translate âthe week is long,â which, again, is definitely code because no one just says that unless they are either Russian or deeply dramatic.â
âDepends on the week,â you murmur without looking up.
He leans forward, exasperation written across his face. âCan we focus on the potential espionage?â
A faint smile ghosts the corner of your mouth before you smooth it away. âSo she translated that portion.â
âYes, and we hit a wall after that,â he explains, lowering his voice instinctively. âThe rest of the transmission is still sitting there, all cryptic and menacing. We need someone who can look at it from a different angle.â
âAnd you decided that meant me.â
âYes,â he says without hesitation.
You hold his gaze until he begins to squirm beneath it, then extend your hand with quiet authority.
He scrambles to unzip his backpack, nearly knocking over his own yogurt in the process. From its depths he produces a slightly battered cassette player and a thick Russian-English dictionary that appears to have endured at least one minor apocalypse. The spine is cracked, the corners softened, and the pages bow outward from repeated use.
You take the dictionary first, flipping through it with the focus of a scholar examining ancient texts, fingertips brushing carefully over Cyrillic script. âThis better not be stolen,â you remark without glancing up.
âIt is extremely borrowed,â he replies quickly.
âFrom Robin,â you say, lifting an eyebrow.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. âYes.â
You tuck the cassette player under your arm and cradle the dictionary against your chest with instinctive care. âIâll work on it at the gym,â you decide. âI have a break before my next class.â
His entire face brightens with cautious hope. âSeriously?â
âYes, seriously.â
You rise from the table and begin walking toward the exit, balancing the weight of potential international conspiracy with the same composure you carry everywhere else.
âThereâs something else,â Dustin blurts, lowering his voice as he hurries to keep pace beside you.
You do not slow your stride. âThere usually is.â
âItâs about Steve.â
Your jaw tightens, barely perceptible, a small fracture in otherwise perfect control. âWhat about him?â you ask, tone light enough to pass inspection.
âYou saw him with that girl,â Dustin says carefully.
You release a breath that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. You do not look at him. âI still have functioning eyesight,â you reply.
âItâs not like that,â he insists quickly, nearly tripping over his own words.
You turn your head just enough for him to catch the edge of your expression. âIt looked exactly like that.â
He shakes his head, curls bouncing wildly. âHeâs just distracting himself.â
âFrom what?â you ask, adjusting the strap of your gym bag with clinical precision.
Dustin gives you a look that is equal parts pity and frustration. âFrom you.â
You keep walking, posture immaculate, gaze fixed forward as mall chatter and synth-pop music swirl around you. âThatâs generous,â you murmur.
âHe misses you,â Dustin presses on, slightly breathless now as he matches your pace. âHe just hasnât figured out thatâs what it is. He thinks heâs mad, and since heâs Steve, heâs handling that in the dumbest way possible.â
You swallow once before responding. âWell, I believe he is mad.â
âWell, yeahâŠheâŠhe is,â Dustin concedes, âbut not in the way he thinks.â
You push through the glass doors into the corridor, fluorescent light catching the polished tile and storefront windows in sharp reflections.
âHe talks about you constantly,â Dustin continues. âMostly complaining, but itâs very detailed complaining. He remembers specific things. The way you phrase stuff. The way you look at him when he says something stupid, which, to be fair, is frequent.â
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth threatens to lift. âSpecific, you say.â
âPainfully specific,â he confirms. âHe just hasnât realized that missing someone and being angry at them can happen at the same time.â
You keep walking as though his words are not slipping beneath your ribs and settling there. âAnd flirting with redheads is part of that healing process?â you ask lightly.
âHe thinks it is,â Dustin admits. âI personally think itâs catastrophic, but no one asked me.â
You nod once, expression smoothing back into neutrality. âThen I hope it works for him,â you reply, tone polished and even.
Dustin slows a fraction, studying your profile with uncertainty. âYou donât care?â he asks quietly.
You answer without hesitation, the word landing with practiced precision.
âNo.â
It sounds solid enough to be true.
âIâll see you when Iâm finished, Henderson,â you add, already moving ahead of him, the cassette player tucked securely under your arm and the dictionary pressed close to your chest, walking with the steady assurance of someone who refuses to let heartbreak outrun her in a public hallway.
You do not trust yourself to speak again, not while Dustinâs words are still ricocheting somewhere behind your ribs, not while your composure feels like glass held together by nothing but willpower. So you choose the only option that leaves your dignity mostly intact, which is to keep walking with your spine straight and your expression arranged into something distant and untouchable.
Behind you, Dustin remains planted on the plastic bench outside the frozen yogurt shop, staring at the space you just vacated as though it personally betrayed him. The pink spoon dangles from his fingers, slowly dripping strawberry onto his knuckles while he tries to process the emotional catastrophe he has accidentally orchestrated.
To his left, the bright glass doors of Jazzercise swallow you in a blaze of neon and overly enthusiastic pop music.
To his right, Scoops Ahoy glows in aggressively cheerful blue and white, blissfully unaware of the emotional warfare unfolding ten feet outside its entrance.
Dustin turns his head left. Then right. Then left again. Then up at the ceiling, as if God might like to weigh in. He exhales with the gravity of a middle-aged man who has seen too much.
âI am absolutely a child of divorce,â he mutters under his breath, staring at the middle of the mall like it might offer legal guidance. âLike, this is joint custody with emotional alimony and alternating Christmases at Starcourt.â
A glob of melting yogurt slides over the rim of the cup and lands squarely on his hand. He looks down at it in silent betrayal. âFantastic,â he whispers. âEven dairy has chosen violence.â
He wipes his hand aggressively with a napkin, tosses the cup into the trash, and swings his backpack onto his shoulders like a knight preparing for battle.
âOkay,â he says to himself, nodding once. âTime to check on Dad.â
The bell above Scoops Ahoy jingles brightly as he steps inside, the sound entirely too cheerful for the mood he is carrying.
Steve is mid-performance. Heâs leaning across the counter toward a blonde girl, one hand braced casually against the glass display while the other sculpts a flawless scoop of mint chocolate chip with practiced precision. âTrust me,â Steve is saying smoothly as he hands over the cone, âthis one will change your life. I donât say that lightly.â
The girl laughs, twirling a strand of hair around her finger like sheâs starring in her own rom-com montage.
Dustin slips behind the counter, unimpressed.
âWhereâve you been?â Steve asks casually, not even looking at him yet.
âOut,â Dustin replies, voice low and edged.
Steve finally glances over but only long enough to clock Dustinâs expression before flashing the girl another polished smile. âCome back anytime,â he adds with a wink so deliberate it might as well have been choreographed.
She leaves in a cloud of perfume and self-satisfaction.
The bell clicks shut.
And the grin disappears.
Steve grabs a rag and begins wiping the counter in slow, deliberate strokes, scrubbing at a surface that is already spotless as if he can erase something more complicated than fingerprints. âWell,â he says without looking at Dustin, âI think I might have a date.â
Dustin blinks slowly. âIâm sorry, what?â
Steve shrugs, still focused on the counter. âThe redhead. Sheâs into it.â
âInto what?â Dustin asks, folding his arms across his chest. âIce cream or emotional denial?â
Steve shoots him a look. âInto me.â
Dustinâs face remains unimpressed, though there is something tighter behind his eyes.
Steve leans back against the counter, crossing his arms in imitation of ease. âShe just needs to come back another time,â he continues, slipping back into that confident cadence like itâs a script he memorized years ago. âAnd then itâs done. Easy.â He delivers it like a sports statistic, clean and inevitable.
âYouâre very confident,â Dustin observes, the words measured.
Steve adjusts his sailor hat with a small flick, attempting a smirk. âExperience,â he replies.
âShe was laughing at everything I said,â he adds, as if presenting bulletproof evidence. âThatâs a good sign.â
Dustin studies him for a long moment, saying nothing.
Steveâs gaze flickers toward the door for a fraction of a second before he looks away and starts reorganizing the napkin dispenser with unnecessary focus.
âAnyway,â Steve continues, voice lowering just slightly, âitâs not like this place is crawling with options. If she walks back through that door, thatâs it.â
âThatâs it,â Dustin repeats carefully.
âThatâs it,â Steve insists, digging the scoop into a tub of chocolate with more force than required.
The metal scrapes loudly against frozen ice cream. He does not react, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. âShe just has to come back,â he mutters, eyes betraying him again as they flick toward the entrance. âSimple.â
Dustin glances toward the mall corridor beyond the glass, thinking of you walking away with your shoulders squared and your voice steady in a way that felt practiced.
âYeah,â Dustin says quietly, almost to himself. âSuper simple.â
Steve misses the tone entirely. He keeps wiping the same invisible spot on the counter. Every few seconds, his eyes lift toward the door. Quick check. Casual glance. Immediate retreat.
He pretends he is not waiting.
He pretends the redhead is the variable in the equation.
He pretends the hollow space in his chest has nothing to do with the girl who did not look back.
Dustin watches him with the long-suffering expression of someone far too young to be mediating this level of dysfunction.
âThis is exhausting,â he mutters.
Steve frowns faintly. âWhat is?â
Dustin gestures vaguely between Steve and the door. âYou. The performance. The whole âIâm totally fine and definitely not spiralingâ thing.â
Steve scoffs, straightening. âIâm not spiraling.â
Dustin gives him a look that could dismantle small governments. âYou are aggressively spiraling,â he replies. âYouâve cleaned that counter six times, and there has never been a single crumb on it.â
Steve opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again.
The bell above the door jingles once more.
Both of them look up instantly.
It is not you.
Steve recovers first, sliding the grin back into place like part of the uniform. âWelcome to Scoops Ahoy,â he calls smoothly.
Dustin exhales through his nose. Joint custody, he thinks grimly. And neither parent mature enough to admit they miss each other.
Jazzercise settles into a silence so complete it almost feels artificial, like a stage set after the actors have cleared out and the lights are still burning for no one. Abandoned equipment stretches in careful rowsâstep platforms stacked, weight racks sitting untouched, jump ropes coiled into obedient circles.
You sit perched on a weight bench in the far corner, shoulders slightly hunched in concentration, a battered cassette player balanced across your knees. Foam headphones press snugly over your ears, sealing you inside a private world of static and foreign syllables while the tape inside turns with a faint, uneven whir. A low stream of Russian fills your head, the words crackling with distortion but steady in rhythm.
âDlinnaya nedelyaâŠâ the recorded voice murmurs.
You bite gently on the inside of your cheek and flip through the thick Russian-English dictionary Dustin so generously âborrowedâ from Robin.
Youâre searching for a specific verb form, brow furrowed, thoughts narrowing into neat lines of grammar and structureâcases, endings, patterns that behave the way theyâre supposed to.
However, a long shadow stretches slowly across the blue gym mat in front of you.
âThere she is. The ghost of Hawkins.â
Your entire body goes rigid, every muscle tightening at once.
You donât look up right away because you donât need to; the voice runs cold down your spine like water poured from a bucket of ice, immediate and unmistakable.
Shane.
You drag the headphones down around your neck and move quickly, sliding the cassette player behind your hip while shoving the dictionary beneath the curve of your gym bag.
The motion is practiced but not fast enough. Heâs already standing over you, close enough to block the fluorescent light, his silhouette sharp and deliberate against the brightness.
He looks exactly as he always doesâirritatingly polished. Crisp polo tucked just so, collar sitting perfectly flat, hair arranged with the kind of effort that pretends to be effortless. Even here, in an empty gym, he looks curated.
âShane,â you say evenly, adjusting the headphones where they rest against your collarbone. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI came to check on you,â he replies smoothly, stepping closer without invitation. âAfter our⊠little disagreement yesterday. You went completely MIA.â
âI was busy,â you answer, keeping your tone measured despite the way your heart is beginning to pound. âI still am.â
His gaze drifts downward, sharp and assessing, until it catches on the faint corner of the heavy book you failed to hide completely.
âWhatâs that?â he asks, curiosity creeping into his voice in a way that feels more invasive than concerned. âStudying during your break now?â
âItâs nothing,â you reply quickly, shifting your leg to obscure it entirely. âJust reading.â
He huffs out a quiet laugh that carries no real amusement. âRight.â
He rocks back on his heels like heâs indulging a child. âLook, Iâm over it. The fight, the attitude, whatever that was. Letâs do dinner tonight. Enzoâs. Eight oâclock. Iâll pick you up in the Beemer.â
âI canât.â
You keep your gaze trained on the cassette player resting against your hip, as though it might offer you something steadier to focus on.
âI have plans.â
The faint smile on his face doesnât fade gradually; it disappears altogether, replaced by something flatter. âPlans?â he repeats, the word sharpening as it leaves his mouth. âWith who? You told me your classes were done at six.â
âIâm busy, Shane.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only one youâre getting.â
The silence that follows stretches thin and brittle, reflecting off the mirrored walls until it feels amplified.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters, louder now, his voice carrying through the empty gym. âI come down here to be the bigger personâto move past whatever phase youâre going throughâand you canât give me a Tuesday night?â
You slide the dictionary fully closed beneath your palm, the soft thud sounding louder than it should in the stillness.
âItâs not a phase.â
âOh, really?â He steps forward again, crowding your space as if proximity alone will force compliance. âBecause lately youâve been acting like youâre too good for everyone.â
You rise slowly from the bench, unfolding to your full height. âLower your voice.â
âWhy?â he snaps immediately. âSo your little aerobics minions donât hear that Hawkins Highâs Golden Girl has an attitude problem?â
You inhale carefully, counting the breath in and then out, anchoring yourself in the rhythm the way you do before a race, before an exam, before anything that requires control. In for four. Hold. Out for four.
âShane, Iâm not doing this.â
âNo, you never do,â he replies, and whatever practiced smoothness he usually wears fractures into something brittle and cold. âYou just shut down. You get quiet. You get that look on your face like youâre evaluating everybody, like the rest of us are just⊠disappointing you.â
âThatâs not fair.â
He laughs, but there is no warmth in it now, no charm to soften the edge.
âFair?â he echoes. âYou want fair? I donât understand how Harrington put up with you for as long as he did.â
Your spine goes rigid so fast it almost hurts. Every muscle locks into place, as if bracing for impact.
âDonât.â
He sees it, the flinch you tried to hide, and instead of stepping back he steps forward.
âNo, seriously,â he presses, voice sharpening because he knows he has found the fracture line. âI always wondered how that even worked. You and him. You walking around like youâre grading people on a curve.â
Your hands curl slowly at your sides, nails pressing crescents into your palms.
âYou donât know what youâre talking about.â
âI know enough,â he says, the cruelty no longer subtle. âHe was your best friend, and for what? So you could treat him like some kind of charity case? Like you were doing him a favor?â
âThatâs not what happened.â
âI get why he stopped,â Shane cuts in, each word deliberate and cutting. âI wouldâve gotten tired of it too.â
The words land harder than they should. Not because you believe him, not fully, but because they echo too closely to the thoughts that creep in during the quiet hours of the night, when pride feels thinner and memory is louder. For a split second, your composure fractures.
You see it the way he paints it: Steve laughing too loudly, trying too hard, watching your face for approval you never consciously withheld. You remember the arguments that spiraled because neither of you knew how to say what you actually meant. You remember the day it snapped, the silence that followed, the stubbornness that calcified on both sides.
You swallow. You need a minute.
You force your lungs to cooperate, drawing in another steady breath while your vision threatens to blur at the edges. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, far too bright, far too exposing. You focus on something neutralâthe scuffed corner of the mirrored wall, the faint scratch near the barreâanything that keeps you upright.
âThatâs not what happened,â you repeat, and this time your voice is quieter, not weaker but steadier, rebuilt plank by plank.
âIsnât it?â he sneers. âYou push people until they canât meet whatever impossible standard youâve built in your head, and when they fall short, you look at them like they failed an exam.â
âThatâs enough.â
He steps closer, lowering his voice, venom laced through every syllable. âYouâre not as untouchable as you think you are.â
Something in you hardens then, not fragile but forged. The moment of doubt passes, sealed behind glass. You straighten fully, composure snapping back into place like armor being refastened piece by piece. âIâm done with this conversation,â you say quietly but firmly.
âOh, Iâm sure you are,â he mutters. âRun back to your little books. Your little secrets. Pretend youâre above everyone.â
He adjusts his collar as though he has not just tried to cut into something delicate.
âEight oâclock,â he adds flatly. âIf you change your mind.â
You do not answer. You do not look at him. You simply stand there, breathing evenly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing what almost slipped through the cracks.
After a moment, he scoffs and turns away, the gym door slamming behind him with unnecessary force. The sound ricochets through the hollow space before dissolving into the same eerie stillness that greeted you earlier.
The quiet rushes back in, heavier now.
You remain standing for a long moment, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your shoulders are squared, your expression composed, but there is something tight around your eyes that no amount of posture can disguise.
Your hands begin to tremble. You clench them once, steadying the tremor through sheer force of will, then slowly sink down onto the bench. The adrenaline ebbs, leaving behind a faint ache where his words struck closest.
You do not let yourself cry.
You reach instead for the cassette player, pulling it into your lap with fingers that are still slightly unsteady. The familiar weight grounds you. Logic is safer than emotion. Structure is safer than memory.
You press play. Static crackles, and then the voice resumes as if nothing in your world has shifted.
âDlinnaya nedelyaâŠâ
Long week.
A breath escapes you before you can stop it, shaky and quiet, because the translation feels less like code and more like commentary.
You close your eyes briefly, forcing your focus inward, shutting the world out piece by piece. Not Steve. Not Shane. Not the echo of copper hair under fluorescent lights.
Russian. Structure. Pattern. Logic.
You flip through the dictionary again, scanning narrow columns of Cyrillic text while the tape continues. âSerebryanaya koshka kormitsya kogda siniyâŠâ
You pause immediately and rewind, the mechanical click grounding you. This time you write slower, isolating each word carefully in your notebook.
Serebryanaya â silver.
Koshka â cat.
Kormitsya â feeds.
Kogda â when.
Siniy â
You flip pages again, fingers moving faster now, grateful for something concrete to chase.
Blue.
You stare at the sentence forming on the page, the ink precise and controlled.
The week is long. The silver cat feeds when blueâ
When blue what?
The question does not simply sit on the page; it pulses there, stubborn and incomplete, ink pressed into paper with careful precision and yet maddeningly unfinished.
Blue what? Blue moon? Blue light? BlueâWHAT?
The words echo in your mind with increasing urgency, stacking on top of one another until they feel less like a translation exercise and more like a locked door you are frantically rattling.
You are so close to the answer that you can feel it hovering at the edge of your consciousness, a ghost of a syllable drifting just beyond reach. It flickers there in the dark recesses of your mind, half-formed and insistent, as though it only needs the right angle of thought to materialize fully from the Cyrillic depths. You can almost see itâ
âOh! You look like youâre staring a hole right through that book!â
The voice shatters your concentration like a stone through glass.
You jump violently, your body reacting before your mind can recalibrate, and the heavy dictionary slips from your lap and lands with a dull, incriminating thud against the blue gym mat.
The sound feels impossibly loud in the otherwise quiet room.
You blink up against the harsh fluorescent lights, vision momentarily washed out, and find yourself staring at Mrs. Sinclair, who stands there in all her vibrant presence. She is already dressed for battle in lilac spandex that seems to radiate confidence, a plush towel slung casually over her shoulder and a wide, warm smile stretching across her face.
Behind her, the 5:30 PM class begins to trickle into the gym in a wave of chatter, the women exchanging gossip about clearance racks at JCPenney and comparing aerobics shoes like they are discussing military-grade equipment.
âMrs. Sinclair,â you exhale, pressing a hand lightly to your chest as if to steady your heart before it gives you away. âHi. Sorry. I was just⊠reviewing some material.â
She follows your gaze downward immediately. The dictionary lies open on the mat, Cyrillic letters exposed to the world like contraband. âIs that Russian?â she asks, delighted rather than suspicious. âWell, arenât you just full of surprises.â
You move quickly, bending to scoop it up before anyone else can peer too closely. âItâs nothing exciting,â you reply smoothly, brushing nonexistent dust from the cover. âJust language practice.â
âAt the gym?â she laughs, adjusting her headband with dramatic flair. âHoney, I can barely read a coupon without losing focus, and youâre out here decoding Tolstoy between jumping jacks.â
You offer a polite smile, sliding the cassette player discreetly into your gym bag with your foot. âSomething like that,â you say lightly.
Mrs. Sinclair plants her hands on her hips, assessing you the way only a mother can, sharp-eyed but warm. âYou all right? You looked like you were about to wrestle that book into submission.â
For a split second, you consider brushing it off entirely. Then you settle for something halfway honest. âLong week,â you say. Ironic, huh?
Her expression softens instantly. âOh, sweetheart, tell me about it. Erica has decided sheâs too mature for curfew, and my husband snores like heâs auditioning for a chainsaw commercial. If I donât sweat out the stress tonight, someone in my house is not surviving the weekend.â
Despite everything, a faint laugh slips out of you.
You tuck the dictionary safely into your bag and straighten, allowing your Instructor Voice to slide into place like muscle memory. âHigh energy tonight,â you assure her. âWeâre focusing on cardio intervals and core strength.â
Your head is still humming with the unfinished translation, the words circling relentlessly in your head.  Blue what? The question refuses to quiet itself even as you stand and cross the room toward the stereo system with polished familiarity.
You clip the headset microphone into place along your cheek and flick the switch, the soft electrical hum of the speakers filling the gym like a familiar heartbeat. The mirrors reflect you from every angle nowâcomposed, athletic, in control.
âAlright, ladies!â you announce brightly, clapping your hands together as the class shuffles into loose formation facing the mirrored wall. âLetâs get those heart rates up! Today is about focus. Itâs about power. Itâs about not letting the world get in your way!â
You press play on the cassette deck, and the opening chords of a high-energy track explode into the room, all driving bass lines and electric optimism, loud enough to rattle the windows and drown out almost anything.
Almost.
You step onto the platform and begin the first set of warm-up reaches, arms extending cleanly overhead, spine long, movements crisp and precise.
But your mind is not on the music.
It is not even on the burn already beginning to bloom in your calves.
The silver cat feeds when blueâ
âAnd up! Two, three, four!â you call out, pivoting into a flawless grapevine, your sneakers squeaking faintly against the polished floor.
Your eyes sweep over the class, monitoring posture and rhythm, but they keep snagging on flashes of color in the room: the blue stripes painted along the far wall, the deep blue of the gym mats stacked neatly in the corner, the faint blue of the Starcourt logo visible through the glass door.
âKeep it tight, ladies! Commitment!â
The silver cat feeds when blue.
What feeds? Feeds on what?
When blue what? Is blue a person? A light?
Your arms sweep overhead again, fingers slicing cleanly through the air. âFeel the burn!â
The silver cat.
Could it be a code name, something deliberately theatrical, like the ridiculous party nicknames Dustin insists on assigning to everyone? Silverâmetalâsteelâsomething industrial. Something mechanical. A machine that activates under blue light?
Your stomach drops a fraction.
Blue light. Blue⊠cars?
Your rhythm falters by half a beat before muscle memory snaps you back into alignment. You paste on a bright, effortless laugh.
âDonât quit on me now!â
The week is long. Maybe it is not about light at all. Maybe it is about timing. A schedule. Deliveries. Something that happens weekly, something cyclical and deliberate.
Your brain races ahead, mapping possibilities, while your body continues its disciplined performance without missing a count. Turn. Clap. Step. Lift.
What if âblueâ is not a color? What if it is a location?
Starcourt is drenched in blue. Neon signage. Storefront trims. Branding. Scoops Ahoy uniformsâ
No.
Absolutely not.
You shove that thought down so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. You are not thinking about Steve. You are not thinking about the way he leans over that counter or the way blue-and-white stripes frame his shoulders.
âThree more!â you shout, voice ringing brightly across the mirrored walls.
You are smiling. You are sweating. You are leading forty-five minutes of suburban warfare disguised as cardio. Your class follows your every cue, trusting your energy, your rhythm, your unwavering control.
And yet inside, beneath the neon optimism and the pounding synth beat, you are still seated on that weight bench in the corner, staring at the word Blue written in careful ink, wondering if the missing syllable is the key to something far larger than a grammar exerciseâwondering if you have just stepped into a war that cannot be outmaneuvered with a grapevine and a perfectly timed lunge.
The last triumphant beat of the final song doesnât so much end as it dissolves, the synth line stretching thin and metallic before fading into a soft electrical hum that lingers in the speakers. The room is still vibrating with residual energyâbreathless laughter, rubber soles squeaking against polished floors, the faint metallic tang of sweat mixing with department-store perfume.
You clap once, sharp and commanding, the sound snapping through the gym like a starting pistol. âAnd cool down,â you call smoothly, your voice gliding through the headset microphone with honeyed authority. âStretch it out, everyone. Breathe. Hydrate. Wonder why you ever signed up for this on a Tuesday afternoon.â
A ripple of tired laughter moves through the room as the women bend forward to touch their toes, some more successfully than others. A few shuffle toward you afterward, cheeks flushed bright pink, mascara threatening to betray them, hair plastered damply to their foreheads.
âThanks for the class!â one of them says between breaths, pressing a towel to her collarbone.
âYes, that was amazing,â another chimes in, dramatically fanning herself as though she has just survived a tropical heatwave instead of an indoor cardio set.
You offer them your brightest, most polished smile. âIâm glad you enjoyed it.â
âOhâcould you maybe give tips on form?â one ventures, frowning as she gestures vaguely at her knees.
You nod at once, slipping effortlessly back into Instructor Mode, lifting your hands to demonstrate a subtle adjustment. âKeep your core engaged the entire time, think about pulling your navel toward your spine, and donât lock your kneesâkeep them soft, always soft. Thatâs really it for now. Practice makes perfect.â
They nod, reassured, satisfied with the simplicity of it, and begin to disperse in a flurry of gym bags and goodbyes. The gym empties gradually, sound receding in layers until the heavy door thuds closed behind the last of them.
You stand still for a moment after they leave, the polite smile lingering on your face even as your thoughts slip backwardâback to the cassette tape waiting in your bag, back to the dictionary splayed open on blue vinyl, back to the phrase that has wrapped itself around your mind like barbed wire.
Blue. Yellow. West.
You retreat to your quiet corner of the gym as though drawn by gravity, lowering yourself onto the weight bench and sliding the headphones back over your ears. The air is thick now with the fading warmth of bodies and the powdery sweetness of drugstore perfume, but you barely register it.
Click.
Play.
The low, scratchy hum of the Russian recording floods your head again, the voice textured and uneven, words slipping in and out of clarity as if submerged beneath machinery.
You rewind. Play again. Lean closer as though proximity might sharpen the sound. The tape warps slightly at the end of the sentence, the final word swallowed by a burst of metallic interference.
Again.
Rewind. Play. Pause. Repeat.
Your notebook becomes a battlefield of arrows and question marks, margins filled with frantic annotations and half-formed theories. The words begin to feel less like language and more like architectureâstructures you can almost see but cannot yet enter.
Rapidly, the gym ceases to exist.
The mirrored walls fade. The racks of dumbbells blur into irrelevance. Even your own body becomes distant, reduced to a pair of hands gripping a pen and a heartbeat thudding faintly in your ears.
There are only the sounds. The cadence. The puzzle.
Every phrase feels deliberate. Every crackle might conceal intention.
You rewind one more time, the plastic click-clack of the cassette player echoing loudly in the empty room, and this time you catch something at the very tail end of the recordingâa word that had previously been devoured by static.
Na zapade.
Your breath stutters. You yank the headphones off one ear and flip frantically through the dictionary, pages fluttering wildly beneath your fingers until you land in the Z section.
Zapade.
West.
You sit back slowly, the cold gym floor pressing through the thin fabric of your leggings as the realization settles over you like a weighted blanket.
You look down at your notebook, at the sentence assembled in your jagged, urgent handwriting:
The week is long. The silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west.
âIn the west,â you whisper to the empty gym.
Your fingertips trace the ink unconsciously, smudging it slightly. In the west.
What the hell does that mean?
The cassette clicks into silence in your lap, its spool reaching the end with a hollow mechanical sigh. The final words echo inside your skull long after the sound dies.
Blue. Yellow. West.
You push the tape aside at last, forcing yourself into motion before the weight of it all can pin you down. Your hands move automatically, gathering the dictionary, the notebook, the cassette player. Each object feels heavier now, as though the sentence has given them gravity.
The dictionary slides into your bag with a muffled thud, its pages crinkling softly under careful fingers. The cassette player follows, tucked protectively beneath a sock as though shielding it from something unseen.
You sweep up stray towels, snap off the stereo, coil the headset wire with methodical precision. But your eyes keep drifting back to the notebook, as if memorizing the words might make them clearer.
Blue meets yellow in the west.
You sling your bag over your shoulder, smooth your headband back into place, and head toward the gym exit.
Thatâs when you notice it.
The silence.
You step fully into the corridor, and the absence hits you like a sudden drop in temperature, sharp and immediate enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
There are no footsteps echoing from the far end of the hall.
No chatter drifting lazily from passing groups.
No music bleeding out from Sam Goody or the food court in tinny, overlapping melodies.
The wide hallway stretches endlessly beneath fluorescent lights that feel harsher than they did a few hours ago, their glow too bright and too clinical against the polished tile. Every storefront is dark, metal security gates rolled down like heavy eyelids. Even the fountain at center courtâusually a glittering chaos of splashing water and copper penniesâsits completely motionless, its surface flat and glassy, as though the entire mall has been paused mid-breath.
The mall is empty.
For a moment you simply stand there, trying to reconcile the silence with the place you know. Starcourt is never this quiet, not even on a slow weeknight. Thereâs always someone lingering, some distant laughter, the hum of life layered over everything.
Your eyes drop to your wrist.
The face of your watch glows faintly beneath the fluorescent lights, and your stomach tightens when you see the timeâtwo minutes to nine.
âHow long was I in here translating Russian?â you murmur to yourself, the question sounding smaller than you expect in the cavernous hallway.
A prickle creeps slowly up your spine. You remain rooted to the spot for a long second, your gym bag strap biting into your shoulder while your notebook stays clutched against your ribs like contraband. The words you copied down feel louder in your head now, reckless and blinking like warning lights.
Blue. Yellow. West.
The gym door lock clicks sharply behind you, the metallic snap slicing cleanly through the stillness, and your keychain jingles with an almost obscene cheerfulness that makes you flinch. The sound seems to ricochet off every dark storefront and come back twice as loud, like the mall itself is mocking you.
Itâs too loud.
Everything is too loud.
âOh my God, this is how it happensâ, you think, staring down the endless hallway. âThis is the part in the horror movie where the girl who âjust stayed a little lateâ absolutely gets taken out by international spies.â
Fantastic. Not even a dramatic death. Just:Â Local Girl Murders Herself With Curiosity, More at Eleven.
Your pace picks up without you consciously deciding to speed up. The faster you walk, the louder the echo becomes, which only makes you walk faster, which makes the echo worse, until youâre trapped in a feedback loop of your own impending doom.
You glance over your shoulder.
Big mistake.
Now your imagination helpfully supplies a tall, shadowy figure emerging from The Gap with a silencer and a grudge.
âOkay,â you murmur, breath coming quicker, âif I die, I hope itâs interesting. Like espionage interesting. Not âtripped over a Wet Floor sign and concussed myself into an international incidentâ interesting.â
Your heartbeat is pounding so loudly youâre convinced itâs audible, like a tiny drumline announcing your location.
Your brain helpfully supplies increasingly dramatic scenarios.
Maybe theyâve been watching you the whole time.
Maybe âsilver catâ is a sniper.
Maybe blue means tonight.
âStay calm,â you tell yourself. âYou are composed. You are rational. You areââ
âHey!â The shout detonates behind you.
You shriek. A full, high-pitched, soul-leaving-your-body shriek.
Your arms fly up like youâre being arrested by God. Your gym bag swings forward and smacks you directly in the stomach, knocking the air out of you so it genuinely feels like youâve been shot.
âOh my God, Iâm hitâ!â you gasp, clutching your abdomen before realizing itâs just the dictionary committing assault.
You spin around so fast you nearly lose your footing, sneakers squeaking violently against the tile as your ponytail whips across your face and temporarily blinds you.
For one split second you fully accept your fate.
This is it. This is the silver cat.
Instead, Robin barrels toward you first, sneakers squeaking as she skids to a chaotic stop, both hands thrown up in a frantic universal donât-shoot-weâre-idiots gesture. Her eyes are wide with urgency and a very specific brand of Buckley apology.
Dustin stumbles up beside her a second later, bent double with his hands braced on his knees, wheezing like heâs just sprinted across state lines instead of a mall corridor.
And thenâ
thereâs Steve.
He isn't breathless. He isn't smiling. He isn't even moving.
Heâs standing a few paces back, and the second your eyes land on him, the air in the corridor feels like it's being sucked out of a vacuum. He looks at you, and for a heartbeat, the "Ahoy" hat and the ridiculous stripes disappear. He just looks⊠stunned. Like heâs seen a ghost, or worse, a memory he wasn't ready to face yet.
Then, the shock curdles.
His mouth is slightly open, but it snaps shut as he recalibrates, his jaw tightening until you can see the muscle pulse. His eyes lock onto yours. Heâs taking inventory: the way your fingers are white-knuckled around your bag, the notebook pressed against your ribs, the ink smudge on your thumb.
âAre you guys insane?! I almost died,â you announce shakily, pointing at them. âI had already composed the headline!â
Dustin straightens up, guilt written all over his face. âSorry! We yelled! Because you were likeâmoving! At a cinematic pace! It was concerning!â
Robin nods emphatically, her bangs slightly askew. âTotal final-girl-in-a-slasher-movie energy. Incredible atmosphere. Zero survival instincts.â
Your eyes drift back to Steve. Heâs still watching you with a cold intensity that makes your spine stiffen.
âWhat are you doing here?â he asks at last. His voice isn't loud, but itâs sharp. Itâs got an edge to it that cuts right through Robinâs ramblingâlow, tight, and vibrating with a bitterness that makes your heart sink.
You shift the weight of your bag, lifting your chin. You refuse to feel small. âI work here, Steve. Contrary to popular belief, Iâm not just haunting the mall for the aesthetic.â
Steve blinks, a slow, disbelieving movement. âYou work here.â
âYes, Harrington. Believe it or not, the mall employs more than just nautical-themed cautionary tales.â
Dustin flails his arms between you like heâs trying to stop a bomb from ticking. âGuys! Focus! Do you have it? The code?â
Robin gasps, her eyes lighting up. âYou did? You actually got it?â
You lift the notebookânot like a trophy, but like a shield. âYeahâŠsome of it.â
Dustin points at you, looking at Steve with a told-you-so expression. âSee? See! I told you sheâd be the one to figure it out!â
Thatâs when Steve moves. His head snaps toward you then, like heâs just now fully registering that youâre standing there. In the middle of this.
The notebook is in your hands.
His stomach drops. He turns back to Dustin. âYou told her?â he asks.
Itâs not loud. Itâs worse.
Dustin shrinks a little. âI just thoughtââ
âYou thought,â Steve repeats, the calm cracking. âYou thought? I specifically said not to involve her.â
âItâs not like I dragged her here!â Dustin fires back defensively. âI just told her about the code and she decided to help.â
Steve laughs once. Itâs sharp and disbelieving. âOh, great. So you didnât drag her here. You just dangled secret Russian transmissions in front of her and waited for curiosity to do the rest. Thatâs so much better, Henderson.â
You step in. âYou donât need to talk about me like Iâm not standing here.â
His head turns toward you instantly. âYeah, thatâs exactly the problem!â he shoots back immediately, the words echoing off the tile. They land harder than they should.
âYou werenât supposed to be part of this,â he continues, his voice sharpening into something jagged. Heâs standing rigid, his posture beginning to lean into your space. âThis isnât some debate team exercise where you get a gold star at the end. Itâs Russian code inside a mall. Itâs not a game.â
You let out a disbelieving laugh. âOh, Iâm sorry. Did the Soviets circulate a memo specifying this was a boys-only operation? Must have missed that one in the gym.â
Robin presses her lips together, her eyes dancing as she tries to keep from smiling.
Steve exhales sharply, his patience officially hitting zero. âThatâs not what I meant and you know it.â
âThen what did you mean? Because it sounds a lot like youâre telling me to go back to my dolls and leave the thinking to the professionals.â
He steps even closer now, invading your personal space until you can see the faint sheen of stress along his hairline and the pulse thrumming in his neck. His voice drops into something quieter, but way more dangerous.
âI meant,â he says, each word slow and deliberate, âitâs dangerous. And youâre not... youâre not this.â
You cross your arms, grounding yourself against the heat radiating off him. âAnd you think I canât handle dangerous? After everything?â
Steve answers too quickly. âI think youâre smart. I think youâre too smart to be this stupid.â
A flash of real temper ignites in your chest. âI translated what you couldnât, Steve. While you were playing sailor, I did the actual work.â
âThis isnât about grammar!â he snaps, his face reddening.
âYeah, youâre right. Itâs about you deciding Iâm fragile. Itâs about you needing to be the hero so bad youâd rather fail than let me help!â
âNo! Itâs about me deciding whether Iâm going to stand here and let you walk straight into something I might not be able to pull you out of!â
The words slice through the corridor, sharp and unrestrained, echoing off dark storefronts and metal gates before settling heavy between you.
He drags a hand down his face, pressing his fingers hard into his eyes as if he can physically grind the tension out of himself. For a second he just stands there, breathing through it.
âYou donât even know what weâre dealing with,â he says at last, his voice pulled so tight the words come out rough around the edges.
âOh, then enlighten me,â you reply, calm and precise. You donât raise your voice. You donât step back. You lay the challenge between you like a deliberate chess move and wait to see if heâll take it.
âItâs not that simple,â he shoots back, but thereâs hesitation threaded through it now. He looks at you thenâreally looks at youâand something shifts. The frustration flickers, thinning at the edges into something heavier, something dangerously close to fear. Itâs there and gone in a breath. His expression hardens again.
âIt never is,â you say quietly.
Dustin shifts between you, his eyes darting back and forth like heâs trying to mediate a ceasefire between two generals poised for a bloody war. âOkay,â he says loudly, the sound cracking in the empty hall, âso maybe we donât do⊠whatever this is. Maybe we do teamwork? Because we are currently inside a mall that feels very villain-coded and Iâd really like to not die today!â
Robin nods sharply, her eyes flicking between your carefully blank expression and the storm gathering on Steveâs face. âYes. Hard agree. Less unresolved tension. More not getting murdered by Soviets.â
Steve goes still. His shoulders square, something shuttering behind his eyes as his gaze snaps back to youâand it isnât warm, isnât familiar. Itâs analytical. Frustrated. Like heâs looking at a locked door he doesnât have time to pick.
âYou shouldâve just gone home,â he says, voice low and strained, every word measured like heâs trying not to let it spiral. He doesnât quite meet your eyes; instead he stares somewhere just past you, as if thatâs easier. âYou always have to be the smartest person in the room. This isnât a classroom. Nobodyâs handing out extra credit.â
It lands harder than it should.
You feel it anywayâsharp and immediateâbefore you can stop yourself. But you refuse to let it show. You straighten, lifting your chin a fraction. âYou donât get to decide that for me, Harrington,â you reply, your voice steady even as your pulse climbs. âAnd for the record, I work here. I have just as much right to be in these hallways as your ridiculous sailor hat.â
Robin actually chokes, clapping a hand over her mouth as a strangled laugh escapes. Dustin makes a small, traitorous noise that sounds a lot like agreement.
Steveâs head snaps toward you at that. His hand automatically goes to the brim of the hat like heâs just remembered itâs there. âThis is the uniform,â he says defensively. âI donât wake up choosing this.â
âIt looks like you lost a bet,â Dustin mutters.
âI hate both of you,â Steve shoots back, but itâs automatic. The edge doesnât leave his voice.
He looks at you again, and whatever fire was there a minute ago dims into something heavier. Frustration, yeah â but underneath it, something else. Something tight and uneasy. âDo you have the translation or not?â he asks. Itâs not a demand anymore. Itâs reluctant. Like he already knows the answer and hates that he needs it.
You donât rush to answer. You flip the notebook open slowly, the paper brushing under your thumb. âYes,â you say.
You step forward, closing the distance without asking permission. Itâs enough that Dustin has to lean sideways around Steve to keep you in view, enough that youâre suddenly awareâpainfully awareâof how little space there is between you and him. The heat from his body seeps through the thin fabric of your clothes, unwelcome and distracting, and the faint trace of his cologne hits you a second later, clean and familiar.
Your heart does something embarrassingly unhelpful.
âI didnât finish it,â you say, willing your voice to stay steady even as your pulse refuses to cooperate. âParts of the tape are warped. Repeated. There are gaps I couldnât make sense of. But this sectionâthis section was clear.â
Robin leans in on your right, curiosity overriding everything else, her shoulder nearly knocking into yours. Dustin crowds your left side, craning his neck to see your notes like you might evaporate if he blinks.
Steve doesnât step back. He barely moves at all, but you feel it anywayâthe subtle shift of his stance, the brush of his sleeve against your arm as he adjusts, the quiet exhale he lets out that grazes the air near your cheek.
You try to focus on the ink. âThe week is long,â you read aloud, letting the words hang in the heavy air. Your finger drops to the next line. âThe silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west.â
The sentence settles over the group like a dark cloud. Itâs ugly. Itâs mysterious. Itâs dripping with a danger you can't quite map out yet.
Dustin squints at the page. âThatâs it? Thatâs all of it?â
âThatâs what I could make out clearly,â you say, tilting the notebook toward Steve, forcing him to look at your work.
Robin cocks her head, her brow furrowed. âSilver cat feeds? What is this, Soviet Dr. Seuss? Does he also have green eggs and ham?â
Steve doesnât even glance at her. His eyes are locked on your handwriting, scanning the words as if he could intimidate them into revealing a hidden map. âThe week is long,â he repeats quietly. He tests the cadence, weighing it like a secret heâs terrified to understand. âThat doesnât mean anything. Itâs nonsense.â
âOr it means everything,â Dustin says, his voice dropping into that 'ominous' range he uses for D&D.
Robin rolls her eyes. âYou say that about literally every sentence, Henderson. âThe mall is closed.â âOh, it means everything!ââ
Dustin ignores her. âBlue meets yellow. Thatâs specific. Thatâs a landmark.â
âLots of things are blue and yellow,â you counter, flipping the page to show him your notes. âLogos, signs, stores. Itâs the eighties, Dustin. Half the world is primary colors.â
Steve straightens minutely. The movement pulls the warmth of his shoulder away from you, and you hate how much you notice the chill that replaces it. Heâs razor-focused now. âSilver cat,â he mutters. The word slips out like a knife. âWhy a cat?â
Robin shrugs. âCats are sneaky. Theyâre mysterious. They like to knock things off counters for no reason.â
âIt might not even be a real cat,â you continue, trying to ignore the way Steve is still standing just a little too close. âIt could be metaphorical. Russian idioms are weird. They don't always translate cleanly.â
Steve finally lifts his gaze from the page and meets yours. His eyes are sharper than theyâve been all day, searching for a crack in your confidence. He wants you to be wrong. He wants this to be a mistake so he can tell you to go home. âYouâre sure about the wording?â he asks, his voice low and challenging.
âIâm sure about what I heard,â you say, your voice a calm strike. âIâm just not sure weâre ready for what it means.â
A beat passes. The fluorescent lights hum. Steveâs jaw sets.
Robin steps back first, running a hand through her hair. âOkay, so we have a long week, a hungry metallic feline, and some kind of colorful meet-cute in the west. Weâre basically detectives.â
Dustin nods firmly. âGreat. That narrows it down to⊠absolutely nothing. We are failing.â
Steve exhales sharply, a sound loaded with enough frustration to rattle the gates. âThe week is long,â he repeats again, barely a whisper. He sounds like heâs trying to memorize a death warrant.
You tighten your grip on the notebook, letting your fingers press into the spine. âItâs too specific,â you say, as you start pacing in a small, tight half-circle. âItâs obviously a code. No one casually says, âThe silver cat feeds.â That is not normal conversation, and it is not something you say unless you are trying very delibââ
âYou guys are really buying this?â Steveâs voice cuts through your explanation, sharp and dripping with a condescension that makes your blood cold. He looks at you like youâve just told him you believe in the Tooth Fairy. âI mean, listen to yourselves. You sound like youâve spent too much time in the fiction section.â
Robin crosses her arms, giving him a flat look. âOkay. Just for kicksâand I cannot stress enough how much this is for kicksâletâs entertain the possibility that it is a secret Russian transmission,â she says, gesturing vaguely. âWhat did you think they were going to say, dingus? âFire the warhead at noonâ? âMeet behind the nuclear missileâ?â
Dustin jabs a finger at her with desperate insistence. âExactly!â
You flip the notebook open again, the spine creaking faintly. âAnd my translation is correct,â you say, your voice building with each word, ignoring the way Steve is currently rolling his eyes at the ceiling. âI know that for sure. So, âThe silver cat feeds.â Why would anyone talk like that unless they were intentionally masking the meaning?â
Dustin practically vibrates in place, chest rising and falling with the intensity of his agreement. âExactly!â
You nod once. âWhy would anyone mask the true meaning of their message unless the message was inherently sensitive, something that couldnât be entrusted to ordinary ears?â
Dustinâs whole body echoes the word, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. âExactly!â
Robin exhales through her nose, a soft puff of air that somehow conveys reluctant respect. âSo I guess that confirms your suspicion,â she says, eyes narrowing slightly as she scans the notebook.
Dustin throws his arms wide in a dramatic flourish, as if punctuating the truth with his very posture. âEvil Russians,â he declares.
Robin grimaces in mock exasperation, a hand over her forehead. âI cannot believe Iâm about to agree with this strange child, but⊠yeah. Totally evil Russians.â
You start pacing again. âTo crack this,â you say, âwe have to translate the rest. Every single line. Only then can a pattern emerge.â
âA pattern,â Dustin repeats solemnly, nodding like a general confirming strategy. âRight. Like maybe âsilver catâ is a meeting place.â
âOr a person,â you add.
âOr a weapon,â Robin says, her voice clipped. âWhich I really, really hate. I hate that option.â
Dustin gestures toward you, intensity in every finger. âItâs probably going to take a super genius to crack it â like you â butââ
He trails off abruptly.
You glance up. Steve isnât standing with the group anymore.
Your eyes track him instinctively and you find him about fifteen feet away. Heâs hovering by the kiddie rides, looking absolutely absurd in those sailor shorts, staring at a mechanical horse.
âSteve?â Robin calls out, her voice dripping with exhaustion. âWhat are you doing? Did you find a shiny penny?â
Steve doesn't even turn his head. Heâs frantically slapping his pockets. âI need a quarter,â he says, his voice tight. âDoes anyone have a quarter? Dustin? Robin? Anyone who isn't just standing there looking useless?â
Robin tilts her head. âAre you tall enough for that ride, Stevie? Or do you need me to go find the mall manager to sign a waiver for you?â
âQuarter!â Steve snaps, his head whipping around. He doesn't look at Robinâhe looks at you, his eyes hard and accusing, as if your lack of loose change is a personal insult.
Dustin looks like heâs about to have an aneurysm. âWhy do you need a quarter right now? We are literally hunting Russian spies and you want to go for a pony ride?â
Robin sighs, and fishes a coin out of her pocket. âUnbelievable,â she mutters, tossing it toward him. He catches it with a clumsy movement. âYou want me to hold your hand, or are you a big boy today?â
âShh!â Steve hisses, his fingers trembling with irritation as he shoves the quarter into the slot. He shoots a look back at the three of you. âWould you all just shut up for once in your lives and listen?â
The horse whirs to life. And then, the music starts. A tinny, electronic waltz begins to play, the notes bouncing off the polished tiles like a mocking laugh.
You freeze. âHoly shit,â you breathe, your voice barely a whisper. âThe music. Guys, the music!â
Dustin whips around, his face a mask of panic. âWhat? What is it?â
âItâs the exact same song,â you say, stepping toward the horse as if drawn by a magnet. âOn the recording. The waltz behind the Russian voice. Itâs this song.â
Robin squints, her brow furrowing. âI donât get it. So they have the same... cheap tastes?â
âListen to it, Robin!â you insist, your voice rising in a mix of terror and triumph. Youâve lived inside that tape for hours; those notes are burned into your brain.
Robin looks from the horse to you, her bravado finally crumbling. âMaybe... maybe they have these in Russia? Like, Soviet exports?â
Steve straightens up slowly. He isn't looking at the horse anymore; heâs looking at the painted sign on the machineâIndiana Flyer. He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his throat.
ââIndiana Flyer,ââ he mutters. âI donât think they have a lot of those in the Motherland, Robin.â
The waltz continues, looping in its cheerful, creepy absurdity.
Steve turns his gaze to you. He just stares at you with a look that says now the real nightmare begins. He then flicks his eyes to Dustin, then sweeps them across the empty, neon-shadowed atrium, measuring the silence.
âThis code,â he says at last, his voice dropping into a low tone. âIt didnât come from Russia.â
A beat passes.
Steve steps back, his eyes scanning the corridor. He looks at you one last time.
âIt came from right here.â
The heavy glass doors of Starcourt sigh shut behind you, leaving the four of you standing in the wide, mostly empty parking lot. The red neon of the sign hums overhead, washing the pavement in a restless light. Everything feels too quiet now, like the mall is holding its breath.
Robin presses her lips together, thinking. The neon catches in her eyes when she turns toward you. âWe need the rest of that tape,â she says. âCan you finish the translation tomorrow?â
You shift the strap of your gym bag, feeling the hard corner of the Russian dictionary press sharply into your ribs. âIâve got a break at eleven,â you say, trying to keep your voice even. âI can come by Scoops. We can finish it togetherâitâll go faster if I can replay the tape.â
Itâs reasonable. Logical. The exact solution anyone would expect.
âNo.â
You freeze mid-step.
Steve stands a few feet away, keys dangling from his fingers, shoulders rigid, every line of him tense. The moonlight slices across his face, carving out angles sharper than usual.
âExcuse me?â you say, keeping your voice steady even though your stomach drops.
âI said no,â he repeats, stepping closer. The air between you tightens, almost physical, as if heâs drawing a boundary with his presence. âYouâre not coming to the store. Youâre not bringing the notes. Youâre done.â
The finality in his tone hits like a punch, leaving the space between you colder than the night air.
Dustin stares at him, genuinely baffled. âSteve, what are you talking about? Sheâs the only one who knows what theyâre actually saying.â
âI donât care,â Steve shoots back, too fast.
But heâs not looking at Dustin. Heâs looking at you.
âYou translated what we needed,â he continues, forcing his voice to level out. âYou found âSilver Cat.â Thatâs it. Thatâs all you had to do.â
Robin lets out a sharp laugh. â âThatâs itâ? Steve, you canât even pronounce hello in Russian. What exactly is the rest of your plan here, dingus?â
He ignores her. âIâm not dragging you back into this,â he says to you, jaw tight. âNot afterââ He stops himself, then shakes his head. âNot now.â
Your stomach tightens. âNot after what?â
He exhales hard through his nose. âNot after we just spent months not talking.â
Dustinâs eyes widen.
Robin winces quietly. âOh boy.â
You stare at him, heat rising to your face. âSo this is about that?â
âItâs about the fact that things are already messed up,â he says, frustration breaking through. âWe donât need to pile secret Russian codes on top of whatever this is.â
âYou donât get to sideline me because we had a fight,â you say.
âIâm not sidelining you,â he snaps. âIâm trying to keep it clean.â
âClean?â You almost laugh. âSteve, weâre talking about a coded transmission in Hawkins, Indiana. Nothing about this is clean.â
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to you. âYou have a normal life,â he says. âClasses. Shifts. Whatever. Iâm not screwing that up because Henderson thinks itâs cool to play spy.â
âI can decide what risks I take,â you fire back.
âThatâs the problem,â he says, and thereâs something raw in it now. âYou always decide to jump in.â
âAnd you always decide to shut me out.â
The words hang between you.
For a second, he just looks at you, and the anger shifts into something more complicatedâhurt, maybe, or pride. Itâs there and gone in a blink.
âIâm not putting anyone at risk,â he says finally, retreating to something safer. âIncluding you. If something goes wrong, thatâs on me. Iâm not doing that again.â
âDoing what again?â you press.
âMaking it worse,â he mutters.
Dustin leans closer to Robin, whispering frantically, âOkay⊠I hate this. I hate whatever this is.â Robin glances at him, frowning. âYeah. Feels like we accidentally wandered into a live-action drama we did not audition for.â
You step closer to Steve despite yourself. âYou basically called me a liability.â
His jaw tightens. âI said youâd be one in this situation.â
âThatâs not better.â
He hesitates, then looks at you fully, eyes sharp but not empty. âYouâre distracted. Iâm distracted. Thatâs not how you stay alive when weird stuff starts happening.â
There it is. Not cruelty. Not dismissal.
Fear.
âThanks for the vote of confidence, Steve. Really. I feel so trusted.â
His head snaps toward you. âDonât twist it.â
âOh, Iâm not twisting anything,â you fire back immediately. âYou said Iâm not coming. Thatâs not exactly layered.â
He steps closer, not gentle about it, frustration radiating off him in waves. âBecause this isnât a joke. This isnât some cute side quest where you get to prove how smart you are.â
Your eyes flash. âI already proved that. I translated the thing you couldnât.â
âThatâs not the point!â
âThen what is the point, Steve?â you demand, hands flying up. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it sounds a lot like you decided Iâm expendable.â
His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle jump. âItâs not about you being expendable.â
âThen what? Fragile?â you shoot back. âDecorative? Better suited to background commentary?â
âDonât do that,â he snaps. âDonât turn this into some ego thing.â
âMaybe stop making it one.â
The silence that follows is electric and uglyâthe kind that feels like something is about to shatter.
Steve drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he physically cannot stand still. âYou donât get it,â he says, voice lower now but more volatile. âYou think because you translated a tape youâre suddenly bulletproof.â
âAnd you think because you wear a sailor suit and yell at Dustin that youâre suddenly in charge?â
Robin makes a strangled noise behind you. Dustin looks like heâs watching live television.
Steve goes still. âYou want to help?â he says, each word measured. âFine. Finish the translation. Give it to Dustin. He can bring it to us.â
You stare at him. âSo Iâm courier support now.â
âThatâs not what I said.â
âItâs exactly what you said.â
âAnd Iâm not allowed at Scoops, I presume?â you add, voice slicing clean.
âNo.â
No hesitation. No apology.
Just a brick wall.
Something in your expression hardens. âUnbelievable.â
He steps back then â not retreating exactly, but resetting, like heâs pulling the drawbridge up. âYouâre not coming,â he repeats. âEnd of discussion.â
âYou donât get to end it,â you say, stepping forward to close the space he just created. âYou donât get to decide what I can handle.â
âAnd you donât get to decide that Iâm risking you on this!â he explodes, the words ripping out of him before he can swallow them back.
There it is.
Raw. Unfiltered.
The parking lot goes very quiet.
Dustin blinks. Robinâs eyebrows shoot up.
Your voice drops. âIâm not yours to risk.â
His breathing is heavy now. Controlled, but barely. âThatâs not what I meant.â
âYou donât get to end it,â you say, stepping forward the second he tries to step back, refusing to let him retreat into that careful, neutral distance heâs been hiding behind. âYou donât get to decide what I can handle just because youâre uncomfortable.â
His jaw tightens immediately. âThis isnât about you handling anything.â
âThen what is it about?â you demand.
âItâs about the fact that I donât want you here,â he snaps, and the bluntness of it slices clean through the air.
Dustin inhales sharply. Robin goes very still.
You blink once. âYou donât want meâ here?â you repeat, like maybe you misheard him.
âAt Scoops. With us. In this,â he says, gesturing vaguely between the four of you, but he doesnât look at Dustin or Robinâhe looks at you. âI donât want you in it.â
Thereâs no teasing edge. No sarcasm. Just something hard and braced.
Dustin looks between you like he wants to interrupt but knows better.
âI translated the tape,â you say stiffly. âIâm helping.â
âI didnât ask you to,â Steve says. âAnd I donât want you here.â
There it is again. Clear. Unsoftened.
You swallow. âYou donât get to decide that.â
âActually,â he says, straightening, something final sliding into place behind his eyes, âI do. Not for your life. Not for anything else. But for this? For me? Yeah. I do.â
Your hands curl at your sides. âSo what, Iâm just banned?â
âFinish the translation,â he says, voice flat now, controlled in that dangerous way that means heâs done. âGive it to Dustin. Heâll bring it.â
He doesnât look at you again. He just turns, strides to his car like staying another second would actually hurt him, and slams the door hard enough that the sound echoes across the parking lot, leaving you standing there with the weight of it.
âSteve!â Dustin yells, scandalized. âYou canât just bench the MVP!â
Robin exhales slowly, eyes flicking to you. âOkay,â she mutters. âSo that escalated from âteam meetingâ to âdivorce courtâ in, like, thirty seconds.â
Dustin looks at you, genuinely upset. âHeâs being a jerk. Like, historically bad decision-making levels of jerk.â
You blink hard and fix your eyes on a crack in the pavement, forcing your voice steady. âItâs fine.â
âItâs not fine,â Dustin insists. âHeâs just beingââ
âProtective,â Robin cuts in quietly. âAnd stubborn. Mostly stubborn.â
You swallow. âIâll finish it tomorrow,â you say. âIâll give it to you after my break. You guys can handle the rest.â
âNo,â Dustin starts, his voice softening with genuine concern. âYou know heâs just being aââ
âOh, so this is where you are.â
The voice cuts through the night, slurred and thick, carrying the unmistakable stench of cheap beer and recklessness.
It makes your stomach lurch.
You turn to see Shane leaning against a lamppost, shirt rumpled, hair sticking in all directions, swaying slightly as if the wind alone could topple him. The orange halo of the streetlight casts him sickly and unstable, highlighting the bloodshot edges of his eyes.
âShane?â Your voice catches, small and tight in your throat, as if saying his name could somehow make him vanish.
âI waited,â he snaps, voice rising and echoing off the empty mall walls. He lurches forward, uneven, heavy-footed, and gestures wildly at Dustin and Robin. âI went to Enzoâs, sat there like an idiot, because you said you were busy. This looks real busy.â
His glare lands on the group with all the subtlety of a hurricane. âYou stood me up to hang out with a couple of losers in a parking lot?â His laugh is dry, jagged, almost a bark. âWe were supposed to talk. Fix things. And youâre out here playing games.â
Robin shifts immediately, protective instincts kicking in. Her eyes dart between you and Shane, calculating, ready. Dustin freezes, wide-eyed, caught between shock and fear, glancing at Steveâs car where Harrington sits, engine rumbling quietly.
âShane, youâre drunk,â you say, heart hammering. âJust⊠go home. We can talk tomorrow.â
âNo! Weâre talking now.â He steps closer, voice echoing in the empty lot. âI came all the way down here to find you, to be the bigger man, and I find you lurking in the dark with theseâlosers?â
Before you can react, his hand clamps lightly on your arm. Not enough to bruise, but heavy enough to make you flinch.
Robin doesnât hesitate. She lunges, her face hard with anger, and yanks Shaneâs hand off you.
But Shane snarls low, shoving her back. She stumbles, sneakers skidding across asphalt, a sharp gasp escaping as she hits the ground.
âRobin!â Dustin yells, panic bleeding through his voice.
The sound of a car door slamming echoes through the lot like a gunshot.
Steve doesnât just walk over; he emerges from the shadows, a predator materializing without warning.
He doesnât glance at you. His gaze locks on Robin.
He moves with terrifying stillness, positioning himself between Shane and the group. Shadow stretches from his shoulders, broad and unyielding.
âDonât,â he says, voice low and dangerous.
Shane blinks, swaying, trying to puff out his chest. âOh, look, itâs the sailor. Whatâre you gonna do, Harrington? Serve me a double scoop?â
Steve takes a single step forward. Shane stumbles back.
Steveâs eyes never leave Robin, and for a moment, itâs clear he doesnât even register youâre there.
âIâm going to say this once,â Steve hisses, voice dropping to a whisper that feels like ice against skin. âIf you touch her again, I will put you in the ground. Do you understand me?â
Shane blinks, the alcohol fog lifting just enough to register the lethal intent behind Harringtonâs ridiculous shorts and sailor hat. âWhat? Itâs not evenâsheâs the one whoââ
âI donât care,â Steve snaps, jaw tight and immovable. âDonât touch her. Ever.â
And in that moment, it hits you like a punch to the gut. He isnât talking to you. Not at all. His focus, his fierce, possessive furyâonce reserved for youâhas shifted entirely to Robin.
The silence that follows presses down like a physical weight.
Shane scrambles backward, eyes wide, awareness finally piercing the drunken haze.
Steve remains a wall of tension, his entire body rigid, helping Robin to her feet, never once looking in your direction.
Your arm tingles from Shaneâs grasp. You hug your gym bag tighter, feeling the sting of Steveâs earlier words about being a liability settle over you like cold stone.
âGo away,â you say, voice thin, trembling more than youâd like to admit.
Shane squints at you, confusion and self-pity mixing into something pathetic. âBabe, come on, I was justââ
âGo home, Shane,â you cut him off, voice sharper now, bracing the gym bag against your chest like armor. âJust go. I donât want to see you. I donât want to talk to you. Weâre done. Get in your car and leave.â
He stares at you for a moment, then flicks a glance toward Steve, who hasnât moved from his shadowed perch near the lot, before letting out a wet, bitter scoff. âFine. Whatever. Have fun with your new⊠âteam.ââ
Shane stumbles toward his car, boots scraping asphalt, and the engine roars as it turns over. Tires screech against the parking lot before he peels away, leaving behind a silence heavier than the night itself. The neon glow from the mall casts everything in an unforgiving red light, making the lot feel even emptier, colder, more permanent.
Robin pushes herself up from the asphalt, brushing grit from her knees. Her eyes find yours, wide and earnest, filled with a kind of empathy that makes your chest tighten. Dustin looks like he wants to hug you, but he canâtâlike heâs afraid heâll crush the fragile pieces of you that are still standing.
And Steve?
He finally turns, but he doesnât look at you with sympathy. He doesnât soften. His gaze sweeps over your trembling hands, the tear tracks smudging the faint glitter on your cheeks, the way your shoulders hunch as if trying to shrink from the weight of the night.
âSee?â he says quietly, his voice flat and sharp. It doesnât carry anger so much as judgment. âThis is exactly what I was talking about.â
He doesnât wait for a response. His attention snaps back to Robin. âYou okay? Did you hit your head?â
âIâm fine, Steve,â Robin says softly, her voice unusually small.
You feel the cool night air against your flushed cheeks, your chest tight, every breath too shallow. The neon light blurs at the edges, melting into a chaotic haze that mirrors the ache in your chest.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper, voice breaking. âIâIâm so sorry.â
The kind of apology that would normally melt Steve, that used to make him soften instantly. But he doesnât. He doesnât flinch. He doesnât look at you. He only watches Robin, only focuses on her. Youâre not the one heâs protecting tonight. Not anymore.
âGo home,â he says. Flat. Hollow. Not yelling, not pleading. The words land with the casual finality of telling a stray dog to leave the porch.
âSteve, pleaseââ
âGo home,â he interrupts, sharp, final, eyes already returning to Robin, hand hovering near her elbow, scanning her for bruises or a concussion with a frantic devotion that used to be yours.
The rejection presses into your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs. You glance at themâthe tight little circle of three that now exists without youâand feel the sting of being on the outside.
âRight,â you whisper, voice nearly swallowed by the wind. You swallow hard, trying to gather the pieces of your dignity into something that looks like composure.
Your eyes linger on Robin, pale and wide-eyed, pity softening her gaze, and your throat tightens. âRobin,â you murmur, voice hitching. âI-Iâm sorry. A-Again. I neverâI never wanted⊠any of that to happen.â
Robin opens her mouth, maybe to comfort you, maybe to protest, but Steve stiffens beside her, silent and commanding. Conversation over.
You donât wait. You turn on your heel, each step toward your car under the flickering lot light heavy as lead. Every movement feels slow, deliberate, like walking through molasses.
At your car, you fumble with the keys, hands shaking.
You finally slide into the driverâs seat and press your forehead against the steering wheel. Your chest heaves with a breath youâve been holding far too long, exhale ragged and trembling, the tears threatening to break free.
You clamp them back, gritting your teeth. âGet it together,â you hiss, wiping your face with the back of your hand, smudging the last remnants of your makeup into streaks. âJust drive. Just get home.â
You shove the key into the ignition and twist.
Cough. Splutter. Silence.
Your stomach sinks. Heart thudding. You try again, harder.
Grind⊠grind⊠click.
âNo,â you whisper, panic rising, curling tight in your throat. âNo, no, no. Not now.â
You press the pedal desperately, twisting the key again, but the engine groans and dies, leaving you suspended in the oppressive orange glow of the parking lot. Your hands grip the wheel, knuckles white.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you snap, frustration finally boiling over. You slam your palms against the steering wheel. "Are you actually kidding me right now?!"
You try the ignition one last time, but there is nothingâjust the dead, hollow silence of a car that isn't going anywhere.
"Dammit!" you yell, the word echoing in the small cabin. "Stupid, piece of junk! Work! Just work!"
You slump back into the seat, letting out a string of curses that feel sharp and jagged in your throat.
This is the peak.
This is the absolute, rock-bottom end to the worst night of your life.
But desperation overrides your pride.
You throw the door open and scramble out of the car, spinning around to look back toward the mall entrance.
"Wait!" you call out, though the word is weak and thin in the night air.
Your heart sinks. Robinâs is goneâand with her, her car.
You scan the lot, your breath hitching in your chest. There. About thirty yards away, Steveâs BMW is idling, the headlights cutting two bright, judgmental paths through the dark. He hasn't left yet. Dustin is visible in the passenger seat, his silhouette animated and frantic, gesturing wildly as he talks. Even from here, you can tell he is giving Steve an earful about what a massive prick heâs been.
Itâs just them. Steve and Dustin.
"Fuck," you hiss under your breath, the word tasting like copper. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The thought of walking to that car makes you want to sink into the asphalt. You can already see Steveâs expressionâthe way heâll look at you like youâre an anchor dragging him down. But as a cold breeze sweeps through the empty lot, you realize you don't have a choice.
You are stranded.
You slam your car door shut, the noise echoing too loudly in the silence, and begin the long walk of shame across the pavement. You curse under your breath with every step, clutching your bag to your chest like a shield.
"Please don't drive away," you mutter, your pace quickening as the BMW's engine revs slightly. "Please don't be that much of a dick."
You are halfway there when Dustinâs head snaps toward the window. You see him stop mid-sentence, pointing at you. Steveâs head turns slowly, his profile silhouetted by the dashboard lights.
Even at this distance, you can feel the heat of his irritation.
You reach the driverâs side window just as it slides down with a mechanical whine. Steve doesn't lean out. He just sits there, one hand gripped tight on the steering wheel, his profile illuminated by the pale blue glow of the dash. He looks exhausted, annoyed, and still incredibly sharp around the edges.
"What now,?" he asks. His voice is flat, lacking even the energy to be angry anymore. He won't even turn his head to look at you fully.
"My car won't start," you say, the words feeling heavy and humiliating. "Itâs dead. I think... I think I need a jump. C-Can you restart it with yours?"
Steve finally turns his head.
He looks at you with a slow, sweeping gaze that takes in your smeared makeup and your trembling shoulders, and his lip curls just a fraction.
"You're kidding, right?" he asks, a dry, mocking laugh huffing out of his nose.
"Please," you mutter, the word nearly catching in your throat. Itâs a tiny, broken sound that makes Dustin flinch, but Steve doesn't even blink.
He sighsâa long, dramatic sound of pure martyrdom. He rolls his eyes toward the roof of the car as if heâs asking God why heâs being punished with your presence.
"Unbelievable," he mutters, his voice heavy with annoyance. He shifts the BMW into gear, the engine purring with a reliability your own car clearly lacks.
He taps his fingers against the leather-wrapped steering wheel, the rhythm sharp and impatient. "YeahâŠI have the cables," he says, throwing a dismissive glance toward the trunk.
"Walk back to your car," he orders, his voice clipping every syllable. "Get the hood popped. Iâll pull around and get the stuff ready, but Iâm not waiting for you to fumble with the latch for ten minutes."
He doesn't wait for a "thank you" or even a nod. He just rolls the window up, the glass sealing him and Dustin back into their private world.
You turn around and start the walk back, your sneakers hitting the pavement in a dull, steady rhythm. You feel the weight of his gaze on your backâand Dustinâs, too.
You yank the driver's side door open and slide back into the seat, the stale, silent air of the cabin pressing in on you.
"Of course," you hiss, slamming your hand against the dashboard. "Of fucking course."
You reach down and pull the lever to pop the hood, the mechanical clank sounding like a mocking laugh.
Outside, the low hum of the BMW grows louder as Steve pulls up. His headlights sweep across your interior, blinding you for a second. He positions his car nose-to-nose with yours.
You push the door open and step out into the humid night just as Steve rounds the front of his BMW. The jumper cables are looped over his shoulder like a coiled snake. He doesn't look up as you approach.
"Don't just stand there," he snaps, his voice cutting through the quiet. He shakes the cables out, the metal clamps clinking together.
He thrusts the red and black ends toward you. He doesn't hand them over gently; he expects you to take them.
"Red on positive, black on negative," he orders, pointing a finger at your battery.
Dustin watches from the passenger seat, his face pressed against the glass, looking like he wants to jump out and do it for you just to stop the tension from snapping.
You stare down at the engine bay, the battery terminals looking like a foreign language you haven't studied yet.
"Steve?" you call out, your voice thin and trembling. "I... I can't tell which is which."
Steve lets out a dry huff of a laughâthe kind that says he expected exactly this level of helplessness from you. He stalks forward, his shadow swallowing yours as he steps into your personal space. He doesn't ask you to move; he just crowds in, forcing you to back up against the grill of your car until the cold metal bites into your thighs.
"Move," he mutters, his voice a low rasp.
He reaches out to take the cables, but he doesn't just snatch them.
His hands wrap over yours, his large, warm palms sliding over your knuckles to force your grip open. The contact is jarring. Heâs so close you can feel the heat radiating off his chest, and for a heartbeat, the familiar scent of his hairspray and laundry detergent makes your head spin. Itâs a cruel ghost of a sensationâone that screams of late-night drives and whispered promises, now replaced by the reality of his cold indifference.
He doesn't pull away immediately. His fingers linger over yours for a second too long, his thumb brushing against your skin as he pries the metal clamps from your shaking hands. Heâs not being gentle; his grip is firm and demanding, but the friction of his skin against yours sends a jolt through you that makes your breath hitch.
You look up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, searching for even a flicker of the old Steve in his eyes.
But he doesn't give you the satisfaction. He looks down at your hands with a flat, bored expression, then meets your gaze for a fleeting, icy second.
"You're shaking," he observes. It isn't a question, and thereâs no sympathy in it. Itâs just a statement of fact, delivered with the same dryness as a weather report. "Stop. Youâre making this take longer."
He breaks the contact abruptly, the loss of his warmth feeling like a physical slap. He leans over the engine, his shoulder firmly brushing yours as he pushes past you to reach the battery.
"Positive," he says, the word punctuated by the sharp snap of the red clamp biting onto the metal. "Negative." He attaches the black one with an efficient motion.
He stands up, hovering inches from you in the narrow gap between the cars. He could move away, but he doesn'tâhe just looms there, looking down at you with that same look of exhausted disappointment.
"Go," he says, his voice a low, dry command. "Turn the key. Don't touch the gas."
You scramble into the driverâs seat, the lingering warmth of his hands still stinging on your knuckles. You shove the key into the ignition and turn it, praying for the roar of the engine, for a way out of this suffocating tension.
Click. Click. Click.
The car doesn't even groan. Itâs a metallic ticking that sounds like a countdown to another disaster. You try again, your jaw tight, but the dashboard remains dark and the engine stays dead.
"Steve!" you call out, popping your head out of the window. Your voice is pitched with a mix of panic and rising irritation. "It's not working! Why isn't it working?"
Steve is leaning against the hood of his BMW, arms crossed, looking like heâs counting the seconds until he can leave you in the dirt. When he hears the silence of your car, his head drops back for a second, staring at the dark sky in a silent prayer for patience.
"Did you turn the key all the way?" he asks, his voice dry and biting.
"Yes, Steve! I know how to turn a key!"
"Clearly not," he mutters. He stalks toward your door, his frustration radiating off him in waves. He reaches through the open window, his arm brushing against your shoulder as he grabs the keys while they're still in the ignition. Heâs so close that his sleeve catches on your hair for a split second, a sharp tug that forces you to lean into him.
He doesn't apologize. He just tries the ignition himself, a jagged, forceful twist.
Click. Click.
"Goddammit!" he snaps, pulling his head back and looking at you with genuine heat in his eyes. "What did you do to this thing? Did you leave the lights on for three days? Did you let Shane mess with the alternator?"
"I didn't do anything!" you snap back, as you step out the car, your voice cracking. "It was fine this morning!"
"Well, it's not fine now!" He slams his palm against the roof of your car, the sound echoing through the empty lot like a gunshot.
He looks back at Dustin, who is watching with wide, nervous eyes, and then back at you. He looks like he's about to launch into another lecture about your incompetence, his mouth already twisting into a sneer.
But then he stops.
Your eyes are glassy now, tears spilling freely, carving warm, wet tracks through the dust and glitter on your cheeks. You feel exposed, raw, like every nerve ending is screaming.
âItâs not my fault, Steve,â you whisper, voice thick and shaking. âItâs notââ A tear slips free, burning its way down your face.
Steveâs jaw tightens, but he doesnât flinch.
âY-you d-donât have to be this m-mean,â you choke out, your voice cracking, each word trembling as though itâs barely holding itself together. Hot tears streak down your cheeks, and your sobs catch in your throat, breaking against the words. âI-I get it. You h-hate me. You want me g-gone. Iâm s-stuck here, stranded, and youâre acting like Iâm some⊠some m-monster just for needing your help. Youâyou donât have to treat me like this.â
The sight of your tears doesnât soften Steveâit only fuels the fire. He leans in, closing the space between you until his shadow swallows you whole, until all you can see is the rigid set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the white-hot fury in his eyes.
âOh, now youâre the victim?â His voice erupts, sudden and jagged, bouncing off the walls of the empty parking lot. You jump back a step, heart hammering. âNow Iâm the bad guy because Iâm not dropping everything to play your knight in shining armor?â
âSteveââ Dustin starts, voice shaky and pleading, his head poking out of the car window. But Steve ignores him entirely.
âNo, Dustin! Shut up!â Steve roars, chest heaving, hands flailing toward your dead car. âYou think Iâm being mean? You think Iâm being a prick for no reason?â
He steps even closer, face inches from yours, eyes ablaze with something almost unhinged.
âYou want to know why Iâm like this?â He spits, voice raw, shaking, ugly. âBecause this is what you wanted! You chose this! You walked away first! You decided that I wasnât enough, that your perfect little âGolden Girlâ life was more important than whatever we had! Donât you dare stand here and cry to me about me being mean when you taught me how to be cold!â
Your laugh is sharp and humorless. âOh, donât you dare put that all on me.â
âYou walked away first!â He shoots back immediately. âYou drew the line! You decided we donât cross it. So I stayed on my side!â
âOh, go to hell, Steve!â you scream, the words ripping from your throat. You shove him back, palms pressing hard against his chest. He stumbles, blinking, caught off guard by your defiance.
âYou think youâre the only one whoâs hurt?!â You bark, jabbing a finger at his chest. âYou think youâre the only one miserable? I came to help! I stayed to help! And all youâve done is treat me like Iâm garbage! Like Iâm beneath you!â
âBecause youâre a distraction!â Steve yells back, fists clenching, face red and veins bulging in his neck. âI canât pretend weâre friends when we both know thatâs not true!â
âIâm standing right here!â you scream, voice breaking and sharp, hot tears dripping down your cheeks. âI am helping! I am putting myself on the line, just like you! But you canât see it! You just want me trapped in your stupid little box of blame so you donât have to admit that youâre just as messed up as I am!â
âI am not a mess!â he yells, veins standing out on his forehead. âIâm the one trying to fix everything while you just make it worse!â
âYouâre not fixing anything, Steve! Youâre benching me!â you snap. âYouâre telling me Iâm not allowed at Scoops like Iâm a child!â
âBecause I donât want you there!â he roars. âI donât want to see you every five seconds and remember what I canâtââ
âStop it! Just stop it!â
The voice is small, cracked, and vibrating with a level of raw pain that neither of you expected.
You and Steve both freeze, still chest-to-chest, your breathing ragged and your faces flushed with fury. You turn your heads in unison toward the BMW.
Then you see him.
Dustin.
Heâs standing by the open door, shoulders shaking violently, hands curled into fists at his sides. His hat sits lopsided on his head, tears streaking on his face. Heâs not just cryingâheâs breaking, trembling as if the effort to keep himself together is crushing him.
âDustinâŠâ Steve starts, his voice dropping instantly, softer, lower, all the anger bleeding out like someone pulled a plug.
âNo!â Dustin blurts, but it splinters halfway through into a tiny, wounded sound. He canât catch his breath, chest heaving in ragged pulls. âI⊠I canâtâŠâ
He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back, but they spill anyway, hot and fast. His shoulders quake. The sound he makes isnât a sobâitâs thin, frayed, heartbreaking, like heâs unraveling from the inside.
âI canât see you guys like this,â he chokes, voice breaking in desperate, ragged pieces. âI canât⊠I canât do it!â
Steve freezes, muscles locked, caught mid-breath.
Dustin swallows, drawing in a broken gasp that doesnât reach his lungs. âWeâre supposed to be a team,â he whispers, the words trembling as they tumble out. âThatâs the whole point! Weâre supposed to⊠be together! Youâreâyouâre myââ
He turns abruptly, embarrassed by the rawness of his tears, shoulders shaking as he tries to hide it.
âEverythingâs falling apart,â he says softer now, almost a confession, voice thick and ragged. âRussians and secret codes andâand I thought⊠I thought if you were here⊠if both of you were here⊠maybe it wouldnât feel soâsoââ
His hands curl into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms.
âSo⊠scary.â
The word barely makes it out, quivering like a living thing.
âI thought maybe it would be like before,â he whispers, voice low, cracked. âLike when w-we figured things out together. When n-nobody had to pick sides.â He looks at Steve firstâred, blotchy eyes, face raw with tearsâand then at you. No blame. Just hurt.
âBut you wonât even look at each other without⊠withoutââ He gestures helplessly between you, fingers trembling. âItâs like youâre trying to see who can hurt the other one worse.â
His lower lip trembles violently. He bites it, but it only makes it wobble more.
âI donât care if youâre not f-friends,â he blurts, words tripping over each other, desperate, chaotic. âI donât care if you h-hate each other forever. I just⊠I just need you to stop exploding at each other the second youâre in the same room. I canâtââ His voice shatters. âI canât fight Russians and referee my own family at the same time!â
The word family hangs in the air, raw and exposed, a knife through the night.
He drops his face into his hands, shoulders curling inward, body folding under the weight of everything.
And thatâs when both of you move.
Not because you planned it. Not because you agree. But because Dustin Henderson is crying, utterly undone.
Steve reaches him first, hand cupping the back of Dustinâs neck, thumb pressing into his curls like he always does when Dustin spirals. âHey,â he murmurs, voice rough and low. âIâm sorry. I⊠I didnât meanââ
You drop to your knees instinctively, gently pulling Dustinâs hands from his face. âWeâre okay,â you whisper, though the words feel fragile. âWeâre okay. Weâre just⊠stupid sometimes.â
Dustin collapses forward into the space between you, forehead pressing into Steveâs chest, curling instinctively, while one hand clutches your sleeve so tight it stretches the fabric. Itâs as if heâs trying to anchor himself to both of you, terrified one of you might leave.
His breathing is uneven, hitching halfway in before he can force it down. Every inhale sounds like it costs him something. Every exhale trembles against Steveâs shirt.
The lot feels impossibly wide, hollow, the asphalt glowing faintly under the harsh moonlight, the silence stretching with a weight that presses into your ribs.
Eventually, the sobs ease into quiet, broken breathing. Dustin doesnât let go completely. One hand clenches in Steveâs jacket, the other grips your forearm.
âCan you⊠just try?â he asks, voice hoarse, broken. âI know itâs bad. I know⊠last year was bad. Iâm not pretending it wasnât. But can you just⊠be in the same space without trying to win? Just⊠for tonight?â
His gaze flicks between you and Steve, pleading, fragile.
âBecause I really⊠I really need both of you,â he whispers. âAnd I donât think I could handle it if I lost one of you to the other.â
You look at Steve. His jaw relaxes just fractionally. His eyes soften ever so slightly, but he doesnât break contact.
âYeah,â he says finally, voice low, dry, rasping. âYeah, Dustin. We canâŠwe can do that.â
Then his gaze shifts to you, searching yours as if asking for permission.
You nod slowly. Exhaustion weighs every bone. Rage, hurt, fear, and longing all crash together into a hollow ache that makes your legs feel like lead.
âRight,â you whisper, voice raw, barely audible.
Dustin blinks between the two of you, still clutching your arm and Steveâs jacket like a fragile, wet bridge holding together the pieces of this broken night.
Steve holds your gaze a moment longer than necessary. You catch the subtle shift in his throat as he swallows. His eyes scan your face slowly, like heâs memorizing the lines, the tired curve of your mouth, the way your lashes glisten when youâre not screaming at him.
Then, finally, he breaks eye contact and straightens, dragging Dustin with him.
âOkay,â he says, voice clipped and dry, stripped of the venom from earlier. Tired. So tired it almost sounds like it aches. âTruce. Dustin, back in the car. You,â he points at you, âGrab whatever you need from the trunk.â
âBut my carââ
âWeâll deal with it tomorrow,â Steve interrupts without looking back, already stalking to the front of his BMW to disconnect the cables. âWeâre done for tonight. Get your bag. Now.â
You move on autopilot, dazed, heavy-limbed. The gym bag and Russian dictionary feel like bricks in your arms as you lock the dead car and walk toward the BMW. Steve is already shoving the cables into the trunk, slamming it shut with a definitive thud.
He opens the driverâs side door but pauses, glancing at you over the roof. The headlights slice through the dark, catching the streaks of tears still drying on your skin.
âBackseat,â he says shortly. Not a suggestion. Not a demand. Just a flat direction.
You slide in, leather smelling faintly of Steve, of himâthe familiar mix that once felt comforting, now almost suffocating. Dustin is already buckled in front, head against the window, drained, finally succumbing to the exhaustion of the night.
Steve slides in, shifts the car into gear.
The silence is thick, suffocating, but it no longer hums with the threat of explosion. He catches your eye in the rearview mirror for the briefest moment, just long enough to remind you he sees you, before pulling out of the lot, hands steady on the wheel.
The drive to your house is suffocatingly quiet. The only sound is the low hum of the BMWâs engine and the rhythmic thump-thump of the tires over the cracks in the pavement.
In the passenger seat, Dustinâs head has finally lolled against the window. His mouth is slightly open, and his breathing is deep and even. Heâs out cold, finally getting the peace he was begging for in the parking lot.
Steve pulls the car to a smooth stop at the curb in front of your house. He keeps the engine idling, the vibration of the car the only thing filling the silence.
He doesn't turn the interior lights on. He doesn't even look back at you at first. He just stares straight ahead at the dark suburbs of Hawkins, his hands still gripped at ten and two on the steering wheel.
âW-weâre⊠here,â he mutters, voice low, dry, careful. Guarded.
You look at the back of his head, at the way his hair is slightly mussed from the wind and the stress. You realize this is the first time youâve been alone with him, truly alone, in monthsâeven if a sleeping teenager is sitting right next to him.
The silence in the car feels heavy, filled with the ghosts of the things you shouted at each other in the parking lot.
"Right," you say, your hand fumbling for the door handle. Your movements are stiff, your body still buzzing with the remnants of the adrenaline. "Um... goodnight, Steve."
Itâs awkward. The word 'goodnight' feels too domestic, too much like the way you used to say it when heâd drop you off after a movie, back when things were simple.
Steve clears his throat, his gaze still fixed somewhere on your front porch. "Yeah..night."
He finally turns his head just a fraction, his profile silhouetted by the pale streetlamp. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he just sighs.
"Iâll see you at Scoops tomorrow.â he adds, his voice regaining a hint of that dry edge, though the bite is gone.
You hesitate, hand on the cold metal of the doorknob. âI thoughtâŠâ you start, voice small. âI thought you didnât want me there. You made it clear I wasââ
âI know what I said,â he interrupts, tone cutting but calm. He finally turns to look at you, expression unreadable, eyes tired, almost soft for a man who was screaming twenty minutes ago. âLook, it doesnât matter what I want,â he murmurs, low, careful not to wake Dustin. He gestures vaguely toward the sleeping boy. âHe needs this. He needs us to not be at each otherâs throats so we can actually do what needs to be done. Weâre doing this for him. Got it?â
âYeahâŠfor Dustin,â you whisper, throat tight.
"Eleven a.m.," he says, a ghost of a command in his tone. "Don't make me come looking for you."
You pause on the bottom step of your porch, your hand already on the cold metal of the doorknob. The night is quiet, save for the low, rhythmic idle of the BMW behind you. You expect to hear the engine rev and the tires roll away, but instead, the driverâs window hums as it rolls down.
âHey.â
You turn back.
Steve is leaning toward the open window, just enough to meet your gaze, studying you. Neon spandex, leg warmers, the wilted headbandâhe takes it all in, his gaze unreadable but soft at the edges.
âOutfit,â he says flatly, dry. âItâs ridiculous. You look like a highlighter exploded.â
A tired, small smile tugs at your lipsâthe first tonight. You shake your head slightly, too drained to retort. The tension in your shoulders finally snaps.
âGoodnight, Steve,â you murmur.
He nods once, eyes lingering for a moment too long, then rolls the window up.
You watch the red glow of the taillights fade as he drives away, the engineâs hum slowly disappearing into the quiet of Hawkins.
a/n:
here is the second part of yesterday's chapter!
sooo...do we think steve still likes reader...?? đ
also I wanted to say that I'm extremely busy until march 16, so I don't know how much I will be able to post :( I'm applying to a bunch of unis around Europe and it's so mentally draining đ so so sorry, but I promise I will make up for it!
anyway hope you guys enjoy this! as alway, please let me know what you think :)
taglist:
I hope I've tagged everyone!
@burningfudge @4ria790 @onlyangel-444 @soupbinlily @emma8895eb @salt-recs @kohoutkof01 @imsorare @soupiemeowmeow @gaylittleboi69 @burningfudge @freyawhitexxx1 @stranger-chan @szazombie @emma48 @deo-data @nosebeers @eli0eli0 @cybersexes @blueeyedally @blueeyedally @leptitlu @rafecamlovr @antisocialfiore @hipsternerd9 @krazyklwa99 @scaramou @mynotthatperfectworld @adhxmoony @sexyvixen7 @mlt2000 @aajames217 @scrpenter @sweetpeterparker @kamisama1kiss @solynoche @pinkiepieshepardspie @rrosiitas @hawtginge @bookmarkedmen @chervbs @pleasingregulus @needjoekeery @singlethreadofivy @tayaelise @telepathicheartss @bluestar781 @minhyrin @potterhead1310 @enchantingduckbird @clemontoni @peculiarpiscess @auxcordlawd @purplerainx1 @hazzaisonfirelol @chelseamount
FRACTURED BY DESIGN
PAIRING: Steve Harrington X Fem!Hargrove!reader
SUMMARY: Y/N Hargrove is trying to move on, to exist in a world no longer ruled by monsters and grief, but the Upside Down refuses to let her go, dragging her back just when peace feels possible. When the people she loves are threatened, her carefully constructed armor begins to crack, just enough for Steve Harrington to notice. Caught between surviving the past, facing what still lurks in the dark, and the pull of something unexpected, a boy who loves too much and a girl who was never taught how must decide what happens when two people find something worth risking everything for.
WARNINGS: Frenemies to eventual lovers, cold/avoidant reader, cursing, mentions of violence, protective!reader, talks of death/grief, blood and gore, angst, fluff if you really squint, smoking, talks of drugs, self-deprecating thoughts, signs of PTSD/trauma, jealousy, typical Stranger Things themes
SERIES CHAPTERS:
(Status: Completed)
đ°ïž chapter one: the shape of old nightmares
đ°ïž chapter two: cracks you can't hide
đ°ïž chapter three: music as a lifeline
đ°ïž chapter four: bones beneath the floorboards
đ°ïž chapter five: sink or swim
đ°ïž chapter six: lingering static
đ°ïž chapter seven: running towards the end
đ°ïž chapter eight: what survives the ruins
BONUS CHAPTERS:
(set during season five)
đ°ïž Donât Worry, Iâll Make You Worry
âł Being Billy Hargroveâs twin sister came with a reputation you never bothered to correct. To everyone else, you were cold, sharp-tongued, and unapologetically heartless. Yet the second someone you cared about was hurt that carefully build exterior cracked enough for Steve to question if beneath all that sarcasm and leather was an person who cared more than she let others see. Contains Stranger Things Season Five Spoilers!!
Things I Wish You Said
âł coming soon âŠ
On Purpose
âł coming soon âŠ
End of Beginning
âł coming soon âŠ
LABYRINTH | steve harrington
You would break your back to make me break a smile
Your best friend Robin Buckley asks you to not fall in love with her co-worker Steve Harrington. But you fall anyway.
pairing: steve harrington x reader words: 10k (wtf!!!) contains: fluff, mild angst i guess?? season three to pre-season four steve, sort-of strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, use of y/n, reader is a lil messy, mention of reader being cheated on, reader falls first (steve falls harder), suggestive language, alcohol consumption, discussion of sex, men being awful (except steve ofc), robin being robin, eventual steve harrington yearning, heavy reader yearning.
author's note: another taylor swift song fic! shock! horror! this one is inspired by labyrinth which is one of taylor's best songs in my opinion and really underrated. this took longer to write than i wanted but i kept losing momentum but i got there in the end so i hope it's not awful!
ps. sorry if your last name is hardcock
to be added to my taglist | masterlist | requests page
uh oh, i'm falling in love
June, 1985.
You wish you were surprised when Robin told you she had seen Dan at the movies with that Natasha girl. The one he told you not to worry about. The one who Robin had seen with Dan's hand up her skirt in the back row of a screening of Fletch.
All The Quiet Things | Steve Harrington
A Steve Harrington x Reader fanfiction | multi-chapter | popular!reader & popular!steve | slow burn | seasons 1â5 | strangers to⊠| +18 EVENTUAL SMUT Summary: You are Hawkins Highâs resident "Golden Girl"âbeautiful, brilliant, and destined for medical school. While you never asked for the popularity that follows you, you carry it with a quiet, unshakable confidence, spending your time helping others and noticing the subtle truths everyone else ignores. You donât hate Steve Harrington; you simply refuse to be another one of his distractions, giving him exactly the weight he deserves and nothing more. Over the years, Steve finds himself constantly pulled back to you, forced to face the only person who sees through his act and challenges him to be the man heâs afraid to become. Series Masterlist: All the quiet things
Chapter 20: Material Girls
The morning is supposed to be sacred.
In a this is my one unsupervised morning of peace before Hawkins inevitably combusts way.
Your parents are currently on vacationâsomewhere coastal and expensive, where the "economic climate" is discussed over mimosas rather than across a mahogany desk
Shane is out golfingâbecause of course he isâdiscussing interest rates and the sanctity of the American Dream with someone named Todd who absolutely owns more than one pastel sweater tied around his shoulders.
Your first class, Lunges & Neon Nightmares, doesnât start until three. Which means no whistles. No cassette tapes screeching into life. No women in aggressively pink spandex asking if they can âtone but not bulk.â No teenagers breaking into government facilities.
Just you.
An you let yourself luxuriate in it.
The silk robe slides against your skin as you move through the kitchen. The hem trails behind you like youâre the bored trophy wife in a soap opera who is three episodes away from either an affair or a nervous breakdown. The coffee grinder roars to life, loud and industrial and satisfying. The smell blooms instantlyâdark, bitter, grounding.
You toast a bagel to the exact shade of golden brown that says I have control over at least one thing in my life.
You flip through a glossy magazine, pages thick and shiny. Women beam up at you with impossible cheekbones and frosted blue eyeshadow, their smiles serene in a way that suggests they have never once sprinted across a mall parking lot because a thirteen-year-old with telekinetic powers needed a ride.
You take a long sip of coffee and let it sit on your tongue for a second like youâre assessing a fine wine instead of something that came out of a drip machine older than most of your problems. You close your eyes.
âFinally,â you exhale into the empty kitchen, into the polished counters and the cathedral ceilings and the aggressively tasteful fruit bowl that has never known a single fingerprint.
The silence answers you.
Itâs perfect.
Too perfect.
You squint at the stillness like it personally offended you.
âItâs a Tuesday,â you mutter. âWe will not be haunting the premises.â
You reach over and flick the dial of the transistor radio perched beside the sink. It crackles violently for a second, static snapping like electricity, beforeâ
Synth. Bright. Punchy. Unapologetically 80s.
The drum machine kicks in and Maneater bursts through the speakers like itâs been waiting all morning for its cue.
Sharp, bouncing bassline. That crisp, synthetic beat.
It slices through the heavy air of the mansion like a fresh breeze through cheap blinds.
Your shoulders react first. A tiny roll. Then your hips follow, subtle at first, like youâre pretending this isnât happening.
Without thinking, you set your mug downâcarefully, because you are chaotic but not recklessâand grab the nearest object from the utensil crock: a heavy stainless steel whisk. You weigh it in your hand. Solid. Balanced. Professional. You wrap your fingers around the handle and lift it to your mouth, testing the angle like a seasoned pop star evaluating stage lighting.
âOh-oh, here she comesââ you sing into the whisk, your voice echoing dramatically off tile and marble like youâre performing at Madison Square Garden instead of between a refrigerator and a morally judgmental toaster.
You pivot on the balls of your feet, sliding across the kitchen floor in fuzzy socks with more confidence than friction.
Watch out, boy, sheâll chew you upâ
You point aggressively at the coffee maker as if it has personally wronged you.
You shimmy past the island counter, hips swaying with exaggerated precision, free hand slicing through the air in sharp, music-video choreography that exists only in your mind and, unfortunately, the security cameras.
You hop onto the edge of the lower cabinet, one socked foot sliding dramatically forward as you dip into a half-squat and belt the chorus like your life depends on it.
âOh here she comes!â
You whip around, hair flipping over your shoulder in slow motion that absolutely does not translate to real time.
Watch out, boy, sheâll chew you upâ
You use the refrigerator door as a backup dancer, swinging it open on the beat and catching your reflection in the chrome handle. You wink at yourself.
âSheâs a maneater!â you declare, jabbing the whisk toward your own smirking face like youâre both interviewer and international superstar.
The mansion, which moments ago felt like a mausoleum, is now your stadium. You strut across the tile in long, exaggerated steps, pointing at imaginary paparazzi in the archway. You slide one hand across the countertop as you pass, spinning on your heel with the confidence of someone who has absolutely never pulled a muscle in their life.
The synth break hits.
You gasp dramatically.
This is your moment.
You climb onto a barstool with reckless ambition. The whisk is raised high above your head as you lip-sync with ferocious commitment. You are fully in it now.
Coffee abandoned.
Dignity optional.
Tuesday conquered.
And as the chorus hits again, you point the whisk toward the grand staircase like you expect backup dancers to descend in sequins and shoulder pads.
âSheâll only come out at nightââ
You spin. You slide. You absolutely nail the imaginary key change.
âOh here she comes!â you shout one last time, sliding across the tile with a flourish that is ninety percent confidence and ten percent near-death experience.
The synth line spirals upward.
The drums punch.
âSheâs a maneaterâ!â
And thenâ
Silence.
The song fades out, the radio humming faintly as if even it needs a moment to recover from what just happened.
You lower the whisk slowly, staring at it like it has just witnessed too much and will absolutely be telling stories about this later. Your hair is slightly wild. Your coffee is lukewarm. Your dignity is somewhere under the barstool.
You inhale deeply. Exhale. And then, with the clarity that only comes after a full-bodied, borderline theatrical kitchen concert, a thought settles into your mind with divine softness.
A bath. But not just a bath. A bath bath.
The kind with steam curling up in lazy ribbons. The kind with bubbles piled high enough to qualify as architecture. The kind where you disappear beneath the surface and let the world, and its teenage boys, and its former prom kings, deal with themselves for forty uninterrupted minutes.
You glance down at your socked feet, slightly askew from your choreography.
You glance at the radio.
You glance at the coffee.
And then you nod once, solemnly, like youâve just reached a bipartisan agreement with yourself.
âYes,â you murmur, already turning toward the hallway. âWe have earned this.â
You place the whisk back into the crock with ceremony. You reclaim your mug for one final victorious sip.
The bath is the climax of your morning ritual. The crown jewel.
Steam rises in soft ribbons as the tub fills, curling toward the ceiling like itâs auditioning for a low-budget music video. The bathroom mirror fogs at the edges, blurring your reflection into something ethereal and forgiving, which frankly feels deserved after the week youâve had.
You reach for the bottle of Lavender Dream bubble bath with the reverence of a woman about to commit a beautiful, fragrant crime.
And thenâ
You pour.
Not a polite squeeze. Not a modest drizzle. You tip the bottle like youâre emptying contraband over international waters.
The liquid glugs into the bath. It swirls dramatically before dissolving, releasing a scent so aggressively botanical it feels like a spa just unionized inside your bathroom.
The bubbles respond instantly. They rise. They multiply. They escalate.
White and plush and entirely unnecessary in their abundance, they stack and swell until the surface of the water resembles a weather system forming over suburban America. This is not a bath anymore. This is atmospheric phenomenon.
It smells like calm.
You test the water with one cautious toe.
Heat blooms upward in a slow, luxurious wave, climbing your calf like applause. You sigh in approval, already imagining the dramatic, slow-motion descent into lavender oblivion.
You inhale deeply, bracing yourself for immersion.
For silence.
For transcendenceâ
DING-DONG.
You freeze. A full-body system shutdown.
A single bead of condensation detaches from your hairline and slides down your temple in slow, cinematic betrayal.
You stare at the bathroom door.
Silence follows.
Hope flickers.
Maybe it was a hallucination. Maybe it was the pipes. Maybeâ
DING-DONG-DING-DONG-DING-DING-DING.
That is not a doorbell. That is Morse code for we know youâre in there.
âNo,â you whisper to the bubbles, clutching your silk robe tighter around yourself despite the fact that you are still fully dressed and therefore dramatically overreacting. âNo. No. Absolutely not. I am not here.â
POUND. POUND. POUND.
The door rattles on its hinges like it is reconsidering its career path.
You close your eyes and exhale through your nose, the breath beginning in your chest and ending somewhere near your spine, where all your patience goes to die.
âFine,â you mutter, voice low and resigned. âFine!â
You twist the silk sash of your robe tighter, yanking the knot into place with decisive hostility, as if the bow itself is personally responsible for the interruption.
You march down the hallway with the righteous indignation of a woman whose bath has been spiritually compromised. âIf this is a vacuum salesman,â you grumble, gripping the brass handle with theatrical menace, âI am baptizing him in the name of the Father, the Son, and Essential Oils.â
You fling the door open with the force of a woman prepared to commit minor suburban violence.
And there they are.
Max Mayfield stands there, her red hair wild and windblown from the ride over, her skateboard tucked under her arm like sheâs prepared to use it as both transportation and a tactical weapon. There is something volcanic in her expression. She looks like sheâs ready to dismantle a teenage boy and leave him for parts.
Beside her stands Eleven. And she looks like someone has cracked open the world and told her the pieces donât go back together the way she thought they did. Her eyes are enormous, dark, and profoundly troubledâthe kind of look that makes your heart ache for reasons you don't want to examine.
âWell,â you say slowly, eyes narrowing with fury barely contained beneath silk and steam, âthis better be about national security.â
Max doesnât wait for permission. She strides past you, her sneakers squeaking against your perfectly cleaned floors with a sound that fractures your quiet morning.
âWe have a situation,â Max announces the second you open the door, hands planted on her hips like sheâs about to brief the Pentagon instead of your living room.
Not hi.
Not wow, you smell like a candle store exploded.
Situation.
Behind her, Eleven steps in more carefully. Her eyes scan your face immediatelyâsearching for cues, for reassurance, for instructions written somewhere on your face.
âA boy situation,â she clarifies, solemn, like sheâs reporting a natural disaster.
You close the door slowly and lean your forehead against it for a dramatic count of three, lavender steam from your abandoned bath drifting faintly down the hallway like a ghost of better choices.
âIs the boy currently possessed by an interdimensional shadow monster,â you ask into the wood, voice muffled, âor is he just being fourteen and stupid?â
âWorse,â Max says, already flopping onto your couch like she pays rent there. Her Vans thud against the cushions, red hair catching the summer light pouring through the windows. âHeâs lying. And heâs not even good at it.â
That gets your attention.
You turn around.
Eleven stands in the middle of the room like sheâs bracing for impact. Hands clasped in front of her, shoulders tight, jaw set in a stubborn little line.
âMike was late,â she says carefully. âFifteen minutes.â
Max snorts. âWhich in boy time is basically a federal crime.â
Eleven continues, determined. âHe said his nana is sick.â She swallows. âVery sick. Maybe⊠dying.â
The word sits in the air, heavy and wrong.
You and Max exchange a look.
Max groans loudly, throwing her head back against the couch. âOh my god. The nana excuse? Thatâs like, page one of the Idiot Boy Handbook.â
Elevenâs eyes flick between you both, wide and wounded. âHe said she might die,â she repeats, like maybe if she says it enough it will make sense.
âDoes he even have a sick nana?â you ask gently.
Max sits up immediately. âNo! Nana is fine. Nana is alive. Nana is probably watching Wheel of Fortune right now.â
Elevenâs face crumples just slightly at the edges. âI asked if he lies,â she says quietly. âHe said no.â
Of course he did.
You walk further into the room, folding your arms looselyânot defensive, just thinking. âAnd do you think heâs lying?â
Her answer comes fast this time. âYes.â Itâs sharp. Certain. Hurt wrapped in steel. âBut he says no,â she adds, softer now, like thatâs the part thatâs really confusing her.
Max leans forward, elbows on her knees, suddenly serious in that very specific teenage-girl way where gossip becomes gospel. âOkay, listen. Boys lie when they panic. Or when theyâre scared. Or when they think if they just keep talking, the problem will disappear.â
Eleven frowns. âWhy not just tell truth?â
Max blinks at her like sheâs asked why the sky isnât plaid. âBecause theyâre dumb.â
You cough to hide a laugh.
Max continues, animated now, hands slicing through the air. âThey think if they control the story, they control the outcome. Like if he says âsick nana,â then you canât be mad because itâs tragic and sensitive and youâre supposed to feel bad.â
Eleven processes this, eyes narrowing slightly. âThat isâŠmanipulation.â
Max points at her. âYes! Exactly! See? You get it.â
You step in before this becomes a full anti-boy manifesto. âOr,â you offer carefully, âhe panicked because he didnât know how to explain what he was actually doing.â
Max whips her head toward you. âOh my god, donât defend him.â
âIâm not defending him,â you say calmly. âIâm saying fourteen-year-old boys are not exactly known for their emotional transparency.â
Eleven looks between the two of you like sheâs watching Wimbledon but with feelings instead of rackets. âWhat do I do?â she asks finally.
Max doesnât hesitate. âIgnore him.â
Eleven tilts her head. âIgnore?â
âTotal freeze-out,â Max says, deadly serious. âNo calls. No talking. No kissing. No hand-holding. He comes crawling back with an apology and maybe flowers. Preferably something dramatic.â
âFlowers die,â Eleven says thoughtfully.
âExactly,â Max replies. âSymbolism.â
You pinch the bridge of your nose. âWe are not launching psychological warfare.â
Max spins toward you. âWhy not? It works.â
âBecause,â you say patiently, sitting on the arm of the chair across from them, ârelationships are not arcade games. You donât win by withholding tokens.â
Max narrows her eyes. âYou sound like youâve been hurt before.â
You ignore that completely.
Elevenâs brow furrows in deep concentration. âIs ignoring⊠mature?â
Max opens her mouth immediately.
You cut in first.
âIgnoring can be powerful,â you admit. âBut only if youâre doing it to protect yourself. Not to punish someone.â
Eleven absorbs that.
Max huffs. âOkay, but a little punishment never killed anyone.â
âItâs not about killing,â you say dryly. âItâs about communicating.â
Elevenâs hands twist together. âIf I tell him I know he lies⊠he will say no again.â
âThen you tell him how it made you feel,â you say gently, like youâre explaining something sacred and volatile at the same time. âNot what he did. How it made you feel.â
Eleven stares at you like youâve just handed her a trig problem with no numbers and told her to solve for x. Her eyebrows pull together, lips pressing into that thin line she gets when sheâs concentrating so hard it almost hurts to watch.
You glance at Max. Then back at Elevenâwho looks wounded and furious and stubborn all at once, like sheâs trying to hold her heart together with sheer willpower.
Something inside your chest melts a little.
You tug your robe tighter around yourself, silk whispering against silk, and sigh the kind of sigh that comes from lived experience. âLadies, welcome to the club,â you say.
Maxâs eyes narrow immediately. âWhat club.â
You level her with a lookâslow, knowing, battle-scarred. The kind of look forged in Hawkins High hallways, under fluorescent lights, beside lockers that have heard too many whispered arguments. The kind of look that has survived pep rallies, bad hair days, and one Steve Harrington.
âThe Boys Are Idiots and Unfortunately We Like Them Anyway club.â
Max snorts so loudly it echoes. âOh my god.â
But Eleven tilts her head. âClub⊠has rules?â she asks carefully.
You pause in the hallway, then turn very slowly, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. âOh,â you murmur. âSo many rules.â
You sweep toward your bedroom like youâre about to deliver a monologue on Dynasty. âEmergency summit,â you declare. âThis is no longer a living-room-level crisis.â
Your bedroom door swings open to reveal the full pastel fever dream of your existence.
Mint-green bedspread. Blush pink throw pillows stacked like decorative armor. Floral sheets that look like they were designed by someone aggressively optimistic. Scrunchies spill out of a ceramic dish on your vanityâneon yellow, electric blue, radioactive coralâlike you personally signed an aesthetic contract with the year 1985.
Your cassette player hums softly on the dresser, and Madonnaâs voice slides through the airââMaterial Girlââall glossy confidence and shoulder-padded audacity.
Max doesnât hesitate. She launches herself onto your bed face-first, then rolls over dramatically and bounces once. âThis,â she announces, staring up at your ceiling fan, âis way better than my room.â
âBecause it doesnât smell like gym socks and unresolved middle-school rage?â you reply, shutting the door with dramatic finality.
âExactly.â
Eleven lingers by your mirror, staring at her reflection like it might give her answers if she studies it long enough. Like maybe it knows why boys say one thing and do another. Like maybe it understands rules she never got to learn.
You climb onto the bed and fold your legs beneath you, settling cross-legged in the center like the high priestess of teenage emotional arbitration.
âOkay,â you begin gravely. âFirst order of business. Do we believe Michael Wheeler is capable of dramatic, unnecessary lying?â
âYes,â Max says instantly, voice muffled by your pillow.
Eleven hesitates. Not because she doesnât know. Because saying it out loud makes it real. ââŠYes,â she whispers.
You nod, solemn. âCorrect. He is a Wheeler. And the Wheelers are genetically predisposed to escalation. They donât just stub their toeâthey have a tragic monologue about it.â
Max sits up so fast she nearly headbutts your headboard. âThe dying grandma thing is insane. That is nuclear-level lying. What was he gonna do next? Show up in black and fake a telegram?â
Eleven doesnât smile. âHe said,â she continues, voice tight, ââFriends donât lie.ââ
The room shifts. Even Madonna sounds less smug for a second.
You soften immediately. âCome here.â
She climbs onto the bed carefully, posture straight, knees pressed together like sheâs in class. Her hands fold in her lap, fingers laced so tightly her knuckles pale.
âOkay,â you say gently. âHereâs something deeply unfair about human beings. Sometimes they say a rule they believe in⊠and then they break it. Not because they donât care. But because fear is louder than logic.â
Eleven frowns. âThat is⊠confusing.â
Max flops back dramatically. âWelcome to boys.â
You reach for a velvet scrunchie and twist it around your fingers, thinking. âMike probably panicked,â you continue. âInstead of saying âI messed upâ or âIâm scared,â he grabbed something dramatic. Something tragic enough to distract you.â
Elevenâs jaw tightens. âBut he lies.â
âYes,â you say plainly this time. âHe does.â
Maxâs eyes gleam. âOkay. So we freeze him.â
Eleven turns to her. âFreeze.â
âTotal ice queen,â Max explains, counting on her fingers. âNo running to him. No extra smiles. Short answers. Let him sit in the discomfort. Let him marinate.â
âMarinate?â Eleven repeats.
âIn his guilt,â Max clarifies.
You lift a hand before this becomes a full military operation. âWe are not staging emotional Siberia.â
Max groans. âWhy are you like this.â
âBecause,â you say patiently, leaning forward until youâre eye level with Eleven, âthis isnât about revenge. Itâs about boundaries.â
âBoundaries,â Eleven repeats, tasting the word.
âIt means you decide whatâs acceptable,â you explain. âYou decide what you deserve. If he lies, you tell him how it made you feel. Not screaming. Not powers. Just⊠truth.â
She studies you carefully. âI say⊠âWhen you lie, it makes me feelâââ
âHurt,â Max supplies immediately.
âSmall,â you add softly.
âMad,â Max says.
Eleven nods slowly. âHurt. Small. Mad.â
Max props herself up on her elbows. âAnd if he tries that whole âIâm sorry you feel that wayâ garbage? We escalate.â
âMax,â you warn.
âWhat? Thatâs classic boy nonsense.â
You sigh, but you canât fully disagree. âIf he apologizes, you listen carefully. Does he say he lied? Does he own it? Or does he dodge?â
Eleven looks between you both like sheâs watching a championship match in Emotional Strategy. âAnd if apology is bad?â she asks.
You and Max lock eyes in perfect, unspoken synchronization.
âDump him,â you say together.
The word lands heavier this time.
âDump,â Eleven repeats, quieter now. Like sheâs discovering a new ability.
You bump your shoulder gently against hers. âYou are allowed to expect honesty. That doesnât make you difficult. It makes you someone with standards.â
Her gaze drops to her hands, twisting together again. âI do not want to be stupid,â she whispers.
Max sits up so fast the mattress squeaks. âYou are not stupid!â she says fiercely. âMike is stupid. Mike Wheeler is monumentally stupid!â
You lift a finger, solemn as a scientist presenting data. âStudies show that fourteen-year-old boys experience a temporary loss of brain function when confronted with emotional accountability.â
Max nods like sheâs just confirmed gravity. âItâs science.â
Eleven looks between you both, uncertainâand then the tiniest smile sneaks onto her face, like sheâs not sure sheâs allowed to find this funny but she kind of does anyway.
On your dresser, Madonna clicks into the next track, synths going softer, dramatic in that glossy, slow way that makes everything feel like it belongs in a movie montage. The fan spins lazily overhead.
Max flops onto her back, staring at your ceiling like it personally offended her. âOkay, but seriously,â she says, twisting to look at you. âYouâre being way too calm about this. Itâs suspicious. Like youâve survived multiple boy-related catastrophes and lived to tell the tale.â
You cross your arms, trying to look dignified and failing slightly because youâre still in a silk robe at 10 AM. âI am extremely mature,â you say. âI am emotionally evolved. I amââ
âFull of it?â Max offers sweetly.
You throw a scrunchie at her. She catches it and grins like she just won something. Eleven laughs softly, but she watches you in that intense way she does when sheâs trying to understand something huge. âYou know⊠about this,â she says slowly. âAboutâŠboys.â
You let out a short breath through your nose. âUnfortunately.â
Max props herself up on her elbows instantly. âOh my God. Wait. Yes. We need this. You have experience. You survived Hawkins High. You are basically a veteran!â
You shoot her a look. âFirst of all, I did not survive. I barely crawled out. I was in the trenchesâ
Max gasps dramatically. âSo there are war stories.â
âThis is not story time,â you warn.
âIt is absolutely story time.â
Eleven shifts closer on the bed, folding her legs under her. âWhat is it supposed to feel like?â she asks quietly.
Max goes still.
You blink. âWhat?â
âLove,â she says.
Thereâs no sarcasm in it. No drama. Just honest confusion.
You look up at the ceiling like the answer might be written in glow-in-the-dark stars. âItâsâŠâ You huff a small laugh. âOkay. At first? Itâs insane. Like you drank five Cokes and suddenly everything is louder. You notice them everywhere. You know when they walk into a room without even looking. Itâs like your brain highlights them in neon.â
Max rolls her eyes. âThat sounds annoying.â
âYou replay conversations in your head,â you continue. âYou overanalyze every look. You pretend you donât care. You care so much itâs embarrassing.â
Eleven leans in. âAnd then?â
âAnd then,â you say, âif itâs good? Itâs safe. Itâs not just exciting. Itâs⊠calm. You donât feel like you have to perform all the time. You donât feel like youâre about to get dropped.â
Max goes quiet at that.
Eleven frowns. âAnd lying?â
You grimace. âLying ruins it. Fast.â
âHow?â she asks.
âIt makes you feel stupid,â you admit. âLike everyone else got the script except you. Like youâre the only one not in on the joke.â
Max looks at you again, eyes narrowing playfully. âOkay, I want to know. When someone lied to you⊠what did you do?â
You hesitate.
Max gasps. âYou did do something.â
You sigh dramatically. âI may have thrown a shoe.â
Max sits up straight. âWas it expensive?â
âExtremely.â
âDid it hit?â
You hesitate for exactly one dramatic beat. ââŠYes.â
Max SLAMS her palm against the mattress. âLegend. I knew you had it in you, Golden Girl.â
Elevenâs eyes go wide. âYou threw a shoe.â
âIt was a heel,â you clarify defensively. âPrecision instrument.â
The two of them collapse into giggles, half scandalized, half impressed. Max is wheezing into your pillow. Eleven laughs softer, but itâs realâthe kind that makes her shoulders loosen for the first time all morning.
The room feels lighter, less heavy. But underneath it, you feel it creeping in. That bone-deep exhaustion. That specific brand of teenage girl fatigue. The kind that comes from replaying conversations at 2 a.m. like theyâre game tape.
What did he mean when he said that?
Why did he look at her like that?
Is âfineâ actually fine?
Itâs like emotional algebra and nobody gave you the textbook.
You clap your hands once. âOkay, girls,â you announce, sitting up straighter like youâre about to declare martial law, âthis morning we are taking a mandatory, government-issued break from boys.â
Max gasps, clutching her chest. âA break? From the drama? From the weird haircuts? From the heavy breathing into telephones? Revolutionary. Iâm drafting the constitution.â
Eleven tilts her head. âBreak⊠means stop?â
âIt means,â you say, already sliding off the bed with purpose, âwe redirect the insanity. All of it. The overthinking. The jealousy. The âdoes he secretly hate meâ spiral.â
You march to your closet and fling the doors open and itâs a full technicolor explosion. Pastel blouses in peach and mint and baby blue. Acid-wash denim in carefully curated shades of rebellion. Neon windbreakers that could probably be seen from space. Scrunchies spilling from a basket like you personally supply the entire state of Indiana.
Max actually inhales. âOh my God.â
âWe redirectâŠto what?â El asks, stepping closer like sheâs approaching sacred relics.
You turn slowly, milking it. âThe mall.â
Max straightens like you just announced the second coming. âYes. Yes. Take me to the fluorescent kingdom.â
Eleven frowns slightly. âMall⊠helps?â
You pull out a pair of high-waisted shorts and hold them up like theyâre a solution to world peace. âThe mall is neutral territory. No monsters. No basements. No lying boys. Just air conditioning and capitalism.â
âFood court,â Max adds immediately. âPretzels the size of your face. Orange drinks that arenât legally juice.â
âZero boys,â you say firmly. âIf they appear, they are background characters. Purely decorative.â
Elevenâs fingers brush the edge of your vanity. âWhat if⊠Mike sees?â
You pause mid-socks selection. âThen,â you say smoothly, âwe act so unbothered it makes him question his entire existence.â
Max grins. âIce Princess protocol.â
âArctic levels,â you confirm. âWe glide. We glow. We do not chase.â
âSiberia,â Max whispers approvingly.
You toss Eleven a soft pastel top. She fumbles it, then holds it against herself, studying it like itâs a new identity.
You cross the room and crank up the volume on the cassette player. Into the Groove bursts through the speakers, all sparkle and confidence and main-character energy. âToday,â you declare over the music, âwe remember who we are when boys are not the main plot.â
Max spins in a dramatic circle. âIndependent citizens of Starcourt!â
Eleven looks down at the shirt in her hands. ââŠAnd who are we?â Sheâs not joking. She genuinely wants to know.
You step behind her and fix the twisted strap at her shoulder. âWeâre us,â you say. âWeâre not small. Weâre not confused. Weâre not waiting for someone to call.â
Max leans against the wall. âAlso weâre hotter than them.â
âThat too,â you agree.
Eleven studies herself in the mirror like sheâs meeting a new version. Less braced. Less ready for impact.
âEl you flipped a van once!â You remind her casually. âYou survived another dimension. You can survive one curly-haired dork having feelings.â
Her lips twitch.
Max snorts. âAlso have you seen his haircut lately? Itâs like someone attacked him with garden shears.â
That finally breaks her. Eleven laughs. It bubbles up and surprises her, like she didnât expect it to be there.
And for a second, itâs not about Mike.
Itâs about synth music and pastel cotton and the promise of air conditioning and freedom and walking through Starcourt like you own the place.
And honestly?
That sounds way better than decoding boys.
The Starcourt parking lot looks like itâs actively trying to fry you alive. Heat shimmers off the asphalt in wavy, hallucination-level ripples. Chrome bumpers flash like tiny suns. Somewhere to your left, a Camaro is blasting synth so loud the bass thumps through your ribcage.
You kill the engine. You step out, adjusting your sunglasses, slinging your duffel over your shoulder.
El gets out slower. And then she freezes. Full prey-animal stillness. Her eyes move fast â tracking groups of teenagers leaning on hoods, a mom dragging a screaming toddler, a couple making out like theyâre in a music video. She looks like someone dropped her into the middle of Times Square and forgot to explain capitalism.
âHey,â you say gently, leaning your hip against the car. âYou good?â
âToo many⊠people,â she whispers. Her fingers bunch in the hem of her shirt. Her knuckles go pale. âHopper said⊠not safe.â
Max shuts her car door with a loud thud. âHopper also thinks Madonna is âa bad influence,â so letâs take his judgment with a grain of salt.â
El glances up at the giant neon STARCOURT sign like it might personally judge her. âIt is⊠dangerous,â she insists, but her voice wobbles.
You walk around the car and step into her line of sight, softer now. âOkay. Listen.â You lower your sunglasses just enough to look her in the eye. âIf Hopper has a meltdown, he can yell at me. Iâve survived worse than a grumpy police chief in khakis.â
Max snorts. âHeâs like⊠a bear who learned how to drive.â
âA loud bear,â you add.
Elâs mouth twitches, but she still looks unsure. You reach out and squeeze her hand. Itâs cold despite the heat. âToday isnât about breaking rules,â you say. âItâs about⊠expanding them. Slightly. Like stretching jeans after Thanksgiving.â
She blinks. âJeans stretch?â
âMetaphor, El.â
Max nudges her shoulder. âYouâve been stuck in a cabin for like⊠ever. Thatâs illegal. Possibly unconstitutional. Definitely tragic for your wardrobe.â
El looks back at the mall. The glass doors slide open and closed with a soft hiss. People disappear inside like itâs another dimension. âA day⊠of being a girl?â she asks quietly.
Not a weapon.
Not a secret.
Just⊠a girl.
You nod once. âYes, a day of being a girl! Thatâs it! No monsters. No lies. No weird boy drama.â
Max grins. âMinimal boy exposure. Ideally zero.â
El takes a slow, steady breath, and when she lets it out her shoulders rise and settle with new resolve, her spine straightening as though sheâs physically stepping into a braver version of herself.
âOkay,â she says, and this time thereâs no tremor in it, only determination. âWe⊠shop.â
âThatâs my girl,â you reply immediately, locking the car with a sharp click and slinging your bag higher onto your shoulder, already half-turning toward the entrance before you add, âCâmon, before I blow my entire paycheck on something wildly unnecessary and then blame capitalism.â
Max doesnât bother pretending to walk with dignity, and El doesnât either; the two of them take off together in a burst of sudden energy, hands clasped tight, sprinting across the sun-baked pavement as if the mall might disappear in a puff of neon smoke if they hesitate even one second longer.
You laugh, breaking into a jog after them. âHey! Iâm the one with the money! Do not abandon your financial sponsor!â
The automatic glass doors slide apart with a theatrical hiss, and the blast of air conditioning that pours out feels like divine intervention after the heat of the parking lot, wrapping around you in cool relief that smells unmistakably like cinnamon sugar, fresh rubber soles and buttery popcorn.
Max slows first, though only barely, and lifts her gaze upward, taking in the soaring ceilings, the mirrored columns, the escalators gliding endlessly, and the glass elevators floating teenagers up and down like theyâre part of some glittering, consumerist aquarium. Even she canât fake indifference now.
El, however, looks as though someone has quietly placed the entire universe at her feet. Her head tilts back slowly, as she watches people rising in the transparent elevator, her eyes darting from fluorescent signs to rotating jewelry displays to racks of clothes exploding in color, and the sound of laughter and distant pop music echoes high above you like something sacred.
âIt isâŠâ she breathes, her voice soft but awed. ââŠa world.â
âItâs mostly overpriced denim and Orange Julius,â Max replies. âBut yeah. A world.â
You step between them. âItâs overwhelming the first time,â you admit gently, glancing down at El as she continues scanning the place like sheâs memorizing it.
âHave you ever actually picked something out?â you ask her. âJust because you liked how it looked?â
She pauses, thinking carefully, her brow knitting together as she searches her memory. âHopper brings clothes,â she says slowly. âThey are⊠big. And brown.â
Max recoils as though physically wounded. âBig and brown is a hate crime against summer.â
You loop your arm through Elâs without hesitation, tugging her a little closer. âOkay, then the âsad lumberjackâ era is officially retired as of this moment.â
Max grabs Elâs other hand, already energized by the mission. âIf it doesnât have a pattern that could cause minor dizziness, weâre not buying it.â
You push your sunglasses up into your hair with exaggerated drama and pivot so youâre walking backward in front of them, arms spread wide like youâre unveiling a manifesto. âNew rules,â you announce grandly. âNo regrets, no boys, no spiraling. Today, we are the main characters.â
Max gives you a lazy salute. âCopy that. Operation Glow-Up is officially underway.â
El watches both of you with intense focus, her eyes moving between your exaggerated theatrics and Maxâs feral enthusiasm.
Then she turns back to the stores. This time, when she looks at them, thereâs no fear tightening her shoulders and no hesitation holding her in place. Thereâs curiosity. Excitement. Readiness.
ââŠOkay,â she says again, quieter but certain.
And before either of you can lead her forward, she reaches out and grabs your hand first.
You hit The Gap.
Hangers swing, cotton smells sharp and addictive. You yank a yellow sundress off the rack and shove it into Elâs arms. âThis is it! This is literally sunshine, do not question it!â
She pokes it like itâs an alien. âIt is⊠happy,â she says, uncertainly.
âThatâs the point, honey!â you yell.
Max dives out from nowhere, tossing a black graphic tee with a neon lightning bolt. âCounterpoint. She could be the lead singer in a punk band banned from the county talent show. Very edgy.â
The dressing room doors slam, the three of you shriek, and laughter bounces off the walls like ping-pong balls. El twirls in the yellow dress, arms awkwardly out. Max leans against a wall, snorting. âAggressively adorable. I might barf but also⊠yes.â
You grab a denim jacket, toss it at her, and she catches it mid-twirl, squealing. âI feel⊠light. Like a bird,â she whispers, and the sound is pure joy. You laugh, clutching your stomach. Max howls, nearly hitting a hanger in her excitement.
Sunglasses stand next.
Cat-eyes for Max, oversized white circles for you. Posing, laughing, making faces, spinning in the racks. El discovers red heart-shaped lenses, and time slows. You both freeze. âShe wins,â you whisper. Max nods, voice hushed: âEverybody else can go home.â
El tilts her head in the mirror. âI look⊠dramatic.â
âYou look like youâre about to star in a music video and ruin some guyâs life!â You yell, spinning her around. And then the three of you are in full chaos modeâspinning, screaming, shrieking, knocking over hangers, almost collapsing in laughter, faces pink, hair flying.
Claireâs hits like a glitter bomb.
Plastic butterflies, scrunchies the size of dinner plates, glitter gel. El smears some on her fingers, staring like sheâs just discovered magic. âSparkles,â she whispers.
Max doesnât wait. She smears a streak across your cheek. âNow you match your aerobics cult, Coach! Feel the burn!â
You all look in the mirror. Glitter everywhere, hair a mess, lip gloss on crooked, laughing so hard your ribs ache. Elâs laugh is pure, high and clear. Max is doubled over, snorting. You clutch your stomach and hiccup through laughter, eyes nearly watering.
High-end boutiques: complete sprint.
Max throws a metallic silver blazer at you. Shoulder pads so huge theyâre a hazard. âPut it on. Live your truth!â
You wrestle into it. âI look like Iâm negotiating a hostile takeover of a toy company,â you gasp between laughs.
Max grins, elbowing El. El is in sequins, spinning, glitter scattering like tiny stars. You clap, laughing, pointing, spinning again. Every pose makes you howl. Shoulder pads collide. Neon belts wrap like ridiculous sashes. Hangers topple. Fabric flies.
âPhoto booth. NOW!â Max yells, dragging the two of you into the cramped, warm space. Knees bump. Hair tangles. Max is standing on your foot, shrieking with laughter.
Flash
Max flips off the camera.
Flash
El squeaks, alarmed, then bursts into giggles.
Flash
You grab them both, squeeze, laughing until your face hurts.
The strip spits out warm, crooked squares. The three of you stare at them, laughing so hard your voices echo like a full-on sitcom laugh track. âWait,â you gasp, barely catching your breath, âwe need a real one.â
You drag them to the mall photographer with the neon sunset backdrop. Max grabs inflatable guitars, you wrap a feather boa around everyone, El twirls once, accidentally sending a streamer flying.
âOn three,â you murmur, âlook like we own this town.â
Flash
The photo slides out: big hair, glitter, sequins, neon chaos.
And the three of you? Almost collapsed on the floor, tears of laughter streaking your cheeks, gasping, snorting, and already plotting your next ridiculous, chaotic mall adventure.
The mall is alive, and so are you.
Three hours later, you collapse by the fountain like a ragdoll in a confetti storm, shopping bags spilling open around you, pretzels clasped in one hand, soda sweating into the tile like tiny fizzy rivers. Glitter still clings to Elâs cheek, and Maxâs grin is wide enough to cause minor mall traffic accidents.
The mall hums around youâsynth-pop drifting from somewhere overhead, the ding-ding of the arcade, ice clinking in plastic cups, the occasional squeak of roller-skates on tile.
Max leans back on her elbows, tossing a stray strand of red hair over her shoulder. âBest. Day. Of. Summer,â she declares, the words punctuated by a spray of soda droplets.
El licks salt off her fingers like itâs a delicacy. âYes⊠very⊠fun,â she says, eyes still wide, still buzzing.
You look at them. At the glitter smeared on Elâs cheek like a tiny war trophy, at Maxâs smug, victorious grin, at the absurd mountain of bags stuffed with shoulder pads, sequins, and a denim jacket that could double as armor.
You reach for another pretzel, because apparently stress shopping carbohydrates is a thing now, when the giant Starcourt clock lets out its overly dramatic chime, echoing like the apocalypse instead of 2:50 p.m.
You glance at your watch. âOh my Godââ you gag, nearly inhaling soda in panic. âNo. No, no, no!â
Max glances up from a bag, eyebrows raised. âWhat?â
âI have to go,â you blurt, already shoving sequined chaos and rogue glitter into your duffel like itâs evidence in a high-stakes heist. âMy shift starts in nine minutes.â
Elâs head snaps up. Her glasses slide down her nose. âYou⊠are leaving?â
The way she says itâlike someone just announced a meteor shower in the middle of the food courtâmakes you hesitate for a heartbeat.
âI have to,â you say, squeezing her hand in a fast grip before hoisting your bag over your shoulder. âBut you guys? You still have the whole âSick Nanaâ investigation. Mission intact. Iâm just⊠the getaway driver.â
Max snorts, tossing a stray neon scrunchie at your shoulder. âPlease. You love being in charge.â
âI do not love being in charge,â you protest, dodging the scrunchie.
âEl,â Max says, ignoring you entirely, âyou should see her at work. Itâs terrifying.â
Groan. âMaxââ
âShe puts on neon leggings so bright they could guide planes,â Max continues, grinning like sheâs describing a superhero origin story. âThen she yells at a room full of suburban moms like sheâs training them for the Olympics.â
âI. Do. Not. Yell.â
âShe yells.â
El tilts her head, suspicious, blinking between the two of you. âYou⊠shout?â
âItâs called projecting,â you snap, already edging toward the gym. âMotivational. Inspirational.â
Max waves you off dramatically, lounging across a pretzel-strewn bench like a queen on her throne. âYeah, yeah. Go lead your little aerobics cult! Weâll handle Wheeler.â
âPlease donât let him start one of his speeches,â you call over your shoulder, pushing the door open. âIf he says âwe need to talk,â just run!â
âHave fun bossing around civilians!â Max shouts after you, voice echoing like a warning bell.
You flip her off without even looking back, sprinting into the mall corridor like youâre being chased by a very judgmental time clock.
Max pushes herself up from the fountain, brushing pretzel crumbs off her elbows like theyâre battle scars. She wiggles her eyebrows at El, her grin wide and wicked. âWe need ice cream. Now.â
El blinks, still licking a little salt off her fingers, clearly not expecting the sudden mandate.
Max points dramatically toward the food court. âSteveâs over there, and honestly? He looks ridiculous. We canât let him live like this without witnesses!â
El tilts her head, confused, but curiosity sparks in her eyes.
âCome on!â Max yanks her forward, hair swinging like a red flag of chaos.
As they rounded the corner, the bright blue and white storefront of Scoops Ahoy came into view. The bell chimed as a customer walked out, and there, behind the counter, stood a figure in a striped blue uniform, looking profoundly miserable as he leaned his head on his hand.
Max practically vibrated with glee, pointing a finger. "See? I told you. Totally ridiculous."
Max and El marched into Scoops Ahoy like they were walking onto a movie set, their new bags swinging.
Behind the counter, Steve looked like he was contemplating every life choice that had led him to this exact moment. He didn't even bother with the "Ahoy" greeting. He just stood there, shoulders slumped in his blue-and-white striped nightmare of a uniform, staring at the two girls with a look of exhausted resignation.
He moved with the mechanical precision of a man who had scooped five hundred sundaes since noon.
"Okay, here you go," he muttered, sliding the cups across the counter. "You got a strawberry and then a vanilla with sprinkles... extra whipped cream."
"Thanks," Max and El said in unison, their voices bright and suspiciously cheerful.
Steve's hand lingered on the counter. He squinted, his gaze drifting from Max's smug grin to El's vibrant new look. The realization hit him slowlyâEl was supposed to be hidden in a cabin for the safety of the world.
âWait, hold onââ Steve leaned over the counter, squinting like he could physically stop them with suspicion alone. âAre you even allowed to be in here?â
El didnât answer. She just smiledâwide, brightâand shared a look with Max that could only be described as criminally pleased. Then they bolted.
The Scoops Ahoy bell exploded into frantic jingling as the door swung shut behind them, their laughter ricocheting off the tile and disappearing into the neon blur of Starcourt Mall.
Steve stood there for a second too long.
He was still holding the ice cream scoop. Still leaning forward. Still processing the fact that heâd just been outmaneuvered by two fourteen-year-old girls.
ââŠOkay,â he muttered to no one.
He set the scoop down with exaggerated care and shoved the AHOY hat back onto his head, adjusting it like it had personally betrayed him. Then he pushed through the swinging doors into the back room.
The temperature shift hit immediately. The back room always felt like a different planetâcolder, metallic, thick with the smell of freezer air and artificial strawberry syrup. The industrial fan overhead rotated with an uneven squeak, as if counting down the minutes of his shift just to spite him.
Dustin was hunched over the metal table, headphones swallowing half his head, pencil moving in frantic bursts across a notebook already drowning in scribbles. His Camp Know Where hat had slipped so low it nearly covered his eyes, but he didnât seem to notice.
Across from him, Robin sat cross-legged on a crate with the Russian-English dictionary sprawled open in her lap. Her fingers were stained with ink. She looked like sheâd just lost a fight with a language and was considering round two.
Steve leaned against a rack of syrup bottles that wobbled under his weight. âYou guys are not gonna believe who was just out there,â he announced, fully expecting at least mild interest.
Dustin doesnât even look up. He just raises a finger. âNot now.â
Steve stares at the finger. âDid you just silence me in my own workplace?â
âIâm listening,â Dustin insists, tapping the side of his headphones with a frantic sort of conviction. âThere are emphasis changes. Itâs subtle, but itâs there. I'm telling you.â
Robin snorts, not even looking up from her translation sheet. âNo, thereâs not. He sounds like heâs reading a cereal box at gunpoint.â
Steve folds his arms, leaning back against the metal prep table. âAny chance the cereal box includes secret military plans? Or maybe a prize at the bottom?â
Robin flips a page and exhales a breath so heavy it carries the weight of her entire shift. âAfter five hours, we have exactly three words.â
Dustin yanks the headphones off, his hair a mess from the plastic band. âAnd they matter. Every syllable is a piece of the puzzle.â
Steve gestures dramatically, his hands cutting through the stagnant air of the back room. âOkay, great. Share with the class. Whatâs the big breakthrough?â
Robin glances down at her notebook, her voice flat. â âThe week is long.â â
Steve blinks. He waits for more, but the silence stretches out. âWell, thatâs thrilling.â
âIt could be code,â Dustin argues quickly, leaning across the table. âIt could imply a schedule. A timeline. A buildup phase for a tactical strike.â
âOr,â Steve says, reaching down to brush a patch of dried strawberry syrup off his sleeve, âmaybe the week is just long. Itâs Tuesday and Iâve already had two kids cry over toppings. I feel that statement spiritually. Itâs not a conspiracy, itâs a fact.â
Dustin glares at him, his face blotchy with frustration. âThis is serious, Steve. Like, world-ending serious.â
âI am serious,â Steve shoots back, his voice rising to that familiar, jagged pitch. âIâm seriously underpaid and seriously not seeing how âthe week is longâ equals secret Russian doom.â
Robin rubs her temples, her eyes closed tight. âIf I have to hear that tape one more time without progress, Iâm climbing into the industrial freezer and letting nature take me. At least Iâll be strawberry-scented when I go.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. The only sound in the room is the low, mechanical hum of the mallâs machinery and the rhythmic, annoying squeak of the fan overhead.
Dustin hesitates, his pencil tapping a nervous staccato against the notebook. He looks at the door, then back at them, his expression shifting from frustration to something more calculating.
âI might⊠know someone,â he says carefully, voice low.
Steve straightens instantly. âOh. Now you know someone.â
Robinâs eyes snap up, sharp as daggers. âDefine âsomeone.ââ
âSomeone smart,â Dustin continues, dodging Steveâs gaze like itâs a high-speed laser beam. âLanguages smart. Like⊠probably reads Russian like itâs a comic book. Literally corrected my Latin for fun last year.â
Steveâs eyes narrow. âHenderson. No.â
Dustin ignores him. âLinguistics program at IU one summer. With the grad students. She knows syntax. Sheâs⊠brilliant.â
Robin leans back, eyebrows shooting up.
Steveâs stomach drops.
âItâsââ Dustin swallows audibly. âItâs her.â
Your name hangs in the air like a weight, like a bomb that just dropped.
Steve freezes mid-step, the hat tipping dangerously to the side. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, and his brain is buzzing like an old Commodore 64 attempting to boot after a lightning strike.
âNo,â he whispers at first, voice tight. Then louder. âNo. Nope. Absolutely not. Hard pass. Delete that idea. Burn the idea. Erase. Do not even think about it.â
Dustin rips the headphones from around his ears in one dramatic yank, hair sticking up like a hedgehog. âSteve! Justâjust think about it for, like, two seconds. She can read four languages. Four. She probably dreams in subtitles, man!â
Steve waves him off, hand trembling slightly as he shoves it down his face. âI said no, Henderson! Weâre not calling her. Iâm not asking her for help. I am notââ he gestures vaguely at the table, the tape recorder, the Russian dictionaryââinteracting. End of story.â
Robin finally lifts her head from the smudged pages, eyebrows high. âWait. Her her?â she asks, squinting at him like sheâs scanning for signs of life in a fossil. âYou mean Miss Perfect SAT Score, Valedictorian, all that?â
Steve drags a hand down his face again. âYes. That her. Donât⊠donât make it weird.â
Robin lets out a low whistle, sliding down in her chair like sheâs settling in for a good documentary. âOhhh. Okay. This just got⊠interesting.â
Dustin jabs a finger toward the tape recorder like itâs Exhibit A. âSheâs a genius, Steve. Genius. She could crack âThe week is longâ in ten minutes flat. Pattern recognition? Freak-level. She corrected my pronunciation of âBabylonianâ once. Once. And she was right.â
âI. Donât. Care,â Steve snaps, voice sharp, teeth gritted. âI donât care if sheâs nominated for a Nobel Prize in Russian Spy Stuff. We are not asking her. End of story.â
âWhy?â Dustin demands, eyes wide like heâs trying to compute a cheat code for Steveâs brain. âBecause you two had a fight?â
Steve laughsâsharp, humorless, like a soda can fizzing open too fast. âCute. You think it was a fight.â
Robin folds her arms and leans forward, her expression equal parts amused and forensic. âOkay, so what was it then? Dramatic misunderstanding? Betrayal? Forgot her birthday? Because, FYI, thatâs on you.â
âItâs complicated,â Steve mutters, jaw tight.
Robin scoffs. âThatâs the most boring answer you could give.â
âItâs not boring,â he says, voice rising. âWeâre⊠not good. Weâre not anything. Itâs bad. Like, if we see each other in public, we pretend the other doesnât exist. Both of us. Whole town could burn down and weâd just keep walking.â
Robin blinks. âThat⊠seems unhealthy.â
âWell thank you, Yodaâ Steve mutters, a dry laugh escaping.
Robin tilts her head, eyes narrowing. âSo, youâre saying weâre just not going to ask the one person in Hawkins who can actually decode this thing because⊠your feelings are bruised?â
âMy feelings are not bruised,â Steve huffs.
âThey sound bruised,â Robin says flatly.
âTheyâre not bruised!â Steve yells, stepping closer to the table, voice cracking slightly. âTheyâreâshe doesnât want to see me. And I donât want to see her. End of story.â
âSteve,â Dustin leans forward, softer now, a hint of desperation creeping in, âthis could be huge. Like, secret-Russian-base-under-the-mall huge.â
âAnd?â Steve snaps, voice rising like a soda geyser.
âAnd we need help!â
Steve throws his hands up, crowding the table. âYou donât get it! She made it very clear where I stand, okay? Very. Clear. I am not going to show up in thisââ he tugs at the ridiculous striped sailor uniform heâs still wearing under the apronââthis humiliation costume, ask her to save the day, and get looked at like Iâm some charity case!â
Dustin opens his mouth, closes it, sputtering silently.
Robin leans back slowly, eyebrows climbing. âWow.â
âWow what?â Steve snaps, voice shaking.
âShe really got under your skin, huh?â
âYou donât know anything about it, Robin,â he says, defensive.
âI know defensive when I see it,â she says, eyes sharp.
Steve laughs again, dry and empty. âDefensive? No. Realistic. Sheâs got her whole perfect future lined up: med school, scholarships, applause, glowing halosâthe works. Iâm not part of that plan. Iâm not going to go beg her to help and get reminded how much better she is than me.â
Dustin winces slightly. âSteve,â he starts again, voice lower now, careful, like heâs approaching a rattlesnake, âweâre talking about Russians.â
Steve spins, pointing at the tape recorder like itâs personally responsible for his suffering, his voice rising until it echoes off the cramped backroom walls. âThen let the Russians win! Fine! Iâd rather get captured by Soviet spies than spend five minutes having that conversation!â
Silence falls immediately. Even the freezer hums quieter, almost reverently, like itâs bracing for the emotional fallout.
âSheâs gone, Dustin,â Steve continues, voice low but sharp, each word cutting through the room like glass. âSheâs out of my life. Thatâsââ he swallows, tight-lipped, ââthatâs the one thing thatâs simple right now.â
Dustin blinks, caught somewhere between confusion and horror.
Robin leans back against the freezer, crossing her arms slowly, like sheâs weighing the gravity of a major plot twist. âOkay,â she says finally, a slow, teasing smirk curling at her lips, âso this isnât about Russian code. This is⊠about youbeing terrified.â
âI am not terrified,â Steve snaps immediately, but thereâs a twitch in his jaw.
âMhm,â she replies, eyes glinting, not missing a beat. âSure. Totally not terrified.â
The bell over the shop door rings cheerfully, oblivious, like the universe itself doesnât understand how tense this moment is. Robin straightens instantly, customer-service mask snapping into place like reflex. âAhoy!â she calls, stepping toward the swinging door.
Then she pauses, glances back at Steve, her grin sharp, merciless, teasing. âAnd donât even think youâre pretending you donât like her. We all see it, dingus. Itâs written across your face in neon.â
Steveâs eyes snap to hers, jaw clenching harder. âAbsolutely not. I do not like her! Stop saying thatââ His voice rises dangerously, almost frighteningly, his hands balling into fists at his sides. âI. Do. Not. Like. Her.â
Robin shrugs, grinning wider, clearly enjoying every second of this meltdown. âUh-huh. Sure thing, Popeye.â
Steve throws a quick, furious glare at her before he grabs his rag, wiping down the table like heâs scrubbing away his own feelings. âJust go.â
Robin gasps mockingly. âRude!â
âGo!â Steve yells, louder, voice echoing against the tile.
Robin snorts, flipping her hair and pushing through the door. âWelcome aboard!â she calls over her shoulder, voice sugary and theatrical.
The door swings, flaps once, twice, then settles.
The room feels smaller without her commentary filling it. The freezer hums louder, almost accusingly. Mall music pulses faintly through the walls, tinny and distant, a soundtrack to Steveâs spiraling panic.
Dustin shifts in his sneakers, awkward and jittery.
Steve keeps scrubbing like heâs punishing the laminate for existing in the same universe as him.
âSteve,â Dustin starts cautiously, voice tiny.
âNo,â Steve interrupts immediately, still scrubbing.
âYou donât even know what I was gonna sayââ
âDoesnât matter,â Steve snaps.
Dustin exhales slowly, twisting the cuff of his sweatshirt like heâs trying to untangle courage from cotton. âI saw her,â he blurts finally.
The rag stops mid-swipe. Steve freezes completely, shoulders locking, as if his skeleton just realized it had to calculate a nuclear launch. Not a word escapes him.
ââŠCool,â he says after a long beat, carefully neutral, teetering on the edge of controlled panic. âYou want a medal? Or should I call the Hawkins Post?â
âIt wasnât like that,â Dustin says quickly, voice tiny.
Steve resumes scrubbing, harder this time. âWhen?â He asks casually, in a way thatâs definitely not casual.
âL-Last night,â Dustin says, almost tripping over the words. âI was walking home and sheâI think she almost ran me over.â
Steveâs eyes flick up. âWow,â he says dryly. âShocking. Near-death experiences really bring people together, huh?â
âShe pulled over,â Dustin insists. âWe talked. She drove me home.â
Steve lets out a short, humorless laugh. âOf course she did. Very on-brand. Good Samaritan of the Year.â
âStop,â Dustin snaps, frustrated.
Steve finally turns, grabs a fresh towel like the first one couldnât handle the emotional load. âWhat? Iâm complimenting her.â
âShe misses you,â Dustin says quietly, voice low, almost muffled by the hum of the freezer and the faint smell of waffle cones, like heâs tossing a pebble into a storm and waiting to see if it sinks.
The rag hits the counter with a sharp crack. Steve freezes, every muscle in his body taut, like heâs bracing against a hurricane. Not yelling. Not panicking. Not laughing. Just⊠holding it all in, tight enough that he could snap in half.
âShe tell you that?â he asks finally, voice clipped.
âNo,â Dustin admits, shifting on the spot. His sneakers squeak softly against the tile.
âThen donât,â Steve snaps, voice low.
Dustin straightens instinctively, gripping the edge of the table like itâs a lifeline. âSheâs not doing great, okay? She⊠she looked tired.â
âTired?â Steveâs jaw ticks, a sharp movement thatâs almost too fast to catch. His eyes, dark and stormy, flick toward Dustin.
âNot justâsleeping tired,â Dustin continues, forcing the words out. âLike⊠sad tired. Like somethingâs weighing her down.â
Something behind Steveâs eyes shutters for the barest secondâjust a flickerâbut itâs enough to make the air crackle. âThatâs not my problem,â he says, voice low, and sharp like a blade scraping tile.
âSteveââ
âNo.â The word cuts cleanly through the backroom hum, jagged and final. âDonât do that.â
âDo what?â Dustin asks, voice small, tentative.
âMake me the villain in whatever story sheâs telling.â
âIâm notââ
âYes, you are,â Steve interrupts, stepping closer. âIf sheâs not âdoing great,â thatâs on her. She wanted space? She got space.â
âShe didnât say that,â Dustin murmurs, barely audible, like speaking louder would shatter him.
âShe didnât have to,â Steve replies, voice tighter now, clipped.
The silence that falls is so heavy you could almost see it pressing down, thick as syrup. Steve turns away first, fingers lining up waffle cones on the counter with surgical precision. One. Two. Three. Like order, symmetry, perfection, might somehow fix the chaos in his chest.
âIf sheâs not doing good,â he mutters under his breath, still not looking at Dustin, âthatâs not on me. I didnât walk.â
Dustinâs patience finally snaps, frustration bubbling over like soda shaken too long. âYou are not listening!â
Steve shoves through the backroom door toward the counter, shoes squeaking against the tile. âI am listening! I just⊠disagree!â
âYouâre being dramatic!â Dustin says, following him.
âIâm being realistic!â
âYouâre being emotionally constipated!â
Steve stops mid-stride. Mid-step. He spins around like Dustin just slapped him with words. Eyes wide. Hands clenched. Hat crooked.
âExcuse me?â
âYou heard me!â
Steve opens his mouth, the beginnings of a lecture, a scolding, a verbal death sentence ready to launchâ
And then, the bell over the shop door rings.
Bright. Cheerful. Oblivious. Like it has no idea it just signaled the apocalypse.
Both of them snap their heads toward the sound.
And thenâ
Red hair. Not subtle. Not easy to ignore. Copper and gold and completely impossible to miss, catching every flicker of neon, bouncing it back like a flare shot straight into the fluorescent sky.
Steveâs chest tightens. The rag slips slightly in his hand. He doesnât breathe at first. Doesnât move. Brain buffering. System crash.
ââŠOh.â Steveâs whisper is barely there, fragile, like he just realized the universe exists and someone shoved him into the middle of it.
Dustin freezes, eyes so wide they could swallow a basketball. Heâs caught somewhere between awe and horror, like he just accidentally witnessed a solar eclipse through binoculars.
The freezer hums louder. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker. Somewhere in the distance, a neon sign buzzes. And Steve? Steve is completely undone.
Then, reflexively, he straightens. Shoulders back, chest out, spine taut, like a soldier lining up for inspection. One hand sweeps back through his hair in a practiced, casual motion that could only belong to Harrington Default Charming Modeâą.
And there it is.
The smile. The one that makes everyone simultaneously sigh and roll their eyes.
âYou have got to be kidding me,â Dustin mutters under his breath, voice barely audible over the industrial whirr of the freezer.
She steps up to the counter like she owns the place, elbow leaning lightly against the glass display, head tilted. Her eyes scan the tubs of neon-colored chaos with equal parts skepticism and amusement.
Robin is ringing up a customer, distracted, leaving Steve no choice but to step up. He slides into place like a pro, hands resting lightly on the counter, posture perfect, smile fixed in place like heâs been practicing this exact moment in the mirror.
âAhoy,â he says, smooth as melted caramel over a waffle cone. âWelcome to Scoops Ahoy. What can I get started for you?â
Dustin stares, mouth hanging open, as though Steve just spontaneously sprouted wings and started flying around the freezer.
The girl glances up, eyes landing on him for just a heartbeat, then back to the tubs. âDo you have anything that⊠doesnât taste like itâs trying too hard?â
Steve falters, just a fractionâhis brain doing a high-speed recalculationâbut his grin never wavers. âUh. Vanilla.â
She snorts. âVanillaâs safe.â
âSafeâs underrated,â Steve says smoothly, leaning casually against the counter, one knee bent, wrist dangling like itâs all part of a master plan. âBut if youâre feeling adventurous, Iâd recommend the USS Butterscotch. Bold, unexpected. Kind of a power move.â
Dustin physically gags behind him, hand clamping over his mouth.
Steve ignores it entirely, eyes on the prize.
âItâs just ice cream,â she says flatly, but thereâs a tiny lift in her eyebrow, like sheâs already curious.
âYeah,â Steve nods, like the world hinges on this moment. âBut good ice cream.â
Dustin throws his hands up. âWow. Heâs⊠really committing.â
The girl glances past him, notices Dustin, quirks an eyebrow. âAnd whoâs this?â
âHeâs⊠nobody,â Steve says instantly, voice clipped, eyes sharp, smile still in place.
Dustinâs jaw drops audibly. âOh my God.â
âNot now,â Steve snaps, eyes flicking toward Dustin.
âYouâre busy, I can tell,â Dustin says, voice dripping with mock awe.
Steve leans in slightly, voice dropping, grin still fixed like nothing has shifted the world. âCould you not sabotage me for, like, five minutes?â
âSabotage you?â Dustin repeats incredulously. âYouâre doing a phenomenal job all by yourself.â
Steve spins back to her smoothly, grin snapping into place like a safety net thatâs always there. âSo. Butterscotch?â
Dustin gapes, disbelief painting his entire face. Heâs watching a live demonstration of someone literally erasing their own heartbreak from the universe while simultaneously flirting in sailor stripes.
âUnbelievable,â Dustin mutters again, voice low, furious.
Steve shoots him a look, sharp, warning, perfectly Harrington.
Dustin doesnât flinch. âYou know what? I actually have important things to do.â
Steve exhales, closes his eyes briefly, muttering under his breath: âPlease. Go do them.â
âOh, I will,â Dustin fires back. âIâm gonna go find someone useful.â
âGood luck with that,â Steve mutters, voice just low enough that it doesnât quite carry.
Dustin pauses, hand lingering on the counter, then adds with pointed precision: âAnd for the record⊠she does miss you.â
It hits. Tiny. Just a pebble in the lake. But Steve freezes. The smile falters. A crack in the armor.
Then itâs gone. Vanished like it never existed.
âCone or cup?â Steve asks, perfectly smooth, perfectly in control, like the universe hasnât just shoved a thousand bricks down his chest.
Dustin stares for one long, defeated second, then turns on his heel and pushes through the neon blur of Starcourt Mall.
Steve Harrington is utterly, spectacularly useless.
And if anyone could pull him back from this catastrophic level of charm-meets-heartbreak, translate Russian code, and survive the emotional fallout?
Itâs you.
The mall corridor feels too bright, too wide, too alive, and Dustin freezes mid-step as the neon lights bounce off the tiles in harsh reflections. The air smells like sunscreen, caramel popcorn, and synthetic motivation, and somewhere behind him, a cash register dings like itâs punctuating a warning he isnât ready for.
Through the glass, he sees it first: you.
Front and center in the temple of Jazzercise, high ponytail whipped into perfect tension, neon leotard clinging to every movement like it was painted on, headband holding the last stubborn strand of hair at bay. A headset mic curves around your cheek, just enough to make your words puncture the air. Your arms slice through space as if the laws of physics themselves are part of the choreography.
âAnd up! Two, three, fourâhold it! Engage that core like your ex is watching!â
Groans ripple from the class. Some of them are comically exaggerated, some genuinely painful. Dustin swallows hard. Heâs the only fourteen-year-old boy in the room, and the full effect of your energy feels like itâs actively rearranging reality.
He opens the door. Immediately, the warmth hits him like a wave, citrus-scented and heavy with sweat and determination. The bass rattles through his chest. The synth threatens to rearrange his heartbeat.
You pivot without missing a beat.
âCarol,â your voice cuts through the music like a knife, sharp and decisive, âthat is not a squat. Lower!â
Carol obeys, muttering under her breath as you glide across the floor, inspecting, correcting, commanding, radiant with kinetic authority.
Dustin hugs the edge of the doorway, backpack strap digging into his shoulder. He feels small. Too small. Invisible, almost, against the backdrop of your energy and the neon blaze of the gym.
You pivot toward the mirrored wall, clapping once sharply. The sound cracks against the space.
âAgain! From the top! And this time, imagine youâre stomping on those calories!â
The class obeys, lungs burning, thighs trembling, but youâre a comet streaking through it all, every step precise, every word a whip of encouragement and challenge.
And then your reflection catches him.
Slowly, impossibly, you recognize him. Dustin Henderson. Small, awkward, out of place.
Your brow dips almost imperceptibly. What are you doing here? your eyes ask.
Dustin waves like a lunatic, first at himself, then at you, then a vague explosion gesture. Heâs panicking in code. You stare at him, unamused, amused, and entirely unbroken in rhythm.
âFive more!â you roar, voice slicing over the music, âAnd I want to see commitment! I want to see thighs that defy God!â
Dustin slumps into a plastic chair. Heâs surrendered. To the synth, to the cardio, to you.
The song hits the chorus, swelling like a triumphant neon tide. You move, twisting, stepping, slicing through the air, and the smile that stretches across your face is equal parts encouragement, challenge, and warning:Â try to stop me, and Iâll make you lunge.
âLast ten seconds!â you command. âPush through! Pain is temporary! Looking fabulous is forever!â
The class groans. It is effective. It is painful. It is perfect.
Finally, the track winds down, the synth fading like a retreating army.
âAnd cool down,â you instruct, softer now. âDeep breath in⊠and out. You survived. Iâm proud of you. Hydrate. Stretch. Question your life choices later.â
Laughter ripples. Exhausted, sweaty, victorious laughter.
You click off the mic and take a step toward him, closing the space just enough that he notices every little thingâthe flush creeping across your cheeks, a few rebellious strands of hair escaping your ponytail, the faint sheen of sweat along your collarbone. Hands on hips. Head tilted just so.
âHenderson,â you say, calm, almost playful, âwhy are you in my temple of toned suffering?â
Dustin nearly jumps out of his skin in the corner, chair teetering. âI need your help.â
Your lips twitch. âIs someone bleeding?â
âNo.â
âInterdimensional?â
ââŠMaybe?â
You cock your head, eyes narrowing slightly, like a cat watching a particularly foolish human try to negotiate with logic. âWhat happened?â
Dustin glances toward the corridor, like the neon light streaming in through the gym windows might be listening. âItâs⊠Russians.â
Your body freezes mid-step for a heartbeat. Another. ââŠWait. You said Russians?â
He nods.
You stare at him. Calculating. Weighing. Judging the sanity of the situation.
Behind you, Carol straightens from a heroic stretch, legs trembling from her last set of lunges. You pinch the bridge of your nose and mutter under your breath.
âGive me one minute,â you say, tone clipped but steady. Then louder, projecting for the benefit of the disappearing women: âAlright, ladies! Same time Thursday! Rememberâsoreness is weakness leaving the body!â
The last of the women leave in a flurry of hair spray, Lycra, and determination, leaving only the faint smell of hairspray and effort behind. The gym finally falls quiet. Except for Dustin, vibrating like a live wire.
You turn, and heâs practically radiating tension. Fidgety fingers, jittery stance, like a kid trying not to combust in a world thatâs too big for him.
âYou have exactly thirty seconds before I assume this is about Dungeons & Dragons,â you say, pulling the mic off your cheek and resting it against your shoulder.
âItâs not!â he blurts, panic spilling over. âItâs code.â
You pause mid-motion, brow arching. âCode?â
âYes. Russian code.â
You stride past him toward your counter, grabbing your water bottle.âOkay,â you say finally, before sipping your water. âDefine Russian.â
âRussian Russian,â he insists, eyes darting, voice tight. âLike⊠the country.â
Another sip, slow. âYouâre sure itâs not, like⊠a mislabeled yogurt container?â
âI know what Russian sounds like,â he snaps.
You set the bottle down with precision, pivot toward the mirror, and adjust your ponytail so each strand is in place. âSo,â you say casually, smoothing the sides of your leotard, âhypothetically⊠why are we encountering Russian code in the middle of Indiana?â
Dustin stammers, âHypotheticallyâŠâ a little too fast, a little too eager.
You tilt your head, frown. He shifts nervously, fingers twisting together. âI found a transmission,â he blurts finally. âA secret one. Definitely Russian. I translated part of it, but I need help. And⊠youâre good at languages. And also not an idiot.â
You smirk, walking to your gym bag and shrugging on your denim jacket while checking yourself in the mirror one last time. âFlattery will get you everywhere,â you murmur.
âIâm serious!â Dustin insists.
âOkay,â you say, voice clipped, precise. âSo you found secret Russian communications in Hawkins. And you came to me.â
âYes!â
âNot anyone else,â you add, eyeing him carefully.
âCorrect. Just you.â
You study him. Twitchy. Distract-y. Henderson weird.
âHenderson.â
âYes?â
âYouâre not telling me everything.â
âWhat? No! Everythingâs Russian. Very Russian. Extremely Russian!â
You let it go for now, slinging your bag over one shoulder with a faint clink of your keys against the strap. âWell. If weâre dealing with international espionage, I require sustenance.â
Dustin blinks. âWhat?â
âI want ice cream.â
Dustin blinks at you like youâve just announced youâre defecting to the Soviet Union.
He hesitates. Confused. Panicked. âUh⊠ice cream?â
âYes,â you reply, slow and deliberate, a dangerous little smirk curling at the corner of your mouth. âEmergency ice cream. For the Russian crisis. Do you also want one?â
Dustinâs face drains of color like someone just unplugged him. âWhâwhat?â
âDustin, câmon! I just burned approximately four hundred calories yelling at Carol,â you explain, already striding toward the double doors, gym bag slung over your shoulder. âI deserve sugar.â
âNo. You donât. Not here.â
You stop mid-step. Slowlyâvery slowlyâyou turn. One hand plants itself on your hip like youâre about to prosecute him in a court of law. âExcuse me?â
âI meanâyou do! In general!â he stammers, voice cracking like a faulty cassette tape. âJust maybe not specificallyâthere.â
âThere?â you repeat sweetly. âWhatâs âthere,â Henderson?â
Dustin freezes. You can practically hear the gears in his brain overheating, smoke pouring out cartoon-style. âThe mall is⊠big!â he blurts. âThereâs pretzels. Yogurt. Smoothies. Other food. Options!â
You squint at him like heâs just suggested communism. âI want actual ice cream.â
Sunlight spills in from the hallway windows as you shove the gym door open with cinematic determination. Synth music pulses faintly from somewhere down the corridor. Teenagers drift past in acid-wash denim and neon scrunchies.
Dustin scrambles after you, backpack bouncing. âMaybe youâre lactose intolerant!â he tries desperately.
You stop again. âHenderson.â
âYes?â
âI have known my digestive system longer than Iâve known you.â
He makes a strangled, offended noise.
You step around him, all effortless grace and righteous purpose. He scurries behind like a frantic intern trying to stop a press conference.
âI just think,â he says, lowering his voice as if the mall security cameras are listening, âtoday maybe isnât a good ice cream day.â
âEvery day,â you counter, utterly serene, âis a good ice cream day.â
âNo, but this oneââ
You stop so abruptly he nearly collides with you. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowing. âWhy are you acting like ice cream is a federal crime?â
He glances ahead.
Neon glow. Blue and white. Cheerfully obnoxious.
Scoops Ahoy.
His entire body shifts subtly, positioning itself between you and the glowing sailor-themed beacon of doom.
âThe ice cream shopâŠitâs crowded!â he blurts.
âHenderson.â
âYes.â
âYouâre being weird.â
âI am not!â
âYou are.â
You sidestep him.
He mirrors.
You sidestep again.
So does he.
âI am getting ice cream,â you say, calm and unshakable, like a general announcing battle plans.
Before he can physically tackle you like some kind of five-foot-nothing superhero, you pivot sharply and stride toward Scoops Ahoy, ponytail swinging.
Dustinâs eyes go wide. Full cinematic horror. âOh no,â he breathes. And he runs.
âHenderson,â you call over your shoulder, weaving through mall traffic, âif this is about calories, I promise Iâll lunge twice as hard tomorrow.â
âItâs not about calories!â he snaps, grabbing your denim sleeve. âItâs aboutâeverything else!â
You laugh, bright and careless. âWhy are you manhandling me in public? I have a reputation.â
âYou donât understand! We should go literally anywhere else.â
âLike where?â You let him tug you two dramatic steps before digging your sneakers into the polished tile. âRadioShack? The candle kiosk? I just survived forty-five minutes of weaponized hip coordination. I think I deserve soft serve.â
He plants himself in front of you, arms out wide like heâs guarding the gates of heaven. âWe could get pretzels,â he pleads. âSafe. Non-threatening. Salty.â
You raise an eyebrow. âNon-threatening pretzels?â
âYes!â
You laugh again, prying his hands from your sleeves one finger at a time. âRelax, Henderson. Itâs ice cream, not a diplomatic summit.â
He grabs your wrist again, fully spiraling now. âActuallyâsale. Shoe store. Now.â
âIâm wearing shoes.â
âDifferent shoes!â
You narrow your eyes at him. âAre you hiding something?â
âNo!â
âYes, you are.â
You step around himâfaster this time. Determined. The neon sign for Scoops Ahoy glows ahead, tiny anchor shining under fluorescent lights, all sugar-coated patriotism and sailor nonsense.
âSee?â you say lightly. âCrisis averted. Sugar fixes espionage.â
Dustin makes a noise that sounds like a dying modem and grabs your elbow. âMaybe we donât go in,â he whispers urgently. âObserve from a distance.â
You peel his fingers off again. âDramatic, Henderson.â
And thenâ
You see him.
Steve.
Ridiculous sailor uniform, sleeves snug against his arms, hat tilted back just slightly like he knows exactly how he looks. Leaning against the glass counter, elbow braced, hand gesturing animatedly. Heâs smiling.
That smile.
Dimples out. Eyes crinkling. Effortless.
Across from him stands the girl with copper hair that catches the overhead light like polished pennies. She laughsâbold, easy, familiar. She leans in. He leans closer.
Dustin starts talking again, words tripping over each other. âWe canâother side of mallâfrozen yogurtâice cream-adjacentâthereâs always optionsââ
He stops.
Because youâve gone still. Completely.
Your gaze doesnât move. Not blinking. Not wavering.
Steve runs a hand through his hairâautomatic. Unconscious. The girl laughs again, touching his arm this time.
Dustinâs gaze follows yours with reluctant understanding, tracing the exact line of sight as though it were a physical thread pulled taut between you and the glowing storefront, and he takes in every incriminating detail at onceâthe intimate angle of Steveâs posture, the subtle way his body is turned inward, the narrowing of space between him and the redheaded girl as if the rest of Starcourt Mall has politely dissolved to give them room.
âShit,â he breathes, the word escaping in a soft exhale.
The bell above the door of Scoops Ahoy jingles again, slicing cleanly through the thickening quiet between you like a blade wrapped in cheerfulness. Laughter spills outward, high and unbothered. A child demands extra sprinkles.
The world, offensively, continues.
a/n:
okay sooo... this chapter ended up being a literal monster
apparently I had too much to say because it was too long for tumblr to let me upload the whole thing! so here is Part 1...Iâll be posting Part 2 tomorrowâplease forgive me! đ
but Iâm so happy with the girl gang moments! I love the idea of reader being the protective older sister to Max and El đ„č plus starcourt mall = mandatory shopping montage IT HAD to be done.
anyway hope you guys enjoy this part! please let me know what you think!
taglist:
I hope I've tagged everyone!
@burningfudge @4ria790 @onlyangel-444 @soupbinlily @emma8895eb @salt-recs @kohoutkof01 @imsorare @soupiemeowmeow @gaylittleboi69 @burningfudge @freyawhitexxx1 @stranger-chan @szazombie @emma48 @deo-data @nosebeers @eli0eli0 @cybersexes @blueeyedally @blueeyedally @leptitlu @rafecamlovr @antisocialfiore @hipsternerd9 @krazyklwa99 @scaramou @mynotthatperfectworld @adhxmoony @sexyvixen7 @mlt2000 @aajames217 @scrpenter @sweetpeterparker @kamisama1kiss @solynoche @pinkiepieshepardspie @rrosiitas @hawtginge @bookmarkedmen @chervbs @pleasingregulus @needjoekeery @singlethreadofivy @tayaelise
@telepathicheartss @bluestar781 @minhyrin @potterhead1310 @enchantingduckbird @clemontoni @peculiarpiscess @auxcordlawd @purplerainx1 @hazzaisonfirelol
đđĄđ đđ«đđĄđđ«
â you ask steve harrington to be your fake date to your exâs wedding to prove youâve totally moved on, except steve has been secretly in love with you forever and pretending turns dangerously real when one drunken confession threaten to expose feelings neither of you are ready to admit, leaving steve determined to prove you were never just someone before âthe one.â.
đ 3.3k â steve harrington x fem!reader, fake dating, mutual pining, hopelessly whipped steve harrington, reader convinced sheâs unlovable, yearning so obvious everyone suffers, robin buckley the voice of reason, rom-com energy, âjust one weddingâ famous last words, drunk honesty incoming, steve determined to love her loudly, friends to lovers kinda, everyone knows except them, potential multi parts series ( ? )
author's note â before anyone asks, the next part will be out in mid-march. enjoy <3
masterlist : navigation
gif by @yenvengerberg | divider by @/lavendergalactic
All previous doubt that the universe didnât hate you personally had vanished today, because standing there with the wedding invitation in your hand, you had never been more certain that fate was, in fact, a petty, vindictive bitch with a personal grudge against you.
The card was thick and definitely expensive, the kind of paper people only used when they wanted everyone to know they were happy and financially doing great. Gold lettering shimmered under the kitchen light, obnoxiously shiny, and right there in the center was your exâs name written in looping cursive.
You stared at it longer than necessary, hoping maybe the letters would rearrange themselves into a joke or a prank or literally anything else, but no. You flipped the card over as if maybe the back would say just kidding, wrong person, this is actually a coupon for free pizza. It did not. Just directions, a venue, and a cheerful little line about celebrating love.
You scoffed out loud.
You hated it.
You hated the creamy paper, the floral border, the tiny gold leaves curling around the edges like they were celebrating your suffering. You hated how formal it sounded. You hated how happy it sounded. Mostly, you hated how final it felt.
Because not that long ago, you had been the one talking about weddings. And he had laughed it off, said he wasnât ready, that marriage wasnât for him, that you wanted different things. And apparently what he meant was the same thing with someone who was not you.
The worst part â truly the absolute insult added on top of injury â was that you were painfully aware of several pairs of eyes burning into the back of your head.

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steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: angst... lack of communication. misunderstandings.... sex. drinking. weed. mean! steve, smut. breeding kink. creampie. sub! steve if u squint... very brief... saying everything under the sun BUT "i like you" words: 25k summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harringtonâ who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy oddsâ is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: okay, here is the long awaited chapter... it's a monster. and there's a bit of relationship building... i hope it's not boring... masterlist | Rules/Playlist
chapter 13
You can't shake the feeling from yesterdayâsitting on Steveâs bedroom floor, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for those tests to tell you whether your life was about to change forever.
You can't shake how normal it felt. How right.
Adventures in Babysitting - Steve Harrington x female!reader - Chapter 17
Chapter Summary: After finding out more information about Vecna, you and your friends prepare for the worst, and tensions rise as you mentally prepare for the possibility of a future without you in it.
Content Warning: swearing, general angst, mentions of sex (like nothing graphic or explicit), Jason being a dick, Upside Down scary shit, existential dread
Word Count: 7.7k
Authorâs Note: Hey guys! Iâm so sorry that this took so long for me to get written! I am home for summer now, so Iâm hoping to have some more down time to write, so hopefully the next chapter wonât take so long! I also am curious as to what you guys think I should do with the story regarding the fact that season 5 isnât out yetâŠshould I go on hiatus until season 5 drops or would you rather me write an ending with season 4?
Message me to be added to the taglist and get updated when the next chapter is posted! I highly recommend this if you want to keep up with the story since I donât do regular updates!
Series Masterlist | Part 16 | Next Part
***
Steve felt your body go limp as you dropped the makeshift rope, your head lolling backwards as you collapsed towards him. His heart stopped as he swiftly set you down on the floor next to him, pulling back to look at you.
He felt sick to his stomach when he noticed the way your eyes were rolled into the back of your head, and he felt like he was suffocating on the ash that drifted in between the two of you.