swight

That night I was supposed to meet up with a girl, and I can’t even remember who.  All I remember is you.

You were dancing with Buck. You were both so drunk, stumbling into each other and laughing. But Buck must have been worse off because he threw up all over your shoes. I was only a pledge at the time, but I remember all the guys around me tensing up, getting ready for you to lay into him. Apparently this was a common thing with Buck—he'd get too drunk and puke on people, and they'd lose it on him.

So it was a surprise to all of us when you didn't even yell at him. You only took off your shoes and gave him some water. Told him to sit down and breathe. I got stuck cleaning up the mess because that's what pledges do, and I heard you jump up and pull Robin to the floor when "Hot Stuff" came on.

As you were dancing with Robin, both of you screaming the lyrics, I thought: who the hell is she rooming with? You were only wearing your socks and dancing, and now that I think about our conversation at the lake, you really don't know how to dance. You were all arms and no rhythm, and somehow that made it better.

So then I decided you were pretty and weird.

I like that you're weird, apparently, because I was pathetically asking Robin about you nonstop after that night. Where were you from? What were you studying? Did you have a boyfriend? (You didn't, thank god.) Were you always that nice to people who threw up on your shoes?

I like that you're kind too. And god, you're so selfless. I beat myself up every day about how I took advantage of that. How I let you think you weren't good enough when really I was the one who wasn't good enough for you.

If you haven't noticed by now... I miss you.

I’m going to try my hardest not to call and check in every hour this weekend. I hope you enjoy the cookies I sent with Robin. My mom made them. I helped, so they might be extra sweet. Max says I’m too corny… I guess maybe I’m the weird one. 

I told my mom about you, and she said, “The pretty one, right?” 

Maybe one day I can be lucky enough to be weird with you. Where we can badly dance in our socks together. 

Sincerely,

Your handsome weird friend 

.-.-.-.

6 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I don’t have much to say. Again, not a whole lot going on besides Family Video. Today, however, I tried to teach Max how to drive. Maybe the next time I see you I can tell you how this punk once drove my car when she was thirteen. I should have known better. 

At least I survived. 

Mrs. Henderson’s petunias not so much. 

How was Boston? Robin won’t tell me a whole lot. I'm trying not to be jealous that you're hanging out with everyone except me, but I'm doing a terrible job of it.

Sincerely, 

Steve

P.S. Max found this mixtape I had made for you months ago, made fun of me, and then convinced me to send it to you or she would. Never thought I’d be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive. 

.-.-.-.

8 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Robin told me you’ve been reading my letters. 

I feel... I don't know what to feel. A part of me wishes they got lost in the mail and you never saw them, that I could take back everything I've said because it's too much, too honest, too pathetic. Then there's the other part of me—the bigger part—imagining you reading them. I wonder if it's the same way you read your books.

I think it's cute how your eyes move across the pages when you're reading, completely engrossed in whatever story you're in. How your nose scrunches when you're focused on whatever's happening in the plot. Sometimes your lips move, reading whatever out loud to yourself without realizing you're doing it.

Not that I'm staring at your lips.

OK, I look at your lips an appropriate amount of time. Can you blame me? I mean, they killed me constantly. Every time you'd bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, or smile that smile that made your whole face light up, or—

Yeah, I'm not going to finish that thought.

I always had a hard time studying when I was around you and you were like that, lost in whatever you were reading. Because then I wanted to know what was going on in your book too, wanted to understand what had you so captivated. And because I wanted to kiss you. Still do, if I'm being honest. Which I guess I am, since that's kind of the whole point of these letters.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

9 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You know when things changed for me? The moment I knew I really didn’t want anyone else? 

Valentines Day. 

I couldn't stop thinking about you that day. From the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep and even after, in my dreams.

You were so sick, and I remember thinking... can she get any prettier? Which is insane because you had a runny nose and messy hair and you kept sniffling. But you were wrapped up in a blanket, curled against me on your bed, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

I don't know what did it for me specifically. Your runny nose or your messy hair or the way you kept apologizing for being gross when you weren't gross at all. I do know that when you laid your head on my chest and fell asleep, I felt my stomach tie into knots. The good kind. The kind that made me think: oh no, this is it, I'm done for.

Nothing was the same for me after that moment. Every time I hooked up with someone after that, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on you even though we weren't together. Like I was looking for you in other people and obviously never finding you because you're you and they weren't.

Maybe it had never been the same. Maybe from that first night when you danced in your socks, I was already gone. Maybe I was always meant to meet you.

God, I hope so.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

12 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Did Eddie tell you Polly dumped him? He's been OK, I think. Or he says he's OK, which probably means he's not OK but doesn't want to talk about it.

Last night we went to Hawkins' finest establishment—The Hideout. It's this dive bar that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but Eddie and his band play there a lot. Except since his breakup, he's been kind of in a rut. He says he has "inspiration constipation." I call it sulking.

Then I thought… is this how Eddie and Jonathan thought about me all those months? When I was moping around about you? They both can smell my "bullshit" a mile away... ha. Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being.

Besides Eddie being a downer, I had a good night. It would have been better if you'd been there. Nancy came too, and even though her and Robin are still careful in public, I feel happy they can look at each other freely now. No more hiding. No more pretending.

The news of the "break-up" here in Hawkins was gossip for weeks. Apparently the whole town had an opinion about it. My mom's friends kept calling to check on me, asking if I was OK, if I needed anything. It's fizzled out by now, though. People found other things to talk about.

Kind of humiliating how much of a big deal we made it out to be. All that stress and lying, when we could have just been honest from the start. 

The Hideout has billiard tables. If you ever decide to grace us… me… with a visit to Hawkins, maybe I can take you to play. Can you hear the desperation in my handwriting? That I kind of really want to see you?

 I’m not sure how I can be more patient when the others… even Dustin? Have heard from you. 

But I’m trying. I really am. 

I guess I’m sulking too. 

Sincerely, 

A desperate man 

.-.-.-.

15 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Thank you for the letters. As for billiards. Do you remember what happened the last time we played? I don’t think you’re ready for round two. 

And thank you for the cookies. That was sweet of you and they were delicious. 

-Your friend

P.S. I am glad to hear about your glasses. 

.-.-.-.

20 June, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

Is it true you're coming to Hawkins for Independence Day? Robin mentioned it, but I wanted to make sure before I got my hopes up.

I can't deny that I cannot wait to see you, but I want to make sure you're OK with me being around. If you're not, I will literally chain myself to my bed until you leave town. Lock myself in my room. Avoid all public spaces. Whatever you need.

For my sake, not yours. I don't think I could handle seeing you and not being able to talk to you.

I'll be OK though. I promise.

I don’t really like fireworks, if I’m being honest. They’re too loud. When I was a kid I used to cry everytime they went off. Eventually my parents just started leaving me home with a babysitter on the Fourth of July so they didn't have to deal with it.

Remember that story Max told you about me accidentally popping a Hopper in the ass with a firework? It’s because I jumped at the noise. 

Anyway, I'm also trying to act cool about the fact that you wrote back and that I haven't totally read your letter over and over again... or memorized your handwriting... or folded it up and put it in my wallet so I can take it out whenever I'm missing you most.

To paint the picture… it's a lot. I take it out a lot.

Robin caught me reading it at work yesterday and made fun of me for another twenty minutes. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

24 June, 1988

Dear Steve, 

Yes, I'm coming to Hawkins for Independence Day. It didn't take much for Robin to convince me. She says there's a huge carnival with rides and games and apparently the best funnel cake in Indiana? It sounds like a lot of fun.

I’d hate for you to miss something fun. 

I can’t wait to properly catch up! 

-Your friend

.-.-.-.

Steve has never been this nervous since he kissed you in the tent back in March.

Back then, he kept thinking over and over about how long it had been since he had really kissed someone—not counting that makeout session at the Mardi Gras party, which barely counts anyway. Sure, he'd kissed you then, but after confessing he only wanted you, after everything that's happened since, it had felt like his first kiss all over again. Like he was thirteen and terrified and has no idea what he's doing.

Now, his stomach is tied in knots, twisting and clenching every time he so much as glances in your direction.

You're sitting across the pool at his parents' house, and he can't stop staring.

Everyone is here to swim—the kids are running around screaming, cannonballing into the deep end and playing chicken in the shallow end. Max and Lucas are floating on inner tubes, holding hands when they think no one's looking. Dustin keeps trying to dunk Mike, who's protesting loudly. Jane is sitting on the pool steps with Will, both of them talking quietly and watching the chaos. Jonathan and Nancy even came in for the weekend, lying on lounge chairs and looking more relaxed than Steve's seen them in months.

Everyone is here, but to Steve, he's forgotten they exist.

He feels like a schoolboy with a crush. Like Tommy H. in eighth grade when he got obsessed with Carol, following her around like a puppy and blushing every time she talked to him. Steve had made fun of him for it then. Karma's a bitch.

You're trying to be polite, making an effort to talk to him. But every time you do, he stumbles over his words like an idiot, then walks away to grab another beer from the cooler just to have an excuse to escape. He's on his third beer and it's only two in the afternoon.

It's the day before the Independence Day carnival, and all Steve can think about is how much he loves you.

He was terrified you'd come to Hawkins and tell him you'd gotten over it. That the distance helped you realize you don't actually want him, that you're better off without him, that being friends is all you can manage. But the moment you walked in the door with Robin yesterday—his heart already racing because Dustin had warned him over the walkie-talkie that you'd been spotted at Benny's Burgers with Robin and Nancy—he met your eyes, and he could see it.

The flash of softness. The way your lips upturned at the sight of him. The slight hitch in your breath that he caught even from across the room.

He felt himself blush, felt his hands start to sweat like he was back in high school asking someone to prom.

But then there was another flash—recollection, memory, pain. Letting him know there's still hurt there, still wounds that haven't fully healed.

You look like nothing but sunshine right now. Feet dangling in the pool, sitting next to Max on the pool deck, talking about something that keeps making both of you laugh. Steve can't help but look at the tattoo on your hip—"Hot Shot" in slightly crooked letters, visible when your swimsuit shifts. And god, why is it the sexiest thing in the world to know that his nickname is permanently marked on your skin? His girl. Even if you're not his girl yet. Even if you might never be his girl again.

He can't help but notice how your thighs press against the pool deck, how the flesh of your ass mushes slightly on the concrete, how your shoulders are changing color from the sun despite the sunscreen you applied. He hopes his sunglasses hide the way his eyes are glued to your every move, the way he's cataloging each smile and laugh and gesture like he's studying for a test.

He wants to make you laugh again, wants your hand to fall carelessly on his shoulder like it used to. Wants to see your eyes twinkle the way they do when you're really happy—like the stars themselves, bright enough that there's no need for the sun or moon or artificial light. Like you contain all the illumination the world needs right there in your irises.

He's been a little lonely since he came home for summer, if he's being honest with himself.

His dad has begrudgingly talked to him—short, clipped conversations about Steve's GPA and his major and whether teaching is "really what you want to do with your life, son." The disappointment hangs heavy in every word his father speaks, and Steve's stopped trying to defend his choices. There's no point. Not to mention the whole lying about his long-term relationship with Robin. 

He doesn't go over to Robin's house as often anymore. Her parents are accepting and understanding, they really are, they've been great about everything, but it's still a fresh wound for everyone. The revelation, the lies, the year-plus of deception. Robin doesn't come over to Steve's as often either, only showing up when everyone else is there too, when it's a group thing and not just the two of them.

It's weird. In a sense, it does feel like a real breakup. Without all the awkwardness and tension that comes with romantic breakups, but with the same sense of loss, of figuring out who they are beyond the roles they played. Trying to remember how to be just friends when they've been "dating" for so long.

It's been ages since Steve's been actually single. Technically single and not sleeping with anyone. He can admit there have been a few girls from high school who stuck around Hawkins—girls who come into Family Video and flirt with him, twirling their hair and asking for movie recommendations in voices that suggest they're not really interested in movies at all.

But he doesn't know how to reciprocate anymore. Doesn't know how to flirt back when he's not interested, doesn't know how to let them down easy without being an asshole about it.

Least to say, Keith says Steve's the worst at customer service now and makes Robin handle most of the customers. Which is probably fair.

Back at college, it was easy to fall into the confidence that comes with flirting fueled by lust. By knowing you're going to hook up with someone and that's all it is—bodies and pleasure and nothing deeper. But when he discovered the part of him that loves someone, really loves them, it rewired every bit of his brain. There's something more dangerous about approaching a girl—approaching you—with the heavy feeling of aching and longing to be something more. It rattles him, makes him nervous and awkward in ways he hasn't been since middle school.

Steve tries not to be jealous when Eddie pulls you into the pool, both of you splashing and laughing, Eddie picking you up and threatening to dunk you under. Steve knows Eddie wouldn't do anything— Eddie knows how Steve feels. Eddie's a good friend even when Steve hadn’t been for the past few years. 

But Steve can't help the tightness in his chest. The same tightness he felt when you kissed Eddie as a dare in the basement of the Pike house, even though he had no right to feel jealous then either. It was just another moment to catalog— Steve Harrington being a dingus and not seeing the truth of his feelings. 

Steve gets up from his pool chair, his thighs slick with sweat, the hair there clinging to his skin. He walks inside to cool down from the summer heat, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his overgrown, messy hair that badly needs a cut.

He knows he's sulking. He knows it would be unfair to pout in front of you, to make you think he wants to rush you into forgiving him before you're ready. But he can't stop thinking that maybe there's hope. That maybe the way you looked at him yesterday when you first walked in means something.

He goes to his mom's tea room—a small sitting area off the kitchen with floral wallpaper and too many decorative plates—and sits on the piano bench, pulling the blind aside slightly to see the view of the backyard through the window.

He notices you're not out there anymore. And he's annoyed with himself that he's relieved to see Eddie is still in the pool, now terrorizing the kids by threatening to throw Dustin's hat into the deep end.

"Thought you told Nancy you were getting another drink?"

Your soft voice filters in from the doorway, and Steve's heart nearly stops.

He twists around awkwardly on the bench, already smiling before he can stop himself. He's not sure what to do with his hands—they move around uselessly before he finally settles them between his legs, gripping the edge of the bench, looking up at you.

You're wearing denim shorts now, cut-offs that are frayed at the hem, and an oversized t-shirt over your swimsuit. Your hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends from the pool water. He can smell the sun on your skin, that particular scent of sunblock mixed with chlorine and something underneath that's purely you. The smell gets stronger as you walk into the room, looking around at all the different collections his mom has accumulated—teacups on shelves, decorative plates on the walls, a shelf of crystal figurines that Steve's been terrified of breaking since childhood.

You smile at him again, and his stomach flips. You point at the spinet piano against the wall. "That's cool. Does your mom play?"

Steve looks over his shoulder at the ivory keys, yellowed slightly with age. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Why do you assume my mom?"

You laugh—that beautiful laugh that makes his chest expand, that makes him feel like he could float right off this piano bench. You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Your dad doesn't really strike me as someone who could tell what a musical note is if it hit him in the face." You pause, probably thinking about that disastrous dinner. "And I only met your mom once, but... I feel like even though she likes nice things, she wants to enjoy them. Not just own them."

Steve smiles, genuinely pleased that you saw that in his mom. "She used to play. Not much anymore. It's probably out of tune by now." He pauses, choosing his words more carefully. "Robin and her would do duets when we started..." He trails off. Being friends, he finally settles on. Not dating. Not in a relationship. Because it wasn't real, and he doesn't want to treat it as such now.

He thinks for a moment, then adds, "But I took lessons when I was seven. For about six months. Never practiced, though, so it was okay because then my dad said it was a useless talent for a boy to have anyway."

Your eyebrows furrow, and Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb. He clasps his hands tighter between his legs to stop himself.

"Do you remember any songs?" you ask.

He cracks a smile, falling back into the safety of humor. "You kidding? In high school I'd bring chicks over and play them a few chords of 'Chopsticks' and they'd think I was Mozart."

You throw your head back laughing, corners of your eyes crinkling, and Steve thinks he's won at life just being able to hear it. Probably the prettiest sound in the world, better than any music the best piano player could make.

Then you say, walking closer, "Okay. Show me."

Steve's mouth falls open. He rubs the back of his neck, closing one eye nervously. "I was kidding. I don't actually remember anything."

You giggle, that softer laugh, more intimate, and walk over to the bench. He watches your eyes fall on his bare chest, then down to his stomach. The way he's sitting, the soft skin spills over the top of his swim trunks slightly, creating a small roll.

In most cases, he'd feel self-conscious. Most girls he's been with, he's always turned off the lights or kept his shirt on or made sure there was minimal interaction with his body. Billy used to call him soft, would poke at his stomach in the locker room, and even though Steve knows Billy was an asshole, the words stuck.

But with you, he wants to be seen. Wants you to look at all of him—the parts he's proud of and the parts he's not. He watches how your pupils dilate slightly, how your breathing changes when you look at how his stomach flexes as he adjusts his position. You notice. And he always wants you to notice him, wants your eyes on him like this.

You look shy now, a flush creeping up your neck as you walk to the other side of the bench and slide in, facing the piano. Steve follows suit quickly, turning to face the keys.

He's patient, or trying to be, but he still scoots a little closer, making his thigh touch yours. If you move away, he won't try again. Won't push.

He feels you tense for a moment, but you don't make an effort to move. That has to mean something, right?

"Okay," you say softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in your voice. "Put your two fingers here."

Steve looks at you instead of the piano, taking in the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyelashes cast shadows. Then he does as you said, placing his pointer and middle finger on the keys you indicated.

He hears you take a deep breath in, and then you grab his wrist.

His brain stops working at the touch. It's been so long since your soft hands have met his skin—not since that night on the swings, and even then it was brief, careful. He remembers when you slapped his cheek in Miami, then a few weeks later put your hand on the same cheek in comfort at the bonfire, telling him you love him. It still burns, both memories. The sting and the tenderness.

You start pressing his fingers down on the keys, creating a simple melody he vaguely recognizes. Maybe "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or something equally basic. But he starts laughing because he keeps slipping his fingers on purpose so the note comes out wrong, and you have to start over.

"Steve," you say, trying to sound annoyed, but you're laughing too. "You're doing that on purpose."

"Am not," he lies, grinning.

"Are too."

"Prove it."

You laugh again and grab his wrist tighter, repositioning his fingers with exaggerated care. He's finding every excuse to be held by you, to have your skin on his, even if it'll be gone in a moment. Even if this is all he gets.

He really is a dingus.

When the song is over—played correctly this time because you wouldn't let him sabotage it again—you let out a happy sigh. Slowly, carefully, you take your hands away from his wrist. You scoot over slightly, just an inch or two, so his bare thigh is no longer pressed against yours.

The loss of contact feels like a physical blow.

You're looking at the keys, not at him, and Steve makes no effort to hide that he's staring right at you. Drinking in your profile, memorizing the way the afternoon light comes through the window and illuminates your face.

He could do what he really wants to do. Could ask if you've forgiven him yet, if you're ready to give him another chance. Could reach out and tilt your chin up with his finger, lean in and kiss your lips the way he's been dreaming about for months. He’s trying not to be selfish. 

But instead, he forces himself to look straight ahead at the piano keys too. Swallows hard. "We should, uh... head back out, you know? Before they wonder where we went."

There's a flicker of disappointment in your eyes—he sees it, brief but real—but there's mutual agreement in the way you say, "Yeah. We should."

So you both stand up, and Steve steps to the side, offering an awkward half-hearted smile. He extends his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture, motioning for you to go through the door first.

As you walk past him, he gets a full breath of your shampoo—something floral and sweet—and the smell of chlorine and sunscreen that clings to your skin. His other hand hovers over your lower back, not quite touching but miming the gesture he wants to make, the way he used to when he wanted an excuse to touch you. But he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So he waits for you to walk completely out of the room, nearly back toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, before he follows several feet behind.

Dingus, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.

Max looks up when you both emerge outside, her eyebrows raised knowingly. Eddie glances over from the pool, treading water, and gives Steve a look that clearly says smooth move, lover boy.

Steve ignores them both and goes back to his lounge chair, grabbing his fourth beer of the day, and trying very hard not to watch you sit back down next to Max.

He fails miserably.

.-.-.-.

6 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

You left today. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to you properly.

Stupid Keith scheduled me for a double shift and wouldn't let me leave early even though I told him it was important. He said, and I quote, "Your personal life is not my problem, Harrington." So that was fun.

I hope you enjoyed your stay. It felt like it had gone by too fast. 

I know I didn't come hang out with everyone yesterday at the lake. I wanted to. I really did. But I guess I'm still figuring things out too. Figuring out how to be around you without wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless. Figuring out how to be patient when all I want is to be with you.

Can you blame me after the carnival? I mean, if you saw what I saw, you’d be in the same pathetic boat that I’m sailing right now. 

I’m sorry I got all grumpy towards the end of the night, but I didn’t have the guts to ask to ride at least one ride with you, and then the closer we got to the time for fireworks, I was feeling anxious. I was even about to leave but then I looked up at the Ferris Wheel, and saw your smile. 

I can always see your smile from a mile away, and it never fails to make my heart race and calm me down in equal measure. You looked like you were having so much fun up there with Max, both of you laughing, your hair whipping in the wind. Even though I wanted to be part of that fun, wanted to be the one sitting next to you in that cart, I felt my entire mood lift just watching you.

At that moment, my heart burst like the fireworks in the sky. 

Hot Shot, I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me. Even if you decide us being friends is all we can be after everything, I'd be okay watching you rise above me, smiling like that. I'd be okay knowing I at least got to see it, got to know you, got to love you even if you don't love me back the same way anymore.

Seeing you laugh with Max… I wish I hadn’t been so nervous. I wish I had asked you to ride the Ferris Wheel with me. 

I hope next time I see you, I can see that smile again, up close, like it’s meant only for me. Your smile where it reaches all the way into your eyes and I don’t see the glimpse of how I’ve hurt you. 

Can summer go by any faster? 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

11 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I think my dad is really coming around about me being a teacher. He's still upset about the whole lying-to-him-for-two-years thing—brings it up at least once a week, usually over dinner when my mom tells him to drop it. But he's been asking more questions about what my new life timeline will look like. What schools I might want to teach at. What age group I'm thinking. 

He even helped me get some volunteer hours at the Boys and Girls Club for summer baseball. Which is huge for him. He’s actually making phone calls on my behalf instead of just criticizing my choices.

You'd get a kick out of these kids, Hot Shot. They're hilarious. They call me "Coach Steve," and they take it very seriously. One girl, Via, brought me a dandelion from the outfield yesterday and made me wear it tucked behind my ear for the rest of the game. All the other kids thought it was hilarious. I looked like an idiot, but it made her so happy I couldn't take it off. 

I can’t believe you were right that I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m glad you were right. 

It led me to think about what my mom said about girls. “Make sure you know if your girl likes flowers or chocolates. It makes a difference.” 

So, are you a flower or chocolate type of girl? 

I’d round up the moon for you, Hot Shot. 

Anything you want. I’ll give it to you. 

Sincerely, 

Steve

.-.-.-.

18 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot, 

I received my class schedule for this upcoming semester today. Looks like I've got Intro to Kinesiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Educational Psychology on Mondays and Wednesdays, and some other classes I'm already dreading.

I know I haven't written in a week. I’m sorry about that. Work's been crazy and I've been helping my mom with some stuff around the house. But I wanted to remind you to buy your textbooks if you haven't already. 

Sincerely,

Steve

.-.-.-.

27 July, 1988

Dear Steve, 

I finally got around to reading your last few letters. I've been working a lot. Extra shifts to save up money for textbooks, which I have now ordered. Thank you for the reminder.

I have been thinking a lot since my visit to Hawkins. Mostly thinking about you. About us. 

I must admit something, the day I left Hawkins, I went to Family Video to come see you. I never liked goodbyes, but I really wanted to say bye to you. I never went inside, but like the weirdo I am, I sat in my car across the street and watched you through the window. You were helping some woman find a movie, and then you were at the counter ringing someone up, and then you were restocking shelves.

I thought you looked handsome in that green vest. 

I also thought how badly I wished you had asked me to go on the Ferris Wheel with you. I had asked Max instead because I knew you hated the fireworks and I didn’t want you to be miserable. 

When my mom saw me reading the letters, she asked what I was smiling so big about. She said she had never seen me like that before. So, I told her sort of the truth. 

I told her the boy I like has been writing to me all summer. I also told her you like me too.  

She got very excited and started asking a million questions. What's his name? What's he studying? When can she meet him? I answered what I could, and then she insisted on making you a care package.

So there might be no going back now, Steve. My mom knows about you. She's sent you Boppers and Sour Patch Kids and probably some other stuff I don't know about because she sealed the box before I could see everything.

-Yours truly

P.S. I listened to the mixtape, finally. Careless Whisper? Really, Steve? 

P.P.S. Chocolate. Definitely chocolate. 

.-.-.-.

31 July, 1988

Dear Hot Shot,

I first and foremost need to clarify something, sweetheart. I do not like you. 

I love you. 

Yes, there is a difference. So the moment you read this, you tell your mom I love you. Better yet, call me, and let me talk to her, and tell her that I love her daughter. I know you asked Robin for my phone number a few days ago. 

If you don't want me to call and talk to your mom, maybe I can drive to your house and stand outside your window and yell it loud enough for her to hear. Or for you to hear. Or for the whole neighborhood to hear. I don't care who knows anymore.

You invented love for me, Hot Shot. Before you, I thought I knew what it was. I thought I loved people. But it was nothing compared to this. If I could, I'd write this entire page with nothing but "I love you" over and over until the words lost meaning and then kept going until they gained new meaning.

Better yet….

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

I’ll learn it in all the languages of the world so you know I don’t get tired of saying it. 

Love,

Steve

.-.-.-.

It's the middle of a September evening, and campus is slowly buzzing back to life after summer break.

It's been two weeks since school started, but three weeks of Steve getting the Pike house back in order, organizing rush week, managing a new pack of pledges who don't know the difference between a keg and a trash can.

But finally, finally, the rest of his evening is free. And the moment he has the chance, he gets in his car and drives the short distance to Hall 11.

He slips through the open door, catching it just as some girls are leaving, laughing about something and not paying attention to him. Even though it's past curfew, past nine on a weeknight, technically against dorm rules, he sees Tessa at the RA desk.

During his fake relationship with Robin, Steve became acquainted with all the RAs. They all thought he was the perfect boyfriend, always bringing Robin food and flowers and showing up for study sessions. Tessa always looked the other way when he snuck in after hours, probably thinking it was romantic.

She waves at him now, phone pressed to her ear, mid-conversation with someone. She mouths go ahead and turns her attention back to her call.

Steve rushes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly skips down the hallway to the door he's been waiting to get to for what feels like forever. He's whistling, actually whistling like an idiot, because he's been waiting all day for this moment.

After his last letter, a few days later when he got home from work, his mom told him a girl had left a message for him. She'd had this knowing smile on her face, the one she gets when she thinks she's figured something out. "Sounds like the cookies worked," his mom had said, handing him a piece of paper with a phone number written in her neat handwriting.

Steve had rushed to his room, not even bothering to get out of his work clothes. He was still wearing the stupid green Family Video vest and his polo shirt and jeans that smelled like plastic and VHS tape dust. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number.

When he heard your soft, familiar voice say "Hello?" his tongue went completely dry.

He panicked and hung up.

What the fuck was he going to say? He hadn't had a proper conversation with you in weeks beyond the letters. And the last thing you'd heard from him was his undying love written out thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. He'd exhaled heavily, stared at the phone like it had personally wronged him, then dialed again.

"Hello... again?" you'd said, and he could hear the smile in your voice, the amusement.

"H-hey." He'd cleared his throat, trying to sound normal and not like he'd just hung up on you like a creep. "Hey, Hot Shot."

And suddenly he'd heard your grin widen over the line, heard you adjusting, hopefully laying in bed, hopefully thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. "Are you home?" you'd asked. "I mean, wait... I guess you're home since you're calling me. I meant are you home from work?"

Steve had chuckled, looking down at his green vest, at the name tag pinned crooked to his chest. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere in his room, not caring where they landed. He adjusted himself on his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Yeah. What about you?"

"I worked earlier today." He could hear you wrapping the phone cord around your finger, that nervous habit you have. "Got off around three."

"Cool," Steve had said, then immediately cringed at himself. "Cool, yeah. Did you have a good day?"

He'd taken a deep breath, settling in, and said, "I want to hear all about it. Everything."

And you'd smiled—he could hear it in your voice when you said, "Everything?"

"Everything."

So you did. You told him about your shift at work, about a rude customer who yelled at you over nothing, about your coworker who covered for you when you took an extra-long lunch break. You told him about the book you were reading, about calling Max earlier that day, about how you'd burned dinner and had to eat cereal instead.

You talked for two hours about everything under the sun, and Steve listened to every word like you were reciting scripture.

He heard you yawn around midnight, heard the shift of your body against sheets. He could imagine you curling up with the phone still pressed to your ear, eyes fighting to stay open. "Are you sleepy?" Steve looked at his clock and winced. "Shit, it's almost midnight. Didn't you say you have to wake up early?"

You hummed sleepily. "Yeah. I should probably sleep."

"Yeah, okay." Steve bit his bottom lip, cringing at his awkwardness. This used to be so easy, talking to girls, flirting, knowing what to say. "So... goodnight. Yeah."

"Steve?" you'd mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

"Mhm?"

"Call me tomorrow?"

And he did. He called you every single day after that.

Some nights it would be the two of you talking about your days—the mundane details that somehow felt important when you were sharing them. Sometimes you'd tell each other stories from childhood, from high school, from the year you'd spent navigating this complicated thing between you. Some nights you'd both tune in to watch ALF at the same time, phones pressed to your ears, listening to each other laugh at whatever you found funny. Sometimes Steve would bite back his own laughter because he liked the sound of yours better.

Some nights Steve would keep you talking until you finally gave out, your words getting slower and slower until soft snores came through the line. He could never bring himself to hang up. He'd lay the phone down on his pillow and close his eyes and imagine you were lying next to him, breathing in sync, sharing the same space.

There was one night— a week before Steve would leave to go campus early for rush week— when you were both sleepy and Steve had been the one to say he needed to go to bed or Keith would kill him if he was late again. By kill, he meant make him do something humiliating like clean the staff bathroom floors with a toothbrush.

"Steve, wait," you'd said, and something in your voice made him pause.

"Mhm?"

He'd heard you laugh softly to yourself, a gentle exhale. And then you'd said, so gently it made his heart stop: "I love you, Steve."

And he knew then that you'd forgiven him. He knew then that you were his, and he'd always been yours, even when you weren't ready to admit it.

He'd smiled so wide his face hurt. "Hot Shot, I love you. Always." He'd grinned, gripping the phone tighter. "How about I come see you this weekend? Let me take you on a date. A real one."

"Okay," you'd said, and he could hear your smile matching his.

And now he stands outside your dorm, knocking on the oak door with barely contained excitement.

Robin opens it, toothbrush in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her lips. "What?" she mumbles around the toothbrush, looking annoyed at the interruption.

Steve leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms so his henley rides up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach. He smirks. "I'm here to see my girlfriend."

Robin rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised they don't fall out of her head, but she kicks the door open wider to reveal the room.

You're on your bed with a book in your hand, and when you see Steve standing there, you smile. Wide and genuine and so beautiful it knocks the breath from his lungs. You're still in your regular clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, almost like you've been waiting for him.

He knows you've been waiting for him.

Your eyes land on his glasses immediately, then fall to his midriff, to the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and Steve catches it. So he lifts his arm higher, resting it against the doorframe, giving you a better view. Let you look your fill.

You jump off the bed immediately, going to grab your shoes from under your desk. But Steve's inside the room before you can put them on, making you sit down in your desk chair. He kneels in front of you and slips them on your feet himself—first the left, then the right—tying the laces carefully with steady hands.

"You never did that for me," Robin says, but she's smiling as she climbs into her own bed.

Steve gives Robin a look of pure attitude, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, because you don't—" He looks up at you, his girlfriend, and god, he's never going to get tired of that word. Girlfriend. You're his girlfriend, and he's your boyfriend. Steve Harrington is an actual boyfriend in an actual relationship that's real. So real he has the hickey on his bicep from last night's makeout to prove it.

You're looking down at him with amusement, but your eyes are narrowed and one eyebrow is raised in warning. Steve has never been studious or all that smart, but he knows not to finish that sentence.

It doesn't matter anyway because Robin throws a pillow at him. "Will you take your girlfriend and leave already?" She's smiling, though, settling into her bed. "Some of us have eight a.m. classes tomorrow."

You have your fingers tangled in Steve's hair already, and his hands find your waist naturally, like they belong there. He's still kneeling in front of you, looking up like you're something sacred. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back at a reasonable hour."

"Mhm, like last night and the night before? Right." Robin pulls her blanket up, getting comfortable. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Steve chuckles, pressing his glasses up his nose, leans up and makes a soft peck against your lips. It’s brief, chaste, a promise of more later, before standing and walking over to Robin's bed.

Robin looks up at him, cautious, her expression turning warning. "Steve, don't you dare—"

He grins from ear to ear, then leans down and grabs her, planting a wet kiss on top of her short hair. "C'mon, Rob. You know I still love you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dingus." She waves him off, but her smile is fond, genuine. "Go be gross and in love somewhere that isn't my room."

Steve notices how the freckles on her face seem to glow, sun-kissed from summer. Her eyes are a little brighter blue lately, less weighed down. All things he knows because she's in love. And it's not with him.

At one point in his life, Steve thought Robin's love was enough. That he could handle being known only in a platonic sense, that it made no difference whether someone loved him romantically or as a friend. Robin could see him and know things about him, and he wouldn't be lonely. That was enough.

He never thought he'd be so happy to discover how wrong he was.

He feels your arm loop through his, casual and comfortable. You lean against him, your head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. "Come on," you say, pulling at him gently. "Let's go."

"Night, Rob," Steve says.

As you pull him toward the door, he reaches over and flicks off the overhead light. The lamp on Robin's nightstand stays on. It’s the one he'd gifted her one Christmas, green-shaded and casting soft shadows against the wall. The girl who was there for him when his life literally burned to the ground. The one who carries a different piece of his heart, a piece that will always belong to her no matter what.

She smiles at him knowingly, and he understands. She loves him too. Even though things are different now, even though they're not pretending anymore, even though she has Nancy and he has you—she will always love him.

"Goodnight, dingus," she says softly.

You and Steve don't get in his car. There's no need for that anymore. No need to hide behind trees or meet in secret or make out in the backseat where no one can see. Not that you don't still do that sometimes, because you definitely do, but nights like tonight, Steve thinks, why waste a chance to show off his girl?

His girl.

Your arm drops slowly from around his, hand running down his forearm—soft touch, deliberate—until finally your fingers lace with his. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, exactly where they belong.

And like every time you hold hands, you giggle. You look up at him, smiling that goddamn smile that makes his knees weak and his heart race and his entire world feel right. You don't say anything, but you don't need to. He knows what the smile means.

They continue walking in comfortable silence, passing other students on the sidewalk. Some wave at both of you—people from classes, from parties, from Pike events. A few girls from your classes call out "cute couple!" and you wave back, not embarrassed or shy about it.

It was hard not to announce you as his girlfriend the second he got back on campus. He'd wanted to shout it from the Pike house roof, wanted to tell every single person he passed. But he'd needed to make sure people understood the real story first— or a version of it—that he and Robin weren't happy together, that their families wanted the relationship more than they did, that sometimes people pretend because it's easier than being honest.

Most people shrugged and didn't care. Some were supportive, understanding. But sometimes you still get one or two judgmental looks, whispered comments about Steve moving on too fast or you being the reason for the breakup.

Steve tries not to let it bother him.

With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at you. You're already looking up at him, and when your eyes meet, a grin breaks out across his face. He can't help it. He leans down and kisses your cheek, right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people around, then continues walking like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Because it is.

This is his life now. Holding your hand, kissing you whenever he wants, being allowed to love you out loud.

And he's never been happier.

There's no surprise that even though Steve's car is parked all the way back at your dorm, you've managed to walk to the Pike house instead.

Subconscious or not, neither of you made an effort to turn around and head back so he could get you to the dorm at a reasonable hour like he'd promised Robin. Your feet just carried you here, following the familiar path Steve's walked a thousand times, and he didn't stop you. Didn't suggest going somewhere else.

You've only been dating a little less than a month, but it feels longer. Maybe it's because you did everything backward—had sex before dating, said "I love you" before being together, knew each other's bodies before you really knew each other's hearts. He's not sure. But he's okay with not trying to figure it out, because all that matters is that when you walk into the Pike house now, you can walk hand in hand.

His brothers are scattered throughout the common room—some getting ready for bed in their pajama pants and t-shirts, some having late-night snacks like cereal eaten straight from the box, standing at the kitchen counter. They all wave when they see you both come in.

"Hey, Harrington!"

"What's up, man?"

"Hey, Hot Shot!"

Steve rubs his thumb across your knuckles, admiring the way you light up and ask his brothers about their day. Unlike Robin—who was always polite but never truly invested in Pike life—you genuinely want to know his brothers. You ask Buck about his Econ exam, congratulate AJ on making the intramural basketball team, laugh at George’s terrible joke about their philosophy professor.

You're still not afraid to make a face at Steve whenever they say or do something stupid. Once you whacked Buck upside the head for a sexist comment about a girl from Delta Zeta. But his brothers love you for it. They respect that you don't take their shit, that you can give it back as good as you get it.

Eddie is out with god knows who, but Steve's pretty sure it might be Polly again. They've been on-and-off since the breakup.

There's no stopping Steve from leading you upstairs, gently breaking you away from your conversation mid-sentence. "Sorry, guys, stealing her now," he says, pulling you toward the stairs.

That's one thing he's learned about you—you love to be chatty, even if it's about nothing important. You could talk for hours about the weather, about a weird dream you had, about the pattern on someone's shirt. He loves that about you.

You go inside his room and he closes the door behind you, the click of the lock loud in the quiet space.

Before you were together—back when this was still secret and forbidden and temporary—it was always rushed. Clothes removed frantically, lips on skin desperately, because it was meant to only last a few hours. To get Steve's fix and your fix and then part ways, pretending nothing happened.

But now he can't get enough of you. Wants to take his time, memorize every detail, make it last.

To be fair, the first time he slept with you he couldn't get enough either. He'd replayed that night over and over in his head for weeks—the sounds you made, the way you looked underneath him, the feeling of being inside you. In his dresser, tucked all the way behind his socks, he still has your panties from that first night. He's kept them like a talisman.

And he'd admittedly brought them out on occasion.

Like when he tried to sleep with Polly for the first time after you. He was lousy—barely present, only half harde, had to pretend he even finished. He'd faked enthusiasm while getting her off with his fingers, and afterward Polly had patted his head sympathetically and said, "Not everyone is perfect all the time, Steve. It's okay."

But his mind had immediately settled on you. The dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass and breasts, the curve of your hip. The way your plush lips say his name when he's inside you, the way your nails dig into his skin hard enough that he imagines part of his DNA living under your fingernails permanently.

When Polly left, he'd taken your panties out of their hiding place, holding them with one hand while pumping his cock with the other. So fast, eyes squeezed shut, imagining it was your soft hands instead of his own rough ones. He'd come so hard—thick white ropes shooting against his stomach, sticking to his happy trail—and he'd imagined you licking it off him, cleaning him up with your tongue.

He'd panted your name into the empty room, still gripping your panties.

Fuck, he'd really been such an idiot back then, huh?

Steve watches as you let go of his hand and immediately go to his record player. He'd finally gotten around to showing you his full collection last week, spreading albums across his floor and letting you flip through them all. Now you know exactly where everything is.

He takes off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door. Yours go right next to them. They’re side by side, like they belong there.

You're already putting a record on It’s his Queen "A Day at the Races" album. It's not even his favorite Queen album, but you love it. You always place the needle exactly where "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" starts, have the position memorized by now.

When he'd driven to see you for your first official date a few weeks ago, when he'd had to leave that night and drive back to Hawkins, you'd kissed him on the cheek and handed him a mixtape you'd made. "For the drive," you'd said shyly. This song was the first one on it. He'd listened to the entire tape three times on repeat during the drive home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.

You're humming along now, turning around to face him, but he's already close. His hands finding your hips like they're magnetized. "I have something for you."

Your eyes brighten immediately, and you reach up, adjusting his glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose. Your fingers are gentle, careful, and you smile at him before saying,"Oh yeah?"

He nods, melting when you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He clears his throat, reaching behind you to grab something from his desk. He picks up a small black box. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple jewelry box he got from the store in town.

He knew if he'd wrapped it, he would've been bouncing on his feet watching you peel the paper off. He's already doing that now anyway, shifting his weight nervously as you carefully take the lid off.

Your eyes look at the contents, squinting slightly, then look up at him. He crosses his arms, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, downturned eyes staring at you hopefully.

Inside is a sterling silver chain with a charm. ΠΚΑ—Pike's Greek letters in delicate sterling silver, dainty and shimmering in the lamplight.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, so... it's kind of a thing. That a member's girlfriend wears the letters." The words tumble out faster. "It's like a whole tradition, and it means I'm serious about us. I guess it'd make you like an unofficial sweetheart even though you're not in a sorority, and you can totally not wear it if you don't want to, or—"

You giggle, smiling wide, reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. "Steve. Shut up." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Will you put it on for me?"

Steve blushes, smiling dopily, nodding too enthusiastically. He takes the necklace out of the box with careful fingers, and you turn around, lifting your hair up and exposing the nape of your neck.

Steve's breath hitches at the sight—the delicate skin there, the small birthmark he's never noticed before, the soft baby hairs that curl slightly. He carefully drapes the chain around the front of your neck and clasps it at the back, his thumb brushing over the clasp to make sure it's secure. His fingers trail down—over your shoulder blades, down to you ribs, dangerous close to the sides of your breasts.

He steps closer, pressing his body against yours, and kisses the clasp. His lips find skin, warm and soft, and he can't stop himself from kissing lower.

You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes over holding your hair to the side, kissing down your neck with increasing intent.

His breath catches when he sees your fingers come up to brush the letters resting against your collarbone. You're his. Really, truly his.

You've made out plenty since you've been back together. Done a lot of heavy petting, put your lips in all kinds of places, brought each other to the edge with hands and mouths. But Steve had suggested waiting to have sex again. He wanted to show you that this part meant something different to him now. Wanted to prove that it wasn't the sex that made him fall in love with you. It was simply you.

And he never thought you'd be struggling more than him with this agreement.

Like now when he feels you arch backward, pressing your ass against him deliberately, but then you quickly realize what that does to him and start to put distance between you again.

This time, Steve grabs your hips firmly, fingers digging into flesh, and pulls you back against him. He sighs at how you feel—perfect, right, his.

"Steve?" you whisper, voice breathy. "Are you sure?"

Steve hums against your neck, kissing the skin softly, reverently. "I love you," is all he says.

He can hear your smile. He can feel it in the way your body relaxes against him. It makes him smile too, teeth grazing your skin.

You turn to face him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him toward the bed. You're the one to kiss him this time, and he closes his eyes as your mouths slot together in a slow, agonizing kiss.

You always kiss pretty. Soft and thorough, like kissing him is something you want to savor.

And there you go again. Your hands immediately on his stomach under his henley, palms warm against his skin, wasting no time. You squeeze the plush skin, massaging, it sends chills up his spine and his blood moves southward.

He wastes no time either, slipping his own hand under your shirt, the other squeezing your ass, then trailing up your back to feel bare skin. Up to your breasts, squeezing and massaging through your bra. Down to your belly, caressing.

You walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. You're standing between his spread legs, and you drop to your knees without hesitation.

"Hot Shot," he breathes, watching as you work open his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

You unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard, and you lean forward immediately.

But instead of taking him in your mouth, you press your face into the soft flesh of his lower stomach. You kiss his happy trail—that line of dark hair leading down from his navel—then lick it. Suck at it. Your tongue traces patterns against his skin, and Steve's head falls back, eyes closing.

"Fuck," he whispers.

You look up at him through your lashes, still pressing kisses to his stomach, and the sight nearly kills him. Your eyes are dark with want, lips wet and swollen, and you're worshipping the part of him he's always been most self-conscious about.

He leans down, kissing you. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "Every part of you."

You bat your eyes, “Show me?” 

When he calls you meek, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like you’re below him, or weak even. There’s just no other word to describe the gentleness of your voice, how shy you get. And your shyness only belongs to him. No one else sees you like this, but him. It nearly makes him come undone right there, thinking about it. 

Steve's heart clenches. He reaches down and cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Come here."

You stand, and he pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans and underwear until you're standing naked in front of him.

He takes a moment to look at you. All of you. The curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, your breasts, the tattoo on your hip that belongs to him, the necklace resting against your collarbone that marks you as his.

"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread legs again.

His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms against soft skin, until his fingers reach your center. You're already wet—have been since he first touched you—and when his fingers brush against you, you gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.

"Steve," you breathe.

He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as pleasure flickers across your features. Then he slides one finger inside you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. "Christ, baby."

You whimper, hips rolling into his hand, seeking more. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, remembering how it's been months since you've done this. 

He crooks his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle, and you cry out softly. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in.

"God, you're so wet," he says, voice rough. He can feel you clenching around his fingers, can feel how ready you are for him. "So beautiful."

He pumps his fingers slowly, trying to be patient, trying to take his time preparing you properly. But it's been so long—too long—and the feel of you, the sounds you're making, the way you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes...

"I can't wait," Steve says suddenly, withdrawing his fingers. He looks up at you, desperate and needy. "I'm sorry, I know I should—but I can't. I need you now."

You nod immediately, breathlessly. "Yes. Please, Steve. I need you too."

Relief floods through him. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you say firmly, pushing him back on the bed. "Now."

And he's never loved you more than in this moment—understanding what he needs, wanting it as much as he does.

"Lie down," he says softly, his voice rough with want.

You do, crawling onto his bed and sprawling out underneath him, hair fanning across his pillow. Steve kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and pulls his henley over his head, then climbs over you. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and you reach up with a smile, pushing them back into place with gentle fingers.

He kisses down your body—your neck, your collarbone where the necklace rests, between your breasts. When he gets to your stomach, he presses soft, quick kisses all over. Little pecks that make you giggle and squirm beneath him.

"Steve," you laugh, trying to push his head away. "That tickles."

"Good," he says, grinning against your skin. He kisses your hip bone, then lower, but you pull him back up to you.

"I need you," you whisper. "Now. Please."

Steve nods, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, and the sight of you like that—sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving, necklace glinting in the lamplight, eyes dark with want—makes his cock throb.

He wraps his hand around himself, pumping slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans at the sight.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper, eyes still fixed on his hand moving over his length.

Steve throws his head back, eyes rolling behind his glasses, whimpering. He pumps himself a few more times, thumb swiping over the head where precum is already beading. Then he leans forward, positioning himself over you, he spreads your legs wider and spits directly onto your pussy, a string of saliva dripping wet from his tongue, glistening as it falls.

You gasp at the sensation. It’s warm and wet and filthy in the best way. He uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing with your own wetness, making sure you're slick and ready for him.

"Fuck. Baby," you breathe, head falling back.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pauses for just a moment. Your eyes meet his, and there's understanding there—this is different, more intimate, nothing between you.

"I love you," he says, looking into your eyes.

"I love you too," you breathe.

He pushes in slowly—so slowly, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, back arching slightly, neck elongating as your head presses back into the pillow. You let out a high-pitched moan that goes straight to his cock.

"God," Steve groans when he's fully seated inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, savoring the feeling of being this close to you. "Baby you feel perfect."

He starts to move. It’s slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp beneath him. This isn't fucking. This isn't even having sex, not really.

This is lovemaking, and he knows you or Robin would probably make fun of him for calling it that, for being so sappy and romantic. But that's what it is to him. He's not trying to get off or make himself feel good. He's worshipping you, showing you with his body what his words can't fully express.

He buries his face in your neck, pressing kisses there, breathing you in. "I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I love you so much."

"Steve," you moan, hands clutching at his back. "I love you."

He keeps whispering it. Over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times you'll feel exactly how much he means it. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the creak of his bed frame, your breathy moans, his low groans, the wet slide of him moving inside you. How his hips slap against your ass.The music still plays from his record player, Freddie Mercury's voice a soundtrack to this moment.

After a while, Steve sits up, pulling you with him. You end up in his lap, straddling him, and he guides you up and down on his cock with his hands on your hips. One hand braces on the bed next to him for leverage so he can thrust up into you, meeting your movements.

Your arms are around his neck, holding him close, and you're clutched together so tightly there's no space between your bodies. Sweat makes your skin stick together, and Steve can feel your heart beating against his chest—fast and hard, matching his own rhythm. Your pants and moans mixing together in harmony. 

You're looking at him, mouth parted, breathing heavily. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, tender and gentle even as pleasure builds between you.

"I love you, Steve," you say clearly, deliberately, holding his gaze.

Steve falters, his rhythm stuttering.He kisses you fiercely, possessively, his glasses bumping against your face. He starts moving more intensely—faster, harder, deeper.

"Say it again," he demands against your lips.

"I love you," you gasp.

He uses his large hand to cup your chin, tilting your face so you have to look at him. You can see yourself reflected in his lenses. "I love you," he says back, and it comes out rough, wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."

The intensity makes you lean back slightly, back arching, and Steve groans at the sight. Your breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. You look completely gone, lost in pleasure, and he knows he looks the same. It’s desperate and needy and so in love it hurts.

He leans forward and kisses the charm of your necklace where it rests against your skin, then your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will bloom purple by morning.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close again, burying his face between your breasts. He can feel the way you pant and whine into his hair, can feel your body starting to tighten around him. He can hear himself whimpering your name against your sweaty skin. 

"Baby, I'm—I'm close," you gasp. 

"Me too, baby. Me too."

He reaches between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. That's all it takes—you cry out his name, clenching around him, and the feeling of you coming sends him over the edge too.

He comes with a groan muffled against your chest, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. You ride it out together, holding each other through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together and noses nudging.

When you can both breathe again, you press soft pecks to his lips. Once, twice, three times. Sweet and unhurried.

Steve smiles, tucking your hair back behind your ear with gentle fingers. "I'm happy," he says genuinely, searching your face. "Are you happy, Hot Shot?"

"Yes, Steve. I'm more than happy."

And he believes you. He sees it in your eyes, in the way you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grabs your hand and places it over his heart, wanting you to feel what he’s thinking without saying it. 

He loves you. 

You kiss his lips again, soft and lingering. When you pull back, your irises are glimmering, searching into his own. He sees stars twinkling in them—actual constellations reflected in the depths of your eyes. He kisses your nose, then your forehead.

And like the sun itself rising, splitting across your face, you smile. Wide and genuine and so full of love it makes his chest ache.

It doesn't matter anymore how it all led up to here—all the lies and hurt and confusion and heartbreak. None of it matters because you're here now, in his arms, wearing his letters, saying you love him.

Finally.

Finally, Steve Harrington gets to keep something good.

Robin doesn't smoke cigarettes. She'll drink until she's sick, will smoke weed until her eyes are red and glassy, but she's always drawn a hard line at cigarettes. "They're disgusting," she'd say whenever someone offered her one at a party. "I don't understand how anyone can stand them."

You close the door gently behind you, catching sight of yourself in the mirror mounted on the wall. Your face is splotchy and swollen, eyes puffy from crying, mascara smudged beneath your lashes like bruises. Your jaw sets, muscles tensing, because you know the night isn't ending yet. Know there's one more confrontation to survive before you can collapse.

You walk closer to the balcony, and Robin hears you over the sound of waves crashing below. She looks over her shoulder at you, her long straight chestnut hair whipping in the wind, catching the light from the room behind you and the moon above. Robin's face hardens when she sees you, jaw clenching, and she watches as you step out onto the balcony but keep your distance—standing close enough to talk but far enough that you won't accidentally touch.

Robin snaps her focus back to the ocean, and you see her grimacing at the cigarette in her hand like it betrayed her somehow, like she can't believe she's actually smoking it.

There's a beat of silence. Just the waves and the distant sound of music from a party somewhere down the beach and the wind rustling through the palm trees below.

And in the emptiness, you realize how long you've been angry at Robin. How long you've pushed it aside, buried it deep, ignored it for the sake of your friendship because losing her felt unthinkable. But it's been there all along, festering beneath the surface.

Robin takes another drag, exhaling smoke that gets caught by the wind and dispersed immediately. "Nancy broke up with me." Her voice is flat, dead. "Jonathan is taking her to the airport right now."

Your heart drops, stomach plummeting like you've just fallen off a cliff. You look out at the ocean again, listening to people laughing somewhere in the distance. Probably drunk college students having the time of their lives while yours falls apart.

But you don't say anything. You wish you could've seen Nancy before she left. Wish you could've hugged her, told her you understood, told her you were sorry.

Robin continues, shaking her head, and you realize she must have been crying before she came back to the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, nose running slightly. "We went looking for you, you know? After you left the restaurant. And I asked her if you were telling the truth. If she was actually miserable." Robin's voice breaks, cracking down the middle. "She told me she loves me. But she can't lie anymore."

Robin finally looks at you, tears streaming down her face, catching the moonlight. "Are you happy now?"

You scoff, the sound harsh and bitter. You take a moment to close your eyes and breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth, trying to steady yourself. "Why would that make me happy, Robin?"

"Because isn't this what you wanted?" Robin's voice rises, sharp with accusation. "Since you can't be with Steve, you have to break me and Nancy up?"

You twist your body to face her fully, nose flaring with anger. "Cut that shit out, Robin." Your voice is hard, uncompromising. "I have been there for you and Nancy from the beginning, and you know it. I have always been there for you two."

You take a breath, trying to contain the fury building in your chest. "Seeing you be your full self around her when you can—god, Robin, you have no idea how much it kills me that it's not enough. That neither of you can be happy hiding like this." Your voice softens slightly, but the anger is still there underneath. "Of course I didn't want you to break up. But what else is there to do when you won't admit the arrangement isn't working?"

You pause, gathering courage for the question you've wanted to ask for months. "Does Nancy really want it to be you, her, and Steve for the rest of your lives? Do you?"

Robin's face transforms immediately at the last part—sadness replacing anger, lips twisting as she tries not to sob. Tears run faster down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw. She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she deflects.

"Nancy told me I was pretending not to see that you and Steve like each other." Robin pauses, swallowing hard. "I wasn't pretending. I knew Steve liked you. He told me."

Your face drops. Your heart skips a beat, then starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

Robin swallows thickly, her throat working. "But I shut it down."

Your eyes flare wide, heat flooding through you—part anger, part devastation. "How?"

Robin's jaw ticks, muscle jumping under skin. She rubs her free hand over her face, takes another drag of the cigarette that's now barely more than a filter. "I told him what you told me. That you didn't like him like that and never would."

Your eyes dance over Robin's face. You’re searching, trying to understand, trying to process. Your mouth falls open, eyes going wider. "This happened on Friday, didn't it?" The pieces are clicking into place now, sharp and painful. "That's why you were so angry? That's why he—"

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You grip the balcony railing, knuckles going white from the pressure, trying to steady yourself as the world tilts sideways. Your breathing comes fast and shallow.

"What?" Robin's voice is defensive, aggressive. "I was telling him the truth that I knew. It's not my fault you kept lying to me about how you felt."

"And how the fuck was I supposed to, Robin?" Your voice raises, loud enough that someone in a nearby room might hear. You don't care. "When you told me not to? When you said he doesn't do relationships? Maybe he doesn't do relationships because of you. Because he thinks you're all he has."

Robin is taken aback, face crumbling like you've struck her. She looks young suddenly, vulnerable, scared and small.

But you can't stop now. The words are pouring out, months of frustration and hurt and swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "This isn't about me and him. This is about you." Your voice drops, going quieter but no less intense. "I have been nothing but understanding. But I don't understand why you still feel like you have to hide behind him. I'm not saying you need to come out to the world, but... maybe you should come out to yourself."

Robin lets out a choked sob, her whole body shaking with it. "I think you should leave."

You curl your lips inward, biting down hard enough to taste copper. You sniffle, wiping at your face. "Yeah. I was planning on it."

Robin stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray the hotel has set out on the balcony, grinding it down with more force than necessary. She gives you one more look—angry and hurt and betrayed all at once—before storming past you into the hotel room. The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.

You stand on the balcony alone, the ocean stretching out before you dark and endless. You let out a shaky breath and cry into your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

You finally collect yourself enough to go back inside. You pack your things, though you realize you hadn't really unpacked much from the first night anyway—like some part of you always knew this would happen, was always prepared to run.

You don't see anyone else you know as you slip through the hotel halls. They're all hiding in their respective rooms probably, licking their wounds, trying to figure out what happens next.

You wonder if Steve is safe. Wonder if he made it back to his room okay, if Jonathan or Eddie are with him, if he's still crying on that empty beach.

You almost—almost—go to the room you suspect he's sharing with Jonathan. Room 408, you think, or was it 412? You could knock, could make sure he's okay, could tell him you lied when you said you don't love him.

But no. You can't. You can't see him again, can't risk changing your mind, can't let yourself hope for something that will never work.

You hail a cab to the airport instead, throwing your duffel bag in the trunk and climbing into the backseat. The driver asks where you're going and you tell him Miami International, and then you sit in silence for the forty-minute drive, watching the city lights blur past the window.

At the airport, your eyes scan the departure board, tracking over different destinations. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. Dallas. Boston.

You have no idea where to go. You don't want to go back to college, back to that dorm room, back to staring at Robin's empty bed and being reminded of everything you've lost.

You sigh and walk up to the ticket counter, telling the worker where you want to go. Home. Back to your parents' house, back to your childhood bedroom, back to a place where things made sense before Steve Harrington and breaking your own heart.

Later, standing at a payphone with coins clutched in your sweaty palm, you dial your parents' number. It rings three times before your mom picks up.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" Your voice cracks on the word, and you bite back another sob.

"Honey? Are you okay? I thought you were in Miami—"

"I'm coming home." The tears are falling again, and you can't stop them. "Can you pick me up from the airport? Tomorrow morning?"

There's a pause, and you can hear the concern in your mother's voice when she speaks. "Of course. Of course, sweetheart. What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there," you lie, knowing you won't, knowing you'll smile and say spring break was fine and your friends were busy and you just missed home.

But your mom doesn't push. She never does. She asks what time your flight lands, tells you she'll be there, tells you she loves you.

You hang up the phone and stand there in the fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal, surrounded by strangers going to places you'll never see, and you feel more alone than you've ever felt in your life.

.-.-.-.

Sunday of spring break week, your parents drop you back off at school.

Your mom didn't ask questions during the week, thankfully. You'd spent most of it in your childhood bedroom, sleeping too much, eating too little, pretending everything was fine when you came down for meals. But you think maybe this time, if she had asked, you would've told her. Would've broken down and explained everything—Steve, Robin, the lies, the love, the loss of it all.

But she didn't ask, and you didn't tell, and now here you are.

Your parents smother you in hugs and kisses before you get out of the car. Your dad points at you, his usual joke ready. "Don't get pregnant." His way of saying I love you, I'll miss you.

Normally you laugh and roll your eyes and say, "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon."

But this time your stomach twists violently, and you feel like you could vomit at the thought. At the memory of Steve in the tent saying he'd imagined having kids for the first time, of him looking at that family at the campsite with longing in his eyes. And even though it took forever for you to see you like him, you knew with aching clarity that’s when your heart unzipped itself, letting him in. 

You manage a weak smile and a wave instead, then grab your bag and head inside.

Your dorm room is cold when you walk in, the heating apparently turned down over break. You throw your duffel bag on your bed, and the smell hits you immediately—yours and Robin's detergents mixed together, her perfume and your body spray, everything that used to mean home and safety and best friends.

Everything that reminds you that you used to be friends. Best friends.

You break down again, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing into your hands.

Dinner is lonely. The dining hall is mostly empty—most students haven't returned yet, won't be back until late Sunday night or early Monday morning. You sit by yourself at a table near the window, pushing food around your plate without eating much.

The library is lonely. You try to study, to get ahead on reading for your classes, but the words blur together and you can't focus.

Everything is lonely.

That night, when you eventually crawl into bed, you toss and turn. The smell of Miami still clings to your clothes—salt and sunscreen and heartbreak burning in your nostrils. You know it's late, maybe midnight, and you can't stop thinking about two weeks ago when Steve Harrington was standing outside your window, grinning up at you like an idiot, asking you to come downstairs.

You shut your eyes tighter, trying to burn the memory away, to erase it completely.

Then you hear it. The door opening, closing softly. The lock clicking into place.

You don't look over. You keep your eyes closed, your breathing even, pretending to sleep.

You hear slight shuffling. Movement across the room. The sound of Robin changing—fabric rustling, the soft thud of shoes being kicked off, a zipper being pulled.

Then she's getting into her own bed, springs creaking under her weight.

But not before you hear her pause. A sharp intake of breath, like she's been punched.

You'd left Robin's lamp on for her. The small desk lamp she always uses to read before bed, the one with the green glass shade that casts everything in a soft glow.

You swear you hear Robin sniffle—once, then again, trying to muffle the sound.

Then the light clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.

And you both lie there in your separate beds, in the dark, pretending you don't hear each other crying.

.-.-.-.

It's Wednesday morning, and you've managed to shut everyone out completely.

Monday, Robin didn't go to class—still asleep when you left for your morning lecture because she's always had a problem sleeping through her alarm. The shrill beeping goes off at seven, and she slaps at it without opening her eyes, rolls over, and falls back into unconsciousness within seconds.

Normally, you'd shake her awake. Poke her shoulder until she groaned and swatted at you, mumbling something about five more minutes. You'd turn on her desk lamp, pull her blanket off, do whatever it took to get her vertical and moving.

But you don't wake her up this time. You grab your books and leave while she's still snoring softly, one arm thrown over her face to block out the morning light filtering through the blinds.

Tuesday, you saw Sammy in the hallway outside the lecture hall. He was standing by the door with his satchel slung across his chest, clearly waiting for you, and when your eyes met, his face lit up with cautious hope.

But you bolted. Turned on your heel and pushed through the crowd in the opposite direction, even when you heard him call your name softly—tentative, questioning, hurt.

The weeks of school are thinning, winding down toward finals and summer break. A reminder of that comes in the form of a knock on your door Wednesday morning, just as you're pulling on jeans and trying to decide if you have enough clean shirts to make it through the week without doing laundry.

Robin answers it, still in her pajamas—an oversized Blondie t-shirt and shorts that are barely visible beneath the hem. Tessa stands in the hallway, holding out a piece of paper with an apologetic smile.

"Hey, guys. Housing forms for next year. Need them back by next Friday."

Robin takes the paper without looking at it, barely mumbling a thanks before closing the door. She immediately sets it down on her desk like it's contaminated, like touching it too long might burn her. She doesn't even glance at it before turning back to rummaging through her closet for clean clothes.

But you look at it.

You walk over to your desk and pick up the paper, scanning the options printed in neat administrative font:

REQUEST TO MOVE OFF CAMPUS

REQUEST TO MOVE TO A DIFFERENT DORM

REQUEST TO STAY IN CURRENT DORM

And underneath, the section that makes your stomach drop:

REQUEST TO KEEP SAME ROOMMATE — BOTH PARTIES' SIGNATURES REQUIRED

REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE

You set the paper on your desk carefully, like it might shatter. Your mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Another knock comes at the door, sharper this time. Robin groans from somewhere inside her closet, still searching for her other shoe. "Can you get that?"

You open the door. Tessa is still there, looking sheepish. "Hey, sorry again! Hot Shot, you have a call."

You furrow your brows, looking at your watch. It's barely eight in the morning. Who would be calling this early?

Robin emerges from the closet, one shoe on, and gives you an equally curious look as you slip past her into the hallway.

You make your way to the pay phone on your floor, the receiver hanging off the hook where Tessa must have left it to hold the call. You pick it up, the plastic warm against your ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank god." The voice on the other end is frantic, breathless.

"Max?"

"Look, I'm going to cut to the chase." Max doesn't wait for you to respond, words tumbling out rapid-fire. "Last night I called Steve for our weekly call, and he didn't answer. I mean, I wasn't too worried at first because I know he's studying and he's busy with that big test coming up, but yeah... okay..." She takes a breath, and you hear rustling like she's pacing, the phone cord probably stretched to its limit. "Last night I get a call from Dustin. Steve's here. In Hawkins."

You try to process this, to catch every word, but Max is talking fast and your brain feels sluggish, still not fully awake.

"I don't know what you want me to do," you say slowly, carefully.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache building behind your eyes. Out of the corner of your vision, you see Robin walking down the hall—looking anywhere but at you, studying the bulletin board with fake intensity—until you wave at her frantically.

Robin's confused, brows furrowed, but she walks over anyway.

You cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with your palm. "Steve is in Hawkins. Right now."

Robin's eyes widen, going almost comically large. "What?"

You pull the phone between you, both of your heads tilted in, temples touching, the receiver pressed between your ears. You can smell Robin's shampoo and it's so familiar it makes your chest ache.

"He won't say anything," Max continues, and you can hear the worry bleeding through her usually steady voice. "He's pretending to be fine, but god, he looks miserable. Dustin and I played hooky today to hang out with him. I asked what about his big test Thursday—you know? And he says there's no point. That he's going to fail it anyway."

Max sighs heavily, and you hear what sounds like her sitting down, springs creaking.

Robin's eyes are frantic now, darting around like she's searching for answers in the peeling paint of the hallway walls.

"Did you tell him it's probably nerves?" you suggest, grasping for something helpful to say. "That he's been studying so hard he's psyching himself out?"

Max hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, broken. "Hot Shot... he says he's going to drop out."

The words hang in the air, heavy and terrible.

Robin snatches the phone from you, nearly yanking it out of your hand. "Max, this is Robin. I'm on my way." She pauses, listening. "Mhm. Mhm. Okay. Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can."

She hangs up without saying goodbye, then immediately starts rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Robin," you call after her, following.

But she doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. Her bare feet slap against the linoleum as she moves.

Robin rushes through the lobby, weaving between students checking their mailboxes and the RA manning the desk. You hurdle past people, mumbling apologies, trying to keep up with her longer stride.

When Robin bursts through the front doors into the cool morning air, she's still walking fast, arms pumping with purpose.

"Robin, please," you jog up beside her and catch her wrist.

Robin stops, huffing with exertion, and turns to look at you. Her expression is almost annoyed—eyebrows raised, mouth tight—like she's asking what? without saying it out loud.

You're both breathing hard now, catching your breath. "Where are you going?"

"Hawkins," Robin answers simply, like it's obvious.

"Okay, but how?"

"Eddie will take me." Robin says it with complete certainty, no doubt in her voice. "It's not a far drive—only a few hours. If we leave now, I can get Steve and we'd be back by dinner. Plenty of time for him to study and get some rest before the test tomorrow." She's talking faster now, planning out loud. "He needs to take that test. He has to. His dad will kill him if—"

"Let me come with you," you interrupt.

Robin's face turns solemn, all the frantic energy draining out of her in an instant. "Do you think that's a good idea?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "You don't think it would make it worse?"

The question stings, sharp and sudden.

"I don't know," you shoot back, anger flaring hot in your chest. "I could ask the same for you."

Whatever moment of unity you'd shared. Your heads pressed together listening to Max, both worried about Steve, snaps clean in half. You're reminded with brutal clarity that you're not best friends anymore. You're two people who used to be close, standing in front of each other like strangers.

Robin shuts her jaw with an audible click, teeth grinding together. "This is my fault," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "I need to fix it." She says your name, eyes pleading, desperate. "He can't drop out because of me. Because of—" She cuts herself off, looking up at the sky like the clouds might have answers. When she speaks again, her voice is raspy, raw. "He's my best friend, and I screwed up."

God. After everything that's happened, Robin is still acting possessive over Steve. Still claiming him as hers and hers alone. Nothing is going to change that.

"Right," you snap, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. "Because my friendship with him never counted. Or yours with me, I guess."

Robin's face breaks for a second. Her eyes softening, mouth parting like she wants to argue, wants to tell you that's not what she meant. But she doesn't say anything. Can't, maybe.

You dig into your pocket and pull out your keys. You unhook the dorm key from the ring and hold out the car keys, looking Robin directly in the eyes with determination you don't entirely feel.

"It's quicker if you leave now. Take my car."

Robin doesn't take them. She's staring at the keys like they're a snake that might bite her. "I don't have my license."

"Wait, what about that night you drove Eddie and Steve— you know never mind. Just don't get pulled over. " You motion for her to take them again, shaking the keys slightly so they jingle. "I'll let Eddie know what's going on. And I'll take notes for you in class."

For a brief second, Robin smiles. It's small and sad and achingly familiar. It’s the smile of a friend, the smile of someone who wants to pull you into a hug and say thank you and I'm sorry and I miss you all at once. The smile that used to mean everything is going to be okay because you have each other.

But it falls away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something more guarded.

She gives you a curt nod, takes the keys from your outstretched hand—careful not to let your fingers touch—and runs toward the parking lot where your car is parked.

You watch her go, standing alone on the front steps of your dorm, and you wonder if this is what it feels like to lose someone piece by piece instead of all at once.

Later that night, you're at your desk pretending to do homework.

You've been avoiding all public spaces—the dining hall, the library, the student center—eating granola bars from the stash under your bed and telling yourself you'll go get real food tomorrow. Your American Lit textbook is open in front of you, reading the same paragraph four times without retaining a single word.

Your eyes wander to the housing form sitting to the side of your desk, partially buried under a notebook but still visible. The deadline looms: next Friday. One week to decide where you'll live next year, who you'll live with, whether you'll stay or go.

You turn in your chair to look at Robin's side of the room.

It's a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere—jeans hanging off her desk chair, a sweater crumpled on the floor, her denim jacket draped over her closet door. Books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Empty coffee mugs forming a small collection on her nightstand.

You've never cared about the mess. You're pretty messy yourself—your own clothes tend to migrate from the hamper to the floor and back again, and you're not above wearing the same jeans three days in a row if they pass the smell test.

But looking at Robin's side of the room now, you're hit with a wave of memory so strong it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

You had a horrible first roommate freshman year. Melissa, who passive-aggressively left notes about your "excessive" overnight guests (you'd had exactly two) and complained to the RA whenever you stayed up past ten studying. Who listened to terrible pop music at full volume when you were trying to study. Who made you feel like an intruder in your own room.

Robin came up to you after class second semester, Intro to Literary Analysis, a pre-req you both suffered through, and asked if you wanted to room together next year. You barely knew her. You'd seen her at a few parties, and one other class. You knew she was funny and hyper and incredibly intelligent. 

"I can't stand my roommate," Robin had said bluntly. “We should room together. And you always look like you know how to have fun."

And somehow, it had worked. You'd never found someone you could coexist with so easily—someone who understood that sometimes you needed silence and sometimes you needed to blast music and dance badly at two in the morning. Someone who would let you borrow her clothes and would steal your shampoo and would wake you up when you'd overslept but also knew when to leave you alone.

You don't know if you'll ever find someone like Robin again.

The thought makes your hand shake as you reach for a pen, pulling the housing form closer. You start to circle REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the pen hovering over the paper.

But you're stopped by the sound of the door unlocking.

Robin walks in, and she looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped, hair tangled like she's been running her hands through it. She freezes when she sees you sitting at your desk, clearly not expecting you to be there.

You quickly shove the housing form away, burying it under your textbook, and look up at her. You search her face for any telling details—did she get him back? Is he okay? Did it work?

Robin clears her throat, breaking the silence first. "I'm coming to grab my stuff. Me and Eddie are going to help him study." Her voice is rough, tired. "I think I might stay the night at Pike. I..." She holds up your car keys, and there's an awkward smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I only ran through one stop sign. But she's in perfect condition, and I filled up the tank."

You swallow hard, nodding. "You can put them on my bed. Thanks."

Robin does as you asked, setting the keys down gently on your comforter. The room fills with tense silence, the kind that's heavy with all the things you're not saying to each other.

You can feel her looking at you when you turn back to your textbook. And when you glance up from the corner of your eye, you catch her quickly looking away, pretending to search for something in her closet.

This happens three more times—both of you stealing glances when the other isn't looking, like teenagers with crushes instead of ex-best friends who can barely speak to each other.

Robin finally gathers her things—textbooks, notebooks, a change of clothes shoved into her backpack. She goes to open the door, then stops. "Hey."

She clears her throat when you don't respond immediately.

You look up at her. "Yeah?"

Robin takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. "Uh... thank you. For lending me your car."

"No problem," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel.

Robin stands there awkwardly, door half-open, letting the hallway noise filter in. Someone's TV playing too loud, a group of girls laughing as they pass. "Right. Okay."

She goes to leave, and then you hear yourself say, "Oh! Hey, Rob…in."

You catch yourself before you can finish the nickname, the syllables sticking in your throat. It comes out wrong, forced, like you're trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

"Yeah?" Robin turns back, and there's something hopeful in her expression that makes your chest hurt.

"I left your notes from class on your desk." You motion toward her side of the room, where the papers are stacked neatly. "From today."

Robin's whole face shifts. It’s something like relief, or gratitude, or maybe just surprise that you thought of her. She perks up and walks over to her desk, picking up the papers and awkwardly waving them. "Cool. Uh... thanks. This is—thanks."

"Yep."

"Right." Robin adjusts her backpack on her shoulder, the papers clutched in her other hand. "Bye."

"Bye."

The door closes with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You sit there for a long moment, staring at the space where Robin was standing, then pull out the housing form from under your textbook. Your pen hovers over REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the circle you started to draw still incomplete.

But you don't finish it. Instead, you set the pen down and push the form aside again, telling yourself you'll deal with it tomorrow.

.-.-.-.

The loneliness is creeping in again, settling over you like fog rolling in from the ocean—thick and suffocating and impossible to see through.

You're on your bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. There are seven that you can see from this angle, spiderwebbing out from the corner where the water damage bloomed last semester. It's Friday evening, the sun already setting, the room growing darker by the minute.

You only saw Robin briefly in class today. She didn't sit next to you—took a seat three rows ahead instead, on the opposite side of the lecture hall. But you could see her from where you were sitting. Could see her leg bouncing incessantly, the rapid tap-tap-tap of her pencil against her notebook, the frantic scraping as she took notes even though the professor wasn't saying anything worth writing down. She left quickly when class ended, gathering her things and disappearing through the door before you'd even closed your notebook.

Yesterday, Art History was cancelled. A note on the door said the Professor was out sick, class would resume Monday. You were grateful, relief flooding through you so intensely your knees went weak. You don't know if you could handle sitting in a room with Sammy, still with no answer for him about being his girlfriend, still not knowing what you really want for yourself.

You do know you want to stop being so lonely.

You let out a big huff, the sound loud in the quiet room, and swing your legs off the bed. You need to move, need to get out of this room that smells like Robin's perfume and your own sadness. You grab a jacket and head out, not really knowing where your legs might take you, just needing to walk.

There's a lot on your mind as you wander campus. Your anger at Robin, at Steve, at yourself. The sadness that sits heavy in your chest like a stone you swallowed and can't cough up. You wonder how Robin is really doing, not knowing how she's dealing with the breakup with Nancy beyond the bouncing leg and frantic note-taking. If Eddie and Polly are going strong, if anything changed when they came back to school after Miami, if they're actually together now or still dancing around it.

What the rest of the trip was like for everyone after you left. If Steve's test went well yesterday. If he actually wanted to drop out or if that was the alcohol and despair talking.

And of course—pathetically, predictably—you find yourself outside the Pike house.

You're still far enough away that no one would see you. Standing across the street, partially hidden behind a tree, feeling like a stalker or a ghost haunting the places you used to belong. You're looking at the window to Steve's room. It's dark, the curtains closed, no light bleeding through the edges.

And you know then that it doesn't matter what you're thinking or feeling or wanting. Now that Steve knows you don't love him—that you lied and told him you don't feel that way—he's probably moved on already. Out with Robin and Eddie somewhere, maybe with another girl, some new conquest to ruin with his lies and rules and that fake relationship he's trapped in.

Forcing her to play along too.

And that's when you realize it.

You're done being the secret. Done being the exception that isn't really an exception. Done waiting for something that will never happen.

It doesn't take long to walk to Alpha Tau. The house is quieter than Pike usually is—no party tonight, just the regular sounds of college guys living together. Video games from somewhere upstairs, someone's stereo playing too loud, the smell of microwaved popcorn and cheap cologne.

Sammy answers when you knock, and his face goes through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, hope, caution, guardedness.

"Hey," he says carefully.

"Can we talk?"

He lets you in, leading you upstairs to his room. It's neater than you remember, like he's been cleaning to cope with stress. His bed is made with crisp corners, textbooks stacked in precise piles on his desk.

You both sit on his bed, and you smile at him shyly, gathering courage. "I've, uh... thought a lot about what we talked about. Before break."

"Yeah?" His smile is cautious, hopeful but trying not to be.

You nod, looking at the ground because you can't look at his face while you say this. You take a breath to steady yourself, pulling air deep into your lungs. "I don't think casual stuff works for me either. I never really thought I wouldn't want it, you know? And I..." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "I always blamed others for not wanting anything serious. But maybe it was me who didn't. Like maybe, I was too scared." You take his hand in yours, feeling his palm, the lines etched there by genetics and time. "I'd like to give it a shot. Us. For real."

His hands just feel like skin. Warm and dry and completely unremarkable.

Sammy grins, looking away and chuckling like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "I thought about you a lot over break, you know?"

"Really?" you ask, looking into his green eyes.

For a split second, you manage to take that green and imagine it like the green that swims around in hazel pools—Steve's eyes in certain light, when the sun hits them just right. Your heart thrums painfully.

Sammy nods, reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from your face. But it falls immediately back into place, so he tries again. Finally you laugh—forced, brittle—and help him, tucking it behind your ear yourself and looking up at him.

And in the second before he leans in, you close your eyes and pray that it will be him you see. That this will be enough.

"Can I kiss you?" He says your name softly, tenderly.

You smile through the pain blooming in your chest. Nod.

Sammy's lips meet yours—soft but chapped, tentative at first then firmer. You kiss back, closing your eyes, letting your lashes flutter against your cheeks. And suddenly you're hearing waves, smelling salt on skin that isn't his.

He's laying you down on the bed gently, his knee slotting between your legs, and your eyes are still shut tight. The waves are getting louder in your head, crashing and receding and crashing again.

You feel him creep his hand up your shirt. Feel him touch your bare skin—stomach, ribs, the underside of your breast. And you're still back on that beach in Miami, hating that you never got a chance to go in the water. You can still feel sand under your clothes except that's Sammy's hands, not sand. His rough calluses, not the ocean floor.

Sammy is kissing your neck now, and you're letting him because you want this to work, need it to work. You can't open your eyes because if you do, you'll see it's not Steve and the illusion will shatter.

You feel his mouth trail up—jaw, ear—and his breath is hot when he speaks, voice rough with want. "Say you're mine."

You're breathing heavy, chest heaving, and you're being swallowed by the waves, pulled under, water filling your lungs. "I'm yours," you whisper.

Your face is wet. You're crying, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your breath is shaky, your voice cracked and broken when you say it again: "I'm yours, Steve."

Sammy stills immediately. His lips slowly leave your collarbone, pulling back like you've burned him.

When did your shirt come off? You slowly open your eyes, and Sammy is sliding off you, sitting up, putting distance between your bodies. His jaw is set tight, muscle jumping, and you're crying harder now, hands coming up to cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you sob, voice muffled by your palms. "I'm so sorry."

You're shaking, and in your head you're submerging back under the water, lungs screaming for air that won't come. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sammy doesn't say anything. He sits next to you on the bed as you cry, not touching you, not comforting you, waiting.

When you finally collect yourself enough to breathe without sobbing, you sit up. You see your shirt on the floor and pick it up, pulling it back on with trembling hands. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, leaving mascara streaks.

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. "Can you please drive me home?"

Sammy laughs, it’s loud and sharp and bitter. "You think I'm going to take you home now? After you embarrassed me like that?"

You twist around to look at him, anger sparking through the shame. "You're embarrassed?"

"You know what? You're right." Sammy's voice is cold now, cutting. "I’d be embarrassed wasting my time on a guy who won't give you the time of day— but I guess I have been wasting my time, huh? Steve Harrington is a complete douchebag who cheats on his girlfriend and has nothing else going for him. He's pathetic. And if you can't see that, then you're right there with him."

You stare at Sammy for a long moment, really seeing him for the first time. The bitterness twisting his features, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he's lashing out because his pride is hurt. Everything twisting ugly. 

"You don't know him," you say quietly, firmly. "And you don't know me."

You scoff in disbelief, pushing yourself off the bed and jerking his door open. But you stop in the doorway, turning back to look at him one more time.

"And you know what else?" Your voice is steady now, powered by anger. "You suck at kissing."

Not your best moment, but you're pissed off again, and it feels good to say. You slam the door shut behind you hard enough that it rattles in the frame.

When you get back to your dorm, you think you'll finally be able to relax, to collapse and process everything that just happened.

But Robin is there.

She's sitting at her desk, music playing from her radio—Madonna, you think. You’re unsure, it’s too loud for the small space. The window is open despite the cool spring air, letting in the sounds of campus at night and the smell of someone's cigarette smoke from outside.

Robin looks so normal. Acting like she hasn't ruined your life. Like she didn't tell Steve you don't have feelings for him, didn't sabotage any chance you had at happiness.

She should have never told you Steve wanted to sleep with you. Should have never mentioned that he begged for it. Then maybe you can erase any memory of when he looked at you like you were it for him. 

You should have never become her roommate in the first place, never let yourself get close enough to be destroyed like this.

You walk into the room, toeing off your shoes and lining them up by the door. You feel the overwhelmingness engulf you again—emotion rising like a tide, threatening to pull you under. Your head is pounding, temples throbbing with each beat of your heart.

You say politely, voice tight, "Can you turn the music down?"

Robin doesn't hear you. She's focused on whatever she's writing, head bent over her notebook, pencil scratching across paper.

You count to ten in your head, trying to maintain composure, then turn around to look at her. "Hey. Can you turn the music down?"

Robin still doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up. She's not listening, not being considerate, and something inside you snaps.

You storm over to the radio, pick it up. The plastic warm under your fingers, vibrating slightly with the bass. Before you can think about it, you walk to the open window and throw it out.

You watch it fall, tumbling through the air, before it crashes against the sidewalk below with a satisfying crunch of breaking plastic and shattering components.

"What the hell, dude?" Robin yells, jumping up from her chair. "What—"

You turn slowly from the window, gripping the sill so hard your knuckles go white. You lick your lips, steadying yourself. "I went to see Sammy tonight."

Robin's face softens immediately, anger draining away and replaced with something like concern. "Okay?"

You put your hand to your head, fingers pressing against your temple where the headache is worst. "I tried to make it work. I really tried." Your voice cracks. "And then I realized I was only doing it so maybe you would stop being mad at me. So we could forget about everything and go back to normal."

You drop your hand, looking at Robin directly now. "Then I thought... I don't care if you're mad at me anymore. Because I'm mad at you."

Robin looks at the ground, jaw working like she's trying to swallow something bitter.

Your face contorts with anger and hurt and months of swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "But I don't want to forget what happened. You and Steve fucking hurt me, Robin. And I hate that I still care about you despite everything." 

You look away from her, tears streaming down your face again, voice breaking completely. "I'm in love with him,” your voice shakes. You saying it out loud still didn’t feel real. “I love Steve, and I had to lie to him because of you."

You're crying harder now, face buried in your hands, and you've never felt more embarrassed—breaking down like this in front of Robin, exposing yourself completely.

And then you feel arms wrap around you.

Robin is crying too, holding you tight, and you're both sinking to the ground. She guides you down gently, and then you're sitting on the floor together, Robin's back against your bed, you tucked into her side. She's petting your hair the way she used to when you were sad about exams or life in general.

"It's okay," Robin whispers, voice thick with tears. "It's okay. I'm so sorry." She says your name like it hurts. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

She takes a shaky breath, still holding you. "You're right. I've been selfish. And fuck, I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to become like this."

You lean back to look at her, both of your faces wet with tears, lips quivering. Robin wipes her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak.

"You were also right about..." Robin's breath catches, shaky and uneven. "About me being scared." She looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "I told you Steve was the first person I came out to, yeah? And I've told a few others since then. And I know—" She taps her temple. "—in my head, I know I like girls. When I look at Nancy, I definitely know."

She pauses, gathering courage, and when she speaks again her voice is barely above a whisper. "But sometimes I look at Steve and I hate myself. Because I think, why can't things be easy? Why can't I just like him that way and have it all be simple?"

Robin's hands are shaking now, and she clasps them together to still them. "I don't think I've been able to look in the mirror and say it out loud to myself. That this is who I am." She laughs bitterly, tears still falling. "So I clutch onto any bit of what could make me normal. Because I don't want people to look at me and say 'oh, there's Robin Buckley the lesbian.' I just want to be Robin, you know? Just... me."

She looks at you now, really looks at you, eyes red and pleading. "And I know I take it too far. Like telling Steve you didn't feel the same way about him." Her voice breaks. "I should have never told him that. When part of me did know the truth."

Robin wipes her face with her sleeve. "I saw you two kiss. At the lake during the camping trip. I was coming to see if you two were ready to go… and yeah. Then I saw how you looked at each other afterward… but I never brought it up because I didn’t want it to be a big deal. And then I saw Sammy in the library… and I pushed for you to consider him because then maybe you’d forget about Steve." She closes her eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. "I knew. I knew exactly how you both felt, and I still—"

She puts a hand on her chest, over her heart. "I'm so sorry for what I said at dinner in Miami. For all of it." Her voice drops to barely audible. "I love you. You're my best friend, and friends don't treat each other like that. Ever."

You pull Robin in for another hug, and this time you're not sobbing. You're holding each other the way you used to. Before everything got complicated, before secrets and lies carved canyons between you.

"I love you too," you whisper into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo. "I missed you so much."

Robin holds you tighter, arms squeezing around your ribs. "I missed you too. So fucking much. I haven't been able to look at the housing form because it makes me feel sick."

You laugh. It’s wet and a little broken but genuine. "I tried to circle 'different roommate,' but it felt so wrong."

You sit there together as the room grows darker, the only light coming from Robin's desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls and the moon filtering through the open window, silver and cool. Outside, you can hear crickets starting their nightly chorus, someone's car door slamming, the distant thump of music from a party several blocks away.

Robin is the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. "I don't know what to do."

"About what?" you ask, pulling back slightly to look at her face.

"About it all." Robin admits, gesturing vaguely at the universe. "Steve and our whole thing." She puts her face in her hands and groans, the sound muffled. Then she flops backward dramatically onto the floor, arms spread wide like she's making a snow angel. "And Nancy. God, I really fucked things up."

She stares up at the ceiling, and you watch her throat work as she swallows. "Why is my life all… kaplooey." She grabs her thumb and makes a raspberry sound with her tongue, twisting her hand to demonstrate something being bent or broken. "All because I can't just say I like..." She pauses, gathering courage. "Boobies."

She laughs at herself, high and slightly hysterical, and you can't help but laugh too.

Robin shoots up suddenly, her limbs moving awkwardly like a newborn giraffe learning to walk. You watch as she scrambles to her closet, nearly tripping over her own feet.

There's rustling and curses muttered under her breath, the sound of plastic hangers clinking together like wind chimes. Suddenly clothes start flying behind her—left and right, an explosion of fabric. All her dresses and blouses, the ones she's worn to family dinners and church and formal events. The ones that made her look like the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect girl.

She even goes to her dresser, yanking open drawers with enough force that they nearly come completely out. She pulls out a bra and holds it up like evidence at a trial.

"I've always hated this bra!" she announces to the room, laughing chaotically. "It literally makes my boobs itch and feel weird."

After thirty minutes, there's a mountain of clothes on the floor. It’s pretty much Robin's entire closet reduced to a heap of fabric and false identities. She's breathing hard like she's been running a marathon, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion and exhilaration.

Then she scoops them up in her arms—as much as she can carry, which is most of it—and walks over to the still-open window. She tosses them out without hesitation.

You watch the clothes tumble through the air, catching moonlight, before landing in a pile on the grass below.

Robin looks almost pleased with herself, hands on her hips, when suddenly her eyes widen like she's remembered something crucial. She runs back to her closet and grabs an armful of high heels—the ones that pinch her toes, the ones she can barely walk in, the ones her mother bought her for special occasions.

She does the same thing, hurling them out the window one by one. They land with satisfying thuds.

When she's done, she stands at the window with her hands on her hips, grinning ear to ear, breathing hard and looking more alive than you've seen her in months.

"Hey," she says, turning to you with that wild grin still plastered across her face. "How about we go get our hair done tomorrow?"

.-.-.-.

You don't know why you agreed to this.

You're standing in the cramped entryway of Bellini's—the Italian restaurant in your college town, the one Sammy had brought you to a couple of times. 

It wouldn’t be so daunting, but you knew inside was Eddie, Robin and her parents and… Steve and his own parents. 

It's been two weeks since you and Robin made up, but that doesn't mean everything is fixed. It's still fragile, still distrust, like walking on ice that might crack at any moment. 

Robin hasn't been hanging out with Steve as much. She’s claimings it's because of end-of-semester stress, all the final papers and exams piling up. But really, you know it's to be mindful of you. To give you space from him. Or maybe Robin knows she needs distance from him too, needs to figure out who she is without Steve Harrington as her defining characteristic.

You've started hanging out with Eddie again. Smoking joints with him and Polly in the back of his van, Eddie's arm draped lazily over Polly's shoulders, her fingers playing with the rings on his hand. He never talks about Steve around you, except for that first time when he'd said, "Am I allowed to say I knew you two had been smooching all along?"

Polly had smacked him hard on the arm, leaving a red mark. "Edward!"

Later that night, when you'd climbed out of the van to head back to your dorm, Eddie had stopped you. He'd had remorse written all over his face, brows drawn together, mouth turned down.

"Hey, look, I feel awful, man." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "Steve told me you thought it was him and Polly in the next room. In Miami. And I really wasn't thinking about what it could've looked like." He'd spoken fast, words tumbling over each other. "Steve was nearly passed out drunk that first night on the beach, so everyone took him back to the hotel. But then he started begging—said he couldn't trust himself being in his room alone. We didn't know what that meant, so we left him with Jonathan. And then Polly and I started talking, and she didn't want to wake you up because you weren't feeling well, and she needed to shower..." Eddie had looked genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Hot Shot. I should've thought about how it would sound."

Maybe you were really high and feeling generous. Maybe you were tired of being angry all the time. But you'd forgiven him.

And maybe a little bit of that forgiveness was for Steve too.

There was one night though—about a week ago—when Robin was getting ready for bed and someone knocked on your door to say she had a call. She’d come back to the dorm already tired and stressed, grabbed her shoes. 

"Steve passed out at Murphy's," she'd said quietly, not meeting your eyes. "Have to go help get him home."

You'd almost offered to go with her. Almost. But you were afraid of what you'd feel if you saw him, afraid you'd break whatever fragile progress you'd made in trying to move on.

And you were correct to assume you would feel... sick is the easiest way to put it.

When you open the restaurant doors and walk to the table where everyone is gathered, Steve is the first pair of eyes you catch. You realize you haven't seen him in weeks. All that distance you'd put between you hasn't helped at all. None of it, because seeing him now makes you miss him more, not less.

It's reconfirmed by the way your heart swells painfully in your chest, beating too fast, reminding you that you still feel it. Love. A love he has no idea you carry, that you told him doesn't exist.

Robin had invited you a few days ago. Pike was having a family weekend event, and it had turned into Robin's parents coming to visit, which somehow evolved into a planned dinner. Robin had asked if you'd come because her parents specifically requested it, but she'd understood if you couldn't.

"Now or never, I guess," you'd said with a shrug, not looking up from the book you were reading on your bed.

And now you regret it. You thought you could be strong. Thought seeing him would feel like closure, like proof you were moving on.

You were wrong.

There isn't any closure yet between you two. Mostly because of you, because you're still hurt by what he said, but also because you know you hurt him too. Lied to him in the worst possible way.

His hair has grown out again. It’s longer at the nape of his neck, pushed back and fully chestnut. If it weren't for the dark circles under his eyes, he'd look completely fine and normal. He's wearing a navy polo tucked into Levi's, hands folded in his lap, sitting next to Robin.

On his other side is his mom, and next to her is clearly his father. You'd only heard Mr. Harrington's voice on the phone that one time, but seeing him now, you realize the Harrington genes are strong in Steve. Besides the graying hair on Mr. Harrington's temples, they have almost exactly the same features—the same jawline, the same straight nose, the same way of holding themselves with careful control.

His mom is on the plumper side with a kind face that's beyond beautiful. You can see where Steve gets his hazel eyes—the same mixture of green and gold and brown that shifts in different light.

"Sorry I'm so late," you say breathlessly, clutching your purse. "Lost track of time."

It's not entirely a lie. You had been in the parking lot for thirty minutes, sitting in your car trying to convince yourself to go inside even though you'd arrived early.

Robin's mom stands up immediately and engulfs you in a hug. She smells like floral perfume and hairspray, and her embrace is warm and maternal in a way that makes your throat tight.

"It's okay! I'm so glad you could make it. It’s so good to see you." She pulls back but keeps her hands on your shoulders, smiling warmly. Then she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "We haven't even ordered yet. They're kind of slow here."

And of course, the only open seat is directly across from Steve. Robin shoots you an apologetic look. Her eyes wide, mouth twisted in a grimace that says I'm sorry, I didn't think about the seating arrangement.

You force yourself to look at Steve fully. He's already looking at you, and when your eyes meet, something passes between you. It’s recognition, longing, hurt, love, all of it compressed into a single moment. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, and you can see his hand twitch on the table like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

Your heart clenches so hard it physically hurts.

You sit down, and immediately Steve's mom leans across the table, saying your name with warmth and familiarity. "Right? I'm remembering correctly?"

"Oh, yes." You stand awkwardly, half-bent over the table, and shake her hand. It's soft with perfectly manicured nails painted a subtle pink. You shake it firmly but carefully. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Harrington."

You glance at Steve, and he's staring at the table like watching this exchange physically pains him. But then his eyes go wide when you turn to his father, plastering on your most polite smile.

Mr. Harrington holds out his hand with a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, only nodding in greeting. His handshake is brief and perfunctory.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrington," you say, and then because you can't help yourself, you add, "Steve talks about you a lot."

Mr. Harrington's smile shifts slightly. It becomes more arrogant, more satisfied. It looks exactly like the upturned lips on Steve that you fell in love with, except colder, more calculated. "All good things, I hope?" He glances at his son, who quickly averts his eyes elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the breadsticks.

You hum, pretending to think about it, smile playing at your lips. "Still up for interpretation."

You think maybe he'll get upset at that, maybe call you rude or disrespectful. But he blinks at you, surprised, and then cracks a smile that actually looks genuine—amused, even. 

Steve's mom chuckles, her laugh bright and musical. "We've heard a lot about you from Steve," she says, eyes twinkling. "He said you're funny." She gives you a dazzling straight-toothed smile that lights up her whole face. "You're so pretty." 

She says it like she's cooing at a baby or a puppy, and you feel your cheeks flush hot.

Your brain supplies unhelpfully that his parents only know you as Steve's friend. If you're even that anymore—you're not sure what you are to each other now. But there's a moment where you pretend this is meeting his parents for the first time as his girlfriend, and you could walk away happy that you left a good impression.

You look up to catch Steve's eyes softening as he looks at you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he's pretending too.

But then Robin's mother speaks, sighing heavily. "I still don't know why you decided to do that to your hair."

She's speaking to Robin, and there's clear disapproval in her tone.

For as long as you've known Robin, she's had long chestnut hair. Always silky smooth, brushed until it shone, falling past her shoulders in perfect waves. Always with neat makeup carefully applied—eyeliner precise, lipstick never smudged. Perfectly manicured nails. Everything about her appearance carefully controlled and maintained.

But when you went to the hair salon last week—after the great closet purge—Robin had told the stylist to cut it off. All of it. Her hair now sits above her shoulders in a choppy, almost boyish cut that somehow makes her look more herself than she ever has.

Her eyeliner is smudged purposefully under her eyes now, giving her an edgy look. Her fingers are painted different colors on each nail, already chipped from a week of wear. And after feeling guilty about throwing her clothes out the window—both of you bringing everything back up to pack away for donations instead—she'd gone shopping for a whole new wardrobe.

She's wearing a striped green sweater tucked into her jeans tonight. But it's not the clothes that are different. It's like she cut off the strings of whatever puppeteer was controlling her. She slouches now, lets her limbs drape over furniture not in the careful, practiced way she used to, but naturally, comfortably. She's not pretending anymore.

She's finally relaxed. Finally herself.

Robin looks nervous at her mother's comment, but she still rolls her eyes. "Mom—"

"I like it," Steve offers quietly.

Mrs. Buckley waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, Steve, you're always such a sweetheart. But you don't have to like it because you're her boyfriend."

"I'm not."

Everyone's heads snap toward Steve. Eyebrows furrow. Even your eyes go wide, and you can feel your face betray you—hopeful, desperately hopeful that this means what you think it means. You look at Robin, wondering if they finally ended their fake relationship.

Steve clears his throat, seeming to realize how that sounded. He straightens in his chair. "I meant that I'm not saying that because I'm her boyfriend." He reaches over and squeezes Robin's hand on the table, the gesture practiced and familiar. "I like it because it's her."

Robin and Steve share a look, something passing between them that speaks of years of friendship, of secrets shared, of unconditional support. Robin smiles at him, and it's genuine and grateful.

Both of their mothers look at each other with matching expressions—bottom lips puckered, hands coming up to rest over their hearts in some universal salute of mothers who think they're witnessing true love. Their fathers maintain neutral, stony faces, both distantly clinking their whiskey glasses together in masculine solidarity.

You know you're looking at them with a mixture of sadness and fondness, unable to hide it from your face. They're so good at this—at playing the perfect couple, at making everyone believe it's real.

Eddie, who is normally loud and constantly talking, squeezes your hand under the table. His palm is rough from guitar strings and calluses, familiar and grounding. You look up at him and see his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed.

You want to laugh. He's mentioned before that parents make him nervous, that authority figures in general stress him out. No wonder he's been silent this entire time, he’s high off his ass from weed and anxiety.

Finally, the food arrives—steaming plates of pasta and chicken parmesan and breadsticks that smell like garlic and butter. The waiter sets everything down with practiced efficiency.

It's mostly the adults talking after that. Mr. Harrington discussing work, Mrs. Buckley sharing updates about people from Hawkins you don't know. Eddie hums beside you, a tuneless sound that you recognize as his anxious tic. Robin eats her food in a hurry like it might disappear if she doesn't consume it fast enough.

You catch Steve slipping his hand under the table, probably settling it on Robin's restless leg. You know she's bouncing her knee because occasionally the table shakes slightly when her knee comes up too high, jostling the water glasses.

Steve is picking at his food, barely eating. You try your best not to watch him, but you fail repeatedly. And he's doing the same thing, both of you stealing glances, eyes meeting briefly before darting back to your plates.

Robin's dad speaks, breaking the cycle. "Steve, Robin tells me you passed your College of Education entrance exam."

You can't stop the words before they burst out. "Wait, really?" You're smiling, genuine and wide and pleased for him.

Steve looks at you, and his cheeks dust pink. He's smiling too, eyes twinkling in a way you haven't seen in weeks. He nods, ducking his head slightly. "Uh, yeah." It comes out shy, and he glances back at Robin's dad. "I'll be officially majoring in kinesiology with education studies."

You notice Mr. Harrington taking another long drink of his whiskey, jaw tight.

But Mrs. Harrington beams, her whole face lighting up with maternal pride. "We're so proud of him." She leans over and smacks a big kiss on Steve's cheek, leaving a lipstick mark.

Steve laughs awkwardly, squirming away. "Ma," he complains, but there's a huge smile on his face. He takes his napkin and wipes the lipstick off his cheek, but his eyes catch yours again across the table.

You share another smile, and it feels like something precious and fragile, a moment of connection in the midst of all this pretending.

Mr. Harrington grumbles into his glass, "Well, Harold, I guess you'll need to start supporting those bills on giving teachers higher pay."

It's meant to be a joke, but the tone is bitter, cutting. The table becomes tense, conversation dying mid-word.

"Daniel," Mrs. Harrington warns, voice sharp. "Stop it."

Steve looks deflated, shoulders slouching inward, jaw ticking with tension. All the joy from a moment ago drains from his face.

Mr. Buckley chuckles, oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I guess I can catch up with the times—women making more money than their husbands and all that." He points his fork at Mr. Harrington. "But don't go telling the men at the club I've gone soft and switched over to the Democrats."

They laugh loudly, too loud, the sound forced and uncomfortable.

Robin, Steve, you, and Eddie all cringe simultaneously, sharing a look of mutual mortification.

Eddie speaks up, and Steve already looks like he's regretting every decision that led to this moment. "You know," Eddie says, eyes glassy and red, words coming out slower than usual, "teachers are like... the foundation of society, man. They're like..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "They're like the roots of a tree. And we're all the branches. Or maybe they're the branches and we're the leaves? I forget how trees work." He takes a bite of his pasta. "But they're important. Very important. Essential, even."

There's a moment of silence.

"Thank you, Eddie," Steve says flatly, rubbing his face with both hands.

The waiter comes by with a water pitcher, moving around the table to fill glasses. Mrs. Buckley clears her throat. "So, have you two discussed the timeline of when you're going to propose? Since Robin is considering law school?"

"Uh..." Robin and Steve say in unison.

"Are you thinking about eventually moving back to Hawkins?" Mrs. Buckley continues, not noticing their discomfort.

"Yes," Steve says surely, at the exact same moment Robin says, "No."

They look at each other, and the tension ratchets up another notch.

"We're still talking things through," Steve says slowly, carefully, like he's defusing a bomb.

Robin looks at her plate, sliding her fork through the remnants of spaghetti sauce, creating patterns in the red.

Mr. Harrington blows air through his nose in obvious disapproval. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, nodding at the waiter after his glass is filled. "This is why I told you decisions like that needed to be discussed thoroughly before making them." His voice is hard, disappointed. "It'd be different if you'd just met the girl. But you two have been together for years and have always planned on getting married. Is this really the first time you're talking about it?"

You make awkward eye contact with the waiter, who looks like he wishes he could disappear. You mouth sorry at him.

Eddie takes a huge bite of his food and announces to himself, but loudly enough that everyone hears. "I never thought I'd like zucchini."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow! Hot Shot," he whines, rubbing his side.

Everyone ignores it. Mrs. Buckley speaks, her voice soothing and placating. "Oh, they're still young, Danny. They'll figure it out. Harold and I didn't have it all planned out when we got married either." She smiles at Robin and Steve. "Besides, Robin loves Steve and knows that at the end of the day, he'll know what's best for them."

Suddenly, Eddie, still parading his fork with a piece of zucchini speared on it, accidentally knocks into the waiter's hand as he's filling Eddie's glass. The glass tips, falls, hits your glass, and water pours all over your lap.

You make an "oomph" sound as cold water soaks through your jeans, but you can't concentrate on the discomfort because you see Steve immediately scoot his chair back, eyes full of concern like you've been seriously hurt and he's about to climb over the table to get to you.

"You okay?" he asks, voice urgent.

You look at him, and the concern on his face makes your chest tight. Then you glance at Robin, who looks defeated and guilty, staring at her plate like she wishes she could disappear into it. Then you see the adults all looking at you, and the waiter is next to you apologizing profusely, his face red with embarrassment as he rushes off to get napkins.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You manage a smile, trying to be reassuring. "It's water."

He doesn't move at first, still half-standing, scanning you like he's checking for injuries. Only when you nod again does he sit back down, but his hands remain on the edge of the table, ready to jump up again if needed.

You and Steve can't stop looking at each other now. Your eyes feel like they're about to burn with tears, from embarrassment, from longing for the boy across from you who you can't have, from the sheer weight of everything unsaid between you.

You sniffle, thanking the waiter when he returns with a stack of napkins, dabbing at your lap even though it's mostly futile. Your face is heated with embarrassment and something deeper.

You notice Robin looking between the two of you, her jaw twitching like she's grinding her teeth. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they're glassy and serious. Determined.

She says in a hushed whisper, but loud enough that you can hear across the table: "Now or never."

"What, dear?" Mrs. Buckley asks, leaning toward her daughter.

You look at Robin, searching her face, trying to understand what she means. Tilting your head, Robin catches your eyes and holds them. You can see it there—resolution, fear, courage, love. She's telling you without words that she's about to do something big, something that can't be taken back.

And somehow, through that look, she's also telling you that it's going to be okay.

"Mom," Robin says, turning to face her parents. "Steve and I are not like you and Dad."

Mrs. Buckley laughs lightly. "Yes, I know you two are more modern and—"

"No." Robin cuts her off, voice firm. "I love Steve differently than you two love each other."

Steve's eyes go wide, lips parting. "Robin," he whispers, voice tight with warning or fear or both.

Robin looks at him, and tears are already forming in her eyes. But she smiles. It’s soft and grateful and apologetic all at once. She squeezes his hand on the table, turning it over so their fingers can intertwine properly.

"Steve was the best boyfriend a girl could ask for," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "He did everything I asked him to. Even when it cost him everything." Her eyes glance at you, holding your gaze for a moment before returning to Steve.

Steve turns to look at you too, something desperate and hopeful in his expression, before looking back at Robin.

"Was?" Mrs. Harrington asks, confusion clear in her voice. "Did you two break up?"

Robin sighs, and you can see her leg bouncing frantically under the table. She bites her bottom lip, takes a breath, and then says the words that change everything:

"We were never together."

"What?" You're not sure which adult asks—maybe all of them in unison, a chorus of shock.

Eddie leans over to you, whispering, "Is she really...?"

Your eyes cut to him sharply, silencing him immediately. He looks completely sober now, his usual grin gone, focused entirely on Robin.

Robin turns to her parents, and there's a sad but determined expression on her face. "Mom, Dad, I don't love Steve the way you two love each other."

"You said that already, dear," her mom says, voice tight with confusion and growing concern.

Robin tilts her head back, looking up at the ceiling like she's asking for divine intervention. Then she looks back at her parents, and you can see her searching their faces—hopeful, terrified, needing that approval, needing them to understand that she's still their daughter, still the same Robin they've always loved.

"Mom," Robin's voice cracks slightly, "I will never love Steve the way you love Dad. I will never..." She takes another breath, and you can see her hands shaking where they're clasped with Steve's. "I will never love a boy like that."

Robin is crying now, tears streaming down her face, sniffling. But she's also smiling. It’s small and fragile but real.

Her parents furrow their brows, confused. Then slowly, you watch understanding dawn on their faces. The creases in their foreheads smooth out, eyes widening with realization.

"Oh," is all Mrs. Buckley says. Just "oh," but the word carries the weight of revelation.

Mr. Harrington speaks, and his voice is sharp, cutting. "Are you saying my son has been your..." He can't even finish the sentence, disgust coloring his features. "What? Are you going to tell me he doesn't like girls either?" His eyes cut to Eddie accusingly. "Are you his boyfriend?"

Eddie chokes on nothing, nearly knocking over another glass. "No, sir! No! Absolutely not! Not that he isn’t my type—" He catches himself. “I meant that as—”

“Eddie, shut up.” Steve cuts in, running his hands down his face. 

“Yep.” Eddie agrees, shoving a mouthful of zucchini, chewing, with wide deer caught in headlight eyes. 

Mrs. Harrington isn't looking at Robin anymore. She's looking at Steve, who's staring at the table with his shoulders caved in, hunched over like he's trying to make himself smaller. She can see him rubbing his knees nervously under the table.

His eyes dart to yours across the table, and his expression softens when he sees you looking back. There's something there—apology, hope, love, all of it written plainly across his face for anyone to see.

Mrs. Harrington watches this exchange, and her face transforms. The confusion melts away, replaced by understanding and something that looks like sympathy. She smiles gently, reaching over to squeeze her son's shoulder.

Then she turns to her husband, voice calm and measured. "Daniel, I think you should pay the bill. And I think we all need to go back to the hotel and have a conversation. A real one."

Mr. Harrington looks more appalled at the idea of having to pay the bill than he did at the revelation that his son has been lying to him for over a year. He sputters, "Now? We haven't even had dessert—"

"Now, Daniel," Mrs. Harrington says, and there's steel in her voice that brooks no argument.

Mr. Harrington signals for the check with a tight expression, pulling out his wallet with sharp, angry movements.

Everyone leaves quickly, practically fleeing the restaurant while Mr. Harrington handles the bill. Eddie looks genuinely sad about abandoning his half-finished plate of pasta, reaching for it one last time before you grab his arm and pull him away.

Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, smelling like car exhaust and the Italian restaurant's kitchen vents pumping out garlic and tomato sauce. The parking lot is lit by yellow streetlamps that cast everything in a sickly glow.

Robin comes up to you and Eddie, and she looks completely frazzled. Her eyes wide, breathing fast, one hand clutching at her chest like she's checking to make sure her heart is still beating.

"Did I—did I do that?" She's looking between you and Eddie like she needs confirmation that what just happened was real. "Holy shit. I think I did that. I think I just came out to my parents at an Italian restaurant." She laughs, high and slightly hysterical. "In front of Steve's parents. And you guys. Oh god."

"I was honored to witness it," Eddie says solemnly, putting a hand over his heart.

You smile at Robin, chuckling softly at her spiral, then pull her into a tight hug. You never knew you liked hugs until you met Robin. It was a good discovery, finding out that physical affection didn't have to be uncomfortable or performative, that it could be warm and grounding and exactly what you needed without having to ask for it.

Your body feels warm and relaxed as you tighten your grip, holding her up while she processes what she's done, what can't be undone.

Eddie must feel left out because suddenly he's crushing you both with his arms, trying to pick you both up off the ground. You and Robin squeal in unison, half-laughing, half-protesting.

"Group hug!" Eddie announces, lifting you both an inch off the pavement before setting you back down.

"Eddie!" Robin shrieks. "You're going to break us!"

You're all laughing—breathless and giddy and riding the adrenaline of what just happened—when you see past Robin's shoulder to where Steve is standing with his mom.

They're by her car—a champagne-colored Cadillac that looks expensive and well-maintained. Steve opens the passenger door for her, but she's not getting in yet. She's looking at Steve with such gentleness it makes your chest ache. Her hand comes up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and you can see her saying something. Then her hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing.

Steve is nodding, listening intently. His shoulders are still hunched, defensive, but his face is open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.

He hasn't caught you watching yet, and you don't try to hide the fondness in your eyes. Don't try to school your expression into something neutral and safe.

Robin catches on to where you're looking. She follows your gaze and sees Steve with his mother, and she smiles, small and knowing. She shrugs, leaning into you conspiratorially. "You know, I think our relationship is kind of kaput now." She tries for lightness, joking. "He's fresh on the market."

You look at Robin, but you don't laugh. Can't find it in yourself to match her tone. You pinch your lips together, look down at the pavement where oil stains create rainbow patterns, and shake your head.

"Robin!" Steve's voice carries across the parking lot, breaking the moment.

Robin looks at you with that knowing expression again—the one that says she sees right through you, knows exactly what you're feeling even when you won't say it out loud.

"Go," you tell her, forcing your voice to sound normal. "I'll take Eddie home. I'll wait up for you, okay?"

Robin still doesn't look happy. That guilt-ridden expression is back on her face—the one that says something that was meant to be simple and easy turned everything sideways, turned it into chaos and hurt and complications none of you were prepared for.

But she nods anyway, then jogs over to Steve.

You watch as Steve gives you and Eddie distance, respecting the fresh wounds that are still raw and bleeding in all your lives. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he looks at you one more time, just a glance, brief but loaded with meaning, before wrapping his arm around Robin's shoulder and walking her to his car.

She leans her head against him, and they look like what everyone always thought they were. They are two people who love each other completely, who understand each other in ways no one else can.

The fact that it's not romantic doesn't make it any less real.

In the car, Eddie immediately reaches for the radio dial, turning it until he finds a station playing metal. The guitar riffs fill the small space, too loud, but you don't ask him to turn it down. He sits there pretending to play an air guitar, strumming along. 

You can't help but think about what just happened. Does it change anything for you? Does it change things for Steve? Robin and Steve are broken up—except they were never really together. So what does that mean?

Your mind spins in circles, chasing thoughts that lead nowhere.

You chew on your bottom lip, worrying the skin until it stings.

"Sooo," Eddie drawls out, turning down the music slightly. "That was pretty intense back there." He pauses, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I'm not sure." And it's the honest-to-god truth. Your thoughts are too jumbled, too complicated to articulate. "What about you?"

Eddie shrugs, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. "Finally," is all he says.

You nod, understanding what he means. 

Finally. Though, you’re not entirely sure how it ties into the future. 

A beat goes by in comfortable silence, just the music and the sound of your tires on asphalt.

"Have you forgiven him yet?" Eddie asks suddenly, voice careful. "I'd understand if not. Was wondering with all your staring tonight."

"I was not staring," you say defensively, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You were absolutely staring."

"Was not."

"Hot Shot.”

You huff, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I've forgiven him."

And that really is the truth. You think to yourself… is there such a thing as loving someone but not forgiving them? Can those two things exist simultaneously, or does one cancel out the other?

When you pull up outside the Pike house, Eddie gets out but then immediately turns around, motioning for you to roll down the window. You do, cranking the handle, and Eddie bends down, arms crossed on the window frame, smiling cheekily at you.

"What?" you ask, already exasperated.

He hangs his arms inside the car, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "What'd I tell you, Hot Shot?"

"Tell me what?"

"That you had Harrington all twisted up inside." He taps his forehead with one finger, grinning. Then he leans his cheek on his hand, sighing wistfully like a lovesick teenager. "I saw it coming from a mile away. Both of you. Just didn't think you'd fall this soon."

Your face burns hot, and you look away, trying not to smile. "Shut up."

"What did it for you, Hot Shot? What made you fall?" Eddie's eyes are twinkling with mischief. "Was it the glasses? I told him to be careful with those. Chicks can't resist a guy in glasses."

"Eddie, please go. Now. Before I drive over your foot." You're trying not to laugh, fighting to keep your expression stern.

"Or was it the hair? The tragic backstory? His encyclopedic knowledge of star facts courtesy of Dustin Henderson? He told me about your little date, by the way," Eddie starts laughing as you begin winding the lever to roll the window back up. He steps back just in time, head thrown back with laughter that echoes across the parking lot.

You flip him off before driving away, but you're smiling despite yourself.

And you think… maybe it was the glasses. Or maybe it was everything. 

Maybe it was just him. 

Steve Harrington, in all his complicated, messy, beautiful totality.

.-.-.-.

It's ten p.m. when Robin storms through the dorm room.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just rushes to her closet and pulls out her duffel bag. She starts shoving clothes inside with no apparent organization, just grabbing things and cramming them in. She's frantic, moving back and forth across the room, stopping randomly like she's forgotten what she was doing, then snapping back to attention and continuing her packing.

"Robin?" You sit up in bed, book falling closed in your lap. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Robin keeps shoving clothes in the bag. After a few minutes, it's like she's heard you. She perks her head up, face flushed, eyes wild and bright. "I'm going to Boston. To win back Nancy."

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. "What? What are you talking about?"

Robin runs her fingers through her short hair and starts pacing back and forth as she talks. The words come out rapid-fire, barely pausing for breath.

"Steve is driving me to Boston right now—well, not right now, he's waiting in his car downstairs—so I can go see Nancy. I never even got to tell her I love her, you know? I was such a mess back in Miami," She's gesturing wildly with her hands. "And tonight I told my parents about her. Everything. Including how much I love her. And they want to meet her. They asked when they could meet her."

"Wait." You hold up a hand, trying to slow her down. "So the conversation with your parents went okay?"

Robin stops pacing abruptly, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She smiles—soft and disbelieving, like she still can't quite process it. "Yeah. It went... really well. Like, too good to be true well." She laughs, the sound slightly manic. "They were mad at first, but only because I lied to them about Steve all this time. But then they said..." Her voice breaks slightly. "They said nothing is different. I'm still their daughter and they love me."

She swipes at her eyes, and you realize she's crying. They’re happy tears mixed with overwhelmed tears, all of it spilling over at once.

"My dad said he'll be okay. That he'll be there to support me and will deal with whatever the public says." Robin laughs again, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "And during all of this, all I could think about was running to call Nancy. But then I remembered—wait, Nancy broke up with me, you dingus." She smacks herself lightly on the forehead. "So I'm going to her instead. I'm going to show up and tell her I love her and that I want to be with her for real. No more hiding."

She zips up the duffel bag with a decisive motion. "I'm not sure when I'll be back. Maybe Monday morning if things go well. Or maybe never if they go really badly and I die of embarrassment."

"Robin, wait." You stop her, catching her arm as she reaches for the door. You smile at her. It’s genuine and warm and so proud you could burst. "I’m happy for you."

Robin stops, hand on the doorknob. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then turns to look at you. "You should come, you know."

The invitation hangs in the air between you.

You would say yes. You really would. Part of you wants nothing more than to pile into Steve's car and road trip to Boston, to be there when Robin tells Nancy she loves her, to witness what comes next.

But a larger part of you doesn’t want to. You can’t stomach facing Steve in the confined space of a car for hours, to sit in that tension with nothing left to say except what happens now? Where do we go from here? How do we move forward?

You shake your head, and for the first time in weeks, you don't lie. Don't make up an excuse about homework or projects or needing to study. You say simply, honestly, "I'm not ready."

Robin nods, understanding flooding her features. She doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. She walks over and kisses you on the cheek. It’s soft and quick and full of affection—then grabs her bag and heads for the door.

"Wish me luck," she says one more time.

"You don't need it," you tell her. "But good luck anyway."

And then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You walk to the window and look down at the parking lot. You can see Steve's BMW, the engine running, exhaust visible in the cool night air. Robin appears a moment later, tossing her bag in the backseat and climbing in the passenger side.

Steve looks up at your window, and even from this distance, you can feel his gaze. You step back into the shadows before he can see you watching.

The car pulls away, taillights disappearing into the night, carrying Robin toward her future and Steve toward... what? You don't know. Can't know until you're ready to find out.

.-.-.-.

News of Steve and Robin's breakup spreads like wildfire across campus.

It starts Monday morning. The whispers in the dining hall over scrambled eggs and burnt toast, hushed conversations in the library stacks, pointed looks and not-so-subtle stares whenever you're with Robin. Walking to class together, you can feel eyes on you both, hear the buzz of speculation following in your wake like a swarm of insects.

When you're in the dining hall, conversations pause as you pass tables. In the library, people crane their necks to get a better look at Robin, like she's suddenly become a celebrity or a curiosity. Even in your own dorm, girls stop by on flimsy pretenses—borrowing a pen, asking about summer plans— but really just trying to get a glimpse of Robin post-breakup, searching for signs of devastation.

Robin tells you that Steve didn't explain much to his fraternity brothers. Apparently, they all sat around the common room one night, and Steve had simply said, "Robin and I aren't dating anymore."

All the Pike brothers asked if he was okay, concern written across their faces because Steve and Robin had been together forever. 

And Steve had shrugged, said, "Never better."

His brothers took that as his asshole frat boy answer—that finally he wasn't tied down anymore, that he could do whatever and whoever he wanted now that he was single. You can imagine them clapping him on the back, making jokes about all the girls who'd been waiting for their chance, planning to take him out to celebrate his newfound freedom.

But you know what he really meant by those words.

Because yes, he can do whatever and whoever he wants now. But more importantly, he's free. Liberated from chains that had been binding him for over a year. It's like Robin and Steve had been handcuffed together this whole time, unable to find the key to unlock themselves. Maybe they never wanted to find it, never thought they could, never believed freedom was actually possible.

Until it was.

Most people are relatively normal about the breakup. There are the usual rumors circulating through Greek life. The whispers that Robin finally had enough of Steve's cheating, that she caught him with someone else, that the relationship had been dead for months. That he had enough of her not putting out. You hear fragments of these stories in bathroom stalls, in line at the dining hall, passed between sorority girls like currency.

When you see Sammy in Art History he gives you a soured look. His jaw is tight, eyes cold, and he deliberately chooses to avoid you at all costs. He probably thinks the breakup is your fault, that you're the reason Steve's relationship imploded.

Maybe, in a way, it is.

And that's something you struggle with. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, a constant weight you can't shake. Did you ruin Robin's life by falling for Steve? Did your feelings set all of this in motion?

Robin must sense it because one day while you're both studying in your dorm—you at your desk, her sprawled on her bed with a textbook—she randomly says, "You know I came out to my family because I was really ready, right? It had nothing to do with anyone else. Not you, not Steve, not Nancy. Just me."

You look up at her, startled by the unprompted statement. But there's a small smile on your lips, and you nod in acknowledgment. "I know."

"Do you?" Robin asks, sitting up slightly to look at you properly. "Because sometimes I see you looking guilty, and I need you to know that this—" she gestures around the room, at herself, at everything that's changed "—this is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You nod again, throat tight. "I know."

After a week of Robin and Steve being officially single, the vultures start circling.

Girls approach Robin everywhere— in the library, out on the quad, sometimes even in class. They always start the same way, with false concern and sweet smiles.

"Hi, Robin. How are you holding up?"

And then, inevitably: "So, I was wondering if it would be okay if I made a pass at Steve?"

The first few times, Robin just scoffs, collects her things, and leaves without dignifying the question with a response.

But now she has a new favorite tactic.

Like now, in the library. Amanda—the same girl who'd flirted with Steve at that party in the fall, who'd touched his chest and batted her eyelashes—is standing at the edge of your study table. She's smiling sweetly at Robin, completely ignoring your existence.

"Hey, I wanted to ask if you didn't care if I reached out to Steve—"

Robin's face immediately scrunches up, features contorting like she's in physical pain. She covers her face with her hands and starts shaking her head, fake sobs croaking out of her mouth. Her shoulders shake convincingly.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek hard to fight back your laugh, forcing your eyes elsewhere to maintain the illusion.

"It's still all so new," Robin chokes out, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't talk about this yet."

Amanda's eyes go wide, guilt flooding her features. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Robin. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have asked. If you need anything, I'm here for you, okay?"

Before she leaves, she glances at you. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, jaw ticking with what might be suspicion or jealousy or both. Then she hurries away, probably feeling terrible about herself.

Robin watches through her fingers until Amanda is completely out of sight. Then she drops her hands and laughs, eyes flicking to you.

But you only manage a half-hearted smile that doesn't reach your eyes, the humor not quite landing.

Robin's face falters immediately. "You okay?"

You furrow your brows, breaking from your thoughts. "Yeah. I know he's probably happy to have all this shameless attention now. I'm sure he's been having fun these past couple weeks." You brush it off, returning your gaze to your textbook even though the words blur together.

Robin sighs heavily. "Hot Shot, you know he isn't."

And you know Robin well enough now to recognize that wasn't a question. It was a statement. She's telling you something—something you already know deep down but are pretending not to know.

You're pretending Steve doesn't want to see you, doesn't want to talk to you. Pretending he doesn't love you.

When really, he's waiting.

The Saturday before finals, the fraternities come together to host one last end-of-semester bonfire at the dive spot.

Robin eventually convinces you to go, promising it'll be just the two of you and you can leave anytime you want. You don't hesitate to say yes. You need a break from studying, from the walls of your dorm room closing in, from the constant tension of avoiding Steve on campus.

So once Robin gets off the phone with Nancy—her girlfriend again, officially and happier than ever. 

The bonfire is already raging when you arrive, flames reaching ten feet high and casting dancing shadows across the cliff face. The air smells like burning wood and spilled beer and the lake water below, that particular scent of algae and fish and summer approaching. Music blares from someone's boom box—Journey or REO Speedwagon, something with a big chorus that people are singing along to badly.

You can hear the roar of conversation, the crack and pop of the fire consuming wood, glass bottles clinking together, someone's laughter cutting sharp and bright through the general noise. There must be fifty people here at least, maybe more, spreading out across the clearing and down toward the water's edge.

The last time you were here, everything changed. Nancy had kissed Robin. You saw Steve in a new light under the stars. You'd felt something shift that night, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet, and you hadn't even realized it was the beginning of everything.

Once Robin gets her drink, some mixture of vodka and fruit punch that looks radioactive, and you get your water since you're driving, you both start dancing.

It's free and uninhibited, jumping around to the music without caring how you look. Robin throws her head back laughing, short hair flying, and grabs your hands to spin you around. You're both breathless and grinning, moving without thought, without the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on you.

For the first time in a while, it feels like it used to. And you realize it's because there are no secrets anymore. No manipulation, no hidden agendas. Just you and Robin, best friends again.

The other night, you'd admitted to Robin that you miss Steve. You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them. Robin had climbed into bed next to you without a word, let you lay your head on her shoulder, and hadn't tried to pry or push you into being ready to see him.

She'd just held you while you cried.

You know you'll see Steve eventually tonight. You didn't expect it to happen so soon.

He spots you first, like he's been searching for you in the crowd. You feel his gaze before you see him, that prickle of awareness that makes you turn your head.

For the first time since their breakup, Robin doesn't leave to go hug him. He doesn't come over to kiss her cheek or wrap an arm around her shoulders. They only give each other a small wave of acknowledgment, friendly but distant, establishing new boundaries.

But then his eyes flick to you.

The firelight catches his jaw, illuminating the sharp line of it, the way his throat works when he swallows. He's wearing a backwards brown baseball cap, an old Hawkins High one you've seen before, and a plain white t-shirt that fits him perfectly, jeans that hang low on his hips. He looks so handsome it makes your chest ache. It’s that same feeling you get when you see something beautiful you can't have.

Your heart thrums in your chest, beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. You know by the look on his face, eyes soft and yearning and full of everything he's not saying, that he's thinking the same thing about you.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, and looks at the ground. Then he turns and walks over to where Eddie is standing.

You and Robin watch as Steve points his thumb behind him toward the parking area. Eddie, who's standing a few feet away from Polly, who's talking animatedly to a tall dark-haired boy, immediately searches the crowd until he finds you and Robin. He looks back at Steve and gives him a small nod, squeezing Steve's shoulder in comfort.

Steve turns around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, ducking his head, and starts walking toward the parking lot.

He's leaving.

You watch him go, taking a deep breath, your stomach twisting painfully. He's leaving because you're here, because being in the same space as you is too hard when you're not ready to talk to him yet.

Robin looks between you and Steve's retreating figure, chewing on her bottom lip. Without a word, she laces her fingers through yours and starts dragging you across the dirt.

"Robin, what are you—"

But she's not listening. She pulls you past the fire, and you feel the overwhelming sweltering heat hit you like a physical wall, making sweat immediately prick your forehead. Robin has long strides, moving so fast her short bob sways with each quick step. You have no time to ask what she's doing because she's already caught up to Steve, reaching out to grab his wrist.

He turns around, startled, and you catch the way his eyes are red-rimmed. Has he been crying?

His pink lips part in shock. "What—"

Robin brings both of you over to an area that's darker, away from the main crowd but not completely private. There are still people around—couples making out against trees, groups passing joints, someone throwing up behind a bush—but it's quieter here, more removed from the chaos.

She lets go of both your wrists, stepping back to look at you both with her arms crossed.

Then she looks at Steve and says firmly, "Ask her to dance, Harrington."

She turns to you. "And you're going to say yes."

You and Steve look at each other, then back at Robin. She crosses her arms, widens her eyes, and motions impatiently for you to get on with it.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, looking away like he can't quite believe this is happening.

You feel yourself starting to roll your eyes, ready to walk away because this is too much, too fast, too—

Steve grabs your hand.

It feels like your whole body sparks with electricity—head to toe, every nerve ending coming alive, tingling. He tugs you toward him gently, and that's his way of asking. Your way of saying yes is not hesitating to look in his eyes and place your free hand on his shoulder.

You search each other's eyes, not even moving yet. Robin is saying something—you can see her mouth moving, probably making some joke to cut the tension—but you can't hear it. Your ears are buzzing and your heart feels like it's been shocked back to life after weeks of barely beating. Blood rushes everywhere as you drown in his hazel eyes, those pools of green and gold and brown that shift like seasons.

Steve moves your hand from his, lifting it to place it on his other shoulder so both your arms are around his neck. Then his hands settle on your sides, just above your waist, like he's too scared to go lower, too afraid you'll pull away if he gets too familiar too fast.

And then you start to sway.

Unlike the couples next to you—grinding against each other, making out aggressively, hands wandering—and unlike the music, which is definitely not a slow song, you move together slowly. Carefully. Like you're both made of glass and one wrong move will shatter everything.

No words pass between you.

Robin is gone now, and you're not sure when she left. Probably slipped away as soon as you started dancing, giving you this moment.

Steve still makes no move to speak. His fingers flex against your sides when you step closer, closing the remaining distance until you're properly pressed against him. You feel the warmth of his soft stomach against your. You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, breathing faster than the gentle swaying warrants. If you were really brave, you'd press your palm to his chest to feel how fast his heart is beating.

Steve lifts one hand from your waist, fingers gentle as they brush your hair from your face so he can see you better. He tucks the strand behind your ear, and his thumb traces your jaw—barely touching, ghosting across your skin in a way that makes you shiver despite the warmth of the night.

Then he tilts your chin up with his finger so you have to look at him, can't hide behind lowered lashes or averted eyes.

His eyes are soft, vulnerable, laid completely bare. You see his throat working as he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

He says your name softly, reverently. "I'm so sorry."

You breathe in and then out, hating how easy it is for you to relax under his gaze, how quickly your body responds to his touch like it's been waiting for this. "I know," you say quietly.

He's still staring at you, and you wonder if all he can think about is the beach in Miami. The way you told him you don't love him, the way you walked away and left him there alone in the dark. Probably.

You know he's sorry. You can see it in every line of his face, feel it in the tremor of his hands on your waist. You know things can be different now—Robin and Steve are free, the chains are broken, the future is no longer predetermined.

You step even closer, hesitating only a moment before laying your head on his chest, looping your arms fully around his neck.

Steve goes completely still.

Then slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll change your mind, he slides his hands to your hips. His grip is firm but gentle, holding you like you're precious. You feel his nose press into your hair, breathing you in, and his fingers tighten on your hips in response to whatever he smells there—your shampoo, your perfume, you.

The music continues around you—louder now, something with a driving beat—but you're moving to a rhythm only the two of you can hear. Swaying slowly, barely moving, just holding each other.

You can feel it when his heart rate picks up, the thump-thump-thump against your cheek getting faster. It happens when you tilt your head to look up at him, and you find him already looking down at you.

His expression is so full of hope it breaks your heart. His eyes are searching yours like he's looking for answers, for permission, for any sign that this means what he thinks it means.

Your eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over. You sigh—long and shaky—and even though you don't want to, even though you could stay like this forever, you slowly break away.

His hands drop from your hips immediately, respecting the boundary, giving you space.

"Can we talk?" you ask, voice barely audible over the music and the fire and the noise of the party.

Steve nods, not trusting his voice. He gestures toward the path that leads away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

And you follow him into the darkness, heart pounding, finally ready for whatever comes next.

You end up at the swings.

The playground is abandoned this late at night, equipment casting strange shadows in the moonlight. The swings creak slightly as you both sit down, chains groaning with your weight. You plant your feet apart and sway gently, the motion familiar and soothing from childhood.

You can see smoke rising above the trees from the bonfire, hear the distant laughter and music and chaos you left behind. Out here, it's quieter—just the sound of the wind in the leaves, the rhythmic squeak of the swing chains, your own breathing.

Steve is staring at you. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you keep your eyes trained on the sky, trying to figure out what to say, where to start, how to explain everything tangled up inside you.

You want to be honest with him about everything. You don't know where to start, so you start with the simplest truth.

"I've missed you, Steve."

Steve's eyes gleam in the darkness, catching what little light filters through the trees. "I..." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. "I've missed you too."

You look over at him, smiling softly. He's just out of reach, so you lean over and put your hand on his cheek. He immediately melts into the touch, eyes closing briefly, like he's been starving for this and finally getting to eat.

"Steve," you say quietly, firmly. "I love you."

You nearly hear his entire being freeze and restart—his breath catching, his eyes flying open, the smile on his lips growing wider and more genuine than anything you've seen in weeks. He chuckles, and it sounds like relief, like joy, like he's been waiting for this since Miami. Or maybe his whole life. For someone to love him back the way he loves them.

He twists in his swing, chains tangling slightly, then reaches out to grab the chains on both sides of your swing. He pulls you closer, turning you to face him so you're looking at each other directly.

He looks nervous. So nervous his hands are trembling slightly where they grip the chains. He opens his mouth, then looks away, a blush dusting his cheeks that you can see even in the dim light. He takes a breath, looks at you again.

"Would you go on a date with me?" The words come out in a rush. "Like a proper one? Maybe before you leave for break? I could take you out to dinner or the movies. I don't know, I haven't—I've never actually—"

His face falls when you look down, pressing your lips together. Your breath comes out shaky.

"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, to not be a coward about this. "I love you, and I needed you to know that. But I'm having a hard time forgiving you right now." Your voice cracks. "And I don't know when I'll be ready."

Steve bites his bottom lip hard enough you worry he'll draw blood, but he makes no effort to move away or let go of your swing. His knuckles go white on the chains, tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.

"I'll do anything," he says, and his voice is steady despite the pain written across his face. "I know I can't make you forgive me, but maybe—" He trails off, looking at you with hopeful eyes, searching for any opening, any possibility. Then he sees your expression and understands. He nods, swallowing hard. "Okay."

That's all he says. Just "okay." But it's not the angry, bitter okay from before. It's disappointment and acceptance and resignation all wrapped up in two syllables.

You put your hand on his knee, feeling the muscle tense under your palm. "We can start by being friends again," you suggest. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's a contradiction, but even though you don't know if you can be with him the way you want to, you don't want a life without him in it. Even if it means he's only a friend.

Steve thinks for a moment, jaw working, before offering a sad smile. His eyebrows twitch with the effort of holding his expression together. "I can do..." He pauses, and you can see him forcing the word out. "That."

The hesitation tells you it probably tastes wrong on his tongue, that part of him doesn't mean it. But just like you, if this is how you can be in each other's lives, he'll take it.

"Okay then." You hold out your hand formally, like you're sealing a business deal. "Friends."

Steve lets go of one side of your swing, making you sway slightly, then grabs your hand. He shakes it slowly, deliberately, and his thumb brushes across your knuckles in a way that feels anything but friendly.

Neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "Friends."

After a moment, Steve lets go of your swing entirely and you both turn to face forward, staring out at the darkness. The silence stretches between you—not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with everything you're not saying.

Another beat goes by, and you start to move, ready to stand. "I think I'm going to go find Robin now."

"Wait," Steve says quickly.

You stop, turning to look at him.

His eyes widen when he realizes he actually needs to say something now, needs a reason for stopping you. He awkwardly clears his throat. "I, uh..." He sighs, adjusting the cap on his head, running a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. His curls shoot back out. "Do you mind if we sit here for a bit longer?"

You look at him—really look at him. At the vulnerability in his expression, the way he's asking for just a few more minutes of your time like it's a precious gift he doesn't deserve.

You settle back into your swing. "Yeah. Okay."

So you sit there together in the darkness, not speaking. Just the creak of the swings and the distant sounds of the party and your own breathing. The moon filters through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across both of you.

It's not everything. It's not what either of you wants. But for now, sitting on swings in the dark with someone you love who loves you back, it's enough.

.-.-.-.

Robin and you are hugging in your dorm room, arms wrapped tight around each other.

It's move-out day. Finals are done—finished yesterday with your Art History exam that you're pretty sure you aced despite everything. Summer break officially starts tomorrow, and you're driving back home as soon as you take the last box down and hand in your key.

There's not much sentiment or tears about the departure. You've already made plans to see each other over the summer—in a few weeks, you're going to Boston together to visit Nancy, and Robin might come see you at home after that. Or maybe you'll go to Hawkins, though that particular plan is still uncertain, still carries too much weight.

And then there's the promise of phone calls at least once a week. And the promise—made official when you both signed the housing form—of being roommates again next semester.

You break apart, and you grab your last cardboard box of things. The rest of your belongings are already loaded in your car, packed with the careful efficiency of someone who's done this before.

"Call me when you get home?" Robin asks, adjusting the box in your arms so it won't slip.

"Obviously." You smile. 

You leave the dorm, Robin waiting for Steve and Eddie to come help her load her things into Eddie's van. You're planning to leave as soon as possible, wanting to get on the road before traffic gets bad.

And definitely wanting to leave before running into Steve, even though part of you regrets telling him you want to be friends. But you know it's right. You know you need time.

Of course, as always, your luck runs thin.

You're going down the stairwell carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration as you navigate the narrow stairs with the box blocking your view, when you hear the door below clatter open. Quick footsteps pad up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

And immediately, his hazel eyes meet yours over the top of your box.

You have no time to protest before he's grabbing the box from your arms. "Here, let me help."

Then he's turning around and heading back down the stairs, leaving you standing there watching him go.

You take in his appearance as you follow—blue polo tucked into jeans with a white undershirt visible at the collar, his hair freshly washed and pushed back, and your eyes betray you by dropping lower to appreciate the fit of his jeans.

You follow him down the stairs, and you think he'll stop at the bottom, hand the box back, say goodbye. But he keeps walking. He only pauses for you to catch up, and then you're walking side by side through the lobby, outside into the bright morning sun, across the parking lot to where your car is waiting.

Steve opens your trunk and slides the box in with the others, having to lean on the trunk lid with his full weight to get it to click shut because it's packed so full. He chuckles to himself when it finally latches, grinning, biting his bottom lip, hands going to his hips like he's won a prize.

Then he looks at you, and you're smiling too because you can't help yourself when he's like this—boyish and pleased with such a small accomplishment.

You share a laugh, the sound bright and easy in the morning air.

"Thanks," you say.

"Yeah, no problem, Hot—uh—" He catches himself, stops.

You smile, tilting your head. "You can still call me that. I mean, it doesn't feel right when you don't."

What you don't say is that the nickname never really belonged to you in the first place. It was always his, and you want it to stay that way—only his nickname for you, something that belongs just to the two of you.

He grins, a little shy, ducking his head. "Right. Uh, well..." He clears his throat. "You excited for break? I mean, I know it's kind of already break, but you know. I guess, are you ready to go home? I bet you probably are."

You almost want to kiss the nervousness off his lips, smooth away the rambling with your mouth. But then your mind filters in the events of this year—all the hurt, all the lies, all the reasons you can't.

"Yeah," you say instead. "You?"

Steve shrugs, hands going back in his pockets. "Yeah, I guess. Probably working most of it. Not sure if Robin and I still have our jobs at Family Video. The manager there, Keith—total jackass, kind of hates me."

"I wonder why," you giggle.

He laughs, and the sound is genuine and warm.

Then there's another beat of silence as you look at each other, neither quite ready to say goodbye.

"Uh, Robin mentioned you're going to Boston together in a couple weeks," Steve says.

"Yeah." You nod. "I'm excited. Never been. And Nancy says she might introduce me to some people in publishing for an internship next year."

His face lights up. "Yeah? That's so cool." Then he pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, more careful. "Robin also said you might visit Hawkins too. If things work out."

"Yeah," you say, biting your lip nervously. You don't elaborate.

Steve seems to catch on to your hesitation, what you're not saying—that visiting Hawkins means potentially seeing him, and you're not sure you're ready for that yet.

"Right. Yeah." He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Well, I guess I'll see you then? Unless you have anything else upstairs you need help with?"

"Nope, this is it. I have to turn in my key, and then I'm all set."

God, now you wish you hadn't been so efficient loading your car if it meant you could talk to him like this a bit longer.

He nods. "Right. Okay." He repeats it like he's trying to convince himself. His face drops slightly, like he's thinking something over. Then, "Hey, I, uh... was thinking. Could I possibly get your number? Maybe I could call sometime over break?"

Your breath hitches, your brain scrambling, trying to remember which box has your notebooks and pens so you could write it down. But then you stop. You frown, looking at the ground sadly.

"I don't think..." You force yourself to look at him when you say it. "I don't want either of us to get the wrong idea."

You see Steve's face drop—another rejection, another door closing. But he doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That's cool. No problem." He takes a breath. "Well, I better go start helping Robin so we can get on the road soon."

"Yeah. Okay." You're gripping your car keys so hard they're digging into your palm. "I'll see you."

Steve's mouth twitches into something that's trying to be a smile. "Yeah. See you later, Hot Shot."

You watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, and you have to physically stop yourself from calling him back.

.-.-.-.

It's been two weeks of summer break, and you could not be more ready for Boston next week.

You've been out all day at your summer job—working retail at a clothing store in the mall, standing on your feet for eight hours, dealing with difficult customers and your manager who loves to micromanage. Your feet are killing you, and all you want to do is crash on the couch and turn on the TV.

Probably shamelessly turn on ALF, because Steve was right. It is a funny show, and it makes you laugh. And sometimes you pretend you're back in his room, holding his hand while you watch it together.

When you pass through the kitchen, you call out a greeting to your mom, who's making dinner.

She looks up from the pot she's stirring. "Oh, honey, you have mail. On the table."

You walk over, internally panicking when you see the official seal of your school on one envelope—probably final grades. You get ready to rip it open, prepping yourself for whatever's inside.

But then you see another envelope underneath. Green, not white. Your name sprawled across the front in handwriting you recognize, and your address beneath it.

You didn't think you were expecting any mail, but then your heart skips a beat when you look at the sender information in the corner.

Steve Harrington

You grab the letter quickly, nearly knocking over a glass in your haste, and run to your room. You shut the door like opening it in front of your mom would somehow make it more real, more dangerous.

You sit on your bed, holding the envelope carefully, running your finger over the ink. His ink. His handwriting—the same slightly messy scrawl you've seen on notes passed in class, on study guides, on the birthday card he gave Robin.

You open it slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear anything.

Inside are several pieces of notebook paper, folded neatly, and a photograph.

You look at the photo first, and immediately your heart beams, glowing warm in your chest.

It's the photo Jonathan took at the camping trip. Everyone standing together—Robin and Nancy with their cheeks smushed together, wrapped in each other's arms and grinning. Jonathan and Eddie with arms slung around each other, both making goofy faces. And you on Steve's back, both of you smiling so wide it looks like it hurt.

You hadn't realized in the moment, but in the photo you can see Steve trying to look back at you, his face turned slightly, and you can still see his smile. It’s bright and genuine and full of joy. Your eyes are closed from how big your own smile was.

You set the photo carefully on your bed, touching it gently like it might disappear, then unfold the letter.

Dear Hot Shot,

I was thinking about it. You never said I couldn't write to you. So here I am. If you don't want me to, you can write back and tell me to beat it. If you want to write back, then hey, I won't complain. However, if you don't mind, and I don't receive anything telling me to stop, I'm going to take that as the OK.

Jonathan came into town a few days ago and gave me this photo. He made copies for all of us but didn't have your address. Robin said she'd give it to you when she saw you in Boston, but I took the jurisdiction to do it myself. I hope that's okay. I can’t stop looking at it. I remember feeling nothing but happiness.

Not a lot has happened here. I'm ever so lucky and back at Family Video with Robin. Keith still hates me—today he made me reorganize the entire Horror section because he said I put "Friday the 13th Part III" in the wrong spot. I hadn't. He's just a dick. He also thinks it’s punishment putting me on shifts with my “ex-girlfriend.” So who has the last laugh now?

Max is good. She told me you called her the other day, which was cool of you. Then she made fun of me for asking if you'd asked about me. So I guess now you know I asked about you. Smooth, right?

I hope you're doing well. I hope work isn't terrible and that you're getting some rest. I hope you know that even though I'm disappointed about how we left things, I understand why. I get it. And I'll wait as long as you need.

You should know—I think you might be my favorite friend.

Yours truly,Steve

Last night, while Robin had sprawled on her bed talking excitedly about the camping trip for her birthday—who was bringing what, where you'd all set up tents, how Eddie promised to bring his guitar—you'd decided not to tell her about the scare. The guilt is already gnawing at you, sharp teeth in your stomach, because you could've been the cause for all their carefully constructed plans to fracture and collapse. Their future—Steve and Robin's marriage, Nancy living with them as a "roommate," the whole delicate fiction they're building—could've come crashing down because you couldn't keep your legs closed.

This morning you woke before Robin did. That alone is unusual—normally you're both up at the same time, talking while getting ready for class, sharing coffee from the pot on Robin's desk, complaining about professors or assignments or whatever drama is currently unfolding. But this semester you only have one class together, and that's Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Today is Tuesday.

You'd slipped out while she was still asleep, leaving before you had to lie to her face.

It's later in the evening now, the sun already setting, casting long shadows across campus. You've skipped all your classes today because—well, to be honest, you're still shaken. You wouldn't be able to concentrate. Especially if you saw Sammy, another person in the equation who has no idea how close he came to being part of something catastrophic.

You find Steve in the library, tucked into a corner on the third floor where hardly anyone goes. He's alone, actually has a book open in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he reads. There's a highlighter in his hand, uncapped, and you watch him mark something on the page with careful precision.

You wouldn't say you're stalking Steve, per se. You just happen to know where he is and end up being in the same spot— all day. Normally hiding behind a wall or a cluster of people, watching him from a distance like some kind of pathetic shadow.

It's such a mundane sight—Steve Harrington studying—and yet it makes your chest ache for reasons you don't want to examine.

You're standing between the stacks, peeking through the gap where you've pulled out a random book, when you hear your name.

You jump, nearly dropping the book, quickly shoving it back into the empty space on the shelf.

You turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Sammy.

"Oh. Hey." Your eyes dance to the side—toward where Steve is sitting, unaware—then back to Sammy's face.

He smiles awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he's unsure what to say. "Hey." He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "You... weren't in class today."

You swallow hard. "Yeah. I just wasn't feeling good. So, yeah."

The lie is terrible. You can see that he notices—the way his eyes narrow slightly, the way his smile becomes more forced.

"Right." He clears his throat. "Well... listen, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry for being kind of weird last week. I'm really stressed about midterms, especially the one we have on Thursday." He's rambling now, words coming faster, nervousness bleeding through. "And I was hoping I'd see you today, and I was actually going to come by your dorm to drop off the review sheet for class. And maybe even see if I could take you out this weekend?"

You used to find this cute and endearing—the shy rambling, the nervous energy, the genuine sweetness of him. But now it's kind of annoying, and you can't help the irritation that prickles under your skin.

"Yeah, maybe we can talk about it on Thursday after class."

Sammy smiles hopefully, looking around the library before leaning in to kiss your cheek. The touch is soft, brief, and makes you want to pull away. "Sounds good."

Before he walks off, he halts. "Oh shoot, wait." He fumbles in his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "The review sheet. Study hard."

He hands it to you and walks away, disappearing down the stairs.

You lean back against the bookshelf, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding. Relief floods through you—relief that he's gone, that you don't have to keep pretending, that you can go back to watching Steve.

You pull the book out again, creating your spy-hole, and peek through the gap.

Steve is gone.

Your heart sinks, frustration flaring hot in your chest. You scan the area where he'd been sitting, but his books are gone too, his backpack, everything. Like he was never there at all.

The next day is better. Except with Robin.

Robin, who notices immediately that you're off about something. She suggests getting lunch together before your shared class, but you shake your head, telling her you need to go to a professor's office hours first. Which is a lie. You don't have any questions for any professors.

Robin looks disappointed, her face falling slightly before she covers it with a smile. "Okay. Rain check?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

After class, Robin catches you at the door. "Dinner tonight? We haven't eaten together in days."

"I can't," you say, already moving, nearly bolting out the classroom doors. "I have to—I promised I'd help someone study. Sorry!"

You don't look back to see her reaction.

Instead, you camp out in a small corner of the library, tucked behind the periodicals section where no one ever goes, watching the achingly slow clock on the wall. Each minute feels like an hour, each hour like a day, until finally it's 8:10 p.m.

You pack up your things and head to the parking lot, positioning yourself near the edge where you can see Steve's BMW.

At exactly 8:15, your smile is ear to ear when you see him there, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. The ember glows orange in the darkness, and you can see the smoke curling up into the night air.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest, spreading through your ribs like sunlight.

You're about to call his name, already opening your mouth to say "Steve," when his head turns. He lifts his hand, waving at someone.

Not just anyone.

Polly.

Her red hair sways as she walks toward him, wearing a tight bright green yoga outfit that shows off every curve. Steve and Polly start walking together, away from his car, talking about something you can't hear from this distance.

Steve stops for a second, looking in your direction. Your breath catches.

You do the very adult thing and duck behind a car, crouching low, pressing your back against the cold metal.

You hear their footsteps getting closer, then stopping. You peek around the edge of the car and see them talking, Steve's hands in his pockets, Polly gesturing animatedly about something. She's smiling, laughing, reaching out to touch his arm.

Then she hugs him.

Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging crescents into your palms.

You don't know why you're fueled with such jealousy. You knew what Steve was. You knew the rules. You knew there were other girls.

And you think you might even like Polly. She was kind and you have no reason not to. Except now, you were trying to find every reason to hate her. 

Robin was right. Steve wouldn't change. Not even for you. 

You storm into your dorm, don't even bother changing out of your clothes, just climb into bed and pull the covers over your head. When Robin comes back an hour later, you pretend to be asleep, evening out your breathing, keeping perfectly still even when you hear her sigh sadly before getting ready for bed.

The next day, you're grateful you studied despite your inner turmoil. You're a pretty natural test taker, always have been, and you breeze through the exam with time to spare. You turn it in with forty-five minutes left in the period and wait outside the building, leaning against the brick wall.

When you see Sammy emerge, you grab his hand and drag him behind your designated bush—the one you've used before, hidden from the main walkways.

You kiss him hard, desperately, trying to get his lips to burn away the memory of Steve's. Trying to replace the taste of Steve's mouth with Sammy's, trying to convince yourself that this is enough, that this is what you want.

After a few minutes of making out, breath coming hard, you pull back. "There's a party tomorrow night. At the Pike house. Eddie's band is playing. Want to go?"

Sammy's eyes light up. "Yeah. Definitely." He pauses, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want to hang out before?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

That night, again, you go to bed before Robin gets home. You hear her come in, hear her sigh—sad and resigned—and listen to her get ready for bed in the dark.

That next day, you show up to the Alpha Tau house around seven. Most of Sammy's brothers are home, along with a handful of girls you vaguely recognize from classes or other parties. The house smells like beer and pizza, music playing from somewhere upstairs.

About an hour in, you're sitting in Sammy's lap, nursing a drink that's stronger than it should be, when you lean in close to whisper in his ear. "You should take me upstairs."

Because whatever, your period stopped yesterday and Steve was out fucking other girls. You deserve to feel good. 

His eyes widen, pupils dilating with want, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

In his room, door locked, you're drunk enough to be brave. Drunk enough to say what you've been thinking about. "I want you to be rougher with me. Dirtier."

Sammy looks surprised but nods eagerly. "Yeah. Okay. I can do that."

And he does try. He kisses you harder, teeth catching your bottom lip. He digs his nails into your flesh—your hips, your thighs—leaving red marks. When he enters you, he's more forceful than usual, hips snapping harder.

Then he leans close, breath hot against your ear. "Do I fuck you better than the other one?"

The other one?

You furrow your brows, the words jarring you out of the moment. "That doesn't turn me on."

He stops, just for a second, processing. "Okay." Then he keeps going. The two of you only make dirty sounds, not speaking to each other. Not telling the other they feel good or what to do. 

When he turns you over, positioning you with your hands against the wall, you close your eyes. You imagine it's Steve behind you. Steve's hands on your hips. Steve's lips on your back, trailing kisses down your spine. Steve's lips...

You think about the kiss at Mardi Tau. The taste of him—cigarettes and want and something underneath that was purely Steve. The way his tongue had moved against yours, desperate and hungry.

Then you remember something he'd told you months ago, his voice rough and commanding: "You don't need me to touch you to come."

You let out a moan as your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around Sammy, your whole body shuddering.

After, Sammy doesn't say anything. Just helps you clean up with a damp towel, gentle and thorough. Another thing he checks off the list of good sex partner, you suppose. Considerate. Caring. Everything you should want.

He drives you to the Pike party, and two of his other brothers—Gary and Ryan—pile into the back seat, already drunk off their asses. They're loud, talking over each other about girls in other sororities, rating them on a scale of one to ten, laughing at jokes that aren't funny.

You lean toward Sammy. "Why won't you say anything?"

He shrugs, eyes on the road. "They're just being dumb."

You cross your arms across your chest, annoyed at his dismissiveness.

When you finally arrive at the Pike house, it's already packed. You can hear Corroded Coffin from the backyard—Eddie's voice cutting through the night, guitar wailing. The bass vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.

Sammy puts his hand on your lower back as you walk toward the front gate, and you shift uncomfortably. His hand feels wrong—too light, too uncertain, nothing like the way Steve touches you with possession and purpose.

The pledge at the entrance—PJ, you think his name is—smiles when he sees you. "Hot Shot! Welcome!"

"Hey, PJ." You smile back, moving to walk inside.

But PJ steps in front of Sammy, blocking his path. "Oh... wow. Mr. Samuel." His smile becomes apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I've been informed you aren't allowed at Pike parties until further notice."

Sammy looks confused, then laughs like it's a joke. "What?"

You think it's a joke too. "Very funny. Come on, Sammy." You hold out your hand for him to take.

But PJ stops him again, hand coming up. "Sorry. I'm being serious."

Sammy's confusion morphs into anger, jaw tightening. "And why the fuck not? I didn't do shit."

PJ just shrugs, genuinely apologetic. "I just work here, man. Those are the rules."

"This is bullshit." Sammy pivots, turning to his friends who are watching from a few feet away. "Come on, guys. We're leaving."

"Sammy, wait!" You run after him. "Hey! Let me go in and find Steve—"

Sammy snaps around, and there's something in his eyes you haven't seen before. Hurt mixed with anger mixed with resignation. "Harrington won't do shit." He turns to his friends. "You two, go wait in the car."

Gary and Ryan exchange glances but do as they're told, stumbling toward Sammy's car.

Once they're out of earshot, Sammy crosses his arms. "Well?"

You stutter, trying to find words. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It won't take more than a few minutes. I'll just—"

Sammy laughs, but there's no humor in it. He says your name, flat and tired. "Harrington is the one who blacklisted me. Don't you see? He doesn't like me."

"I'm sure that's not—"

"Look, I know you've been sleeping with him too, alright? I know you're one of his girls." His voice drops lower, something bitter creeping in. "I saw you two disappear together at Mardi Tau."

The other one. 

You don't try to deny it. The words stick in your throat, useless and heavy. Now you know why you couldn't find Sammy after Steve had left the bathroom. Though, if you're being honest, you hadn't tried that hard to look for him in the first place.

What's more unsettling is how Sammy knows about Steve's multiple girls. "How do you know about that?"

Sammy rolls his eyes, scoffing. "It's Greek life. We know everyone's skeletons in the closet, even if we don’t talk about it. And everyone knows since Buckley is waiting for marriage, she lets Harrington do whatever.”

Oh, so he doesn’t know the entire truth. You found it startling that he didn’t look down on you either. Because from the outside, it looks like you’re a homewrecker. 

He pauses, licks his lips. "Look, this casual thing might be working for you, but it's not working for me."

You can see the hurt in his eyes—genuine pain mixed with embarrassment, with the realization that he was never going to be enough for you. Shit, did you even really give him the chance? 

"I'm sorry," you whisper, because what else can you say?

Sammy doesn't answer. Just looks at you for a long moment, like he's memorizing your face, then turns and walks to his car.

You watch him peel out of the driveway, tires squealing, gravel spitting up behind him.

And you're left standing there in front of the Pike house, alone, while Corroded Coffin plays and people laugh and drink inside like your world hasn't just tilted sideways again.

You still go into the party, pushing through the crowd gathered near the front door, following the sound of Corroded Coffin bleeding through from the backyard. The house is packed—more people than you've seen at a Pike party in weeks now that Steve got rid of the bullshit invite only rule—and you have to shoulder past bodies to make your way through.

You find Robin and Steve in the backyard, standing near the makeshift stage Eddie's band has set up. They're wrapped around each other, Steve's arms holding Robin upright while she sways to the music. She's clearly high or drunk or both—eyes red-rimmed and glassy, face loose and unguarded in a way that only comes from being completely gone. Steve is holding most of her weight, keeping her steady.

When Robin sees you, she squeals loud enough to be heard over the guitar. "Hot Shot!" She turns to Steve, grinning wide. "You know, I see why you like calling her that."

Steve catches your eyes but doesn't say anything. Just looks away, back toward Eddie's band, jaw working.

Robin tilts her head, swaying slightly. "Where's Sammy?"

You narrow your eyes at Steve, anger flaring hot in your chest. You don't say anything about his potential blacklist—not here, not now—but you reach over and take the red solo cup from his hand. You shoot the entire contents in one go, liquid burning down your throat, gasoline and bad decisions. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth. 

You turn your attention to Robin. "We're not going to see each other anymore."

Robin's face crumples, arms immediately coming around you. "Aw, babe. Here, let's get you another drink to get your mind off it."

Steve looks at you—really looks, his eyes searching your face for something—and then away, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

For the first time in weeks, you're alone with Robin. Loose and carefree, four cups in, dancing with each other to Corroded Coffin's cover of some metal song you don't recognize but can feel in your bones. It feels easy and simple, like last semester. Right before you chose to let Steve fuck you in his room during Thanksgiving break.

You should've said no.

It was only meant to be fun. You were okay with the rules. You were okay with the other girls.

And you have no idea what changed.

You don't like him. Not like that. Not in any way that matters. It's just... you don't know. You feel so lost, unmoored, like you're floating in open water with no land in sight.

"Hey, what's wrong, babe?" Robin asks, having to lean close to be heard over the music.

You realize you're crying. Tears streaming down your face, hot and shameful, and you hadn't even noticed. "Oh." You wipe at your face with clumsy fingers, smiling half-heartedly. "I'm just... happy to see you."

Robin smiles, pulling you into a tight hug that smells like weed and the strawberry shampoo she uses. "Me too! I've been missing our time together. We should go have a girls' day tomorrow."

You nod against her shoulder, squeezing her tighter.

You pull apart and start dancing again, Robin spinning you under her arm in a move that's more enthusiasm than coordination, both of you laughing when you stumble.

When suddenly you feel another presence. To your side is a boy you've never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a backwards baseball cap—looking at Robin and you with a wicked smile, reeking of beer so strongly you can smell it from two feet away.

"Can we help you?" you ask, grabbing Robin's wrist protectively. Robin stops dancing, her loose, carefree expression fading.

"Just wondering how much it'd be to see you two make out," he slurs, leaning in closer.

Robin frowns, rolling her eyes. "Leave us alone."

"Oh, come on. Bet it'd be hot." He turns to you, grin widening. "Isn't that what they call you? Hot Shot?"

"In your dreams, asshole," you mutter, tugging on Robin's arm. "Come on, Rob."

But the man grabs Robin's wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to make her wince. "Come on, pretty girl."

You push the guy off Robin, shoving his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. "Don't fucking touch her."

"Yeah, get him!" Robin drunkenly rambles, pumping her fist in the air.

The guy grabs your wrist in retaliation, his grip painful, fingers like vices, and he's opening his mouth to say something when—

He falls to the ground.

A figure has appeared beside you, fist connecting with the guy's jaw with a sickening crack. The figure is Steve.

There are a few yelps around you, people nearest backing up, creating a circle, but not enough to make the entire party freeze. Eddie is still going at it on his guitar, oblivious.

Steve walks over to the guy who's trying to scramble backward on the grass, grabs a fistful of his collar, and hauls him half-upright. "Don't you dare touch my fucking girl again."

Your breath catches. Is he talking about you?

You can't ask before Robin steps closer, putting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Uh... babe." You notice how she grimaces, and then she’s… laughing? "It's okay. Really."

Steve is panting, chest heaving, and he looks at Robin, then back at the guy, tightening his grip on the collar. "Tell them you're sorry. Now."

Of course it's not you. He would never say that about you.

"I—I'm sorry," the guy stammers.

Steve lifts him slightly and then shoves him back down to the ground. "If you know what's best for you, get out of here."

The guy nods frantically, scrambling to his feet, and scurries away, swaying dangerously from how drunk he is.

Steve stands there panting, eyes dark and wild, knuckles already starting to bruise. He looks at you.

"Steve—"

He cuts you off, voice loud enough to carry. "Alright, party's over. Everyone go home."

No one hears him over the music. He grumbles something under his breath, stomping toward the amps that belong to the band. He unplugs them with one violent yank.

The music dies instantly.

Eddie stops mid-solo, lowering his guitar. "What the hell, man?" he mouths.

Steve repeats, louder this time. "Everyone. Leave. Now!"

Protests and groans ripple through the crowd, but they listen. People start drifting out the backyard gate or back through the house. You hear complaints—"It’s not even that late," "What's his problem?"—but the yard is clearing.

You step closer to Steve, noticing his bruised hand, the knuckles already swelling. "Hey, are you—"

"Everyone includes you, Hot Shot." He snaps, stepping away from you like you've burned him.

"Steve, what's your deal?" Robin asks, stumbling slightly.

He glares at Robin—actually glares, something cold and furious in his expression. "Munson, take them home."

Then he storms away, slamming the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.

"Geez," Robin complains, waving her hand dismissively. "He has one bad phone call with his dad and he takes it out on all of us."

She approaches Eddie, who's packing up equipment with his band members—Gareth and Jeff, you think their names are. "Looks like you're our ride."

Eddie grins, pulling a joint from behind his ear. "Oh, ladies. The night has just started. What do you mean?"

"I love you, Eddie Munson," Robin says wistfully.

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie waves them off fondly. "Why don't you guys go wait in the van while we finish packing up, 'kay?"

He tosses Robin the keys, and she catches them with surprising coordination given her state. She hooks her arm through yours, grinning goofily. "Come on."

You walk the long way—out the backyard gate and around to the front driveway—not wanting to risk going through the Pike house and running into Steve again.

Once you're in Eddie's van—both of you claiming the front seats, Robin in the passenger side—you chew on your lip before speaking. "What was the phone call about?" You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, with Steve's dad?"

Robin sighs, digging around in the console and finding a package of crackers. She tears into them, munching loudly. "Well, turns out the dingus finally figured out what he's gonna do for the rest of his life. Declared his major for teaching. He still has to apply to the College of Education, take some test after spring break and all that jazz.”

Robin crunches on another cracker, crumbs falling in her lap. 

She continues, “But anyway, he didn't tell his dad until today. Thought maybe his dad being on vacation would ease the news, but nope. His dad totally went berserk. Said teaching was a waste of time, blah blah bullshit." She shoves another cracker in her mouth. "Feel bad for him, but he's been a total grump all week anyway."

Your heart sinks, heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Why are you sad that Steve hadn't told you about declaring his major? You'd been the one who suggested teaching in the first place, but whatever. You shouldn't care.

"When did he do all of this?" you ask, keeping your voice level.

Robin thinks for a moment, fumbling with Eddie's keys even though the van is already unlocked. "I think first thing Tuesday morning."

Tuesday. When you'd definitely not been following him.

He hadn't said anything Monday that he was going to do that. But then again, did he really have a chance?

Robin finds a package of tissues in the glove compartment and blows her nose loudly. "Also, he's pissy with me because I told him he needs to be more careful with sex."

"What?" Your head snaps toward her, a humorous smile painted on your face. "Why?"

Robin shrugs, unwrapping another cracker. "Went over yesterday evening to study, and I found a pregnancy test in the bin."

She freezes, cracker halfway to her mouth. "Shit. Shouldn't have told you that since you're hooking up with him and all."

Your blood goes cold. Static fills your ears. "I... uh... what?"

Had you not gotten them all when you left? 

"God, sorry. I just—" Robin shakes her head. "It pisses me off, you know? Sometimes he thinks more with his dick than what our plans are. I mean, can you imagine what I'd have to tell my parents if Steve got some babe pregnant? 'Oh no, guys, don't worry. I'm okay with my boyfriend who's not really my boyfriend having a kid with a girl I allow him to be with.'" She laughs bitterly. "Anyway, I found it and he wouldn't tell me who it was. Gosh, there I go again. I'm sure you don't want to hear it."

She turns to look at you, and something in her expression shifts. Softens. "I mean, at least I know it's not you." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I mean, you would've told me—"

"Robin, please stop." Your voice cracks, looking away. You run a hand through your hair, fingers trembling.

"Babe..." Robin's voice goes cold. Realization dawning. "Tell me it wasn't you."

Your eyes are glassy when you look at her, and the pain written on your face is answer enough.

"Holy shit."

"I know. I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin asks, voice flat and cold in a way you've never heard from her before.

Your mouth opens and closes. "I—I don't know. I—"

Robin's eyes widen, pieces clicking into place. "Monday. When you weren't feeling good and I came back to check on you, and you were gone all day. I knew you were lying." Her voice rises. "Am I right? Is this why you've been avoiding me all week?"

"Yes, but listen, Rob—" You reach for her, but she pulls away. "I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to be a big deal. I didn't want you to think that I'd do anything to jeopardize you and Steve and—"

Robin scoffs, shaking her head. She opens the van door and gets out, stumbling slightly on the curb.

"Robin, wait!" You scramble out after her. "Please, you have to understand where I'm coming from."

Robin snaps around, hair flying in her face, eyes red and furious. "You don't know how I would've reacted. You didn't give me a chance."

Your own defense boils over, spilling out before you can stop it. "Well, maybe it's because your head is so far up Nancy's ass and I never see you anymore. I would have given you one if you were ever around."

Robin looks like you've slapped her. "God, you don't get it." Her voice cracks. "Do you know how lucky you have it? You get to be with boys like Sammy, get to dance with him, and no one bats an eye. Make out at parties, be near them in public. But if I ever did that with Nancy..." 

She swallows hard. "Even if people were cool with it, it'll just be like tonight, where dipshits want to make it into a sick fantasy. When Nancy comes here, I don't actually get to be with her. When I go visit her, we can't do shit like hold hands until we get in her apartment. All I have where it feels normal is talking on the phone." Her eyes are shining with tears now. 

"God forbid you don't get any attention, 'cause clearly you enjoy it, Hot Shot." Your nickname is thick with venom, turned into an insult, a weapon.

"You know what? Screw you, Robin."

"Whatever." She turns away. "Tell Eddie I'm walking home. Forget about tomorrow.”

You immediately want to protest. Robin shouldn't walk home alone like this—drunk and upset and it's dark. But you're so mad at her, fury burning hot in your chest, that you just stand there.

You watch her disappear down the street, her silhouette getting smaller and smaller until she turns a corner and vanishes completely.

.-.-.-.

You wake up with your head pounding, each pulse of your heartbeat sending a spike of pain through your skull. Your stomach hurts—a deep, nauseous ache that makes you want to curl into a ball. You feel a creak in your neck as you slowly lift your head, vision blurry and unfocused.

You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of your surroundings.

You’re in the back of Eddie’s van. You recognize the faded band stickers on the interior walls, the ratty mattress beneath you that he keeps back here for—well, you’re not entirely sure what for, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. You’re laying back, body sprawled at an awkward angle that explains the neck pain.

You feel a breeze on your legs. You look down.

You’re wearing a shirt—not your shirt, you realize with dawning horror. It’s too big, hangs off one shoulder, smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne and someone else.

But your jeans are gone.

You’re only in your underwear.

Oh fuck.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Right when panic starts to claw up your throat, making your breath come faster, the back door to the van swings open with a metallic groan. Blinding light pours in, white and searing like a spotlight. Your eyes scrunch shut immediately, a groan escaping your throat as you throw your arm up to shield your face.

"Morning, sunshine!" Eddie's voice booms, way too loud, way too cheerful.

You peek through your fingers and see him standing there, backlit by what must be morning sun. He's grinning—that wide, toothy smile that takes up half his face—and he has a slice of pizza in his mouth. Cold pizza, judging by the way the cheese has congealed into a solid, waxy mass and the grease has turned opaque. Of course he eats cold pizza for breakfast. If it even is breakfast—you have no idea what time it is.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie," you mutter, covering your ears with both hands. "Inside voice."

He just chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest, and takes the pizza out of his mouth long enough to say, "This is my inside voice. You're just sensitive."

He doesn't climb into the van yet. Instead, he reaches to the side—probably the front seat—and grabs something, then tosses a greasy paper bag onto the floor near your feet. It lands with a soft thud. "Gotcha breakfast."

You sit up slowly, every movement making your head swim and your stomach lurch. You grab the bag with shaking hands, opening it with fumbling fingers. The smell hits you first—heavy, greasy, overwhelming. You grimace immediately. It's a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit, the bread already soggy with grease, the cheese looks plastic, the sausage a questionable grayish-brown.

Why does every boy think this is appetizing?

You set the bag aside quickly, swallowing hard against the nausea, and Eddie finally crawls into the van. He moves with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times, ducking his head to avoid hitting the roof, settling cross-legged near the door. He tosses you a water bottle—which you catch clumsily—and then a small orange bottle that rattles with pills.

You don't argue. You rake your fingers through your hair—tangled and probably a disaster—rubbing your temple with your free hand. Your mouth tastes like something died in it. You desperately twist the cap off the water bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip, and drink half of it in one go. The cool liquid soothes your raw throat, washes away some of the terrible taste.

You fumble with the pill bottle, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, finally getting it open and shaking two pills into your palm. You swallow them dry, then chase them with more water.

Only then do you look at Eddie—really look at him. Then down at yourself. The too-big shirt that definitely isn't yours. Your bare legs reflecting in the morning light. The absence of your jeans.

"I... uh..." You swallow hard, your throat clicking. "Did we...?"

Eddie laughs—loud and sudden and completely without shame—making you wince and press your fingers to your temples. "You don't remember?"

"I'm... oh god, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out in a rush, panic making your voice go high and thin.

He laughs again, shaking his head so his curls bounce. "Sweetheart, if we ever did anything like that, I would make damn sure you remembered." He waves his pizza slice at you, toppings threatening to slide off. "But no. We didn't do anything. Scout's honor."

He holds up three fingers in what might be a Boy Scout salute, though you're pretty sure Eddie was never a Boy Scout.

"Okay." You take a breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "So why am I in your van?" You look around again, taking in the cramped space with new eyes. "Did you sleep in here too?"

"You were passed out," Eddie explains, taking another massive bite. He talks around the food, which should be disgusting but somehow just seems very Eddie. "And you begged—like, actually begged—me not to take you to your dorm." He swallows, then continues. "And no, I didn't sleep here. I moved into the Pike basement a few weeks ago."

You blink at him. "What?"

"I mean, not like officially," he amends, gesturing with the pizza slice. "But Steve put a pullout couch down there for me, and I even got myself a bookshelf." His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. "With all my little knickknacks. It's pretty sweet, actually. I was like, 'Aw, Steve-o, you love me?' And he was like—" Eddie drops his voice into a gruff impression of Steve—"'Shut up, Munson.'"

He grins at the memory, then pauses to chew and swallow. "Anyway, before you ask why you're half-naked in my van—" He holds up a hand to stop your incoming question. "You got absolutely shitfaced last night. Like, I've seen you drunk before, but this was something else."

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. "Oh god."

"Yeah. You threw up all over yourself after Gareth gave you your stick and poke." He gestures vaguely at your lower half with the pizza crust. "So that's why you're not wearing your clothes. They were... unsalvageable. I had to throw them in a dumpster."

"My jeans?" you ask weakly.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly sorry. "I would've carried you inside the Pike house—would've been easier, honestly—but you said something about being too mad at Steve to be around him." He shrugs. "So I gave you the shirt off my back—literally, that's my favorite Dio shirt you're wearing—and gave you a kiss goodnight."

Your eyes widen.

"Not really," he adds quickly, grinning. "But I did pray I wouldn't find you dead this morning. That would've been a real downer."

You stare at him, blinking slowly, your brain trying to process all of that information at once. It comes in fragments—throwing up, begging not to see Steve. Then your brows furrow, catching on something he said.

"What do you mean stick and poke?"

Eddie chuckles again, that shit-eating grin spreading wider across his face. "Oh man. I tried to talk you out of it. I really did. But you were very insistent." He takes another bite of pizza. "And you already had your pants off at that point, so..."

Your eyes grow wide, heart dropping into your stomach. "No."

"Oh yes."

You move immediately, hands scrambling for the hem of the shirt you're wearing. You lift it up, twisting to look at your hip, and sure enough—right there, just above the waistline of your underwear—is dark ink. Fresh and slightly raised. The skin around it is pink and irritated, swollen like a fresh wound.

The words Hot Shot are etched into your skin in slightly wobbly, imperfect letters. Permanent. Forever.

You bite your bottom lip hard enough to hurt, staring at it. "Great. This is just... great."

You let the shirt fall back down and flop backward onto the mattress with a loud sigh, the springs creaking beneath you. Your arm comes up to cover your eyes, blocking out the too-bright light from the open van door.

"Your van isn't all that bad, you know," you mumble after a moment.

You can hear his pleased smile even without looking at him—hear it in the way he shifts, the slight huff of amusement. "High praise. I’ll let the next person I bring in here know."

"I'm serious. It's kind of cozy."

"Okay, well, cozy time is over." Eddie claps his hands together, making you flinch. "Get these clothes on so I can take you home." 

He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a new top— a silent way of telling you to give back his Dio shirt. 

You don't move. "I think I'm okay hiding in here the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the semester."

"Nope." Eddie shifts forward, and you hear him moving around. "Not happening."

"Why not?" You peek out from under your arm. "You said it yourself—it's cozy."

Eddie rolls his eyes—you can see it now, the exaggerated way his whole head moves. "Look, the van is kind of a drama-free zone, and I don't want you ruining the vibe."

You move your arm fully now, propping yourself up on your elbows to give him a proper death glare. "You're literally best friends with drama queen one and drama queen two. You're pretty much their love child."

"And that's why you fit in so well," Eddie snides, finishing off his pizza and wiping his hands on his jeans.

You stare at one another for a long moment—him with that infuriating smirk, you with your best attempt at intimidation despite your pounding headache and disheveled state.

You break first. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself, small and reluctant but real.

Then it falls.

"Last night..." You sit up fully now, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "Did I... tell you anything?"

Eddie leans back against the side of the van, arms crossed. "Nah, not really. Just said Robin is mad at you. You're mad at Steve. Steve is mad at Robin, blah blah..." He starts circling his fingers in the air by his head, letting his eyes roll back dramatically. He flops backward onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated sigh. "Or wait, was Robin mad at Steve? Honestly, I can't keep up anymore. You three are like a soap opera."

You're quiet for a moment, then reach down to touch the tattoo again, lifting the shirt slightly. The letters are uneven—definitely done by someone drunk. But they're there. Irreversibly Hot Shot. 

"Eddie..." You bite your bottom lip, not looking at him. "Do you think I'm an attention seeker?"

The van goes quiet. You can hear traffic in the distance, birds chirping, the rustle of Eddie shifting beside you.

When you finally look at him, his face is completely serious for once—no smirk, no jokes, no deflection. His dark eyes are steady on yours.

"Sweetheart," he says in the most genuine tone you've ever heard from him. "Aren't we all?"

.-.-.-.

Robin doesn't say anything the morning they throw their belongings into Eddie's van to drive to the camping trip. She hasn't talked to you all week, and you haven't tried to force it. The only reason you even know you're still invited is because three days ago, Robin walked into your dorm—you were lying on your bed, pretending to read but mostly staring at the same page for twenty minutes—and said, "Eddie is picking us up at 4PM. sharp on Friday."

The air in the room had felt thick, suffocating. You'd looked up from your book, mouth opening to say something—anything—but she was already turning away.

She stopped at the door, hand on the knob. Didn't turn around. "Nancy's excited to see you."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut with a finality like a period.

You think maybe Nancy is your only saving grace for still going. Or maybe not really, because thinking about it—being in such close proximity to Robin who is clearly still furious with you, and to Steve who you're pissed at because you know he's pissed at you—makes your stomach churn with anxiety that tastes like battery acid.

Could you blame him, though?

Eddie had mentioned in passing that Steve and Robin aren't really speaking to each other either, except for some public appearances together for Greek life stuff. Things you weren't invited to this time. Things you wonder if Steve's other girls attended. If Polly was there in some tight dress, standing close to him, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm.

Maybe that's why you're pissed at Steve. Sammy ended things with you—and you still have to see him twice a week in Art Appreciation, where he now doesn't even blink in your direction, just stares straight ahead at the professor like you're made of glass or air or nothing at all—and Steve still gets to fuck whoever he wants. While you're not getting any. Not even from Steve.

At least you're not stuck in a car with him for the two-hour drive to the state park. Apparently he only had morning classes on Friday and left early to set up what he could.

But that doesn't mean the two-hour ride isn't one of the longest of your life.

Eddie does most of the talking—rambling about Corroded Coffin's upcoming gigs then about how he's pretty sure one of the Pike pledges is dealing weed and cutting into his business. His voice fills the van like smoke, impossible to escape.

You're in the back seat, watching the landscape blur past the window. Trees give way to fields give way to small towns with faded storefronts and gas stations. The vinyl seat is cracked beneath you, sticking to your bare legs where your shorts ride up. The van smells like stale cigarettes and the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that does absolutely nothing to mask it.

Robin is in the front, arms crossed over her chest, staring out her own window the entire time like if she looks hard enough she can transport herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. Her hair catches the sunlight streaming through the windshield, turning auburn strands to copper and gold.

Occasionally though, when Eddie says something particularly ridiculous—comparing his guitar skills to Eddie Van Halen with zero irony, claiming he's "basically a guitar god in the making"—you and Robin make eye contact in the rearview mirror. The corners of your lips twitch, almost smiling, something familiar and warm flickering between you before you both erase it and look away quickly, back to your respective windows.

Eddie drives down a dirt road that kicks up dust in thick clouds behind the van, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that you can taste in the back of your throat. The state park spreads out around you—tall pines and oak trees creating a dense canopy overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through in golden shafts that look almost solid. The air smells different here—clean and sharp with pine resin, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss.

Campers and tents are spread out at different sites along the winding road, some with families already grilling—the smell of charcoal and cooking meat drifting on the breeze. Others with groups of college kids drinking beer from coolers, their laughter carrying through the trees.

Eddie finally backs into a spot next to Steve's BMW, which looks absurdly out of place here—all sleek lines and polished paint next to the dusty, beat-up van. On the other side of Steve's car is a light blue sedan you don't recognize—a Ford, maybe, with Indiana plates and a small dent in the rear bumper.

The three of you climb out of the van. Your legs are stiff from sitting for two hours, muscles protesting as you stretch. The ground beneath your feet is uneven—packed dirt and pine needles that crunch softly with each step. The air is cooler here in the shade of the trees, and you can hear water somewhere nearby, a stream or creek bubbling over rocks.

You follow Eddie and Robin toward the campsite, taking in the setup.

There are already two tents pitched—one larger, the fabric a dark green that blends with the surroundings. The other is smaller, a bright blue that stands out like a beacon. There's a fire pit ringed with large stones blackened from previous fires, and someone—probably Steve—has already laid kindling in the center. A wooden picnic table sits nearby, the kind that's permanently installed at campsites, its surface weathered gray and carved with decades of initials and crude drawings.

Lawn chairs—the collapsible kind with cup holders in the arms—are folded on the ground next to a substantial pile of firewood. The logs are fresh-cut, pale wood still showing where the bark was stripped away, and they smell sweet and sharp like sap. You can see a cooler partially hidden in the shade of a massive oak tree, condensation already beading on its blue plastic surface.

"Hey!"

The voice is warm and familiar, carrying easily through the clearing. Your attention snaps toward the tree line as Nancy emerges from between two pines, carrying an armful of sticks and small branches—probably meant for kindling. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, a few leaves caught in her short bob.

Next to her is a boy you've never met in person but have seen once before. In the picture on Steve's bathroom mirror, the one with Eddie, Nancy, Robin, and him all squeezed together and grinning like idiots. The last time you saw that picture, you'd been sitting on Steve's closed toilet seat, peeing on a pregnancy test with shaking hands, and you'd noticed Steve had added a new photo to the collection—Eddie, Robin, him, and you, taken at some party you barely remember but where everyone looks happy.

Robin's face transforms instantly. Whatever moodiness she's been carrying for the past week—that heavy, dark cloud—evaporates like morning fog burned away by sun. "Nance!" She beams, already moving forward with quick steps that kick up dust.

Nancy barely has time to hand the pile of sticks to the boy beside her before Robin reaches her, pulling her into a tight hug. They hold each other for a beat longer than necessary, Nancy's face buried in Robin's shoulder, Robin's hand cradling the back of Nancy's head with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. You can hear Nancy's small sound of relief, muffled against Robin's shirt.

The brown-haired boy—tall and lanky with shaggy hair that falls across his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes—trudges through the campsite with the kindling balanced precariously in his arms. He's wearing a worn flannel over a faded Talking Heads t-shirt despite the warmth, jeans that are torn at one knee, and beat-up Converse that have seen better days. His face is gentle, features soft and unassuming—brown eyes that look kind, a slight bump on the bridge of his nose like it's been broken before.

Eddie's face lights up when he sees him, practically glowing. "Jon-boy!" He proclaims, voice booming across the campsite as he approaches with open arms. He slings one around the boy's shoulders, nearly toppling the kindling. "My favorite future Spielberg!"

"Hey, Ed." The boy—Jon, apparently—smiles, the expression soft and a little shy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice is quiet, gentle. "How was the drive?"

"Exhausting!" Eddie shoots a look at Robin, then at you, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear into his bangs. "The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Actually, forget a knife. You'd need a chainsaw. Maybe dynamite." He releases Jon and digs into his denim jacket pocket, pulling out a small tin that's definitely full of pre-rolled joints. The metal catches the sunlight, glinting. "How about we get started on the fun part?"

Jon laughs, a quiet sound that barely carries, shaking his head. But he also doesn't say no. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and you can see familiarity, but no idea where.

Eddie turns to you, grinning so wide it looks almost painful. "Hot Shot, what about you? Wanna join?"

You sigh, shifting your backpack on your shoulder. The strap is digging into your skin, and you can already feel the beginning of a bruise forming. "Can't. Need to build my tent first before it gets dark." You gesture at Eddie pointedly. "You should do the same, you know. Unless you want to be fumbling with tent poles in the pitch black."

Eddie waves a dismissive hand, clicking his tongue. "I'm all set. I'm sleeping in a hammock. The only right way to camp. You get to sway with the breeze, sleep under the stars—it's transcendent." His eyes go wide, and he smacks his forehead dramatically. "Wait, how rude of me. Hot Shot, let me introduce you to the one and only Jonathan Byers."

The name sounds familiar—you realize with sudden clarity that this must be Will's older brother. You'd heard stories about him, mostly about how he and Steve had a complicated history.

You step forward, and notice how similar his features are to Will's—the same gentle brown eyes, the same soft jawline, though Jonathan's face is more angular, more grown into itself. His hands are stained with something dark—maybe developing chemicals if the photography stories are true—and there's a small scar on his chin.

You hold out your hand. "Hi."

Jonathan takes it, his grip gentle and a bit uncertain, like he's afraid of hurting you. His palm is callused, warm. He doesn't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I've heard... well, I've heard a lot."

You smile despite the awkwardness thrumming under your skin. "All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly." He cracks a small smile, and you see a dimple appear in his left cheek.

And because the world apparently hates you, footsteps crunch on leaves and gravel behind you. You turn and Steve is walking back from wherever he disappeared to—probably gathering more firewood or checking something, his arms empty now. 

He stops when he sees you. His eyes—that golden hazel color that shifts in the light—land on where your hand is still clasped with Jonathan's. Something flickers across his face—too quick to read, gone before you can name it. His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin.

Then he looks away and slips into one of the tents like you don't exist, like you're part of the landscape he can ignore.

You drop Jonathan's hand quickly, heat rising to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm afternoon sun.

You look over at Nancy and Robin. They've separated slightly but Nancy's hand is still resting on Robin's lower back, a touch that looks casual but you know is anything but. Robin is glaring at the tent Steve disappeared into, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with an intensity that could burn holes through the fabric. Then her gaze catches yours for a split second—something complicated passing between you, hurt and anger and maybe a tiny bit of understanding—before she deliberately turns away, looping her arm through Nancy's more firmly.

"Come on, babe. Help me figure out where we're setting up our tent."

Eddie leads you back to the van, the metal hot under your hand when you grab the door handle. Nancy and Robin trail behind, still joined at the hip, and you can hear them talking quietly, Nancy's voice soothing whatever's churning in Robin's head.

The back of the van is cluttered—sleeping bags, a cooler, Eddie's guitar case covered in more stickers, some camping equipment that looks like it hasn't been used in years. 

Robin grabs her duffel bag, then her backpack. Eddie hands you yours.

But he makes no motion to hand you anything else.

You peek into the van, scanning the remaining contents, then look at your single duffel bag. A sick feeling starts in your stomach. "Uh, Eds. Is my other bag in there still?"

"I just handed it to you." Eddie points at the duffel, confused.

"Yeah, my other bag." You say slowly, enunciating each word like you're talking to a child.

"What other bag?" He blinks at you innocently, and you can see the exact moment realization dawns. His face goes from confused to oh shit. "Uh..."

"What's wrong?"

For the first time in a week, you hear Steve's voice directed at your general vicinity. You give him a sideways look, refusing to fully turn, your spine stiffening.

He's standing a few feet away now, and up close you can see more details—the way his hair has grown out, brown roots overtaking the blonde highlights so it looks honey-colored in the dappled sunlight. It's longer, curling slightly at the ends where it brushes his neck. He's wearing dark jeans that sit low on his hips, and that blue t-shirt that's slightly too short. You can see a sliver of his stomach when he shifts his weight, a line of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair leading down. The sleeves hug his biceps, fabric stretched across muscle, and more hair peeks out from the collar, dark against his chest.

His arms are crossed over his chest, defensive, and there are smudges of dirt on his forearms like he's been working. 

Nancy—still standing with Robin, their fingers now loosely intertwined—speaks for you. "She forgot her tent and sleeping bag."

You swivel to face her, defensive heat rising in your chest. "Correction; Munson here forgot my tent and sleeping bag. I put them right by the van because he told me to." You do air quotes, pitching your voice lower in a poor imitation of Eddie's gravel-rough tone. "'Have it all under control, sweetheart.'"

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, climbing out of the van with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. His boots thud against the ground, disturbing the layer of pine needles. "Okay, yeah. Might have gotten... distracted. You see, I needed to take a smoke break while you and Robin went upstairs to double-check you had everything." He's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly in the air, nearly hitting the side of the van. "And then I saw this really cool beetle—or was it a moth? It had these incredible wings, all iridescent—doesn't matter. Point is, I, uh..." He grimaces. "Shit. Sorry, Hot Shot." He brightens slightly, like he's just had a brilliant idea. "You're welcome to share the hammock with me! It'll be cozy."

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose where a headache is starting to form. "I'll just sleep in your van again."

Nancy giggles, eyebrows raising with curiosity and amusement. "You slept in his van?"

You shrug, not elaborating, the memory of waking up in Eddie's shirt with a fresh tattoo on your hip making your face heat. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve's jaw tick, his posture going rigid, shoulders pulling back.

Eddie looks back into the van, assessing the cramped space. "I mean, you're welcome to it, but I took the mattress out after our wild night together." He winks obnoxiously, making smooching noises. "Made quite the mess, sweetheart."

"Shut up. Please." Your eyes drift to Steve despite yourself, despite knowing you shouldn't care what he thinks.

He doesn't seem bothered. His face is carefully blank, neutral, giving absolutely nothing away. Does he know the real story—that you'd gotten shitfaced and thrown up on yourself? Or does he not care anymore? Has he written you off completely, moved on to other girls who don't come with complications?

Steve sighs heavily, like this entire situation is a massive inconvenience he didn't sign up for. "Okay. She can take my tent and I'll just crash with Jonathan." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't address you directly. His gaze stays fixed somewhere over your left shoulder, like you're a problem to be solved rather than a person standing right there. "It's fine."

"It's fine, really—" you start, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.

But Steve has already moved. He's walking toward you, and before you can step back or protest, he's taking your duffel bag out of your hand. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm and callused, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch—and then he's moving past you. The scent of him washes over you: pine needles and campfire smoke and that cologne he wears, the one that makes you think of clean laundry and something warmer, spicier underneath.

He sets your bag inside one of the tents—the smaller blue one—then walks to the larger green tent and grabs his own stuff. He tosses it into what must be Jonathan's tent with more force than necessary, the duffel landing with a heavy thud. He walks over to Jonathan, says something low that you can't hear over the rustle of wind through the trees, probably explaining the new arrangement.

Jonathan nods, glancing at you with something that might be sympathy or pity or just general confusion about what the hell is going on.

"Good thing they're friends now," you hear Nancy tell Robin quietly, though not quite quietly enough.

Robin snorts, loud enough that you know she meant for you to hear. "I'm gonna go build our tent, babe. Which means I'm going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing until Harrington inevitably helps me." There's affection in her voice when she says his name.

"Sounds good!" Nancy's arm is suddenly looping through yours, and she's standing right next to you, practically vibrating with excitement. Her skin is warm against yours, and she smells like the lavender shampoo she uses and something like vanilla. "That means we get to stand around, look pretty, and catch up!"

Robin's face falls slightly when she catches your eye. Something passes between you—not quite forgiveness, but maybe an acknowledgment that you're both here, both trying. Then she turns toward the campsite, already calling for Steve in that bossy tone she uses when she wants him to do something.

Once Robin is out of earshot—already gesticulating wildly at Steve while pointing at a tent bag—and Eddie is wandering off toward the tree line with his hammock under one arm, Nancy spins to face you fully. "Okay, fill me in on everything. I know something is going on between you and Robin."

You scoff, defensive walls automatically going up. "She didn't tell you?"

Nancy shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. A few leaves are still caught in her hair from gathering kindling. "She won't talk about it. Clams up every time I try to ask. I tried to ask Steve when Jonathan and I got here, but he keeps running off." She searches your face with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "What happened?"

You should tell her it's nothing. Should brush it off and change the subject to something safer, easier. But the more you think about it, the lonelier you feel. The weight of the secret pressing down on your chest like a physical thing. "Wanna go on a walk?"

Nancy beams, relief evident on her face. She swivels to look at the group scattered around the campsite—Robin and Steve already bickering over tent poles, Eddie climbing a tree to test its hammock-worthiness, Jonathan crouched by the fire pit arranging kindling—and shouts, "We'll be right back!"

You hike for a while, following a narrow trail that winds through the trees. The path is uneven, full of exposed roots and rocks that you have to watch out for. The air smells incredible here—pine resin sharp and clean, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss growing on the north side of tree trunks. You can hear birds calling to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, that stream you heard earlier, water moving over rocks in a constant murmur.

The conversation is easy at first—Nancy tells you about one of her professors at Emerson being a total tightwad and misogynist but pretending not to be. "He talks over me in class," she says, voice tight with frustration. "Dismisses my ideas, calls them 'interesting' in that condescending tone. But then a guy says literally the exact same thing five minutes later and suddenly it's brilliant. Suddenly it's worth discussing."

"Sounds like an asshole," you offer, kicking at a pinecone on the trail. It rolls ahead of you, bouncing over roots.

"The biggest." Nancy's hands are clenched into fists at her sides. "But I've got an internship lined up for the summer at a newspaper in Boston. The Globe, actually."

You stop walking, turning to face her. "Nancy, that's amazing!"

She smiles, but it's tempered with realism, with an understanding of how the world works. "I'll probably be getting coffee the whole time and making copies. Maybe some light fact-checking if I'm lucky. But it's good for networking. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll get to write something. Even if it's just an obituary." She laughs, but there's an edge to it.

You walk in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds your footsteps on the packed dirt trail and the birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. It smells like spring and growing things and the promise of evening to come.

Then, finally, you tell her. Not everything—not that Steve kissed you like you were the only person in the world, not that you're confused about what the rules even are anymore or if they ever meant anything in the first place. But you tell her about Sammy. 

How you feel guilty for using him when he clearly wanted more, even if he said he was okay with casual. How you'd liked him well enough but never thought about him when he wasn't right in front of you. How you'd used him to try to stop thinking about someone else, and how spectacularly that had failed.

You tell her about the pregnancy scare. About the way your stomach had dropped when you realized you were late, about the panic that had clawed up your throat, about how the first person you'd thought to go to was Steve. Only Steve. Not Robin, not Sammy, not even your mom. Just Steve.

You tell her about Robin finding the test in Steve's trash, about putting the pieces together, about the fight in Eddie's van where Robin had said things that cut like glass.

You stop walking. Nancy's chewing on her bottom lip, her short bob framing her face, moving slightly in the breeze that smells like pine and approaching evening. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts, practical and unfussy, but somehow she still looks put-together in a way you never manage. Her heart-shaped face glows in the golden late-afternoon light filtering through the trees, making her skin look warm and soft. There's dirt on her knees from kneeling to gather kindling, and a small scratch on her forearm from a branch.

Then she smiles—soft and a little sad and knowing in a way that makes your chest ache. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

Nancy swallows hard, looking away toward the trees where birds are settling for the evening. She hugs herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's cold even though it's still warm, even though sweat is beading at your hairline from the walk. The air smells like earth and green growing things and something darker, richer underneath—decay and new life all mixed together.

"I love Steve and Robin," she says quietly, each word careful and deliberate. "But I don't think they'll both be truly happy in this arrangement. And I don’t think the people around them will be either."

There's a tear rolling down her cheek, catching the light as it falls. She wipes it quickly with the back of her hand, laughing breathlessly. The sound is hollow, painful. "God, I've never said that out loud before. I've never let myself even think it completely through."

Your chest aches watching her. You step closer and link your arm through Nancy's, pulling her against your side. "It's safe with me."

She leans her head on your shoulder for a long moment, and you stand there together on the trail surrounded by pine trees and the smell of approaching evening. Two people holding secrets that are too heavy to carry alone, that cut into your hands with their weight.

The light is starting to change, going from golden to something softer, more amber. You can hear the campsite in the distance—Eddie's laugh carrying through the trees.

Then you squeeze Nancy's arm and smile. "Okay, enough heavy stuff. Tell me—have you been reading any new books lately?"

Nancy lights up immediately, the sadness lifting from her face like clouds parting. She launches into a detailed explanation of the mystery novel she just finished—something about a detective and a murder in a locked room and a twist ending she didn't see coming. Her voice picks up speed as she gets more animated, using her hands to gesture, and you let her words wash over you as you walk back toward the campsite.

.-.-.-.

Everyone is sitting around the campfire as the sky deepens from orange to purple to deep blue. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky. The smell of burning wood is thick and pleasant, mixing with the pine scent of the forest and the faint smell of bug spray someone—probably Robin—sprayed liberally.

Beers are in hands, all of you in lawn chairs arranged in a loose circle around the fire pit. The flames cast flickering shadows on everyone's faces, making expressions hard to read. Eddie brought his guitar and he's strumming absentmindedly—not playing anything specific, just chords that blend with the crackling of the fire and the evening sounds of the woods. Crickets chirping, owls starting to call, the distant sound of other campers laughing.

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are talking about something—you catch fragments about a movie Jonathan saw at some art house theater in LA and about Nancy's classes and her internship.

You're sitting next to Steve. There's a gap between your chairs—not huge, maybe a foot, but deliberate. Intentional. His chair is an old-fashioned folding one with green and white striped fabric, and yours is blue with a rip in one arm where the fabric has worn through.

He hasn't taken a sip of his beer. The bottle sits in the cup holder of his chair, condensation running down the glass, forming a small puddle on the plastic. He's just staring into the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes, turning them more gold than hazel, face expressionless. You can see the flicker of orange light playing across his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, those long lashes that aren't fair for any guy to have.

When you and Nancy had gotten back to the campsite earlier—the sun starting to sink toward the horizon, the light going soft and golden—you'd found Steve standing apart from the group. He was facing the neighboring campsite, perfectly still, just watching.

There was a family there. A camper trailer painted white with blue racing stripes down the side, a striped awning pulled out to create shade. A picnic table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth that billowed slightly in the breeze. Paper plates and plastic cups, a cooler open showing ice and beer and juice boxes.

A little boy—maybe five or six with a gap-toothed grin—ran in and out of the camper, shrieking with laughter that was pure and unselfconscious. His parents stood together by a small charcoal grill, the dad flipping burgers with a metal spatula, wearing a t-shirt that said "World's Okayest Dad." The mom had her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder, both of them laughing at something. Their faces were bright with genuine joy in the purple dusk, easy affection written in every line of their bodies.

The little boy was chasing fireflies with a mason jar, his small hands cupped around each one before gently placing them inside. You could hear him counting—"One, two, free, four"—his voice high and excited.

When Steve had noticed you and Nancy approaching, he'd immediately looked away, turning his attention to one of the tent stakes like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He'd crouched down, pretending to check that it was secure, but you'd seen his hand trembling slightly.

You wonder if he was imagining his own childhood. Did he ever go camping with his parents? Did they ever act like that—easy affection, casual touches, genuine happiness in each other's presence? Did his dad ever wear a goofy t-shirt and flip burgers while his mom laughed? Did they ever chase fireflies together as a family?

From the stories you've heard, from the brief glimpse of his mother's carefully maintained distance and his father's cutting voice you heard at New Year’s, you're pretty sure the answer is no. Steve had none of that. His childhood was probably country clubs and stiff family dinners and being told to be quiet, to be perfect, to not embarrass the Harrington name.

Jonathan gets up from his chair, the metal creaking slightly. He stretches, his back popping audibly, and you see him grimace. "Hey, you want something?" He's looking at you, friendly and open, voice quiet and kind.

"Coke would be great, thanks." You smile politely, grateful for his easy presence.

He nods and heads toward the cooler tucked in the shadows. You turn your head slightly and catch Steve staring at you. The firelight makes his features look sharper, all angles and shadows, the flames dancing in his eyes. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath skin. He finally takes a long drink of his beer—Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows—then turns away again, back to staring at the fire like it holds answers to questions he won't ask out loud.

Nancy had told you more about Jonathan during your walk, filling in gaps and backstory. He's sweet but shy, just like his brother Will. Always observing, always thinking, taking mental photographs of moments before they disappear. She'd dated him right after breaking up with Steve—it had been messy, feelings still raw on all sides like an open wound. 

They'd even gotten in a physical fight, Steve and Jonathan, though Nancy hadn't gone into details. Something about words said in anger, about Nancy caught in the middle, about two boys who were both hurting and didn't know how else to express it. Now they don't act like it in front of people, but either one would kill for the other if it came down to it. Secret best friends, bonded through shared trauma and Nancy's– unrequited– love, through parallel experiences of feeling inadequate and out of place.

You'd asked Jonathan earlier—while helping him arrange firewood, building the structure for the fire—why he wasn't in Hawkins for the holidays. He'd looked surprised by the question, like most people don't ask about his life, before explaining that he works in California now, in film production. He's an assistant on some indie film, "basically the coffee boy with delusions of grandeur," he'd said self-deprecatingly while building a careful teepee of kindling.

But you'd seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. About being on set, about watching the director work, about the way light and shadow create mood, about the script he's working on in his spare time.

He'd tried telling the group earlier about the plot of that script—something called "The Consumer" about capitalism and body horror and the ways we literally consume each other in American society. Everyone had worn knowing smiles, nodding along with varying degrees of genuine interest. Eddie had looked fascinated, asking questions. Robin had made jokes about it being "very Jonathan" which apparently meant pretentious but in an endearing way. Nancy had watched him with such open fondness it made your chest ache.

Even Steve had smiled a little—small and fond and resigned, the expression of someone who's heard this pitch before and knows it'll probably never get made but hopes anyway.

Eventually, as the fire burns down to glowing coals and someone adds another log that sends up a shower of sparks, Eddie produces a joint and a lighter with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The joint is perfectly rolled, neat and tight.

"Alright, birthday girl," Eddie announces, standing and doing a little bow. "Your chariot awaits."

Everyone sings "Happy Birthday" to Robin—slightly off-key, the harmonies all wrong, Steve's voice a low rumble you can feel in your chest more than hear. Nancy's soprano climbs too high on the final note, and Eddie adds unnecessary vocal runs that make Robin laugh so hard she almost falls out of her chair.

She's smiling when they finish, genuinely happy, and she even looks at you during the last line—her eyes finding yours across the fire, her face saying I'm glad you're here, and you return it with your own expression saying I'm glad I'm here too, and something unknots slightly in your chest.

Robin lights the joint, taking the first ceremonial drag as the birthday girl. The cherry glows bright orange in the darkness, and smoke curls up into the night sky where stars are starting to appear. She passes it to Nancy, who takes a delicate hit and immediately coughs, her face scrunching up in a way that makes Robin laugh and rub her back.

Nancy passes it to Jonathan, who inhales deeply with the practiced ease of someone who's done this many times, probably in parking lots after his shifts at developing photos, probably alone in his apartment in California while working on his script. The smoke doesn't even seem to affect him.

Jonathan passes it to you.

You take a hit, the smoke harsh and burning in your lungs despite Eddie's claims that this is "the smooth stuff," and you look at Steve.

You make a thoughtless decision fueled by weed and firelight and the desperate want to fix something between you. You stick the joint between your lips, turn to Steve, and lean in. It's like that time months ago in the Pike basement when he'd done it to you— close enough to feel the heat of his lips when you slipped it in his mouth. 

You hope he remembers. Hope he understands it's a peace offering. That you're still friends, despite everything that's happened, despite all the rules broken and boundaries crossed and words left unsaid.

The corner of Steve's mouth betrays him, twitching like he wants to smile, like he's remembering the same moment you are. You see his hand start to reach toward you—fingers extending, moving through the smoke-hazy air—and then his eyes flicker from yours to your lips. You're certain he's not looking at the joint. He's looking at your mouth, at the way your lips are parted, at the space between you that's measured in inches but feels like miles.

Then something shutters in his expression. Something closes off, locks down. His hand drops back to the arm of his chair. He takes another sip of his beer—a long pull that drains half the bottle—stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the dirt and rocks, the metal legs leaving gouges in the ground.

"Happy birthday, Rob. Love you." His voice is soft, genuine, the tone he reserves for the people he actually cares about. He walks over to where Robin is sitting, bends down to press a kiss to the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She reaches up to squeeze his hand, their fingers tangling together briefly before he pulls away.

He pours out the remaining beer from his bottle—the liquid splashing on the ground, soaking into the dirt and pine needles—and tosses the empty into the trash bag Eddie had set out earlier for their hot dog wrappers and paper plates. The glass clinks against other bottles.

Then he walks to the tent he's sharing with Jonathan and disappears inside, the zipper loud in the relative quiet of the campfire. The fabric glows slightly from his flashlight inside before it clicks off, plunging the tent into darkness.

The group falls into awkward silence. Eddie chuckles—forced and uncomfortable, trying to salvage the mood—and stands up, taking the joint from your lips where it's still burning between them. He gives you a sympathetic smile that makes you want to punch him, that makes you want to scream, that makes you want to rewind time and not do something so stupid.

You see Nancy lean over to Robin, whispering something close to her ear. Robin's face goes through several expressions—surprise, resignation, frustration—before she sighs heavily and sets down her beer. She stands, brushing dirt and pine needles off the back of her jeans.

"Steve?" she calls softly, approaching the tent. The zipper opens and she slips inside, her silhouette visible through the thin fabric, backlit by the flashlight she must have turned back on.

You don't wait to see what happens. You grab your toiletry bag and a change of clothes from your—Steve's—tent, not making eye contact with anyone, and head toward the shower building without a word.

The path to the showers is marked with small solar lights that barely illuminate anything. You can hear other campers—laughter from a site nearby, someone playing acoustic guitar, the sound of children being called in for bed. The air has cooled significantly now that the sun is down, and you wish you'd brought a sweatshirt.

The shower building is cinder block painted an institutional beige, lit by fluorescent lights that buzz and flicker. It smells like chlorine and mildew and the industrial soap from the dispensers mounted on the walls. Your shower-shoed footsteps echo on the concrete floor.

The showers are communal but mercifully empty when you get there. You stand under hot water that never quite gets hot enough, washing away the day—the tension, the awkwardness, Steve's face when you'd tried to share the joint and he'd looked at you like you were offering him something poisonous. The water pressure is weak, more of a drizzle than a spray, but you stay under it until your skin turns pink and pruney, until the water starts to run cold.

You get dressed in your sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants covered in little stars. You brush your teeth at the sink, staring at your reflection in the spotted mirror. Your eyes are red-rimmed, whether from smoke or something else you're not ready to acknowledge. You look tired. You look like you need this weekend to be over already, like you need to go back to campus where you can avoid everyone more easily, where you're not trapped in close quarters with your mistakes.

When you come out of the building—toiletry bag clutched in one hand, your dirty clothes rolled up under your other arm—you nearly run directly into Robin.

You both stop. Look at each other. The light from the shower building casts long shadows across the ground, making Robin's face half-illuminated, half-hidden. She's wearing her sleep clothes too—boxers and an old Emerson College t-shirt that must be Nancy's. Her hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it.

Robin nods at you. You do the same, a small dip of your chin.

You step to the side to walk around her, giving her space, not wanting to force proximity she doesn't want. But then you hear her say your name—quiet, almost tentative.

You turn. "Yeah?"

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, arms crossing over her chest then uncrossing, then crossing again. She won't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Are you good with kayaking tomorrow?"

You blink, thrown by the mundane question, by the normalcy of it. "Uh, yeah. Sounds fun."

"Cool. Okay." She crosses her arms again, defensive but less rigid than before. "We're going after lunch."

"Cool."

You both nod again—this weird, formal acknowledgment of each other's existence, of the fact that you're both here, both trying in your own broken ways.

You spin back around and start walking toward the campsite, following the little solar lights, listening to the sounds of the forest at night—things moving in the underbrush, owls calling, the distant sound of the stream. Then, on impulse, you stop. Turn back.

"Hey, Rob?"

Robin swivels around, eyes wide. Hopeful, maybe. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on your part.

You smile—small and genuine and meaning it. "Happy birthday."

Something in Robin's expression softens entirely, all the hard edges melting away. She smiles back—real and warm and familiar, like the Robin you know, the Robin who's your best friend even when you're fighting. "Goodnight, Hot Shot."

The nickname doesn't sound like an insult this time. It sounds like an olive branch.

When you walk back to the campsite, the path lit only by those weak solar lights and the moon overhead, you catch Steve leaning against a tree near the edge of the clearing. He's smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the darkness, smoke curling up into the night air where it disappears among the stars. He's staring at the neighboring campsite again—that family with their perfect trailer and their perfect laughter and their perfect life.

He catches your eye as you approach, standing up a little straighter, shoulders pulling back. He looks at you like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, eyes dancing with something between guilt and defiance and exhaustion.

In the moonlight—stars twinkling overhead like they're watching, judging, bearing witness—you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to walk up to him and kiss the corner of his mouth. To taste the smoke and ask him to come join you in your tent. Well, technically his tent. To forget about rules and complications and just be close to him in the darkness where no one can see.

Because no matter how pissed off you are at him, no matter what reason your brain conjures up to justify the anger, the truth is simpler and more dangerous: you're addicted to Steve Harrington the way people get addicted to things that are bad for them. One taste is never enough. And now that you've had his lips on yours, his tongue sliding against yours, his breath mingling with yours—you want more. You want it so badly it makes your teeth ache, makes your chest feel too small to contain your heart.

You realize why you're upset. Why you're mad. You have to be angry at him because he's angry at you for almost ruining his future. Robin and Steve might have made up, talked it out in that tent while everyone pretended not to listen, but you're certain Steve will never want to see you the same way again. The pregnancy scare wasn't just about you—it was about threatening everything he and Robin have built, every carefully constructed plan for their future.

So you walk away, head bowed, not trusting yourself to get any closer to him. You unzip the tent and slip inside, zipping it back up behind you like you can seal yourself away from temptation.

But inside is worse. So much worse. The sleeping bag is Steve's—navy blue and worn soft with use. The pillow smells like cedar and aftershave and something indefinably Steve, that scent that clings to his clothes and his skin and now fills your lungs with every breath. You lie there staring at the tent ceiling, unable to sleep, drowning in the ghost of him.

.-.-.-.

You manage to sleep eventually, though it's fitful and broken. You wake to the sound of birds and muffled voices, the tent still dim but starting to glow with approaching dawn. The sun hasn't exactly risen yet—the light is that pale blue-gray of pre-morning, soft and uncertain. Your body aches from sleeping on the ground despite the sleeping pad, your neck stiff, mouth tasting like you licked the inside of a shoe.

You trudge out of the tent, squinting against even the weak light, and find Eddie and Jonathan already awake. Eddie's hair is pulled up in a messy bun at the crown of his head, curls escaping everywhere, and he's crouched by a morning campfire he's somehow coaxed to life. There's a makeshift camping stove set up on a flat rock, a pan sizzling with eggs and bacon that makes your stomach growl despite the early hour.

"Mornin', Hot Shot," Eddie greets sleepily, his voice gravelly and rough. He hasn't fully woken up yet, moving on autopilot and muscle memory.

You scrunch your face, the smell of coffee hitting you like a physical thing—rich and dark and exactly what you need. You walk away from your tent, noticing Jonathan's tent is half open. Inside you can see the tanned expanse of Steve's back, moles scattered across his shoulders and spine like constellations you've traced with your fingers in darkness. His sleeping body is curled on his side, face smushed into a pillow, hair sticking up at the back in a way that's stupidly endearing.

You force yourself to look away and keep walking, smiling at the cup of coffee Jonathan pours and hands to you. The mug is enamel camping ware, chipped at the rim, warm in your hands.

"Morning, boys." You climb onto the wooden picnic table, sitting on the surface with your feet dangling, taking a sip of the coffee. It's strong enough to strip paint, exactly what you need. "Everyone else still asleep?"

Eddie yawns so wide his jaw cracks, stretching his arms overhead. "Nancy and Robin, I have no idea. Just Steve-o is still out." He grins, something mischievous in his expression. "We men had a late night."

You raise a brow, taking another sip. "That's ambiguous, Munson."

He picks up a piece of bacon from the pan, biting it with his teeth, grease running down his chin. He looks at Jonathan, who suddenly finds the ground very interesting. "We went boat fishing last night. On the lake."

"Okay..." You raise both brows now. "Wait, how'd you get a boat?"

Jonathan snorts—actually snorts—and Eddie is grinning ear to ear, eyes dancing with barely contained glee. "Well, you see, sweetheart. You ever wonder why I got into legal trouble back in Hawkins?" He laughs, taking another bite, bacon crunching between his teeth. "Took Principal Higgins' car for a joyride when I was sixteen. My old man taught me how to hotwire."

"Oh god." Your eyes widen. "You didn't..."

"Oh, don't worry, Hot Shot. We returned it safe and sound. Even topped off the gas tank." His teeth are shining, a few bacon pieces stuck between them. "We're gentlemen thieves."

You turn to Jonathan, who's been quietly sipping his coffee. "I thought you were the sensible one."

Jonathan chuckles, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "Sometimes you just gotta live a little."

And despite everything—despite the tension and the awkwardness and the horrible night's sleep—you laugh. Really laugh, the sound startling birds from nearby trees.

Suddenly the cup in your hand is taken.

You look up and Steve is there—shirtless, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips, bed head making his hair stick up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep. He takes a drink of your coffee, grimacing at the taste—too strong, no sugar—but giving it back to you anyway. His fingers brush yours, warm and callused.

"Is there a reason we're being loud this early in the morning?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. He stands close to you—so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin, can see the goosebumps on his arms from the cool morning air. He looks at you, then Jonathan, then away quickly like the eye contact burned.

You poke his bare shoulder, definitely not staring at the constellation of moles trailing up his arm, across his collarbone, disappearing into his chest hair. "Eddie was telling me about the crime you committed last night. And now I'm an accomplice."

Steve looks down at where you poked him, a smirk tugging at his lips. The corner of his mouth lifts, showing a hint of teeth. "Is it bad to say it's not the worst thing we've done?"

"Please don't tell me." You cover your ears with both hands. "I do not look good in orange."

Steve turns to face you more fully, and you notice a new development. Had it been there yesterday? It's the beginning of a mustache on his upper lip—patchy and uneven with a small gap in the middle, like he's growing it out just to see if he can. He mutters under his breath, so quiet you almost miss it. "Handcuffs maybe..."

His eyes dart to yours when he realizes you might've heard, and heat floods your face.

But there's no time to react because Jonathan chuckles, oblivious to the tension. "Oh yeah, what did you guys tell me happened a few months ago? You broke into a pig farm?"

Eddie laughs wildly, slapping his knee. "Oh man, I wish you'd been there, Jonathan. You could've documented it. Steve, remember the look on—"

Steve's eyes snap to Eddie, burning with intensity, warning. Eddie's mouth forms an O shape, realization dawning. He looks at you, then back at Steve, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Actually, you know what? I don't remember. I was really high that night and it's all fuzzy and—"

Your brows furrow, looking between Steve and Eddie, both of them with guilt written all over their faces like billboards. Anger bubbles inside you, hot and acidic, as you connect the dots. Pigs. The reason Sammy was late to your first date was because pigs had gotten loose in his frat house. Pigs that someone had to have put there.

Jonathan is the one to sense the tension thickening in the air, suffocating everyone. "Uh... so, I'm thinking about going on a hike in a few minutes. There's a trail that leads to an overlook. Anyone want to join?"

You snap your attention away from Steve, the tentative truce from the past five minutes—from the time he took a sip of your coffee and you poked his shoulder—evaporating like morning dew. He moves away from you immediately, like you're cold, or like you're on fire and will engulf him in flames if he gets too close.

"Yes," you say, voice tight. "I would love that. Let me go see if the lovebirds want to join."

You narrow your eyes at Steve as you pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his bare chest, and walk toward Robin and Nancy's tent.

"Nancy—look, I'm sorry."

Robin's voice comes from inside the tent, muffled but clear enough. There's rustling, sharp movements like someone sitting up quickly.

"Robin, I told you it's fine. Don't really want to talk about it right now." Nancy's voice is clipped, careful, holding something back.

There's more muffled conversation you can't make out, and then the zipper unzips hastily. Nancy steps outside in clothes that tell you she's been awake for a while and ready to start the day—jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, hiking boots already laced. She seems surprised to see you standing there but doesn't say anything. She sighs, the sound heavy, and walks past you toward where Jonathan is pouring more coffee.

Robin follows shortly after, her eyes dropping when she sees you, probably knowing you heard everything.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "I, uh... we're going to go on a hike. Wanna join?"

Robin looks past your shoulder, seeing that Nancy must have been asked the same thing by Jonathan. She reaches into the tent and starts collecting snacks and water bottles, shoving them in a small backpack. "No, I think I'll stick around here and read." She won't look at you. "Not much of a hiker."

You know this is a lie. Sure, Robin isn't much into physical activity usually, but her natural hyperactivity makes her need constant stimulation, constant movement. She can't sit still for more than twenty minutes without bouncing her leg or drumming her fingers or getting up to pace.

"Okay," you say, because what else can you say?

The hike ends up being you, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve. Eddie had said something about trying to catch flying squirrels around the campsite—"They're fascinating creatures, nature's little gliders"—but really, as soon as you set off on the trail, you saw him crack open a beer and flop back into his hammock with a contented sigh.

The hike is pretty at least. The trail winds through dense forest, pine needles cushioning your footsteps, the morning air cool and fresh and smelling like earth and growing things. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance you can hear that stream again, water moving over rocks.

Nancy walks up ahead with Steve most of the time, their heads bent together, hushed whispers you can't quite make out. You catch fragments—"...she won't talk to me..." "...give her time..." "...don't know what to do..."—and realize they're talking about Robin.

Jonathan trails behind the group, stopping frequently to take photos with his camera—the way light filters through trees, a particularly interesting mushroom growing on a fallen log, a spider web strung between branches and covered in morning dew that catches the light like diamonds.

You're in the middle, enjoying the view, the rhythm of walking, the simple act of moving your body through space. Still cooling off from the reveal that Steve tried to sabotage your date with Sammy. I mean, it's not like you ever sabotaged any of his dates. Well, there was that one time you told him to cancel on a girl, but other than that, you respected his rules.

These goddamn rules.

The word makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a stick. What the fuck even are the rules anymore? And what kind of jeans is he wearing that make his ass look that good and—

Your attention is brought to the top of the hill you've been climbing. The trail opens up suddenly into a clearing, and the view steals your breath.

It's beautiful—genuinely, achingly beautiful. The overlook shows miles of forest stretching out below, pine trees swaying in the breeze like the strings of Eddie's guitar being plucked by invisible fingers. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the sun has fully risen now, painting everything in warm golden light. You can see the lake in the distance, glittering like someone scattered diamonds across its surface.

You take a deep breath, feeling grounded for the first time since you arrived yesterday. The anger in your chest loosens slightly, makes room for something else—awe, maybe, or peace, or just the simple acknowledgment that the world is bigger than your problems.

You see Nancy and Steve doing the same thing—both of them breathing deeply, shoulders dropping from their ears. Steve's arm comes up to rub Nancy's back in small circles, clearly consoling her about whatever's happening with Robin. The gesture is tender, familiar, the kind of touch that speaks to years of friendship and history.

You feel your anger toward Steve evaporate, just a little. Just enough to remember that he's a person, not just an object of your frustration.

You turn to look at Jonathan, who's taking more photos of the view, his camera clicking steadily. You walk up to him, curious. "How long have you been behind a camera?"

Jonathan doesn't seem bothered by the conversation while he works, doesn't stop taking photos. "I don't know. Since I can remember, I guess." Click. "I've always been kind of quiet. Not great at talking." Click. "And, uh... as cliche as it is, a picture is worth a thousand words." He shrugs awkwardly, like he's embarrassed by the sentiment even though it's clearly true. Click.

"So why film then?" you ask. "Why not just stick with photography?"

He laughs—quiet and self-deprecating. "I... I don't know. I guess even though a picture can tell you something, can make you feel something..." He pauses, lowering the camera to look at you directly. "Movies can invoke deeper feelings that make you feel less alone, you know? Like you're part of something bigger than yourself."

You smile, understanding blooming warm in your chest. "That's how I feel about books. Like the author is speaking directly to me, like they understand something I couldn't put into words myself."

Jonathan smiles back, and you see that dimple in his cheek again. "Steve told me you like to read."

Your face falters, the smile freezing then melting. "He did?"

"Yeah. He talks about you all the time. Pretty much knew who you were before I met you." Jonathan shifts his camera bag on his shoulder, lifting the camera again. "Hey, uh... do you mind?" He motions the camera at you.

You look at him, a little surprised. "Oh... uh, sure. I don't mind. You want me to just...?"

"Yeah! Just stay right there and pretend I'm not here. Look at the view, think about something that makes you happy."

You do as you're told, turning back to face the overlook. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, and somehow you can smell Steve's cologne even though he's several feet away. Cedar and something warmer, spicier. You smile despite yourself, your stomach flipping, chest tightening with something you're not ready to name.

You hear the click from Jonathan's camera. You turn to him, smile still in place.

Jonathan smiles back, lowering the camera. "Steve was right about you."

Your face flickers, confusion replacing contentment. "Right about what?"

"You two ready to go back?" Steve's voice cuts across the clearing, sharp and sudden. "It's almost lunchtime."

You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at you and Jonathan with an intensity that feels disproportionate to the moment.

So you make your way back down the trail, the mood noticeably cooler than the hike up.

Lunch is awkward in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Nancy and Robin are barely speaking to each other, even though they're sitting next to each other at the picnic table. They only call each other by first names—no nicknames, no "babe," no soft touches. The absence of their usual affection is glaring, makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Steve is avoiding looking at you entirely, keeping his gaze fixed on his sandwich or the trees or literally anywhere else. Jonathan seems to like the quiet, eating steadily without feeling the need to fill silence. Eddie, on the other hand, absolutely does not like the quiet, and makes it very obvious there are multiple elephants in the room.

"So!" he says loudly, gesturing with his sandwich. "Anyone want to address the fact that there's more tension here than a fucking... I don't know, a tightrope? A rubber band about to snap?"

No one responds.

"Cool, cool. Love that for us." Eddie takes another bite.

After lunch, plans for kayaking are still on. You pile into Eddie's van, driving down dirt roads to the lake access point. The only sound is music playing from the tape deck while Eddie and Steve talk quietly in the front seat about something you can't hear over Metallica.

When you arrive at the lake, everyone decides to do pairs for kayaking. And because you are ever so lucky, even when Robin and Nancy are secretly fighting—Nancy choosing Jonathan as her partner and Robin immediately asking Eddie—you end up in a kayak with Steve.

Steve, who has changed since the hike into clothes that make you want to commit crimes. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with your university logo across the chest, but the real problem is the jean shorts. They're cut off at mid-thigh, frayed at the edges, and they show off his legs in a way that should be illegal. His thighs are thick, muscular, covered in dark hair that you know is soft to the touch. You can't help but look at them every chance you get, eyes tracing the line of muscle, the way they flex when he moves.

His hair is pushed back by a red baseball cap worn backwards, eyes hidden beneath aviator sunglasses that make him look like a lifeguard or a model or some unholy combination of both. His shirt hugs him everywhere—across his chest, his shoulders, his stomach—and when he bends down to adjust their kayak before pushing it into the water, the shirt rides up on his back, showing a strip of tanned skin and the dimples at the base of his spine.

You feel that anger bubbling again, mixing with want, creating something volatile and dangerous.

He seems just as annoyed to be paired with you, his lips pressed into a thin line when he hands you a paddle. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm, familiar—before he pulls away.

Steve climbs into the back of the kayak and you get in the front, and then you're off. The water is calm, glittering in the afternoon sun, cool spray occasionally hitting your arms.

Nancy and Jonathan are slowly trailing in front of you, their paddling synchronized and efficient. Robin and Eddie are already way up the stream, even though they've flipped their kayak twice—you can hear Robin's shrieking laughter carrying across the water, can see Eddie's hair dripping as he rights the kayak again.

The tension between you and Steve is suffocating despite the open air, despite the beauty of the surroundings. You can smell the sunscreen he's wearing—coconut-scented. You can feel his eyes on you even though you can't see them behind those sunglasses, boring into your back like lasers.

Occasionally you peek over your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes but you can feel the intensity of his stare, can see the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the paddle.

Soon it's just the two of you. Nancy and Jonathan have disappeared around a bend in the stream, their laughter fading. Eddie and Robin are long gone, probably halfway to the next lake by now.

You're surprised that for how competitive Steve usually is—always needing to win, to be the best, to prove himself—he makes no effort to speed up. Even when you want to, to get this over with as quickly as possible, to get out of this godforsaken kayak with Steve Harrington and never look back.

"Wanna take a break?" he asks suddenly, his voice startling in the silence.

You turn to look at him, seeing him point toward a small bank where the water is shallow and trees provide shade. You swallow. "Okay."

You both adjust your paddles to head that way, working in tandem without speaking. You reach the bank and Steve is quick to get out, practically leaping from the kayak and rushing into the woods without a word.

It makes you laugh despite everything—he probably needs to pee. You take your shoes off, setting them on the bank, and dip your toes in the cool water. It feels incredible after the heat of paddling in the sun. You wade out knee-deep, the clear spring water refreshing against your skin, small fish darting away from your feet.

"Hot Shot, what are you doing?"

You don't turn around, just giggle at the panic in his voice. "Taking a break, Steve." Your voice drips with sarcasm. "Come join me. It feels great."

But Steve's voice goes sharp, loud. "Where the fuck is the kayak?"

You spin around, hand already raising to point at the bank where you left it. But it's not there. Your eyes scan the area frantically, then look down the stream. Your stomach drops. You can see the bright green kayak floating away downstream, bobbing in the current, already twenty yards away and picking up speed.

"Oh shit..."

Steve's large hands come up to rub his face in frustration or maybe grief or maybe murderous rage. You can see him weighing his options, deciding whether it's worth trying to swim after it. His sunglasses slip down his nose and you can see his eyes roll dramatically, his hands coming to rest on his hips, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he's trying to decide whether to kill you or figure out what to do next.

"I'm sorry," you offer weakly. "I thought I pulled it up far enough—"

"Just—" He holds up a hand. "Don't."

Luckily, Steve had grabbed his backpack when he got out of the kayak—some instinct or experience telling him not to leave it in the boat. The camp map is shoved in there along with water bottles and snacks, and now the two of you are trekking through the woods, trying to navigate back to the parking lot.

You don't know how long you've been hiking. The sun is lower now, late afternoon stretching shadows long across the forest floor. Steve keeps stopping abruptly, looking up at the sky like there's a huge compass up there that only he can read, like he's some kind of wilderness expert instead of a rich kid from Hawkins who probably went to summer camps with air conditioning.

By the third time he stops, you crash into his solid back, stumbling backward. He doesn't look at you when he turns and grabs your arm, steadying you before you can fall. "Do we need to stop for a bit?"

"No, Steve." You huff, pulling your arm free. "The quicker we find the parking lot, the better."

Steve straightens, jaw twitching. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that an attitude while I'm trying to get us back?"

"Key word: trying, Harrington." You tap his chest, smiling sweetly in a way that's anything but sweet. "You're not really making much progress, are you?"

You start walking ahead, as if going by gut feeling is any better than his sky-reading method.

"Excuse me?" Steve's voice rises behind you. "Do we have a problem or something?"

"Nope." You pop the ‘p’, not looking back at him.

"Crazy, because it seems like you've been mad at me for no reason for over a week now." He walks ahead of you, eyes stuck on the map, holding it up like it'll reveal secrets. His voice sounds casual but there's bitterness underneath, sharp and cutting. "You didn't think I could tell you didn't want to be stuck with me today, but I could."

You stop walking, arms crossing over your chest. You scoff in disbelief. "Oh geez, you think because I didn't give you attention for a week means I'm mad at you?" You giggle, but it's full of venom. "Maybe you needed to wear those glasses, because maybe—just maybe—you're the one who was avoiding me."

Steve stops. He pivots to face you, and his lips turn upward in this infuriating smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure. "Aw, look who's upset because I didn't whip out my dick for them."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

His lips purse, and he shrugs—one shoulder lifting in this exaggerated, sassy gesture that makes him look like a bitchy teenager. His head tilts, eyebrows raising above his sunglasses. "I dunno. You seemed just fine without me. With Sammy and all. Oh, I saw you two in the library, pretty much making out against the—"

"Oh please, Steve, he was giving me notes because I missed class—"

"—and since I didn't give you attention, you're trying to sleep with my friend—"

"—I didn't fucking sleep with Eddie! I don't want to sleep with Eddie!"

"Yeah, I'm not talking about Eddie." Steve's voice goes cold, sharp. "I'm talking about Jonathan, Hot Shot."

You stare at him, an incredulous sound escaping your mouth—half laugh, half scream. "Jesus Christ, Steve. I don't want to fuck any of your friends! It's not my fault you get jealous of any guy I speak to." Your voice rises, echoing through the trees. "You don't see me blacklisting your fuck buddies from parties or releasing pigs in their houses to sabotage dates. Really cool, Steve. Very mature."

Steve laughs, the sound bitter and harsh. "The Alpha Taus are douchebags, Hot Shot. That prank had nothing to do with you."

"Well, it doesn't make sense, because you weren't that upset about Sammy when you were off canoodling with Polly last Wednesday night." You cross your arms tighter. "Oh, don't give me that look. I saw you two in the parking lot."

He points at you, shaking his finger like he's just had an epiphany. "I knew that was you! You were spying on me!"

"I wasn't spying!" You throw your hands up. "God forbid I knew where you'd be and wanted an easy fuck."

Steve leans in close, invading your space, and you can smell him—sunscreen and sweat and anger. "I don't know why you think you're special. Is it because I kissed you, huh? Is that what this is all about?"

"Oh, give me a break, Steve." You push past him, following what you think might be a trail through the underbrush.

"Aha! See, there it is." He follows behind you, voice getting louder. "You think I'm going to break my rules just because I slipped up once. Even after I told you to forget it happened."

Your chest is heaving, face hot despite the shade of the trees. If you were a cartoon, steam would be rolling out of your ears. You spin around, storming up to him until you're chest to chest, and press your finger hard into his solid chest. "Oh, bullshit! Tell me, Steve—what does 'once a month' mean to you?"

"What?" His brows knit together in confusion.

You close your mouth, eyes going glassy. Tears threaten from how pissed off you are, from how much this hurts, from everything building inside you for weeks.

"I—" He swallows, face falling as realization dawns.

"Tell me," you demand, pushing his chest again. Harder this time.

He doesn't move from your force. Doesn't speak. His face has fallen completely, all the anger draining away into something that looks like guilt and sadness and fear.

You let out a breathy huff, scowling, turning back around to keep walking. To get away from him before you do something stupid like cry.

"Because I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck!" Steve's voice echoes through the trees, bouncing off trunks, scattering birds into flight.

You don't have time to reply. You turn around and he's already there—right behind you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the freckles scattered across his nose from sun exposure, the way his chest is heaving with emotion. His eyes search yours, desperate and afraid and hopeful all at once. Those puppy dog eyes that make your knees weak, that make you forget why you're angry in the first place.

"Steve? Hot Shot?" Eddie's voice comes from somewhere nearby, cutting through the moment like a knife.

Steve looks at your mouth, his body visibly deflating, shoulders sagging. "Over here!" he calls, voice rough. He moves past you, jogging up what must actually be the trail to meet Eddie.

The others are behind Eddie—all of them looking concerned and slightly annoyed.

.-.-.-.

Later, everyone is around the campfire again as darkness falls. Most of the evening was wasted looking for you and Steve. You're sitting far away from Steve this time, deliberately choosing a chair next to Robin instead. Nancy and Robin seem to be sort of talking—their shoulders aren't touching but they're not completely ignoring each other either—but you can see it's still careful interaction.

Jonathan is the one to try reaching an olive branch, suggesting s'mores. Everyone lights up at that—even Robin and Nancy exchange small smiles.

They start collecting the supplies—graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows—when Eddie suddenly sniffs the air dramatically.

"My dear friends..." He stands, looking at the sky with fake solemnity. "I'm afraid a storm is coming."

Everyone looks up. The sky is completely clear, stars twinkling peacefully overhead.

They ignore him, laughing, going back to setting up for s'mores. But a few minutes later, thunder claps—loud and close, rattling through the air.

"Well, shit," Robin says, exasperated. "Guess no s'mores."

Eddie sighs dramatically, looking at you. "Guess I'm bunking with you tonight, Hot Shot."

"Absolutely not," you say immediately, ignoring the way Steve's eyes snap to you, something lighting up in his expression. "Your snoring kept me up all last night."

Eddie frowns, wounded. "Well, I'm not sleeping in my hammock in a storm. I'll blow away." He turns to Jonathan and Steve, spreading his arms wide. "Boys? Which one of you loves me most?"

Steve shakes his head quickly. "You kick in your sleep."

Nancy speaks up, looking at you with eyes that are slightly desperate. "You could just bunk with Robin and me." Her expression is pleading: please, I don't want to be alone with Robin, please help me, please.

But Robin groans loudly, throwing her head back. "Can we stop pretending? Steve and Hot Shot obviously want to share a tent but don't want to say it out loud."

You and Steve immediately look at one another across the fire, then at the group. Eddie wraps his arm around Jonathan's shoulders, grinning wickedly. "Looks like you're stuck with me tonight, Jon-boy! Hope you like cuddling."

Jonathan just sighs, resigned to his fate.

Really, you don't want to be stuck in a tent with Steve. But you don't want to say it out loud and admit there's something different between you, something beyond just fucking, something that terrifies you.

There's no more arguing because small droplets start hitting everyone's skin—fat raindrops that promise a real storm. Everyone rushes to their tents, laughing and cursing and trying not to slip in the mud already forming.

You have time to change in the tent before Steve opens the zipper. He's already changed too—back in those pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and a t-shirt that's seen better days. You're both in the small space now, moving around each other awkwardly, trying not to touch, adjusting sleeping bags and pillows until finally you're both lying down.

The rain starts in earnest, drumming against the tent fabric. Thunder rumbles in the distance, getting closer.

You're both on your backs, staring at the tent ceiling, the space between you measured in inches but feeling like miles. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the rain, the thunder, and your breathing—his deeper, slower, yours quick and nervous.

And you wait.

.-.-.-.

You're lying on your side in the tent, facing the nylon wall that shifts slightly with the wind. Behind you, Steve faces the opposite direction, and you can feel the solid warmth of his back against yours through the layers of fabric separating you. He's wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. You're wearing the same.

The tension is unbearable.

You've done everything—had him inside you more times than you can count, felt his hands on every part of your body, come apart beneath his touch in ways that should've stripped away any possibility of shyness. You've kissed him now, desperately, in a grimy bathroom while a party raged outside.

But you've never slept this close.

Somehow this feels more intimate than all of it. Fully clothed, not even touching except for the accidental press of your backs, and yet your skin is on fire. Every breath he takes, you feel. Every small shift of his body sends awareness crackling down your spine.

You think about what he'd said earlier, “I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck." The words have rooted inside you, burrowing deep, and you're not sure how to ignore them anymore. Don't think you want to.

The rain patters against the tent, gentle at first, then harder. The sound fills the small space, making everything feel closer, more isolated from the rest of the world.

You hear his breath stutter behind you, the rhythm breaking and catching. You wonder if he's still angry, if he's regretting agreeing to share the sleeping bag, if—

"Hey." He says your name, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches. For a second you think you imagined it, that it was just the rain creating phantom sounds. "Yes?" you whisper back.

He hesitates, and you feel him shift slightly. "I need you to know... I didn't hook up with Polly when you saw us."

There's a beat of silence. Rain drums steadily above you.

"Okay," you say quietly, not sure where he's going with this.

He continues, words coming faster now like he's afraid he'll lose courage. "I was... ending things with her.”

You’re not sure how to react, but your lips part, and without thinking you say, “Oh.” 

You wonder if he was finally bored of her. Or maybe she broke a rule and you didn’t know. 

Steve speaks again, his voice so soft you barely hear it against the crack of thunder. “I ended things with all of them."

You imagine the look on his face when he'd told you about the accident—how his downturned eyes had drooped further, how that permanent cocky assured smile had dissolved into pure, raw, unfiltered honesty.

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Steve doesn't speak for a moment. You hear the sound of his tongue pressing into his cheek, a nervous habit you've noticed. Then you feel movement—he's shifting in the sleeping bag, turning, and suddenly you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. But you can't look at him. Can't turn to face him.

His voice cracks when he says your name. And as much as you love it when he calls you Hot Shot, or moans your name in different degrees of pleasure and desperation, this feels so soft it prickles your skin, raises goosebumps along your arms.

"The night of the formal... when I came looking for you..." He drifts off, and you hear him swallow hard. "I didn't just look for you to hook up. I wanted to... I wanted to ask if we would only sleep with each other."

Your breath hitches, lungs forgetting how to expand. You think about that moment—seeing Steve in the hallway, the glasses on his face, and then going with Sammy to that hotel room. You'd told yourself you hadn't thought of Steve. Maybe you'd tried not to, but it had made it worse.

"There were never really any rules when it came to you," Steve says, voice low and rough.

Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he can hear it in the small space. You close your eyes, your lips burning at the memory of the kiss at Mardi Tau, the desperate way you'd clung to each other.

“I would’ve said yes,” you admit into the dark tent. 

Finally, you slowly roll over. Lightning strikes outside, illuminating his face in fragments—the sharp line of his jaw, the worried crease between his brows, those eyes watching you. You're both lying on your sides, hands tucked under your heads, noses inches apart because of the size of the tent and the sleeping bag you're sharing.

“I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m sorry for avoiding you,” your voice comes out even softer than his. "I thought you were mad at me."

"What? Why?" He's quick, shifting closer, and you see the shadow of his hand reaching out before he pulls it back like he's not sure he's allowed to touch you.

"I thought..." Tears rim your eyes, hot and unwelcome. "Maybe you were mad because I thought I was pregnant... and Robin found out... and I almost ruined your life, Steve."

Lightning strikes again, closer this time, and you see his hazel eyes lit with something fierce—rage maybe, or panic—and just as quickly they droop in worry. "No. No, you didn't. Fuck." His hand finally makes contact, cradling your face, thumb wiping away a tear that's escaped. "I wasn't angry with you."

You're not sobbing, but your breathing is erratic, sniffling sounds escaping despite your best efforts. "But I feel so guilty. Robin and you are fighting and she won't talk to me because I didn't tell her, and I don't want you thinking—I thought I scared you."

Steve's thumb pauses mid-stroke on your cheek. "I was scared," he admits quietly. "But not in the way you think." He takes a shaky breath. "I was scared because I sat there on my bedroom floor and for the first time in my life, I imagined having kids. Really imagined it. Like… I think I do want them and it fucking terrifies me." 

His voice drops lower. "I keep looking at that camper—the one you keep catching me staring at. I keep imagining it full of kids. My kids." 

He lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking you would hate that it could've been mine. If you were pregnant."

"Steve." Your voice breaks. "I would've prayed it was yours."

There would've been no hope otherwise. You would've wanted divine intervention, would've bargained with a god you're not sure you believe in, would've offered anything for it to be his.

You can see in the dark how his eyelashes fan against his cheek as he blinks, processing your words. He takes a deep breath, and you scoot closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face now, fingers gentle against his skin.

"What happened the night of Mardi Tau?" you ask softly.

Steve looks at you with such sadness it makes your chest ache. "I was so confused. I didn't want to be jealous, but seeing you with Sammy... and hearing you talk about him with Eddie or Robin, knowing that he was touching you..." His jaw tightens. "Since your date with him, it got harder and harder to be with the others. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't fucking finish with anyone else, and finally I just couldn't even..." He closes his eyes, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's so fucking embarrassing."

You rake your fingers through his hair, and he immediately relaxes into the touch. "It's not embarrassing, Steve. I wish... I wish it was less complicated."

"Me too," Steve whispers.

You lay in silence for a moment longer, the rain getting heavier outside, more lightning illuminating the tent in brief, brilliant flashes. Thunder rumbles, close enough to feel in your chest.

"I don't really want to forget the kiss happened," you admit. "In fact, I haven't. It's all I can think about."

Steve's hand moves from your face to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. "I can't stop thinking about it either."

In the dark, you can see his eyes light up—crystal clear in another flash of lightning. His hand trails down your arm, pulling you closer, fingers wrapping around your wrist and gently pulling your hand from his hair. He brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them slowly, deliberately. Then he kisses your palm, the touch soft and reverent. Your wrist next, then your forearm, working his way up to your shoulder until his face is inches from yours.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, his other fingers sliding under your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

You see his eyes flicker to your lips and then back to your eyes.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says.

It's not a question. Not a can I? He's telling you. Maybe even telling himself. Giving you a heartbeat to object if you want to.

You don't want to.

You grip the fabric of his shirt and meet his lips in the middle.

This kiss is different from Mardi Tau. Slower. Softer. Still passionate—god, still so passionate it makes your toes curl—but measured. Intentional. His mouth moves against yours like he's savoring it, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use every second.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely Steve— sarcastic, fun, attentive. The kiss buzzes through you, electric and warm, spreading from your lips down through your chest and settling low in your belly. His lips are soft, the pressure perfect, and when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, you open for him immediately.

The slide of his tongue against yours is slow, exploratory, like he's learning the shape of your mouth. You feel it everywhere—in your fingertips still gripping his shirt, in your chest where your heart is trying to beat out of your ribs, between your legs where heat is already pooling.

Steve shifts, moving slightly over you, one arm coming down to cage you in. The kiss deepens, tongues moving together with more purpose now, but still not fast. Never fast. Every movement is controlled, like he's determined to make this last.

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms splaying flat on his stomach. You feel the way he breathes—his round belly contracting and expanding beneath your touch. You feel the raised lines of his scars, the ones you've traced before but this time with new purpose. 

Tenderly your fingers ghost each soft tissue. You’ve told him before, how brave he was. And maybe you were only trying to make him feel better, but now you really believe it. He was brave then. He was brave when he told his dad about becoming a teacher. 

God, you want him. 

You tangle your legs with his, bodies aligning, and Steve starts to suck on your top lip. You buck your hips involuntarily, feeling him twitch against your thigh.

Steve pulls back, panting slightly. Lightning flashes, illuminating his face—flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing. "Honey," he says softly, voice rough. "I want to... I really do, but I didn't bring anything."

You understand what he means. There's nowhere he could finish except on you, and then you'd be gross, sticky— you’re not going to walk in the rain to the showers— and it might get everywhere in the confined space of the sleeping bag, on the tent floor...

You look up at him, seeing the same disappointment in his eyes that you feel in your chest. "It's okay."

He nods and starts to pull away, but you stop him, hand fisting tighter in his shirt.

"No, I mean..." Your heart is thumping so fast you can hear it in your ears. Maybe this is totally insane given the circumstances of this week—the pregnancy scare, the fight with Robin, everything complicated and messy. Maybe you're thinking only with lust and desire, being reckless and stupid. But you need him. "I want you to come in me."

Despite the way you feel his cock harden immediately against your hip, despite the shaky breath he releases, his brows furrow. "Babygirl, are... are you sure? I don't—not if..."

This is insane. This is entirely the stupidest thing you could choose to do.

You answer by kissing him deeply, pouring every ounce of want and need and certainty into it. Then you sit up, putting your arms up in offering.

Steve takes the top of the sleeping bag off you both, pushing it aside. Lightning streaks across the sky outside, illuminating the tent in brilliant white light for a split second before plunging you back into shadow. Thunder follows immediately after, so close it rattles through your bones.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and his movements are so slow, so different from every other time. His fingers drag up your skin as he peels the fabric higher, making you shiver. The shirt comes off over your head, and Steve's eyes immediately catch sight of your bare chest.

He smiles. "I knew you weren't wearing a fucking bra. It's like you wanted this the whole time."

You giggle, leaning forward, both hands cupping his face, and kiss him again. You feel him smile against your lips, his hands coming up to gently squeeze your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you gasp into his mouth. He pushes them together, massaging, his mouth kissing them, nipping, sucking. 

"Your turn," you murmur, and start working his shirt up his torso. You take your time, kissing his belly, dragging flesh between your teeth. Kissing freckles as more skin is revealed, then his navel, one of his pecs, his throat. The shirt gets awkwardly stuck on his nose as you try to pull it over his head, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter—his a low chuckle in his chest that sounds sweet and boyish, yours breathy and slightly hysterical.

And you can’t help but kiss him, drinking the sweet sounds of laughter, teeth clanking from smiling. His laughter is sweet like caramel, thick and smooth against your tongue. It’s something you can see yourself getting drunk on more often if he lets you.

He finally gets the shirt unstuck and tosses it aside, and then you're finding each other's lips again, mouths meeting in the darkness with the kind of accuracy that only comes from want. One of his hands cradles your face, so large, palm covering your entire cheek. His other hand pushes your lower back, pressing your chest flush with his. 

His skin is warm like sunshine, making you melt in his embrace. He smells like campfire and the river you two were lost in. Your fingers thread the hairs at the nape of his neck, twirling each strand, opening your mouth to capture his sigh. 

Steve lays you back down slowly, your head finding the bunched-up jacket you've been using as a pillow. His hands find the waistband of your pajama bottoms, and he starts sliding them down your hips.

"Wait—" you start, but it's too late.

He sees it. The dark ink on your hip, just above your pelvic bone.

Steve pauses, squinting at it in the dim light, and then a crooked smile spreads across his face.

"Shut up," you laugh, covering your face with your hands, looking at him through your fingers.

"Wasn't gonna say a word," Steve says, sticking out his bottom lip in mock innocence, holding his hands up in surrender. Then he laughs—quiet and fond—and finishes pulling your pajama bottoms off completely.

He plants a chaste kiss on the tattoo—the words Hot Shot in thoughtless script. 

"My Hot Shot," he whispers against your skin. "My girl."

Then he places a kiss over your underwear, right over your cunt, and the way his lips— now that they’ve touched your own, now that you know what he they taste like— plush against the fabric makes your breath catch.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly drags your panties down your legs. You tangle your fingers in his hair while he presses soft kisses to your bare skin—your hip bone, your inner thigh, higher until his breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him.

But then his eyes trail up, and his large hand splays on your ribs, trailing down past your belly button to rest on the soft flesh just above your womb. You feel a pool of warmth low in your belly at the tenderness in his touch.

He leans over, and you watch how his belly rolls, sticking over the waistband of his pajama pants. He kisses the spot on your belly softly. Once, twice, three times, his lips lingering on your skin. His thumb traces idle patterns there. 

"You would've looked so hot pregnant with my baby," he whispers against your stomach, then looks up at you—checking, making sure what he said wasn't weird, wasn't too much, didn't turn you off.

But you smile, tilting your head, biting your bottom lip. "Yeah?"

Steve grins, placing another kiss there, his eyes dark with something that looks like reverence. "So fucking hot. Would've loved seeing you like that. All round with my baby."

Heat floods through you at his words, settling low and insistent between your legs. "Steve..."

"What?" He kisses lower, just above where you're aching for him. "You don't like thinking about it? About me filling you up? Getting you pregnant?"

You whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. "I—"

"Because I think about it," he admits, voice rough. "Think about it all the fucking time now."

Before you can respond, he's working to pull down his own pajama pants. He grunts, shifting around in the limited space—it's harder than it looks, all awkward angles and elbows bumping into things—until he finally peels them off.

You realize he's not wearing any underwear. His cock slaps against his stomach, already hard and flushed dark. There’s another flash of lightning— he’s pumping himself, biting his lip, looking at you splayed out on his sleeping bag,

"Now look who wanted this," you tease.

He crawls up your body, caging you in with his arms. "I always want you," he mutters against your lips before kissing you again.

The kiss is still slow but hungry now, need building between you. Steve positions himself between your legs, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He doesn't push in yet, just rocks slightly, sliding through your wetness, and you both make sounds that are barely human.

"Ready?" he asks against your mouth. 

"Yes," you breathe. "Please."

He pushes in slowly—so slowly it's almost torture. You feel every inch as he enters you, the stretch and fullness, the way your body opens for him. He hadn’t prepared you with fingers. You feel the ache, making you wince. He kisses you again like it will help, and maybe it does. 

“You okay?” 

You nod. “Yeah, you’re just so big, Steve. But it feels so good.” 

He bottoms out with a groan that reverberates through his chest into yours, and for a moment you both just stay like that, completely joined, breathing the same air. You both pant in each other’s mouths. Steve brushes hair from your face, jaw slack, searching for something in your eyes. Or maybe he likes looking at them as much as you like looking into his. 

"You're perfect," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, blonde illuminating, refracting when lightning strikes. "Always so good to me."

A soft whimper escapes him at the praise, and he starts to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that have you both groaning. His soft stomach presses into yours, the thick thatch of hairs rubbing, dragging against your skin. 

It's nothing like before. Every other time has been fast, hard, desperate—chasing release with single-minded focus. But this is different. This is Steve pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked on yours in the flashes of lightning, watching your every reaction.

"God, you feel so good," he breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that's making you see stars despite the measured pace.

You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly, and he hits something inside you that makes you gasp and arch up into him. He notices immediately, adjusting to hit that spot again and again with each slow thrust.

"So do you," you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. "You always make me feel amazing."

He smiles against your lips, the movement becoming something tender before deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours in the same rhythm as his hips, slow and purposeful, building pleasure with every thrust.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking gently, and you tilt your head to give him better access. One of his hands slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple while his other hand braces beside your head, holding his weight off you.

"Steve," you whimper, nails dragging down his back.

"I know, babygirl. I know." His nose rubs against yours, your foreheads pressed together. "You're so beautiful." 

He kisses you again. 

You smile shyly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, your fingers pressing into his ass, pushing him deeper. The new angle makes you both moan, the sound swallowed by another crack of thunder outside.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," he pants. "Such a good girl. My good girl."

You preen at the praise, and he notices, grinning. "You like that? Like being my good girl?"

"Yes," you admit, voice breathy.

Lightning illuminates the tent again, and in that brief flash you see his face clearly—lips parted, eyes dark with desire but soft with something else. Something that looks dangerously close to lo— you let out a wanton moan.

Steve maintains that slow, torturous pace, and you realize with startling clarity that you like this. You like slow sex—with him. Only with him. Because with anyone else, going slow felt boring, felt like waiting for something to happen. But Steve going slow feels intentional, feels like worship, feels like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every expression that crosses your face.

He reaches down between your bodies, and you think he's going to touch your clit, but instead he takes your hand. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight, and he brings your joined hands up beside your head, pressing them into the sleeping bag.

His hips continue their steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, your joined hands pressed into the fabric beside your head. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, such a small gesture but somehow more intimate than anything else.

He angles his face, capturing your lips in another kiss. 

"You feel perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "So perfect inside me."

Steve groans, his rhythm faltering slightly, cock pulsing inside you. "Don't—fuck—don't say things like that if you want this to last."

You giggle, the sound breathy. "Can't help it. You make me feel so good."

He smiles against your lips, kissing you again, soft and sweet. Then he angles his hips slightly, hitting that spot inside you with more purpose, and you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you, honey. Love hearing all the pretty sounds you make."

Each slow thrust builds the pleasure higher, coiling tighter in your belly. You mewl breathily.

"Baby… Steve I—" your head lulls back. 

"I know," he says, and his free hand finally slides between your bodies to find your clit. "I've got you."

His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts, and the dual sensation has your eyes rolling back. Your hand squeezes his tighter, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.

"Feels so good," you praise, one hand sliding down to rest on his lower back, feeling his muscles flex with each thrust. "You make me feel so good. Such a perfect boy."

Steve's rhythm falters, a broken moan escaping him. "I can't—you're gonna make me—"

"Not yet," you say gently but firmly, and watch him visibly struggle to obey. "Want to come with you. Can you do that for me? Be a good boy and wait for me?"

He nods frantically, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard you're afraid he'll draw blood. "I'll try. I'll be good. Promise I'll be good."

The rain pounds harder against the tent, matching the building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Lightning illuminates you both in brief snapshots—his face above you, eyes dark and reverent; your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization.

"Does Sammy make you cum like I do?" Steve asks, voice strained. His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts. 

You bite your lip in a wave of pleasure, your fingertips dragging against his shoulders, feeling his skin and muscles. “No, not once. No one fucks me like you do, Steve.”

He falters briefly, whimpering, head bowing before he comes back. "So beautiful," he gasps. "So fucking perfect. Can't believe—can't believe I get to see you like this."

You moan, pleasure building rapidly. "Keep going. You're doing so good. Just a little longer."

The pleasure builds like a wave, slow and inexorable, rising higher with each roll of his hips, each pass of his thumb. You're making those sounds you made like in the bathroom—high, breathy whimpers of his name mixed with nonsense syllables.

"That's it," he encourages, and finally—finally—his pace picks up. Not frantically, but with more purpose, more urgency. His hips snap against yours, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the rain and thunder. 

"Want to—fuck—want to fill you up," he pants, and you can hear the desperation in his voice. "Please can I come? I've been good, haven't I? I've been good for you?"

“Yes, god yes. Please, Steve. I’m so close,” you cry. You kiss him sloppily, full of the filthy things you want to cry out but can’t form into coherent words. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, releasing it with a pop. 

His eyes snap to yours, something fierce and tender burning there. "Come for me, babygirl. Come on my cock while I fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Want to get you pregnant so badly. Want everyone to know you're mine."

You know it's fantasy talking—the heat of the moment, bodies wound tight with need, words spilling out unchecked. It probably wouldn't happen, the odds are slim, but thinking about it, imagining Steve's baby growing inside you, imagining him telling everyone you're his—

Your orgasm hits like lightning—sudden and all-consuming. Your whole body arches up into him, clenching around his cock, and you cry out his name into the small space of the tent. White-hot pleasure races through your veins, makes your vision go black at the edges, leaves you gasping and shaking beneath him.

Steve follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he comes. You feel it—the warmth flooding inside you, the pulse of his cock, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, grinding against you through the aftershocks. His face drops to your neck, hot breath against your slick skin, and he lets out a sound that's half-moan, half-so. Your name follows, escaping his warm lips, leaving an entirely new tattoo on your skin. 

Thunder crashes directly overhead, so loud and close it feels like the sky is splitting open.

Steve pulls out slowly, carefully, but doesn't move off you. Instead, his face burrows between your breasts, arms sliding underneath you to hold you close. You feel his come leaking out, warm and wet between your thighs, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Your fingers immediately find his hair, threading through the sweat-damp strands, scratching gently at his scalp the way you know he likes. 

You smile, your other hand tracing patterns on his back, finally getting to know the moles there. 

He lifts his head slightly, reaching down with one hand to touch where you're still leaking his come. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin, and you gasp. "So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All full of me."

"Steve," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.

He brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting, and groans. "We taste good together." Never in your life would you think he would be okay with tasting his own spend. 

Steve then brushes his thumb where the tattoo is. "There’s no one like you, Hot Shot," 

You smile, kissing his head. “There’s no one like you, Steve Harrington.”

He presses a kiss to the space between your breasts, then another to your collarbone, working his way up to your jaw. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate ones from before. When his tongue catches yours, you taste the both of you, and it nearly sends you over the edge again. 

When Steve eventually rolls off you, it's not like before where your limbs tear apart in haste, where you're both scrambling for clothes and space and distance. Instead, he reaches for his discarded shirt and uses it to gently clean between your legs.

The gesture is so tender it makes your breath catch. His touch is careful, reverent almost, wiping away the evidence of what you've done with a gentleness that feels more intimate than anything that came before it. You feel your tummy flip and your heart stutter, and you’re sure it’s the afterwaves of your undoing. 

You're sure this would be a moment of weakness. Another slip in the rules where reality crashes back in and he realizes what you've both done, what he said. Maybe he'll freak out, remembering the things he told you during the heat of the moment—saying things that were empty promises because he could never actually get you pregnant, and he could never tell anyone you were his. 

I mean, it’s not like you two really wanted that. You both were still in school. You both were still too young. And you both couldn’t really be together like that.

Maybe he'll put distance between you, go back to the carefully constructed boundaries you've been dancing around and breaking for months now.

But Steve makes no effort to run.

Another lightning strike illuminates the tent, and you see his goofy smile—dopey and satisfied and completely unguarded. He tosses the shirt aside and plops down next to you, immediately grabbing you and pulling you toward him. He kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around you as your limbs tangle together naturally, fitting like puzzle pieces.

You motion to the sleeping bag. "You're going to have to throw this out now," you mumble against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your cheek. 

"Mm, worth it," Steve chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.

There's only the sound of rain now—steady and soothing—and the afterglow settling warm in your bones, and this moment suspended in your tent like a snow globe, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, there are rules and arrangements and complications. Outside, your friends are in their respective tents. Robin. 

But in here, it's just you and Steve and the ghost of what you just did hanging in the air between you.

You don't want to ask what this means for you both. It's not like you like each other—not like that. It's all possessiveness because you're the only ones who know how each other's bodies work. That's the only thing. Has to be the only thing.

But it is different. The rules are bent beyond recognition now, twisted into shapes you don't recognize anymore— and apparently don’t apply to you according to Steve. 

So you ask something else instead. "Why didn't you tell me you declared your major?"

Steve sighs, but he doesn't tense. His hand continues its path up and down your back, scratching gently, tracing patterns on your skin. "You were the first person I wanted to tell." His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "I mean, shit, the moment you told me you thought you were pregnant, I had made a decision. Even if it's not in the cards for me—kids, a family, all of that—maybe I could have something that's just for me. Something I chose."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your throat tightens, tears prickling hot behind your eyes. You don't cry, but you feel it building in the middle of your throat, threatening to spill over.

Maybe because everyone else in his life has made decisions for him—his father pushing business, his arrangement with Robin dictating his future, even the rules he set for himself born out of fear and self-preservation rather than genuine desire.

You're sure everyone has asked him all the questions by now. Why teaching? Why not something more prestigious, more lucrative? Why would the guy who hasn't shown any real interest in direction or ambition suddenly choose something so decidedly... honorable?

"Are you happy, Steve?" you ask quietly into the darkness.

You don't mean just about his major. You mean everything. Is he happy with his arrangement with Robin? Is it actually benefiting him, or is he sacrificing pieces of himself for her happiness? And Robin—is it even benefiting her, or is she just as trapped in this elaborate fiction they've constructed?

But Steve doesn't answer.

His breathing has already evened out into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep, a gentle snore escaping him.

There’s a line wrapped around the front of the house—girls in oversized sweaters slipping off their shoulders, boys pretending not to shiver in denim jackets, everyone buzzing with the anticipation of being let inside. You and Robin don’t stop. You never do.

Eddie Munson is stationed at the door like a gargoyle.

He’s leaning against the frame, boot propped up behind him, leather jacket worn and cracked like it’s lived a hundred lives already. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear, unlit for once, and his grin is sharp and waiting, like he’s been bored until this exact moment.

“Well,” he drawls, pushing himself upright, eyes lighting up when he sees you, “hello, beautiful ladies.”

Robin sighs like she’s known this was coming all day. You just tilt your head, amused despite yourself.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Eddie adds, sweeping an exaggerated bow.

You and Robin exchange a look—hers playful, yours cautious, already bracing for whatever comes next.

“Staying out of trouble tonight, Munson?” Robin asks, folding her arms.

Eddie clutches his chest. “What’s the fun in that, sweetheart?” Then his eyes slide to you, slow and deliberate, grin turning mischievous. “How’re you doin’ tonight?”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes, heat creeping into your cheeks even though you tell yourself there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Robin hooks her arm through yours, tugging you closer like she’s protecting you from a predator.

“Nuh-uh,” she says firmly. “Stop trying to hit on my roommate. She has standards.”

Eddie makes an exaggerated noise of pain, blowing a raspberry. “Wow. Betrayed. Absolutely betrayed.” He gestures toward the door with a lazy flick of his wrist. “If you’re lookin’ for Harrington, he’s inside waitin’ for you.” 

Then, because he can’t help himself, he turns back to you, eyes bright. “Save me a dance, sweetheart?”

Eddie Munson, well you weren’t sure about his story. A troubled man, ex-junkie drug dealer, and a huge flirt. He was best friends with Steve Harrington, and because of that honor, he was like Pike’s honorary mascot. You saw him more at the fraternity house than most of their actual members. You had no idea if he was even a college student. You were pretty certain he lives in his van and parks it around campus. But sometimes, he convinces Steve to let his band, Corroded Coffin, play at their parties, but tonight it seems he was on bouncer duty. 

“In your dreams, Munson,” you say, and you don’t miss the way your mouth curves upward when you do.

Robin laughs, triumphant, and pulls you inside before Eddie can respond. 

The house swallows you whole.

Heat hits first—bodies packed too tightly, air thick and damp, the kind that sticks to your skin almost immediately. Music pulses through the floor, something heavy on synth and bass, loud enough that conversation becomes a series of leaned-in mouths and shouted words. The walls are plastered with old posters and banners you’ve seen a hundred times, but tonight they look warped and unreal under dim lights and cheap colored bulbs.

You step carefully, sneakers sticking slightly to the floor. Beer. Definitely beer.

You make a mental note—again—of how the Pike house is normally full of furniture. Couches, chairs, tables. Tonight, it’s all gone. You imagine it shoved upstairs, crammed into bedrooms that are strictly off-limits during parties unless you’re a girlfriend or someone important.

You are allowed upstairs. Technically. Thanks to Robin, but you rarely go up there except to bypass the bathroom line downstairs. 

She navigates the crowd with purpose, fingers laced through yours, tugging you along like she’s afraid you’ll get lost. You don’t mind. You like this—being an observer, watching the way people move when they think no one’s paying attention. The way couples cling to each other like life rafts. The way frat boys puff up, loud and careless, like the world has never told them no.

And then Robin stops.

Her entire body seems to brighten, posture shifting, smile blooming as she spots him across the room.

Steve Harrington.

He’s near the kitchen, surrounded by people, solo cup in hand, looking infuriatingly at ease. His hair is perfect, like it always is, soft and intentional without looking like he tried. He’s laughing at something one of the guys says, head tipped back slightly, and for a moment you understand why people orbit him so easily.

Social chair. Future president. Pike royalty.

Robin tugs you forward, crosses the room, quickly coming up to her boyfriend.

Their greeting is familiar. Robin wraps her arms around him, pressing herself into his space like she belongs there. Steve smiles down at her and presses a quick kiss to her cheek—not rushed, not sloppy. Gentle.

You’ve always thought it was charming.

Most couples here are a mess of limbs and mouths, hands everywhere, dry humping against walls without a shred of shame. But Steve is different with Robin. He keeps a steady hand at her back. He asks if she’s okay. He doesn’t make her perform affection for an audience.

They don’t do PDA.

When you really think about it—when you let yourself linger on the thought—you realize you’ve only ever seen them kiss on the lips once. And even then, it barely lasted a second, like something private that accidentally happened in public.

Still, Robin looks at him like he’s everything.

She talks about him constantly. How sweet he is. How he cares so deeply about the people that are close to him. How he’s smart, but pretends he isn’t. How loyal he is. You always listen, nodding and smiling. 

You hate that you notice the thing that doesn’t quite fit.

Because something is off.

It’s small. Easy to ignore. But you’ve seen it before—in the moments when Robin’s attention is elsewhere. The way Steve’s gaze lingers on you just a beat too long. The strange curve of his smile when your eyes meet, like he’s amused by something you’re not in on.

It always makes you shift on your feet, suddenly aware of yourself in a way you don’t like.

Like now.

Robin pulls back from him, still smiling, still talking, and Steve’s arm settles around her shoulders automatically, his palm never actually touching her. It’s always closed in a safe fist. But his eyes are already on you. He takes a slow sip of his drink, gaze steady, unreadable.

“Hey,” he says, voice smooth and easy.

“Hey,” you reply, matching him without thinking.

His eyes flick over you—quick but thorough—and then he turns back to Robin like nothing happened.

“Why were you so late?” he asks her. “The boys were asking about you.”

Robin exhales. “Sorry. I had to finish a paper.”

Which is true. Unfortunately.

You picture the library—dim lights, stacks of books, Robin scribbling furiously beside you while you stared at a blank page like it was mocking you. Same assignment. Same major. Absolute hell. Your own paper is due in three days, still barely an idea, but tonight had felt like a necessary escape.

Steve hums sympathetically. “English major problems.”

“You have no idea,” Robin says.

You nod quietly, and Steve looks at you again.

“You here to do some people watching?” he asks.

You blink, surprised he notices, or maybe he remembers the passing comment you made once to Robin. “Actually, I might try to find someone to make out with tonight.”

Something shifts in his expression. Jjust slightly. A small smile, private, like it’s meant for him alone.

Robin laughs. “The essay is that bad, huh?” 

You shrug, averting your eyes from Steve’s heady, half-lidded gaze towards you. You’re only imagining it. 

Then someone calls his name from across the room. Steve squeezes Robin’s shoulder before stepping away. Steve turns, already half-moving, and as he slips past you his hand presses briefly into the small of your back. It has to be an accident. It has to be. It isn’t enough to make a scene. Just a light, steady touch that sends a shiver skittering up your spine despite yourself.

He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel him all the same—the warmth of his palm through your shirt, the way his presence lingers a second too long. He smells like clean soap and something faintly citrusy beneath the beer, a sharp, bright note that cuts through the heavy, stale air of the party. It’s stupid how intimate it feels, how your body reacts before your mind can catch up.

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd like he was never really yours to notice in the first place.

Robin watches him go, fond and open, like she doesn’t doubt a thing.

You turn toward the drink table, heart doing something inconvenient and heavy, and tell yourself, for the third time since arriving, that it doesn’t mean anything.

Robin gets the drinks.

Or—more accurately—Robin takes charge of the situation, leaning over the folding table with the coolers beneath it, shouting something at a frat boy you don’t recognize, already fishing for cups before he can answer. You hover close, watching her movements with idle fascination. She does everything with confidence, like she’s never once worried about being in the way. Like she belongs in rooms like this.

The drinks are warm and sweet and too strong. You barely taste the alcohol over the sugar, but it settles heavy and pleasant in your stomach anyway.

Before you can even take a second sip, Robin’s face changes.

Her eyes light up, head snapping toward the speakers like she’s been summoned. The opening notes of a song spill through the room—something fast, familiar, impossible to ignore—and she grins, already reaching for you.

“Oh—come on,” she says, grabbing your wrist. 

You barely have time to protest before she’s dragging you through the crowd, weaving between bodies with practiced ease. Your cup sloshes dangerously, a few drops spilling over your fingers, but Robin doesn’t slow down. She pulls you straight into the thick of it—the dance floor packed shoulder to shoulder, heat rising in waves, lights flashing just erratically enough to make everything feel unreal.

The music is loud enough that it rattles your teeth.

Robin turns to face you, laughing, hair already slipping loose from its perfect shape. She dances close—closer than necessary—hands settling on your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You follow her lead, letting the rhythm take over, the alcohol smoothing out the parts of you that usually hesitate.

You dance together easily. In the way that girls do when they don’t really want to dance with anyone else, but want to have fun. 

Her hands slide over your hips, your back. Yours find her shoulders, then her waist, fingers curling into fabric. You move in sync, bodies brushing, laughing when you bump into someone else. It feels carefree. Safe.

And then you notice him.

Steve is still near the kitchen, drink in hand, talking to a group of people you don’t know well enough to name. He looks relaxed, nodding along, smiling at the right moments. But every so often—just enough that you start to doubt yourself—his gaze flicks toward the dance floor.

Toward you.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye. His expression tightening for half a second, something dark flashing across his face. It’s gone before you can really understand it, replaced by that easygoing look he wears like armor.

You tell yourself you imagined it.

Still, the thought lingers, prickling at the back of your neck.

“Why doesn’t Steve ever dance with you?” you ask suddenly.

The words come out unfiltered, carried away by the music and the alcohol and the closeness of Robin’s hands.

“What?” she shouts, leaning in.

You raise your voice, heart thudding for no reason you can explain. “Why doesn’t your boyfriend ever dance with you?”

Robin blinks.

Just once. Quick. Like she wasn’t expecting the question.

Then she laughs, bright and effortless, waving it off like it’s nothing. “Steve isn’t a dancer,” she says. “Besides,” she squeezes your waist playfully, spinning you just a little closer “Why would I give up my best dance partner?”

You smile back, but something in your chest doesn’t quite settle.

You tip the rest of your drink back, the burn sharp and welcome, and when you look up again your eyes drift automatically toward the kitchen.

Steve is looking at you.

Not Robin. You.

Your throat tightens. You swallow, breaking eye contact first, leaning in close to Robin’s ear.

“I think he wants to dance with you now,” you shout.

Robin’s eyes crease as she follows your gaze. She tilts her head, studying him for a moment, something thoughtful crossing her face. Then she sighs, shoulders dropping just slightly.

“Be right back,” she says.

She presses a quick, affectionate squeeze to your arm before slipping away into the crowd.

You watch her go, watch the way she approaches Steve, the way he immediately turns his body toward her. They start talking. Their faces serious, gestures small but deliberate. It doesn’t look like flirting. It looks like a discussion. Something heavier than the music thumping around them.

You look away before you can read too much into it.

Your cup is empty.

You decide to get another drink.

The walk back to the table feels longer this time, the crowd thicker, the noise more pressing. As you wait for someone to notice you, you realize—vaguely, distantly—that you don’t actually know that much about Steve and Robin.

Not really.

You know the basics. High school sweethearts. Same small town somewhere in Indiana. They came to college together, already a unit, already established. Robin is polished in a way that feels intentional—long brown hair always curled and glossy, makeup perfectly done even on days when she swears she “didn’t try.” Her clothes fit her like they were chosen with care, tailored just enough to look effortless.

You assume it has something to do with her father.

A state representative. A name people recognize. You imagine dinners with the right people, careful manners learned young. Robin never talks much about her family, but you can see it in the way she carries herself. Classy. Composed. Always in control.

Steve is the same in a different way.

Perfectly put together. Clean lines. Neat clothes. Money that doesn’t need to be announced because it’s already obvious. Pike legacy. His last name carries weight here—his father’s donations probably paid for half the building you’re standing in. You wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a plaque somewhere with his name on it.

But there’s one thing Robin talks about more than anything else when it comes to Steve.

He doesn’t know what he wants.

He’s stressed. Lost. Panicking quietly about declaring a major this year, about expectations he’s never questioned but suddenly can’t meet. For all the polish, all the confidence he projects, that part of him feels strangely unfinished.

You fill your cup, lost in thought, and tell yourself it’s none of your business.

Still—your eyes drift back to where Steve and Robin are standing.

And you can’t help but look.

Steve throws back the rest of his drink like it personally offended him.

You notice it because it’s sudden, the casual ease gone, replaced by something sharp and restless. He tilts the cup up, drains it in one go, jaw tight, throat working as he swallows. He says something to Robin you can’t hear over the music, then turns and pushes into the crowd without waiting for her response.

Robin groans.

It’s quiet, but you see it clearly, the way she tips her head back, eyes closing for just a second like she’s counting to ten. Her shoulders sag, posture losing some of its polish, and then she’s scanning the room. Searching. Her gaze flicks over faces until it lands on you.

She exhales and makes her way over, weaving through bodies with less enthusiasm than before. When she reaches you, there’s an apologetic smile already pulling at her mouth, like she’s practiced this expression.

“Hey,” she says, leaning close so you can hear her. “I’m so sorry, but I have to do… uh—” she gestures vaguely with her hand “Girlfriend duties. Talk to some people with Steve.”

You nod, already bracing for it.

“Will you be okay?” she asks. “Do you want Steve to get Eddie to take you back?”

You shake your head immediately, smiling to soften it. “No, I’ll be fine,” you say. “Might try to find some guy to make out with now.”

You wink.

Robin laughs, big and relieved, like you’ve just taken something heavy off her shoulders. “Okay!” she says. “No more than an hour. I promise.”

She grabs two beers from a passing tray, presses one briefly into your hand, then hip-bumps you affectionately before disappearing back into the crowd.

You watch her go.

She finds Steve near the far side of the room. He’s talking to a blonde girl with a tight perm and a laugh that carries even over the music. Robin steps right into his space, familiar, easy. Steve turns immediately, attention snapping back into place, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders with deliberate ease.

Something in your chest loosens.

You tell yourself you imagined the tension earlier. The looks. The strange heaviness. This is what normal looks like. Robin tucked into his side, Steve nodding along as she talks, his hand resting securely against her arm. He must’ve just been upset she wasn’t hanging out with him earlier. That’s all. Maybe he wanted her attention and didn’t know how to ask for it without sulking.

It makes sense.

Then Steve lifts his beer.

He takes a sip, eyes half on the conversation, half somewhere else. As Robin talks to the blonde girl, animated and charming, Steve’s head tilts slightly—like he’s listening for something beneath the noise. His gaze drifts, unfocused at first, tracing the ceiling, the floor, the blur of bodies moving around him.

And then his eyes land on you.

Not dramatically. Not obviously.

Just enough.

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away right away either. His expression is unreadable—flat, thoughtful, distant in a way that makes your skin prickle. Like you’ve interrupted something private just by existing in his line of sight.

You gulp.

Immediately, you pivot, turning your body away too fast to be casual. You move toward the edge of the room, claiming a corner near the wall where the lights don’t reach as brightly. You nurse your drink, taking slow sips, eyes fixed anywhere but him.

Your heart beats a little too hard.

He must really dislike Robin hanging out with you, you think.

That has to be it.

By the time you realize you’ve talked to three different boys, you also realize you don’t remember a single one of their names.

They blur together in your head—too loud, too close, all leaning in with the same practiced confidence. One of them keeps touching your arm like it’s punctuation. Another smells aggressively like cologne. The third is trying to explain something about his econ class like it’s meant to impress you.

You smile. You nod. You laugh when you’re supposed to.

And then you excuse yourself.

You slip away while one of them is mid-sentence, threading through the crowd with purpose until the noise dulls just enough to feel manageable. You find a narrow hallway tucked away from the main room—dim, quiet except for the distant thump of music vibrating through the walls.

You lean back against the cool plaster, exhaling.

Your drink is mostly melted ice now. You cradle it anyway, grounding yourself with the condensation slicking your fingers. The hallway smells faintly like cleaning supplies and old carpet, a strange relief after the sweat and beer and bodies.

You close your eyes for just a second.

“Fucking unbelievable—”

The voice cuts itself off abruptly.

You open your eyes.

Steve Harrington stands a few feet away, frozen mid-step like he didn’t expect anyone else to be here. His expression shifts quickly—from irritation to something guarded, something carefully neutral.

He clears his throat.

The light in the hallway is low, but not low enough to miss details. You notice them immediately, whether you want to or not. The striped polo stretched across his shoulders. Tight Levi’s sitting low on his hips. White Nikes scuffed just enough to look worn-in. There’s a thin chain around his neck that catches the light when he moves, glinting softly against his skin.

His eyes look darker here, glossy under the dim bulb. You can see the small moles scattered across his face, details you’ve never been close enough to notice before.

His gaze flicks over you. There is no rush in it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, like he’s intruded somehow.

“Don’t be,” you say too quickly, the words tumbling out before you’ve thought them through.

There’s a pause.

It stretches, heavy and strange, filled with the distant echo of music and the sound of your own breathing. You become acutely aware of how close he is. How this is—technically—the first time you’ve ever been alone with him.

It’s unsettling.

It’s awkward.

“Everything… okay?” you ask.

Your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.

Steve’s jaw flexes. He looks away for a moment, staring down the hallway like the answer might be written on the wall.

“Oh—yeah,” he says slowly. “It’s just…” He glances back at you, cautious, measuring. Then he lets out a long sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Relationship shit.”

You tilt your head, studying him. It doesn’t match what you know—or think you know. Robin is always talking about him, always doting, always smiling like nothing in the world could touch them.

“Oh?” you say absently. “Sorry—that’s not meant to pry…”

He chuckles, low and brief, and shifts to lean against the wall across from you. He doesn’t crowd your space, but the hallway suddenly feels much smaller. He’s still facing you.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not that serious.” He shrugs. “Robin is just… picky.”

“About what?” you ask, laughing softly.

Steve’s mouth curves into a smirk, slow and deliberate. “Again,” he says, “relationship shit.”

You nod like you understand, even though you don’t. Not really.

“Right,” you say, lifting your cup and taking a sip, mostly to give yourself something to do.

His expression shifts.

It’s subtle, but you catch it—the way his eyes sharpen, something darker settling there. Something assessing. You hate that you’re standing directly in the line of it, like you’ve wandered somewhere you weren’t supposed to be.

“Let’s just say,” he continues, voice dropping, “I’m really impatient.”

You swallow.

The hallway feels warmer all of a sudden. Or maybe it’s just you. You feel strangely exposed, like you’re laid out on an examination table under his scrutiny, every small movement suddenly too noticeable.

Before you can think of another question, before you can decide whether you even want to, Steve pushes off the wall.

He gives you one last smirk.

Then he’s gone.

No goodbye. No explanation.

Just disappearing back into the noise, probably to find Robin again, leaving you alone in the hallway with a half-melted drink and a feeling you don’t quite have a name for yet.

By hour three, you are past the point of polite drunk and deep into the kind that feels like floating.

The music pulses through your ribs. The room blurs at the edges. You’re back on the dance floor with a boy you’re pretty sure you took algebra with freshman year, though his name has slipped cleanly out of your brain like it was never there at all. He smells like beer and cologne and warm skin, and his hands are bold, familiar in a way that feels easy to give into when you don’t want to think too hard.

You press back against him, laughing when he says something you don’t quite catch. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, breath hot, careless. You let it. Let yourself be held. Let yourself be wanted in a way that doesn’t require anything complicated.

You haven’t seen Robin in a while. Just once, maybe thirty minutes ago—her and Steve standing too close near the kitchen, talking in low, intense voices. It looked serious. Heavy. You almost went over. Almost asked if everything was okay.

Almost went home with Eddie instead.

But then this boy had said hello, and God, you must be really drunk if you can’t even remember his name.

The alcohol finally catches up to you all at once, a warm rush that settles in your stomach and sinks lower. You suddenly, desperately need to pee.

You pull away, scanning for the main bathroom. The line is absurd, snaking down the wall, full of annoyed faces and crossed legs. Fifteen minutes, at least.

You don’t have fifteen minutes.

So you head for the stairs.

Two freshmen pledges stand at the bottom like they’re guarding a palace instead of a frat house. They look you over, slow and appraising.

“Password?” one asks.

Oh. Right. The password.

Your brain stutters. “I’m— I’m friends with Robin Buckley,” you say, and then stall, because she definitely told you the password and you definitely don’t remember it.

Apparently that’s enough.

They step aside, and as you pass them, you hear one of them mutter, “Damn. Harrington’s getting kind of greedy tonight, isn’t he?”

You don’t know what he means, and you don’t stop to ask.

Upstairs feels like a different world.

The music dulls to a distant heartbeat. The air is cooler, cleaner. The hallway is lined with framed composites and plaques—Pike history displayed neatly for anyone who cares to look. Rows of smiling boys in navy suits. Greek Week medals. Philanthropy awards. Polished letters and old paddles hung like relics.

You slip into the empty bathroom and take a minute longer than you need, letting the quiet settle your spinning head.

When you come out, your eyes drift to the newest composite photo. You don’t mean to look for him. You just do.

Steve’s smile is wide and bright there, hair shorter, curls softer, like he hasn’t yet learned how to make himself look so untouchable. He looks younger. Kinder.

Girls are always telling Robin how hot her boyfriend is. Robin always laughs, always agrees. Once she even asked you what you thought.

You’d shrugged. He’s cute.

That was it.

You turn away, suddenly tired, suddenly missing your roommate. You’re ready to go back downstairs, to find Robin and tell her you’re heading out. The boy from algebra has probably already disappeared into someone else’s dorm by now.

It’s been a while since your last hookup anyway.

Then you hear it.

A soft voice down the hall. “Steve…”

You stop.

One door stands open.

Steve’s.

Oh. They must have come upstairs, you think. If the door’s open, it can’t be anything too serious. Right?

You walk toward it, ready to peek in, ready to tell Robin you’re going home.

And then you see.

Steve is inside.

Not alone.

He’s standing up, leaning against his desk. His shirt is gone. His hair is mussed, curls falling into his eyes. He looks undone in a way you’ve never seen before, breath unsteady, body tilted like he’s caught in something intense and consuming. 

And in kneeled in front of him—

Not Robin.

The blonde girl with the perm.

His hand is in her hair, fingers curled tight, intimate and unmistakable. His other one clutches the desk, knuckles white. The girl's head bobs, and Steve’s grip guides her. “Fuck… yes… just like that…”

Your brain goes quiet.

For a second, everything freezes—the hallway, the music, your own breath in your chest. Your drunken haze snaps into a terrible, aching clarity.

Then Steve makes a soft, broken sound—half laugh, half breath—and his eyes fly open.

They land on you.

His face goes blank first. Hard. Calculating.

And then he smiles.

A slow, ugly smirk spreads across his mouth, and in that moment, any charm he ever had drains straight out of him. All you can see is what he is now.

A cheater.

A liar. 

And he doesn’t even look ashamed.

He makes another quiet, filthy whine, almost like he’s amused you’re here to witness it.

You don’t stay long enough to see anything else.

You spin around, heart in your throat, and run.

Down the hallway. Past the awards. Past the perfect framed smiles.

You nearly collide with the pledges as you take the stairs two at a time, slipping back into the noise and heat and chaos below, heart pounding, stomach twisting, everything in you screaming to get as far away as possible.

You burst out the front door like you’re escaping a fire.

Cold night air slams into you, sharp and bracing, stealing what little breath you have left. You bend forward instinctively, hands braced against your knees, dragging in lungful after lungful that never seem to go far enough. Your chest burns. Your head swims. The thump of bass and laughter leaks through the walls behind you, muffled and distant now, like the party belongs to some other life you’ve already left behind.

You don’t know what to do.

Find Robin. Tell her. Make a scene.

The thoughts tumble over one another, frantic and useless. You can’t imagine standing in that crowded house and saying the words out loud. You can’t picture Robin’s face if you did. It would humiliate her. It would set something precious on fire and watch it burn in front of everyone.

But you also can’t lie.

The idea of looking her in the eye later—of hearing her talk about Steve the way she always does, with that quiet, devoted affection—makes your stomach twist violently. You’ve seen something you can’t unsee. You know something you can’t pretend away.

Your breath starts coming too fast, too shallow. The world tilts. You press a hand flat against your chest like you might be able to steady your heart there, like you can physically hold yourself together. The edges of your vision blur, dark spots flickering.

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

A warm hand lands between your shoulder blades, solid and real, grounding you just enough that you don’t completely fold in on yourself.

You blink hard, forcing your eyes to focus. Through the watery haze you make out Eddie Munson crouched in front of you, curls wild, eyes full of concern. He looks like he’s afraid you might topple over if he lets go.

“Where’s Robin?” you manage. Your voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable as your own.

Eddie frowns. “I dunno. You want me to find her? She might be with Steve—”

Your stomach flips violently.

You barely have time to turn before you lurch forward, the contents of your gut coming up in a hot, miserable rush.

“Oh… whoa, whoa,” Eddie says, quick and gentle, rubbing your back, holding your hair away from your face. “Hey, hey… easy. Did you have too much to drink? I can go get Steve, he can—”

“No!”

The word tears out of you, sharp and cracked. You straighten slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, breath ragged.

“No,” you say again, shaking your head. “Steve is… occupied.”

Eddie freezes.

“Occupied?” he repeats, carefully, like he’s afraid to hear the answer. “What do you mean, occupied?”

You lift your gaze to the second story of the house. One window glows faintly behind drawn curtains, a quiet, damning little square of light.

Eddie follows your eyes.

A slow, weary sigh leaves him, and he drags a hand down his face.

And that’s when you see it.

That look.

The one people get when something they were never supposed to know has just been dragged into the open.

Your stomach turns all over again.

He knows.

You take a step back, shaking, something sour and furious crawling up your throat. “You knew,” you whisper. “You knew.”

Eddie straightens, hands settling on his hips like he’s bracing for a blow. “You—” he swallows. “You didn’t tell anyone, right? What you saw?”

“You mean did I tell Robin?” you shoot back, anger cutting clean through the shock.

“Tell me what?”

Robin’s voice comes from behind you, bright and breathless and heartbreakingly normal.

You turn. She’s walking toward you, cheeks flushed from dancing, hair a little mussed, smiling like the night hasn’t just cracked wide open. “I was looking all over for you,” she says. “I thought maybe you went home with—” Her smile falters when she sees your face. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie licks his lips, scratching the back of his neck. “She saw Steve.”

Robin blinks. “Okay…?”

“Buckley,” Eddie says quietly. “She saw him. Upstairs.”

Robin’s eyes go wide.

Her gaze snaps to you, searching your face for confirmation, for something you can’t give her.

You feel like you’re drowning in whatever unspoken understanding is passing between them, like they’re speaking in a language you don’t know, a truth you were never meant to be part of.

Robin’s expression changes. Softens.

“Eddie,” she says gently, “can you drive her back to the dorm? Please?”

“What the hell is going on?” you burst out. “Why is everyone acting like—”

“Come on,” Eddie says, reaching for you. “Let’s get you some food and get you home.”

You step back.

“Robin,” you say, your voice shaking but loud, “Steve is up there with another girl. He’s cheating on you.”

Her eyes shine, glassy in the porch light.

“I know,” she says quietly.

You stare at her. “What?”

“I know what he’s doing,” she says. “Please. Just go with Eddie.”

“Robin—”

Her voice snaps, sudden and sharp. “Just stay out of it, okay? It’s not your business. If you think I need a shoulder to cry on, I don’t. So just drop it. And go.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything else.

You look between them, chest tight, pulse roaring in your ears.

“Screw you both,” you spit, and then you turn and storm away.

You hear Eddie calling your name. Robin too—sharp and urgent—but you don’t slow down. Your eyes burn with frustrated tears, and you refuse to let either of them see them fall.

The night swallows you as soon as you hit the sidewalk.

The walk to your dorm isn’t far, not really, but it feels longer when the adrenaline fades and the alcohol creeps back in. The pavement wobbles under your feet. Your stomach still churns, sour and unsettled. The cold air bites at your skin, and for a brief, miserable moment, you wish you’d been less angry. Wish you’d let Eddie drive you.

You wrap your arms around yourself and keep walking.

God, Steve Harrington is a prick.

The thought hits hard and clean, slicing through everything else. You hate him now. Truly, deeply hate him, in a way that makes your jaw ache from clenching it.

And suddenly everything starts to click.

He wasn’t just naturally flirty. He wasn’t harmless, or charming, or casually kind. He had been flirting with you. With you. Right in front of Robin.

Every memory comes rushing back all at once—the way his hand lingered at the small of your back, the brush of his fingers against your arm, the looks that lasted too long, the curved smiles that felt private. None of it seems accidental anymore. It feels deliberate. Calculated.

Your skin crawls, like you’ve been brushed by something diseased, something you can’t scrub off fast enough.

You reach your dorm on shaky legs and push inside, grateful for the quiet, the dim hallway lights, the absence of everyone else. Robin isn’t there.

Of course she isn’t.

You slam the door shut behind you.

You don’t bother changing. Don’t bother washing your face or brushing your teeth or doing anything that might make this feel smaller. You stumble to your bed and fall face-first into it, exhaustion crashing over you in one heavy wave.

part one ★ prologue

reliving the humiliation that drove you out of hawkins and the moment steve harrington proved he was no hero, you realise that things never stray too far from "home"

part two ★ sanctuary

just as you finally settle into something that feels like comfort, the one person who took it from you all those years ago threatens to take it away once more

part three ★ interference

a late-night break-in shatters a fragile sense of safety, bringing the past crashing into the present

part four ★ collision

steve attempts to apologise for the previous night, but it quickly becomes clear he doesn’t understand the weight of what he’s done

part five ★ terms

you give them a tour, not an invitation. steve learns just how much distance still lives between you

part six ★ first show

you bear witness to the station moving without you, and steve learns that doing everything right doesn’t guarantee feeling whole

part seven ★ unscheduled

you return to the station expecting your orders to be followed, only to be confronted with the consequences of your own actions

part eight ★ infiltration

small victories blur into something riskier, and steve starts to understand that making things right may cost more than he’s prepared for

part nine ★ progress

a malfunction at the station results in boundaries tested, and the inconvenient realisation that some people don’t stay the same

part ten ★ shift

an ordinary day winds down into an unordinary offer, where both you and steve realise the history between you needs to be confronted sooner rather than later

part eleve ★ reckoning

a forced conversation cracks open years of silence, and neither of you is ready for what spills out

You’re unsure when these feelings even became a thing. Steve has always been a friend. A really good friend. This wasn’t a new thing to you that he’s handsome. Maybe too pretty for his own good. It wasn’t news to know how loyal he is. How brave. How kind. 

It snuck up on you but maybe it was inevitable. You two were close, closer than most just friends should be. Or maybe since it was the end of the world— touched starved and hungry— you were clinging onto the attention you’ve gotten from the boy. 

Today in particular, you were at WSQK, sitting on the couch after a recent broadcast. Steve had quickly joined you, exhausted from the crawl the night before. He quickly took his place next to you and laid his head on your lap, not even a minute and soft snores left his mouth. Your hands absently raking through his chestnut locks, overgrown and curly. 

Steve sleeps like he trusts you with his life.

That’s the first thing you think, watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm. His weight is warm and solid in your lap, grounding in a way that makes your breath slow to match his. One of his arms is slung loosely across his stomach, the other fallen boneless at his side, fingers brushing your thigh every time he shifts. You wonder if he knows he does that. If he’d pull away if he were awake.

Probably not. Steve has never been careful with you.

The studio lights are dimmed low now, the air humming softly with leftover static and the faint whir of old equipment cooling down. The world keeps moving. Monsters still exist. But right here—Steve’s head heavy in your lap, his hair threaded through your fingers—it feels paused. Like a held breath.

His hair is softer than it has any right to be. Sun-lightened at the ends, darker at the roots, curling just enough that your fingers catch slightly when you comb through it. You’ve done this before. More times than you’re willing to admit. Always absentminded. Always under the guise of comfort. You tell yourself it’s normal. You’re friends. This is what friends do when the world is ending and everyone’s tired and touch-starved and too young to be this afraid all the time.

But your thumb drags unconsciously over his temple, slow and reverent, and your chest tightens in a way that feels like truth.

Steve looks younger when he sleeps. The lines of worry that have started to etch themselves into his face soften, his mouth falling open just slightly, lashes dark against his cheeks. You wonder what he’s dreaming about. If it’s monsters or babysitting disasters or maybe—selfishly—you. You doubt it’s you. Steve Harrington doesn’t dream about girls like you. He dates girls who look like they belong on magazine covers, girls with perfect hair and sharp smiles and expectations he can never quite live up to.

Your fingers still.

You don’t mean to think about Nancy, but she’s always there, hovering like a ghost between you and him. Not because you’re jealous—not really—but because she was proof of something. Proof that Steve can love deeply and still be left behind. Proof that he gives too much of himself away and then pretends it didn’t hurt when it’s taken.

You think maybe that’s why he lets you do this.

Why he lets you linger too close, laugh too hard at his jokes, remember every little thing about him. Why he never pulls away when you tuck yourself into his side during movie nights or fall asleep shoulder-to-shoulder in the back of the car. Why he looks at you sometimes like he’s about to say something and then doesn’t.

It’s safe with you.

You don’t ask him for anything.

Your hand resumes its slow movement, fingertips tracing the curve of his ear, the strong line of his jaw. You know his face better than you know your own. Every freckle. The faint scar near his eyebrow. The way his nose wrinkles when he’s annoyed, or how his smile turns crooked when he’s trying not to show how much he cares.

God, you like him. So much it feels embarrassing. Like a secret written all over your skin.

You wonder if he can feel it—your heart racing beneath him, the way your legs have gone numb but you refuse to move because this feels too precious to disrupt. You wonder if he notices how you always end up near him, how your body seems magnetized to his. If he knows that every joke you make is just an excuse to hear him laugh, that every look you steal is an attempt to memorize him in case one day he’s gone.

Your throat tightens at the thought.

Steve shifts, murmuring something unintelligible, and his hand curls reflexively, gripping your thigh just enough to send a spark straight through you. Your breath stutters. He settles again, closer this time, cheek pressed more firmly into your stomach, like he’s chasing warmth even in sleep.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare.

Instead, you rest your palm flat over his chest, right above his heart. It beats steady and strong beneath your hand, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like if he chose you. If he looked at you and decided you were worth the risk. Worth the fear.

But Steve Harrington doesn’t do risks anymore. Not like that.

So you sit there, holding him while he sleeps, pouring all the things you’ll never say into the quiet space between heartbeats. Loving him softly. Loving him safely. Loving him in a way that asks for nothing—because wanting more would mean losing this.

And this, right now, feels like everything.

Steve wakes up slowly, like he’s swimming toward the surface of something warm.

His lashes flutter, vision blurry and half-lidded, the world coming back in pieces—the low hum of the station, the smell of dust and old electronics, the steady, grounding warmth beneath his cheek. For one hazy second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. His body feels heavy in that good, boneless way that only comes after real exhaustion, the kind that settles into your bones and makes thinking feel optional.

Then awareness creeps in.

Oh.

He’s in your lap.

His brows knit faintly, more confused than alarmed, and he shifts just enough to register the soft give of your thighs beneath his head, the way your hand stills in his hair like you’ve been caught doing something you weren’t sure you were allowed to do. He swallows, throat dry, and finally lifts his head, pushing himself upright with a groggy huff.

“Mm—sorry,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep, one hand scrubbing down his face. “Didn’t realize I was that tired.”

You flush immediately. He sees it even through the haze—the heat creeping up your neck, the way your eyes dart anywhere but his face.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, too quickly. And then, softer, fond in a way that makes something in his chest tighten despite himself, “Stevie.”

The nickname hits him like a soft punch.

Steve freezes for half a second—long enough that he hopes you don’t notice—before sitting up properly, spine straight, jaw flexing as he swallows hard. It’s stupid. It’s just a name. He’s heard it a thousand times from you, always gentle, always affectionate, like it belongs to you more than anyone else.

Still.

There’s that feeling again. The one he’s been pretending not to name.

He’s not an idiot. He knows. Or at least… he’s pretty sure he does. The way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. How you always find reasons to be near him, to touch him—never in ways that cross a line, never enough that he could call it out without sounding cruel or full of himself.

It’s endearing. That’s the word that always comes to mind.

Cute, even.

He’s thought about it more than once, turning the idea over like a coin in his pocket. You liking him. You—sweet, smart, impossibly kind—looking at him like he’s something worth wanting. And it’s not that you aren’t pretty. You are. He notices. He’s not blind. There’s a softness to you, an ease, the kind that makes being around you feel like exhaling after holding his breath too long.

You might even be his type, if he really broke it down.

But that’s the thing. He doesn’t break it down.

Because when he pictures you, it’s never in the way people picture someone they’re going to fall for. You exist in a different space in his life—steady, familiar, safe. A constant. And Steve Harrington has learned, the hard way, that the moment you start wanting more from the things that keep you standing, you risk losing them entirely.

So he lets it stay unspoken.

He lets you flirt, lets himself flirt back sometimes, lets himself sink into your lap when he’s exhausted beyond thinking. He tells himself it’s fine because you never push. Never ask. Never make a move that would force him to say something out loud.

You’re smart enough to know, he thinks, that nothing more is going to come from it.

And honestly? He’s grateful for that.

Dating feels like a different lifetime. A version of himself that existed before the world cracked open and showed him how fragile everything really is. For the first time since he was seventeen, he hasn’t gone out with anyone. Hasn’t chased the distraction. Hasn’t even wanted to. It’s been nearly year of no sex. Shit, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s jerked off.

Robin had joked about it once—about pressing pause on everything, letting himself exist without trying to prove something. He’d taken her advice without really meaning to. And it turns out, he doesn’t hate it.

The want is still there, buried somewhere deep. The idea of a future, of something stable and good. But right now it all feels… flimsy. Temporary. Like building a house on fault lines. Any day, he could be gone. He’s seen what death does to the people left behind. Felt it tear through him and leave something hollowed out in its place.

And then there’s Nancy.

The memory still stings in quiet, unexpected ways. All those promises that felt real until they weren’t. All that love that turned out to be something he was holding alone. He can’t shake the fear that history would just repeat itself—that he’d believe again, hope again, and end up right back in that familiar ache.

And you—God—you don’t deserve that.

He remembers overhearing you talk to Robin once, your voice drifting down the hall, full of possibility. Talking about New York. About leaving. About what comes after all of this. And it hit him then, sharp and sudden, that you’re meant for more than Hawkins. More than staying behind to guard the ruins.

Steve isn’t even sure he wants to leave. As messed up as this town is, it’s home. Someone has to stay. Someone has to care.

He doesn’t want to be the reason you don’t go.

He doesn’t want to be an end-of-the-world mistake or fling. A chapter you look back on and regret when life finally opens up the way it’s supposed to. You’re precious to him. More than he ever says. A friend he can’t afford to lose.

So he hopes—quietly, selfishly—that whatever you’re feeling will fade. That one day you’ll look at him and see him the way he insists on seeing you. Safely, platonically, unchanged.

That you can stay close like this.

Uncomplicated.

Even as his heart does something traitorous in his chest every time you say his name like it means something more.

He tells himself it’s nothing, but his body doesn’t listen.

It never does, not when you’re this close. Not when he’s aware of you in that low, constant way—like background music he only notices when it stops. He becomes painfully conscious of the empty space where his head had been, of the faint warmth still lingering on his skin as if your touch has memory. His shoulders feel too bare without your hands there, like something essential has been removed without warning.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He pretends to stretch, to work the stiffness out of his neck, but it’s just a delay tactic. When he finally does glance your way, he feels that now-familiar pull in his chest, the one he refuses to inspect too closely.

You look soft. Not weak—never that—but gentle. Like the quiet after a storm, or the moment before sleep takes him despite his best efforts to stay awake. Your attention lingers on him, open and unguarded, as if you don’t know how much of yourself you give away just by existing near him.

He notices everything. He always has.

The way you sit angled toward him without realizing it. The way your hands fidget when you’re nervous, how your thumb rubs against your fingers like you’re grounding yourself. He knows the shape of your smile before you make it, knows when you’re about to laugh, when you’re about to retreat into yourself. He knows what you smell like—soap and something indefinably you—and how that scent clings faintly to him now, tucked into the collar of his shirt.

It means nothing, he insists.

Friends notice things.

Friends feel comfortable. Friends lean on each other when the world is falling apart.

Still, his eyes drift back to you again, drawn by some gravity he refuses to name. He watches the way your chest rises with each breath, how calm you look compared to how loud his own thoughts have become. He wonders, briefly and without permission, how it would feel to pull you closer instead of pushing himself away. The thought slips in so easily it startles him.

He dismisses it just as quickly.

Of course it felt good to wake up like that. Anyone would like being held when they’re exhausted. Anyone would crave gentleness after weeks of fear and blood and adrenaline. It doesn’t mean he wants more. It doesn’t mean anything about you specifically.

Except—

Except he doesn’t do that with anyone else.

The realization brushes past him, uncomfortable and sharp-edged, and he turns his attention anywhere but inward. He focuses on the room, the peeling paint, the low hum of equipment. He tells himself he’s just tired. That exhaustion makes everything feel heavier, warmer, more important than it actually is.

But his body betrays him again when you shift, when your knee brushes his, barely there. The contact sends a quiet jolt through him, small but undeniable, and he has to resist the instinct to lean into it. His jaw tightens. His hands curl briefly into fists before he forces them to relax.

This is why he doesn’t think about it.

Because the second he does, the idea of you stops feeling abstract and starts feeling close. Tangible. Possible in a way that scares him more than the monsters ever have. The thought of wanting you—really wanting you—opens a door he doesn’t trust himself to walk through.

So he reframes it.

He tells himself he’s protective. That he likes you because you’re good, because you’re part of his life, because losing you would hurt in the way losing family hurts. He tells himself that the warmth he feels when you’re near is just relief. That the way his chest tightens when he imagines you leaving Hawkins is normal.

That the strange, aching urge to reach for you again—to rest his head back where it fits so easily—is just habit.

But habits don’t make his pulse quicken when you’re close. They don’t make the room feel emptier when you pull away.

And they definitely don’t make him wonder, late at night when sleep won’t come, what it would be like if he stopped pretending that what he feels is anything less than what it is.

He pushes the thought down, deep and firm, and sits there beside you pretending he doesn’t want to reach out again. Pretending that if he did, you wouldn’t let him.

Your thoughts drift back in gently, like sunlight through a thin curtain.

Whatever heaviness lingered in the room a moment ago seems to lift, replaced by that familiar, fluttering warmth Steve always leaves behind—unsettling, yes, but not painful. Not tonight. Tonight, it feels almost like promise, even if you don’t know what kind.

You’re still trying to decode the look he gave you when he woke up. Not startled. Not uncomfortable. Just… thoughtful. Like he’d stumbled across something unexpected and hadn’t decided yet whether to pick it up or leave it where it lay. You tell yourself that if he really didn’t feel anything, it wouldn’t look like that. He wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t sit there so still afterward, like he was afraid of disturbing something fragile.

You’ve never believed Steve Harrington is oblivious. Not really. Maybe he pretends to be. Maybe it’s easier that way.

You know you’ve been obvious—at least as obvious as you know how to be. You linger. You touch him when you can. You say his name like it matters, because to you, it does. You don’t confess in grand gestures or dramatic moments. You soften your edges around him and hope he notices the shape you’re making.

You’re good at carrying it. And maybe the fact that he hasn’t said anything is its own kind of answer… or its own kind of hope.

“Hey,” he says, voice still a little rough, like sleep hasn’t fully let go of him yet. “Where’s Robin?”

You smile softly, glad for the normalcy of the question. “Uh, I think she went to the hospital. To see Vickie. Not long after you fell asleep.”

He nods, thoughtful, fingers coming up to scratch at his chin. His eyes flick back to you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The look he gives you makes your stomach dip—not unpleasantly, just… curiously. Like you’ve been seen, or almost seen.

“Oh,” he says quietly. "Okay.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It rarely is with Steve. It’s the kind of silence that stretches comfortably, padded with shared understanding and things unsaid. You find yourself watching him again—how he shifts his weight, how his shoulders rise and fall with an easy breath, how familiar he feels to you in a way that still somehow surprises you.

“You hungry?” he asks suddenly, like the thought just occurred to him.

You blink, pulled from your reverie, and then laugh softly, a little sheepish. “Yeah,” you admit. “I could eat.”

“Cool,” he says, already on his feet. “I’ll make something.”

You follow him into the small kitchen without thinking twice. He moves around like he’s done this a hundred times—pulling bread from the bag, reaching for the counter, comfortable in the space. You lean against the doorway, arms loosely crossed, watching him with an affection you don’t bother questioning anymore.

There’s something about this—about him like this—that makes your chest ache in the best way. Steve Harrington making sandwiches feels absurdly intimate, like witnessing a secret version of him he doesn’t show just anyone. There’s something deeply endearing about the domesticity of it—Steve Harrington, savior of Hawkins, monster-fighter extraordinaire, making sandwiches. You can feel the rhythm of him before you fully register it—the scrape of the plate against the counter, the rustle of bread, the quiet hum he makes when he’s focused on something simple.

You’ve never really pictured yourself belonging anywhere.

Growing up, the future always felt like a road stretching outward, not inward. Cities you hadn’t seen yet. Names you hadn’t learned how to pronounce. You imagined yourself collecting places the way other people collected memories—moving on before things could root too deeply. Hawkins was supposed to be temporary. Everyone was temporary.

And maybe that’s still true.

But watching Steve stand there, shoulders relaxed, hair still a little messy from sleep, you feel something shift—not a loss of ambition, not a surrender of who you are, just a quiet adjustment. Like learning that wanting to go doesn’t mean you can’t want to stay, too. That loving the idea of elsewhere doesn’t cancel out the fondness blooming right here, in a kitchen that smells faintly of bread and mustard and safety.

You don’t think about settling.

You think about choosing.

You think about how Steve looks when he concentrates, how he always makes sure your sandwich has exactly what you like, even though you never explicitly told him. You think about how easy it feels to stand here with him, how natural it is to imagine more moments like this stacking up over time.

Your chest feels light. Hopeful. A little foolish, maybe—but happy.

You don’t need certainty tonight.

You just watch him, smile lingering, heart quietly insisting that whatever this is, it’s worth feeling—even if it takes him a while to feel it too.

Your thoughts come back to you slowly, like you’re waking from a good dream you’re not quite ready to let go of.

You don’t mean to stare.

His shoulders shift slightly, like he’s acknowledging it without turning around, and then—there it is. That smile. Small and private, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a secret he’s keeping to himself. Not shy, but like he finds you endearing in the way one finds a stray kitten endearing. Something soft. Something safe.

You smile back, easy and genuine.

For now, this is enough. The quiet. The closeness. The unspoken hope that maybe—just maybe—he feels it too, even if neither of you are ready to say it yet.

When he finishes, he doesn’t announce it. He just turns, crosses the space between you in three easy steps, and presses a plate into your hands. His fingers brush yours—brief, warm—and before you can even react, his other hand comes up to ruffle your hair.

“Careful,” he says lightly, already moving past you, as if he hasn’t just undone you with one thoughtless gesture. “Don’t drop it.”

You smile because you’re supposed to. Because if he didn’t do things like that—if he didn’t touch you, didn’t smile at you, didn’t scratch your back absentmindedly when you’re sitting on the floor or let you curl your feet into his lap when just simply hanging out with the others—you’d spiral. You’d wonder what you did wrong. You’d replay every interaction, searching for the moment you misstepped.

He does these things so you don’t.

Because you’re important. Because you matter. Because—at the very least—you are his best friend.

That has to be it. Right?

He sits across the room now, sandwich already half demolished, crumbs falling onto the floor without a care in the world as he flips through the records mounted on the wall. He looks ridiculous and handsome and painfully himself, chewing with his mouth half open, completely unaware—or pretending to be—of the way you’re watching him.

Your gaze softens before you can stop it.

You hate that you can feel it happening. That stupid, traitorous devotion settling into your expression, warm and open and hopeful. You look at him like he’s something good that happened to you by accident. Like you’re grateful he exists.

He doesn’t look back.

You’re not sure if that’s mercy or cowardice.

You swallow, your smile faltering just a little, then steady yourself. You take a breath—slow, deliberate—like you’re bracing against a wave. You don’t want to confess. Not really. You just want clarity. Something. Anything. To know if you’re imagining all of this, or if he feels even a fraction of what you do.

“Hey, Steve?” you say, voice quieter than you intended.

He hums in response, distracted, still scanning the wall. Encouraged—or maybe desperate—you open your mouth again.

“Can we tal—”

The door swings open.

Your words evaporate instantly, dissolving into the air between heartbeats as Nancy and Jonathan walk into the station, voices overlapping, energy shifting the entire room. Steve turns toward them immediately, greeting them with easy familiarity, and just like that—the moment is gone.

You stand there with your sandwich growing cold in your hands, heart still braced for impact that never comes.

Steve never notices the way your shoulders sag just a little.

And you hate yourself for feeling relieved and disappointed all at once.

Two weeks later, Steve is sitting in the back of the van, simmering with a quiet, restless anger that has nowhere to go.

The crawl had ended badly. Again. One wrong sentence, one look held too long, and suddenly he and Dustin were standing in the middle of the road yelling at each other like the world wasn’t already ending often enough. Dustin had accused him of not listening. Steve had accused him of shutting everyone out. Neither of them had been entirely wrong, which somehow made it worse.

Dustin had taken off on foot before Steve could think of the right thing to say. The van had died not long after, coughing once like it was mocking him before falling silent for good. Steve would have followed Dustin home if he could have. Would have walked every mile just to fix it.

Instead, he’s stuck here.

Useless. Stranded. Proving his own point.

At least you’re beside him.

You’re sitting close enough that your shoulder presses into his, the contact steady and grounding, like you’re anchoring him to the present. Your knees are drawn up as you look out beyond the open doors of the van, eyes tilted toward the sky. The clearing stretches wide and quiet in front of you, the stars scattered carelessly overhead, bright and indifferent. You look like you belong to the night in a way he doesn’t—calm, observant, unafraid to sit with the silence.

Steve drags a hand through his hair, frustration curling inward, and finally gives voice to the thought that’s been gnawing at him since Dustin walked away.

“I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

You turn toward him then, and the movement is small but it steals his attention completely.

The starlight spills across your face in soft fragments, catching on your skin like it’s trying to memorize you. Shadows gather delicately beneath your eyes, your lashes casting faint lines over your cheeks. Your brows knit together as you study him, concern settling into your expression so naturally it feels instinctive—like caring about him is something your body does before your mind can stop it.

“Steve,” you say quietly, the sound of his name from your mouth always landing heavier than it should. “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not your fault Dustin won’t talk to you about what’s going on.”

He slouches further into himself, spine pressing against the cold metal of the van, shoulders rounding as if he can make himself smaller. Part of him hopes Hopper will show up soon—headlights cutting through the dark, a reason to move, to stop feeling like this. Another part of him hopes the opposite.

Maybe being stuck out here with you is easier than going back to everything he can’t fix.

“I just feel so useless,” he admits, voice rough, eyes fixed on the dirt below the stars. “Like all I’m good for is driving this shitty van around. No one takes me seriously.”

You smile at him then, and it isn’t pity. That’s what gets him. It’s so certain, like you’re stating a fact.

“That’s not true,” you say gently. “You’re smart. And you’re brave, Steve. You—”

You lean your head against his shoulder before you finish the thought.

Steve freezes.

You’ve done this before. Countless times. He’s never flinched, never questioned it. This is how you exist together—easy and comfortable in ways that feel older than the two of you combined.

But tonight, the weight of your head against him feels different. More deliberate. More careful. His body registers it before his mind can catch up, every nerve suddenly aware of where you end and he begins.

Then your hand moves.

Slowly. Like you’re giving him time to object.

He watches, heart thudding loud enough he’s sure you can hear it, as your fingers come to rest on his knee. The touch is light, almost tentative, but it might as well be a spark. He feels everything all at once—your warmth, the steadiness of you, the fact that you’re choosing him in this quiet, terrifying way.

He tells himself he feels nothing.

He tells himself this is just comfort. That this is what friends do when the world keeps demanding more than it gives back. That his heart is racing because he’s tired, because he’s upset, because everything has been too much for too long.

When you pull back slightly to look up at him, he can’t let himself meet your eyes.

If he does, something will break.

He stares straight ahead instead, jaw tight, forcing his breathing to even out. He thinks about Hawkins. About how small it is. About how much bigger your life is meant to be. About how unfair it would be to let you tether yourself to someone who’s already decided he can’t want more.

“Steve…” you start, voice softer now, careful. “I’ve really wanted to talk to you about—”

“Oh—hey,” he cuts in too fast, the words tumbling out like a lifeline. “Look. Hopper’s here.”

Headlights crest the clearing just then, blinding and sudden, and Steve doesn’t wait to see your face. He hops out of the van, waving his arms like he’s been rescued, relief flooding his chest so hard it almost knocks the air from his lungs.

As Hopper’s car rolls closer, he glances back once.

You’re still sitting there, hand retreating into your lap, expression smoothed into something neutral but fragile. Guilt settles heavy and unwelcome in his chest, sharp and undeniable.

Relief sits right beside it. And that might be the worst part of all.

.-.-.-.

This could be the last everything.

The thought settles into you as you strap the final blade to your thigh, fingers trembling not from fear exactly, but from the overwhelming awareness of finality. The room hums with motion—people loading weapons, murmuring strategies, checking each other for wounds that haven’t happened yet—but it all feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater.

Last battle. Last stand. Last breath.

And maybe—most terrifying of all—the last time you ever see Steve Harrington.

The idea lodges in your chest and refuses to move. You try to ignore it. You really do. You tell yourself there will be time later, after, when Vecna is gone and the world is quieter and your heart isn’t beating like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

But your body doesn’t believe in later.

Your body knows that this is the kind of night people regret staying silent on.

So you move. Almost on instinct. You leave the noise behind, the chaos, the half-formed goodbyes disguised as jokes. You find him where you hoped you would—alone, just beyond the others, standing still like he’s bracing himself against the moment.

Steve looks… unreal.

He’s dressed for war, finally leaning into it—fitted camo shirt clinging to his shoulders and arms, sleeves settling just enough to expose skin already marked with old scars. The army pants sit low on his hips, worn-in and practical, like he’s always belonged in something like this. His hair is under a backwards cap, curls escaping anyway, his face set into something serious and sharp. A soft bruise on his cheek that he wouldn't tell you where it came from.

He looks like someone you could lose forever.

Fear rushes through you so fast it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

“Steve,” you say, before you can lose your nerve. “I need to talk to you about something.”

He stiffens immediately. You see it. The way his shoulders tense, the way his jaw tightens like he already knows what’s coming.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you about it for weeks,” you continue, words tumbling out faster now. “And I just—I can’t keep waiting because—”

He closes his eyes.

Shakes his head.

“No,” he says quietly, but there’s panic underneath it. “Please don’t.”

You stop short. “What?”

His breath stutters as he exhales, hand coming up to scrub over his face like he’s holding himself together by sheer force. “Just… don’t say what you’re about to say.”

Your heart sinks, sharp and sudden. “Steve—”

“Please,” he says again, opening his eyes now, and there’s something raw there. Something scared. “Just don’t.”

Embarrassment floods you first, hot and unwelcome. Then irritation follows close behind, louder, braver.

“Steve, we have no idea what’s about to happen,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself. “This could be the last time we ever see each other. The last time we ever talk. If that’s the case, you need to know—”

“And if we don’t die?” he snaps, the words cutting through the air like glass.

You flinch, but he keeps going, breath coming fast now, eyes wide and frantic.

“If you say it—if you say what I think you’re going to say—then it’s real. And you can’t undo that. What then? Everything changes.”

Your throat tightens.

“Exactly,” you say, voice cracking. “I want things to be different.”

You take a shaky step closer, heart pounding so loud you swear he can hear it.

“Don’t you?”

Steve swallows hard. You watch his throat bob, his mouth part like he’s about to speak—and then close again. He looks everywhere but at you, shaking his head like the answer is physically lodged somewhere he can’t reach.

“I—” he starts, then stops. “I can’t.”

The words hit harder than anything hell could throw at you.

“But…” you trail off, suddenly feeling foolish, exposed. Your mind scrambles, replaying everything you’ve clung to for months. The touches. The looks. The way he’d soften around you like you were something precious.

What about us?

What about the way he held you like it meant something?

"Look..." he mumbles your name, already formed and molded like an apology. He tilts his head like he's pitying you.

“You’re a really…” His voice falters, catches on something sharp in his throat. “You’re a really good—”

“I swear,” you cut in, your voice breaking before you can stop it, already knowing where this is going, already bracing for impact, “if you say it—”

Something inside you snaps clean in two.

“—friend.” he finishes.

The word lands between you, shattering on the floor. Loud. Irreversible.

Silence rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind, thick and suffocating, pressing against your ears until all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Everything unsaid crowds the air—every look, every touch, every almost. It all sits there now, heavy and useless, like ruins after a collapse.

Your eyes burn. You blink hard, but it doesn’t help. The hurt comes fast, then the anger—hot and wild and righteous, rising up to protect what’s left of your pride.

“How long?” you ask, your voice low, trembling despite your best efforts. “How long have you known?”

Steve is the one who falters this time. He stops short, breath catching, shoulders sagging like he’s finally tired of holding himself upright.

“I—” he swallows. “For a while.”

The admission hits harder than the rejection.

You laugh once, sharp and humorless, the sound tearing its way out of your chest. “And you weren’t going to say anything?” Your voice rises despite yourself. “You were just going to let me… what? Pine over you? Until when, Steve?”

Betrayal settles deep in your bones, cold and nauseating. You take a step back from him, distance blooming between you like a wound you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. Shame creeps in too, unwanted and vicious, whispering that you were foolish for hoping, foolish for thinking you were different.

He shrugs, helpless and small, eyes darting everywhere but your face. When he finally speaks, it’s barely above a murmur.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

The casualness of it makes your chest ache. Like this was all some abstract problem he never bothered to solve.

“Is it Nancy?” you demand suddenly, grasping for reason, for something that makes sense. “Is that it? You’re just not over her?”

That finally gets a reaction.

He looks angry now, sharp and defensive, like you’ve crossed some invisible line. “Why the hell does everyone—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated huff. “My god. Nancy is just a friend.” His hand slices through the air, decisive. Final.

The answer doesn’t comfort you. It devastates you.

“And so am I?” you ask quietly.

This is it. You know it. Your last chance to give him space to reconsider, to take one step forward instead of ten back. Your eyes plead even if your voice doesn’t. You don’t ask for promises. You don’t ask for certainty. Just honesty.

He blinks slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully, tongue pressing into his cheek. When he finally looks at you, there’s something closed-off there, something resolute.

“Yes,” he whispers. Then, like he needs to convince himself as much as you, “I mean… come on. Us together wouldn’t make any sense. It’s kind of ridiculous, if you think about it.”

Something in your face hardens.

You shake your head, lips pressing together as if to keep yourself from saying something you can’t take back. Your eyes flare, bright and furious, and you point at him, the gesture trembling with emotion.

“No,” you say, voice sharp and shaking. “Screw you, Steve. Don’t you dare undermine how I feel just because you’re a coward.”

His face falls, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

“If you think—” your voice cracks, but you push through it, “if you think I’m still going to be your friend after this, if we make it out alive—then you’re the delusional one.”

He says your name, panicked now, reaching for you like he’s only just realizing what he’s about to lose.

But you’re already gone.

You turn away before he can see the tears spill, before your composure fully collapses. You find the bathroom on instinct, locking the door behind you like it can keep the world out. The sob tears itself from your chest, choked and broken, and you press a hand over your mouth to silence it.

If nothing else, you won’t let him see you cry. You’ve already given him everything else.

.-.-.-.

Steve has always trusted height.

Trusted the way the world looks smaller from above, how fear thins out when you’re high enough that nothing feels close enough to touch you. He’s climbed fences, rooftops, trailers—stood on ledges with nothing but air beneath his boots and laughed like it made him invincible.

So when the tower shudders beneath him, it takes a second for his body to understand what his mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

It isn’t the noise that scares him first.

It’s the feeling.

The subtle wrongness—the way the metal vibrates too long, too deep, like a warning bell that won’t stop ringing. The way the wind shifts, suddenly aggressive, ripping at his jacket like it’s trying to pull him loose. Steve’s stomach drops before his brain supplies the reason, adrenaline surging sharp and cold through his veins.

The tower is leaning.

His heart slams against his ribs as his eyes fly wide, breath punching out of him in a sharp, panicked inhale. He grabs the railing instinctively, knuckles whitening as he feels the tilt deepen, metal groaning beneath his grip like it’s protesting its own existence.

The crack.

Metal screaming against itself, the tip of the tower splitting and bending, and his eyes go wide as terror finally, fully takes hold. His gaze snaps to the side—and there you are.

You’re clutching the bars, knuckles white, hair whipping wildly around your face as the structure shifts beneath you. For one awful second, you look impossibly small against the vast, angry sky, and the sight of you there—so close to the edge, so vulnerable—rips something raw out of his chest.

You haven’t spoken since the station.

Neither of you have.

The silence between you has been unbearable, a living thing gnawing at him from the inside out. He has never felt so alone, not even surrounded by people, not even standing on the edge of disaster like this. And now, seeing you in danger, knowing the last words you shared were sharp and cruel and unfinished—it feels like the universe itself is punishing him for his cowardice.

“Watch out!” he shouts, but his voice cracks, fractures with fear as the tower finally gives way.

He doesn’t think. He just moves.

Steve lunges for you, grabbing you around the waist and hauling you toward the other side as the top of the tower collapses completely, metal shrieking as it tears free. The force nearly takes you both with it, but somehow—somehow—he gets you across, your body slamming into the safer section just as the needle breaks away entirely.

For a split second, everything is still.

You turn back to him, eyes wide and terrified, and you reach out your hand.

“Steve—”

He reaches for you.

He almost makes it.

Then something catches—his foot snagging, the ground beneath him vanishing—and suddenly he’s not standing anymore. He’s sliding, fingers scraping uselessly against metal, panic roaring so loudly in his ears he can’t hear himself scream.

He goes over the edge.

His hands catch at the last second, gripping the lip of the tower with a force born purely of instinct. Beneath him is nothing but air and distance and death—hundreds of feet of it. The wind howls up at him, violent and merciless, tugging at his body like it’s impatient to claim him.

His own plan is going to kill him.

Steve Harrington, monster slayer, protector, idiot.

His arms burn. His shoulders scream. His fingers already ache as they dig into the edge, skin tearing, sweat making everything slick. He can’t pull himself up. He knows it immediately. There’s no leverage. No miracle waiting quietly in reserve. His breath comes in ragged gasps, panic roaring so loud in his ears it drowns out everything else.

He hears you scream his name.

“Steve! No—!”

Your voice is raw, broken, carried by the wind but unmistakably yours. Somewhere farther back, he hears another voice—Robin’s—shouting your name, telling you not to move, to stay back. He can’t see you. Not your face. Not your eyes. And that, more than anything, hurts.

His grip starts to fail.

One finger slips.

Then another.

And in that suspended moment—hanging between life and death—Steve realizes something with terrifying clarity.

He’s about to die.

This is it. The end of the sentence. No more after. No redemption arc. No time to fix what he broke or say what he was too afraid to admit. His chest tightens painfully as the truth crashes into him. He doesn’t want it to end like this. He doesn’t want it to end at all.

His life flashes before his eyes, but it isn’t the way people say it is. It isn’t random. It isn’t his childhood home or high school trophies or old versions of himself he barely recognizes anymore.

It’s you.

Every memory, every year since the world cracked open—there you are. Sitting beside him. Laughing at him. Your head on his shoulder. Touching him softly like he’s something worth caring for. Looking at him with hope he was too scared to hold.

You were right.

God, you were so right.

You were right to want to say it. The right to believe. He should have let you finish. Should have listened. Because now—

Now the only thing keeping him here, keeping his fingers locked around the edge just a second longer, is the knowledge that it all meant something.

That it wasn’t one-sided.

That you saw something real in him—and wanted it enough to risk everything.

His pinky slips.

The anger comes first—hot and sharp and sudden. Anger at himself. At his fear. At all the ways he chose safety over honesty. He’s going to die and you’ll never know that you were right—that it did all mean something, that it was never ridiculous.

And then—strangely—happiness.

Because somehow, that knowledge feels like grace.

When gravity finally wins, when his hands give out completely, Steve closes his eyes.

If he’s going to die, he wants to die with you in his mind.

The way your smile starts slow, like it’s deciding whether to trust the moment. The softness in your eyes when you think no one’s looking. The warmth of your presence, steady and grounding, like home isn’t a place but a feeling. The sound of your laugh. The way you say his name like it’s something worth holding onto.

You.

Always you.

And as the wind roars past him and the world drops away—

And as Steve Harrington falls, that’s what he takes with him.

That is, until he isn't falling anymore. He feels it before he understands it.

A hand—strong, unyielding—clamps around his wrist, tight enough that it hurts, tight enough that it’s real. Steve’s eyes fly open, his mouth parting in a soundless gasp as he looks up into a face he never thought he’d be so grateful to see.

Jonathan.

“Steve—hey, I’ve got you,” Jonathan’s voice cuts through the roar of blood in his ears, strained but steady. “I’ve got you,” Jonathan says, grounded, like this isn’t the most terrifying moment of Steve’s life. Like Steve isn’t dangling over nothing.

Steve doesn’t question it. He tightens his grip instantly, fingers locking around Jonathan’s arm with everything he has left, his whole body shaking now that the adrenaline has somewhere to go. His muscles scream in protest as Jonathan braces himself and hauls him upward inch by agonizing inch, metal scraping, breath tearing out of Steve’s chest in broken sounds he doesn’t recognize as his own.

“I’ve got you,” Jonathan repeats, louder this time. “Don’t let go.”

A strangled sound tears out of him as Jonathan hauls upward, muscles straining, teeth bared with effort.

They work together—Steve scrambling, Jonathan pulling—until suddenly there’s solid metal beneath Steve’s boots again. He collapses forward, chest heaving, palms scraping against the tower as he drags himself fully onto it.

It doesn’t feel real.

He stays there for a second, chest heaving, palms flat against cold metal, dizzy with the sudden absence of gravity trying to claim him. The tower is still swaying slightly beneath him, but he’s balanced. Upright. Alive. He thinks, wildly and irrelevantly, that he will never ride another rollercoaster for as long as he lives.

Once he stands up, Dustin crashes into him.

Steve barely has time to brace before there are arms around his neck, crushing and frantic, Dustin’s weight knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Dude!” Dustin yells, voice cracking. “Oh my god—you scared the shit out of me!”

“Holy shit,” Steve laughs, voice breaking. “Holy shit, man—I’m okay. I’m okay.” Steve's voice is shaky and hysterical, his hands coming up automatically to hug him back. The sound surprises him, even as it tears out of his chest. Relief does that, he guesses—it spills everywhere, uncontrollable.

At least I something right. Steve thinks distantly, squeezing Dustin a little tighter.

But then he looks up.

And his heart stumbles like it’s forgotten how to beat properly.

You’re standing just a few feet away, frozen in place like the world stopped moving without your permission. Your eyes are blown wide, glassy and red-rimmed, tears streaking unchecked down your face. Your hands are clenched at your sides, knuckles white, your whole body drawn tight with panic that hasn’t realized yet it’s allowed to let go.

You look devastated.

Like he actually died.

There’s relief there—he can see it, trembling just beneath the surface—but it’s tangled with something darker, something that looks like horror carved deep enough to leave a permanent mark. Like the image of him slipping, falling, vanishing has burned itself into you and won’t fade just because he didn’t.

And suddenly, there is nothing he can do about it. And it hits him harder than the fall ever could have.

Steve’s chest tightens painfully as he stares at you, fingers curling uselessly at his side. There is no way he can do what he wants to do. No way he can cross the distance between you and pull you into his arms, no matter how desperately his body screams for it.

He wants to hug you.

Wants to press you against him, solid and breathing and alive, prove it to you with his hands. He wants to kiss the tears off your cheeks, thumbs warm and steady as he tells you it’s okay—he’s okay—you’re okay. He wants to tell you he’s sorry. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry for everything he’s ever held back.

He wants to tell you he’s alive.

And that he wants to stay that way.

For you.

Dustin is still talking, still half-laughing, half-yelling, and Steve laughs back, nodding along, pretending he’s still fully here. But his eyes keep finding you, over and over, like his body knows where home is even if his mind is still catching up.

You don’t move toward him.

You just stare, breathing shallow, like you’re afraid that if you blink he’ll disappear again.

Shit.

He almost died.

And if he had—if Jonathan’s hand hadn’t reached him in time—he would have gone without ever telling you the truth. Without ever admitting the thing that’s been growing quietly inside him, reshaping everything he thought he knew.

Who is he kidding?

He likes you.

No—he likes you.

And liking you doesn’t look like fireworks or reckless passion or the kind of love songs he used to think mattered. It looks quieter than that. Scarier than that.

It looks like noticing when you’re cold before you say anything and handing you his jacket without a second thought. Like remembering how you take your coffee, even when you swear you’re “not picky.” Like feeling the absence of your touch like phantom pain when you pull away.

It looks like wanting to protect you—not because you need it, but because the thought of anything hurting you makes his chest feel too tight to breathe. Like choosing where to stand so he’s always between you and danger. Like listening for your voice in every room without realizing he’s doing it.

It looks like letting you see him exhausted and scared and soft, trusting you with the parts of himself he never meant to give anyone again. Like falling asleep in your lap because his body knows you’re safe even when his mind refuses to admit it.

It looks like fear.

Because liking you means risking everything he’s been trying so hard not to want. It means imagining a future and hating himself for it. It means knowing that if he lost you—really lost you—it would ruin him in ways he might not come back from.

And standing here now, watching you look at him like he almost disappeared forever—

Steve realizes something with terrifying clarity.

If he had fallen…

You wouldn’t have just lost a friend.

And that means he’s been wrong all along.

Not about you.

About himself.

And for the first time since Nancy, since the world taught him how easily love turns into loss, Steve Harrington wonders if the thing he’s been running from is the only thing that’s ever really mattered.

Steve Harrington has spent months convincing himself that feelings can be managed, postponed, ignored until they fade. But standing here, alive by sheer luck, watching you hold yourself together like you’re made of glass, he understands something with terrifying clarity:

This isn’t something he can outrun.

And if he gets another chance—another breath, another tomorrow—he doesn’t want to waste it pretending he doesn’t know exactly how he feels.

Much later—hours later, maybe, though time feels like a concept that’s slipped through everyone’s fingers—the war is over.

The realization doesn’t come with celebration or triumph. It comes softly, uneasily, like waking up after a nightmare and realizing your heart is still racing even though the monster is gone. There’s an unreal quality to it all, like the world has tilted slightly off its axis and no one knows how to straighten it again. You wonder if there’s such a thing as normal after this. If normal is something you can return to, or if it’s something you have to invent from scratch.

No one has anywhere to go.

The Wheelers’ house is destroyed. The Byers are staying with what’s left of it, crowded into borrowed rooms and borrowed time. Lucas and Dustin don’t want to explain their disappearance yet—not to parents who would look at them and see something different now, something older and more broken.

So the decision is made easily, quietly.

They gather what they need. Clothes, toothbrushes, whatever can pass for comfort. And they regroup at the station. It’s not because it’s ideal, but because it’s the circumspect option. Because no one wants to be alone tonight.

Cots and sleeping bags fill every open space, air mattresses tucked into corners and beside desks. It looks like a refugee camp, or maybe the aftermath of a long party where no one quite remembers how it started. You go home just long enough to shower, letting the hot water beat against your skin until your hands shake and your thoughts finally slow.

When you return, you claim a spot on an air mattress beside the couch.

It just happens to be where Steve is too.

The lights are low. The station is quiet in that strange, collective way—like everyone is pretending to sleep, unsure if rest is allowed yet. You’re not sure anyone actually is asleep. Somewhere off to your left, there’s a soft, uneven snore that you’re fairly certain belongs to Hopper.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Steve’s breathing nearby. Slow. Steady. Alive.

Your heart sinks unexpectedly, sharp and heavy all at once.

The image of him slipping from the tower flashes uninvited through your mind—his body falling, the sound of your own scream tearing out of you, the certainty that you were watching him die. You’d thought you lost him forever.

And now, here he is.

Safe. Close.

And you’re the one too scared to say anything.

You sit up quietly, careful not to disturb anyone, your eyes lingering on the back of Steve’s head. His hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck, rising and falling with each breath. He looks peaceful in sleep, like the world hasn’t nearly taken him from you twice in one night.

Your chest tightens.

You slip out carefully, weaving past a cot where Max and El lie close together, shoulders touching. You push open the door to the stairwell and climb slowly, each step echoing too loudly in your ears. When you reach the roof, the night air hits you immediately—sharp and cold—and you regret not grabbing a blanket almost instantly.

Still, you needed this.

The sky stretches wide above you, dark and deceptively calm. Your eyes keep playing tricks on you, flashes of red lightning and shadow flickering at the edges of your vision. You know the Upside Down isn’t gone. Not really. Maybe it never will be.

You sink down onto the concrete, drawing your knees to your chest, burying your face against them as you let out a shaky breath.

Then—warmth.

Sudden and unmistakable.

You gasp softly, startled, and look up just as Steve lowers himself beside you. A blanket settles around your shoulders, cocooning you in heat, and you clutch it instinctively, fingers tightening in the fabric like it’s an anchor.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just sits there, arms resting loosely over his knees, close enough that you can feel his presence without him touching you. The moonlight spills over him, softening his features, tracing the familiar lines of his face. His hair is still damp from the shower he must have taken—curling slightly more than usual, darker at the roots. He looks tired in a way that goes deeper than exhaustion, like something inside him is still bracing for impact.

And that’s when it all finally catches up to you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think. You lean into him, face pressing hard against his shoulder, the sob breaking free before you can stop it. Tears spill hot and fast, soaking into his shirt as your body curls inward, shaking.

“I almost lost you,” you whisper, voice fractured, barely holding together.

Steve doesn’t move at first.

But you feel it anyway—the way his body shudders beneath you, subtle but unmistakable, like something inside him has finally given way. His chest tightens against your cheek, breath hitching, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and torn open, like it’s scraped its way out of him.

“I was so scared,” he croaks.

The words are small, but they split something wide open in you.

You tighten your grip instinctively, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to the undeniable proof that he’s here. Alive. Warm. Real. And then he shifts, suddenly and decisively, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you fully into his lap. His hold is firm—protective, desperate—like he’s afraid if he loosens even slightly, you’ll disappear.

His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin, and you hear him cry. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quiet, broken sounds that vibrate straight through you.

“I was so scared I was gonna die,” he whispers, voice muffled, wrecked. “And you were never gonna know.”

Your breath stutters violently.

“K-know what?” you hiccup, the question tumbling out before you can stop it.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the sight of his face nearly undoes you completely. He looks shattered—eyes red and glassy, jaw trembling like it’s taking everything he has not to fall apart again. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like he’s forcing himself to stay present.

“Know,” he says hoarsely, “what a complete asshole I was being.”

Your heart aches.

“Making you think I didn’t care,” he continues, words rushing now, messy and unfiltered. “Making you believe that I don’t—” He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, frustration clawing at him. “That I just wanted—shit. Fuck.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin it,” he pleads. “Please tell me I can still say it.”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence, chest rising and falling too fast, breath coming in shallow gasps. Your hands clutch at his shoulders like they’re the only solid things left in the world.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He says your name like it’s a prayer.

His hand comes up slowly, reverently, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that feels almost unbearable after everything. When he looks at you, it’s with a raw honesty that makes your chest ache.

“When I thought I was dead,” he says quietly, “all I could think about was you.”

Your breath catches sharply.

“You have a permanent place in my heart,” he continues, voice breaking again. “And you were right. About everything. I was too afraid. Too afraid to say it, too afraid to lose you, too afraid to be wrong.”

He lets out a shaky breath, his forehead dropping to yours.

“I’m so sorry.”

The words settle into you slowly, sinking past the hurt, past the anger, into the place that has always loved him. You don’t need him to grovel. You don’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. You just needed this—the truth, spoken at last.

You wrap your arms around him again, pulling him close, holding him like you might never let go.

“Steve,” you murmur into his shoulder, voice soft but steady. “I forgive you.”

He exhales a broken sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and holds you tighter, like the world might finally, finally let him keep you.

Before another doubt can gather on your tongue, Steve is already there.

His forehead presses to yours, firm and grounding, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of you. Both of his hands come up to frame your face, palms warm, fingers digging just slightly into your skin like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. His eyes search yours—not glancing, not fleeting—but lingering, memorizing. Dark and wide and impossibly soft all at once.

It feels like he’s burning you into himself. Like he’s falling again and needs one last look to make sure you’re real.

“This is real,” he whispers, breath trembling between you.

Then, steadier. Certain. His gaze sharpens, deepens, something resolute settling behind it.

“My feelings for you are real.”

The sound you make surprises you—a breathless laugh, bright and relieved and a little disbelieving. It spills out of you before you can stop it, joy bubbling up through all the fear you’d been carrying.

“Steve,” you say, smiling so hard it almost hurts. “I like you so much.”

For a moment, neither of you move.

You just exist there together, the space between your faces impossibly small. He exhales shakily, his nose brushing yours, nudging softly like he’s asking permission without words. Your eyes flutter shut, head tilting instinctively, surrendering the moment to him—letting him decide where this goes.

There isn’t hesitation.

You feel his breath first, warm and relieved against your cheek, before his mouth presses there—gentle, reverent, like he’s grounding himself again. Then his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you in—

Your lips crash together.

It’s everything all at once. Plush and warm and imperfect. His lips are a little chapped, a little desperate, and you don’t care because it feels right. Like something that’s been waiting far too long finally finding its place. He kisses you like he’s learning you, like he’s afraid to rush and afraid not to all at once.

You smile into it when your name slips from his mouth, barely more than a breath.

He’s gentle—careful in the way only someone who feels deeply can be—guiding the kiss, deepening it as your heads tilt together instinctively, bodies aligning like they’ve always known how to do this. You know what he’s about to do before he does it, and the knowing makes your chest ache.

When he sighs, you feel it everywhere.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, sliding beneath the fabric at his waist, feeling the warmth of him there. He reacts immediately—breath hitching, grip tightening—his hand splaying between your shoulders to pull you closer, closer, until there’s no space left to question anything.

From Steve’s side, it feels like falling again—but this time there’s no terror underneath it. Only you. Solid and real and holding him just as tightly. His heart swells so painfully he thinks it might split him open. He kisses you like he’s grateful. Like he’s been forgiven by the universe itself.

The kiss grows heavier, slower, charged with everything you didn’t say before tonight. Foreheads touch. Lips part. Breath mingles. You feel each other everywhere without needing to move much at all—knees brushing, chests pressed, heat building simply because neither of you wants to let go.

Reality crashes back in only when he nips gently at your bottom lip and you both have to pull away, gasping for air.

A thin, trembling thread of salvia connects you.

Steve’s eyes are blown wide—soft, stunned, shining in the moonlight. Those big, doe-like eyes you’ve loved forever look wrecked in the most beautiful way, like he’s finally let himself feel everything at once.

He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in, holding you like he’s afraid the world might still try to take this from him.

Steve doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he succumbs to another deep kiss—slow at first, like he’s asking with his body what he already knows the answer to. His mouth opens just enough for you to feel the warmth of him, the gentle insistence, the unmistakable slide of tongue against tongue. It’s unpracticed and perfect, a little messy, a little breathless, like neither of you has the patience to be careful anymore.

Your hands tighten in his shirt as his tongue brushes yours again, tentative and then bolder, and something low and needy coils in your stomach. You shift without thinking, your body instinctively seeking him out—and the friction is immediate.

Your weight settles there naturally, like you’ve always belonged, knees on either side of his thighs, the heat of him undeniable. When you move—just barely, just enough—Steve breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as if he needs the grounding.

“Oh,” he breathes, stunned, like the sound escaped him without permission.

He presses closer, the kiss opening fully now—tongues sliding, slow and searching, learning the shape of each other with an urgency that’s been held back for far too long. It’s uncoordinated in the way first truths often are, breath breaking apart between you, lips chasing lips because neither of you knows where to stop.

You shift again—subtle, instinctive—and the friction sharpens.

Being in his lap feels suddenly unavoidable, undeniable. Every small movement drags awareness through you, a low, insistent heat that pools and builds and refuses to be ignored. You rock once, then again, not even consciously, just following the pull of it—and Steve groans softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating straight through you.

His hands tighten at your waist, anchoring you there. His thumbs press in, grounding and needy, like he’s bracing himself against the intensity of it. He’s breathing harder now, chest rising fast beneath your palms, and when he looks at you his eyes are wide and dark and completely undone—those big, soft eyes blown open with want, lashes clumped, mouth parted like he doesn’t quite trust himself to speak.

You kiss him again before either of you can think.

This time it’s hungrier. Tongues glide together in slow, heated strokes, the kiss turning heavy and unrestrained as your bodies move in quiet, desperate rhythm. You feel him respond instinctively, hips lifting just enough to meet you, the friction between you turning sharper, sweeter—enough to make your breath stutter and your thoughts blur at the edges.

Your names slip out between gasps, murmured and breathed into each other’s mouths like confessions.

Steve’s hand slides higher beneath your shirt, palm warm and steady against your back, holding you close as if the world might fall away if he lets go, finding it’s way to your front, cupping your breast through your bra. His thumb sneaks underneath the fabric, and you let out a hiss when it brushes your hardened nipple. His other hand stays firm at your hip, guiding you gently, like he’s both losing control and trying desperately not to.

From your side, everything feels amplified—the warmth, the pressure, the way every shift sends sensation spiraling through you. The waiting. The wanting. The way it all seems to narrow down to this one place where you’re pressed together, hearts racing, breath tangled. 

You rest your forehead against his, both of you panting now, mouths brushing with every inhale. He exhales a broken, breathless sound—almost a laugh, almost a sob—and closes his eyes like he’s overwhelmed by the sheer reality of you.

When he opens them again, he looks at you like he’s already chosen you. Like there was never really another option.

Your hands slide under his shirt. Fingers brushing through the thatch of unruly coarse hair on his chest. His stomach is warm against your palms. His own fingers splayed against your ribs like he’s afraid to rush and afraid not to touch you at all. The contact sends a shiver through you, and you rock unconsciously, seeking more of that closeness, that pressure—the friction building between you, desperate and unignorable. His hardened length twitches against your aching clit. 

Steve feels it too.

His breath stutters, hands tightening at your waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind himself this is happening. He looks up at you then, eyes half-lidded, drunk with desire and disbelief. He looks at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful—or more dangerous to his heart.

You kiss him again before he can think himself out of it.

This one is slower, deeper, tongues sliding together in a way that feels inevitable now. He follows your rhythm instinctively, hips lifting just slightly, meeting you in that quiet, urgent friction that makes your breath catch and your thoughts scatter. Your hips start to roll frantically now, uncontrollable. You’re desperate and so is he as he pushes you harder on top of him, the friction nearly unbearable as the heat bubbles. 

Your names slip between kisses, whispered and breathed and half-lost against each other’s mouths. His mouth drifts to the corner of yours, then your jaw, kissing you like he’s apologizing and worshipping all at once. 

“Stevestevesteve,” you pant. That coil in the pit of your stomach finally releasing, your nails digging into the nape of his neck. 

Just hearing you moan and scream out his name allows him to have his own undoing, whining pathetically as he pulses, and lets out his warm sticky finish in his pants. “...fuck.”

You stay there together, shaking slightly, breathing each other in, the heat between you slowly settling into something deep and steady—secured, shared, and impossibly intimate.And for the first time, you know with absolute certainty— the wanting was never wasted.

Eventually, you make your way back down.

Steve stands first, steadying you as he pulls you in for another kiss—slow, tender, unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need urgency because it isn’t afraid of tomorrow.

“Lay with me tonight?” you ask quietly, the words barely louder than your heartbeat.

He smiles immediately, nodding with an enthusiasm that makes something warm bloom behind your ribs. Then he leans closer, voice dropping to a whisper, sheepish and fond.

“Yeah—uh. Just need to change first.”

Heat rushes to both your faces at the same time, identical and unmistakable. You laugh softly, ducking your head, knowing you can get away with staying exactly as you are until morning. His hand settles at the small of your back as he guides you inside—something he’s always done, but this time it’s different. More intentional. His thumb moves in slow, absent circles, like he’s grounding himself in the knowledge that you’re here.

You wait for him.

And when he comes back, you don’t even think—you step forward and wrap yourself around him again, arms tight, cheek pressed to his chest. There’s no embarrassment in the clinginess. Not when he’s just as bad—tightening his hold, kissing your cheek, your jaw, the soft skin of your neck in quick, affectionate flurries that make you laugh breathlessly.

He’s the one who takes your hand, fingers threading through yours, pulling you back toward the room full of sleeping bodies.

Mostly sleeping.

Because when you pass Max and El, their eyes are wide open, bright with unspoken commentary. They share a look—and then giggle quietly, conspiratorial and delighted. You catch the way Steve’s ears turn pink, freckles dusted rose beneath the blue glow of the sign outside, and it makes you love him even more.

You lay down first, lifting the blanket that’s still wrapped around you as Steve slides in beside you. The air mattress rustles under your combined weight, soft and familiar. He pulls you into his side immediately, decisive, like there was never another option. His face buries into the curve of your neck, breath warm and steady.

He presses a kiss to your pulse.

Then another.

And this time, his lips linger.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs quietly, voice low and careful, “can I take you out on a date?”

You smile into the darkness, whispering back, “Tomorrow? That soon?”

Your mind flickers—rest, recovery, the enormity of everything you’ve survived. Were you allowed to step back into something normal this quickly? Were you allowed to want this?

Steve nods against you.

“Already wasted so much time,” he says softly. “I don’t want to lose a second with you, sweetheart.”

That does it.

You flop toward him, arms tangling together again, needy and unashamed. He holds you like he’s been waiting for permission his whole life. Somewhere in the quiet, you feel him sigh—content, awed—and you know he’s thinking the same thing you are.

That this is enough. That this is everything.

You press your face into his warm chest, breathing in the clean scent of soap and detergent and Steve, kissing just above the beating thrum of his heart.

“Yeah, Stevie,” you murmur, voice barely there anymore, worn soft by the night. “I wanna go on a date with you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just exhales—long and slow—like something inside him has finally loosened its grip. His arms tighten around you, not urgently, not possessively, but with a steadiness that feels earned. His forehead rests against the crown of your head, and you feel the warmth of him there, the weight of his presence anchoring you in a way that doesn’t ask for anything more.

It feels ordinary in the best sense of the word. Like this is how it was always meant to be, once the noise quieted and the fear burned itself out.

You listen to the sound of his breathing, to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear. You let yourself exist in this small pocket of peace, this moment carved out of everything you survived. The world hasn’t been repaired. Nothing is magically whole again. 

This was all you could dread while standing on your childhood home’s front porch step for the first time in a year. You tried not to think about a year ago when your left hand was heavier and your smile wider. Instead, you mustered up a pathetic smile, welcoming your family with open arms. Praying to drop the topic that was your personal life, which surely wouldn’t last as long as you’d hope. 

The first crack came at dinner that night, your mother pulled out all the stops, a roasted chicken with all the sides. Before you could finish your plate, she cleared her throat loudly. 

“I don’t wanna say much. But you need to know that I saw Steve at the grocery store the other day with all those kids. His parents left town again, so he’s all alone in that big house.” If she saw you flinch at the sound of his name, she didn’t address it. 

“Thanks for the heads up. And the pity party attempt, mom.” You managed to get out, dropping your fork. Your appetite now undoubtedly ruined. 

A few moments of silence passed before Mom took that as an opportunity to keep going. “You know they’re still family to you. They’d love to see you. I’m still planning on bringing them a pie. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without-” 

“Mom, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t.” You snapped, pulling the chair out more dramatically than you should have. 

“Y/m/n.” Your father sighed, pleading with his eyes for you to stay. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s work been?”

Thankful for his diversion, you managed to get out some basics about work. The simple generic small talk. The only thing you could stomach. You just had to get through the next week, and everything would be fine. Right? 

Word of your arrival in town spread like wildfire; you knew it would the moment someone drove past your parents' house and saw your car out front. The first person to call came as a surprise, your mother holding out the kitchen phone for you. None other than Robin on the line. The last time you spoke to her, you were choking back sobs, screaming at her to tell you where Steve had gone. 

The night your life fell apart in front of your eyes was nearly 6 months ago. After 8 months of an engagement, the two of you decided to move, Chicago, calling your name. A fresh start, not too far from home. A place away from the expectations that lingered above his head, the ghosts that haunted underneath the town. You told yourself it was just stress from the move, stress from Steve having a hard time finding a job he loved. You convinced yourself that the distance that had grown between you two was normal. Wedding planning had been put on hold, simply trying to get through each day at a time. You weren’t in the city for 2 months before it came crashing down in front of your eyes. 

It was a normal day, until it wasn’t. You came home from work, your home absent of the joy it used to bring. In the same kitchen he used to pick you up and spin you around in, he sat against the table. Illuminated by nothing but the city lights peering in through the window. Your keys hitting the bowl on the counter echoed through the still house. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” He said, no pleasantries, no welcome home. Five words that tore open your chest, leaving you gasping for air. 

“What?” You laughed because what else was there for you to do? Shock had taken over your body, feet glued to the spot. Overcoat still on, work bag dangling from your arm. 

“This. Us.” He spoke through clenched teeth, tears staining his cheeks. “I can’t keep sitting in this apartment day in and day out, alone. Contributing nothing. You’re gonna end up hating me. If you don’t already.” 

The bag slipped from your arm with a heavy thud. Rushing over to him, standing across from the table. “What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

“It’s been coming for a while, Y/n. We both keep dancing around it. I see it, you’re stressed out, pretending you’re not carrying me behind you like deadweight,” He sniffled, “I’m a fuck up, an embarrassment. Everything my dad said, I would be.”

You reached for him with shaky hands, knees falling to the floor beside him. Pulling yourself into his lap, holding his hands in yours. “Stop, stop.” You demanded, “I have never seen you like that. Ever. Steve, your father is an abusive piece of shit. Who cares what he thinks? It’s only been a few months; it’s going to take time. Everything is going to work out. I keep telling you that, and I believe it.” 

“I see myself like that, and I can’t unsee it. Day in and day out, I’m here in this city, alone.” He shook his head, barely responding to your begging him to look at you, to hold you back. To pretend he wasn’t okay with all that you built to slip through his fingers.  “Yeah, we were bored at home, but this is the alternative? Being alone in a city that doesn’t care if I exist.”

You scoffed. “We didn’t leave because we were bored. We left because we deserved better. Because after everything you’ve been through, after everything we’ve been through, we earned a fresh start.”

“And what if this fresh start is killing me?” He laughed, a horrible, dry laugh from the depths of his chest. His body rattles against your hands. 

Your breath stutters. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He admitted, the air around you two changing. Your hands slipped from his, still sitting back on your knees in front of him. He still barely looked at you, content to stare at the wood grain on the table. Committing the pattern to memory. 

“So what, you want to move home?” You asked, the walls still smelled like fresh paint. The cardboard boxes you two procrastinated on throwing out lingered in the guest room. There hadn’t been enough time to make it home, the training wheels were still on. 

“We can..” You sighed, rubbing your face. “We can maybe sublet the lease until it’s over. I don’t know. We have to see if there are even any places for us to rent back home.” 

He turned in his seat, his eyes finally meeting yours. You could see his heart breaking on his face, and you knew. Something bone-chilling washed over you, nearly forcing your body flat on the floor. 

“You don’t mean us, do you?” You managed out, tears already welling in your eyes. 

His head shook, moving towards you. Joining you, knees aching on the floor you once rolled around in joy on. 

“I love you,” he says, voice breaking. “I promise I do. This isn’t me walking away because I stopped loving you.” His hands gripped yours for a second before you yanked them away. 

“Then don’t do this. If you love me, don’t leave me.” You sobbed, “If you loved me, you’d stay, or let me come with. I don’t care where we are; I want you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

He reached for you again, his touch burning your skin. 

“I have to,” he whispers. “Because I can feel myself holding you back. You deserve the chance to love this city the way you’ve always wanted to. I don’t belong here. I know I don’t. But you do. I’m not cut out for this life. Not this place, not this constant fight to prove I’m worth something. But you are. You shine here. And if I stay, all I’ll do is make you smaller so I don’t feel so lost.”

“So you go back alone,” you said, incredulous. “Back to the same streets, the same expectations from your father, the same ghosts?”

He gestured helplessly at the room, at the life you’d hauled here with too much hope and not enough certainty. “Better that than I stay here, pretending I belong.” 

“You’re really going to throw this away?” You asked, tears streaming down your neck. “You’re going to throw away all the years between us because you won’t give it a few more weeks?” 

“I can’t give you the life you deserve here.” 

Your chest aches. “I don’t want this without you.” His thumb rubbed over the ring on your finger, a choked sob escaping your chest. You remembered the day he proposed, the reminder of the happiest day of your life turning bittersweet in a matter of minutes. 

“I know,” he says, his own tears falling freely now. “And that’s why I have to let you go before I turn into something you resent.”

You sniffled, “If you walk out of that door, Steve Harrington, I will resent you. I’ll never forgive you for giving up on us, for walking out like a coward.” 

He flinched at your words, understanding he deserved it. “Don’t think I’m giving up on us for nothing, I’m doing this for you.”

Then his hand falls, the space between you unbearable, a chasm building between the two of you. 

“No,” You shook your head, a laugh tearing out of you like a mad woman. “You’re doing it because you’re scared. You let your father’s words get in your head, now you’re letting them ruin your life.” 

“You don’t understand, and that’s okay.” He gave you a weak smile, standing up slowly. “But I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone before.” 

“Bullshit.” You sprang to your feet, pushing his chest. He didn’t move, just stood there taking whatever you’d give him. “You can’t say you love me while you’re actively leaving me. You just don’t wanna marry me anymore? A few rough months and you’re tapping out? That’s not how the real world works.” 

“You’re not listening to me,” He seethed, “I am miserable here! I miss my friends; I am alone here with no one but you. If I go home, I have a job with my dad, and you can still live out your dreams.” 

“My dreams mean nothing if you’re not here.” You yelled, pushing him roughly again. His hands come out to grip your wrists. “You’re not even fighting for us. You’ve given up.” 

The realization hit you like a freight train, stumbling on your feet. “You’ve given up.” 

“Y/n..” 

“Out.” You sobbed, taking a shaky step back. “You want to leave so bad? Get the fuck out. Run back home to the people who thought you couldn’t do it. Prove them right. End up just like your fucking father. If you want to live and die in that town, don’t let me stop you.” 

He knew rationally your words were just your heart breaking, and it tore him apart knowing he was the one doing it. You’d move on, he knew you would eventually. He just wanted you to have the life here you deserved, the one you’d keep him up all night daydreaming about. It just wasn’t going to be with him. So he resigned and walked into the room, grabbing his bags. All you could do was stand there, shell-shocked. Tears streaming down your cheeks. You ignored his goodbyes, waited until the door locked behind him to throw yourself on the floor. Screaming until your voice went hoarse. The next morning, you called Robin, begging her to tell you where he was. She said it was best she remove herself from this, wishing you well. All it took was one conversation, one bad night, and your entire life had crumbled right before your eyes. 

Now, as you stood there lost in the memory, you snapped back, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hello.” She asked, making you blink. 

“Hi?” 

“Y/n,” Her voice rang out, too cheery. “It’s good to hear your voice. I’m glad you’re home.” 

It was awkward, a painful awkwardness that sat in the middle of your chest. Your best friend, the girl you used to tell everything, was now someone you could barely have a normal conversation with. 

“Yeah, you too.” You mumbled, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m not trying to be mean, but did you need something?” 

She paused for a moment, “Uh, yeah. I just wanted to invite you to our Christmas party tomorrow. It wouldn’t be the same without you. We miss you.” 

The honesty in her voice made your heart ache, but you couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a great idea, Robin-” 

“Steve said it’s fine.” She yelled, and you could hear mumblings in the background. “You don’t have to stay for long, just get some food. The kids really miss you, and so do I, Y/n. We miss our friend.”