#blaize writes

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. 

He'd known he'd be okay as a teacher for the rest of his life. Coming home to the smell of dinner, cracking open a beer, sitting across the table from her while they laughed at whatever absurd, gravity-defying question their daughter— he hoped for a daughter first, though he'd never admit why— asked between bites of mashed peas. 

He'd been so sure of it. The evenings on the couch after bedtime, his wives feet in his lap like it was nothing, like it had always been that way, him working his thumb into the arch of her foot while the television murmured and she told him about her day in that half-drowsy voice people use when they finally feel safe.

He knew he wanted all of it.

He'd seen it once, a long time ago, in the narrow hallway light of his parents' house, when he was eight years old and supposed to be asleep. He'd crept downstairs for water and found them on the couch instead, his mother's head tipped back laughing at something his father said, his father's whole face open in a way it never was during the day. They'd looked young. They'd looked ridiculous, actually. And Steve had stood there in the dark in his socked feet and felt something register quietly in his chest, something that said— that.

He always knew he wanted that.

What he didn't know was that he wanted you.

You teach third grade at Hawkins Elementary. You have a habit of reading your students' drawings aloud to them as if they're gallery pieces, and you keep a mug on your desk that says World's Okayest Adult that you got from a nine-year-old as a holiday gift and cannot bring yourself to retire. You have ink smudges on the outside of your hand from grading papers. 

You smell faintly, impossibly, of crayons and something warm underneath, like cedar or cardamom, and Steve noticed it the first time you laughed at something he said, leaning toward him on instinct, and he'd spent the better part of that first date just trying to figure out where it was coming from.

You had no business agreeing to go on a date with him. He knew that. You didn’t talk at work before he asked. 

He'd been standing in the parking lot of the grocery store at eight in the morning on a Saturday, still half-asleep, a little embarrassed by the basket of frozen dinners he was holding, and you'd been there for some reason that later seemed too lucky to be real, and you'd had this expression on your face when he talked to you. Not the usual one. Not the oh, you're Steve Harrington expression, all recognition and preemptive expectation. You'd looked at him like you were actually listening. Like whatever he said next might genuinely surprise you..

You have no earthly reason to say yes when he asks you to dinner, stammering through the invitation like he's sixteen again instead of twenty-four. But you do. You smile—this sunrise of a thing that makes his chest feel too small—and you say yes.

He has no idea he'll want to take you on another date. And then another. That he'll want to take it slow in a way he's never wanted before, holding your hand on walks like you're something precious he might break. That he won't kiss you until the third date, and when he finally tries, he'll be so nervous he'll bump his head against yours hard enough to see stars.

He'd been building to it all night, and then it happened and he tipped forward too fast and his forehead bumped yours "Shit," he says, pulling back, mortified. "I'm so sorry. I wanted our first kiss to be perfect and I'm so—"

You grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him back in, crashing your mouth against his, and he has no idea that this—your boldness meeting his fumbling sincerity—will be the thing that undoes him completely.

The kiss wasn’t soft either, not forgiving. You'd kissed him like you'd been considering it for longer than the night and had simply decided to stop waiting. And Steve Harrington, who had kissed a number of people in his life, stood on your front porch and forgot every single one of them.

He does all the things he's done before on dates. Walks you to your door, kisses you goodnight, positions himself on the outside of the sidewalk so he's closer to traffic. But this time, for the first time, he wants to do these things. Not because they're expected, not because they're the motions you're supposed to go through, but because he wants to see the way your lips curl when he opens the car door for you. 

Wants to watch your eyes catch light like coins at the bottom of a fountain when he brings you flowers for no reason. Doesn't mind when your lipstick stains his mouth pink, or when a smudge of your eyeshadow transfers to his collar after you lean your head on his shoulder during a movie.

He keeps these small marks of you on him like evidence. Like proof.

And he never knew—how could he have known?—that after three months of seeing you, Steve Harrington would want a girlfriend. Not in the abstract way he'd wanted one before, the way you want things because you're supposed to want them. Not the placeholder kind, the ones who looked good on his arm and laughed at his jokes and disappeared from his life without leaving dents.

No, he wants a girlfriend. His girlfriend. The kind who knows he likes his coffee with too much sugar, who shows him your students' misspelled worksheets because you know they'll make him laugh, who argues with him about whether The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller is the superior John Hughes film (it's Ferris Bueller, and he'll die on that hill).

He always said he wanted this. But he didn't. Not really.

Maybe because it was never you.

Three months.

Three months of this, and somewhere in the middle of them, Steve realized he wanted a girlfriend.

The wanting had always been for some general, approaching shape, and now it had edges, and a smell like cedar and cardamom, and ink on the outside of its left hand.

.-.-.-.

Tonight, the thread holding his restraint together feels thinner than usual.

Earlier, at the Hawk, while standing in the concession line arguing about whether to get Milk Duds or Sno-Caps— you wanted both; he caved immediately— you spotted a friend from high school. You lit up, grabbing Steve's arm and pulling him forward with a grin that could power the entire theater.

"This is my boyfriend," you said, the word falling from your lips like honey, sweet and golden and completely natural.

The rush of hearing it hit him in two places simultaneously. His head, which went dizzy and light, and his cock, which twitched hard enough in his jeans to make him shift his weight and pray to a god he doesn't believe in that it wasn't obvious.

Boyfriend.

Steve Harrington has been introduced a thousand different ways. "Oh, you remember Steve?" "I'm here with Steve Harrington." "You know King Steve, right?" Always his name, always his history, always him as a person separate and distinct.

But you didn't say his name. You called him your boyfriend—something you haven't even discussed, something that apparently doesn't need discussing because it's true, it's real, you're his and he's yours.

And suddenly Steve doesn't want to be Steve Harrington at all. He wants to be your boyfriend. That's it. That's all.

He couldn't concentrate during the movie. Couldn't tell you a single plot point if his life depended on it. He sat there holding his girlfriend's hand— the word looping in his head like a skipping record: girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend— sporting a semi in the dark, occasionally having to press the heel of his palm against his crotch to relieve the ache.

He considered sneaking away to the bathroom, tucking himself into his waistband, anything to relieve the pressure. But that would mean letting go of your hand, and he's not willing to do that. Not when your thumb is doing this thing, rubbing circles on his knuckles, grounding him and destroying him in equal measure.

It only got worse after. Dropping you off, you asked him to come in for coffee—code you both understand means more kissing on your couch, more of your hands on his skin, more of this slow-burning thing between you that he's terrified of rushing because what if he breaks it? What if he fucks it up like he fucks everything up?

Now he's kissing his girlfriend's lips, and the word won't stop ricocheting around his skull. 

Your mouth is soft and warm, and you taste like the popcorn you split at the movies. He can feel your heartbeat where his palm rests against your ribs, quick and fluttering like a bird's wings. Your hand is in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp in a way that makes him want to purr.

When he said you were taking it slow, this is what he meant. Nothing goes beyond this—kissing on your couch, hands staying mostly polite, both of you breathing hard but keeping the brakes engaged.

Sometimes, like tonight, you guide his hand to cup your breast through your shirt. Most of the time, you slip your hands under his, and he always smiles against your lips because you love his stomach. You map his chest first, fingers tracing the sparse hair there, then his shoulders, but you always come back to his belly. Palm the softness there like it's your favorite part of him.

And god, of course he wonders what you feel like— without the architecture of clothes in between. What you taste like beyond your lips and the salt of your neck. Wonders what sounds you'd make if he got his mouth on you properly.

Because he never knew he wanted to be respectful. Never knew he'd be the kind of guy who'd stop himself, who'd wait, who'd care more about doing this right than doing it fast.

But then again, he never knew you existed. So what the hell did he know about anything?

The kiss is slow, and it's also not slow at all, and those two things exist without contradiction. Your hands are in his hair and his are at your waist, and the kiss is the kind that gets away from you by degrees, each one a little less careful than the last, until you look up and can't account for the time. Your bottom lip is soft. You make a sound sometimes, quiet and unconsidered, and every time it happens, he feels it in his sternum like a tuning fork. You shift closer. He follows.

It comes out of his mouth before he can stop it.

He breaks away, both of you breathing hard, your lips swollen and shining, eyelashes fanning across the apples of your cheeks. Your pupils are blown wide, lids heavy, and you're looking at him like he hung the moon and he doesn't deserve it, he doesn't, but god does he want to.

He swallows hard, brushing your hair back from your face. His hand stops at your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw. "I want you to meet my parents."

The words land in the space between you and he immediately hears how they sound. His eyes go wide.

"I mean—shit—would you meet my parents? Because you don't have to if you don't want to, but I'd really like them to meet my girlfriend, and I understand if it's too soon or too much or—"

You giggle, and the sound makes him stop mid-spiral.

He blinks at you, heat flooding his face.

"I'd love to meet your parents," you say, and kiss him softly.

And Steve Harrington—who has introduced exactly one other girl to his parents in any capacity that mattered, who once faked food poisoning to get out of a girl meeting his mother at the fair—gets a boner at the thought of you shaking his dad's hand and sitting at his parents' kitchen table.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He gives you chaste pecks, brows furrowed, nose pressed against your cheek, before he has to physically remove your hands from under his shirt. He stands quickly, running his fingers through his hair hard enough to hurt, putting distance between you before he does something stupid like beg you to touch him.

He sees you go rigid immediately, sitting up straight, hands folding in your lap. Your eyes fill with concern. "Steve... is everything okay?"

"What?" He turns slightly, not enough for you to see the obvious bulge in his jeans. "Yeah. No. I mean—" He clears his throat, puts his hands on his hips in that stupid way his dad does when he's uncomfortable. "Yeah. I needed to take a moment."

You wait, and the silence stretches between you like taffy. Then, quietly, carefully, "Did I... did I do something?"

Steve's eyes go wide. He spins around. "What? No—no! Shit, I..."

He stops. Swallows hard.

Silence.

You're waiting. He can feel the particular shape of your patience, the way it doesn't crowd him, doesn't demand. It settles around him like still water.

He turns fully to face you.

You're sitting with your hands folded in your lap, posture straightened, watching him with an expression that's trying very hard to be neutral and mostly succeeding. Your hair has come slightly undone from his fingers. Your lipstick has migrated—some on your chin, some (he knows) on his own mouth. You look, objectively, incredible, and this is not helping anything.

Steve Harrington looks at you across your own living room and thinks, I am completely in over my head.

He thinks, I knew I wanted all of it.

He thinks, I didn't know it was you.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Puts his hands back on his hips in that stupid defensive stance.

"You're—" He stops. Starts again. "I really like you. Like. A lot."

It comes out with approximately none of the grace or eloquence he intended, flat and graceless, but it lands. He watches it land, sees the way your expression shifts.

Something in your face does the thing—the slow opening-up thing, the light-through-curtains thing, warmth bleeding into your features.

"Yeah?" you say, and your voice has gone soft.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has done something embarrassing, gone rough and desperate. "It's kind of a problem, actually."

Your eyes flick down to the very obvious evidence of this straining against his jeans, then back up to his face.

Your smile arrives—crooked and helpless and knowing—and he stops trying to think entirely.

He groans, the sound pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock twitches again, aching, and he presses his palms to his face. "I'm supposed to be... I'm trying to be a gentleman." The words come out muffled, strained. He drops his hands, looking at you with those downturned puppy-dog eyes that make him look young and wrecked. "But you make it impossible to not throw every ounce of restraint I have out the window."

You're still staring at him, silent, and he can see your chest rising and falling with your breathing.

Then your face cracks—amusement and want and something darker all mixing together. "When,” you ask slowly, tilting your head, “did I ever ask you to be a gentleman?"

Steve nearly comes in his pants.

He watches, mouth dry and heart hammering, as you uncross your legs. Your palms brace against the cushions on either side of you, and you tilt your head, eyelashes batting with devastating innocence. He's frozen, speechless, as you roll your hips slightly—a small movement, almost imperceptible, like you're trying to relieve some pressure of your own.

Then you lift one finger, crooking it. Beckoning him.

His knees go weak, liquid and useless. He walks toward you on unsteady legs until he's standing directly in front of you, and then—without thinking, without planning—he sinks to his knees. He crawls the rest of the distance across your living room floor until he's kneeling between your legs.

He can see the color of your panties under your dress. Baby blue. Cotton. Simple and devastating.

He's breathing hard, each inhale shaky and insufficient.

Steve sits back on his heels, hands stupidly at his sides, waiting for permission he's terrified won't come. Then you poke your toe against his thigh—gentle, teasing—and he grabs it.

It's instinct, both hands folding around your foot, and then he's pressing his thumbs into the arch because he's wanted to do this for months, because he's been thinking about this on couches and in movie theaters and in the dark of his own car, and the small sound you make dissolves something in his chest. He moves to your other foot. His hands are large enough that his fingers wrap your ankle with room left over, the tendons and small bones of you familiar under the mapped pressure of his palms, the veins on the backs of his hands stark and dark as he works. He can feel his own pulse in them.

He moves up to your calves. Slowly. His thumbs tracing the curve of muscle, working upward, and when the hem of your dress gives way to his wrists he pauses.

He presses a kiss to your knee.

His hands keep moving. Up the inside of your thighs now, the warmth of you radiating into his palms, and he feels you shift toward him and he keeps going until his fingers find the waistband of your underwear.

He looks up.

"This okay?"

"Please," you breathe. Already lifting. Already helping him. "Steve, please."

He draws them down slowly, presses a warm open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh on the way, and then nips, and you make a sound that undoes another something in him. He looks up at you once more, chin resting on your leg, eyes dark.

"Can I?"

"Yes," you say. "God, yes."

He ducks under your dress.

The smell of you reaches him before anything else, warm and close and private, and his nose brushes the soft hair of your cunt and he exhales against you, almost reverent. He kisses you there first. Soft, closed-mouthed, like a greeting. Then he hooks your thighs over his shoulders, forearms spreading you open, and his tongue finds you.

You gasp.

He learns you the way he learns things that matter, carefully and then not carefully at all. He licks a slow stripe and listens to the sound you make, adjusts, finds the rhythm that makes your hips roll toward him. He works at you with his mouth, unhurried, your dress a dark tent around his head and the whole world reduced to this: the texture of you, the sounds you're making, the trembling that starts in your thighs when he finds the right angle and stays there.

When he presses two fingers into you, you cry out.

He feels you clench around him and groans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you, and your hands find his hair through the dress and pull. He curls his fingers. Crooks them. Listens. He fucks them into you slow while his tongue works and you're saying his name now, saying it in pieces, Steve, Steve, like it costs you something, and he speeds up his hand because he needs to hear what comes after.

What comes after is your thighs locking around his head and a sound torn from somewhere low in your chest and your whole body pulling taut like a bowstring at full draw, every muscle gone rigid, before you break open in waves that pulse around his fingers and leave you shaking and gasping in their wake.

He eases you through it. Presses his lips softly to your inner thigh. Comes out from under your dress, his face flushed and wrecked, his mouth wet.

He's still aching, his jeans unbearable. He presses his palm against himself, a breath through his teeth.

You look down at him from the couch, chest still heaving, a flush crawling from your throat to your collarbones. Your bottom lip pushes out.

"Stevie," you say. The syllables of his name in your mouth like that should not be legal. "Do you need to be taken care of?"

"Yes," he whimpers, hands already going to his belt buckle, fingers fumbling with the leather.

"What do you need, handsome?" you ask, sitting up. Your fingers find his hair, threading through and tugging gently. His head falls back, exposing the long line of his throat, and you press your lips there. Then you find his mouth, kissing him dirty and open-mouthed and desperate.

The kiss is dirty. Open-mouthed and slow in the worst possible way, the kind of slow that isn't patience but devastation, and when you pull back for air his mouth chases yours on reflex, still reaching, mouths pushing and pulling.

Finally he breaks away, eyes closed, and when they open they're dark—pupils blown so wide the hazel is nearly gone.

"I need you," he says, voice wrecked.

He stands, ripping his shirt off in one motion. The fabric catches on his watch, on his hair, and then it's gone— somewhere behind him. 

Your eyes snap to his bare chest—the sparse hair, the constellation of moles you want to map with your tongue—then lower to his belly. The softness there that you love, the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband. You lick your lips. Something feral and private crosses your face. He watches you look at him and stands a little straighter.

He holds your gaze while he unbuckles his belt, towering over you.

"I'm going to fuck you until your legs shake," he says, and every ounce of gentlemanly restraint has been incinerated, burned away, leaving only raw want.

Steve shoves his jeans and boxers down in one swift movement, kicking them off, and his cock springs free—hard and flushed and leaking.

Your eyes widen. "Steve, there's no—"

"Wasn't I nice and got you ready, baby? Hm?" He coos, voice dropping into something darker, more commanding. "You can be good and take it." He pauses, eyes raking over you. "Take off your dress."

You pull it over your head and he steps forward immediately, into the heat of you, cock bobbing with the movement, the tip smearing precum against his belly, and your face turns into his stomach. 

You lean forward, burying your face in his belly, kissing the soft skin there, nipping gently. Your tongue traces the trail of precum that's made its way into his happy trail, tasting salt and musk and him. Your tongue finds the slick at the root of him and he grips your hair without deciding to.

"Fuck—" A whisper. "Honey—"

Your hand wraps around him. Pumps, slow, and he sees white at the edges of his vision.

He makes himself breathe. He makes himself reach for patience one last time, holding the back of your head gently, watching the top of yours.

But he can't let you continue or he'll finish right there, spilling across your hand and his stomach like a teenager. He eases you back gently, then slowly lays you down on the couch.

He looks down between you, lining himself up, but before he does your soft hand cups his face. Your fingers trace his jawline with reverence, then his nose, the bridge, the tip. You map the moles scattered across his face and neck like you're memorizing them, and he realizes—you've wanted this as much as he has. Wanted to touch him properly, wanted to learn him.

But he still needs to make sure. "You want this?"

"Yes, Steve. I want you."

He kisses you softly—a contrast to everything else—before returning his attention below. He lines himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance, and begins to push in slowly.

You both cry out at the first inch of it, your breath punching out and his head dropping to your shoulder, jaw clenched.

The stretch is intense, overwhelming, and he has to stop after just the tip, breathing hard.

"Relax for me," he murmurs, one hand spreading your thigh wider, opening you up. "That's it. You're doing so good, honey. So good for me."

He slides in another inch, then another, talking you through it the whole time. "Breathe. That's my girl. Almost there. Almost—fuck, you feel incredible."

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt, you're both trembling. He stays still, letting you adjust, watching your face for signs of discomfort.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

"Move," you gasp. "Please move, Steve."

He does, pulling out slowly before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady. His hips roll in a way that has him hitting something inside you that makes you see stars.

"More," you beg.

He remembers his promise. His hips snap faster, harder, the sound of skin against skin filling your living room. The couch creaks beneath you with each thrust, and he braces one hand on the armrest for leverage.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, watching where you're joined, watching himself disappear inside you over and over.

You're making these beautiful desperate sounds—whimpers and gasps and broken versions of his name. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and he can't look away.

Long, rolling movements, working you open, your nails dragging lines down his back that he doesn't mind even a little. The sounds in the room are obscene already— the slide of him, the wet heat of it, the way the couch registers every movement. The air is warm and close and smells like both of you, like sweat and want and the cedar-and-cardamom of your skin mixed now with something that is specifically him.

He rolls his hips and you whimper, and that's what does it.

He quickens.

The gentleness doesn't leave entirely, it threads through what comes after, but the restraint he'd carried all evening, across the whole movie, across three months of this particular wanting, finally puts itself down. His hips find a rhythm that means it. The couch protests. Your head tips back.

"Steve—"

"You’re so beautiful," he breathes. “Always beautiful, but— fuck— like this…”

He braces himself over you, one forearm by your head, the other hand finding your hip, and he snaps into you and watches your face go slack and beautiful. Sweat gathers between his shoulders. His chest flushes deep pink where it meets yours, your skin sticking and separating with every thrust, the friction of it indecent and perfect.

"Tell me," he pants, hips never slowing. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours, Steve, I'm—"

He groans, the sound punched out of him, and fucks into you harder. "That's right. Mine. My girlfriend. My good girl taking it so well."

Your fingers come up between you. Two fingertips, soft and certain, draw across his bottom lip. He opens for them. They press to his tongue, and his eyes close, and he groans around them, and you feel him pulse inside you at the sound of it. Then your hand slides back down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, and the sound that tears out of you makes him lose the last of his cadence entirely.

He fucks you harder. Closer to desperate than controlled, his breath ragged against your neck, your name sitting in his mouth half-formed and unspoken. He feels you tightening around him in quick deep pulses and he lifts his head and watches your face

"Look at you," he breathes, and there's something in his voice—awe mixed with possession mixed with something darker. "So perfect and needy. Needed me to fuck you, didn't you? Needed your boyfriend to take care of you."

"Yes," you whimper, fingers working faster. "Yes, Steve, please—"

"Please what, honey?"

"Make me come. Please make me come."

He shifts the angle slightly, hips driving in harder, hitting that spot inside you with devastating precision. 

You come apart beneath him with a sound that starts soft and crests, your whole body arching up into his, your hands clutching whatever they can find. He feels you everywhere, clenching and shaking, and the sensation pulls him under with you, his hips stuttering, his breath gone, his forehead dropping to yours as he follows.

Afterward, he stays where he is. He can't move. He isn't sure he wants to.

Your chest rises and falls under his. Both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat, the room quieted down to just the sound of that, just the two of you recollecting yourselves from wherever you'd gone.

He presses his lips to your hair.

"Stay," you murmur. You're already most of the way gone, your hands gone slack against his back.

"Okay baby," he says. His voice is rough and soft at once.

And for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington knows—with absolute certainty—that he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

Steve Harrington stands behind the counter the entire time with his arms crossed and his shoulders shaking, fighting a smile so poorly it barely counts as fighting.

Keith clocks out at eleven-oh-three even though the store opened an hour ago, but apparently he has “business” to take care of. 

The door swings shut bahind him.

Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed, the smile no longer fighting anything, and you are already rolling your eyes before he pulls breath to speak.

This is the thing about Steve Harrington: he is not a dick, exactly. He's not cruel. He doesn't do anything that you could point to in a court of law and say there, that's it, that's the thing. What he does is flirt with every girl who walks through the door and get their numbers and then hide in the backroom when they come back looking for him.

Then there was once he told Robin— in the backroom, where he apparently believes sound does not travel— that you lack attention to detail, which is reach so extraordinary you nearly respect it. He alphabetizes by first name half the time. You have never once brought it up. Okay maybe you brought it up occasionally. Often. Maybe every chance you have.

And then there was the incident with the girl last month, when you told her Steve wasn't in because he'd mentioned feeling itchy downstairs, which, fine, maybe you embellished slightly, but Robin had found it funny and that's really all the justification you need. But since then he’s been a lot more moodier when he’s around you. Barely even speaks to you. 

Also, you don't even think he's that good looking.

He's fine. He has good hair, probably, if you're being completely objective, which you are, and you've noticed in a purely observational capacity that his arms fill out his sleeves in a way that suggests he goes to the gym with some regularity, and his jeans fit him well, and you'd have to be actually blind not to notice that. That's just having eyes. That doesn't mean anything.

He has never once flirted with you, for the record. Which is fine. Great, actually, given that you have a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend. The distinction is new as of last night, when you threw Scott's things out your apartment window and told him not to come back, but the point stands.

Steve opens his mouth.

You cross the distance between you two in four steps and put your pointer finger directly on his lips.

"Don't even, Harrington." You look him dead in the eye. "Not in the mood."

You make the mistake of leaving it there.

His bewildered hazel eyes narrow, slow, something conspiratorial moving through them, and then the corner of his mouth twitches against your finger and his lips part and his tongue drags forward, and your finger drops onto it, and he closes his teeth around it with the gentlest possible pressure and just… holds it there.

The sound you make is not a gasp. It is a sharp inhale of surprise, which is completely different.

His eyes are mischievous and fixed on yours, and up close— closer than you typically allow yourself to be— you can see that his irises aren't simply brown. There's green in there, threaded through, soft and swirling, and his teeth are straight and white and his tongue is cool and wet and— you are going to actually strangle him with your bare hands.

The bell over the door chimes.

An older woman shuffles in, making a beeline for the romance section, and you turn toward her on instinct and Steve uses the moment to take your wrist. His hand large and warm, fingers spanning easily around it, and draws your finger out of his mouth slowly, his eyes tracking the shine of it after.

You snatch your hand back and wipe it on his shirt.

You feel his chest under your palm when you do it and you remove your hand immediately.

He licks his lips. Brings his thumb up to brush his bottom one, slow, like the contact has left something there he's deciding what to do with. Something in his expression shifts— not the smirk, something underneath it— and he looks at you for a moment that goes a beat longer than it should before he says, "Was gonna ask if you spilled coffee on yourself this morning."

His eyes drop to your chest. Back up.

You look down. The vest does nothing to hide the stain on the swell of your breast, dark against the fabric, thoroughly obvious.

You say nothing. He's already walking to the customer, his customer service voice emerging from somewhere inside him like a different person entirely, warm and easy and charming, and the older woman is already smiling at something he's said, and you stand where you are and roll your eyes and then linger for approximately three seconds on the way his jeans sit on his hips before you go find something to do.

.-.-.-.

You are reorganizing the candy display for the second time when the phone rings.

You know it's him before he finishes saying your name.

Scott. Three months, on and off, mostly off in practice if not in name, and last night you'd finally had enough. His stuff went out the window, you told him not to come back, you meant it. You had stood in your apartment afterward feeling entirely certain and somewhat exhilarated and had gone to bed and slept fine.

And now his voice is coming through the Family Video phone line at twelve forty-three in the afternoon, thick with rehearsed remorse, telling you how badly he messed up, how much he misses you, how he knows he can do better—

"Fuck off, Scott."

You put the phone down hard enough that the candy display rattles.

The fluorescent lights are suddenly very bright. The slushee machine is suddenly very loud. The store smells like chemicals and artificial sugar and you need to be somewhere that isn't the front of it immediately, so you go, pushing through the backroom door hard enough that it swings back and hits the wall.

Steve looks up from his magazine.

His feet are on the table. There's a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the wrapper beside him and a Coke going warm in his hand, and he takes in your expression with raised eyebrows and then loudly turns a page.

You walk over and pick up the sandwich and take a large bite.

He doesn't react.

"Why are men—" You chew. Swallow. "What is it. What is it that you're born with that makes you—" You groan at the ceiling. "What is wrong with all of you."

Steve blinks. He appears to be running an internal calculation about whether he needs to be offended. He turns another page. "Let me guess," he says, not looking up, the smirk audible. "You and meathead broke up again."

You take another bite of his sandwich.

He holds out the Coke without being asked. You take it and drink half of it in one go and set it back down. "I cannot believe I let him get me this worked up. Who does he think he is, calling here—"

Steve laughs. Loud, genuine, the kind that makes his head tip back.

"What?" you snap, reaching up to wipe a smear of peanut butter from the corner of your mouth.

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Tell me."

He puts the magazine down. His feet come off the table and he shifts in the chair to look at you properly, elbows on his knees. "He knows you'll take him back."

"I won't. I mean it this time."

"You said that last time."

"This time is different."

"You'll feel lonely in two days and call him." He picks up his trash, standing, moving toward the bin. "You always do." He says it low, almost to himself, something in his voice that doesn't quite match the smirk.

You uncross your arms. "That is… that's not—" You hate that your mouth can't finish the sentence with any real conviction. "It's not true."

"It is." He tosses the wrapper. Turns around. "Honestly I don't get why you're even with him. You complain about him constantly." He shifts into an impression of you that is offensive in its accuracy, his voice going up slightly: "Robin, he never buys me flowers. Robin, I don't think he knows my favorite color. Robin, I don't even think he knows where the clit is."

The backroom is not large. There is not much space between you. He takes a step closer.

"Sounds like you need to find someone else." His eyes blink half-lidded, his lips pursing with a sassy deliberateness that makes your hand itch. "Or stop complaining."

"Oh, great advice." You hold his gaze. "When you find a single guy in Hawkins who isn't you, let me know."

He tilts his head. Steps closer. Something shifts in his face— the smirk softening at the edges, his jaw ticking once— and his eyes have gone a little sad at the corners, which is infuriating because it looks genuine. "Wait." His voice drops. "What's wrong with me?"

"Plenty of things." You keep your voice soft, wanting the words to land clean. "Surprised you haven't gotten a girl pregnant by now."

"Oh, I thought it was because I have an STD?"

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Something moves behind his eyes. His tongue presses into his cheek. He steps into your space.

You are against the wall and he is close enough that you can smell him. It’s woodsy cologne, laundry detergent, the faint ghost of peanut butter. He's looking down at you with his brow furrowed, his hazel eyes darker than they were a minute ago. Both palms find the wall on either side of your head and he leans in, his mouth at your ear.

"At least I'd know where you needed to be touched."

The ache that moves through you is immediate and mortifying and you are absolutely not acknowledging it. You shift your weight— not away from him, just shifting, just adjusting, for no reason— and you look directly at his face and laugh.

Loud. Right at him.

"Yeah, right, Steve." You bring your hand up to make him look at you, fingers at his jaw. "Bet you've never made a girl cum in your life."

The corner of his lips flickers.

His thumb comes up to your chin— slow, his eyes on yours the whole time— and you take him in all at once the way you don't let yourself do usually: the moles on his jaw, the chest hair where his polo buttons are undone, the way his jeans sit easy on his hips, the slight soft curve of his stomach, his thighs, his arms, the Family Video vest that he makes look less stupid than anyone has a right to. His eyes, hazel and green and completely focused on your face.

Fuck.

His hand trails down your side. Finds your hip and squeezes, warm and sure, and neither of you looks away as his fingers find the hem of your skirt and slip underneath. His pointer finger traces a slow circle on your upper thigh and your breath goes shallow and you keep your expression completely neutral through what you can only describe as heroic effort.

His hand moves higher.

His palm cups you through the fabric of your underwear and your back arches off the wall by a degree before you catch it, breathing through your nose, furious at your own body, furious at the warmth of his hand, furious at the specific and undeniable ache of wanting more pressure.

Steve Harrington is the last person. The absolute last person. You don't even like him. You don't even think he's—

His fingers slip beneath the waistband.

Oh, you think, oh no.

His finger slides between your folds and the sound you make is quiet and involuntary and you hate it and him and yourself in equal measure.

He exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. Licks his bottom lip. "You're so wet, sweetheart." His voice is low and wondering, almost private. "For me?"

"You fucking wish, Steve—"

His middle finger finds your clit.

One slow, precise circle, and the word you were going to say next dissolves completely into a gasp that echoes off the backroom walls.

He leans into you, his nose pressing into your temple, his breath warm at your ear.

"Gotcha."

"Big deal." Your voice comes out unsteady and you hate it. "You want a prize or something?"

His finger moves in tighter circles, faster, and the pressure of it unspools something low in your stomach, heat building in thick, stacking waves. His other hand is still flat on the wall beside your head and his forearm is bracketing you in and his mouth is at the corner of your jaw and you are gripping the wall behind you with both hands because the alternative is grabbing onto him and you are not doing that.

"I think," he says, low against your skin, "making you cum like this will be enough."

He works faster.

Your head tips back against the wall. Your knees make a compelling argument for giving up. The circles are tight and relentless and perfectly placed and you think, with the last functioning part of your brain, of course. Of course he's good at this. Of course.

"Steve—"

"Yeah." He coos, like he knows exactly what you need. His finger works faster still, and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing warm open kisses down the side of your neck while his hand does not let up, not for a second, his wrist moving with a patience that suggests he has no intention of stopping until he gets what he wants.

Your fingers find his shoulder.

You grip it.

He makes a quiet satisfied sound against your throat.

You feel that tension building and you shake your head, your vision going blurry, clutching him harder. "Steve, please it's too much… fucking go inside or something— shit!"

Steve's hand swipes at your entrance, and you think he might listen, his middle finger barely swirling inside, and then you hear a chuckle when you moan, clutching the green vest, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. Steve himself seems a bit imbalanced. His upper body presses into your chest, and you catch the way his eyes peek down at your blouse— something tells you he isn't paying attention to the coffee stain, but maybe the way your shirt pulls down a little, and the blue linen bra that peeks out. The flesh of your tits at the neckline.

You can feel his cock, hard and twitching, against your thigh and you really don't care. At all. You press your thigh into him— the one day you forget to wear stockings— feeling the heat of him through the denim on your skin. You mewl, obviously unintentional, because of the way Steve is still rubbing hurried circles against your oversensitive clit.

Steve's breathing hard in your hair, and you can still hear him chuckling occasionally when he pulls another cry from your lips. He tries to rut against your leg, but with what feeling you have left in it you push his hips away. "Steve… please… it's…."

You grind against his hand regardless.

"I bet it is, honey." His voice is low in your ear. "Bet you've been aching for months… and this is all you've needed. Is this why you have such an attitude when you come into work? Poor thing… probably needed Steve to show you how it's done."

"Whatever…." you gasp, burrowing your face in his neck, fisting the fabric of his vest. You try to make your thoughts go somewhere else. The last thing you are going to do is give Steve Harrington the satisfaction of cumming on his hand.

He slides two fingers inside you and makes no effort to move them, his thumb taking over in fast circles. "Stop fighting it. I can feel you. You want to cum. Do it." And it's true. You're clenching around his fingers.

You shake your head. You mutter no. However, you’re pulling him closer, making him grunt, your back pressing harder into the wall from the heat of his body. You're biting into his shoulder, listening to the slick wet sounds of him working your clit. His face is buried in your neck and he's not kissing you but you feel his mouth moving there, hot whispers against your skin.

"Come on," he says your name. "Come on, I've got you."

His hand goes fast and sloppy and you're over the edge before you realize it— you don't even feel when the band snaps, you only hear yourself cry out as he draws the orgasm out of you. His hand doesn't slow down, keeps going, and your legs are weak and shaking, his large free hand gripping your hip, rutting against your thigh— and you want to laugh at him because he's so fucking pathetic and needy.

But then he taps you gently on your sweet ache, and you feel his smile against your jaw.

"There we go," he whispers.

He's off you immediately, mouth partly open, his eyes drunk— on you— eyeing you up and down as he works his belt with both hands.

You blow hair out of your face, brows furrowed, and laugh. "What the hell are you doing?"

Steve stops and looks down, unzipping his jeans. "What does it look like? Gotta take care of something."

"Don't be stupid, Harrington. I'm not sucking your dick." Your eyes flick to his bulge before you drag them back up, hating how curious you are. "And I'm not fucking you either."

He tilts his head, something that is both amusement and wanting moving through his expression at the same time. "Might shut you up." 

He smiles. 

"Might even be nice about it."

He hasn't pushed his jeans down, but the belt is unbuckled and the zipper's all the way down and he's holding the waistband even though the button is undone. You'd think he was in charge, but really he's waiting for you. You swallow, bite your bottom lip, look down then back up.

"Why should I?"

He rolls his eyes. "Kneel."

"Excuse me?"

"You came in here interrupting my break, complaining about something I didn't even care about." He glances at his watch. "I've still got eight minutes. I'm not going back out to work with my dick tucked into my waistband, so either leave and let me take care of it, or get on your knees."

You blink at him, and if it wasn't bad enough that Steve was bossing you around— heat pooled between your legs again— and you felt your knees slowly bending. One of Steve's hands shot out and grabbed yours, electricity shooting through the point of contact. You chalk it up to static, and he helps you to the floor carefully, his eyes gentle, making sure you're comfortable. His hand grazes your shoulder, his thumb brushing your cheek. For a split second it feels almost intoxicatingly tender. Something Scott never once managed during intimacy.

Then he opens his mouth.

"Take this off." He tugs at your vest. "The shirt too."

You look at him. "How is this relevant––"

"No time to argue. Off."

You grumble and shed the vest. You look at him once before pulling your shirt off over your head. You smile at the way his throat works taking you in. You can't help it. You want to see his reaction, and it's only fair, you're about to see whatever his cock looks like, you're doing him a favor here— so you take your bra off too and let it drop beside you.

Steve's eyes widen and you hear him mutter "shit" under his breath.

He wastes no more time. He untucks his polo and brings the hem up to his mouth, biting onto it, and the sight of it— him towering over you, brow furrowed, his stomach exposed, the soft ridges and the pudge, the thatch of hair on his chest, the angel kisses scattered across his skin and one right beside his happy trail— abandons you of all good sense and you're leaning forward, pressing your mouth to it. You hear his breath hitch. You kiss more of them, nip his skin. You take your hands to the fly of his jeans and spread it open, using your fingers to drag the waistband of his briefs down, kissing just above the base of his cock. You make open-mouthed wet kisses around it, licking his happy trail and around it, and you let a dribble of spit drop from your mouth. You know you're about to ruin him from the way he whimpers and bucks his hips, gripping your shoulder. But when your mouth gets close to his cock, his hand flies to your head, pushing you back.

He shakes his head.

He pushes his jeans down himself and you help, stopping mid-thigh because there's not enough time to take them all the way off. His briefs go with them and his cock, with a bead of precum at the tip, hits his stomach. Your eyes go wide.

God fucking dammit. He's hung. And you've never thought this about anyone before, but it's pretty. The pink of the tip, the girth of it, even and full, the veins tracking the length, and it twitches under your attention like it's aware of you, and you have never once in your life thought this about anyone but you want it in your mouth. You want to feel the weight of it on your tongue. You want to wrap your hand around it and watch his face. You might, at some future point, let him put the tip inside you. For fun. Briefly. Hypothetically.

You lean forward to kiss it. You almost make it. His hand is on your head again.

He takes himself in his fist and lets his shirt fall from his teeth. Looks down at you.

"Spit on it."

You do.

He moans.

"Again."

You spit again.

"More."

You have spit running in rivulets down his length, collecting warm in the crease of his fist, dripping from the tip to the floor, and you reach forward—

His hand presses your head back.

"No. Hands at your sides. And don't touch yourself."

You only half-obey. Your hands fall to your thighs, but you push your skirt up as you settle them there, your soaked cotton underwear on full display, and you watch his jaw tighten when he sees it.

He strokes himself. One pump. Two. Watching your face.

"I wanna taste you, Steve," you say.

"Oh, now you do. Pretty sure you told me I was stupid for asking."

"Please, Steve."

He looks like he is losing the hardest mental war of his life. His hand stills.

"Open."

You open your mouth. He taps your tongue with his tip— once— and the weight of it alone makes your breath go thin. He pushes forward slowly until you choke slightly and your eyes water, and you look up at him through your lashes and he is completely, irreparably gone. You hum around him and try to move.

His hand holds you still.

His cock sits heavy and throbbing in your mouth, gathering the heat of your breath, drool pooling at the corners of your lips. He looks down at you.

"You look kinda pretty like this."

You should feel humiliated. You kind of do, actually. Except for the first time you're also starting to see it. Starting to think Steve Harrington is genuinely, actually hot. Too bad you didn’t like the guy, because maybe you’d give him a shot. Or maybe just flirt with him.

He checks his watch and sighs, drawing himself out of your mouth slowly, your lips dragging along his length, wrapping around the tip as it clears with a soft pop. A string of spit connects your lips to his cock, stretching in the low light before it breaks.

He takes himself back in hand, his other hand staying in your hair, tilting you to watch, and he strokes himself above you. Fast and purposeful now, and the sounds fill the small backroom entirely: the slick wet rhythm of his fist, schlick schlick schlick, quick and relentless, punctuated by the sounds catching in his throat that he's completely stopped trying to manage. 

"Only kinda pretty?" you mumble, fighting the pout.

Not surprising, you think. This is probably the last thing Steve wanted to—

"Always pretty," he corrects. His voice is rough and strained. "Right now you're so pretty it's gonna make me cum."

Your eyes widen a little. Your stomach flips. It's different this time, quieter than heat and want, something that makes you close your mouth and say nothing.

"Aw." He works faster, his breath coming in short pulls. "Guess all I had to do was tell you how pretty you are to get you to stop being mean to me." He whimpers, schlick schlick schlick, and a wet drop splatters right below your lip. You lick it, closing your eyes.

"You think we can be friends after this?"

Your eyes snap open.

He looks so hot— already holding back his release, his hands and forearms veiny from working, his neck strained, his chest heaving, his eyes boring into yours. The Family Video vest hugging his shoulders as he frantically strokes himself.

"As if," you scoff.

He tilts his head. "Aw, but I was so nice to you earlier. Can't we put our differences aside. Hm?"

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, sure."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say we can be friends."

"I said sure—" You try to look away and his hand turns your head back towards him. His eyes are dangerously dark and clouded.

He doesn't ask again.

"Okay, whatever. We can be friends—"

Steve lets out a choked moan, your name tangled somewhere inside it. You feel warmth hit your cheek and he strokes through it fast, pearly ropes landing across your tits, and you gasp as some rolls down your sternum. Steve pants, head bowed.

After what seems like hours of silence and heavy breathing, he finally moves. His watch beeps and he silences it without looking. He leans over to the table— his neck stretching, arms flexing, the curve of his waist as he reaches— and grabs a stack of napkins. Wipes his hands. His cock. Pulls his briefs and jeans back up.

He drops the napkins on the floor and holds out his hand.

You take it and he pulls you to your feet. He grabs more napkins and holds them out toward you. He doesn't hand them over, his hand coming forward instead, pressing them gently to your chest and wiping the mess himself, careful and unhurried.

You look up at his face.

He looks up and meets your eyes and they go wide. "Oh… uh. Sorry. I didn't mean to— probably should've wet them first—"

"It's fine, Steve."

And you smile at him.

It lands on him like something he wasn't braced for. He goes still, checks for the punchline, finds nothing, and his lips turn up slowly. It’s cautious at first, then warmer, something in his face opening. He goes back to what he was doing. You look down and the mess has been gone for thirty seconds at minimum and he is very clearly using the napkins as an excuse, his hands warm through the thin paper.

"Guess after this you should get tested, right?" His eyes flick up then back down. The walls are down. His eyes are a little sad.

Guilt moves through you quiet and uninvited. You don't apologize. But you say: "I trust you." A breath. A grimace. "I mean. We are friends, after all."

He smiles bigger. And if you had known— all this time— that Steve Harrington could smile at you like that, open and unguarded, like you've handed him something he didn't know he wanted… maybe you'd have hated him a little less.

He leans toward you slowly and your hands come up between you, ready to push him away. He reaches past them entirely and swipes something from your cheek with a napkin. Holds it up. His cheeks are pink.

"Got some on your—" A breath of a laugh. "Sorry."

You open your mouth.

The bell above the front door chimes.

Both your eyes go wide and then it's chaos. It’s Steve buckling his belt and tucking his shirt in while you grab your clothes from where he's already gathered them off the floor, handing them back to you. You pull everything back on in ten seconds flat. He drops to his knees to collect the napkins from the floor and you grab him by the vest.

"Steve. It's fine, go. I'm taking my break anyway."

He looks at you. Brown eyes, long lashes, the flush still high on his cheeks. He clears his throat. Straightens his vest. "Yeah. Okay." A beat. "See you in thirty."

He turns.

You look at the back of him and grab the vest again. He turns back already rolling his eyes, already wearing the face he's had on every time he’s asked what now for the past few months.

"You know." You bite your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be totally angry if you came and interrupted the last fifteen minutes of my break."

Something flashes through his eyes, low and warm. His arms cross. His voice drops. "You think I need the whole fifteen minutes?"

You step forward and hook your fingers into his waistband and watch his throat move.

"Gotcha," you say.

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.

You blinked. “What?” 

He sat up, expression crumpled between embarrassment and frustration. “Nothing. It’s just…” He looked away again. He brought his knees to his chest and laid his arms on top. You knew he did that when he was flustered, hoping it would hide that he cared what people thought of him. ”We’re starting high school next week, and I’m gonna die before I ever kiss a girl. Everyone else has done it, even Tommy freakin’ Hagan.” 

You tilted your head, studying him.. “You’re not gonna die, Steve. It’s just a kiss.” 

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’ve kissed, like, half of our class.” 

“Not half,” you said defensively, then shrugged. “Maybe a quarter.” 

He laughed, shaking his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Great. So maybe you can tell me what I’m doing wrong. What if I mess it up? Like, what if I’m terrible at it and everyone knows?” 

Something about the way he said it. It was too soft, making you pause. He often wasn’t serious. When he was, it always caught you off guard. His hands were restless, picking at the corner of a card.

You titled your head. “You wanna know how not to mess it up?” 

He glanced at you, wary. “You’re going to say something mean, aren’t you?” 

You nudged his knee with yours. “No,” you said, with a not so convincing tone and a threatening grin. “I’m gonna teach you, doofus.” 

That got a laugh, but it faltered when he saw your face. It was the realization that you were being serious. “Oh. You’re… serious.” 

“It doesn’t have to be weird.” You assured him. “It’s only practice.” You leaned back, licking your lips. 

Steve looked like he was ready to bolt out of the room but another part of him, the way his eyes gleamed with a certain curiosity told you he would stay. Steve was notoriously known as the trouble maker, getting into things, and making teachers think about retirement. It wasn’t until the last couple of months of eighth grade that he started to find girls interesting. You knew Tommy gave him a hard time and that’s why it was bothering him so much. To be truthful, you wanted his first kiss to be with someone he trusted. 

In a way. You had always hoped you were each other’s first kiss. 

The room felt smaller all of a sudden. The fan kept spinning but utterly useless. Steve scratched the back of his neck, then nodded slowly. “Okay.” 

You were a little too eager to stand up and sit on his bed. You patted the space next to you, smiling. He rolled his eyes like it was the worst idea he’d ever agreed to, but he joined you anyway. The mattress dipped under his weight. Your knees brushed.

“So,” he said awkwardly. “How do I even know when to… do it? Do I just ask?”

You bit back a smile. “You can,” you said slowly. “Or you can give them the look.”

He blinked. “The look?” 

“Yeah,” you teased, your knee pushing into his. “You know, like the movies. You look her in the eye and then at her lips and then back into her eyes.” You said it like it was simple. 

He scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

”Steve,” you said, patient and exasperated all at once. “It works.” 

He muttered something under his breath but turned to face you anyway. Then he did it. It was exactly like you described. Eyes, lips, eyes. It was a little hesitant, but you still were annoyed how perfect it already was. You almost thought it was cute. Almost.  

You felt your pulse skip. “Good,” you whispered. “See? Now if a girl wants you to kiss her, she’ll lean in too. Like this.” 

You leaned in closer. 

He mirrored you, hesitating only a moment before closing the last inch of space. His lips brushed yours, soft and uncertain.. But when he pulled back, mouth parted like he wanted to go again. 

Your lips tingled lightly at the lingering warmth he left behind. “M’kay,” you said, keeping your tone even. “Not bad for a first try.” 

“Not bad?” He echoed, eyes narrowing. 

You laughed quietly. “Could be better.” You took his hands, moved them to your waist. His palms were warm. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how big his hands were, how close he was. You never noticed them whenever he picked you up and threw you in the pool. “Like this,” you murmured. “And then I put my hands here.” Your fingers on his shoulders, ignoring how solid they felt. 

He breathed out slow. “Okay,” he said again, voice barely a whisper.

He looked at you for a long second before he did it again. The look. Eyes, lips, eyes. Then he leaned in. 

The first brush of his mouth was soft. His thumb grazed your hip. You felt him exhale against your skin, the tremor of it making you pulse stumble. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head and kissed you again. Deeper this time. 

Every time his fingers shifted against you, the space between you seemed to shrink. You could smell his shampoo, that faint clean scent you’d come to recognize as him. The world outside blurred into gold light and the sound of your own breath. 

You parted you lips, just barely, and felt the smallest spark when your tongue brushed his. Your hands had moved on their own, up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His hands found your back, sliding up until you were almost pressed against him. 

You were supposed to be teaching him. But now you were kissing him like you’d been waiting to. Like this was something inevitable. 

You were kissing your best friend. 

You were making out with Steve Harrington. 

You pulled back first, breathless, throat tight. He followed, almost. His lips chased yours until he caught himself. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Your foreheads hovered close, his hands still fisted in the back of your shirt before he slowly let go. 

You both stared forward, the silence too fragile to touch. 

“Well,” you managed finally, voice thin, “you’re definitely ready.” 

He licked his swollen lips, trying for casual and failing. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.” 

You patted his chest, the gesture light but clumsy. “Just… don’t use your new skills to break a girl’s heart, okay?” 

His grin was crooked. “Promise.” 

Then, after a beat, with the air between you still charged, he cleared his throat. “You’re not, uh… uh gonna show me anything else, right? Like—“ 

“Oh my god, Steve.” You cut in, laughing, too loud, too quick. “No. I’m not teaching you how sex works.” 

He laughed too, that easy nervous kind. “Yeah. No. Totally.. That’d be… really weird.” 

You both tried to stop laughing, but it lingered. The kind that lived in your chest more than your mouth. When it finally faded, there was just quiet again. 

He looked at you. You looked at him. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like kids pretending to be older. You felt like something had changed. It was something that neither of you could take back. Crickets began to sing and the room bowed with the last breath of summer light. 

.-.-.-.

The world had shifted between that summer and now. Or maybe it was only Steve who had.

By the time sophomore year came around, he’d grown into someone that hallways seemed to bend toward. Taller, louder. Hair somehow even bigger. He leaned against lockers like he’d invented them, flashing that grin that made girls bite their lips and giggle behind spiral notebooks. 

You were still his best friend. 

Mostly. 

He spent too much time with Tommy and Carol. He spent too much time acting like he didn’t care about anything. Carol didn’t like you much. It might because you didn’t laugh when they were mean, or maybe because she could tell that if it came down to it, Steve would still pick you. He always did. Movie nights. Lunch tables. The quiet walk home when you wanted to leave a party early. 

You told yourself that meant something. 

You told yourself that when you stormed down the hall after last period, backpack thumping, heart thrumming hot against your ribs. 

Beth Parker had been crying in the girls’ bathroom, mascara bleeding down her face. Whispering something about Steve. Your Steve. 

By the time you made it to his house, your anger had settled into something colder. A quiet, steady pulse. You didn’t bother knocking. 

He was at his desk when you found him. His hair was a mess, pen tapping against a math book like it might start answering the questions for him. When he looked up, his smile came easy. Too easy. 

“Hey,” he said. “You just break in now or—“

”Why was Beth Parker crying in the bathroom?” 

He froze for a second, then groaned. “Jesus. You heard about that?” 

You dropped your bag, arms crossing over your chest. “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything.”

”Steve.” 

He avoided your eyes, staring at the book like it might save him. “She’s mad because I didn’t call her after our date. No big deal.”

Your voice sharpened. “Did you sleep with her?” 

He blinked, startled. “What? No.” His hands went up fast, defensive. “We just kissed. A lot. And maybe… there was some touching. But nothing more.” His ears went red, the way they always did when he got caught. 

You exhaled hard through your nose. “Steve, you can’t do that. You used her.”

”I didn’t use her,” he said, turning in his chair to face you. “I went on a date. Like a normal person. We had fun. I just didn’t think it was going anywhere.” 

“Then tell her that,” you said, voice low. “Don’t promise something you don’t mean.” 

He sighed, long and annoyed, turning back toward his desk. “Whatever.” 

You sat down on the edge of his bed. The air between you went still. It was quiet except for the faint scratch of pencil against paper. You could feel him looking. 

When you finally glanced up, he was half-turned in his chair again, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The one that meant trouble. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.” 

He leaned back, lips curling. “You know, you’re kinds hot when you’re mad at me.” 

“Steve.” 

He shrugged. 

“Your parents are home,” you warned. 

“Hasn’t stopped us before.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes, to laugh, to tell him he was ridiculous, but your stomach flipped because he wasn’t wrong. 

It hadn’t stopped you before. 

What started as one kiss. One stupid accidental kiss. Was not a pattern. Nights when you shouldn’t have come over. Morning where you left before his parents woke. It was supposed to be simple. Secret. An agreement between friends who didn’t talk about it in daylight. 

But it never felt simple. 

He was still watching you now, that lazy smirk softening at the edges, waiting for you to give in. He knew you too well. 

You sighed, standing. “You’re ridiculous.” 

You shut his bedroom door gently, the click of it sounding louder than it should have. 

He didn’t move. Just watched under his heady gaze as you crossed the room, stopping between his knees. The air was charged, the kind of quiet that made you aware of every breath. 

“Just so you know,” you said softly, “I have to leave by seven. I actually plan on graduating.” 

Steve’s grin was slow. “I’ll make it worth your time.” 

You didn’t even get a chance to roll your eyes before his hand found your hip. The kiss came fast and it was familiar and hungry. The kind that made you forget you were supposed to be mad. 

His fingers tightened against your waist, as his mouth moved against yours, you realized what you’d never say our loud. 

He always did. 

.-.-.-.

Steve’s freckles were one of your favorite things about him. Tiny constellations scattered across his skin, like a map only you could read. You traced them absentmindedly, circles on his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, watching the way goosebumps followed your touch. 

The fan above hummed lazy rotations. The light from his bedside lamp was soft and golden, tinting everything honey. His skin, the sheets tangled around your legs, the air itself. It was quiet except for the small sounds of the room, your breathing, the shift of linen, the faint creak of the house settling. That hazy space where everything felt tender and close. 

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “What’re thinking about?” 

Steve hesitated, eyes fixed somewhere near your elbow instead of your face. “Nothing important.” 

You hummed, though the sound came out skeptical. You knew him well enough to hear the difference between silence and avoidance. He must’ve felt your eyes on him, because he leaned in and kissed you once, but it was chaste and apologetic. Then he was gone. 

You watched as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, the movement too deliberate to be casual. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. 

The bed felt colder without him.

So did you. 

You lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the fan filling up the space where his voice should’ve been. You tried to tell yourself it was fine, that maybe he just needed air, that maybe he’d had another fight with his dad. That has been happening more lately. It was always sharp words about Steve’s future. 

You got up slowly, gathering your clothes from the floor. It was Saturday. Normally, you’d stay the night, steal one of his shirts, wake up to him making burnt toast and pretending it was breakfast. But something in your chest told you this wasn’t one of those nights. 

When he came back out, you were sitting cross-legged on his bed, knees pulled to your chest. His hair was damp at the edges. He didn’t look at you. Just sat down at the edge of the mattress, shoulders curved forward, elbows on his knees. 

The silence stretched thin. You could feel the question burning between your ribs before you spoke it. “What’s wrong?” 

He let out a breath that didn’t sound like it helped much. His voice was low, uneven. “I was just thinking about… what we do when we start dating other people.” 

You froze. The words hung there, heavy and delicate, like glass about to slip. “Oh.” You swallowed, forcing a small nod. “You mean… like going steady with someone?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not really. “Yeah.” 

You picked at the edge of his comforter, pretending it was easier to look at that than him. Your throat felt tight, like the room had gotten smaller. “I guess we’d stop doing this.”

He nodded slowly, still not facing you. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “That’s what I figured.” 

The fan hummed, a low, steady whir that felt too loud against the quiet between you. The golden light from his bedside lamp had dimmed, thinning into something colder. You could see the slope of his back, the rise and fall of his shoulders. It was too quick, too uneven. Like he was trying to breathe through something heavy. 

“Is that… what you want?” Your voice cracked on the last word. 

He then turned, eyes finding yours. For a moment, he looked almost scared. The kind of scared that made your chest hurt, like he wanted to tell you the truth but didn’t know how to survive it. 

“I don’t know what I want,” he admitted quietly. His gaze flickered toward the wall again, his hands clasping together in his lap. “What do you know about Nancy Wheeler?” 

It felt like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter. All the warmth in the room escaped at once. 

“Nancy Wheeler,” you echoed, forcing a breath of a laugh. “She’s… nice.” 

Steve smiled. It was small, almost sheepish. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Nice.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his voice turning rough around the edges. “It’s not like that. I mean, it could be. We’ve just been talking. On the phone, for a couple weeks now. I’m just—“ he hesitated, searching for words, “trying to figure it out. What I’m supposed to be doing.” 

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You don’t have to figure anything out, Steve.” You looked down at your hands. “It’s not like we’re anything.” 

His head snapped toward you, brows pulled tight, like he hadn’t expected that. His voice came out softer than you were ready for. “But we are something,” he said. “Aren’t we?” 

You wanted to tell him yes. That he was your something , had been for a long time. That the way he touched you, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. It was impossible to believe this wasn’t real. But the words wouldn’t come. They sat in your chest like stones. 

“No,” you said instead. It barely came out. 

You straightened your back, forced yourself to breathe. You remembered the promise he’d made once. He promised he wouldn’t break a girl’s heart. And somehow, here you were, sitting in the ruins of that promise. Maybe that was on you for letting it get this far. For thinking he’d never aim the hurt in your direction. 

Your jaw tensed. “So what is this, then?” You asked, voice sharper now. “One last bachelor night before you tie yourself down?”

He let out a small laugh, almost disbelieving. “Come on. Maybe nothing’ll come out of it.” 

You scoffed. “You’re Steve Harrington. Something always comes out of it.” 

He shifted, leaning forward a little, hand reaching for you like he could smooth this over. “Here,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be my closest friend.” 

That invisible thread between you. The one that had always tugged, gentle but constant, snapping clean. You could almost feel it. 

You stood, rubbing at the bridge of your nose to keep from crying. “Steve, you slept with me while liking someone else. That’s kind of messed up.” 

He blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “What do you want me to say? You just said this wasn’t a thing.” 

“It isn’t,” you bit out. “That’s not the point. It still sucks. You have any idea what kind of position that put me in when you and Nancy inevitably start dating?” 

He exhaled hard through his nose, fingers running through his hair. “I said we talked on the phone, not planning a damn wedding.” 

You let out a frustrated sound, hands in the air. “That’s not the point, Steve! You never call girls on the phone. You’ve never brought this up about any of them. So yeah, something’s different.” 

He looked down at his hands for a long second, then reached for his sweatshirt and pulled it on. The sound of cotton dragging over skin filled the space between you. “It’s late,” he said finally. “Let me drive you home.” 

You shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. I can walk.” 

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Just stood there, still half in shadow, watching you pull on your jacket, gathering the last bits of yourself before you walked out the door. 

You paused, hand on the knob. The air was heavy with things you hadn’t said. 

“For what it’s worth,” you said quietly, not turning around, “Nancy’s lucky.” You managed a weak smile over your shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Steve. Even if you don’t know it yet.” 

Then you opened the door and stepped into the dark. 

.-.-.-.

About a month had passed. Enough time for the bruises on your heart to scab over but not quite heal.

You’d kept your distance from Steve. 

He had made his choice, and you’d seen it for yourself. The way he and Nancy Wheeler slipped into empty classrooms, the way their laughter followed after them like a secret. Every time, jealousy twisted low in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it. 

It was after midnight when you heard it. It was a faint tap against your window. 

You’d switched off your lamp, your room dim and soft with moonlight. At first, you thought it was a branch brushing against the siding. Then came another tap. It was quick, deliberate, almost urgent. 

When you pulled back the curtain, you froze. Steve was outside, face half-lit by the streetlight. His lip was split, one cheek bruised, a small cut on his brow. He looked wrecked. 

You sighed, already hating how quickly you move to unlatch the window. 

He didn’t say anything. Not a single word, before climbing through. Then his mouth was on yours. It was messy, desperate. The taste of blood and salt. His hands came up to frame your face, holding you like he’d been drowning and finally found air. 

You stumbled back, heart lurching, your palms pressing against his chest. “Steve… hey, wait,” you gasped. “What happened?” 

He just shook his head, breathing hard, eyes wide and frantic. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, voice low. “We’ve never asked why before.” He leaned in again, but you stepped back. 

“Yeah,” you said sharply, “but that was before Nancy.” 

He let out a short, butter laugh. “Jesus, that whole thing’s over. She’s having a real fun time getting to know Byers.” 

You blinked. “What… like Jonathan Byers?” Your eyes swept over his bruises, the ugly cut near his temple. “He’s the one who did that to you?” 

Steve’s mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a wince. “He’s mad that I told him the truth.” 

You folded your arms across your chest. “God, what is it like to be so completely self-involved?” 

His eyes flickered up, and you didn’t stop. 

“Unlike you, Nancy actually cares about other people. She wasn’t two-timing you, Steve. She’s been spending time with Jonathan because his brother’s missing.” You could feel your voice shaking. “Her best friend is missing too. And instead of giving a damn about that, you’re too busy worrying about whether she wants to sleep with you.” 

His jaw flexed, eyes dark. He didn’t look at you. 

The realization came slow, but when it hit, it hollowed you out. “You already slept with her, didn’t you?” you asked quietly. 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. 

Something snapped. 

“You’re such a dick,” you said, the words trembling out of you. You put your finger into his chest. “You can’t just come running here every time something blows up in your face. I’m not your backup plan, Steve. I’m not the person you crawl to when the world stops giving you what you want.” 

He stared at you. He was wide-eyed and stunned. For a second, you almost saw guilt there. But then it was gone, replaced by the familiar, stubborn fire. “You act like you never did the same thing,” he said. 

You froze. It hit like a slap. “Excuse me?” 

He gave a small, humorless shake of his head. “You used me just as much as I used you.” 

You took a step forward, heart pounding. “You know what, Steve? I really wish we’d never kissed.” 

He let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Yeah. Me too.” 

The air between you thinned. Every ounce of anger you had curdled into something that felt like grief. You didn’t understand why it hurt this much. You both knew what this was. You’d told yourselves it meant nothing. But somehow it had become everything. 

You looked at him then, really look. The split lips, the exhausted eyes, the quiet kind of hurt buried under his anger and your throat burned with regret. “We’re not friends anymore, Steve,” you whispered. “Just… leave me alone.” 

You turned before he could see your eyes shine. 

You felt it. His fingers ghosting against the back of your arm. Just a brush, light enough to make you stop breathing. The floor creaked behind you, and for a moment, you waited. You wanted him to argue. To say anything. 

He didn’t. 

When you looked back, the window was open again. The curtain lifted in the night air. And he was gone. 

Outside, his car door slammed. The engine started, a hollow sound in the quiet street. 

You stood there, staring at the empty space where he’d been. The reflection of your own face looked back at you in the glass, tired, angry, heartbroken, and for the first time, you let yourself admit it. 

You’d lost him long before tonight. 

.-.-.-.

The annual Fourth of July fair stretched across the Hawkins fairground like a fever dream of lights and noise. The air smelled of popcorn and smoke, a haze of fireworks already threatening to stain the sky. 

You spotted Steve before he saw you. He stood behind Nancy by the lemonade stand, his hand loosely on her shoulder. He was laughing, head tilted just enough that you could see the dimples you’d spent too many summers memorizing. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were here to have fun. That you didn’t care if he was happy. 

Him and Nancy had made up, you assumed, after the last time you had spoken to him. They were now the couple everyone in school couldn’t shut up about.

”Three shots for a dollar!” Called a voice, snapping you out of it. 

You turned toward the bowling pin booth. The attendant was a guy about your age and the kind of grin that came prepackaged with confidence. He waved you over, flashing you a charming and convincing smile. “Come on,” he teased, “let’s see if you’ve got an arm.” 

You giggled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “What do I win if I do?” You batted your eyes innocently. They flashed across his name tag which read, Sam. 

“Anything on the top shelf,” he said. He looked you up and down, smirking. “Or maybe my number.” 

You felt the heat on your cheeks rise. ”Very tempting, but I’m afraid I don’t have the money.” 

It was then, someone next to you, slammed a dollar bill on the counter, startling you. You turned, frowning. It was Steve with Nancy lingering beside him. She smiled politely and Steve had an unamused look on his face. He motioned to the game, “Go ahead.” 

You weren’t sure what he was doing but the attendant set three baseballs in front of you, winking. You cleared your throat, picking up one of the balls, and throwing it. Completely Missing. Steve blew out a puff of air that sounded like a laugh. You saw Nancy elbow him out the corner of your eye. 

To prove a point, you threw the second ball, only managing to hit two pins down. You nearly felt defeated but then Sam put the final ball in your hand. “May I?” He asked. 

You glanced over at Steve and Nancy. You knew you should feel insulted or embarrassed but you found a sort of satisfaction in the way Steve’s jaw clenched, eyes burning at how Sam held your arm. 

You smiled shyly, nodding. Sam took the opportunity to hold your arm. His touch didn’t make you tingle but you did find it attractive how gentle he was. He counted down and you released the ball, hitting it right where he told you to. They clattered to the ground from the stand. Sam let out a low whistle, leaning towards. “Damn, that was a good throw.” 

You bit your lip. “It helps when you have a good teacher.” 

He chuckled. “Alright then. I don’t suppose you made up your mind what you want your prize to be?” 

The presence of Steve was even stronger beside you, his silence sharp as glass. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand flexed once against his thigh. There was a vindictive urge to let him see that he didn’t own the part of you that used to ache for him. 

So you smiled at Sam, all teeth and mischief. “I have a better offer. You free to watch the fireworks later?” 

He laughed, clearly delighted, and grabbed a small plush bear from the shelf. “I can make that work.” 

You felt the burn of Steve’s stare like sunlight on the back of your neck. 

You gave Sam one last smile before turning to face Steve and Nancy. “Thanks for the dollar.” You wanted to make a really low blow. “And I guess for the impromptu date.” It was fueled with sarcasm that only Steve would recognize. 

His mouth twitched like he wanted to make a remark. Instead, he grinned. “Anytime. I always look out for my friends.” He then pulled Nancy closer. “Come on, Nance. We should get to the Ferris wheel before the line gets too long.” 

Nancy hesitated, then glanced back at you, her tone gentler. “Do you want to join us? We have plenty of tickets.” 

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You looked from Nancy, who had a soft expression on her face to Steve, who wouldn’t meet your eyes. You expected her to hate you. You had believed Steve told her that they were to steer clear from you. “That’s sweet, but… I’m good. Thank you.” You rubbed your finger on the stuffed bear’s fur. You held it out to her. “Here, it was your boyfriend’s dollar after all.” 

“Thanks,” Nancy gave you a small nod, taking the bear from you. She turned and laced her fingers through Steve’s. “See you later!” She called out. Steve followed wordlessly, his free hand shoved in his pocket. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t look after them, but when you did, you caught him in the act. Steve had stopped a few paces away, turning his head just slightly. His eyes found you in the crush of carnival lights. It was brief but fierce and it lingered. It was only a second. But it was enough to stir your stomach like you were on the tilt-a-whirl. 

.-.-.-.

Halloween really wasn’t your thing anymore. 

Sure, it was cute. The kids running around in plastic masks, the sound of leaves crunching under tiny sneakers. Okay, fine. It was really cute. 

It wasn’t like you had bad memories attached to it. You and Steve used to spend the whole night racing from door to door, pillowcases dragging against the pavement, and then the next morning you’d sit in front of the TV watching some horror movie you definitely weren’t allowed to see, eating your way though the entire pile of candy. 

But high school had a way of killing simple things. Somewhere between eighth grade and freshman year, it became “uncool” to trick-or-treat. You were supposed to party instead. 

That first year, Steve threw the Halloween party. Hawkins High still talked about it. It was the night “King Steve” was born, crowned by the longest keg stand anyone had ever seen. It was also the night you’d kissed him again. 

You remembered sneaking into his room because everywhere you turned, there were couples pressed up against walls and you couldn’t breathe through the noise. You found him sitting on the floor, staring at nothing, and it was stupid. The two of you, drunk and lonely. But that’s how it happened. 

Anyway, tonight was just another night you didn’t want to think about. 

Tina’s party was happening across town, and she’d invited you out of pity, probably. Senior year charity. You weren’t going. You had school tomorrow, and you weren’t about to show up hungover. 

So you say on your bed, eating stolen candy out of the bowl your mom had left for trick-or-treaters. The wrappers made little paper sighs each time you reached for another. The house was quiet except for the muffled hum of your heater. 

Then came the knock. 

Soft, hesitant. Familiar. 

You froze mid-bite. Told yourself it was the wind. Then another tap. 

You sighed, crossing the room. Pulled the curtain back. And there he was. 

Steve Harrington. 

Half of him caught in the glow of the streetlight, eyes rimmed red. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He was wearing a black jacket and a black shirt tucked into his jeans. It made him look older. If you two were friends, you’d make a joke about how he looked like a knock-off Tom Cruise. But you didn’t. He already looked ruined enough. 

“Hey,” he rasped.

You stepped back a little. “Are you drunk?” 

He shook his head, too quickly. “No. I didn’t drink anything.” 

You folded your arms. “Then why are you here?” 

Steve rubbed both hands over his face, and when he dropped them, his eyes were wet. “Nancy,” he said, voice cracking. “She got drunk, and… I think we broke up.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

He laughed, a dry, broken sound. “Yeah. She said—“ He stopped, swallowed hard. “She said we were bullshit.” 

Your stomach sank. “Where is she now?” 

He looked up at you like the question physically hurt. “Jonathan took her home, I guess.” 

Something in your chest pulled tight. His lip trembled before he bit down on it, sitting heavily on the edge of your bed. He dragged his hands through his hair and let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know why I came here. I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t want to go home. My parents are gone, and the house is too quiet and I just…” 

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek, before sitting beside him. Not too close. Just enough. “It’s okay that you came here, Steve.”

Silence settled like dust. The clock on your wall ticked, slow and even, the sound impossibly loud. 

Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, and you thought about how it always used to be you and him. Sugar high and laughing. You thought about how different he looked now, sitting there in the half-dark, hands shaking. You thought about how unfair it was that no one had told you growing up meant losing people before they were even gone. 

Then, without warning, Steve leaned forward. 

You braced for the kiss. You always did. But it never came. Instead, he pressed his forehead to your shoulder. His fingers caught the fabric of your sweater, knuckles white, like he needed something solid to hold him up. His voice was rough when it finally broke the silence. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “For how I treated you. For everything.” 

The breath in your throat snagged. For a long second, you just sat there, unsure what to do with your hands, with the ache that spread through your chest. Then instinct won out. You slid your arms around him, felt the sharp inhale he took, the way his whole body trembled under your touch. He was exhausted. Not just tired, but wrung out. 

When his head dropped into your lap, your heart lurched. This wasn’t the same boy who used to climb through your window for a kiss or a fight or both. This was someone stripped bare. The same messy hair, the same heartbeat under your hands, but something softer now, broken in all the quiet places you used to avoid. 

“Hey,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair. The motion felt old, like a song you hadn’t realized you still knew. “We can talk about us later, okay? That’s not important.” 

His voice was barely a breath. “It’s important to me.” 

You pretended not to hear it. “You should get some sleep.” 

He nodded, slow and shaky, pulling himself upright. The light caught the wet shine in his eyes, the way he tried to swallow down whatever was left of the night. “Yeah. You’re right.” 

You reached out, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture made your throat ache. “Do you… want to stay?” 

For a moment, it looked like he might. 

His gaze found yours, heavy-lidded, soft around the edges. Then he gave you a small smile, tired and almost shy. “No,” he said quietly. “I should probably head home.” 

You nodded, but your chest burned when he stood, when he turned toward the window again. The cool air slipped in from outside, carrying the sound of kids still running down the street, their laughter thin and far away. 

He hesitated halfway out. Looked back at you. “Thank you,” he said. “Can I… call you later?” 

You just nodded. Words didn’t feel like they’d fit right now. 

When he disappeared into the dark, the room felt too still. You stood there for a while, listening. You listened for his car, for the echo of his footsteps, for anything. But all that was left was the faint him of the streetlight and the hollow stick of your clock. 

Your eyes drifted to the bed. The sheets were still rumpled from where he’d sat, the fabric warm, a faint impression left behind. You hovered your hand over the spot like touching it might make him come back. 

You didn’t. You just stood there, feeling the ghost of him pressed into your skin. The weight of his head on your legs, the warmth still trapped in the cotton. And you realized how dangerous it was to open the wound. 

He did end up calling. Two days later.

You’d seen him that afternoon, across the quad, sunlight catching in his hair, sweat still drying on his temples after practice. He was in his basketball uniform, jaw tight, expression thunderous. Nancy stood a few feet away, arms folded, eyes glassy, and when she finally turned to leave, she spotted you. There was a flicker of something soft. It looked like pity maybe, or regret, before she disappeared into the crowd. 

By the time the phone rang that night, the sky outside your window was ink-black. You were halfway through an essay when your mom called up the stairs, “It’s for you!” 

You picked up the receiver, notebook still open beside you. There was a small click, then nothing. Just a breath. It was shaky, familiar, like muscle memory. 

“Hey,” Steve said finally, voice low. “Didn’t wake you, did I?” 

Your lips curved before you could stop them. “No. I was studying.” 

You could hear the faint rustle of sheets, the soft drag of fabric. You imagined him sitting cross-legged on his bed, hair still damp from a shower, one hand twisted in the phone cord. 

“Oh,” he said. The word was awkward, small. For a second you could almost see the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can I be honest?” 

“Sure.” 

You stood, tucking the phone against your shoulder as you moved to the window. The air was cool when you cracked it open. Down the street, a few kids were still dressed in leftover Halloween costumes, the kind of stragglers who didn’t know it was already over. The latch on your window was still loose from the night Steve climbed through it. 

“I’m not really sure what to talk about,” he admitted. 

That made you laugh. It was a quiet, surprising sound. “Then why’d you call?” 

There was a beat, and then, “Because I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to you.” His voice dropped lower, softer. “Especially about nothing. With Nancy it was always… serious. Every conversation had to mean something. Made me feel like an idiot half the time.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. You wanted to feel special, but instead it hurt. Like he was reaching for comfort, not you. 

“I don’t really know what to say,” you murmured. 

He exhaled, long and heavy. “Yeah. I didn't blame you. I kind of screwed our friendship up, didn't I?” 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. It was full of every summer afternoon, every secret whispered between turns at the pool, every Christmas gift that didn’t quite make sense but meant everything. The night he kissed you for the first time. The hundred that followed. 

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “I think we both did.” 

He hummed, a sound so low it barely made it through the line. “Yeah. Maybe.” But you could hear it, the edge of guilt he always carried when he talked about his dad. 

You leaned your forehead against the glass, eyes on the streetlight. You could almost see him, lying back on his bed, eyes unfocused, mouth set in the soft, crooked way he had when he was thinking too hard. 

“You know,” he said quietly, “it’s weird. When Nancy said what she said at the party, I didn’t even feel mad. Not really.I thought I would. But even today, when I found out her and Jonathan skipped school together, I didn’t feel angry. I just…” His voice broke into a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “God, I sound like an asshole. I felt hollow.” 

You rubbed a hand over your face. “Steve, you love her. Of course it hurts. That doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

There was a pause. Then the soft thud of his head hitting the headboard. “That’s the thing,” he said, voice cracking on the edges. “She told me I was pretending to love her too.” 

A breath. A small, unsteady one. 

“I think she was right.” 

Your throat went dry. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. You listened to him breathing, the soft sound of him trying not to cry. 

A tear slipped down your own cheek before you even noticed. You wiped it away quickly, like if you could just erase it, none of this would feel so heavy. You climbed into bed, curling under the covers, the phone pressed close against your ear. 

“I think I’m broken,” he said quietly. 

You stared up at the ceiling, heart hammering, unable to find words that could meet that kind of confession. The line was silent except for his breathing. It was slow and uneven. For a moment, it felt like being fifteen again, whispering secrets through the receiver until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence. 

His voice came aforesaid. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. For what I did. For what I said. But I meant it when I said I’m sorry.” 

“I know, Steve.” Your voice wavered, but you steadied it. “I forgive you.” 

There was a small pause, and you could hear the smile in his exhale. It was quiet, disbelieving. “Do you want to hang out sometime?” 

You bit your thumb, trying not to smile, trying not to give in. “I’m not sure, Steve. I’ll have to see.” 

“Okay.” A beat. Then, gentler, “And if I call again?” 

You laughed, soft and tired and fond. “Guess we’ll find out.”

”Atta girl.” His voice dropped low, the edges warm and teasing in a way that made something inside you ache. “I suppose that’s goodnight then.” 

“I never said yes.” You hated how much you didn’t want to hang up. 

He laughed, really laughed, and it was the first time in what felt like forever that it didn’t sound heavy. Just Steve. Just you and him again, the way it used to be before everything got complicated.

He said your name, and you closed your eyes, the sound of it humming through the line, through you. It made you feel weightless. 

You smiled into the dark. “Goodnight, Steve.” 

The click of the line ending came too soon. You stayed there, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the soft hum of the dial tone. 

Broken things, you thought, can always be fixed. 

.-.-.-.

You didn’t exactly know how you got roped into a Saturday night involving monsters. 

Or how “monsters” turned out to be something Steve apparently had a history with demogorgons? Demodogs? An alternate universe called the Upside Down? You still weren’t sure. What you did know was that Steve Harrington, your Steve, had shown up bloodied and bruised, and you’d nearly passed out at the sight of him. 

He hadn’t wanted you there. Said it was dangerous. Said you should go back home. You didn’t listen.

Now, the chaos was over. Whatever had been lurking in the dark was gone, at least for now. Everyone had gathered back at the Byers’ house, voices low, the air thick with relief and exhaustion. You were in the kitchen, standing over Steve while he sat slumped in a chair. His face was a patchwork of cuts and purpling bruises. 

“Ouch,” he hissed when you dabbed at the corner of his mouth. 

“Then sit still,” you said, sipping the washcloth back into a bowl of water that had long since turned a murky pink. “If you stopped flinching, it wouldn’t hurt.” 

He gave you a weak grin, the kind that always managed to twist your stomach, even now. “Bossy.” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t answer, focusing instead on cleaning the dried blood off his cheek. His hair was sticking up in every direction, matted with dirt and streaks of red. You reached up, brushing some of it back from his forehead, your fingers lingering a second too long. 

When you followed his gaze, you caught what he was looking at. In the living room, Nancy and Jonathan stood in the corner, whispering. Jonathan handed her a glass of water, and she smiled, soft and small. 

Steve’s voice was rough when he said, “Guess they make a good team.” 

You didn’t trust yourself to answer. The cloth in your hand stilled for a moment before you wrung it out again. The water dropped red into the bowl. 

“How bad does it look?” He asked, trying to catch his reflection in the window beside him. 

You tilted his chin toward you, pretending to study the damage, though your heart squeezed at how tired he looked. “You’ll live,” you said finally. “Might even win some sympathy points from all the moms at the grocery story.” 

That got a laugh out of him. It was real, soft, and a little hoarse. His good eye crinkled at the corner. “Great. Always been my dream.” 

You smiled despite yourself. “Sure it has.” 

For a moment, it was quiet. You could hear the muffled hum of voices in the other room, the tick of the kitchen clock, the steady sound of your own breathing. When you looked back, his eyes were already on you. 

“Maybe you should talk to her,” you said quietly, still pretending to concentrate on the cut on his jaw. “You did get in a fight to protect her brother and his friends. That has to mean something.” 

He licked his split lip, shook his head. “Yeah. No. I think I’m okay.” 

You turned, following his gaze just as Jonathan leaned in, whispering something that made Nancy laugh. 

Steve looked away first. 

You pressed the cloth to his cheek again, gentle this time. He didn’t look at the petite girl again. He just kept watching you. A breath caught in your throat when he reached up and brushed your hair back, fingers skimming over the scratch on your cheek. The touch was feather-light, careful in a way that made your pulse stutter. 

You brushed him off, mumbling, “I’m fine,” before he could turn it into something. 

So you changed the subject. “For what it’s worth,” you said, wringing out the cloth, “I thought it was sweet. You protecting the kids, I mean. Even if I don’t really understand all of it. I’m sure some girl at school will think it’s hot.” 

That pulled a hoarse laugh out of him. “Girls are not gonna find a one-night babysitter attractive.” 

“Oh yea they will.” You smiled faintly, dabbing at a scrape along his jaw. “Seeing a guy take care of kids does something to us. You think your list is long now? Imagine the possibilities if you use this to your advantage.” 

His brow lifted, then immediately furrowed in pain. “Long list?” 

“You know,” you said, clearing your throat, “like… the list of girls you’ve been with.”

”Girls I’ve been with?” The corner of his mouth twitched, half amusement, half challenge. 

You huffed, cheeks burning. “Sex, Steve. The girls you’ve slept with.” You kept your tone clipped, your eyes fixed on the butterfly bandage in your hand. 

He went very still. The pause stretched just long enough to make your stomach twist. You pressed the bandage gently to the cut on his cheek, but your thumb grazed his skin and the air between you shifted, suddenly thicker and charged. 

“There’s only two people on this so-called list,” he said quietly. His tone was soft, teasing, but there was something else underneath. Something like honesty. Like he wanted you to believe him. 

You froze. If there were only two… then that meant Nancy and— 

“What about Sarah? At homecoming? Or Tommy’s cousin that one summer and spring break?” You asked, the words tumbling out faster than you meant. 

He shook his head, wincing as he did. “Never happened.” 

“But you told me—“

”No,” he said, looking up at you. “You assumed.” 

Your lips parted, breath catching. “You never corrected me. You let Tommy and Carol and everyone think—“ 

He shrugged. ‘Guess I didn’t really care.” 

You arched a brow, unconvinced. ‘Sure.” 

A sheepish grin crept over his mouth. “Okay, maybe I cared. But not anymore.” 

You stared at him, the cloth forgotten in your hands. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what to feel. Relief, maybe. Or anger, for all the times you’d thought you were second best. 

“Why tell me now?” You asked softly. 

He looked down, shoulders curling in like he was trying to make himself smaller. When his eyes lifted again, there was no smirk left. “I care what you think of me,” he said simply. 

His finger reached out, ghosting over your knuckle. Just a brush, so light it might’ve been imagined. You felt his name rising up your throat, hovering there, unspoken. 

And then—

“Steve!” 

Dustin’s voice slides through the air. The moment scattered, slipping through your fingers before you could hold onto it. 

”Damn,” Dustin said, skidding to a stop in the doorway. “You look even worse than before.” 

You laughed, stepping back as Steve shot him a deadpan look. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice dry as dust. “You come here just to insult me, or was there an actual reason?” 

Dustin grinned, eyes darting between you and Steve. Then he leaned in, whispering something in Steve’s ear. You didn’t catch it, but you saw the way Steve’s jaw clenched, the faint pink creeping up his neck before he gave Dustin a half-hearted shove. 

“Electricity!” Dustin hissed dramatically, stepping just out of reach like he’d been waiting for the retaliation. He was grinning so wide it was almost painful to look at. 

“Shut up, or I’ll kill you,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his temple. 

Dustin wasn’t even a little scared. “Oh sure. Because you’ve got such a great rapport when it comes to winning fights.” 

Steve shot up, snatching the kid’s hat right off his head. Dustin yelped, immediately jumping to snatch it back. 

You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound escaping before you could swallow it. It felt light. Stupidly, wonderfully light. 

“Give it back!” Dustin said, jabbing a finger into Steve’s bruised side. Steve doubled over with a groan, and Dustin plucked the hat from his hand like a magician reclaiming his prize before darting off down the hall. 

Steve straightened up slowly, wincing, muttering a few choice words under his breath. When his eyes flicked up to yours, you were still smiling, too openly, probably. The kind of smile that said more than you wanted it to. 

The kind of smile that said it is attractive being a one-night babysitter. 

He gave you a look that was half warning, half plea. Don’t start.

You bit back another laugh. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.” 

But your eyes said otherwise. 

“I’m gonna take Max home before Billy comes back to give you round two,” you teased, grabbing your jacket from the back of a chair. “See you later?” 

He raked his fingers through his hair, the gesture a little self-conscious, a little too practiced. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounds good.” 

You turned to leave, but your feet hesitated, traitorous, dragging you back around. “For the record,” you said, scratching your arm, eyes skimming the floor. “I’ve only been with one other person too.” 

His good eyebrow lifted. “Was it the carnival guy?” 

You laughed, because of course that’s where his brain went. “No. I left before the fireworks even started.” 

“Then who?”

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Remember when my family went to North Carolina for Thanksgiving? Sophomore year?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, already smug. “I knew something happened between you and that guy! You wouldn’t shut up about him for like two weeks.” His voice lifted in a terrible impression of yours. “Eric says that smoking is bad for you.” 

“Smoking is bad for you.” You peeked at him through your fingers, shaking your head. “Didn’t realize you were paying attention.” 

He spoke to himself, “Didn’t realize I could hate a guy I’ve never met.” 

You smirked, pulse doing that traitorous flutter thing again. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” 

“Only because I was stuck wearing that ugly turkey sweater my Nan made,” he muttered, pretending to pout. “And my dad spent the whole dinner talking about how I needed to bulk up if I wanted to make varsity. Meanwhile, you were eating lobster with Eric.” 

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the way your laugh cracked through the air. It was light and easy. 

And even after you left the kitchen, even when you were driving Max home through the quiet streets, that stupid smile wouldn’t fade. Your cheeks ached. Your chest buzzed. It was something close, something bright and dangerous and warm, humming under your skin. 

Electricity.

.-.-.-.

The smell of popcorn and pretzels from the food court had gone stale/ Kids ran past clutching strings of arcade tickets, teenagers swung shopping bags from their wrists, and the neon lights bled across the white tile like melted candy. 

You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Still, your stomach had that fluttery, nervous ache anyway. 

You adjusted your grip on the paper bag in your hands, the one holding the new dress you definitely didn’t need, and took a slow breath before walking toward Scoops Ahoy. 

Through the glass, Robin Buckley was leaning against the counter, looking bored out of her mind. You’d made it your unofficial mission all summer to get her to actually smile at you. She never did. Sometimes you wanted to tell her that nothing was happening between you and Steve. That you saw the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching. That you weren’t competition, not really. 

You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That you and Steve were just friends. Just two people who went on a few late-night drives, who talked about nothing and everything like old times. 

When you stepped inside, the smell of waffle cones and sugar hit you. Robin glanced up, clocked you, and her expression shifted from mild boredom to complete exasperation. She didn’t even bother hiding it. 

She turned toward the back, voice flat. “Dingus, she’s here.” 

A second later, the partition to the back swung open and Steve propped his head through, the ridiculous sailor hat slightly crooked on his hair. “Ahoy!” He winced immediately. “Jesus, sorry… hey!” 

You tried not to smile but failed miserably. It didn’t matter how many times you’d seen him in that uniform. It always did something to you. The shorts, the ridiculous collar, the way his sleeves showed off the tan line on his arms. Over the summer, you’d noticed how much hairier he’d gotten. His arms, his legs, and especially his chest. God, his chest. When he stretched or leaned on the counter, his shirt would lift just enough to reveal that line of hair under his navel, and you were always the idiot who noticed.

Whenever he’d invite you to come over and swim, you had to keep your sunglasses on and pretend you weren’t staring at how the golden light melted on his skin. 

He came out from behind the counter, slinging an arm across your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Robin, I’m—”

“Yeah, I know the drill,” Robin cut in, not looking up. “Forty-five minutes. You went over last time.” 

She glanced at you, quick and unreadable. She then turned back around, pretending to clean the counter. 

Steve didn’t even seem to notice. He was grinning at you, his voice softening in that way it did when he talked to you. “Double scoop chocolate chip?” 

You smiled. “Surprise me, sailor.” 

He froze for half a second, like the word hit differently this time. He cleared his throat and ducked back behind the counter. “Go take a seat,” he said, suddenly busying himself with the ice cream scoops. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

You nodded and found your usual spot by the window, pretending not to notice the way Robin was still very obviously not looking at you. You traced the edge of the table with your fingertip, pretending to look bored. 

You weren’t. 

Your eyes kept wandering, to where Steve was bent over the row of ice cream tubs, his stupid little sleeves hugging his biceps too well as he scooped. The muscles in his arms flexed when he switched hands. You hated that you noticed. 

Then Robin appeared beside him, sliding in like she belonged there. Elbows on the counter, voice low. She whispered something that made his jaw drop. Her grin was sharp, her teeth catching her lip as if to keep the laugh in. You could’ve sworn her eyes flitted toward you for a second. 

You looked away, your pulse jumping. When you glanced back, Steve was pointing his scooper at her like a weapon, pretending to be mad. He wasn’t. You could see it in the wat his shoulders relaxed. It was the kind of ease he only had when he was happy. 

That stupid pathetic thing— something— twisted in your chest again. 

You stared down at your hands. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Like you’d said a hundred time before. It didn’t matter if his touches were longer than necessary, or sometimes, when you were talking, and your hair would fall in your face, he’d be the one to brush it back and act like it was nothing. 

You were just friends. 

A minute later, the seat dipped beside you. Steve slid in, his shoulder brushing yours, holding out a cone. “One Harrington Special.” 

You took it, smiling despite yourself. The first lick told you he’d know exactly what you liked. You made the mistake of telling him that when he first started working, and his smile was crooked, his eyes gleamed mischief, and his tone was dangerous when he answered, “We both know I do.” Then he grinned like he’d won something. He probably had. 

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” You asked suddenly. 

He blinked, spook halfway to his mouth. “Who?” He swallowed, following your gaze toward the counter. “Robin?” 

You didn’t answer, focusing hard on your cone. 

Steve frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it. She doesn’t like anyone.” 

You let out a small laugh that didn’t should like one. “She seems to like you.” 

He looked genuinely confused. “She’s got this board in the back room. Two columns, You Rule and You Suck. She’s running out of space on the You Suck side.” 

You looked up at him, half-smiling. “That’s mean.”

”She gives me hell all the time,” he said between bites. “Very hyper know-it-all. Tells me I scoop ice cream wrong. Calls me a dinguse especially when I won’t—“ He stopped midsentence, eyes flicking to yours. “Never mind. Point is, you’re fine. She hates everyone equally.” 

“Equal opportunity loathing,” you murmured, your smile loosening. 

“Exactly.” He scooped up another bite. 

You wanted that warmth to settle you, but it didn’t. It just made the ache worse. You’d seen how fast he smiled at Robin. How she made him laugh. How she was bold and funny and painted her nails strange colors. You pictured them closing the shop together, the way he probably walked her to the bus after. You remembered that one night he’d driven her home, and you you’d wondered for days what they’d talked about. 

Steve must’ve felt that shift in you. He tilted his head, his hand finding the small of your back. His touch burned through the fabric. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.” 

He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. His hand stayed where it was, warm and steady, thumb tracing lazy circles over your shirt. It was the kind of absentminded gesture that didn’t mean anything. Except it did. 

Your body went still. Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. 

He kept eating his sundae with his free hand, completely unaware, licking whipped cream from his spoon while you sat there, pretending to eat your cone, trying not to melt in the booth beside him. 

You saw it happen, the flicker across his face when he realized what he was doing. His thumb stilled. Then the warmth left your back, replaced by the cool sweep of air as his hand slipped away, fingers grazing you in apology. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, scratching his face with the same hand. “Didn’t mean to…” His throat bobbed. The flush climbing his neck made your stomach twist. You shouldn’t have wanted to kiss him for it, that nervous, pink lipped stutter, but you did. 

You smiled faintly, nudging him with your shoulder. “Relax, Steve. I would’ve said something if I minded.” Then, before you could stop yourself, “You’re kind of cute when you get nervous.” 

His head tilted, skeptical. “Cute?” 

The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been, humming beneath the soft mall soundtrack and the scent of popcorn and sugar. 

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes tracing the collar of his stupid sailor uniform. “Especially in that thing.” 

He looked down at himself, feigning outrage. “In what thing?” 

You gestured lazily. “Your uniform. You pull it off.” 

His mouth twitched. “You making fun of me right now?” 

You held up your fingers, thumb and forefinger a breath apart. “Maybe a little.” 

“Uh-huh.” He leaned in closer, voice dipping low enough that you felt it in your spine. “So just to clarify, you think I’m cute and I look good?” 

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the heat creeping the back of your neck. “I said you pull it off. Don’t let it get to your head.” 

He clutched his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You wound me, sweetheart.” 

The word hit harder than it should have. Sweetheart. He only ever used it to tease, but it still made your pulse stumble. You hid your smile behind your shopping bad, clutching it to your chest like it could muffle your heartbeat. The air between you smelled like vanilla and something else, warm skin, detergent, his aftershave maybe, His knee brushed yours again, another “accident.” 

To your relief, he nodded toward the bag. ‘What’s that?” 

“Oh.” You blinked down. “A dress. Found it in one the stores before I came here.” 

He tried to peek inside, and you swatted his hand away. He grinned, leaning back against the booth with one arm over the top. “What’s it look like?” 

“Blue. Hand stitched white flowers.” You shrugged like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “I dunno, I probably won’t wear it.” 

“Why not?” His gaze flicked between the bag and your face. “I bet you’ll look really pretty in it.” 

The words landed soft but sure, and they stole the air right out of your lungs. You didn’t trust yourself to meet his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to find an excuse to wear it to find out.” 

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward Robin behind the counter. She was watching him with that same sharp smirk. Steve caught her look and cleared his throat, the arm behind you brushing the top of your shoulder. 

“I, uh… two weeks is the Fourth of July,” he said. 

“Mhm.” You tried not to think about Robin. About how easy their rhythm looked from the outside. Once upon a time, that used to be you and him. 

“That means the fair’s be going on,” he added. 

“Yeah.” You saw Robin glance over again and, for reasons you didn’t want to name, you scooted an inch away. Purely platonic, you told yourself. 

“I could probably take off that night,” he said. His tone was casual, but his eyes gave him away, nervous, dancing between yours like he was trying to hand you something invisible. 

Your brow furrowed. “Oh, like you want to go?” 

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and missing. “Yeah. It’d be fun. Be nice to go with someone, too.” 

You forced a smile, glancing at Robin. “Right. I’m sure it’ll be easy to ask her. Maybe wait ‘til after your shift, in case she says no. Wouldn’t want to make it awkward.” 

He looked at you like he was trying to read a language he used to know by heart. “What? No—” He leaned forward, earnest and stumbling. “I meant you. I’m asking you.” His voice softened. “If that’s something you’d wanna do. Could be fun. You did say you missed the fireworks last year.” 

Suddenly, you saw the rope. It had been dangling there whole time, invisible until now, and you were painfully aware of how badly you wanted to grab it. Heat flushed through you, bright and reckless. Still, it didn’t have to mean anything. You’d gone to the fair with him before, as only friends. 

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “And do you want me to wear the dress then?” 

His brows lifted, and in the light you could still see the faint scar Billy Hargrove had left six months ago. The tips of his ears went pink. He tried for casual, but his voice betrayed him. “If you want. I mean… I won’t complain.” 

You smiled, looking down at your hands. “We haven’t gone to the fair together since the summer before sophomore year.” That summer still lived in your bones, before vacation in Maine, before Nancy, before everything shifted. 

Steve laughed softly, eyes somewhere far away. “Jesus, you’re right. That feels like forever ago. Hey, wasn’t that when you you…uh…” He trailed off, giving you that sheepish half-grin. 

Your face warmed. You already knew where he was going. “Yeah. When I taught you how to make out on the Ferris wheel because you were supposed to take Tommy’s cousin on it.” 

His lip curved, grimacing. “Right. He was pissed at me for running out of tickets.” 

You couldn’t help laughing, clutching your sides. “Because you wasted them all on multiple trips! You were so nervous you were going to get it wrong that you made me go up with you over and over again." 

He was laughing too, head thrown back. People glanced over, even Robin, who paused mid motion behind the counter. Her expression wasn’t jealousy exactly. Curiosity? 

When the laughter died down, Steve blinked away a tear, his grin fading into something softer. “Yeah. I really was an idiot. Should’ve just been honest back then. I wasn’t even nervous.” He hesitated. “I just didn’t want to kiss anyone.” 

You snorted. “Oh, so you just wanted to kiss me?” It came out teasing, sharp enough to make him flustered. 

But he didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said simply. 

The air shifted. You froze, breath catching as the noise of the mall blurred into static, the carousel music, the hum of the fountain, a kid shouting down the corridor. It all faded, leaving only him. His freckle dotted throat. The memory of your lips against his skin that summer, or maybe just the wish for it. 

You smiled then, small and trembling, pressing your knee into his. You nudged his hand. “So… is it just going to be us?” 

He hesitated. You saw it happen, that flicker of uncertainty, like he wanted to say something else. But then he blinked, retreating behind the familiar wall of nonchalance. His hand fell to his lap. 

“Oh, uh…Dustin.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Before he left for camp, he said he wanted to go when he got back, so I’ll probably have to drive him. And the other kids.” 

You watched him, searching for something that might still be there. That warmth that had just been between you, the rope you’d been ready to grab. But all you found was the quiet thud of your own pulse. 

Your eyes dropped, your mouth curving faintly. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” 

He shifted beside you, restless. You could tell he knew he’d said the wrong thing. His lips parted like he was about to fix it, but the words never came. He only took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and put it back on like he could hide behind it. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, weak and unsure. “It’ll be fun.” 

You nodded, smiling just enough to keep from unraveling. “Sure.” 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of kids running through the mall filled the silence, the mechanical whir of the cotton candy machine somewhere in the distance. Then, Steve’s watch beeped two short chirps that cut through the air like a reminder that time was up. 

Robin was already watching from behind the counter, arms crossed, the kind of glare that said don’t you dare take another minute. 

He motioned with his head, no words, just that apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes. You nodded, but before he could slide out of the booth, you caught his wrist. 

“Hey,” you said softly. 

He turned back. That small crease appeared between his brows, threaded with curiosity and hope. 

“You’ve got something,” you murmured. You leaned in before he could react, brushing your thumb across the corner of his mouth. It was quick, hardly anything at all, but it felt like a secret. 

His body went still. His breath hitched. For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes found yours and stayed there, unguarded. 

You pulled back, your thumb glinting under the fluorescent light. You licked the taste from it like it was nothing. ‘Whipped cream.” 

He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “Thanks.” 

The sound vibrated between you. 

You nodded, the corner of your mouth threatening to betray you. He stood, adjusting his ridiculous sailor top, and you followed, collecting the napkins and empty cups from the table. He tried to take the trash from you, but you shook your head. You told him the bin was on the way out. 

He let you, though you could feel his gaze burn into your back as you walked away. You didn’t turn around, not until you reached the door. Through the glass, you saw him again. Robin had appeared beside him, sliding the window open, marker in hand. You watched as she drew a line beneath the You Suck column. 

Steve dropped his head, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. It shouldn’t have hurt but it did. 

You stepped out into the mall. The air was different out here, colder. You exhaled, the sound lost under the chatter of passing strangers. Maybe you were right all along. Maybe you really were just friends. 

Still, as you walked toward the exit, you licked your lips and tasted the faintest trace of sweetness, the ghost of whipped cream… and him. 

You hadn’t gone to the fair after all. Something in you had felt off like the universe had pulled a thread loose and was waiting for you to notice. That’s how you got roped into the business of the Upside Down once again. You didn’t hesitate. You just followed like it was now your job. 

You were at Chief Hopper’s cabin, watching El use her powers to find the one and only Billy Hargrove, who apparently was a new host to the mind flayer. Sweat and dirt streaked across your face, the tang of burnt ozone still in your mouth. The strange smell of gasoline. Blood. Fear. 

Nancy was in the kitchen, reloading a gun with quiet precision. You hovered near the counter, drinking a glass of water, trying not to notice how her hands didn’t shake. 

For a while, there was only the sound of shells clinking against the wood. Then Nancy glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re pretty good at staying calm for someone who wasn’t supposed to be involved.” 

You smirked, shrugging, taking another gulp of your water, finishing it. 

Another shell clicked into place. Then, after a pause, “You know… I always wanted you to like me.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

She laughed softly, not meeting your eyes. ‘When Steve and I started dating, there were rumors. That no girl could flirt with him unless you gave the stamp of approval.” 

You laughed outright, shaking your head. “Oh, that’s absurd. Steve’s his own person.” 

“I know,” Nancy said, smiling faintly. “But I still wanted you to like me.” 

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the first aid kit. “I did. I mean, I do. I liked you. I just…” You exhaled, the admission heavy on your tongue. “I wished we could’ve been friends.” 

Nancy looked up from the gun. Her expression softened. “Me too.” 

There was a quiet stretch between you. A truce hanging in the air. Then Nancy’s voice was quieter, careful. “You know, I broke up with Steve because I couldn’t love him the way he wanted me to.” 

You nodded, eyes on your hands. “Yeah. He told me.” 

But Nancy’s next words made you look up. “Did he tell you that I didn’t love him because not all of him could love me? That there was always a part of him that belonged somewhere else?” 

You froze, your mouth parting, pretending you didn’t know what she meant. “No. He didn’t say that.” 

Nancy just watched you. Her gaze wasn’t cruel, just knowing. 

You scoffed lightly, trying to shake it off. “Steve and I are just friends.” 

She almost smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He would always talk about you, you know. He told me everything.” 

You forced a small laugh. “We’ve known each other since grade school. Guess he told all the stories where I pushed his face into mud when we were seven?” 

Nancy’s head tilted slightly. “No, I mean everything. What you two were like before we started dating. And how you two weren’t speaking because of it.” 

The air thinned. You blinked at her, heat rising in your chest. “Oh.” 

She nodded once, as if that explained everything. 

You pretended to mess with some supplies on the counter, acting unbothered. Because, you told yourself, it didn’t bother you. Or maybe it did. Why would Steve tell Nancy about you and him? It was nothing. It meant nothing. 

“He likes you,” she said simply. 

You guffawed, looking up sharply. “Why would you say that?” Your tone came out like it was the most ridiculous, scandalous thing she could ever say.  There was a spark… hope? It traveled from your heart, throughout your veins, electricity buzzing at the thought that Steve Harrington… has a crush on you. Or was it beyond a crush? 

She smiled faintly. “Don’t look at me like that. I remember the fair. The carnival guy. How badly you wanted him to be jealous.” 

Your face fell, an apologetic look. Nancy quickly put a hand up and shook her head, like a silent It’s okay. But it wasn’t okay. “It’s Steve. He’s handsome and charming. He can smile at a brick wall and get what he wants. He isn’t the type to hesitate, with anyone. You’re proof of that.” 

Nancy studied you, tilting her head. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Because there wasn’t anything to lose with the rest of us.” 

The words settled like dust between you, impossible to ignore. 

There was commotion in the living room. You both jumped into action, moving as if the conversation hadn’t just cracked something open. But even as you game planned with the others, the echo of Nancy’s last sentence followed you like a heartbeat. 

You hadn’t expected to end up back at Starcourt Mall, everything was going wrong already. But there you were again, standing in the fluorescent ruin of it all. The place that used to hum with laughter and cheap pop songs was now filled with the scent of smoke and melted plastic. Sirens in the distance, lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. 

You found him sitting on the curb outside, a bag of ice pressed against his face. Robin sat next to him, laughing at something she had said, it was a delirious, adrenaline high way people do when they survive something they shouldn’t have. 

You cleared your throat, standing on the other side of Steve, the two of them, in sync, looking at you. Steve turned to Robin, motioning his head slightly. Robin gave him an awkward tight lipped smile… and you swore… she winked at him. And you swore Steve muttered, “Shut up.” 

He didn’t look back up you, but he scooted over as if it was an invitation. You stood there for a moment before sitting down beside him. You winced at the sight of him. His hair was matted, streaked with blood and only God knows what. One eye was swollen half-shut, his lip split, his uniform torn. You could make a joke that his face can’t catch a break. But he probably knew that already. 

“How are you feeling?” You asked softly. 

He let out a low groan that was almost a laugh. “Like shit,” he said honestly. “I might have to start wearing glasses after this.” 

You didn’t mean to, but your brain immediately conjured the image. Steve Harrington in glasses, looking unfairly handsome. You pressed your lips together, keeping the thought to yourself, unsure what to say that wouldn’t sound too much like what it was. 

He shifted the ice pack, glancing down at the asphalt. “M’sorry about the fair,” he said after a beat. 

You shrugged, keeping your tone light. “I’m sure it wouldn’t have been that fun anyway.” 

He huffed a short laugh. “It would’ve beaten this by a landslide.” 

That pulled a real smile from you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The flashing lights painted his face red, then blue, the red again. You could see every freckle, every scar, every cut. He looked older somehow. 

“We’re you scared?” You asked quietly. 

He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Yeah,” he admitted. “The entire time I was like— wow, this is it. This is how I go out. Russians beating me and drugging me, with damn ice cream stains on my shorts.” He gave a soft snort, then hesitated. “Then I was scared I’d never see…” His voice trailed off. His eyes flicked toward you for half a second before darting away again. 

Your heart skipped. “Never see what?” 

He shook his head, the wall going up before your eyes. “Nothing. I’m exhausted. Just waiting for my mom to come pick me up. Embarrassing, right?” He gave out a weak laugh. “They said they might be able to recover my car keys in a week.” 

“Let me wait with you,” you said. 

He didn’t even look at you when he answered. “No, go home. I’ll be fine.” 

He was so guarded. So unlike him. But then again, Steve had grown up a lot since you met him. He was notorious for withholding information from you. You wondered if that had changed because of Robin. Was it that he was afraid he’d never see someone again? Was it Robin? Or… was Nancy right? That maybe you were the reason he could never give himself away. 

The thought hurt in a way you couldn’t explain. 

“I lied,” you said suddenly. 

That got his attention. His head tilted, one brow lifting, expression soft but wary. “‘Bout what?” 

You drew in a breath, meeting his eyes. “About not being sad. About the fair.” You forced a small smile. “It would’ve been nice to have gone on the Ferris wheel with you.” 

His gaze lingered on you then, something unreadable flickering behind it. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile or trying not to say something he’d regret. 

You leaned in closer, silently begging him to make the reckless choice to destroy your friendship. If you were to regret anything, it was convincing yourself you only wanted to be his friend. 

But all he said was, “Get home safe, will you?” 

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. You too, Harrington.” 

When you stood, the space between you felt impossibly heavy. You wanted him to stop you, to say something, anything that would let you know you hadn’t imagined all the things that ever lived between you two. But he didn’t. 

You walked toward your car, the air sticky with smoke and sugar. When you glanced back, he was still sitting there under the flashing lights, his head tilted up toward the ruined skylight like he could still see the fireworks through the smoke. Your eyes glossed over, wiping hot tears off your cheeks. You followed his gaze, a silent sob, almost believing he could. 

.-.-.-.

Mrs. Harrington looked startled when she opened the door. Like she wasn’t sure whether to invite you in or pretend she hadn’t heard the bell. Her lipstick was too red for mid-afternoon, her perfume thick and powdery in the air. Still, she smiled politely. 

“He’s out back,” she said, her voice soft and unsure. “Hasn’t really done much since he got home.” 

You nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped inside. The Harrington house looked the same as it always had. It was too big, too quiet, a place built for hosting parties but not to be lived in. 

When you slid open the back door, sunlight hit you square in the face. It was too bright for how heavy everything felt. The pool shimmered, the water a lazy, perfect blue. And there he was, Steve Harrington, floating on his back, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Bruises still mapped his ribs and shoulders, a fading constellation of purples and yellows. 

You hadn’t seen him since that night. Since Starcourt. You’d thought about calling a dozen times, but every version of hey, how are you felt too small. You felt too small. 

You crossed to the edge of the pool and sat down. The concrete burned lightly against your palms. You slipped off your shoes, rolled up your jeans, and dipped your feet into the water. 

The small disturbance sent ripples across the surface, brushing against him. Steve tilted his head, squinting over the rim of his sunglasses. He didn’t smile or move closer, just let his head fall back again, the water cradling him. 

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice rough, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. 

You looked at him, the cut on his jaw catching a flash of sun. “Hey,” you answered. 

A sprinkler hissed on somewhere nearby. A leaf drifted across the pool. 

You wanted to ask if he was okay. You wanted to tell him you had nightmares every night about fire and glass. Him being dragged into the Upside Down and never seeing him again. You wanted to ask if he did too. 

Instead, you just watched him float, weightless, untethered. The sunlight glimmered across his tanned skin, and for a fleeting second, he looked like he might dissolve into the water entirely. 

The water lapped lazily against the sides of the pool. Cicadas hummed in the trees. Somewhere beneath the deck, the filter ticked and hummed, steady and indifferent. 

Neither of you spoke for a long while. The sun had slipped low enough to paint the yard in gold and shadows before Steve finally moved. The sound of him shifting, the water breaking around him, felt too loud in the stillness. 

He swam to the opposite edge and pulled himself out, the muscles in his arms trembling faintly from the effort. Water rolled off him in thin sheets, splattering the concrete. He sat down a few feet away, elbows braced on his knees, sunglasses still on like a shield. The bruises were worse up close, deep violet along his ribs, soft yellow fading at his collarbone, a healing split at the corner of his mouth. 

You tried for casual. “So… how’s your day been?” The taste of regret already on your tongue. You said you wouldn’t ask that. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, droplets sliding down his arm. “Fine. Me and Robin started looking for new jobs.” 

You tried not to feel the sting in your chest. So, he was hanging out with Robin. “That’s good,” you said softly. He didn’t elaborate. The silence pressed in again, thick and uncomfortable, like something alive between you. 

You tried again. “How are you feeling?” 

He shrugged. “I’m okay.” 

It was the way he said it, empty, too easy, that made something tighten in your chest. You wanted to shake him for pretending, for saying it like it wasn’t a lie. 

You stared at him, his reflection warped in the blue water. ‘Why were you out here by yourself?” 

“I was just thinking.” His tone made it sound like the end of the conversation. 

Frustration crept up your spine. “And you can’t talk to me about it?” 

He turned slightly, the lenses of his sunglasses catching the light. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel them. “I’m not really in the mood to talk about it.” 

You blinked hard, the heat behind your eyes sharper than you wanted it to be. “I’m sure you’re in the mood to talk to Robin about it, though.” 

That earned a small, humorless laugh, one that hurt to hear. He shook his head. “Right. Okay.” 

Then he pushed himself off the edge and dropped back into the water. The splash shattered the quiet. 

“So, you don’t deny it?” You said, your voice rising. “You talk to her about everything now? Are you two—” you can’t finish it, so you don’t. “Are you?” 

Steve turned toward you, arms resting on the pool’s edge. His jaw worked as he swallowed whatever he wanted to say. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but you could hear the strain underneath. “It’s not like that, okay? Why are you even here?” 

You laughed, but it came out brittle. “Because it’s been a month, Steve. You haven’t even called me.” You look down at the water, then at him. “You used to tell me everything.” 

That lands. You can see it, the shift in his shoulders, the quiet sting in the space between breaths. He looks away, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “The phone works both ways,” he says, low. Then, after a long beat. “I don’t know what to tell you right now.” 

You swallow hard, the taste of chlorine thick in your throat. “I just want to understand, that’s all. Did I do something? Did I hurt your feelings again?” 

You want to ask the real thing. Did you move on? Was there even anything to move on from? Yet, the words don’t make it past your teeth. They just sit there, heavy and unsaid. 

He shakes his head, slow, tired. “You didn’t do anything. I just have a lot on my mind. It’s a mess right now.” 

It’s not enough. 

You pull your feet from the water, droplets sliding down your skin and darkening the concrete. You stand, every movement deliberate, like you’re afraid if you don’t keep moving, you’ll fall apart. 

“Right. Okay.” You laugh softly, but it sounds like breaking glass. “So we’re back to to this.” You bend to grab your shoes, the laces slipping through your trembling fingers. “I’ve served my purpose, your confidant, until another pretty girl like Robin comes along? I know you’ve been through hell, Steve, but you don’t get to be an asshole to me just because you’re afraid of your feelings.” 

He flinches. Just barely. Like the words hit someplace you weren’t supposed to touch. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t reach for you. 

“So, I’m gonna go,” you say quietly, forcing the knot in your throat down. “You can call me when you’re ready to talk. Or maybe don’t. It’d save us both from this stupid cycle.” 

You slip your shoes on and straighten, the world too still around you. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away. You wait for him to say something, like wait, or don’t go, or even I’m sorry. 

But nothing. 

It was all the same sounds from when you arrived. The same sounds as when you thought things might still mean something. 

You gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles ached, trying not to look back at the house. The air inside the car was hot, the kind that made everything feel slow and heavy. You blinked hard, willing your chest to stop tightening. 

You were about to turn the key when you heart it, your name, faint through the glass. 

Then again, louder this time. urgent. 

Through the windshield, you saw Steve, running barefoot across the driveway, shirt half on, dripping wet. The sun caught on the water flying off him, the sound of his feet slapping against the concrete filling the air. 

He stopped in front of your car, both hands pressing flat against the hood like he needed to hold it in place. His chest heaved. When he saw you weren’t moving, he came around to your door, crouching so you could see his face. 

You rolled the window down, pulse thrumming. “What?” 

He was panting, eyes wide, looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the world. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know how to do this with you.” 

You blinked, throat tight. “So this is it? You don’t want to be my friend?” 

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Wait— yes! I do. I just… shit.” He rubbed a hand over his face, leaving streaks of water in his hair. “Do you know how nervous you make me?” 

You gave a disbelieving laugh, half scoff, half defense. “I have never made you nervous.” 

He looked up at you through his lashes, lips quirking despite himself. “Yes, you do. All the time. It’s pathetic how nervous I feel.” 

You didn’t know what to say. “I don’t understand.” 

He exhaled sharply, words tumbling out like they’d been waiting too long. “That night at Starcourt, remember I told you I was scared but wouldn’t say what?” 

You swallowed. “Vaguely.” You lied. You remembered. 

“I was scared I’d never see you again.” 

The words hit the air like a spark. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, eyes burning. “So you don’t call me for a month?” 

He looked down, shoulders tense. “Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But like I said, I don’t know how to do this with you.” 

“Communicate?” You said, trying to keep your voice steady. 

He raked a hand through his damp hair. “Ask if you wanna do something together.” 

You frowned. “You don’t know how to ask me to hang out? We hang out all the time.” 

“No!” He groaned, half laughing, half desperate. “I mean… yes, but can you just be quiet for two seconds? I’m trying to ask you out.” 

Everything went still. 

He sighed, tightening his grip on the edge of your window. “They’re playing Fast Time tonight at the drive-in. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty sharp because I know you can never decide what snack you want.” 

You stared at him, words caught in your throat. “Just us?” 

That flicker of confidence finally slid back into place. His mouth curved, that familiar, unfair grin. “Yes. Just you and me. A date. See you tonight.” None of these were questions. It was instructions, a demand. 

He turned to walk back toward the house, water still dripping from his hair, and you say there, frozen. 

“But I never said yes!” You called after him. 

He spun on his heel, walking backward now, grin widening. “Oh,” he said, eyes glinting beneath the late sun, “and wear the dress.” 

.-.-.-.

You wore the damn dress. 

Steve showed up exactly when he said he would. Six-thirty sharp. 

You heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, the soft rumble of his car idling. Through the window, you could see him leaning against the door, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, hair still a little damp from a shower. 

You opened the door before he could knock. 

For a second, he just looked at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach twist. His mouth curved slowly. 

“So I was right,” he said, voice low, a little smug. “You do look really pretty in the dress.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t listening. 

He did all the things he always did… the Steve Harrington special. He opened your door with a flourish. He grabbed a box of chocolates from the backseat, knowing well you weren’t a flower person. At the ticket booth, he paid before you could reach for your wallet. He was right, you couldn’t decide which candy you wanted, so naturally, he bought one of everything. 

There was something different in the way he did it this time. The glimmer in his eye when you smiled, the grin that stuck even when you teased him. 

“You know,” you said as he dropped the change into his pocket, “you don’t have to try so hard to impress me.” Mostly because he had impressed you a long time ago. You weren’t ready to admit that just yet. 

He shot you a look over his shoulder, half-smile crooked. “You think this is me trying to impress you? Sweetheart, this is nothing.” 

You laughed, but it came out as a giggle. A giggle. What the hell did you become into? 

When the movie started, everything felt quieter. The giant screen flickered against the windshield, painting the car in pale golds and blues. You could hear the hum of the radio from another car nearby, the crunch of gravel as people settled in. 

It was strange how shy you felt. You’d seen him half dead and bleeding. You’d slept beside him plenty of times, close enough to feel his heartbeat against you. Yet, now, your hands were folded neatly in your lap, and you could barely look at him. 

Steve sat close, one arm draped on the door, fingers trapping along to the movie’s soundtrack. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to you. 

Halfway through, he leaned toward you slightly. “You enjoying it?” 

You nodded, your voice small. “Yeah.” 

He smiled, slow and easy, and for a moment he didn’t look back at the screen. You caught him looking at you, really looking, before he blinked and turned away, his jaw tight. He reached towards you, your heart racing, imagining him grabbing your hand to hold it. Instead, he dipped it in the popcorn between you, shoving a few pieces in his mouth and then dropped his arm back into his lap. 

You frowned, pulse thrumming with something restless. The space between you felt too big. 

You placed your hand on the console between you, your shoulder lightly brushing his. You waited, hoping he’d see the invitation. 

For a while, he didn’t move. Pretended to be focused on the movie, his expression carefully neutral. Then, like it was nothing, he slid his hand over too, resting it on top, casual, practiced. 

The minutes stretched. The world shrank to the faint buzz of the projector and the heat between your palms. 

Your pinkies brushed, barely, and the air shifted. He didn't pull away. Instead, his pinkie rubbed lightly against the side of your hand, once tentative. 

You flipped your hand over, heart pounding. 

And without looking, he interlaced his fingers with yours, a quiet, steady, motion, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen ahead, but his thumb tracing slow, small circles against your skin. 

It was like something finding its place. Like his hand had always belonged in yours. 

The movie had ended. 

The credits rolled, the screen dimmed, and still neither of you moved. The car lights from other rows flickered on one by one, the sound of gravel crunching as engines started up. You felt the ghost of Steve’s thumb against your hand before he pulled away, slow and careful, as if letting go might break something. 

The night hummed around you, windows cracked open, the smell of summer grass, the echo of laughter from cars behind. 

“Do you want to go on a walk before I take you home?” He asked finally. 

You turned to him, surprised. “A walk?” 

He smiled a little. “Yeah. There’s a trail by the lake. it’s nice this time of night.”  

You said yes before you even thought about it. 

The car rolled to a stop near the edge of Lover’s Lake. The water shimmered under the moonlight, still and glassy, the woods breathing slow around it. 

You fell into step beside him on the trail, shoulders brushing, feet scuffing against the dirt. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the picture of casual, except for how tightly he kept his jaw clenched, like there were too many words sitting on his tongue. 

You shivered when the wind came off the water. Without missing a beat, Steve slipped off his jacket and settled it around your shoulders. His fingers brushed lightly against your collarbone, a small, almost accidental touch that felt anything but. 

“Thanks,” you said softly. 

He just nodded. 

You walked in silence for a while, until you slipped your arm through his— testing. You leaned into him. His muscles tensed, then eased, and you felt him smile beside you. You swore you felt his nose brush gently into your hair. 

“Does this mean I can ask you what you’re thinking now?” You teased, your voice quiet against the rustle of trees. 

He laughed under his breath. “I’m an open book.” 

“Okay… scared you weren’t going to see me again?” 

Steve exhaled, long and deep. “You start off strong.” 

“I mean, can you blame me?” 

He pulled you a little closer as you walked, his side pressed into your shoulder. “No, I can’t. It’s… self-explanatory, really. I kept thinking about what you were doing, what our last memory together was. And, Jesus… how bad I wanted to take you to the fair. Just us. I shouldn’t have been such a coward. Should’ve been honest.” He paused, his voice softer now. “It was a lot of regrets I didn’t know what to do with.” 

You nodded. “I know you already apologized. But why didn’t you call?” 

He stopped walking. You did too. His hands slipped from his pockets, only to shove right back in, his shoulders tight. 

“I just… couldn’t talk to you without wishing for more,” he said quietly. “You’re my best friend, and you know… after everything that happened, I didn’t know what to do with that. It’s stupid.” 

You tilted your head, eyes searching his face. “So, are you saying you like me?” 

Steve huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Of course I do. For a long time.” 

He started walking again, and you followed. The night seemed to hold its breath around you. 

“So if you like me,” you asked after a beat, “then what’s with all the longing looks? The ones you give Nancy and Jonathan?” 

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I wasn’t jealous of them. I mean… okay, maybe a little. But not because of Nancy. It was because she was with the person she wanted. And I…” he glanced at you, small smile, sad at the edges. “I was barely even friends with the person I wanted.” 

You were embarrassed how easily the sharp bloom in your chest made you giddy. You let out an involuntary giggle. Your cheeks were warm. You felt full. It was better than what you had dreamed of. Your best friend liked you. Steve Harrington wanted you. 

You kicked at a stone. “I wanted the fair to be a date too,” you admitted your voice small. 

He stopped again, turning toward you. The air seemed to thicken. The moonlight hit his face, soft and silvers and eyes steady, lips parted like was about to say something but didn’t trust himself to yet. 

He looked at you the way people look when they’re trying to memorize something. Like if he blinked, you might vanish. 

Your pulse jumped. 

“What are you thinking now?” You asked, your voice trembling. 

The words landed between you, fragile and bright. 

He took a step closer. Then, for the first time in a long time, he gave you the look. His eyes slowly dragged to your lips and then back to your eyes. “I’m thinking about what you’d say if I asked if I could kiss you.” 

“Yes.” 

For a second, nothing. Just the word hanging in the air, trembling, daring him to move. 

Steve blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it. Like the sound had knocked the breath out of him. 

Then he moved.

It wasn’t gentle. It was everything. 

His hand found your jaw, the other your waist, and the space between you disappeared all at once. The kiss hit hard, teeth, breath, heat. You stumbled back a step, your spine catching the rough bark of a tree, and he followed without hesitation chest pressed to yours, soaking you in. 

You gasped against his mouth and he chased the sound, kissing you deeper. His thumb slid under your chin, tilting you up until there was nowhere left to go but closer. The taste of him, mint, salt, the faintest sweetness from whatever candy he’d eaten at the drive-in. It all made your head spin. 

His mouth was everywhere, your bottom lip, the corner of your mouth, a breath against your cheek before he found you again. It was open mouthed and messy and so full of want it almost hurt. 

You fisted your hands in his hair before you realized you were doing it. He groaned when you tugged, deep and low, the sound shooting through you like a spark. His body pressed harder into yours, the solid weight of him keeping you anchored when everything else felt like it was spinning. 

You felt the scraped of bark through his jacket and your dress, the heat of his palm sliding along your thigh. You hadn’t realized your leg was hiked up until you felt Steve’s hand cup your ass. Fingertips dragging slow, like he needed proof you were really there. Every time you parted for air, he found you again, hungrier, rougher, like he was scared you’d evaporate if he didn’t keep touching you. 

It was dizzying, the way he kissed you. Like he’d been waiting years and didn’t trust he’d get another chance. 

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because you wanted to, it was because you had to breathe. Your chests brushed with every inhale, and his forehead dropped to yours. You could taste him still, sweet and sharp, and you couldn’t tell whose heartbeat was whose. 

You had pretty much shared a hundred kisses with Steve, but this one carried through your veins and bones. You wanted this kiss to be tattooed onto your lips forever, to remember it when you two were apart. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice wrecked, his breath catching on a laugh. “I don’t remember feeling like that on the Ferris wheel.” 

You felt your own laugh tumble out. It was small, shaky, completely undone. 

His hand stayed on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your mouth like he still didn’t believe it. His eyes were darker now, but soft, careful. 

Your lips curved. “Suppose you’ve gotten a lot better.” 

He furrowed his brows, trying not to smile. “You suppose?” 

You shrugged, not answering. Just reached up and pulled him back in. 

It turned into lazy languid kisses. Your hands sneaking under, moving up and down his back until it was time to go. 

You barely made it to the car. 

His hand found yours somewhere between the trees and the parking lot, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like he couldn’t stop himself.  The air felt electric running underneath every step. When you reached the BMW, he turned like he was going to open your door, the perfect gentleman, but then he didn’t. 

Instead, he caught you. 

Your back hit the car, his mouth already on yours, urgent, messy, like he’d been waiting for this and couldn’t risk losing it. His hands finding your hips, dragging you closer. He groaned against your mouth and it rattled something loose in you. 

He hated his hair being touched but your fingers found them, soft, damp from the humidity, and tugged. His hair wasn’t even your favorite feature of his. His crooked smile, the slight unevenness of his nose from too many fights, his hands. The way his eyes look permanently droopy, soft, and gentle. He kissed you harder for it, that maybe he never wanted you to touch his hair because it made him turn into this. 

You giggled, twirling his locks. “You need a haircut.” 

Steve looked drunk when he pulled back to look at you, his mouth going to your jaw. “…kay, I’ll get it cut tomorrow.” 

You smiled. “Just like that? You’re gonna cut it because I said something?” 

“Yeah,” he muttered. 

He tried to reach for the door handle behind you, fumbling, still half kissing you, his fingers grazing your waist.  When the latch finally clicked, it sounded deafening. 

He pulled back, just barely. His breath hit your cheek. The air between you smelled like his cologne and sweat and something new and fresh. 

You slid into the seat because you had to, because if you hadn’t, you weren’t sure either of you would stop. Steve closed your door gently, taking a long breath before walking around to his side. 

You watched him through the window, the way his hand raked through his hair, the faint lopsided grin that gave him away. He looked like he was seconds away from jumping into a heel-click. He looked flushed, dazed, still catching up to whatever just happened. 

When he got in, he didn’t look at you right away. The car filled with the low hum of the radio, some song too soft to matter, and the silence between you was bright and alive. You were both smiling like idiots, grinning into the dark like there was a secret only you two knew. 

.-.-.-.

The car idled quietly in front of your house. The headlights painted long, soft lines across the driveway. The night felt too calm for how loud your heartbeat was. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered, leaning a little closer, kissing his cheek. 

He smiled that half-smile. “Goodnight.” 

He kissed you back on the lips. Just once. Just a brush of lips, tender, sweet. But then he said it again, quieter this time, almost a dare. “Goodnight.” 

You laughed into his mouth, soft pecks, one after another, each one becoming longer, until the line between goodnight and don’t go blurred completely. His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb tracing lazy circles. 

It started soft. Then it wasn’t. 

It deepened like it had been waiting again, slow burn into something molten. His tongue brushed yours, and you gasped, and he caught it, kissing you through it. 

When your hand slid lower, to where his shirt met his belt, he froze. His hand caught yours gently, his voice barely a whisper. “Hey… wait.” 

You blinked, frowning. “Sorry. I just—“ 

He shook his head, smiling, eyes soft and so, so fond. “Don’t be sorry. Just… let’s not rush, okay?” 

You nodded. 

You kissed him again, slower this time, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, the spot just under his jaw. He exhaled shakily, a sound you felt before you heard. 

When you finally pulled back, he was grinning at you, cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen. 

“Go inside before I change my mind,” he murmured. 

You wanted to challenge him but instead you only smiled. “Goodnight, Steve.” His name came out endearingly, blooming into a whole new meaning. 

You barely made it to the front steps when you heard him. 

“Hey! Wait!” 

Your name came out somewhere between a breath and a plea, and you turned, pulse stuttering. Steve was jogging toward you, hair a mess. 

“Changed your mind already?” You teased. 

He slowed to a stop in front of you, cheeks flushed. “No,” he said, breathless. “I just…” he gestured vaguely, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Need my jacket back.” 

You were about to laugh, but he was already reaching for it. His fingers brushed your shoulders, slow, deliberate, sliding the denim down your arms inch by inch. 

You were supposed to say goodnight one last time. Instead, you kissed him. 

It started soft, then didn’t stay that way. Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer until the back of his legs hit the BMW’s bumper. 

Then you pushed. He let you. 

Steve’s hands landed on your hips as you crowded him against the hood, your body pressed tight to his, your dress skimming his jeans. The metal was warm beneath his palms, the night air heavy around you. You nipped at his bottom lip, pressing yourself into him. He groaned. 

“Backseat,” he said, voice low and wrecked, like it was pulled from somewhere deep. 

Before you could even process it, he was moving, standing, spinning you with a hand firm at your waist, the other on your ribs, thumb brushing the bottom of your breast. Your back hit his chest, his mouth dragging down your neck in a trail of open mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. 

He reached past you, opened the back door, and you turned to face him. The look in his eyes made you weak in the knees, dark, steady, head tipped slightly down as he looked up at you through his long lashes. 

You climbed in first, crawling across the seat, feeling his gaze on your backside, your heart in your throat. Your hands went to the buttons holding the straps of your dress, but his voice stopped you. 

“No.” 

You froze. He leaned in, his words barely brushing your ear. “The dress stays on.” His eyes flitted to the seat. “Lay down.” 

You’d never heard him sound like that before. A demand laced with dangerous inflection. Commanding without trying. 

You obeyed. 

The car’s interior smelled like cedar and sugar and him. He climbed in after you, filling the space instantly. The world outside the fogged windows disappeared. 

When he hovered over you, the low light from the street lamps caught his face. The curve of his jaw, the faint bruise near his temple, the softness in his eyes that didn’t match how desperate he looked. 

You helped him pull off his shirt and your lips kissed his collarbone, your hands ran up and down his chest, feeling the muscles. You kissed him softly but surely. 

He pulled back, his free hand running his thumb on your bottom lip. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. Quiet, like it wasn’t for you to hear. 

You blinked up at him, breath trembling. He had always called you hot or pretty once or twice, but never beautiful. The word seemed to carry a different feeling, swelling in your chest. “You’ve never called me that before.” 

He smiled, small, tender, devastating. “I’m always thinking it.” 

He kissed you. It was reverent and slow and deep and full of an eternity of all the things about the other. More things you both thought of, but never said aloud. 

.-.-.-.

The car had eventually gone quiet again. 

You were still tangled on him, skin damp, heartbeat skipping in the still heat. The faint sweetness of your shampoo, vanilla curling into the corners of the fogged up glass. His arm was heavy over your waist, anchoring you in place. Every few seconds, his thumb moved, tracing idle shapes against your hip like he couldn’t stop touching you. 

His mouth followed the path his hand made. Slow and soft. Your shoulder, your collarbone, the space just below your jaw. Not hungry this time. The kind of kiss that stayed. 

You’d been toying with his hand, the one resting near your stomach, following the veins along his wrist, the fading scab on his knuckle, the soft pulse beneath your fingers. You brought his fingertips to your mouth, kissed them. 

“So,” you muttered, your voice thinner than you meant it to be “What are you doing tomorrow?” 

He smiled against your neck, the words brushing your skin. “Hanging out with Robin.” 

The name hit fast. 

Your fingers froze against his. The air shifted. That same old ache returned. The one that used to live in your chest back when he said he had been talking to Nancy like it didn’t cost him anything. 

You’d think after him confessing he wanted to be with you, that you’d believe him. That you believed him after coming undone together. But, you didn’t. 

You sat up quickly. Hair falling forward. Dress rumpled. 

“Wait— hey,” Steve said, hand dropping to your forearm. He was half sprawled across the seat, skin glowing in the dim light, lips still kiss swollen. “What’re you doing?” 

You shook your head. “I should go in. This was… this was stupid.” 

His face changed. “What? What do you mean, stupid?” You could hear the scratch in the back of his throat. You ignored it. 

You were already fastening the button at your neckline, fingers shaking. “This was a mistake, Steve.” 

He sat up straighter, his voice climbing a notch. “Okay, hold on. Did I do something wrong?” 

“No. Yes. I don’t…” The button snapped into place, the sound like a gunshot. “I don’t know.” 

“You’re not making any sense—“ 

“This was just a quick fuck, right?” The words tore out before you could stop them, mean and wild and trembling. “Just like before Nancy. Just another distraction until someone else came along.” 

He let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, head bowing. His hand flexed against the seat. “Are you fucking serious?” His voice cracked on the edge of disbelief. “You really think that’s what this is?” 

No. But you couldn’t say anything. 

“I thought you wanted this,” he said, shoved his legs through his jeans, every motion clipped, controlled. “I thought you wanted me.” 

Your mouth opened, but no sound. 

“I thought you knew me better than that,” he went on, voice breaking around the edges. “I thought I made it clear this wasn’t just some hookup.” 

Your breath came out in fragments. “You don’t mean it. You’re just…” you were trying to find excuses. “You’re just emotionally vulnerable right now. Everything you’ve been through, the Russians and… you’re just trying to make it mean something.” 

A quiet, bitter laugh came out of him. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You really don’t get it, do you?” 

You blinked. “Get what?” 

“That it’s not me running scared here.” His voice was steady. Every word felt like it scraped its way out. “It’s you.” 

Your jaw twitched. Eyes burned. 

“You don’t want this to mean anything,” he said. “Because if it does, you don’t get to pretend anymore. You don’t get to hide behind your jokes, or your walls, or that thing you do where you look at me like you already know I'm gonna leave. You know, this entire night I’ve been pretty fucking bare to you but not once have you told me you like me too.” 

You were shaking your head, hands twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I— I have… I—“ 

He leaned forward, voice softer but sharper. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the word hurt, “the only one in this car who doesn’t know what they want is you.” 

You stared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah?” He asked. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” 

The silence was its own answer. 

Another broken laugh. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I keep doing this because it’s the only way I can fully have you,” he said quietly. “Because you won’t let me any other way.” 

The words landed like a bruise. 

His next came slower, cracking apart halfway though. “Because it’s the only way you’ll let me love you.” 

You went rigid, your jaw slack. 

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, voice raw. “I am so fucking in love with you,” he said, almost whispering. “And I have been since freshman year. You act like I’m the one pretending, but you’re the one who keeps running every time this gets real.” 

You saw the confession curl into the car as it held its breath, sinking into you, the ache blooming behind your ribs. You wish you could take everything back, instant regret, but it was useless, you had already broken something in him. And unlike before, you had no idea if this could be fixed. 

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “But yeah, sure. Tell yourself I’m just vulnerable. That I don’t mean it. That’s easier, right?” 

Your voice barely made it past your lips. “You just love the idea of it all,” you said, shaking. “You don’t love me, Steve. You just think you do.” 

You have never seen Steve angry at you before. Sure, when you two were younger he’d be annoyed. But his eyes never looked fiery like they were now. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. 

You pushed the door open, the night air hitting you in the chest. You stepped out barefoot. The asphalt was warm under your feet, your shoes dangling from your hand. The streetlight painted you both in a wash of orange and shadow. 

Behind you, a thud. 

You turned just in time. 

He’d driven his fist into the back of the passenger seat. Knuckles white, shoulders trembling. 

He stayed like that, head bowed, chest heaving. 

You stood there, caught in the space between apology and escape. 

Then the car door opened. He got out, bare chested, eyes dark, something shattered but defiant in the set of his jaw. He looked at you like there were a thousand things left to say and not a single one would make a difference. 

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved. 

The night hung between you, bare feet, bruised hands. And then you turned. And you ran. 

.-.-.-. 

It had been two months. Two whole months of silence. 

You’d countered every one. Every sunrise that bled into another day you didn’t see him. Every night that ended without his voice on the phone, without the familiar warmth pressed against the edges of your thoughts. 

You missed Steve. God, you missed him so much it made your chest ache. But you couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not until you figured out what this was, what you were. It was pathetic, really, how long you’d been waiting for clarity that refused to come. Because Steve wasn’t wrong. You were the one running. 

You had been the one to tell him it meant nothing junior year. You had been so obsessed with wanting to be in control. You wanted to control how people thought of you, wanting the people in his life to like you, but never giving them an actual chance. You’d wanted him to choose you since before you even knew what that meant. And he had, in all the ways that mattered. But your small, sharp, predictable jealousy had turned something good into something cruel. 

You got word that he and Robin had finally found a new job.

Family Video. 

And of course, that’s where you ended up on a Saturday afternoon in October. 

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of plastic cases, popcorn butter, and industrial carpet cleaner. Rows of VHS tapes stretched out like a time capsule. Behind the counter, Robin Buckley. 

She looked up, blinking in surprise. “He’s not here,” she said immediately. 

You froze mid-step. “Good,” you managed, too fast. “I’m not here to see him.” 

Robin’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened a little. “I’m not getting in the middle of whatever’s going on between you two.” 

“I know.” You rubbed your palms against your jeans, nerves humming. “I’m not here to talk about him.” 

Robin tilted her head, skeptical but curious. 

“I’m here because…” you started, then stopped. The words tangled in your throat, coming out softer than you meant. “Because I’ve spent all summer making excuses not to properly talk to you. And that’s shitty. You didn’t deserve that.” 

Her brow furrowed, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. 

“And now that you and Steve are…” you waved a vague hand. “Friends, I think I need to stop being an asshole. So. Hello.” You stuck your hand out, awkward and sincere. 

Robin blinked, then smiled. It was small. She took your hand, her peacock blue nails contrasting against skin. “Hello,” she said, her grip warm. 

You nodded, already stepping back, ready to flee before you ruined the moment. “Okay. That’s all I wanted to say. I’ll… uh, I’ll get out of your hair.” 

Before you reached the door, Robin called out, “Keith, I’m taking my lunch!” 

From somewhere in the back, a groan. “Again?” 

Robin ignored him, grabbing her bag. “Come on,” she said, motioning to the door. “You like turkey sandwiches?” 

You blinked. “Sure?” 

Outside, the heat hit you instantly. The two of you sat on the curb, the pavement warm beneath your jeans. The air smelled like asphalt and cut grass. Neither of you spoke for a while, just the soft crinkle of wax paper. 

Finally, you said, “So. You’re in the band?” 

Robin arched a brow. “How’d you know?” 

You smiled faintly. “Don’t underestimate a jealous woman. I did a lot of yearbook research.” 

Robin laughed, shaking her head. “That’s both flattering and mildly terrifying.” 

“Yeah” you said, grinning despite yourself. 

She took a bite of her sandwich, still smiling. “Well, yeah. I’m in a band. We’re not terrible. I used to be on saxophone until last year I started playing the trumpet. I can pick up most instruments pretty fast. Used to play piano at church when I was a kid.” 

You now understood why Steve said Robin was hyper. She talked fast, and you had to pay attention or you’d missed what she was speaking about. “That’s awesome,” you said, and you meant it. “Do you really love music?” 

She shrugged, offering you some of her chips. “I do. But it’s not what I’m passionate about.” 

You shoved the salty chips in your mouth, motioning for her to go on. 

Robin’s face lit up, almost instantly. Her body turned to you, her shoulders upright, hands dramatically moving. “Linguistics,” she said, the word like a spark. “I love breaking down languages. Patterns, syntax, hidden meaning. I didn’t realize how much until Steve and Henderson roped me into cracking that Russian code.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth. Any type of bitterness, resentment, jealousy, evaporated. “That’s incredible.” 

Robin looked at you for a long moment, then sighed softly. “Look,” she said, gentle but direct. “I know he’s told you a thousand times, but there’s nothing going on between Steve and me.” 

Something inside loosened. The tight knot that had been living in your chest for months started to give. “I know,” you said quietly. “I’m just… scared.” 

Robin picked at the crust of her sandwich, voice low now. “I can’t deny Steve and I are close, but he won’t really let anyone be his best friend except you. He doesn’t even try.” She gave you a look. “You know at Scoop, he refused to take breaks until you showed up?” 

Your head lifted. “What?” 

Robin laughed under her breath. “And now, here, it’s the same thing. Doesn’t matter where he is. If that bell chimes, he’s out front in two seconds flat. Always with this stupid, hopeful look on his face.” She smiled a little. “And when we hang out, he only wants to stay at his house. Says he doesn’t want to ‘miss any important calls.’” 

Your throat tightened. 

“I gave him so much shit about it,” Robin said. “Even before we were friends, I knew he was into you. I just thought he was y’now, King Steve Harrington. Flirting to flirt.” 

You laughed weakly, but unable to say anything. 

“But then you came into Scoops that one time,” Robin went on. “You were upset. You had spilled coffee on yourself before an interview. And when you weren’t looking, he looked like someone had kicked his puppy. Like it physically hurt him to see you sad.” 

Heat climbed your neck. You could picture it too clearly. 

Robin leaned back on her hands, squinting up at the sun. “And don’t even get me started on the number of times you practically threw yourself at him and he didn’t do shit about it. I had an actual board in the back that said You Suck for every time he chickened out.” 

You laughed, really laughed, and Robin joined you, your heads tipping back, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot. 

The air shimmered in the cool breeze. It was that awkward time of year where the air would be cool, but the sun still blared. Robin brushed crumbs from her lap and squinted at you through the sunlight, her hair haloed gold. The silence between you had stretched thin, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. 

Before you could stop yourself, you said. “Are you doing anything next weekend?” 

Robin blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?” 

“Do you wanna hang out?” You asked, trying for casual but tripping over it halfway through. “Is it… lame to ask someone to have a sleepover at our age?” 

Robin stared for a second, then laughed, bright and startled, the kind that cracked open the air. “A sleepover?” 

You winced. “Yeah. I know. I just… I want to get to know you. Like, really know you. Because I kind of have this problem where I want people to like me but won’t let them know me. I’d like to talk about things that aren’t Steve.” 

Robin grinned, her eyes crinkling. “Yeah. I’d really like that.” 

You smiled, a small breath of relief catching in our throat. “Good. Because I think we’d actually be good friends if I wasn’t, you know, perpetually terrible at being one.” 

“You’re not terrible,” Robin said easily. “Just… catastrophically bad at timing.” 

You snorted, because there was no argument there. You bit your lip, voice soft. “But I do want you to promise me something.” 

She made a humming noise, finishing the last of her sandwich. 

“If you ever do end up having feelings for Steve. Please just tell me. Don’t hide it. I can handle that. I just… don’t want to be that jealous person anymore.” 

Robin froze, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face, discomfort, maybe, or amusement. Then she shook her head, smiling faintly. “Trust me,” she said, leaning back on her palms. “Steve is so not my type. No offense.” 

“None taken,” you said, half laughing. 

Robin’s lips parted, probably to make some sarcastic follow up, but her eyes flicked past your shoulder and she went suddenly still. “Oh my god,” she muttered, sitting up straighter, her voice caught somewhere between dread and disbelief. 

You turned just as a red headed girl with soft eyes and an armful of library books crossed the lot. 

“Robin!” She called, her smile bright. “I was hoping you were working today.” 

Robin nearly dropped her soda. “Hey, Vickie! Yeah, I’m uh… working. Yep.” Her voice cracked on working. 

You blinked once. Then again. 

Because the look on her face, the wide eyes, the stammer, the shy, almost smile was unmistakable. 

Vickie’s gaze flicked to you, polite but curious, assessing in that instinctive way. You knew that look, too. You’d worn it more times than you could count, when someone stood too close to the person you were quietly, hopelessly gone for. 

You turned back to Robin, who was doing a spectacular job of pretending she was totally fine. 

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Oh.” 

Robin’s face went scarlet. She gave the smallest shrug, guilty and sheepish at once. 

You stood, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “hi,” you said brightly to Vickie. “We were just catching up, but I should get going. Enjoy the rest of your break, Robin.” 

“Yeah,” Robin said quickly, eyes still wide. “You too.” 

You waved and started for your car. 

Behind you, Vickie’s voice floated across the lot. “Who was that?” 

Robin hesitated for a heartbeat, then said softly, “Oh… she’s a friend of mine.” 

You paused. 

A friend of mine. 

It wasn’t the words. It was the way she said them. It was warm and sure. Like she meant it. 

Your throat went tight. Something inside you cracked open, slow and aching. Because for the first time, it hit you. You’d had it all wrong. All of it. 

You’d spent so long clutching your jealousy like armor, convinced people would leave, that you hadn’t noticed the ones who stayed. Who’d always stayed. 

And suddenly, you could see it, every quiet proof of it. Steve showing up when you called. Steve remembering what you’d forgotten. Steve looking at you like you hung the stars over his stupid BMW. 

Your breath caught. 

The air around you seemed to hum, something electric sparking low in your chest, running through your veins, familiar as your own heartbeat. 

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion. 

It was love. 

And it had been there all along. 

.-.-.-.

The sun was still high when you pulled up to Steve’s house. It looked the same, a little too perfect, a little too lonely. The grass lay in clean stripes, and the air held the kind of heat that didn’t belong to October. You stood on the porch for a moment, listening for footsteps that never came. 

Then you heard it, the low, steady hum of a lawnmower from the backyard. 

You followed the sound, sandals scuffed through dust, the air smelled like cut grass and gasoline. And there he was. 

Steve Harrington. Shirtless. Tanned. Moving slow and methodical behind the wheel of a riding mower. 

The sun caught the line of his shoulders, the shimmer of sweat sliding down his spine. His Walkman hung from the waistband of his shorts, the headphone wire trailing down his chest. He was mouthing words, singing, maybe, lost to whatever song was loud enough to drown out everything else. 

You should’ve called his name. Instead, you watched. 

It was embarrassingly easy to fall back into it, the quiet pull he had, the kind that tugged at the air around him. The gravity of him. The stillness that made you ache. 

When he turned and finally saw you, his brows drew together in confusion. 

He slowed the mower, rolled closer, and cut the engine. The silence that followed made everything louder. Your pulse, the small tick of the cooling metal. 

He climbed off, pulled the headphones down around his neck. A faint song, something old and fast, leaked out. He grabbed a glass from the porch rail, drank deep, then wiped the back of his neck before tugging on a faded T-shirt. 

“Hi,” you swallowed. 

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with effort. 

For a beat, neither of you moved. The air hung heavy. 

He crossed his arms, guarded but not cold. “You, uh… need something?”

”Yeah, uh…” you said, fidgeting. “I came by to tell you… I saw Robin today.” 

Steve’s jaw tensed, unreadable. “Okay.” 

“Oh, uh… we’re having a sleepover next weekend. I think. We’re at least hanging out.” 

“Okay…” He softened a little, his arms still folded across his chest. 

You noticed then, his hair was shorter. You had to fight back the smile tugging at the corner of your lips, thinking about how two months ago you told him he needed a haircut. Did he keep it short because maybe he was waiting for you? 

The faint shadow of facial hair above his upper lip. He looked leaner too, stronger, like summer had burned the softness out of him. 

“Right, okay. Yeah,” you said, nodding too quickly. 

Steve’s mouth twitched. “So you came here after three months of silence to tell you’re singing Kumbaya with my friend, the one, if I recall correctly,” he lifted his finger in the air like a physical lightbulb went off. “Oh, yeah! The one you think I secretly have a thing for?” 

“Yes. Well, no. I never actually thought… I mean, I was jealous. But it’s because…” you groaned, raking a hand through your hair. “Ugh. I realized I hate not being in control, Steve. I hate changes. I get scared when new people enter my life because you’re right… I’m already anticipating them leaving. I have no idea why, but I do.” 

You inhaled shakily, words tumbling faster now. “God, Steve. I’m so sorry. I kept pretending to blame you for everything when really I’m the crazy jealous girl who’s kind of bitchy to everyone and too stubborn to admit how I feel.” 

You ran out of air halfway through it, standing there, breathless. 

Steve just looked at you. Blank expression, unreadable. 

You sighed. “Right. That’s about it. I’ll see you… shit, wait.” 

You drew in a deep breath. 

“Steve, you’re my best friend. Even though I’m a mess, the one thing that’s always made sense to me is you. You’re right. I kept running away. But if you’ll let me, I don’t want to do that anymore. I couldn’t tell you I liked you too, because I love you. I love you that it hurts and saying I only like you felt like a lie.” 

You waited, heart pounding, every second dragging. “Okay, now I’m done.” 

All you got was the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well then,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I should be done mowing in the next hour. Then I could stop by Family Video and be by your house by, let’s say… five?” 

You blinked. ‘You want to come over? Like, just us?” 

“Yeah,” he said easily, the grin growing. “I’d hope my girlfriend would want to hang out with me. Especially after that very declaration of love. You already had me at ‘hi.’”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re an asshole.” Then belatedly, “Wait. Girlfriend?” 

He made a face, shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, my girlfriend. So… what are we thinking tonight? You know we got that new Michael J. Fox movie in. The one where he turns into a werewolf.” 

“Teen Wolf?” You said, shaking your head. “Wait, I never even said yes to being your girlfriend.” 

He ignored you, already grinning. “Right, okay. Teen Wolf at five.” 

You laughed then, a real, hopeless laugh, bubbling up before you could stop it. You were still only a few feet apart when you gave him a playful shove. 

“I do hope you plan on taking a shower,” you teased, wrinkling your nose. 

He grinned. “What, you don’t like the sweat?” 

He hunted toward you, reaching, and you squealed, trying to escape. “No!” You shouted through laughter, running, but he caught you easily, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. He lifted you off your feet, laughing as he shook his damp hair against your cheek. 

You shrieked, breathless, twisting in his hold. “Steve!” 

He laughed harder, then pressed a flurry of quick, ridiculous kisses to your cheek before finally setting you down.

He looked at you, flushed, smiling, alive, and his voice softened. “See you later?” 

You tilted your head, teasing. “Mmm, I think I’m gonna stay and watch my boyfriend mow his lawn.” 

He raised a brow. “Okay. But I’m keeping my shirt on, you perv.”  

You laughed, caught, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, eyes crinkling at the corners, and kissed your nose. 

“I love you,” he murmured. 

You felt it settle somewhere deep. 

Your lips found his, tender and sweet. He had picked you up, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Small chaste pecks between innocent chuckles. 

You loved him too. 

Not just in the summer, when the air was golden and the world felt easy. But in the fall, when the air turned sharp and the leaves browned at their edges. You loved him when he was wrong. When he was tired. When he tied your shoelaces because you never double knotted it right. 

You loved him in every version of the year, when the cicadas fell quiet, when frost crept across the glass, when spring cracked open the cold. 

You loved him when it wasn’t simple. When it wasn’t perfect. 

The polaroid was meant to go to Jacob Weir, a boy you were seeing occasionally. It wasn’t a nude, per say. But it was you on all fours at the edge of Lisa's pool, laughing at something off-frame, your bikini top doing an absolutely terrible job of containing anything, the way the wet fabric clung and the angle of the shot made the whole thing look approximately one thousand times more provocative than it had felt in the moment. Your tits practically the star of the picture. Your back arched. The late July sun catching the water on your skin.

Lisa had called it a good photo.

Lisa had been right, which was the problem.

You'd stood there doing the math for approximately four seconds before the parking lot after practice, and Steve Harrington leaning against the hood of your car with his arms crossed and his hair doing that thing and the polaroid held up between two fingers like a tiny, devastating flag.

You'd reached for it. He'd lifted it higher, eyebrows raised, mouth pulling into a smirk that you would like to formally describe as insufferable.

"Nuh-uh." His eyes had moved over you with an ease that made your back teeth press together. "Why don't we have a chat in your car."

It wasn't a question.

And now it's been a month, and you're arriving at Tina’s party as Steve Harrington's girlfriend, in a pink blouse and a baby blue skirt and a white belt you'd picked because the note he'd slipped in your locker said wear something cute and you'd decided immediately that you were going to do the opposite and then stood in front of your mirror for twenty minutes and put on the outfit anyway, which you are choosing not to examine.

The deal is simple. You play the part until Nancy Wheeler is convinced Steve can handle something real. He gives back the polaroid. You never speak of it again.

Simple.

.-.-.-.

Carol has her hands up Tommy's sleeves before you've cleared the driveway.

You watch her press a kiss to his cheek from the backseat, then another to the corner of his jaw, and you look out the window at the dark passing streets and remind yourself that you are here for the polaroid and the polaroid only.

Steve hasn't said a word since he picked you up.

You'd come outside and he'd looked at you— a long, sweeping once-over that started at your heels and ended at your face— and something had moved through his expression that you couldn't name before he looked away and told you to get in. His jaw has been set the entire ride. You can see it in the rearview mirror when you let yourself look, which you do, occasionally, because the alternative is watching Carol perform open-mouth kisses on Tommy's earlobe and you have your limits.

His eyes find yours in the mirror once.

You look away first. You don't think about the color of them.

The party is loud. Wall to wall bodies, something with too much bass shaking the floorboards, Beer. Cologne. Weed. You've been here enough times to know where the good drinks are, which rooms to avoid, and how long it takes before the ratio of drunk to sober tips past the point of no return.

Steve's hand finds your waist the moment you're through the door.

This is normal. This is part of it. You know the weight of his hand by now— the span of his palm, the way his fingers settle into the curve like they're finding something familiar— and you have told yourself on numerous occasions that your body's response to it is purely physiological and entirely involuntary and completely meaningless.

You are three drinks in and he still hasn't left your side.

This is not normal. This is not part of it.

Normally by now he's done a loop of the room looking for Nancy, and you've found someone adequately charming to lean against a wall with, and you reconvene by the door at the end of the night looking suitably couple-ish for anyone who might report back. That's the arrangement. That's what works.

Instead Steve Harrington is standing beside you with his jaw clenched and his cup gripped tight and his hand on your waist like it was bolted there, and every time someone comes too close his fingers tighten incrementally, and you have been watching this happen for forty minutes with the growing and uncomfortable suspicion that Nancy Wheeler has nothing to do with it.

You slip away when he gets cornered by someone from the basketball team.

.-.-.-.

There’s a bathroom upstairs, down a hall you've never been down before, past a door you're fairly certain is Tina’s parents' room and therefore firmly off limits. You slip inside anyway and turn the lock and stand over the sink with your hands braced on the porcelain and breathe.

The past two weeks have been strange.

Strange at school, strange at his games, strange at every party you've stood beside him at with his hand on your waist and his jaw set tight. He's been grouchier— shorter with Tommy, quieter in general, a low-grade irritability— but at the same time he's been closer. Always at your locker before you get there. Always finding you in a crowd before you've had the chance to find him. He'll pull you in and kiss you deep, the kind of kiss that takes a second to recover from, and then walk away with his brow furrowed like he's annoyed at himself for something.

You've told yourself it's Nancy. That she wasn't at the last party he invited her to. That the plan isn't working and he's frustrated and taking it out on the nearest available person, which happens to be you.

You've told yourself this enough times that you almost believe it.

Almost, except for the part where you don't know why it bothers you— the Nancy thing. The way his eyes move across a room sometimes, still searching. You notice it and something tightens in your chest and you look away and you don't examine it because there is nothing there worth examining.

Because here is the thing you have been carefully not saying out loud: you like it.

You like his hand on your waist even when no one is watching. You like catching him looking at your chest a beat too long, his eyes flicking up to yours, his jaw tightening like he's irritated with himself. You like the parties where he pulls you close and kisses you for an audience— pretending, completely pretending, putting on a show— his tongue licking into your mouth, his hand sliding from your waist up your ribs, his thumb brushing your tit before his whole hand closes over it like he forgot he was supposed to stop.

You have no idea how any of this is convincing Nancy Wheeler of anything.

You stopped trying to work out the logistics, because the truth is the perks of this arrangement have stopped feeling like perks and started feeling like something you'd miss. Like last Tuesday in the lunch line when he squeezed your ass and looked away immediately, pretending he hadn't. Like the note waiting in your locker at the end of that same day, his handwriting loose and unbothered across the paper:

nice jeans.

You'd stood at your locker holding it for longer than you'd like to admit.

You run cold water over your wrists and look at yourself in the mirror and give yourself a brief, stern talk about the nature of fake relationships and the importance of not reading into things, and you feel considerably better by the time you turn the tap off.

You open the door.

Steve is leaning against the wall across the hall, head tipped back, looking at the ceiling.

He hears the door and his eyes drop to you immediately. You watch them move— your shoes, your legs, the skirt, the blouse, back up to your face— and something in them shifts in the low light, darkens, the way his eyes have been doing for the past two weeks and that you have been studiously not thinking about.

He pushes off the wall.

He doesn't crowd you exactly. He moves into the hallway with the calm ease of someone who isn't worried about the outcome, and you take a step back, and then another, and then your back finds the wall and Steve Harrington is standing close enough that you can smell him— beer and cigarettes underneath his cologne, something warm and musky underneath that.

His lip twitches at the corner.

"Nancy show up yet," you ask. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

He licks his lips. Drags the bottom one inward, slow. Shakes his head. "Dunno." A beat. "Came to find you."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer that. His eyes drop to your blouse, back up. "I like your shirt," he says. "It's cute."

"Uh. Thanks—"

"Your skirt too." He reaches out and takes a small bit of the fabric between his fingers, rubbing it. "Super pretty."

"Steve."

The heat that crawls up your neck has no business being there. The warmth pooling low in your stomach has even less business being there. You think, with some desperation, fucking hell.

He puts one hand flat against the wall beside your head, tilting down until he's level with you, until you can see the faint thread of green in his irises that you have never been close enough to notice before, until his breath ghosts warm against your lips.

"I bet everything you're wearing is cute." His voice has gone low, a murmur, almost conversational, like he's observing the weather. "Hm?"

His free hand finds the hem of your skirt.

He moves slowly, watching your face the whole time, his eyes wide and searching, asking a question he won't say out loud. His brow is slightly furrowed. There's something almost careful in the way he does it— for all his swagger, for all the smirk he wears like a second jacket— and when you don't stop him, when you stay exactly where you are and say nothing, he lifts the skirt.

He tilts his head sideways. Leans to look.

The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and deeply, personally offensive.

"Would you look at that." He sounds genuinely pleased with himself. "I was right."

He hooks one finger into the waistband of your baby blue satin thong with a lace trim–– and snaps it back against your hip, light, and your breath catches on the way in and you hope very much that he doesn't notice. He puts your skirt back down. His hand finds your hip and he steps closer, hooking one finger at the front of your blouse, tugging it forward, his eyes dropping to take a long unhurried look at your tits.

"Damn." His tongue touches his upper lip. "Better than your little polaroid, honey."

What a pervert. The thought arrives sharp and immediate and accompanied by a heat in your face that makes a complete mockery of it. Who does he think he is. This isn't part of the deal. You have no right, Harrington, none. 

“You are so sick, Harrington. Bet you get off looking at my polaroid, too.”

He laughs. Soft, low, like he can hear all of the other thoughts. His nose nudges yours, then the corner of your lips, then your cheek— not quite a kiss, something more patient than that, something that knows it doesn't have to rush— and you feel his eyelashes brush your temple.

"And what about it?"

Up close his eyes are downturned at the corners. Soft in a way that the smirk tries to hide. He looks a little drunk, maybe, but his gaze is steady on yours and there is something swimming in it that makes your heart do something inconvenient and embarrassing, the specific ache of what if he means it, what if it's you, what if it's been you rising uninvited through your chest.

His lips graze yours.

You close the distance.

The kiss goes molten immediately.

His hand leaves your blouse and finds your jaw instead, tilting you up, and yours grab the front of his shirt and pull, and the careful patience evaporates all at once into something urgent and graceless and honest. His mouth is hot and tastes like beer and he kisses the way you'd spent a month pretending you weren't thinking about— thorough and consuming, his tongue licking into your mouth slow at first and then deeper, a soft groan vibrating in his chest that you feel through your palms.

You make a sound against him. He swallows it.

His hands move— your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs— and he hoists you up against the wall in one smooth motion, his hands gripping full and certain into the flesh of your ass, your legs finding his hips on instinct. The kiss goes sloppy and wetter, his mouth pulling at your bottom lip, releasing it with a sound, your fingers digging into his shoulders and then into his hair and pulling, a gasp torn out of him that he presses back into your mouth.

You feel him hard against you.

Your hips roll forward before you make a decision about it, grinding down, and his whole body tightens, a sharp inhale through his nose, his grip tightening on your ass.

His fingers find the waistband of your panties with both hands. He finds the weak point in the lace— a moment of searching— and pulls, the fabric giving with a snap, and he drops it somewhere on the hallway floor like it's nothing.

You pull back enough to get a hand on his jaw. Make him look at you. Your brows draw together. "Hey." Breathless. "That was my favorite thong."

Steve rolls his hips into you, slow, watching your face when he does it. His hand comes up to your throat— warm, loose, his palm broad against your pulse— and he tilts his head.

"Yeah?" His thumb strokes once across your jaw. "I'll buy you a new one. It's okay."

"What if it isn't?"

The words come out lower than you mean them to, your voice catching on the involuntary moan that rides underneath them as he rolls his hips again.

His fingers tighten at your throat, gentle. He can feel you swallow. "It will be," he says, "because I said so."

He kisses you again, slow and deep, his tongue moving against yours, his thumb stroking idle circles against your hip. Your hands are in his hair. His hands are everywhere, your thigh, your waist, pulling your blouse down at the neckline until your tits are spilling over the edge of your bra and his mouth leaves yours to press hot and open against them, his tongue tracing the lace, his lips closing around the skin there, and you grind against his cock in a slow rolling rhythm while his fingers finally slide between your bodies and find your clit.

"Steve—"

He looks up at you from your chest with dark eyes and says nothing and goes back to what he was doing.

The pressure builds in slow tightening waves, his fingers moving in patient unhurried circles while his mouth works across your chest, your throat, back to your jaw, and you are grinding against his hand and trying very hard not to say anything that you can't take back.

He lowers himself.

One knee, then both, his hands sliding down your thighs as he goes, guiding your legs over his shoulders with the ease of someone who has thought about how this would work. The skirt falls around his head. His hands grip the backs of your thighs to hold you up, and his mouth finds you and the sound you make would absolutely carry downstairs if you didn't get your hand to your mouth fast enough.

You bite down on your knuckles.

Your other hand fists in his hair through the fabric of your skirt.

He takes his time. That's the thing— the devastating, completely unfair thing— he takes his time with it, like he has nowhere else to be, like there isn't a party thirty feet below you, like your legs aren't already shaking around his shoulders. His mouth is warm and thorough and he makes sounds against you that transmit directly through your nervous system, and you feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, your knuckles white against your mouth, until it builds and snaps in a long rolling wave that you breathe through as quietly as you've ever done anything in your life.

He presses a soft kiss to your cunt afterward. Another to the inside of your thigh, gentle.

He sets you down.

You both stand in the hallway breathing. His hair is a disaster. Your blouse is crooked. You look at each other in the low light and the flush on his cheeks is high and dark and his lips are swollen and his eyes, when they find yours, are soft in the way you've been trying not to look at all night.

Your gaze drops.

The wet spot on the front of his jeans is visible even in the dim light of the hallway. Wet from you, or him, or both. You reach out and press your palm against it, slow, and watch his eyes fall shut, his hips bucking forward into your hand on instinct, a small oversensitive whimper escaping his mouth that he clearly did not plan to make.

You let the corner of your mouth pull up.

"I think," you say quietly, "you should tell Tommy and Carol to find a ride home."

He opens his eyes. And there he is— the other Steve, the one underneath the smirk and the swagger— looking at you with wide, dopey, wondering eyes like he can't quite believe you're standing in front of him.

"Why?"

You lean up until your lips are at the corner of his mouth.

"Because I said so."

You squeeze your hand.

His breath punches out of him. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

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