Steve Harrington had always been bad at waiting.

Not impatient in the ordinary sense, though he was that too, but bad at the specific kind of waiting that came with not knowing if someone he cared about was safe. He could handle action. He could handle blood, bruises, a bad plan that somehow became the only plan. He could handle fighting things that should not exist. But sitting still while the clock kept moving and somebody hadn’t come back when they were supposed to?

That was a special kind of torture.

And tonight, it was killing him.

The Wheeler basement was too warm, too crowded, too loud in all the wrong ways. Nobody was really talking, but the room still felt noisy with nerves. Robin paced near the couch, arms folded tight. Nancy sat at the table with a map spread out under her hands, though she hadn’t looked at it in at least five minutes. Lucas kept checking the same spot near the window like maybe if he stared hard enough, something would change. Max was trying to look calm and failing. Erica had gone unusually quiet, which was maybe the worst sign of all.

Steve stood near the stairs with his arms crossed so tightly over his chest they ached, staring at the front door like he could force it to open.

You were late.

Not five-minutes late. Not “lost track of time” late.

Wrong late.

Mission-gone-sideways late.

He checked his watch again.

“Stop doing that,” Robin said.

Steve didn’t look at her. “Doing what?”

“That.” She made a little impatient gesture. “Checking the time every thirty seconds like it’s gonna make them appear.”

“I’m not doing it every thirty seconds.”

“You are, actually.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “Then stop counting.”

Robin looked like she wanted to say something sharper, but she didn’t. Her face softened just a little instead. “They’ll come back.”

Steve swallowed.

Maybe.

Maybe they would. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe you’d all gotten delayed, maybe one of the kids had insisted on taking a longer route back through the woods because they saw something weird and now they were all being stupidly careful.

But he knew the difference between delayed and wrong.

And this was wrong.

You had left hours ago with Mike and Dustin to check a possible route near the tree line beyond the old service road, something about movement, tracks, a place the vines had started spreading too close to the surface again. It had sounded contained. Quick. In and out.

You’d grinned at him before leaving, adjusting the strap of the bat slung over your shoulder.

“Relax, Harrington.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “I’m relaxed.”

“You’ve asked me if I have my knife four times.”

“Do you?”

You’d laughed, patting your jacket. “Yes, mom.”

He’d opened his mouth to say something back, something easy and annoyed and normal, but then you’d stepped closer and bumped your shoulder against his.

“We’ll be back before you can get all dramatic about it.”

Robin had snorted. “Too late.”

Steve had watched you go anyway.

And now you weren’t back.

The basement door banged open upstairs.

Everyone snapped toward the sound.

Fast footsteps pounded down the stairs, with each step Steve’s heart skipped a beat and then Mike appeared so suddenly it made Steve’s heart lurch into his throat.

Mike was pale.

Too pale.

Breathing hard.

There was dirt smeared across one side of his face and something dark on the sleeve of his jacket that looked a little too much like blood.

Everything in Steve went cold.

“Where is she?” he said immediately.

Mike opened his mouth but didn’t get anything out at first, sucking in air like he’d run the whole way.

Nancy stood up so fast her chair scraped violently against the floor. “Mike.”

Mike’s eyes moved around the room, wide and frantic, locking finally on Steve’s. “She’s hurt.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Steve was already moving before anyone else could react, gripping Mike’s shoulders gently, but tight altogether. “What happened?”

“Dustin’s with her,” Mike choked out. “I— we— we got split up near the ravine, and there were demodogs, and she—” His voice broke. “Steve, she’s really hurt.”

That was it.

Steve didn’t remember crossing the room. One second he was by the stairs and the next he had embraced Mike tightly, sensing he needed his comfort more than his panic, while trying and failing to keep his own franticness from spilling over.

“Where?”

“In the woods—past the old service road, by the creek bend—Dustin was trying to get her out but he can’t—”

Steve let go of him and turned. “Robin, Nance—”

“We’re coming,” Nancy said immediately, already reaching for the shotgun propped by the wall.

Lucas was on his feet. “I’m coming too.”

“No,” Nancy snapped, sharper than usual. “You stay here.”

“The hell I am—”

“Lucas,” she said, and something in her voice made him stop. “If more of those things are moving this close, we need people here. In case they doubled back. In case anybody else comes through that door hurt.”

Max grabbed Lucas’s wrist before he could argue again.

Steve was already halfway up the stairs. “Mike, with me. Now.”

They tore out of the house in a wave of motion; Steve, Nancy, Robin, Mike. The night air hit cold and damp, smelling of wet leaves and earth and smoke from somebody’s chimney half a mile away. Steve barely felt it. He was moving too fast, every thought narrowing down to a single terrible point.

You didn’t come back.

You’re out there.

You’re hurt.

He vaulted into the driver’s seat of the BMW. Nancy climbed in beside him with the shotgun across her lap, Robin and Mike piling into the back.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Steve said, jamming the key into the ignition so hard it scraped.

Mike braced one hand on the front seat. “We found the tracks near the service road, and at first it was fine. We thought maybe it was old movement, but then we heard them.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Three? Four? Maybe more.”

Steve’s grip tightened around the wheel.

Mike swallowed hard. “We ran. We got turned around near the creek because Dustin slipped, and one of them came out from the trees and she—” He took a shaky breath. “She pushed us ahead.”

Steve didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Because he already knew.

He knew exactly the kind of stupid, self-sacrificing thing you would do if one of the kids was in danger. He knew because he’d seen it before, smaller risks, smaller injuries, but the same instinct every time. Put yourself between the danger and somebody younger. Don’t think. Just move.

Mike kept talking, words tumbling out too fast now. “She told us to run and I didn’t want to leave her but Dustin fell again and there were two of them and she— she had the bat and she kept yelling at us to go.”

Steve’s vision tunneled.

“She stayed behind?” Robin asked, her voice very small, full of shock.

“Just for a second,” Mike said desperately. “She was right behind us, she was supposed to be right behind us, but then we heard her scream and when we went back she was—” He sucked in a ragged breath. “She was on the ground.”

No one spoke after that.

The car flew down the dark road, tires spitting gravel when Steve took the turn too hard near the old service lane. Branches scraped the side of the BMW as he pulled off as far as he could. Before the engine had fully died, he was out.

“Which way?”

Mike pointed with a shaking hand. “Through there.”

Steve grabbed the nail bat from the trunk and ran.

The woods swallowed them fast, moonlight breaking in silver patches through the trees. Dead leaves cracked underfoot. Branches clawed at Steve’s jacket and face and he didn’t feel any of it. Behind him, he could hear Nancy and Robin crashing through the underbrush, Mike stumbling to keep up and then surging ahead again.

“Dustin!” Mike shouted.

No answer.

Steve’s chest got tighter.

“Dustin!” Robin yelled.

Then, faintly, from somewhere deeper in the trees…

“Here!”

Dustin.

Crying.

Steve broke into a sprint.

He nearly slipped on the muddy edge of the creek bend before catching himself on a tree. The small clearing opened up in front of him all at once, and for a second, his brain refused to understand what he was seeing.

Dustin was on his knees in the mud, sobbing openly, one arm wrapped under your shoulders as he tried to drag you backward through the leaves.

You were barely helping.

Not because you wouldn’t.

Because you couldn’t.

Your head lolled weakly against Dustin’s shoulder, your face wet with tears and streaked with dirt, your breathing shallow and uneven. One side of your jacket was shredded open. Blood darkened the fabric underneath. Your leg was twisted wrong beneath you…not broken, maybe, but injured enough that every tiny movement made your whole body jerk.

And the sound coming out of you…

That was what nearly stopped Steve’s heart.

Not screaming.

Not even talking.

Just these quiet, broken little sobs, like you were trying not to make any noise at all.

Like it hurt too much to cry properly.

“Steve!” Dustin choked, looking up with a face so wrecked by panic it barely looked like him. “Steve, help her, please! She won’t wake up right, she keeps…she keeps—”

Steve was at your side in an instant, dropping to his knees so hard pain shot up both legs.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Hey, hey, I’m here.”

Your eyes fluttered, unfocused. It took a second for them to find him.

When they did, your mouth trembled.

“Stevie,” you whispered, so faint he almost didn’t hear it.

It broke something in him.

“Yeah,” he said immediately, one hand going to your face, careful, careful. “Yeah, I got you. I got you.”

You made a small sound that might have been a laugh if it didn’t hurt so badly. “Took you long enough.”

His throat closed.

“Don’t,” he said, because if you started doing that, if you started trying to make him feel better, trying to joke through it, he was going to lose his mind.

Nancy dropped beside him, already scanning your injuries with quick, ruthless focus. Robin crouched on your other side, one hand flying to her mouth before she forced it down.

“Oh my God,” Robin breathed.

Dustin was still crying. “I tried to get her up, I tried, but every time I moved her she—she said it hurt and I didn’t know if I was making it worse—”

“You did good,” Steve said sharply, not looking away from you. “Dustin, you did good.”

He didn’t know if the kid believed him, but he needed him to. Because he did.

He did all he could.

Mike hovered behind Dustin, pale and shaking, staring at you like he still couldn’t make this real.

Nancy touched your shoulder gently. “Can you hear me?”

You nodded a fraction.

“Any trouble breathing?”

Another tiny nod.

Steve’s chest seized. “Nance…”

“I know.” Her voice was tense. “I know.”

She looked at the ripped fabric near your ribs, then at your leg, then at the blood on your side. “We need to move her now.”

You whimpered as Steve slid one arm behind your back, and he froze instantly. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you grit, though it very clearly wasn’t.

Your eyes squeezed shut again, tears slipping down into your hair. “Stevie, it hurts.”

Those words, so small, so wrecked, hit harder than anything else.

Steve pressed his palm to the back of your head. “I know, baby. I know.”

Robin and Mike exchanged a look at the endearment, but nobody said anything.

The world had narrowed too far for that.

Nancy leaned in closer. “Listen to me. We’re getting you out of here, okay? Steve’s gonna carry you. I need you to tell us if you can’t breathe or if you think you’re gonna pass out.”

You gave the tiniest nod.

Steve slid one arm carefully under your knees, the other around your back. The second he started to lift, your body arched with a strangled cry and his vision almost went white with panic.

“Stop, stop!”

“I have to get you out,” he said, voice shaking. “I know, I know, I’m sorry.”

Your hand fisted weakly in his jacket.

It was barely any strength at all.

That terrified him more than if you’d shoved him away.

He got you into his arms somehow, though every inch seemed to hurt you. You buried your face against his chest with a broken little sound, and then you just clung. Not hard. Not enough. But enough for him to feel it.

Enough to make something savage and protective rise hot under his skin.

He stood.

You were usually so alive in his arms when he touched you in passing…shoving at him, laughing with him, moving along him, leaning into him. This felt all wrong. Too limp, too light, too still except for the trembling.

Dustin scrambled to his feet. “I’m coming.”

“You’re coming,” Steve said.

They started back through the woods.

Nancy went ahead, clearing the roughest parts of the path. Robin stayed close at Steve’s elbow in case he slipped. Mike and Dustin trailed just behind, both of them wrecked quiet now.

Steve felt every shaky breath you took.

Counted them.

Every one.

You kept making those tiny sounds against his chest whenever the ground jolted under his feet, each one digging under his ribs. He kept talking to you because the alternative was listening too closely to how weak you sounded.

“Stay with me.”

A few steps.

“You hear me? Don’t fall asleep.”

A few more.

You whispered something into his shirt.

“What?”

Your lips moved again. He bent his head lower.

“Dustin okay?”

Steve nearly stumbled.

He looked back. Dustin was crying silently now, eyes red and swollen, mud all over his jeans and hands.

“He’s okay,” Steve said, and his voice cracked this time. “Because of you. He’s okay.”

You let out a breath that shivered against him.

“Good.”

Robin made a strangled sound and turned her face away for a second.

Steve wanted to scream.

At you, for doing this. At himself, for letting you go out there. At the entire nightmare world that kept taking and taking and taking from all of you.

But mostly at the fact that even half-conscious and hurting everywhere, you were still worrying about the kids first.

By the time they reached the car, Steve’s arms were burning and he didn’t care. Nancy yanked the back door open and Robin climbed in first so she could help settle you across the seat.

“Easy,” she whispered, hands trembling despite the calm in her voice. “Easy, easy.”

Steve got in beside you, pulling your upper body into his lap so your side wouldn’t slam against the door. Dustin and Mike crammed in on the other side, Dustin immediately reaching for your hand.

You didn’t open your eyes.

But your fingers twitched weakly around his.

Nancy got behind the wheel. “Hospital?”

Steve’s head snapped up.

Too dangerous, all of them thought it at once.

Too many questions. Too much exposure. Too many lies to explain.

But one look at you and the answer changed.

“Yes,” Steve said.

No hesitation.

No argument.

He would burn the entire cover story down if that’s what it took.

Nancy floored it.

The drive was chaos made of small sounds. Robin trying to keep pressure on the worst of the bleeding. Dustin whispering to you over and over that you were okay, that you were okay, like if he said it enough maybe it would become true. Mike hunched forward in the seat, shaking and silent, staring at the blood on his sleeve like he didn’t know whose it was anymore.

Steve kept one hand cupped around the back of your neck, the other gripping your wrist so he could feel your pulse.

Still there.

Still there.

Still there.

At one point your eyes opened a little and landed on him.

He leaned in immediately. “Hey.”

You looked confused for a second, dazed and glassy-eyed. “Why’s Dustin crying?”

A sound escaped Steve that was half laugh, half heartbreak.

“Because he’s Dustin.”

That got the faintest ghost of a smile from you before your face crumpled again.

“Everything hurts,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Think m’bleeding on your shirt.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. Nice shirt.”

He bowed his head for a second, pressing it briefly to yours because he didn’t know what else to do with how much he felt right then. “Will you stop trying to be funny for five minutes?”

“No promishes.”

The words slurred together.

His hand tightened around yours.

“Stay awake.”

You blinked slowly. “Bossy.”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes drifted shut again.

“Hey.” Panic flared instantly. “Hey, no, look at me.”

They fluttered back open.

“There you go, baby,” he said, too fast. “There you go. Keep doing that.”

Robin glanced at him, and the fear on her face mirrored his own.

The hospital lights appeared like something unreal at the end of a tunnel. Nancy screeched to a stop before the car had fully entered the emergency drop-off lane, and then everything became motion and shouting and bright fluorescent light.

Steve tried to go with you.

A nurse blocked him with both hands. “Sir, I need you to step back.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

“You are if you want us to work.”

Nancy was at his side in a second, fingers digging hard into his arm. “Steve.”

He looked at you on the gurney, saw how pale you were under the blood and dirt, how your hand slipped off the edge as they wheeled you through the double doors.

And then you were gone.

The waiting room was worse than the woods.

At least in the woods he’d had something to do.

Now there was nothing. Just the hard plastic chairs, the smell of antiseptic, the buzz of fluorescent lights, Dustin’s muffled crying finally tapering off into exhausted silence.

Steve sat bent forward with his elbows on his knees, your dried blood on his shirt and jeans, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

Nobody tried to make him talk.

After a while, Dustin sat down beside him.

For a minute, neither of them said anything.

Then Dustin asked, very quietly, “Do you think she hates me?”

Steve turned so fast it almost hurt. “What?”

Dustin’s chin wobbled. He was trying so hard not to cry again. “Because I couldn’t—I couldn’t get her out. She told us to run and I did and then when I went back I couldn’t—” His voice crumpled. “It was like I was with Eddie all over again. Like I had to—, let it happen.”

Dustin shakes his head quickly, “if she dies, it’s because she had to save us, it’ll be because of me.”

Steve stared at him.

Then he reached out and hauled Dustin sideways against his shoulder in a grip that was maybe rougher than intended and definitely not casual.

“She does not hate you,” he said, fierce and immediate. “Do you hear me? None of this is your fault.”

“But—”

“No.” Steve pulled back just enough to make Dustin look at him. “No buts. You don’t get to do that to yourself, not again. She made a choice. A stupid one,” he added, voice shaking now, “but one she made because she loves you guys. That’s not on you, not on Mike, not on anyone.”

Dustin sniffed hard. “You called her stupid.”

Steve looked toward the emergency doors.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

“You called her baby.”

Steve shrugged, staying silent.

It was over an hour before someone came out.

Too long. Not long enough. Time had stopped making sense.

The doctor was saying words…lacerations, blood loss, a cracked rib, soft tissue damage, concussion, lucky, very lucky, and Steve caught maybe half of them because the only one that mattered was stable.

Stable.

Not dying.

Stable.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard sparks burst behind them.

Robin touched his back once, briefly.

When they finally let him see you, you were awake.

Barely.

But awake.

The room was dim except for the soft monitor glow and one ugly lamp in the corner. You looked wrecked, bruised, stitched, bandaged, an oxygen line beneath your nose, and still somehow the sight of you conscious made his knees feel weak.

He hovered in the doorway for half a second before stepping inside.

Your eyes found him.

“There he is,” you whispered.

His laugh came out broken. “Yeah.”

“You look awful.”

He dragged a hand over his face. “That’s your opener?”

You shifted, winced immediately, and stopped. “Wanted to keep it light.”

He pulled the chair close to your bed and sat down. For a second he just looked at you, because now that he’d found you, now that you were here and breathing and stitched back together, all the terror he’d been holding in had nowhere to go.

So it came out as anger.

Very quiet anger.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Your eyes softened.

“Steve—”

“No.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “No, because you do not get to scare me like that and then just smile at me from a hospital bed like everything’s fine.”

You looked down at the blanket.

“It wasn’t really a smile.”

He let out a rough breath. “You know what I mean.”

Silence stretched between you.

Then you said, so quietly he almost missed it, “They would’ve died.”

And there it was.

The simple truth of it.

No heroics. No dramatics. Just certainty.

Steve swallowed hard enough it hurt.

He knew. God, he knew.

You would do it again too, if it meant one of the kids made it home.

Which was exactly the problem.

He reached out before he thought about it and took your hand carefully, careful of the IV and the scrapes across your knuckles.

“You don’t get to do that alone,” he said.

Your brows pulled together faintly. “What?”

“You don’t get to decide you’re disposable because somebody else is younger or smaller or whatever. You call for help. You run. You do literally anything else before—” His voice broke and he looked away for a second. “Before that.”

When he looked back, your eyes were wet.

“Steve…”

“No, I mean it.” His thumb brushed shakily over the back of your hand. “I saw Dustin trying to drag you out of there. He thought you were dying.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know.”

“I thought you were dying.”

That made your eyes open again.

The room went very still.

Steve hadn’t meant to say it like that.

Hadn’t meant to let it out so bare.

But there it was now, hanging between you.

Your fingers tightened around his as much as they could.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He laughed once, bitter and quiet. “I’m so sick of hearing that from people I care about.”

A tiny, tired smile touched your mouth. “Still a good line, though.”

He shook his head, but some of the air left the anger in him.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Dustin okay?”

Of course that was your first real question.

Steve huffed, something close to fond exasperation burning through the leftover fear. “Yeah. He’s okay.”

“Mike?”

“Also okay.”

You nodded weakly, satisfied.

Then, after a beat, “You?”

That undid him more than anything else had.

He looked down at your joined hands and answered honestly. “No.”

Your face crumpled with guilt. “Steve—”

“But I will be,” he said quickly, because he couldn’t handle that look on top of everything else. “I will be. You just…” He swallowed. “You gotta stop doing this to me.”

A tear slipped out of one eye and tracked into your hairline. “I’ll try.”

“Yeah, you better.”

You were quiet for another second, and then, very softly: “You came for me.”

Steve stared at you.

Like that was even a question.

“Every time,” he said.

Your mouth trembled.

The monitor beeped steadily in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rattled past. The world kept moving, stupidly, normally, while Steve sat there with your hand in his, feeling like he’d cracked open somewhere no one could see.

You drifted a little after that, eyelids heavy.

Before you fell fully asleep, you murmured, “Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for taking your time.”

He blinked. “What?”

A tiny, sleepy smile appeared. “Dramatic entrance. Very heroic.”

He stared at you for one incredulous second before huffing out a laugh that turned wet around the edges. “Go to sleep.”

You did.

Still holding his hand.

Steve sat there long after your breathing evened out, his chair pulled too close to the bed, your blood dried on his shirt, exhaustion finally crashing into him now that he could see your chest rise and fall with his own eyes.

Robin peeked in once, saw him there, and quietly withdrew.

He didn’t move.

Not when the nurse came to check your vitals.

Not when dawn started paling the edges of the blinds.

Not even when his back began to ache and his eyes burned.

He stayed.

Because you were here.

Because you were alive.

Because in the woods, with Dustin crying and you sobbing so quietly in his arms, Steve had realized something he probably should have known already:

There was no version of this nightmare where he could lose you and come out of it still himself.

So he sat there and kept watch.

When you woke again just after sunrise, the first thing you saw was Steve slumped awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, chin dropped to his chest, one hand still wrapped around yours like even asleep he didn’t trust the world not to take you if he let go.

You smiled despite the ache everywhere.

And when his eyes snapped open at the tiny movement, immediate panic flashing across his face before recognition settled in, you squeezed his hand the best you could.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

Steve closed his eyes for one brief second, bowed his head over your joined hands, and let out a breath so shaky it sounded almost like a prayer.

“Yeah,” he said, looking up at you again with something raw and wrecked and relieved in his face. “You better be.”

You wake again later, slower this time.

The pain is still there…dull, heavy, everywhere, but it’s not as sharp as before. It sits under your skin instead of ripping through it, which somehow makes it easier to breathe.

The room is quieter now. Dim. Early morning light slipping in through the blinds in thin, pale lines.

And Steve—

Steve is still there.

Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, his head tipped forward, one arm folded across his chest while the other is still loosely wrapped around your hand like he fell asleep mid-thought and never let go.

Your chest tightens a little at the sight.

He looks exhausted. Completely, utterly drained in a way you’ve never seen before. There’s dried blood on his shirt, your blood, and his hair is a mess like he’s run his hands through it too many times to count.

You shift slightly.

It hurts.

A soft sound slips out of you before you can stop it.

Steve wakes instantly.

Like he was never really asleep at all.

His head snaps up, eyes wide and searching, panic flashing across his face before it softens the second he sees you’re awake.

“Hey—hey,” he says quickly, leaning forward. “Easy. Don’t move too much.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you murmur, your voice still a little rough.

Relief washes over his face so openly it almost makes your chest ache.

“Good,” he mutters. “Good.”

There’s a moment where neither of you says anything.

Just looking.

Just… being here.

Alive.

Then, after a second, you tilt your head slightly, studying him.

“You look terrible,” you say softly.

He huffs out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“I mean it more now.”

“Thanks. That helps.”

You smile faintly.

Then your gaze drifts, taking him in a little more carefully this time, the way his hand is still wrapped around yours, like he doesn’t quite trust that you won’t disappear if he lets go.

Something warm settles low in your chest.

“You stayed,” you say.

It’s not really a question.

“Yeah,” he replies, just as quietly. Like there was never another option.

Your fingers shift slightly in his.

“You called me baby.”

The words slip out before you can stop them.

Steve freezes.

Actually freezes.

His entire body stills, his expression going blank for just a fraction of a second before something else flickers there, something caught, something almost guilty.

“…What?” he says, a little too quickly, because when Dustin acknowledged  it, he could ignore it,  but you…

You don’t look away.

“You did,” you repeat softly. “In the woods.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if he can talk his way out of this.

“I— you were hurt,” he says, like that explains it.

“It does,” you agree easily. “Still counts.”

He exhales, running a hand through his already messy hair, suddenly very aware of himself in a way he wasn’t a minute ago.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what?”

His eyes flick back to yours.

And for a second—

He doesn’t answer.

Because whatever he was about to say doesn’t quite make it past his lips.

Your voice softens, just a little teasing now, but still gentle. “You don’t call everyone that, Harrington.”

“No,” he mutters.

“Just me?”

There’s that pause again.

That same quiet, fragile tension that’s always lived somewhere between you…now sharper, closer to the surface than it’s ever been before.

Steve looks at you like he’s trying to decide something.

Then, quietly—

“…Yeah.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away this time.

Doesn’t try to play it off.

Doesn’t joke.

“It just—came out,” he adds, softer now. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Sometimes that’s when people say what they mean most,” you say.

His grip on your hand tightens slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs.

The room feels smaller suddenly.

Quieter.

Like everything’s narrowed down to just this.

To him.

To you.

You shift a little closer on the bed, ignoring the dull ache it causes.

“You sounded worried,” you say softly.

He lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath. “You think?”

You smile faintly. “A little.”

Steve shakes his head, but there’s no real annoyance in it.

“I thought you were—” he stops himself, jaw tightening again.

“Dying?” you finish gently.

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

And this time, he doesn’t hide it.

“Yeah.”

Your chest tightens.

Your fingers curl around his hand as much as they can.

“I’m still here,” you whisper.

He swallows hard.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “You are.”

A beat passes.

Then, quieter—

“Don’t do that again.”

You huff a soft breath. “I’ll try.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

That almost earns a smile from him.

Almost.

His thumb brushes lightly over the back of your hand, absent, grounding.

“You scared me,” he admits.

You meet his gaze.

“I know.”

“I don’t like that.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

But this one—

This one feels different.

Softer.

Closer.

“Baby,” you say quietly, testing it now, watching his reaction.

Steve’s head snaps up slightly at that, something in his expression shifting instantly.

“You’re not allowed to use that against me,” he mutters.

You smile, small and a little tired but real. “I think I am.”

And then, “because, I’d like for you to call me that again.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but his hand doesn’t let go of yours.

Doesn’t even loosen and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Okay.”

And for the first time since you woke up…

There’s something almost calm in the room.

Something warm.

Something that feels a little too much like safety.

And Steve will call you baby again.

Everyone had ideas when Vecna was involved.

Plans stacked on plans, theories layered over fear, bravery stitched together with desperation. It was the only way any of you survived anymore, thinking three steps ahead so you didn’t freeze in place when the ground opened beneath your feet.

You had an idea too.

It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t stupid. It was dangerous, yes, but everything was dangerous now. And you’d spent hours thinking it through, pacing Steve’s living room until your legs ached, rehearsing the words in your head so they wouldn’t shake when you said them.

When you finally spoke, everyone went quiet.

“If we draw him out,” you said, pointing at the map sprawled across the table, “we can split his attention. Not fight him head-om, just distract him long enough for—”

“No.”

Steve said it immediately. Too fast. Too sharp.

The word cut through the room like glass.

You turned to him, stunned. “What?”

“No,” he repeated, already shaking his head. “That’s not happening.”

You felt the heat rush to your face. “Steve, you didn’t even let me finish.”

Because this time, you weren’t walking away.

“I don’t need to,” he said. “It’s too risky.”

“So is everything else we’re doing,” you shot back. “You don’t get to decide that—”

“I do when it’s you.”

The room went still.

Dustin glanced between you like he’d just realized he was standing between two moving trains. Robin shifted uncomfortably. Nancy frowned, sensing something deeper than strategy unraveling.

You swallowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve exhaled, frustrated, hands flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back. “It means I’m not letting you put yourself in danger like that.”

You stared at him. “You don’t ‘let’ me do anything.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he snapped, then ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus. You know what I mean.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I don’t.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Whatever he wanted to say tangled up behind his teeth, trapped by fear he didn’t know how to voice without breaking something.

“Steve,” Nancy said carefully, “maybe let her explain—”

“No,” he said again, softer now but no less firm. “We’ll find another way.”

Your chest ached.

Not because he disagreed.

Because he dismissed you.

Like you were fragile. Like your ideas were liabilities. Like you were something that needed to be protected instead of a person who had survived every nightmare alongside him.

You nodded once. Slowly.

“Fine,” you said. “Do whatever you want.”

You didn’t yell. Didn’t cry.

You just turned and walked out.

Steve watched you go, something cold and horrible settling in his stomach. He almost followed. Almost called your name.

But the plan moved on without you.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

You didn’t mean to disappear.

You just needed space.

Somewhere between anger and heartbreak, the words best friend echoed in your head like a cruel joke.

You’d always been that, the constant. The one who stayed when everything else fell apart. The one who patched Steve up with shaking hands and steady words, who cleaned blood off his knuckles and told him he’d be okay even when neither of you believed it. You were the one who waited up with him after bad nights, sitting on the edge of his bed while he stared at the floor like it might open and swallow him whole.

You knew when to joke to pull him back from the edge. You knew when silence was the only thing that wouldn’t hurt.

You knew how to be what he needed.

And lately, it felt like that was all you were.

A tool. A safety net. Something he reached for automatically without ever stopping to ask what it cost you.

When things went wrong, Steve leaned on you. When he was scared, he came to you. When the world was ending, he trusted you with his life. But when it came to decisions, real ones, suddenly you were something to be managed. Protected. Pushed aside for your own good.

It hurt in a way that was hard to explain, even to yourself.

Because being needed was easy. You’d built yourself around that. But being chosen? Being trusted to stand beside him instead of behind him?

That was what you wanted.

And realizing he hadn’t given you that, not when it mattered, made something inside you crack, quiet and deep, like a bone breaking where no one could see it.

And you had never asked for more.

You’d just… hoped.

Which was your mistake.

So when you found yourself back in the abandoned house later that night, searching for supplies, retracing steps, anything to keep busy, you weren’t expecting to see him.

You turned the corner and there he was.

Steve.

Bloodied knuckles. Jaw tight. Eyes scanning the hallway like he was already bracing for another fight.

When your eyes met, the world stuttered.

Something raw passed between you, hurt, regret, longing, too much to handle all at once.

Your chest seized.

Before he could say your name, you turned and ran.

You ducked into the nearest closet, closing the door quietly behind you, heart pounding so hard it hurt. You pressed your forehead to the wood, breathing through your nose, fighting the urge to scream or cry or do something worse.

You couldn’t talk to him.

Not yet.

Not when your voice might break.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey,” Steve called. “I know you’re here.”

You stayed silent.

A door opened. Closed.

Another.

“Come on,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Don’t do this.”

Your fingers curled into fists.

A third door rattled, locked.

Then the fourth.

The closet door jerked open.

Steve stood there, breathing hard, eyes dark with something you’d never seen before, fear stripped bare.

Before you could react, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, plunging you both into dim, cramped darkness.

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

He reached for you.

Not gently.

He grabbed your shoulders, steady but intense, forcing you to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“Let go.”

“No,” he said. “Not until you look at me.”

“Kindly fuck off, Steve,” you glared. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Tough,” he shot back. “Because I can’t afford to lose you like this.”

The words hit you harder than anything he’d said earlier.

Your breath caught, sharp and painful. “You already did.”

Steve froze.

For a moment, he looked like he’d been struck, like he hadn’t considered that possibility at all. His hands loosened on your shoulders immediately, as if he was afraid touching you now might make it worse.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t—, I just… I messed up.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. It scraped your throat on the way out. “You think?”

He swallowed hard. “I wasn’t trying to shut you down.”

“But you did,” you said, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “You didn’t just disagree with me, Steve. You dismissed me, made me feel stupid. Like I didn’t belong in the room. Like I was something you needed to keep safe instead of someone who could stand next to you.”

“That’s not how I see you,” he said quickly, desperately.

“But it’s how you treated me,” you shot back. “And that hurts worse than Vecna ever could.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Steve dragged a hand down his face, pacing the narrow space of the closet like a caged animal. “I was scared,” he admitted finally.

“That’s funny,” you said bitterly. “So was I. But I didn’t get to dismiss you.”

He stopped pacing.

Turned back to you slowly.

“Not like that,” he said quietly. “You don’t get scared the way I do.”

“Oh?” You lifted your chin. “Enlighten me.”

“When I think about losing you,” he said, voice rough, “it’s like my brain shuts off. I don’t think. I react. I try to control the situation because if I don’t—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I don’t know how to exist in a world where you’re gone.”

Your chest ached, but you didn’t soften.

“So instead,” you said, “you decided to take my choice away.”

He flinched.

“Yes,” he said, barely audible. “And I hate myself for it.”

You searched his face, really searched it, for excuses, defensiveness, anything that might let you justify walking away again.

There was none.

Only regret. Fear. And something rawer underneath.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” you said quietly. “I need you to trust me.”

Steve nodded immediately. “I know. And I didn’t. And I was wrong.”

The words came easier now, like he’d stopped trying to shield himself. “You’re not fragile. You’re brave and terrifying and smarter than me half the time. I just—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to love someone and not be afraid every second of the day.”

That did it.

The anger in your chest collapsed inward, leaving behind exhaustion and something dangerously close to tears.

“I left,” you whispered, “because when you dismissed me like that, it felt like you didn’t see me anymore.”

Steve stepped closer, slow, cautious, like you might bolt again. “I see you,” he said. “I always have.”

You shook your head. “Then why didn’t you say it?”

“Because if I admitted how much you matter,” he said, “I’d have to admit how much power you have to destroy me.”

Your breath hitched.

He stopped an arm’s length away. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t assume.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, voice steady but broken. “I’ve been in love with you for so long it hurts. And I didn’t say anything because I thought loving you quietly was better than risking losing you completely.”

You stared at him.

“I ran into a closet,” you said shakily, “because I thought you didn’t want me.”

Steve’s face crumpled. “God,” he whispered. “I want you so much it scares me.”

He reached out, paused, then let his hand fall. “But I don’t get to touch you if you don’t want me to.”

That restraint shattered something in you.

You stepped forward instead.

Grabbed his jacket.

Pulled him into a kiss that was all anger and relief and everything you’d swallowed for too long.

Steve gasped softly against your mouth, surprised, undone, then kissed you back like he’d been starving. His hands came to your waist, firm but reverent, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The kiss was messy. Heated. Too much and not enough all at once.

You broke away only to breathe. “You hurt me,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said immediately. “I’ll spend as long as it takes making it right.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, your hands sliding into his hair, pulling him closer. Steve groaned softly, forehead pressing to yours when you finally parted.

“I love you,” you said, finally.

His eyes fluttered shut. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

He kissed you like a promise, not desperate now, but sure. Like he wasn’t afraid anymore. Like he’d finally chosen you out loud.

When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked. “I should’ve fought harder for you sooner.”

You nodded. “You’re doing it now.”

He smiled, small, shaken, real. “Guess I’ll keep fighting.”

Steve Harrington had a habit of making your life feel like a series of small, ordinary miracles.

A hand on your shoulder in a crowded hallway, guiding you through like you belonged beside him. The way he always saved you the last slice of pizza even when he pretended he didn’t care. The lazy sprawl across your couch that somehow turned into you two talking until two in the morning, the television hissing static long after you’d stopped watching.

You’d been best friends long enough that people didn’t even question it anymore. You were just… there. The constant. The person Steve gravitated toward the way some people gravitated toward light.

And it was easy to pretend that was enough.

Because if you didn’t pretend, if you let yourself look too closely at what you felt when Steve smiled at you, wide and warm like the whole world made sense, then you’d have to admit something you weren’t brave enough to say out loud.

That you were in love with your best friend.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. It wasn’t fireworks or grand declarations. It was quieter than that. It was the way your chest softened when he said your name. The way you knew his moods by the sound of his car door closing. The way you felt safer with him beside you than you ever had anywhere else.

It was the way you wanted to be the reason he was happy.

But wanting didn’t mean having.

And you could live with wanting, you told yourself.

You could.

Until she came back.

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind where Hawkins felt slow and sleepy and the sun looked like it was running out of patience.

Steve pulled into your driveway in his beat-up car, horn tapping twice like it always did. You hopped into the passenger seat, already smiling because you didn’t even have to ask, he was bored and you were the solution.

He handed you a warm soda from a paper bag. “Peace offering,” he said.

“For what crime?”

“For being late,” he replied, like it was obvious. “And for making you wait.”

“You’re five minutes late.”

Steve gasped dramatically. “Five minutes is a lifetime when you’re missing me.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were laughing, looking out the window again, and Steve glanced at you like your laughter was a prize he’d won.

Then he exhaled, fingers tightening around the steering wheel like he was… nervous. “So. Uh. I ran into someone today.”

The way he said it, too casual, too carefully light, made your stomach dip.

“Okay,” you said slowly, looking at him now. “Who?”

Steve’s jaw worked, like he was deciding whether to say the name at all.

“Marcy.”

You blinked. The name landed in your head and immediately started rearranging old memories like a drawer being yanked open.

Marcy Calloway. Blonde hair always pulled into a ponytail. A laugh that used to make Steve do stupid things. A girl from before…before the Upside Down, before demo dogs and the loss of Eddie and defeating Vecna and just, all of it. A girl who belonged to the version of Steve Harrington that had been simpler.

“Marcy,” you repeated, voice careful, her name tasing weird in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, watching the road even though the car wasn’t moving. “She’s back in town. Just for a bit. Visiting family.”

“Oh,” you managed. “Okay.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were bright in that way they got when something made him nervous-excited. “We talked. Like… really talked. It was weird. Good-weird.”

You nodded like you were hearing him, like the world hadn’t just tilted slightly off its axis.

“She asked if I wanted to grab coffee,” Steve continued, trying too hard to sound like it didn’t matter. “To catch up.”

“That’s… nice,” you said. “You should go.”

Steve’s smile came fast, relieved. “Yeah? You think so?”

You forced your mouth into something that resembled a grin. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Steve let out a breath, shoulders relaxing. “Cool. Cool. Yeah. So—Friday.”

Friday.

You filed the date away like it was a threat.

Steve turned the key and the engine coughed to life. “We’re still doing movie night tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” you said automatically. “Yep, of course.”

Steve reached over and squeezed your knee, a quick, thoughtless gesture of affection he’d done a thousand times.

Except this time it felt like something inside you flinched.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous.

Steve was allowed to see someone. Steve was allowed to be happy. Steve was allowed to have a life that didn’t revolve around you.

You were just friends, best friends. 

You told yourself that over and over until it sounded like truth.

Then Friday came.

And Steve didn’t even try to hide how excited he was.

You could tell by the way he kept checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. By the way he asked you, twice, if his shirt looked okay. By the way he ran his fingers through his hair and muttered, “Jesus, I’m gonna look like an idiot.”

“You look fine,” you said, because it was the only thing you could say without shattering.

“What if it’s awkward?” he asked, glancing at you like you were the only person qualified to calm him down. “What if we’ve got nothing to talk about?”

“You always have something to talk about,” you replied. “Mostly about yourself.”

He snorted. “Wow. Rude.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Steve parked near the diner where they were meeting, then paused with his hand on the door.

“You sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

You blinked at him. “Why would I mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frowning like he was searching your face for something you weren’t letting him see. “You’ve been… off.”

“I’m not off.”

Steve held your gaze for a beat too long.

Then he exhaled. “Okay. I’ll call you after.”

“Have fun,” you said.

He did.

You knew he did because he didn’t call until late.

And when he did, his voice was warm and bright and full of a kind of happiness you’d never been the cause of.

“It was good,” he said, like he couldn’t help it. “Really good. She’s… she’s still Marcy, you know? Like, the same but… not. Better.”

You leaned your forehead against your bedroom wall, phone pressed to your ear, trying to breathe around the tightness in your chest.

“That’s great, Steve,” you managed.

He hesitated. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “Just tired.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Well… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

When you hung up, you slid down the wall and sat on the floor until the room stopped spinning.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was pain, sharp and physical, like something was twisting inside you.

And the worst part was realizing: you didn’t know how to make it stop.

So you started off small.

You didn’t answer his calls right away.

You told him you were busy when he asked if you wanted to hang out.

You cancelled movie night once, then twice, then thrice.

Steve noticed.

Of course he did.

Steve Harrington noticed everything about you, even when he didn’t mean to.

He showed up at your house one afternoon unannounced, knocking like he was angry at your door personally.

You opened it, heart already racing.

Steve stood on your porch with his arms crossed and a storm in his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s going on?”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

“Don’t,” he snapped. Then his expression softened immediately, guilt flashing across his face like he hated being sharp with you. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it a joke.”

You lifted your chin. “I’m not making a joke. I genuinely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “Yes. You do.”

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms slowly, not defensive. Firm.

“No, Steve. I don’t.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice lower now. “For like… two weeks.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” you shot back. “I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” he repeated flatly. “You’re really gonna do that? You’re really gonna give me ‘stuff’ like I’m some idiot?”

“Why are you interrogating me?” you snapped. “People get busy. It happens.”

Steve’s eyes widened, hurt flashing sharp and fast.

“Because you’re my best friend.”

The words landed heavy between you.

You swallowed but didn’t back down.

“And I’m still here,” you said. “I didn’t disappear off the planet.”

“Yeah, you kind of did,” he shot back. “You cancel plans. You don’t call. You barely look at me when we’re in the same room.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Silence stretched tight.

Steve’s voice softened, just a little. “Did I do something?”

Your chest tightened, but you stood your ground.

“No.”

He searched your face like he was begging to find something there.

“Then what is it?” he demanded. “Because you’re acting like I did something terrible.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“But you’re treating me like I did.”

You shook your head in frustration. “You’re reading into things that aren’t there.”

Steve scoffed. “Oh come on.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “This is about Marcy, isn’t it?”

Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t let it show.

“What? No.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Wow. You didn’t even hesitate.”

“Because there’s nothing to hesitate about.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “I can see it all over you.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“You pull away the second I mention her,” he shot back. “You vanish every time I’m with her. You act like you can’t even be in the same room as me anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Oh, it means something,” he insisted. “You’re mad because I’m hanging out with her.”

You let out a sharp breath. “So what if I am uncomfortable? That doesn’t mean I’m trying to control you.”

Steve threw his hands up. “Uncomfortable? With what, me having a life?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It sure feels like it,” he fired back. “It feels like you want me all to yourself.”

You stiffened.

“Like you can’t stand the idea of me being close to someone else,” he continued bitterly. “Like I belong to you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then explain it,” he demanded, stepping closer. “Because right now it feels like the second I’m happy outside of you, you shut me out.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides.

“You don’t get it,” you said sharply.

“Then make me get it!”

The words echoed between you.

Your heart hammered.

You could tell him. You could end this right now.

But fear locked your throat shut.

Instead, you straightened.

“I don’t owe you an explanation for every feeling I have,” you said firmly. “I’m allowed to have space, to not hang out with you all the time, just like you are allowed to hang out with Marcy.”

Steve stared at you like you’d slapped him.

“Space,” he repeated quietly.

“Yes,” you said. “Space.”

His eyes darkened, not angry, not exactly, more wounded than anything.

“I came here because I thought something was wrong,” he said. “Because I thought you were hurting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Well I am,” you snapped. “So drop it.”

Silence crashed down hard.

Steve’s chest rose and fell like he was trying to keep himself under control.

“So that’s it?” he asked quietly. “You’re just gonna shut me out and pretend nothing’s wrong?”

“I’m not shutting you out.”

“You are.”

“Steve—”

“No,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You don’t get to act like I’m crazy for noticing you pulling away.”

His voice cracked just a little.

“I care about you,” he said. “I’m trying to fix something I don’t even understand.”

You looked away.

“And you won’t even meet me halfway.”

Guilt burned in your chest, but you stayed silent.

Steve laughed softly, bitter.

“Unbelievable.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he said, voice tight. “If you’re ‘fine,’ then I guess there’s nothing to talk about.”

You didn’t answer.

Steve’s eyes searched your face one last time, like he was hoping you’d stop him.

You didn’t.

His jaw clenched.

He turned and walked off the porch.

Faster than before.

Angrier.

More confused.

You stood frozen in the doorway, chest burning, watching the person you loved most walk away without ever knowing the real reason.

Not because you didn’t care.

But because you cared too much to risk losing him.

After that, the distance wasn’t just something you tried to do.

It was something that happened.

You didn’t see Steve for days.

Then weeks.

You heard about him through the grapevine, through Dustin’s excited rambling, through Max’s casual comments, through the way Robin raised her eyebrows when your name came up like she was trying to figure you out.

“He’s been spending a lot of time with Marcy,” Robin mentioned one day, leaning against her bike outside Family Video.

You pretended not to care. “Okay?”

Robin studied you, lips pursed. “Nothing. Just… weird, is all.”

“Weird how?”

Robin shrugged. “Weird that you’re not around.”

You forced a laugh. “I have a life.”

Robin’s gaze sharpened. “Do you?”

You stiffened. Robin sighed, waving a hand like she didn’t want to push.

“Look,” she said, softer. “I don’t know what’s going on, but Steve’s… he’s not okay.”

Your heart lurched.

“He’s fine,” you said automatically.

Robin scoffed. “Yeah, because Steve Harrington is known for processing emotions in a healthy way.”

You couldn’t help it…your mouth twitched, a real smile trying to surface.

Robin pointed at you like she’d caught something. “There. That. That’s the face you make when you actually feel something.”

You swallowed, smile fading.

Robin’s expression softened. “Just… talk to him, okay? Because he’s acting like he lost you.”

You looked away, throat burning.

Because he had.

In a way.

You were still there, still breathing, still existing.

But you were also… breaking. And you didn’t know how to stop.

The next time you saw Steve, it was by accident.

You were at the grocery store, focused on grabbing what you needed as fast as possible, when you heard it…

His laugh.

It wasn’t the easy, familiar sound you knew. It was brighter. Louder. Like he was trying to prove something.

You froze at the end of an aisle, heart stuttering.

Then you saw him.

Steve, leaning against a cart, smiling down at Marcy like she’d hung the sun.

Marcy touched his arm when she laughed, fingers lingering like she belonged there.

Steve didn’t pull away.

Your chest tightened so hard you thought you might actually fold in half.

It hurt.

A sharp, real ache under your ribs, like someone had lodged something heavy inside you and was twisting it slowly.

You turned before they could see you, pushing your cart away too fast.

You didn’t stop until you were outside, leaning against the brick wall, gasping for air like you’d run a mile.

You pressed a hand to your chest.

This was insane.

This was pathetic.

It was just Steve being happy.

But it felt like losing something you’d never even been brave enough to claim.

And that night, you didn’t sleep.

You kept replaying every moment.

Every laugh. Every touch. Every time Steve had looked at you like you mattered.

Every time you’d thought maybe—

Maybe.

And now he was looking at someone else.

And the pain in your chest wouldn’t go away.

So, at two in the morning, you did something you never did.

You drove.

No destination. No plan. Just movement, like maybe if you kept moving, the ache couldn’t catch you.

But you found yourself in front of Steve’s house before you even realized where you were going.

You sat in your car, staring at the dark windows.

You shouldn’t.

You shouldn’t knock.

You shouldn’t drag him back into your mess.

So you didn’t.

You stayed in your car until your eyes burned and your hands shook and the sky started turning faintly gray.

Then you went home.

But Steve found you the next day.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

He knocked on your bedroom window like he used to when you were younger, like he didn’t care if it was childish or ridiculous, like he was desperate enough to try anything.

You yanked the curtains open, heart hammering once again.

Steve stood outside, hair a mess, eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept.

You stared at him through the glass.

He stared back.

Then he held up his hands, palms out, like he was surrendering.

“Can we talk?” he mouthed.

You hesitated.

Then you unlocked the window.

Steve climbed in awkwardly, landing on your floor with a soft thud. He looked around your room like it was the first time he’d been in it in months.

Maybe it was.

He straightened, swallowing hard.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

You crossed your arms, trying to protect yourself. “Hi.”

Steve exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “About what I said. About… all of it.”

You blinked. “What…?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me. Because I’ve been thinking about this moment, okay? A lot. And I was a jerk.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Steve stepped closer, his voice shaking now. “I thought you were… I don’t know. Jealous. Possessive. Like you didn’t want me to have anyone else.”

You flinched.

Steve’s eyes softened. “And maybe I thought that because…” He swallowed. “Because it would’ve been easier.”

Easier than what?

Steve looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together. “Because the truth is, I don’t know what I’d do if the reason you’re pulling away is something I can’t fix.”

Your throat tightened.

Steve looked up, eyes searching yours like he was trying to find you behind the walls you’d built.

“I miss you,” he said simply.

The words hit you harder than anything else.

Because you missed him too.

God, you missed him so much it felt like you were starving.

“You don’t get to just…” your voice cracked. You cleared your throat, shaking your head angrily, trying again. “You don’t get to just show up.”

“I do,” Steve said, fierce. “I do when you’re disappearing on me.”

You stared at him, tears prickling.

Steve’s gaze flicked to your mouth, then away like it scared him.

He swallowed. “You looked at me like I was… like I was everything, sometimes.”

Your breath caught.

Steve’s voice went softer, almost haunted. “Not like Robin. Not like Dustin. Not like… anyone.”

You froze.

Steve stepped closer, slow, like he was approaching something fragile.

“And I keep thinking about it,” he whispered. “All the times you were there. All the times you stayed even when I didn’t deserve it. All the times you looked at me like you were holding something back.”

Your hands trembled.

Steve’s eyes shone. “And I don’t know if I was stupid or selfish or both, but I…” He broke off, jaw tight. “I didn’t want to see it.”

You couldn’t breathe.

Steve took another step. Now he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.

“Marcy makes me feel… normal,” he said quietly. “Like I can pretend none of the scary stuff happened. Like I’m just some guy who peaked in high school and still worries about his hair.”

A shaky laugh left him, then faded.

“But you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You make me feel seen.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.

Steve’s face crumpled, like your tears physically hurt him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, desperate. “I swear to god I didn’t.”

You shook your head, crying harder.

“It’s not…” you tried, but the words stuck.

Steve reached out slowly, fingers hovering near your cheek like he was asking permission.

You didn’t move away.

He brushed your tears away with his thumb, so gentle it made your chest ache all over again.

And then you finally cracked.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

Steve froze. “What?”

“It hurts,” you repeated, voice shaking. “To see you… like that.”

Steve stared at you, breath catching.

“You being happy with someone else,” you admitted, words spilling out now that the dam had broken. “It hurts so bad I can’t breathe. I can’t… I can’t stand there and pretend it’s fine because it feels like I’m watching you walk away from me.”

Steve’s eyes widened.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

You let out a broken laugh. “Because what was I supposed to say, Steve? ‘Hi, I’ve been in love with you since I found you in the movie theater after the fucking Russians tortured the shit out of you and it’s ruining my life’?”

Silence.

Steve didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared at you like the world had shifted under his feet.

Then his face twisted with something raw.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “You…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, shame flooding you. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to… I didn’t want to make it weird.”

A sound left Steve, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“You didn’t make it weird,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes, confused.

Steve looked at you like he was seeing everything for the first time.

Like every moment you’d ever shared was rewriting itself in his mind.

“Those looks,” he said softly. “The way you… the way you touched my arm and then pulled away. The way you always stayed close. The way you got quiet when Nancy was around. The way you looked like you were trying not to fall apart when I talked about… anyone.”

He swallowed hard.

“I thought you just cared,” he whispered.

You laughed bitterly. “I do care, a little too much sometimes.”

“I know,” Steve said, voice thick. “I know.”

He stepped even closer until there was barely space between you.

“And I’m an idiot,” he murmured. “Because you’ve been loving me right in front of my face and I…” His voice broke. “I didn’t realize I could have that, that I could have you...”

Your heart pounded.

Steve lifted his hands, palms cupping your face like you were something precious.

“Can I—” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath caught.

All the years of wanting condensed into one moment.

You nodded.

Steve kissed you like he’d been holding his breath his whole life.

It wasn’t gentle at first. It was urgent, shaking, like he needed to prove something to both of you. Like he needed to erase every second of distance.

You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing him back like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

Steve’s hands slid from your face to your waist, anchoring you.

He broke the kiss for half a second, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, tears still falling. “Just…just don’t let me lose you.”

Steve kissed you again, slower this time, softer, like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing.

His lips moved against yours with reverence and hunger all at once, and it felt like the world finally snapped into the shape it was always meant to be.

When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

“You were never going to lose me,” he whispered.

You let out a shaky breath. “But you were happy with her.”

Steve’s face tightened. “I was trying to be.”

That confession hit you like a wave.

Steve brushed his thumb along your cheek again, gaze unwavering.

“I thought happiness was supposed to look like… moving on,” he murmured. “Like being normal. Like picking someone safe.”

He swallowed.

“But every time I came home, every time it got quiet, all I wanted was you.”

Your throat tightened.

Steve’s voice dropped, raw and honest. “I’ve been in love with you too. I just didn’t know that’s what it was.”

You stared at him, stunned.

Steve gave a small, broken smile. “Kinda pathetic, right?”

You laughed through your tears and kissed him again, because you didn’t know what else to do with the feeling exploding inside you.

Steve kissed you back like he was starving.

And when he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again, hands holding you like he couldn’t risk letting go.

“We’re gonna talk,” he said, voice hoarse. “We’re gonna do this right. I’m gonna talk to Marcy. I’m not gonna…” He swallowed. “I’m not gonna hurt anyone, okay? But I’m not gonna lie either.”

You nodded, still trembling.

Steve kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth…little, reverent touches that made your whole body feel like it was humming.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your skin. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back.

Steve pulled you into his arms, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to stitch the two of you back together, the press of his lips against your forehead soothing you.

And for the first time in weeks, the pain in your chest eased.

Not because it had never been there.

Steve Harrington had been in your life for so long that you no longer remembered what it felt like before him.

Before the late-night drives with the windows down, Steve’s hand draped casually over the back of your seat. Before movie marathons where you fell asleep halfway through and woke up with your cheek pressed into his shoulder. Before the quiet, wordless understanding that came from surviving too much together in a town that refused to stay normal.

Fourteen years.

Fourteen years of always.

You were there when he broke his arm and pretended it didn’t hurt. You were there when he pretended he didn’t care about Nancy anymore. You were there when the world cracked open and monsters spilled out and Steve decided, somewhere along the way, that protecting people was simply who he was.

And Steve was there for you, too.

For heartbreaks. For family arguments. For the nights when the anxiety wouldn’t let you sleep and he sat on the floor beside your bed, back against the mattress, promising you weren’t alone.

Best friends.

That word followed you everywhere, clung to you like a label you couldn’t peel off. Steve’s best friend. Safe. Untouchable. Not chosen.

And somewhere, quietly, painfully, you fell in love with him.

You never meant to. It just… happened. Slowly. Like water wearing away stone.

You learned to live with it. Learned to tuck it away. Learned to smile when he flirted with other girls, learned to laugh when he asked your advice, learned to swallow the ache when he left your apartment smelling like someone else’s perfume.

You told yourself this was enough.

Until the night it wasn’t.

It was one of those nights where everything felt off-balance from the start.

Too much to drink. Too much laughing. Too many old memories brought up like they were harmless, like they didn’t carry weight. Steve was already sprawled on your couch, shoes kicked off, hair messier than usual, eyes soft in that way that made your chest tighten.

“You ever think about how weird it is,” he said, staring at the ceiling, “that we’re still… us?”

You knew what he meant. Still here. Still together. Still always.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Sometimes.”

He turned his head to look at you. There was something unreadable in his expression, something that made your pulse stutter.

“You’re the only person who never left,” he said. “Not really.”

Your heart ached at the simplicity of it.

The moment stretched. Stretched too far.

You don’t remember who moved first.

Maybe it was you leaning in because the space between you suddenly felt unbearable. Maybe it was him turning fully toward you, eyes flicking to your mouth like he’d been thinking about it longer than he’d ever admit.

The kiss was soft at first. Uncertain. Like both of you were waiting for the other to pull back and say we shouldn’t.

Neither of you did.

It felt like crossing a line you’d both been skirting for years. Familiar and terrifying and intoxicating all at once. Steve’s hand curled into your shirt like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your fingers threaded through his hair, muscle memory guiding you like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

“Hey,” you whispered, breathless, forehead pressed to his. “We don’t have to—”

“I want this,” he said immediately, voice rough. “I want you.”

Those words alone could’ve shattered you.

So you let it happen.

It was tender. Careful. Charged with something neither of you were brave enough to name.

Steve touched you like he already knew you, because he did. Like every laugh, every tear, every shared secret lived just under his skin. And for a moment, you let yourself believe this meant something more.

That maybe he’d finally seen you.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. Your senses were overloaded, his breath against your neck, the weight of him, the rhythm of his body against yours, the way he whispered your name like it mattered.

And then—

It happened.

Steve murmured something under his breath, voice low, broken, tangled in the moment.

A name.

Not yours.

At least… you thought it wasn’t.

Your body went cold in an instant.

The room seemed to tilt, reality snapping back into place with brutal clarity. Your heart slammed painfully against your ribs as the meaning settled in, heavy and unforgiving.

Of course.

This wasn’t about you. It never was.

You were the convenient constant. The safe place. The person he could reach for when he felt lonely, overwhelmed, drunk on old feelings that didn’t belong to you.

You pulled back so suddenly it startled him.

“Hey— wait, what’s wrong?” Steve asked, concern flooding his face.

But you couldn’t look at him. If you did, you might break completely.

“I can’t,” you said, voice shaking despite your effort to keep it steady. “I can’t do this.”

Confusion flickered across his expression. “Did I do something?”

You laughed softly, bitterly. “You tell me.”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly scrambling. “I—I don’t understand.”

“You said her name,” you whispered.

Silence.

The kind that screams.

Steve’s face drained of color. “What? No, I...”

“You don’t have to explain,” you cut in quickly, pain spilling over. “I get it. I should’ve known better.”

You stood, instantly feeling empty without him, hands trembling as you grabbed your sweater. Everything felt too loud, too sharp, too real.

“This was a mistake,” you said, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry I crossed that line.”

Steve reached for you, panic clear in his eyes. “Wait, please. You’re not a mistake.”

You shook your head, tears finally blurring your vision. “I’ve always been just your friend, Steve. Tonight just… confirmed it.”

You didn’t wait for his response.

You couldn’t.

You avoided him.

At first, it was easy enough. A missed call here. A late reply there. You told yourself you were just busy, just tired, just not ready.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

It became a routine, changing your routes through town, ducking into different aisles at Family Video, lingering longer than necessary anywhere Steve wasn’t. It was easier to pretend you were busy than to face the look on his face when he realized he’d hurt you. Easier to swallow the ache alone than to risk hearing him say what you already believed.

I didn’t mean it like that. You misunderstood. You’re important to me, just not in that way.

You knew how those conversations went. You’d lived through enough almosts to recognize the pattern. The gentle letdowns. The careful phrasing. The way people tried not to break something they never meant to hold in the first place.

So you stayed quiet.

Steve noticed immediately.

Robin noticed ten seconds after that.

She cornered him behind the Family Video counter one afternoon, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “Okay,” she said, voice low, “what did you do?”

Steve blinked at her. “What?”

“You look like someone ran over your favorite pair of shoes and then reversed just to be petty,” she said. “And don’t play dumb. You and her… Something’s wrong.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“She won’t talk to me,” he said finally. “She won’t even look at me.”

Robin’s expression shifted, less teasing, more serious. “Steve.”

“I messed up,” he admitted, voice rough. “I really messed up.”

Across the store, Dustin had been pretending, very poorly, to browse the horror section. He whipped around. “Wait, is this about why she hasn’t been hanging out with us?”

Steve stiffened. “You noticed that too?”

Dustin snorted. “Please. She skipped movie night and free pizza. That’s not normal behavior.”

Robin’s jaw tightened. “What happened?”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“We—” He exhaled sharply. “We crossed a line. And then I said something. Or, well… Mumbled something. And she thinks I said erm—, someone else’s name.”

Robin stared at him. “Did you?”

“No!” Steve said immediately, panic flaring. “God, no. I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“Then why haven’t you told her that?” Dustin asked, brows furrowed.

“I tried,” Steve said miserably. “She won’t answer. She won’t listen.”

Robin softened just a little, but her voice stayed firm. “Steve… she’s been in love with you forever.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“Don’t act shocked,” Robin said. “It’s painfully obvious. To literally everyone except you.”

Dustin nodded. “Yeah, man. You’re kind of an idiot.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I thought… I thought I was protecting her. Keeping things safe.”

Robin sighed. “You don’t protect people by deciding their feelings for them.”

The words hit him like a punch.

Meanwhile, you were unraveling in your own quiet way.

Max noticed first, the way you laughed a little less, the way your eyes always seemed somewhere else. She didn’t push, just sat beside you one afternoon and said, “You don’t have to talk, but you’re not as invisible as you think.”

Mike and El noticed next. He offered soda, long walks, gentle silences. She didn’t mention Steve unless you did… which you didn’t.

And every time his name almost slipped out, your chest tightened painfully. And what hurt even more was the pity in their eyes when they looked at you.

You know they didn’t mean it like that, but in your head they were still kids, they didn’t know any better.

Steve, on the other hand, was unraveling completely.

He couldn’t stop replaying it: how quickly everything changed. One second you were with him, panting his name, your hands gripping his hair, the next you were frozen, retreating. The way your breath hitched. The way your eyes filled with pain like he’d reached into your chest and crushed something delicate and irreplaceable.

The way you walked out like he’d just broken something sacred.

He hadn’t said another name.

He knew that.

He’d mumbled, half-words, broken syllables, a sound caught in his throat because the reality of being with you had hit him all at once. Because suddenly it wasn’t casual, wasn’t safe, wasn’t something he could laugh off the next morning.

It was everything. It meant everything.

And he’d panicked.

Steve Harrington had faced monsters from other dimensions, had gone toe-to-toe with things that should’ve killed him and probably had, if his friends had not interfered, but nothing terrified him quite like the idea that he could lose you, not to death, not to distance, but to his own stupidity.

He wasn’t good with words. Never had been.

And now, every second of silence felt like punishment.

And he deserved it.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping, desperately, foolishly, that someday soon, you’d give him the chance to make it right.

He showed up at your door unannounced.

You knew it was him before you even looked. There was something about the knock, hesitant, uneven, like he’d raised his hand and lowered it again more than once before finally committing. Your heart jumped anyway, sharp and instinctive and unwelcome.

You stayed where you were, snuggled up in one of his hoodies on the couch.

The hallway light buzzed faintly above you. Your keys were still clenched in your hand, metal biting into your palm. On the other side of the door, you could hear him shift his weight, the soft scuff of his sneaker against the welcome mat.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice muffled through the wood. “It’s me.”

As if it could’ve been anyone else.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he went on, words tumbling too fast now. “And I get it, I really do, but, please… can we just talk?”

You pressed your forehead briefly against the door, eyes squeezed shut. If you opened it, if you saw his face, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way his eyes always softened when they found you, you knew you’d fold. You always did.

So you stayed quiet.

Seconds dragged into minutes. The silence stretched until it felt cruel.

You heard him exhale, long and shaky.

“Okay,” he said softly, resignation creeping in. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll call you later.”

His footsteps retreated down the hallway. The sound of the door closing echoed louder than it should have.

Later that evening, the answering machine clicked on.

You were in the kitchen, pretending to wash a mug that was already clean, when his voice filled the apartment.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. Stripped bare of bravado. “It’s me. Again. I, uh… please. Just talk to me. I’ll explain. I swear. I know I hurt you, and I hate that I did, but I didn’t say what you think I said. I need you to know that.”

There was a pause. You could almost see him rubbing the back of his neck, staring at the wall like he always did when he was nervous.

“You matter to me,” he added, voice cracking. “More than you know.”

The machine clicked off.

You stood there long after, staring at nothing, heart pounding like it didn’t know where to settle. Eventually, you crossed the room and rewound the tape.

You listened once more.

Then you erased it.

The next day, there was a note slipped under your door. Folded once. Your name written in Steve’s messy handwriting, letters leaning slightly to the right like they always did.

I messed up. Please don’t shut me out. I didn’t say another name. I swear.

You read it until the paper softened between your fingers. Then you folded it back up and tucked it into a drawer you tried not to open too often.

More notes followed over the next few days. Never demanding. Never angry. Just… there.

I’ll wait. I miss you. I’m here when you’re ready.

You didn’t answer any of them.

Because none of it changed the truth as you saw it.

Steve had always cared. He cared deeply, recklessly, with a kind of intensity that made people feel seen and safe. That was who he was. That was why everyone loved him.

But caring wasn’t the same as choosing.

And you were so tired of hoping for something he’d never promised you.

You loved him.

You had loved him quietly, patiently, painfully—for longer than you could remember. Loved him through other girls, through almosts and half-moments that never tipped into more.

And loving him hurt too much.

Too much to open the door. Too much to keep replaying his voice. Too much to survive another almost.

So you left the notes unanswered.

And you let the silence sit between you, heavy, aching, and unresolved.

Steve caught you outside the grocery store just as you were juggling bags and keys, already half-thinking about how quickly you could get home without running into anyone you weren’t ready to see.

Too late.

“Hey,” he said, gentle, like he was afraid the word itself might send you bolting.

Your shoulders tensed immediately. You didn’t look at him at first. “I don’t want to do this, Steve.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just—please. Don’t run.”

You turned then, arms crossing defensively, grocery bags rustling between you like a flimsy shield. “What do you want?”

The way he flinched at your tone almost made you regret it. Almost.

“I just want to talk,” he said. “I want to explain.”

You shook your head. “You already did. I heard enough.”

“That’s the thing,” he said quietly. “I don’t think you did.”

Your jaw tightened, your heart cracking. “I don’t want to reopen this.”

He hesitated, clearly fighting himself, then nodded. “Okay.”

The acceptance caught you off guard.

“I won’t push,” he said. “I promise.” He took a step back, giving you space. “I just want you to know… that night wasn’t about anyone else. And I’ll live with it if you never believe me. I just needed you to know I never meant to hurt you.”

You swallowed hard.

Steve looked at you one last time, eyes heavy with things he wasn’t saying. “Take care of yourself,” he added softly.

Then he walked away.

You stood there longer than necessary, eyes tracing his every move, his words echoing louder than you wanted them to.

That night wasn’t about anyone else.

You tried to shake it off. Told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was too late.

But your mind betrayed you.

Because when you replayed that moment, really replayed it, you realized something you hadn’t let yourself consider before. The sound he’d made hadn’t been clear. Hadn’t been sharp enough to be a name. It had been breathless. Broken. Almost cut off.

Like a thought interrupted.

Your mind just filled it in for you.

The certainty you’d clung to began to crack.

Steve didn’t try to corner you again.

Instead, he showed up quietly, invisible.

A cup of coffee left outside your door one morning. Cold by the time you found it. Exactly how you liked it.

A grocery bag on your porch when you got home late one evening. Soup. Bread. Things you bought when you were too tired to take care of yourself properly. Your favorite cookies, the Dutch speculaas ones your oma used to make when she was visiting.

And even though these gestures cracked open your heart even more, there was still no pressure.

No expectations.

Just presence.

Days passed like that.

The ache didn’t disappear, it dulled, settling into something quieter, something you could carry without it knocking the breath out of you every morning. You learned how to exist again. Not healed. Just… functioning.

And then one night, without fully deciding to, you opened the door when you heard the familiar creaking of your front porch.

Steve stood there like he hadn’t let himself believe this moment would ever come.

“Hey,” he said, careful.

“Hey,” you replied.

You stepped aside, wordlessly letting him in.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch you. Just stood in the middle of the room with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight, like he was bracing for impact.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said slowly. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt. “About that night.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“A lot,” you added. “And I don’t think… I don’t think you said her name.”

He closed his eyes for a brief second, like relief physically hit him.

“I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I swear. I was trying to say something else. I panicked and it came out wrong.”

You nodded once. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t sharp either. It sat between you, heavy with everything neither of you quite knew how to touch yet.

“But knowing that,” you continued, shaking your head, forcing yourself to keep going, “doesn’t undo how it felt.”

Steve’s head dipped immediately, seeking eye contact. “I know.”

“You still hurt me,” you said, more firmly now. “I gave you the most vulnerable part of myself and still walked away feeling small. Replaceable. Like I’d finally been stupid enough to hope for something that was never mine.”

“I know,” he repeated, voice rough. He didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it. “I know I did that.”

You swallowed, looking at his face, the way how his face fell, how sad he looked. “I know the grown-up thing would’ve been to talk it through—to clear up the confusion. But we didn’t. And even though I feel guilty about that, I still need some time.”

“I don’t expect you to be ready,” he said quietly, his hand trembling. “I don’t expect anything.”

You studied him, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he looked older somehow, worn thin in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“I’m willing to try,” you said finally. “But you really have to work for this.”

His eyes lifted to yours, earnest and steady. “I will. However long it takes.”

You nodded once, a small smile already forming. “Okay.”

He seemed to hesitate then, like something was pressing against his ribs, something he’d been holding back.

And then—

“I love you.”

Steve looked startled by his own admission.

The words landed… hard, wrong? Not gentle, not careful. They hit you straight in the chest, stealing the air from your lungs.

“What?” you breathed.

Steve froze, clearly realizing how hard they’d landed, but he didn’t take them back.

“I didn’t plan to say it like that,” he admitted, his hand raking through his hair. “Or even tonight. But you deserve the truth, even if it scares you.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Steve—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it doesn’t fix anything. I know it doesn’t erase the hurt. And I know you don’t owe me anything just because I feel this way.”

He swallowed hard.

“But these last few weeks? They were the worst weeks of my life.”

You blinked, a startled laugh caught in your throat. “You’ve fought monsters in another dimension.”

He nodded. “Yeah. And I’d do it again without thinking.” His voice cracked despite himself. “But thinking I lost you because I was too scared to say what I’ve felt for years? That was worse.”

The room felt suddenly too small.

“I wasn’t ready for that,” you admitted, voice trembling.

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to say it back. I just couldn’t keep pretending anymore.”

Your chest ached, not with fear this time, but with something fragile and overwhelming.

You crossed the space between you before you could think better of it.

The kiss was tentative. Careful. A question more than a promise.

Steve went still for half a second, like he was afraid this was another almost, before his hands came up to your waist, gentle, grounding, like he was anchoring himself to something real.

The kiss deepened just slightly.

Not desperate.

Relieved.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, breath warm between you, both of you a little unsteady.

“I love you, too.” You whispered against his lips, feeling him still once more. “But… This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed.”

“I know,” he said immediately, his hands squeezing your sides gently.

“But it means I’m not walking away,” you added.

His smile was small. Real. “That’s all I was hoping for.”

“I love you,” he murmured.

You let yourself smile once more, leaning into him. “Ditto.”

Steve Harrington had a remarkable talent for turning a movie night snack run into something that felt suspiciously like a competitive sport.

You’d suggested the supermarket with naïve optimism. “We’ll grab snacks and leave,” you’d said, as if Hawkins had ever allowed anything that simple.

Steve had nodded, smiled, then immediately seized the cart like it was trying to escape him and started pushing it with one hand, weaving through aisles like he was late for a championship lap.

“Steve,” you warned, catching a bag of chips before it could get crushed. “We need popcorn. Soda. Candy. Normal movie things.”

“And inspiration,” he said gravely, pointing ahead. “Because movie nights deserve options.”

You squinted at him. “That sentence already worries me.”

He was gone before you could stop him.

You hurried after him, knocking the cart back into a straight line with your hip. It squealed loudly, drawing a look from an elderly woman nearby.

Steve glanced back at you, eyes bright, hair unfairly perfect for someone who’d spent all week rewinding tapes at Family Video. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

“I trusted you once,” you said. “You bought an entire crate of oranges because you said we’d ‘balance out the candy.’”

“We did balance it,” he argued.

“We ate oranges for three days,” you shot back. “I started associating vitamin C with emotional distress.”

He laughed, warm and effortless, and you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too soon.

Steve wasn’t a bad boyfriend. Actually, he was annoyingly good at it. He remembered how you liked your popcorn, extra butter, slightly burnt. He kept spare batteries for your hearing aids in his jacket like they were sacred. He always checked in, even when he pretended not to.

But when he was excited, when he felt safe, he pushed. Teased. Assumed the world would bend with him.

Which, in Hawkins, was optimistic at best.

You turned into the frozen aisle just in time to see him pull a box of waffles from the bottom shelf like he’d struck gold.

He straightened, holding them up proudly. “Boom.”

“Absolutely not.”

You stared at him. He stared back, stubborn and smug.

And then, because Steve Harrington could not help himself, he did the thing that truly tipped you over the edge.

He reached up, gently tapped the side of your hearing aid, and said, loud enough for the freezer aisle to hear, “Hey. Earth to you. Are we buying waffles or not?”

It wasn’t mean. It wasn’t cruel. It was teasing.

But it was also… a little too public. A little too casual. A little too much like he’d forgotten this wasn’t a cute accessory you could switch off for fun.

Your chest went tight, not from sadness exactly, more from that sudden flare of hot irritation that makes your hands go cold.

You leaned closer, your voice perfectly sweet. “Do that again.”

Steve’s grin faltered. “Do what?”

“Touch my hearing aid in public like it’s a button you can press,” you said, still sweet, still calm. “Do it again.”

“I—okay, I didn’t mean—”

You held his gaze for a beat longer, then reached up and did something he didn’t expect at all.

You turned your hearing aids off.

The world didn’t go silent, not completely. It never did. You still caught vibrations, faint sounds like someone moving a cart a few aisles over, the muffled hum of the freezer units. But voices blurred into distant shapes, like watching a conversation through a fogged window.

Steve’s mouth kept moving.

You pushed the cart forward.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“No—hey,” he said, words tumbling out faster now. He moved alongside you, hands hovering uselessly. “I was kidding, I swear, I didn’t think—”

You didn’t respond.

Not because you couldn’t hear him.

Because you didn’t want to yet.

Steve swallowed hard. He hated this part. Hated knowing he’d hurt you. Hated even more knowing you were pulling away, even temporarily.

He stepped in front of the cart, blocking it gently, forcing you to stop.

You looked up at him.

His face had completely changed. No teasing. No charm. Just open worry.

He signed immediately.

I’m sorry.

You stared at him, unmoved.

He signed again, faster now, more desperate.

I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it like that.

You crossed your arms.

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, breath uneven. People were starting to glance over. He didn’t care.

Please, he signed. I know better than that.

You turned away slightly, staring at a shelf of microwave popcorn.

Steve’s chest tightened.

He followed your line of sight, then crouched down in front of you.

Actually crouched.

Right there in the snack aisle.

He signed slower now, carefully, like every movement mattered.

I never want to make you feel small. Or different. Or like I don’t respect you.

Your jaw clenched.

Behind you, a group had just turned into the aisle.

They froze.

From where they stood, it looked bad.

Really bad.

A girl with her back half-turned, arms crossed, staring at a shelf like Steve Harrington didn’t exist.

And Steve, King Steve, hovering a step behind her, hands moving in small, helpless gestures, his mouth forming words that weren’t landing anywhere.

He tried to catch your eye.

Nothing.

Tried again, leaning into your line of sight.

Still nothing.

From the end of the aisle, it looked like she’d iced him out completely.

Max winced. “Oof. She’s done.”

Dustin leaned forward, squinting like this was a nature documentary. “I’ve never seen him try this hard.”

Robin watched Steve’s face, the way his usual confidence had cracked clean through. “Is he… begging?”

Steve reached for you, stopped himself, then dragged a hand through his hair in a way that screamed panic. He looked smaller somehow. Less like King Steve, more like a guy who’d said the wrong thing to the wrong girl and was paying for it in public.

Nancy’s brows knit together. “Do we know her?”

Jonathan turned his head slightly. “I think her mom works with Hopper at the police station.”

Steve noticed them then.

His heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Of course they’d see this moment. Of course this was how they’d finally meet the girl he’d been too scared to bring around, with him looking like an idiot and you looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.

Robin muttered, “Wow. This is rough.”

Steve straightened instinctively, like he could still salvage his dignity if he tried hard enough. His eyes flicked from his friends back to you, then back again.

Too many eyes.

Too much judgment already forming.

Nancy stepped forward a little. “Steve?”

He flinched.

“Hey,” he said, too fast, too loud. “Uh— hi.”

Max crossed her arms. “You okay, Harrington?”

Steve laughed once, sharp, unconvincing. “Yeah. Totally. We’re just—”

He gestured between you and himself, searching for words that wouldn’t make this worse.

“We’re fine,” he added quickly. Then, because silence felt dangerous, because the looks on their faces were already turning skeptical, he blurted, “She’s my girlfriend.”

The aisle froze.

Robin blinked. “Your girlfriend? This is her—”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Dustin tilted his head, frowning. “You didn’t say you were dating.”

Steve’s mouth opened. Closed. He nodded anyway, like commitment might make the lie real enough to stand on. “Yeah. We’ve been, uh… together for a while.”

From where they stood, it didn’t look convincing.

You still hadn’t turned around.

Haven’t said a word.

Hadn’t even acknowledged his existence.

Robin’s lips pursed. “She doesn’t look very… girlfriend-y right now.”

Dustin squinted harder. “She’s not even reacting to him.”

Max shot Steve a look. “Did you just meet her?”

“No!” Steve said immediately. “I mean— no, not like that.”

Robin tilted her head, studying you. “Is this one of those situations where you say ‘girlfriend’ so she doesn’t leave you standing alone in a grocery store?”

Steve’s face flushed with irritation at his best friend. “It’s not fake.”

But it looked fake.

A random girl he’d upset. A desperate attempt to save face. A label thrown out too fast, like armor.

Steve gave up on them then.

He turned back to you fully, stepping into your space with care, making sure you could see him. His hands lifted, steady despite the way his chest felt tight.

Please, he signed. I know I screwed up. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

The group fell quiet.

Robin’s mouth fell open.

Because whatever this was, it wasn’t a performance.

Steve wasn’t posturing anymore. Wasn’t trying to look cool. He was focused only on you, his face open, vulnerable, stripped of every defense.

You finally looked at him.

His breath caught.

You exhaled slowly, then reached up and turned your hearing aids back on.

Sound rushed back in, the hum of the lights, the soft clatter of carts, Robin’s barely contained “holy shit.”

You met Steve’s eyes, your eyes burning. “You hurt my feelings.”

The relief that washed over his face was immediate and overwhelming and he reached out to cup your face. “I know,” he said, voice rough. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, the group stared.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that comes when people realize they’ve gotten something very wrong.

Robin was the first to recover, her eyes flicking between you and Steve. “Oh,” she said slowly. “Okay. That explains… a lot.”

Max’s posture eased, her smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Yeah,” she said. “That tracks.”

Nancy offered you a small, apologetic smile. “I’m Nancy,” she said. “And I’m sorry, we just walked in at a bad moment.”

Jonathan nodded beside her. “Yeah. Bad timing.”

Dustin rubbed the back of his neck. “So you weren’t, like… completely ignoring him on purpose?”

You turned toward them fully now, your expression calm, open, while still holding Steve’s hand in yours. “No,” you said gently. “He teased me. I got annoyed. We’re working it out.”

Steve squeezed your hand, relief written all over his face. “I deserved it,” he added quickly.

Robin snorted. “Wow. Accountability. Love to see it.”

You smiled a little at that, then glanced at Steve. “Since we’re… accidentally all here,” you said, “we were actually getting snacks for a movie night.”

Steve looked at you, surprised. “We were?”

You nudged him. “You bought three bags of marshmallows.”

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Movie night.”

Robin’s eyes lit up immediately. “Is this a group movie night?”

Steve hesitated, just for a second, then looked at you, silently asking.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” Steve said, a little shy but sincere. “If you guys want to come.”

The tension finally broke.

Max smiled. “I’m in.”

Nancy nodded. “Me too.”

Dustin grinned. “As long as there’s popcorn.”

“There’s plenty,” you said. “He went overboard.”

Steve scoffed. “I was being prepared.”

Robin clapped her hands together. “Well then,” she said brightly, “I’m Robin — and I’m really glad we finally met you.”

Steve let out a breath he’d been holding far too long, his fingers threading through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And just like that, the version of the story they’d imagined, the stranger, the fake girlfriend, the embarrassment.

It fell away.

What remained was something quieter.

Real.

The first night home is the worst.

Not because of the pain, though there’s plenty of that—but because of the silence.

Hospitals hum. They buzz with life, even when everything feels fragile. Machines beep, nurses pass through, someone is always watching, always ready to step in if something goes wrong.

Home doesn’t have that.

Home is quiet.

Too quiet.

You don’t realize how much that bothers you until you’re lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling, your body heavy and sore in ways that make every small movement feel deliberate. The house feels different now…like it’s holding its breath, like it’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

You shift slightly.

It hurts.

A sharp pull along your ribs, a dull ache in your leg, something deeper that hasn’t quite settled yet.

You let out a slow breath.

“You okay?”

You don’t even startle.

Steve’s voice is soft, but immediate.

Always immediate.

You turn your head slightly toward the doorway. He’s leaning against it, arms crossed, like he’s been standing there longer than he wants to admit.

“Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t move.

“You sure?”

You huff a quiet breath. “Steve, if you ask me that every five minutes, I might actually stop being okay.”

That earns you the smallest flicker of a smile.

“Noted.”

But he still doesn’t leave.

You watch him for a second.

Then…without thinking too hard about it—

“You can come in, you know.”

He hesitates.

Like he’s not sure if he should.

That’s…new?

Steve Harrington has never been unsure about walking into your room.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the doorframe and steps inside, slower than usual, like he’s trying not to take up too much space. He drags the chair from your desk closer to your bed, but not too close, just enough that he can sit without crowding you.

That’s new too.

You notice all of it.

The distance.

The hesitation.

The way he keeps watching you like you might disappear if he looks away too long.

“You don’t have to hover,” you say gently.

“I’m not hovering.”

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m sitting,” he corrects.

You raise a brow.

He sighs.

“Okay, but—you told me to come in.”

You smile faintly.

There’s a pause.

Then—

“You can sit closer.”

The words come out softer than you intended.

He looks at you.

Really looks.

Like he’s trying to read something in your expression.

“Come closer please.”

At that, he shifts the chair forward, just a little.

Still careful.

Still not quite touching.

But closer.

Better.

The next few days settle into something strange.

Not normal.

But… something close to it.

The group comes and goes in waves again, but now it’s different. Less panic. Less urgency. More checking in, more watching you carefully, like they’re all waiting for something to break.

Mike is quieter than usual.

He sticks close, hovering in doorways, asking if you need anything and then not quite believing you when you say no.

Dustin—

Dustin is the hardest.

He doesn’t avoid you.

But he doesn’t relax around you either.

There’s always something tight in his shoulders, something uneasy in the way he watches you move, like he’s waiting for you to suddenly collapse again.

It takes three days before you decide you can’t let that keep going.

You find him in the kitchen.

Alone.

Which is rare.

He’s sitting at the table, elbows propped up, staring at something in front of him that he’s not really looking at.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He startles slightly, like he didn’t hear you come in.

“Oh, um…hey.”

You lean against the counter, careful with your weight.

“What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

You nod.

Then—

“Come here for a second.”

He hesitates.

Then he does.

Slowly.

He sits across from you.

Waits.

You take a breath.

“You’re still scared.”

It’s not a question.

Dustin’s shoulders tense immediately. “I’m not—”

“You are.”

He looks away.

You let the silence stretch.

Then, softer—

“I get it.”

That brings his eyes back to yours.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

You think about that.

“I remember what it felt like,” you say. “When I was lying there. Not being able to move. Not knowing if you were okay.”

His expression cracks slightly, a tremble in his lower lip.

“That’s what you were thinking about?”

“Of course.”

“But you were—” he gestures vaguely, like he can’t bring himself to say it.

“Hurt?” you finish.

He nods.

You shrug slightly. “Didn’t matter.”

Dustin stares at you.

“See, that’s the problem,” he says. “It should matter.”

You hold his gaze.

“It does,” you say quietly. “But not more than you guys.”

That hits him hard.

You can see it.

“You don’t get it,” he mutters. “If you died—”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

Silence.

Then...

“You think I don’t know that?”

Your voice isn’t sharp.

But it’s firm.

Dustin stills.

You lean forward slightly.

“I knew what I was doing, Dustin. I made that choice.”

“Why?”

The question is small.

Childlike.

Honest.

You don’t hesitate.

“Because you guys are important to me.”

He swallows hard.

“You’re important to all of us,” he says.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I could take it,” you say.

He shakes his head immediately. “No, you couldn’t—”

“I did.”

That stops him.

You don’t smile.

Don’t soften it.

You just let the truth sit there and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I got hurt,” you continue. “Yes, but—I got through it.”

Dustin looks at you differently now.

Not less scared.

But… less broken.

“You’re not… messed up from it?” he asks.

You consider that.

Then shake your head slightly.

“No,” you say. “I was scared. I was in pain. But I’m not… stuck there.”

You point to your temple, a small reassuring smile on your lips.

His shoulders drop just a little.

“Really?”

“Really.”

A pause.

Then, quieter...

“I’m glad it was me.”

That startles him.

“What?”

“I’m glad it was me and not you.”

Dustin stares at you for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then he lets out a small breath, like he’s deciding something.

“…You know he called you stupid, right?”

You blink.

“I’m sorry—what?”

Dustin shrugs, like he’s suddenly unsure if he was supposed to say that. “Yeah. In the woods. When he found you. He was like—” he gestures vaguely, voice pitching lower in a rough attempt to mimic Steve, “—‘that was stupid, that was so stupid,’ while he was carrying you.”

You just stare at him for a second.

Then huff out a quiet, disbelieving breath.

“Wow.”

Dustin winces slightly. “In a worried way.”

“God—” you huff out a laugh. “I would hope so.”

“Definitely in a worried way.”

You shake your head, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your mouth now.

“That sounds like him.”

“Yeah,” Dustin says, a little more solid now. “It really does.”

There’s a small pause.

Then he adds, almost like an afterthought...

“He called you ‘baby’ too.”

That one lands differently.

Your expression shifts, softer now, something quieter slipping in.

“Yeah,” you murmur, a faint, knowing smile pulling at your lips. “That I do know, yes.”

Dustin watches you for a second, something easing fully in his shoulders now.

Then...

Slowly...

He nods.

And for the first time since the woods, he looks like himself again.

And Steve—Steve notices the shift.

Of course he does.

He always does.

“What did you say to him?” he asks later that night, leaning against your doorframe again.

You glance up from your bed.

“Nothing special.”

“He looks… better.”

You smile faintly. “Yeah. I think he is.”

Steve watches you for a second.

“You sure you are?”

You sigh.

“Steve.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

You set your book aside.

Look at him fully.

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

His jaw tightens.

“Because I’ve been there.”

That catches you off guard.

“With the bats,” he adds quietly. “After… everything. Everyone kept telling me I was fine. That I made it. That I should just move on.”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t fine.”

Your expression softens.

“Oh.”

He shrugs slightly. “Takes a while to admit that.”

You nod slowly.

“I know.”

“So when you say you’re okay—”

“I mean it,” you cut in gently.

He hesitates.

You shift slightly, ignoring the ache, and pat the bed beside you.

“Come here.”

He does.

This time without hesitation.

Sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush.

“I’m not pretending,” you say quietly. “I’m not pushing it down. I’ve thought about it. I’ve felt it.”

He watches you carefully.

“And?” he asks.

“And I’m still here,” you say simply.

That lands.

He exhales slowly.

“Okay.”

You lean your head lightly against his shoulder.

“Okay.”

And this time, he believes you.

At least a little.

It happens the next afternoon.

You follow the smell before anything else.

Something warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way that settles into your chest before you even realize it. You pause in the hallway for a second, leaning lightly against the wall, listening.

Pans. Movement. The soft clink of utensils.

Steve.

Of course.

You push yourself off the wall and make your way into the kitchen, slower than you would have a week ago, but steady.

He’s at the stove, back turned, sleeves pushed up, focused in a way that almost makes you smile. There’s something very… Steve about it—serious over something simple, like he’s taken full responsibility for whatever he’s making.

You lean against the doorway, watching him for a second.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Which is your opportunity.

You step in quietly.

“Hey.”

He jumps slightly, turning fast, eyes immediately scanning you from head to toe.

“Jesus! Hey. You can’t just—” he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You need to stop doing that.”

“I only said ‘hey.’”

“Yeah, after you appeared out of nowhere.”

You smile faintly.

Then step closer.

He notices that.

Of course he does.

“…What?” he asks, already suspicious.

You tilt your head.

“You’re cooking for me.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “That’s… what people do when someone’s recovering from almost getting themselves killed.”

“Wow.”

“Too soon?”

“Very.”

He winces slightly. “Yeah, okay, fair.”

You take another step closer, stopping right in front of him now. Close enough that he has to tilt his head down just slightly to look at you.

And then...

“You called me baby.”

Steve doesn’t freeze this time.

He barely even pauses, just shifts his weight slightly, like he’s already decided he’s not going to give you what you want that easily.

“Hey, did you eat yet?” he says instead, reaching past you for something on the counter like that was the conversation all along.

You blink.

Then narrow your eyes.

“Steve.”

“What?” he says, too casually, grabbing a glass and turning away from you. “I made food. You should—”

“Steve.”

He sighs under his breath, still not looking at you. “You should sit down before you—”

“Nope.”

You step forward before he can finish, closing the space between you in two quick steps.

His mistake is turning back toward you.

Your mistake...

is not stopping.

Your hand lands flat against his chest, just over his heart...and before he can react properly, you push.

Not hard.

But enough.

Enough to make him take a step back...then another—until his lower back hits the edge of the counter with a soft thud.

He lets out a surprised breath, hands coming up instinctively, not to stop you, just… reacting.

“Whoa—hey—”

“You called me baby,” you repeat, standing right in front of him now, closer than you’ve been since everything happened.

There’s no escaping it now.

His eyes flick down to your hand still pressed against his chest.

Then back up to your face.

You can see it... the shift.

The way he realizes deflecting isn’t going to work.

He exhales slowly, a little less steady than before.

“…Yeah,” he says.

No denial.

No pretending.

Just that.

You tilt your head slightly, watching him.

“Yeah?” you echo.

His jaw tightens just a fraction, like he’s still deciding how much he’s willing to give you here.

“You were bleeding,” he says, quieter now. “Dustin was freaking out. I wasn’t exactly...thinking about word choice.”

“Oh, it counts,” you interrupt immediately.

That earns you a look.

Not sharp.

Just… caught.

“That does not count,” he tries, but there’s already less conviction in it.

“It absolutely counts.”

Your fingers press slightly into his shirt as you say it, not aggressive, just enough to make your point.

He huffs a breath, glancing away for a second like he’s regrouping.

Then back to you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.

“You like me.”

That lands.

Again.

He doesn’t argue it this time.

Doesn’t even try.

“…Mhm,” he admits quietly.

Your heart stutters, but you don’t let it show.

Instead, you lean in just slightly, still holding your ground.

“Which means,” you say, voice lowering just a touch, “you owe me something.”

His brows pull together faintly.

“…I owe you something?”

“Yes.”

There’s a beat.

He searches your face, like he already knows where this is going and is trying to get ahead of it.

“For calling you—”

“For calling me baby,” you correct.

That does it.

His composure cracks, just slightly.

A flash of something softer, more flustered, slipping through.

“That is not...those are not equal things.”

“They absolutely are.”

He lets out a quiet, almost helpless laugh under his breath, head tipping back briefly before he looks at you again.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you called me baby.”

He shakes his head.

But he’s smiling now.

Just a little.

“…What do I owe you?” he asks.

You don’t hesitate.

“A date.”

He stills.

Just for a second.

Not frozen.

Just… taking it in.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

Your hand finally drops from his chest, but you don’t step back.

Not yet.

“You owe me a date,” you repeat.

He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair again, that familiar mix of flustered and fond settling over him.

“You really cornered me for this, huh?”

“Mm. I did.”

Another beat.

Then—

his expression shifts again.

Softer now.

More careful.

“Not yet.”

And there it is.

You blink.

“…What?”

“Not yet,” he repeats, gentler this time.

You immediately frown, because what did he mean not yet?

You finally had him confessing and now you had to wait?

 “Steve—”

“You’re still healing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You walked in here holding your side.”

“I was not—”

“You were,” he says, raising a brow.

You open your mouth.

Pause.

“…Okay, maybe a little.”

“Exactly.”

You cross your arms slightly, stubborn now. “I feel better.”

“I know you do,” he says. “That doesn’t mean you are better.”

You step closer again, tilting your head up at him.

“I can sit at a table and eat food, Steve. I’m not asking you plan something super active.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to explain something without sounding like he’s overreacting.

“I just don’t want to rush this,” he says. “And then you push too far because you think you’re fine and—” he stops, jaw tightening slightly, “—and I have to watch you get hurt again.”

That softens you.

Immediately.

“You’re not responsible for that,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try anyway.”

There’s a pause.

The tension shifts.

Less playful now.

More real.

You sigh softly.

“…You’re really not going to give in on this, are you?”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

A beat.

Then—

“But I will take you out.”

Your eyes flick back up.

“When?”

“Give it some time,” he says. “When you’re actually steady. When I’m not watching you every two seconds.”

You huff.

“You do realize you were hovering earlier, right?”

He gave you a look. “You’re acting like I didn’t just admit that.”

You try to hold onto your argument.

You really do.

But—

“…Fine.”

He smiles.

Soft.

Relieved.

“Fine,” you repeat, poking him one last time.

“But I’m holding you to that date.”

“You should.”

And without thinking—

his hand comes up to your waist, steadying you as you shift.

It lingers.

Just a second longer than it needs to.

Your breath catches.

His eyes flick down.

Then back up.

For a moment, everything goes quiet.

“Go sit down,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes.

But you go.

And when he turns back to the stove—

you don’t miss the way his shoulders stay just a little tense.

Or the way he keeps glancing back at you.

The date happens a few nights later.

It’s small.

Intentional.

Steve picks you up like it’s the most normal thing in the world, even though you’ve both been circling this moment for days.

“You ready?” he asks, leaning against your doorframe.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He looks you over, not in a way that makes you self-conscious, but it's a little in a way that makes you feel… sexy, while he's also trying to make sure you are fine.

“Don’t overdo it,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “We’re going to dinner, not running a marathon.”

Then you poke his side, waggling your eyebrows and winking at him. “Or did you have other very active plans with me?”

“Wh—What? No.”

You laugh.

“Okay, mom.”

He huffs.

But he’s smiling too.

When you walk into the restaurant, it's quiet.

Warm.

Dimly lit.

Not too crowded.

Perfect.

You slide into the booth across from him, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

Just… looks.

And then... “You look good,” he says.

You blink.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your cheeks warm slightly.

“You do too.”

He smirks. “I always do.”

“Ego.”

“Confidence.”

You laugh.

And just like that, it’s easy.

The conversation flows naturally, like it always has, but there’s something different under it now. Something softer. Something more aware.

His foot brushes yours under the table.

Doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

You catch him looking at you more than once.

Not subtly.

Not accidentally.

Just… openly.

And every time...your heart stutters.

Back at his place, the air shifts.

It’s even quieter now.

Closer.

More intimate.

He takes your jacket, his fingers brushing yours in the process.

Neither of you pulls away immediately.

“You tired?” he asks.

You shake your head.

“No.”

He nods slowly.

Then steps closer.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.

But still giving you space.

Still letting you decide.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “About being careful.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

His hand comes up slowly, resting against your waist.

Gentle.

Grounding.

Your breath catches slightly.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

And that's all he needs.

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Careful.

Like he’s testing something—like he’s still half-expecting you to pull away, like this might break if he moves too fast.

His lips brush yours once… twice… lingering just long enough to make your breath catch.

Then you lean in.

And something in him gives.

The kiss deepens—not rushed, not desperate—but intentional. Warmer. Firmer. His hand tightens at your waist, fingers pressing just a little more into you as if to anchor you there, to make sure you’re real.

Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, pulling him closer—closer until there’s no space left between you, until you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath against your own.

He exhales softly into the kiss, a low, almost quiet sound that feels like it’s been waiting under the surface for a long time. His other hand comes up, slower this time, brushing along your side before settling just beneath your ribs—gentle, but grounding, like he’s still being careful even as he pulls you in.

Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.

He notices.

Of course he does.

And the next time he kisses you, it lingers longer—deeper—his head tilting just enough to shift the angle, to make it feel different, fuller, like he’s letting himself feel it now instead of holding back.

There’s warmth building between you.

Slow.

Steady.

The kind that settles low in your chest and spreads outward.

And when you breathe his name against his lips—

he stills for half a second.

Then pulls you just a fraction closer.

Like he’s been waiting to hear it like that.

It’s not rushed.

Not desperate.

It’s intentional.

Every movement.

Every touch.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s making sure you’re really here.

Still here.

And when you pull back slightly, breath uneven, forehead resting lightly against his—

He whispers—

“You’re okay, baby.”

You smile, the warmth spreading in your whole body.

“I told you already.”

He shakes his head slightly, needing more confirmation.

“I am okay, baby.”

Then he kisses you again.

And this time, there is no hesitation.

No fear.

Just you.

Him.

Extended warnings: no foreplay, kinda!public sex, unprotected piv (stay safe), creampie, no aftercare—Rhett is very sweet to reader though

The dust hadn’t even settled in the arena when the crowd erupted. The clang of the gate still rang in the air, and Rhett Abbott tugged off his gloves, chest rising hard with the aftermath of the ride. He tipped his hat to the stands, that easy half-smile of his, sweat and grit catching the light, muscles flexing as he shook out his arms. Another ride, another win, another reminder that he still had the fire.

But then he saw you.

At first, he thought he was imagining it—like the heat or the roar of the crowd had tricked his eyes. You were leaning casually against the fence, arms folded just so, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. Your hair caught the late-afternoon sun, glinting gold, and your eyes sparkled with that same mischievous glint he remembered from his childhood.

Fifteen years. Fifteen long, slow years since you’d left Wabang, your family moving away just before you both hit that awkward stretch of adolescence. He’d thought he’d gotten over it—or at least tucked it away—but seeing you now, fifteen years older, impossibly radiant… it felt like someone had yanked a thread he hadn’t realized was still hanging loose.

He blinked, nearly did a double take. Fifteen years since you’d left Wabang. Fifteen years since the two of you had been kids chasing each other barefoot through the fields, dust kicking up behind you as you raced toward the creek, both swearing you’d touched the fence post first. Afternoons had been measured in grass-stained jeans, dares to climb higher into the cottonwood tree, scraped knees and shouted laughter echoing over the wide Wyoming land.

He could still see you perched on the wooden fence with a Popsicle melting down your wrist, daring him to catch a frog with his bare hands, both of you shrieking when it jumped higher than expected. Summer nights had ended with fireflies in mason jars and whispered promises under the stars—childish, unsteady vows that you’d never let life pull you apart.

And then came the day you moved away. You were only ten, him barely eleven, but he remembered it with a clarity that still ached. The packed boxes in the back of your dad’s truck. The way your mom’s smile trembled as she waved goodbye. You’d stood there, chin wobbling but determined, promising to write letters, to keep calling, to never forget.

He hadn’t said much—words never came easy to him, even then—but the moment the truck pulled away, he’d felt it. Like something had been carved out of his chest and carried off down the road with you. That dull ache had followed him for weeks, months, until time smoothed it into a quieter kind of missing. And yet, standing here now, staring at you after all these years, it came rushing back, sharp and alive as if no time had passed at all.

Here you were. Not a memory. Not a screen pixel. Real. Right in front of him.

And God help him—you were stunning.

The kind of stunning that made his mouth go dry, his pulse spike, and his carefully guarded composure teeter on the edge. You’d grown up in ways he hadn’t imagined, yet there was that spark of the kid he’d known, flashing in the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the subtle laugh that hit him straight in the chest.

“When did you get hot?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if that alone could make the sight disappear.

By the time he’d hopped the fence and walked toward you, you were laughing—bright, warm, the same sound that used to undo him back when you were kids.

“Nice ride,” you teased, tilting your head at him, that hint of mockery making his chest tighten. “Didn’t get thrown once.”

“Guess I had to impress the hometown vet,” he shot back, the words slipping out quicker than he meant them to. His tone was teasing, sure, but his eyes gave him away—lingering just a little too long, running over you like he was trying to match the memory of the kid he’d known with the woman standing in front of him now.

As soon as it left his mouth, he tugged at the brim of his hat, half-hiding the grin that threatened to give him up entirely. He hadn’t planned on saying it, hadn’t planned on letting you see even a flicker of the pull you had on him already. But the truth was, you’d knocked the wind right out of him just by being here, and for the first time in years, the rodeo wasn’t what had his pulse racing.

Your brows lifted, amused, and your eyes danced with that old teasing light. “So you heard.”

“Small town,” he muttered, tugging at the brim of his hat, suddenly restless. “Word gets around fast.”

And his eyes couldn’t stop tracing you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again, only this time with no kid’s naivety to soften the edges. The sunlight kissed your skin in a way that made you glow, a warm gold that clung to your shoulders and neck, catching in your hair like fire. There was a rhythm to the way you moved now, an effortless sway, every step measured and sure, nothing like the gangly kid he used to chase through fields. You carried yourself with the kind of confidence that only came from years of living, of becoming, and it tugged at something deep in him.

Then there was your mouth—God help him, your mouth. He remembered it laughing wide at some dumb joke he’d told when you were ten, grinning around a Popsicle stick, muttering secrets that weren’t supposed to matter but somehow did. Now, though? That same curve was sharper, fuller, shaped by time in ways that made his chest go tight. Every thought he’d been suppressing since you left, every pang of what-if and maybe-someday, rose to the surface with a heat that made his pulse stumble.

He’d had a crush on you back then—sweet, harmless, the kind of affection that belonged to childhood. But this? This was nothing like that. This was deeper, sharper, hotter, threaded with an ache that felt like hunger. You weren’t just the memory of scraped knees and fireflies anymore. You were standing in front of him, grown, breathtaking, and more than he’d ever let himself imagine. And it hit him all at once: he’d never really stopped wanting you. He’d just been waiting without realizing it.

“I figured I’d surprise you,” you said softly, a little shy now, the easy confidence of the vet he’d heard about mingling with something vulnerable in your voice. Your voice had changed, the faint lilt of your old Southern drawl has significantly softened over the years, yet he could still hear it threading through your words in the most captivating way.

“You sure as hell did,” he said, voice low, his gaze dropping just briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes.

The words weren’t about the rodeo. They weren’t about the win. They were about right now. About the electricity crackling in the air between you, the tension that had been simmering for years, the unspoken pull that made his heart hammer in ways that had nothing to do with riding bulls.

You stepped closer, and Rhett’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the magnetic draw that had been building silently through your texts and online chats, through old memories he’d tried not to dwell on. He remembered every detail of you—your laugh, your stubborn streak, the way your hair would fall into your eyes when you were concentrating—and now, standing here, fifteen years older, impossibly beautiful, the old crush had ignited into a wildfire.

“I… wow,” he finally said, voice rough, catching on the weight of the moment. “You look… you’ve always been… damn.”

You laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, that self-conscious little gesture that had never changed. “Still stuttering, Abbott?”

He smirked, though it faltered as he tried to focus. “Guess some things never change,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer. The smell of sweat, and leather clung to him, making the tension between you all the more palpable.

“I’ve… I’ve been meaning to come to a game,” you admitted, voice softer now, vulnerable in a way that sent a jolt straight to his chest. “Wanted to see you ride. And… maybe see you.”

“See me?” His chest rose a little faster. “You’ve been seein’ me plenty online.”

“Not like this,” you said, eyes locking on his. “Not in person.”

The old childhood familiarity, the comfort, the teasing—it all tangled with this new current, the yearning, the fire. Rhett felt it deep in his chest, a pull he couldn’t resist. His hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach for you, to hold you, to bridge the fifteen-year gap in one impulsive motion.

He wasn’t letting you slip away again. Not now. Not ever.

“You’ve… you’ve changed,” he murmured, voice low, filled with something raw, something he hadn’t meant to let surface. “But… in all the right ways.”

You stepped closer, and the space between you shrank until the world narrowed to the two of you, the dusty arena, and the sound of your hearts pounding in sync. That smirk, that mischievous glint in your eye, made him inhale sharply. “I could say the same about you,” you teased, though your pulse betrayed you, quick and wild.

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the arena, but neither of you noticed. Years of waiting, of memories, of half-formed crushes and missed opportunities, condensed into this one electrifying moment. Rhett’s hand twitched, yearning to brush your cheek, to take your hand, to pull you close.

“You know,” he finally said, voice low and rough, “I never forgot you.”

“I didn’t either,” you admitted, a whisper, and the heat in your chest flared, unstoppable.

And in that dusty arena, with the crowd dispersing and the roar of the rodeo fading into the evening air, Rhett realized—this wasn’t just a reunion. This was the start of something impossible to ignore, a pull fifteen years in the making.

And it set his intention in stone, he wasn’t letting you slip away again.

The thought stayed with him long after the rodeo dust settled—after he brought you home. He brought it to his own home, to the shower, where the sting of hot water did nothing to quiet the memory of your smile, the way your eyes had lingered on him. Fifteen years of distance couldn’t undo what had been there, not for him. Seeing you again only set it all ablaze.

He found excuses to stop by the vet clinic. Pretended his mare needed a checkup more often than she did, or that one of the cattle had a limp. You didn’t call him out on it—not directly—but he caught the amused little glances you tossed his way. And every time your hands brushed his, every time you leaned close to check a bandage or hand him paperwork, Rhett felt his resolve slip a little further.

He didn’t need an excuse to linger nearby, but somehow he always found himself there. You were rearranging the books in the veterinarian section in Wabang’s little library, fingers brushing over spines, hair falling into your eyes as you leaned forward.

You, absorbed in the quiet task, unaware of him tracing every line of your profile. You, laughing softly at a silly passage you’d read aloud, cheeks flushed. You, tilting your head as sunlight spilled across your face, that spark he remembered from childhood now blazing in a whole new, devastating way.

He stayed back, pretending to browse the shelves, but every so often his gaze drifted to you, heart thudding, pulse rising. Every subtle movement of yours—the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the curve of your smile—made him ache in ways he couldn’t ignore. Fifteen years of waiting, fifteen years of distance, and it all came rushing back, hotter than ever.

He never spoke, not yet. Watching you like this, feeling the pull between you, was torture—and bliss.

Every damn thing about you made his chest ache. Made his body burn.

At night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. The way your hand had felt when you shook his—warm, steady, lingering just long enough to make him feel it in his chest. The way you’d tilted your head when you teased him, that soft curve of your smile that had never really left his memory.

He’d lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, your laugh echoing in his head until his body ached with it. He’d picture you close—your breath against his cheek, your lips parting as he kissed you slow, deep, the kind of kiss that unraveled him. His sheets tangled around his legs as he shifted restlessly, every nerve alive with wanting.

Most nights, he’d give in, closing his eyes, letting his hand move as he imagined the weight of you straddling him, your body pressed flush to his. He’d picture the way you’d sound whispering his name, breathless and broken against his ear, and it made his chest tighten, his heart race. His release always came hard, leaving him trembling, but even then it never felt like enough.

Because it wasn’t just your body he wanted. It was you. Your laugh against his skin, your hands tangled in his hair, your eyes meeting his in that unguarded way that had always undone him. No matter how many nights he reached for you in the dark, it only ever left him more certain—he needed the real thing. He needed you.

But Rhett wasn’t reckless with you. Not this time.

He wanted more than just a quick fling. He wanted years—hell, forever. Which meant he waited. Smoldered. Yearned in silence, letting his touches stay fleeting, his looks go unanswered. Letting the tension coil tighter and tighter, until one day, it would have to snap.

And you felt it too. You couldn’t deny it—not when the air around him seemed to hum, pulling you closer without effort. Your laugh softened whenever he was near, warmer, quieter, like it was meant only for him. Your hand would linger on his arm when you passed by, fingertips brushing against muscle in a way that lasted a second too long, just enough for the contact to leave an echo.

And sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes would drift. To the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, and, more often than not, to his mouth. You’d catch yourself staring, heartbeat tripping, and quickly glance away as though the heat of the thought hadn’t already given you away.

It was subtle, unspoken, but it lived in every glance, every brush of skin, every second that stretched too long. A slow, smoldering pull you couldn’t resist—didn’t even want to.

You knew. And he knew you knew.

And still—he waited.

Because when he finally let himself have you, when he finally let all that pent-up hunger loose—he wanted it to be all-consuming. He wanted it to be something you’d never forget.

It happened on a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You’d come by the ranch after a long day, saying you had paperwork for him about one of the horses. He’d invited you to stay for dinner—casual, nothing more—and you had.

But casual didn’t explain the way he couldn’t stop looking at you across the table. Or the way you licked a smear of sauce from your thumb, and his breath caught like he’d been sucker-punched.

After, you followed him out to the barn, both of you laughing about something Amy had said earlier that week. But when you reached the doorway, the laughter fell away, leaving only silence. The kind that buzzed with unspoken things.

You turned, caught him watching you with that unreadable expression. Except this time, it wasn’t unreadable at all. This time it was raw want, blazing clear in his eyes.

“Rhett,” you whispered, like you weren’t sure if you should.

And that was all it took. The leash snapped.

He had you against the wall in two strides, his mouth crashing down on yours like he’d been starving. And maybe he had been—fifteen years of it, all breaking loose at once. His hands cupped your face, then slid lower, gripping your hips, dragging you against him.

The kiss was hungry, messy, teeth clashing until it softened, deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that stole your breath. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound nearly undid him.

“Been thinkin’ about this—fuck—since you came back,” he rasped against your lips, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was rough, wrecked with restraint. “Can’t stop wantin’ you.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt, tugging, urging. “Then don’t.”

He groaned, like you’d given him permission to unravel, and his hands roamed—up your back, down to cup the curve of your ass, pulling you tight to the hard line of him. You gasped, heat flooding you, your own hands sliding under his shirt, greedy for the feel of warm skin stretched over muscle.

His breath stuttered when you touched him, and he kissed you harder, desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to his mouth, while the other slipped beneath your blouse, fingertips brushing bare skin.

“You’re drivin’ me crazy,” he murmured, teeth grazing your jaw, down your throat. “Fifteen damn years, and you come back lookin’ like this… how’m I supposed to keep my hands off you?”

You shivered, nails dragging across his chest. “Maybe you’re not.”

That broke him. His laugh was low, shaky, before it turned into another hungry kiss, heat rolling between you like wildfire.

He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back against the wooden beam. His hat fell to the dirt, forgotten, his mouth never leaving yours. Every grind of his hips left you both trembling, breathless, desperate for more.

“Tell me to stop,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear, though his body made it clear he didn’t want to. “Tell me—or I’m not stoppin’.”

But the way you kissed him back, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your hips rolled against him—it wasn’t stop you wanted. It was everything.

His warning fell apart in your mouth the second you pulled him closer. No hesitation, no pause—your kiss was your answer.

And Rhett lost whatever hold he’d had left.

He hauled you tighter against him, one hand braced against the beam, the other sliding under your blouse until it palmed bare skin. His thumb dragged over the curve of your breast, tentative for half a second, and then you arched into his touch with a gasp. That was all the permission he needed.

“Christ,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, sucking at the soft skin until you whimpered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your hands scrabbled at his shirt until he yanked it over his head, tossing it aside. Heat radiated off him—every inch of him solid muscle under rough skin, his chest rising hard and fast against you. You touched him like you had a right to, nails scraping lightly over his stomach, and his hips jerked into you, grinding you against the thick press straining his jeans.

“Feel what you do to me?” His voice was broken glass, rough and desperate. “My whole life of wantin’ you, and now—fuck, darlin’, I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t, please don’t,” you whispered again, breath hot against his ear.

He groaned, low and guttural, before his hands went to your thighs, hitching your skirt higher as he lifted you. Your legs locked around him instinctively, and he pinned you against the beam, rutting against you hard enough to make you both cry out.

You fumbled at his belt, clumsy with need, and he cursed, helping you until the buckle clattered loose. The sound of his zipper lowering was drowned by his mouth finding yours again, hungry, consuming, while his fingers shoved your underwear aside.

The first slide of him against you tore a moan from your throat—wet heat against aching hardness. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, holding back even now. “Tell me you need it.”

“I need it,” you gasped, grinding against him shamelessly. “Need you, Rhett—please.”

That was it. That was the last tether snapping.

With one rough thrust, he pushed into you, stretching you, filling you until your nails bit into his shoulders. You cried out, head falling back against the beam, and he groaned, the sound raw, like he’d been starving and finally got a taste.

“Fuck—you feel so good,” he panted, hips pulling back only to slam forward again, harder, deeper. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, heat pooling low and tight until you thought you might shatter.

The barn smelled of hay and sweat, but all you could taste, all you could feel, was him. His mouth on your neck, your shoulder, his teeth catching on your skin as he drove into you with a rhythm that left you trembling.

Your moans echoed in the rafters, mixing with his rough curses, his voice breaking every time he whispered your name. His hand slid between you, finding that bundle of nerves with calloused fingers, circling until your whole body arched.

“That’s it,” he urged, breath hot against your jaw. “Come on, darlin’—wanna feel you lose it for me.”

And you did. The wave hit hard, crashing through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clenched tight around him. That almost ended him.

“Where, baby, where can I—”

“Inside, Rhett baby, please, inside.” At the desperation in your voice, Rhett felt his thrusts faltering, stuttering, until he buried himself deep with a groan that shook through both of you. His release tore from him, hot and heavy, his forehead pressed to yours as if anchoring himself in you.

The first few minutes are just breathing—chest to chest, foreheads pressed together, feeling the tremor of each other’s heartbeat settle. Rhett doesn’t let go. His hands stay on you, cradling your back, brushing your hair from your damp face, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you in this moment.

“You good?” His voice is rough, low, almost a whisper, but every syllable carries weight.

“I’m… yeah,” you murmur, still trembling, knees weak, fingers clutching his shoulders.

He chuckles softly, shaking his head, a sound full of disbelief and something softer—wonder, maybe. “Damn. Thought I might’ve broken you.”

“Just… stunned,” you breathe, letting a laugh slip through despite yourself. “In the best way.”

Rhett dips down, lips brushing your temple in a gentle kiss, then your forehead. His fingers trace down your spine slowly, deliberately, grounding you. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Gotta get you sorted before we end up like this forever.”

You stumble slightly, half from weakness, half from the lingering tension in your body. He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight enough that you’re supported but not trapped. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it hums, quiet now, like embers in the hay—but his touch is calming, steady, making the barn feel less cavernous, more intimate, more yours.

He guides you toward a stack of hay bales, gently helping you sit. He sits beside you, close enough that your thighs touch, your hands finding his again naturally. He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time, almost shy. His earlier hunger has melted into something warm and real.

“I am,” you whisper, leaning into his shoulder. “Thanks… for… everythin’.”

“Always,” he murmurs, a low chuckle slipping past his lips before he can stop it. You lift your eyes to him, curious, and he just shrugs.

“Your accent,” he says, voice husky, teasing, his fingers brushing lightly over yours.

One brow quirks, playful but curious. “My accent? What about it?”

“When I first saw you at the rodeo… it had softened over the years. But now…” His gaze drops to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. “…it’s slipping back, little by little. And it’s driving me crazy.”

You bite your lip, a shiver running through you at the husky tone, and grin, a flush rising to your cheeks. “Guess… you’re bringin’ out the best in me.”

He smirks, leaning closer, the warmth of his chest brushing yours. “The absolute best,” he murmurs, fingers curling around your wrist, tugging you just slightly nearer, like he can’t resist it.

One of his hands cups your cheek, tilting your head toward him for a slow, lingering kiss that tastes of sweat, hay, and desire—but now it’s sweet, intimate. A quiet affirmation that you’re here, together, and this… whatever this is… isn’t going anywhere.

Minutes pass in silence. Your breathing slows, the tremors fade, and you finally allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his arms. Rhett’s hand slides around your waist, holding you like he’s afraid to let go, and you press closer, realizing for the first time that the fire between you isn’t just physical—it’s something deeper, something that’s always been there, waiting.

After you’ve both calmed down and gathered everything again, the two of you make your way out. The barn door creaks as Rhett pushes it open, letting in the cool night air. Stars sprinkle the sky, endless and bright above the prairie. You squint for a moment, adjusting to the light, but it hardly matters—the world feels smaller, more private, because his hand is still wrapped around yours.

He leads you down the dirt path toward the farmhouse, boots crunching against the gravel. Every step feels deliberate, measured, as if he’s memorizing the moment, the way your fingers curl into his, the way your shoulder brushes against his chest. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, like you’ve been carried on a current that’s finally reached shore.

“Do you know,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, “I never stopped thinkin’ about you? Never stopped wonderin’ if… if you’d come back, if you’d still be you, if you’d still make my chest ache just by smilin’ at me?”

You squeeze his hand, unable to speak for the lump in your throat. “I came back,” you whisper, “I’m here.”

He stops, pulling you closer, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. The way he looks at you—it’s not lustful anymore, not just that fire from earlier—it’s something deeper, something permanent. Like he’s looking at the one person he was always meant to find. “Here you are,” he repeats, like a prayer. “And I… I’m never lettin’ you go.”

You smile, a little breathless, a little dizzy from the years of waiting compressed into this single night. “Never,” you echo.

He chuckles softly, tilting your face up to his, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s gentle now, tender, full of promise. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… sure. Anchored in everything that’s come before and everything that’s yet to be.

“Tomorrow,” he says against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you fully, “I’m takin’ you on a proper first date. No rushin’. No distractions. Just you and me. Startin’ the life we’ve been waiting for.”

You laugh softly, and it’s the happiest sound he’s ever heard. “I’d like that,” you murmur, still pressed against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your chest.

He dips his head, resting his forehead against yours, holding you there for a long, quiet moment. The prairie stretches out around you, but for the first time in fifteen years, it feels like home. Not the house you grew up in, not the town you left behind—but here, with him, right now.

“Forever, then?” he whispers, voice rough with emotion and certainty.

“Forever,” you confirm, and it feels like the simplest, truest answer you’ve ever given.

Steve Harrington was not supposed to be the love of your life.

He was supposed to be the boy who lived three houses down. The one your mom insisted you play with because he was “such a sweet kid,” even though he showed up to your first playdate with grass-stained jeans, scuffed sneakers, and a grin that already spelled trouble.

You were eight when he tried to impress you by climbing to the very top of the playground and jumping off.

He landed wrong.

You laughed.

He decided, right then and there, that you were his favorite person.

And that was it.

There wasn’t some big, defining moment where you suddenly became inseparable. It just… happened. He started walking you home from school because your houses were on the same street. You started saving him a seat in class without even thinking about it. He showed up at your door whenever he was bored, and somehow you always were too.

He was the kind of kid who never knocked, just pushed the door open and called your name like he already belonged there. The kind who sat on your bedroom floor while you did homework, even when he had already finished his. The one who convinced you to do things you normally wouldn’t, like climbing fences or staying out just a little too late, just because he made it feel like nothing bad could happen as long as you were together.

Steve Harrington was chaos.

But he was your chaos.

And somewhere along the way, that became something constant. Something steady. Something you didn’t question, because it had always been there.

Middle school changed him first.

Not all at once, but enough that you noticed. He got louder, more confident, more aware of himself and of other people. Of the way they looked at him, the way they laughed at his jokes, the way he could get away with things just by smiling.

You watched it happen in real time, standing just slightly outside of it.

But even then, even as everything else shifted, he stayed the same with you.

He still sat next to you at lunch, still leaned over to copy your homework when he forgot to do his, still called you late at night to talk about nothing until one of you fell asleep mid-conversation. He still looked for you first in a crowded room, still saved you a seat without asking, still made it feel like, no matter what changed, this wouldn’t.

That was what you held onto.

High school was when it became harder.

Because that was when Steve stopped being just Steve and became… someone else. Someone everyone knew. Someone everyone wanted. The kind of person who walked into a room and immediately belonged there, like the space had been waiting for him.

You saw it in the way people gravitated toward him. In the way girls laughed a little too easily at things that weren’t that funny. In the way his attention never stayed in one place for long.

And you told yourself it didn’t matter.

Because you were still his best friend.

That didn’t change.

It couldn’t.

He still sat with you, still walked you home, still showed up when you needed him without you having to ask. He still knew things about you no one else did. Still read you in ways that felt unfair sometimes, like he could see straight through whatever you tried to hide.

But there were moments, small, sharp, impossible-to-ignore moments, where something felt… off.

Like when people assumed you were together, and he’d laugh it off with an easy, “No, we’re just friends,” like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.

Like it didn’t cost you something to hear it.

You tried hating him once.

It didn’t last.

It was after he canceled plans with you, plans you’d made weeks ago, because something better came along. You ignored his texts for two days, convinced that this time you were actually done being the person who always stayed.

On the third night, he showed up outside your window, tossing pebbles against the glass like something out of a cliché movie.

“Are you seriously mad at me?” he whisper-shouted when you opened it.

“Yes,” you snapped.

He climbed in anyway.

“Okay, but like, how mad?” he asked, standing there like he hadn’t just broken into your room.

“You ditched me.”

“I didn’t ditch you.”

“You literally did.”

“I rescheduled.”

“You didn’t even tell me!”

He winced. “Okay, yeah. That part’s on me.”

You crossed your arms, trying to stay angry. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah,” he said, completely unfazed. “But I’m your best friend, so you have to forgive me.”

You stared at him, heart beating in your chest.

Then rolled your eyes.

Then, despite yourself, laughed.

Because that was Steve.

Infuriating, impossible, and somehow still the person you cared about most.

That was the problem.

He was always yours.

Not in the way you wanted.

But in every other way that mattered.

And somewhere along the way, without you noticing exactly when it happened, things started to shift.

It wasn’t obvious. It didn’t happen all at once. It was in the small things, the way his hand would linger just a little too long when he helped you up, the way he noticed when you went quiet and always asked why, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was trying to understand something he couldn’t quite name.

You ignored it.

You had to.

Because acknowledging it meant risking everything. And Steve Harrington was not something you could afford to lose.

So you stayed where it was safe.

Best friends.

Always best friends.

Through graduation. Through the uncertain years that followed. Through auditions and rejections and cheap apartments and dreams that felt too big for where you came from.

Through every version of him.

The cocky one.

The careless one.

The one who slowly, quietly grew into someone better.

He wasn’t that guy anymore. Not really. The charm stayed, but it softened. It stopped being something he used to impress people and became something he used to connect with them. He grew up. He became someone steady. Someone good.

And you?

You were still there. Always there.

Through bad auditions and worse apartments. Through late-night rehearsals and early morning coffees. Through rejection emails and the rare, hard-earned yes. Through every version of Steve Harrington, you stayed.

So when his name was called, “Best Rising Male Star goes to Steve Harrington”, you were already standing before the rest of the room caught up.

Of course you were.

He looked stunned for a second, then laughed as he made his way to the stage, hand running through his hair in that way he still hadn’t grown out of. But when he reached the microphone, when he finally looked out at the crowd…

He found you.

Not the cameras. Not the audience.

You.

“I… didn’t prepare for this,” he admitted, breathless, earning a warm laugh from the room. “Which, yeah, that’s on me.”

You smiled, because you knew him. Knew that behind the humor, this meant everything to him.

“I wouldn’t be here without a lot of people,” he continued. “But there’s one person who’s been there since the very beginning. Before any of this made sense.”

Your chest tightened.

“She knows who she is.”

He didn’t say your name.

He didn’t have to.

The look he gave you said everything.

You felt it, in your heart.

The afterparty was loud, crowded, overwhelming. Steve was pulled in every direction, congratulated, photographed, praised. You stayed close at first, then slowly drifted to the edges, watching him from a distance with a quiet, proud smile.

This was his moment. You didn’t want to take that from him.

“Did you come with Harrington?”

You turned to find a man beside you, someone vaguely familiar. Polished, confident, the kind of man who knew exactly how to stand in a room like this.

“Yeah,” you said. “He’s my best friend.”

“Best friends?” he asked, smiling.

Your stomach twisted faintly and you nodded, giving him a polite smile. “Yeah.”

He stepped a little closer. “That’s surprising.”

You forced a small laugh. “Why?”

“Because if I had someone like you around all the time,” he said, his gaze lingering just a second too long, “I wouldn’t keep it at ‘friends.’”

Before you could respond, a voice cut in.

“Hey.”

Low. Familiar.

Steve.

Your heart skipped.

He stepped in beside you, his presence immediate, grounding, overwhelming all at once. His hand settled on your waist, not casually, not absentmindedly, but with clear intent.

“I was looking for you,” he said, eyes fixed on you.

The man glanced between you both, reading the situation quickly. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Steve didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t even look at him. His attention stayed exactly where it was.

On you.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand was still on your waist, warm and firm, making your pulse spike.

“Didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he said finally.

“Steve…”

“And I didn’t like the way you were looking back.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know,” he cut in quickly, softer now. “I just didn’t like it.”

There was something different in his voice. Not teasing. Not light.

Something real.

“You’re drunk,” you said, trying to steady yourself.

“Maybe,” he said. Then, quieter, “But I’m not wrong.”

Your breath hitched. “Steve…”

“That speech?” he murmured. “You knew that was about you, right?”

“You didn’t say my name.”

“Didn’t have to.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and suddenly everything felt too close, too sharp.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

“Do what?”

“This. Act like this means something different than it does.”

His jaw tightened. “And what does it mean?”

You hesitated. Because the truth was, you didn’t know anymore.

“We’re friends,” you said finally.

The word felt wrong.

Too small.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t sound convinced.

Neither of you did.

“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t.

You didn’t.

That was all it took.

The kiss wasn’t hesitant, and it definitely wasn’t careful. It hit all at once, years of tension, of almosts and what-ifs, snapping tight and then breaking open between you. His hand came up to your jaw, firm and grounding, tilting your face just enough to deepen it, to keep you right there where he wanted you.

And you went.

Like you’d been waiting for this.

Like you’d always been going to.

Your fingers curled into his jacket, pulling him closer without thinking, and he made a low, almost surprised sound against your mouth, like he hadn’t expected you to meet him with the same urgency. But you did. You matched him, breath for breath, step for step, until there wasn’t any space left between you at all.

Because you had been waiting.

God, you had.

Everything after that blurred at the edges, the music fading behind you, the crowd disappearing, the way his hand never left you as he guided you out, like if he let go you might slip away. The cool night air, the car ride filled with something thick and unspoken, your knee brushing his and neither of you moving away.

The way he looked at you when you got upstairs…

like this wasn’t just a mistake.

Like this was something he’d already decided on.

Nothing felt rushed. Not really. Even with the urgency still humming under your skin, every touch felt deliberate—like he was grounding himself in you, like he needed to feel that you were still there, still with him, still choosing this.

His hands didn’t wander carelessly. They traced, slow and certain, learning you in a way that made your breath catch, fingers pressing just enough at your waist to pull you closer, sliding up your sides like he couldn’t decide where to settle, like every place felt just as important as the last. Each touch lingered a second longer than it needed to, like he was memorizing the way you felt under his hands.

And you felt it.

The hesitation beneath the confidence. The way he kept pausing, just slightly, like he was giving you time to stop him, like he wouldn’t go any further unless you let him.

You didn’t.

Your hands found him just as instinctively, gripping at his shirt, pulling him back every time he shifted away even an inch, your fingers brushing warm skin where the fabric slipped, and that small contact alone sent something sharp and electric through you.

It wasn’t just heat.

It was recognition.

The way your bodies seemed to understand each other faster than your minds could catch up, the way every movement felt familiar and new at the same time. Like this had always been there, buried just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment you stopped pretending.

And when his forehead rested briefly against yours, breath uneven, hands still holding you close like he wasn’t ready to let go…

You realized this wasn’t just about wanting.

It was about finally letting yourself have it.

It didn’t feel reckless.

It didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like something that had been building for far too long, finally given a place to land.

It felt inevitable.

—

But… The sickness didn’t hit all at once.

At first, it was easy to ignore. A little off, a little wrong, but nothing you couldn’t explain away. You woke up one morning with a dull nausea sitting low in your stomach, the kind that made everything feel slightly tilted. You blamed it on the season, something going around, maybe. You’d been busy, run down. It made sense.

You pushed through it.

You always did.

The next day, it lingered a little longer. Not strong enough to stop you, just enough to make coffee taste bitter and wrong, enough to make you wrinkle your nose and set the cup aside after one sip. You told yourself it was stress. Things had been… complicated. Of course your body would react to that.

By the third morning, you were waking up with it.

Not just discomfort, something heavier. A wave that rolled through you the second your eyes opened, making you lie there for a few seconds longer than usual, breathing carefully, waiting for it to pass. It didn’t.

Still, you ignored it.

You had things to do. Calls to return. Groceries to buy. Messages to respond to, his messages, you weren’t quite ready to answer yet.

You had talked to Steve a little after you slept together, but it felt different—bad different.

So you kept going.

Until you couldn’t.

Until one morning, halfway through brushing your teeth, the nausea surged so suddenly you barely made it to the toilet in time. Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the edge, your reflection pale and unfamiliar, like you were looking at someone else entirely.

That was the first moment something didn’t feel right.

Not just inconvenient.

Not just explainable.

Wrong.

After that, it got harder to pretend.

Food stopped tasting like anything. Or worse, it tasted too strong, too sharp, too much. Smells you’d never noticed before suddenly turned your stomach. You’d open the fridge and have to step back immediately, swallowing hard as your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

You started eating less.

Then barely at all.

And even when you did manage something small, something safe, your body wouldn’t keep it. It rejected it almost instantly, like it didn’t recognize it anymore, like it didn’t want it.

Your energy dropped with it. Everything felt heavier. Your limbs, your thoughts, even simple things like getting out of bed started to feel like they required more effort than they should.

And Steve noticed. Of course he did. He noticed when you canceled lunch, then skipped movie night with the group, and then backed out of the friendly date you’d planned months in advance—things you would never normally miss.

And beneath all of it, something else began to settle in, quiet at first, easy to ignore if you didn’t look at it too closely.

A realization, slow and persistent, pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

One you refused to name.

Until you couldn’t anymore.

It didn’t come all at once. It surfaced in fragments, scattered and disconnected, thoughts you tried to brush aside the second they formed. A missed date. The timing. The way your body didn’t just feel sick, but… off. Different in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

You tried not to think about it.

You failed.

So you did the math.

Once.

Then again.

And then a third time, slower this time, more careful, like if you went through it step by step, something might change.

It didn’t.

Your chest tightened, breath catching as the realization settled in, heavier now, harder to ignore.

“No,” you whispered into the empty room, shaking your head like that alone could undo it.

But it was already there.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

You waited a day.

Then another.

Like maybe it would fix itself. Like maybe the feeling would pass and everything would go back to normal and you could laugh at yourself for even thinking it.

It didn’t.

So you went to the store.

You stood in the aisle longer than you needed to, staring at the boxes like they might look different if you waited long enough. Like picking one would make it real in a way you weren’t ready for yet.

Your hands felt strangely steady when you finally grabbed one.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might recognize you as Steve Harrington’s best friend. It made you hyper-aware of everything... the way you stood, the way you moved, the way your face might look to a stranger passing by. Your shoulders stayed tense, your gaze drifting just a little too often to the people around you, half-expecting someone to take a second look.

Because the last thing you wanted, right now, especially, was to end up plastered across some TMZ headline, reduced to a blurry photo and a wild assumption you didn’t have the energy to deal with.

The walk home felt longer than usual. Quieter. Like the world had shifted slightly without telling you. Every step felt heavier, like you were carrying something you hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.

You didn’t take the test right away.

You set it down on the bathroom counter and just… looked at it for a while. Your reflection in the mirror looked back at you, uncertain, pale, eyes just a little too wide.

“This is stupid,” you muttered under your breath. “You’re just overthinking.”

You almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you didn’t.

The process itself was quick.

Too quick.

A few seconds that stretched into something unbearable, your heart pounding too fast, your breath shallow as you stared at something so small that somehow felt like it could change everything.

You told yourself you wouldn’t look until the time was up.

You looked anyway.

One line.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, a strange feeling flooding through you so quickly it almost made you dizzy, telling yourself it was relief.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay, see? It’s fine. It’s—”

The second line appeared.

Faint at first.

Then clearer.

Then undeniable.

Your stomach dropped, a gasp stuck in your throat.

“No,” you said again, softer this time, like the word had lost its strength.

But it didn’t matter.

It was there.

Two lines.

Clear as day.

Your knees felt weak as you slid down the wall, the test still in your hand, your mind struggling to catch up with what you were seeing.

Pregnant.

The word didn’t feel real.

It didn’t feel like it belonged to you.

And yet, you didn’t need to take it again.

You already knew.

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your stomach, resting there lightly, like you were trying to feel something that wasn’t there yet.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

The room felt too small.

Too quiet.

Your thoughts came all at once after that, fast, overwhelming, impossible to organize.

Steve.

You had to tell Steve.

Of course you did.

There was no version of this where you didn’t.

Your chest tightened again, but this time it wasn’t just fear. It was something else too. Something softer. Something fragile and uncertain but still there.

He deserved to know, had the right to know.

And you, you wanted him to know.

You wanted to see his face when you told him. Wanted to hear what he’d say. Wanted, maybe, something you hadn’t let yourself hope for yet.

So you reached for your phone.

Your fingers hovered over his name.

You hadn’t really spoken to him in days. Not properly. You’d told him you weren’t feeling well, that you couldn’t meet up like you usually did. He’d replied the way he always did, soft, easy, telling you to get better soon and to text him when you felt better again.

You never answered that last message.

So now, sitting there with your phone in your hand, you tried to fix it. Your screen lit up with his name, the thread of unanswered messages staring back at you, and your chest tightened just a little.

Your fingers hovered.

You were so close.

So close to calling him. So close to hearing his voice. So close to saying it, everything you’d been holding in, everything that had changed without giving you time to catch up.

You just had to press one button.

And then, your eyes fell on a message.

A notification.

You almost ignored it. Almost.

But something made you look.

And that’s when you saw it.

A headline.

Bold. Loud. Impossible to miss.

Steve Harrington Dating Co-Star?

Your heart dropped.

A gasp stuck in your throat.

You tapped it before you could stop yourself.

Photos loaded.

Steve, smiling, relaxed, familiar.

And her. Babette Highmore.

Standing close to him.

Too close.

Her hand on his arm. His head tilted toward hers. The kind of angle that made it look like something it maybe wasn’t, but still.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You knew how this worked. You knew rumors. You knew PR. You knew how easy it was for moments to be twisted into something they weren’t. You knew it didn’t necessarily mean anything.

But knowing didn’t stop the feeling.

Didn’t stop the way your stomach twisted, sharper than before.

Didn’t stop the quiet, creeping doubt that slipped in anyway.

Because suddenly, you questioned what you were to him.

One night?

One mistake?

So you shook it off, stood up straight and pulled away.

Stopped answering calls. Stopped replying to messages. Stopped showing up even more.

So, by the seventh day, he was at your door.

You barely made it to the bathroom before you got sick again, knees hitting the tile, your stomach twisting painfully.

You didn’t hear him come in.

Didn’t realize he was there until...

“Hey, hey, hey—”

Steve.

You groaned weakly. “Don’t look at me.”

“Too late,” he said, already beside you, pulling your hair back gently.

Your heart clenched.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry clear in his voice.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been sick for more than a week now, so this is not nothing.”

Silence.

“Did something happen, did you eat something bad?” he asked more urgently.

That broke you.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air.

You couldn’t look at him.

“What?”

Not angry. Not panicked.

Just surprised.

“I was going to tell you,” you said quickly. “But then I saw the rumors of you and Babette and I didn’t know if… If I meant anything to you or if it was just—”

“A mistake?” he finished, almost incredulously.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you admitted.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

“You.”

You blinked.

“That night wasn’t a mistake,” he said. “It was the first time I stopped pretending I didn’t want you.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve wanted you for years,” he continued. “I just didn’t think I was good enough for you.”

“And now?” you whispered.

“Now I’m not letting you walk away because of something that isn’t even real.”

Tears blurred your vision.

“You’re not mad?” you asked.

“About what?” he said. “You’re carrying our baby.”

Something in his expression softened, then brightened in a way that made your chest ache.

“That’s… kind of the best news I’ve heard all week.”

You stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m serious.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Terrified,” he admitted, taking your cheek in his palm. “Just not of this.”

You smiled through your tears, nuzzling into his palm.

“You just threw up,” you said suddenly. “I don’t think you should kiss me.”

He smiled.

“I don’t think I care.”

“Well, I do, so give me a second, please.”

He let out a soft huff but didn’t argue, instead helping you gently to your feet. He handed you your toothbrush, already lined with toothpaste, lingering close while you leaned over the sink. You could feel his presence behind you, steady and warm, his eyes on you in a way that made your stomach flip despite everything. Domestic.

You focused on the simple task, trying to ignore the way your heart was beating just a little too fast under his attention.

When you finished, you rinsed your mouth and turned toward him, a little bashful now, a little unsure, but still looking at him like you were inviting him closer.

And this time, he didn’t wait.

This kiss was softer. Slower. Full of something deeper than before. Not just want, something steady. Something real.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “We’re doing this,” he murmured.

You nodded. “We’re doing this.”

Two hours later, your phone exploded with notifications.

You opened it, and there it was.

A photo of you.

On his Instagram.

Caption: Took me long enough. She’s always been it for me.

You looked up at him, laying behind you and smiled.

He shrugged, smiling, hand trailing over your belly in the softest way. “What? I wasn’t gonna let anyone else try their luck again.”

You laughed softly, your heart full in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time.