Steve grumbled. "Five more minutes." His arm snuck out to you, wrapping around your waist and bringing you back into the warmth of his chest and your covers.

"No, Steve-" you tried to protest before he started to convince you. A move of his bare hips against yours, his teeth nipping at your neck, hands roaming your chest. "Steve, mom's making breakfast."

He hummed as if he was listening but he pulled you further into him, holding you tight. "Five more minutes."

"I'm serious," you laughed.

"So am I."

You rolled your eyes and turned in his grasp to look at him. Through the sleep in his eyes and the mess of his hair, Steve pushed himself to lean up on his elbow, your covers slipping down his bare torso as he looked down at you. "Your hair," you chuckled, ruffling the mess of it.

He hummed, kissing you sweetly. "Hmm, and who's faults that?"

"Yours."

You remembered last night, Steve picking you up from school to go catch a film, bringing you back late in fits of laughter and roaming hands. You'd taken him to your room, turned on the music and spent all night in complete love with him.

When under the disguise of night you could have Steve to yourself. Without anyone bothering you, moms smothering you or brothers to question motives.

After all, it was no secret Jonathon Byers disliked Steve Harrington.

Steve had spent most of the night down on the bed, your head nestled between his thighs or on top, riding him slow and steady, taking all the time in the world until you were both a withering mess.

You shook your head against his lips. "Yours."

Steve broke away, looking down at you. For a moment, it looked like he was going to argue but his eyes softened. "You're so beautiful."

If Jonathon could see how Steve looked at you he'd never have any reason to doubt the kind of relationship the two of you had.

Steve flattened himself against you until you could feel the half-hardness of his stock stirring against your hot core. He moved atop you, caging you into the bed with no way of escape. Your hands crawled up his shoulders, pulling him in.

His hand slithered under you to your backside, squeezing the skin until you gasped and he could swipe his tongue into the warmth of your mouth. "I- I need you," he panted.

"But breakfast-"

"Screw breakfast, I need you." Steve kissed you like you were the only thing he'd be eating-

The door creaked open.

"Dude, what?!" you pushed Steve off you quickly, the both of you scrambling to cover yourself up.

Your little brother stood in the door way, taking up most of the space with his height the closer he got to seventeen. A hand covered over his eyes. "Mom's been calling you for food for five minutes."

"Jesus, Will, do you knock?" you complained. "You can open your eyes by the way."

He did so but kept his eyes up to your eyes. "Breakfast is getting cold," he said, quickly leaving.

"Door!" you called.

But it wasn't Will that tracked by to close your door, Jonathon was making his way by and paused in front of your door. He offered you a small morning smile, peeking into the mess that usually was his room. The curl of his lips dropped when he noticed the Steve shaped lump in your bed.

Steve stretched out. "Morning, Byers."

Your older brothers eyes were less than warm when they looked back at you and closed the door gently.

"Great."

Steve pushed the covers off him, walking around to gather his clothes thrown about the place and dress. "Breakfast will be fun."

You both dressed quick, throwing boxers and panties to each other, pulling down shirts while you pulled Steve's hoodie over you before walking out.

Ah- a full house. There was a space between your brothers for you and Steve to slip into, across from Hopper and El who were already making their way through their Ego's.

It wasn't new, having Hopper and El around and it wasn't like they didn't know about your boyfriend, Steve 'the hair' Harrington. But there was still silence as you sat down.

"Morning everyone," you greeted with a smile.

Hopper looked from you to Steve like he was playing disapproving dad. "Morning."

"Juice, honey?" offered Joyce, ready to get the carton from the fridge.

Steve stopped her, jumping up at once. "I've got it."

Joyce settled down. "Oh, thank you, Steve."

"It's no problem."

Steve was always on his best behaviour with your mom, doing everything to get her acceptance when he already had it. He'd proven he was great with Will and his friends and had proven more than once that he was willing to lie down his life for you and your brother(s). She didn't like that him and Jonathon had got into a fight years ago, but she liked that it was Steve that came out in cuts and bruises.

He set the juice down, pouring you a glass and topping up El's before filling his own.

There was silence again.

"Did you sleep well?" your mom asked.

"Oh yeah, great nights sleep," said Steve as he set his arm on the back of your chair.

Will chuckled to himself, on account of his room being un-fortunately next to yours, Jonathon's along the way.

Jonathon and you passed a look to Will who quietened down.

Steve chuckled away his blush but his hand moved from the back of your chair to under the table, gripping your thigh tight. Whether he was nervous or still getting hard under his jeans, you couldn't quite tell.

Jonathan tried to get the conversation back onto track. "I can give you guys a lift to school on my way into work."

"Don't sweat it, man, I've got it," shrugged Steve, taking a bite of the eggs Joyce made him. "Hm, oh, great eggs Mrs Byers."

"Oh, thank you Steve. And I've said, you can call me Joyce," she smiled.

"Yeah, she's said it a hundred times, Steve, call her Joyce," Jonathon all but snapped.

You looked at him, kicking him in the shin.

He kicked right back at you.

"Hey, what's going on?" snapped your mom.

You and Jonathon looked at her. "Nothing." you both dove back into your food, just like you were children again, getting caught arguing over tapes of The Clash.

Steve straightened, his fingers digging into your jeans. "I was just saying, Jonathon, I don't have work for another hour. Plenty of time to drop them off."

"But it's not on your way, it's on mine," said your brother.

"Yeah but your shift starts before mine, I have plenty of time to drop them off."

"I can drop off my own sister."

"I'm just offering to drop off my girlfriend, it's no big deal," said Steve, smiling over at you.

You knew Steve meant well, and Jonathon probably did to. He just was better at showing how badly he wanted to get back at Steve rather than take you to school with Will and El. "Jonathon, Steve's right, he's not working till eleven. Your shift starts in half an hour."

Jonathon took a deep breath but relented. "Fine, go with Steve. I'll take Will and El."

"Or we could all just go with Steve?" Said Will, as it made more sense but there wasn't much that needed to make sense to Jonathon at that point.

"No, you'll come in my car," said Jonathon. "Let's go."

He was already up and out of his chair, ditching his plate in the sink on the way out.

Joyce sighed. "Jonathon!"

Silence invaded the table again but your appetite left the room with your brother. Steve's hand soothed you, his thumb stroking up and down with care.

"You have bruises," said El, speaking up. She gestured to your neck where blue and purple marks were blooming. "There."

Steve chocked o his eggs.

Sometimes you wished El wouldn't talk as much as she did.

"Well I think I wanna go school now, Steve?" you pushed out of your chair, getting your boyfriend to follow you quickly before Joyce or Hopper could look to closely.

Will was too busy smirking down at his plate in amusement.

"Er- ow, um, thank you for the breakfast Mrs Byer- Joyce- Joyce! It was very nice, thank you!" Steve stuttered as you grabbed both of your bags and rushed out from the house.

────────────────────

It was funny, looking back at it in the car with Steve. Your makeup bag was perched in your lap as you did your best to cover up the marks that Steve had left on you. They ran down your neck all the way to your chest. You were just thankful you didn't have gym.

"My god, I'm never gonna be able to show my face again," said Steve, holding his head in his hand.

"It's your fault!" you argued.

"Mine!?"

"Yes! If you weren't so needy you might not have gone so crazy, painting me like you're god damn Bob Ross!"

Steve scoffed. "What? Like you weren't enjoying it."

"Well I'm paying for it now," you said, patting down more powder on the marks. "God, I hope Jonathan didn't see, he'll kill you."

"Please-"

"Do I have to remind you when he beat your ass-"

"That was years ago and that was different you know it," said Steve, turning down a bend. "If we were to ... you know... get down to it now I would-" he glanced your way and caught the narrowing of your brows and the glare- "not hurt him because he's your brother."

You nodded, soothing your gaze. "Thank you."

"But do I not get some slack?" asked Steve, rubbing the stress away from his forehead. "Yes I was a dick back then but I think I'm better now."

You had to admit it, you'd never have considered dating the guy that beat up your brother and smashed his camera. You were dating that Steve that realised his wrongs and ditched all his ways, the Steve that always got your mom and Will Christmas presents, and always got Jonathon more camera equipment around that time of year. You dated the Steve that learnt to do your hair because your arms ached when you did it, the one that held you every night because you were terrified you'd wake with Will missing again or monsters crawling through your walls.

You were dating the Steve you loved.

You smiled. "A lot better."

Steve glanced your way and took your hand, kissing the back of it before dropping it in his lap.

The drive the rest of the way was silent but content.

Steve pulled up front of the school, students already piling in. He cut the engine and tugged your hand till you looked his way. "Hey, why don't you come round mine tonight? My parents are gone till Monday, it'll just be us."

"Just us?" you asked, teasing him with the raise of your brows.

"Yeah. You know, we can... study," he lifted his shoulders.

"Study?"

Steve glanced down to your lips. "Yeah study. Whole place to ourselves," he leant in, the hot breath of his mouth ghosting over your ear as he whispered. "Study in the living room... the kitchen... the pool."

"The pool?" you teased as his teeth nipped at your skin. "Won't I get wet?"

"Hm, that's what I'm hoping for."

You moved your head back, smashing your lips to his so hard that you could feel the indent of his teeth. But neither of you cared as Steve released your seatbelt along with his, the both of you scrambling over the console to get a hold of each other. His hands were firm around your neck, yours tangling in his hair at once and tugging till he whined.

"Baby," he mumbled against your lips. "Baby we gotta stop or-"

You kissed him, never relenting. "Or what?" You whispered, voice dropped low.

Steve smirked against you. "Or you’re not getting to class on time."

"Bummer."

Steve surged for you, drawing you close, so close you were seconds away from climbing over the console when there was a honk from a car parking right up next to you.

"What the-"

"Geez-"

You both turned, looking out your window and finding Jonathon, red in the cheeks, fumbling with his seatbelt.

Steve deflated in his seat, shaking his head. "Oh, come on."

You winded the window down as Jonathon got out the car, almost throwing his car door into Steve’s. It would’ve been a big thing. There was only one thing Steve loved more than you. His car. "Jonathon, what?"

El and Will got out, sneaking their way into school, glancing over their shoulder in case they missed anything that was about to happen.

"Nothing," he said. "Just making sure you get to class."

"I’ve got it, Byers," said Steve.

"Really? Cause that’s not what it looked like to me."

"Jesus, what I can’t kiss my girlfriend bye before school?"

Jonathon spluttered. "Not the way you were doing it, no!"

"Alright-" you got out of Steve's car with no announcement. You stood across from your older brother, folding your arms over your chest. "This has got to stop, Jonathon."

"He's-"

"He's with me," you said. "I get it, okay, I do, you don't like Steve for past grievances and cause he dated your girlfriend. You think I like that, I don't-"

Steve stepped out the car, loitering with his door open.

"But that's the past and I love him," you said.

Jonathon gulped, the muscles in his jaw moving as he clenched. His eyes looked past you to Steve. There was almost something sheepishly sorry in his gaze then.

"I love him so much," you tell him, knowing Steve was behind, listening, perhaps feeling guilty with how you had to defend your love because of the douche-bag he was before. You took your brothers hand. "And I love you so much. I respect that you don't always like Steve but for my sake please can you at least act happy for me."

"I am happy for you, I just... I..." he trailed off because there was nothing else he could say to defend himself and his feelings. "I don't want you to get your heartbroken. I couldn't bare it."

Your brothers heart was big, bigger than most would understand. The both of you had looked after each other, especially with your mom's keen eyes always on Will, it was important Jonathon looked after you and you him.

It was just now, you also had Steve to look out for you.

Jonathon wasn't used to that.

You squeezed your big brothers hand once more before letting it go. "I've got to go to class now, okay? I'll see you at home tonight, we can watch a film or something?"

Jonathon took a deep breath and nodded, backing to his car. "Alright. Sure. Just... get to class, and stop making out in the parking lot. Kids go here."

Steve walked around his car, glum in expression with your bag in hand. He mocked a salute. "Will do, Byers."

Jonathon reversed out the space slow, giving Steve one more careful glance. He drove off and Steve fell back against his car.

"You're not coming around tonight?" he pouted.

You rolled your eyes and leant next to him. "I wouldn't miss alone time with you for the world."

Steve's brows furrowed. "But you said you were catching a movie."

"Watching a movie doesn't take all night, Steve," you said, reaching over to sooth the crease between his brows. "Pick me up at nine?"

Realisation dawned on him and slowly, he broke out into a grin. "I love you."

"I know," you said. You figured spending time with your brother would ease tensions. No Steve, just you and the family. That way, you could spend a weekend un-interrupted with him.

Steve slung your bag over your shoulder, kissing you sweetly before he left you to the rest of the day.

And for the rest of the day he was left dreaming about all the things he'd do to you when he had you alone.

────────────────────

Jonathon had picked a horror film, which was no surprise to you.

Even if you jumped at every pounce of the music and flinched every time there was a jump scare, Jonathon loved these films. He loved to see you scared and then laugh, breaking down what was actually happening, the melted bubble-gum or smoke machine they used for the effects. It seemed he knew every camera trick.

Will and El sat on the floor, a bowl of popcorn and plate of Ego's shared between them.

The movie ended by eight, when the sun was setting and you were left with jitters in your skin.

But your torture had the desired effect as Jonathon was laughing, smiling, forgetting you were dating the 'worst guy on earth' in his opinion. You went to bed, exhausted from school and Jonathon was happy to let you go.

By nine, Steve was dragging you through the door of his house, pushing you up against it and slamming it shut in the progress. His lips were quick on yours, prying them apart until your teeth nipped at his bottom lip, drawing it out in a moan.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you," he groaned, hands cupping your neck as he slid his tongue in your mouth, fighting to own it.

Your lips curled into a grin as you tilted your head back. "You saw me this morning."

Steve pulled away and smiled at you, peeling off his jacket. "Tell me about it."

Your hands were clumsy as they pushed Steve's jacket from his shoulders, wrapping you arms around him to draw him in.

Steve kissed your neck, hands in your hips as he dragged you away from the door and through his house. Neither of you were letting up, stumbling your way in as Steve kept one hand on you, the other searching around the wall for a light switch. "I can't-"

"What?" you mumbled, hands, fiddling with his belt.

"The light."

Steve looked aside to find the light switch, turning them on but you'd already dragged your lips down his neck, biting playfully at his flesh. His large hand held the back of your head, keeping you there a moment longer until your hand ran over the clothed harness of his cock. He fisted your hair and pulled enough to get your lips again.

His hands pulled at your top, yanking it over your head and throwing it aside. You both found your way up against another wall, gasping at the cold press of it.

Your dragged your hands under Steve's shirt, feeling the hardness of his back and the hairs on his chest.

Steve's tongue ran over yours, making a mess of your mouth while his fingers pulled at your jean buttons, getting them lose enough to slide his hand in and feel how wet you were. "Oh baby," he cooed.

Your mouth was stuck agape as he wasted no time, sliding two fingers into you. Your breath came out shaky, taken by Steve who was so close his nose nudged yours. His fingers pumped close, coaxing out your want.

"St-Steve."

"Tell me you love me," he said, his fingers steady, his thumb ghosting your clit. There, without putting any pressure there.

"I-I love you."

He kissed you quick as you moved your pussy into his hand, grinding, stealing his breath as much as he was yours. "I love you," his words were lost in lips and tongue.

His thumb pressed into your clit, circling it.

You humped his hand quick, aching for the feel of it all. Everything he could give you.

You panted, the feeling of your orgasm dawning too soon. "Steve!"

He withdrew his hand and lost no time. He dropped to his knees with a thud, pulling your jeans and panties down in one immediately and shoving his face between your thighs.

"Ah-"

Steve grabbed your hand that sort for anything to hold onto and pushed it into his hair. He did it all without a break in his devotion to making you come with his tongue and lips. He moaned into you, his tongue diving between your folds, sucking.

"Jesus, Steve." You bit down on the back of your hand.

Steve flicked your clit once, pulling away and pressing a kiss to your thigh. "We're alone," he reminded you, kissing over your folds. His ran his thumb between it. "We're alone, you can moan."

You dropped your hand, eyes squeezing shut as you leant your head back. You'd always been so quiet, Steve sneaking into your room or the supply room at family video. The idea of making as much noise you liked was too good a dream.

Steve grabbed your calf, helping it out the last of your jeans and throwing it over his shoulder. He sucked, slurped, anything he could and the noises around the entry to his home were damn right pornographic. He moaned into you, feeling the vibrations.

He held your thigh, fingers digging in until the skin around your leg was bleaching white. Steve whined into you. "Please moan."

What Steve Harrington wanted, Steve got...

You moaned, lips pursed but when he sucked on your clit, diving his fingers into you and curling you were left breathless against the wall of his family home. "Bab-baby-"

He nodded. "That's it baby, come on, come on my face please," he practically whined. "Please, I love you so much, please-"

Your hands combed back his hair as you un-knowingly pushed his head into your pussy as you came down. If it wasn't for the grip he had on your thighs you'd have slumped right there.

Steve took his time, slower in cleaning up the mess you made, letting you catch your breath. When your chest stopped heaving he slowly took away his fingers and knelt back.

If your brother knew it wasn't just love Steve had for you, it was damn right devotion, he'd never have questioned his intents.

Steve pulled off his shirt as he got to his feet, pulling off his belt and shoving down his trousers.

You, on the other hand, went down to the floor, shaking off the last of your clothes and un-clasping your bra, throwing it over to the front door.

You crawled the last of the way to Steve, sinful.

"Baby, no, no," said Steve panicked as you set back on your heels, right in front of his hard cock. "I want to- be inside you."

It wasn't that Steve didn't like head, he loved it. Your tongue, him hot and heavy but he preferred it when it was on a bed or on his carpeted floor, not the hard wood down stairs.

You didn't object. You didn't try to unleash him. You just laid your head against his cock, rubbing it like it was pillow. Your greatest comfort.

Steve's mouth was agape but he didn't know what to say. He combed his hair back, head throwing back in the air. "God- fu-fuck baby. You're so good, so, so good. My favourite girl... only girl," he mused as you rubbed your face against him, licking up and around without even taking him out. There was a bead of pre-cum leaking at his head and you collected it through his boxers.

As your fingers dipper past the elastic Steve grabbed your arms and forced you up. He kissed along the bruises he left the night before, holding you steady as your body curved into his.

"Where do we begin?" you asked, breathless as your eyes closed in bliss. You felt him grin against your neck.

He guided you by the hips, leading you to the living room and guiding you onto the edge of the sofa. He sat you on the edge and kissed you again, slower, feeling the edges of your mouth and sharing each others taste between them.

You helped him out of his boxers.

The both of you were bare, bathed in only the light from the hallway.

Steve looked all around you, hair falling in front of his eyes. "Tell me you love me."

You never got tired of saying it, he always needed to ask. "I love you. You're so good to me."

"Always gonna be good for you," he said. He wrapped his hand around his cock, edging it close to your pussy. He ran it up and down, using your orgasm to lubricate him up. The both of you shuddered at the ghost of the feeling that could be. "Want to be a better man for you. Gonna make you so proud."

"I am, Steve. I am. Please just," you arched your back, close to falling off.

"Please what?" he asked, smiling down at you.

Your eyelids were hooded, eyes dark as you looked up at him. Your hands ran down the smooth of his back, taking his ass and helping him inside of you.

It was always a stretch with him. The delicious burn before the pleasure took over. It was always slow then it wasn't but it was always, always, love.

Steve eased into you and eased out before the thrusts began. Before he held a hand on the small of your back and another under thigh to rock into you, hips snapping into yours as you stretched around him.

He said be as loud as you could but the both of you were gasping in pleasure, maybe moaning here and there before your lips met and it began again.

Steve rested his forehead against yours, rocking into you. He had your ass in the palm of his hands (literally), urging you up and down his length.

"St-Steve-" you held onto his shoulders.

His face was screwed up in concentration, to at least try and last a little longer. He'd been waiting... well, since this morning to have you. "I know, I'm gonna," fuck, with your warmth enveloping him, he didn't stand a chance. "I'm gonna-"

Boom! Boom! Boom!

There was a sudden quick pounding on his front door that rattled the house and both of you.

Steve stilled.

The pleasure wasn't lost in its entirety, after all you were still wrapped around him but the moment was lost.

"What the hell?" you mumbled.

"It's probably nothing," he said but settled you down on the edge.

The both of you had been through enough to know that the good things came fleeting and never lasted. A pounding like that at the door was never a good thing.

Steve could feel your anxiety. Had someone gone missing? Were the monsters from your nightmares since you were sixteen back? He eased out of you. "Hey, hey, it's probably nothing."

The pounding was still there though.

You set yourself down quick on your feet, stumbling only slightly as you grabbed the first shirt you got.

It took Steve a moment longer to collect himself. "Wait- baby, hold on-" he grabbed his boxers, throwing them on and tumbling after you.

But you were already at the door and swinging it open in only Steve's shirt.

Steve was behind you a second later and-

Jonathon.

The three of you were all left in silence. You, half dressed in Steve's shirt that was luckily like a dress to you. But Steve on the other hand was sweaty and hard in only his boxers.

"Sh-shit." Quickly he stepped behind you, using your body as a shield. "What the hell are you doing here Byers?"

It took a second for him to explode.

"You were missing and I find you here!"

There was a call of static.

Walkie Talkie.

"Jonathon do you have eyes on your sister?" Dustin's voice called through.

Your brows shot up. "You called a search party?"

"We didn't know where you were!"

"Take a guess!" you snapped. "Maybe try calling before getting half of Hawkins on the case!"

"I did call!" he yelled. "Five times!"

You and Steve were silent, stuttering.

"We were, um..." Steve brushed back his hair. "Busy."

Jonathon swung back, stressed, a hand to his head like their mom when she was lost in the moment. "Why didn't you just say you were going?"

"Well you haven't exactly been keen for me to be with Steve!"

"No, I haven't and I'm still not!" he argued. But there was only so much of an argument he could have with you when you both stood there hardly dressed. His chest rose and fell with his breaths. "But I'd rather know you're safe then..."

Guilt ate at passion inside of you. Rather then thinking you were missing.

You gripped the door to keep yourself steady. You always wanted to know your brothers plans- both, so you could pin point where they'd be and when so nothing would ever happen to either of them ever again.

You hadn't even considered it when you took Steve's hand and snuck out your window. "I'm sorry, I should've told you."

Jonathon didn't look anywhere else but your eyes. Slowly, he nodded. "Me too," he said. "Sorry you felt like... you couldn't tell me."

The three of you stood there, something like bonding happening while Steve was still in boxers you'd been licking at moments ago. And the thought had him stirring in them again.

The walkie crackled again. "Jonathon! Do you copy?"

"My god, will you shut that up!" said Steve. "The last thing I want to hear right now is Henderson's voice."

Jonathon did so, simply saying he found you safe, with Steve. It was a mercy he didn't mention the lack of clothing. He backed away from the door, stuck in his un-sure ways of leaving you or taking you back. "Just... just get it over with and come home in the morning."

Steve grabbed the door above your head. "Yep, can do, thank you, Byers!" he called, waving.

Jonathon paused but not with anger. There was a blush at his cheeks and he reached into his jacket, his wallet coming out next. He threw something back at you.

You caught it before you realised what it was. "Oh, Jonathon!"

A condom. Seriously?!

"Just- if you're gonna do it, be safe."

The three of you parted ways, you and Steve safe inside and making sure he was in the car and driving away before you gave up.

Steve plucked the protection from you. "Ha, who knew he had it in him."

"Steve," you complained, throwing the door shut.

"Did he think I don't have enough?"

The talk about the condom your brother gave your boyfriend was almost enough to put you out the mood. Almost...

Steve drew you back into him, still hard. He tugged the collar of his shirt down to kiss along the base of your neck. "Where were we?"

“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.

“Just tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”

Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—” 

“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.” 

You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should. 

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms. 

“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air. 

He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."

"We're still by the door."

“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.

Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. 

You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.

Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones. 

"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”

"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"

"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.” 

His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”

“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”

“Clearly.”

“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”

Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.

“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you. 

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”

"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.

"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.

"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."

"Hi."

His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"

"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"

“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."

He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.

"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."

"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.

“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?” 

He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.

"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.

"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin. 

His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped. 

A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”

“Yeah.” 

“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”

“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”

His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.

"Steve—"

"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—

Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body. 

Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well. 

It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning. 

“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.

Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.

But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—

“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”

The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps. 

“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”

You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”

"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"

"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"

You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.

"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"

"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."

"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."

Steve went very still. "What?"

“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”

“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer. 

You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…

Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.

"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”

“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”

You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."

You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.

“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”

“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.

“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”

“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”

"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."

“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”

He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”

The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?

"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."

"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.

"I know how that sounds—"

"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"

"No—"

"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"

"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.

“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.

“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—” 

“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh. 

He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”

The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face. 

As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed. 

You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that. 

You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking. 

“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried. 

His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”

You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.

"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"

“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."

"Steve—"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—

"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.

His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"

"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."

"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."

You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"

"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."

You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.

"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."

Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.

"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."

"Okay."

He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."

Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.

He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.

"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.

He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—

"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."

His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."

The door closed softly behind him.

Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again. 

But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.

Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.

You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.

And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.

And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember. 

He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars. 

A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening. 

His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.

You were leaving.

The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—

His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.

You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—

“You just gonna sneak out?”

You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?

You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”

And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did. 

“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. 

“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”

“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”

“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” 

“You’re right.” He held up his hands. 

“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”

You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life. 

He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”

You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”

Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.

You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.

Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.

You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered. 

You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere. 

What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.

There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.

“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”

Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air. 

“Is it Nancy?”

You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out. 

His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”

Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart. 

“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.

“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”

His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now. 

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.

“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”

“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”

“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.

“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.

"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”

You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.

“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”

“I know—”

“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”

“I don’t know—”

You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”

“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!” 

The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways. 

You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”

“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?” 

“That is not what I meant—”

“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”

“No—”

“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”

His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”

You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.

“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”

“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”

His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there. 

He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier. 

But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this. 

“I should go,” you said quietly.

“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”

You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”

You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.

You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.

You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.

You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm. 

So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.

You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.

But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.

Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.

Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.

You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.

Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”

“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.

Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.

He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.

"Hey."

The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.

Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.

“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.

“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.

“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.

“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.

Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”

“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”

Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.

"I should—" you started.

"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.

You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"

It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.

You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.

So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing. 

When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?” 

“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.” 

“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed. 

Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when. 

“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve. 

The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.

It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"

"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."

Emily took her position. The music started.

And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.

"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."

"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.

“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”

“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”

Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him. 

“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.” 

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”

“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”

“It’s good.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.” 

You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.

"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."

"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.

Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”

You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”

He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”

You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym. 

You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot. 

“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you. 

Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”

“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”

“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”

“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”

"Emily, I swear to god—"

Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.

“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."

"Steve—"

"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."

You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.

the glow of your desk lamp was the only thing lighting your room by the time you finally looked up from your history notes. outside, the sky had gone dark hours ago, the faint sound of crickets slipped through your cracked bedroom window. your pencil rolled from between your fingers as you stretched your arms above your head with a groan.

you hated homework.

not because you were bad at school, you actually did pretty well, but because hawkins high suddenly seemed obsessed with making everyone miserable this year.

especially with that stupid new program.

speak up!

even the name sounded fake cheerful.

principal higgins had introduced it last monday during assembly, standing awkwardly behind the microphone while half the gym ignored him.

“students can anonymously communicate with one another for educational assistance,” he’d explained proudly. “it’s designed to encourage collaboration and improve grades schoolwide.”

translation?

people who were too embarrassed to ask for help could hide behind fake usernames instead.

at first everyone thought it was ridiculous.

tommy hagan had loudly called it “nerd tinder,” earning laughs from half the basketball team while teachers pretended not to hear him. even your friends spent lunch making fun of it.

you did too, honestly.

because seriously, who was actually going to use some weird school messaging board to ask strangers for chemistry help?

apparently a lot of people.

you stared at the chunky old computer sitting on your desk. it hummed loudly by the time it turned on, the screen flickering slightly before stabilising. your parents bought it for christmas years ago after you begged them for one, though now it was mostly used for homework and occasionally typing essays before the printer jammed for the hundredth time.

still, it worked.

eventually.

you chewed the inside of your cheek before leaning forward and typing in the school website address.

the login page for speak up! popped onto the screen.

you almost backed out immediately.

this was dumb.

you had friends if you needed help. normal people had friends. or classmates. or literally anyone else besides anonymous weirdos online.

but, you kinda understood the idea.

there were definitely people at school who acted too cool to ask questions in class. people who’d rather fail than admit they didn’t get something.

plus, maybe some kids just didn’t have anyone.

with a small sigh, you clicked register username.

after thinking for a second, your fingers typed:

uptowngirl

creative? no.

but the billy joel song had been stuck in your head all week and honestly you couldn’t think of anything else.

once you logged in, a long list of posts appeared on the screen.

and wow.

people were actually using this thing.

messages filled the page.

can someone explain algebra 3 page 52?

need help studying for bio test.

is anyone good at essay editing?

you blinked.

okay. maybe principal higgins wasn’t completely insane.

your eyes scanned lazily down the page until one username made you snort.

farrahfawcettspray: Need help with chem homework. Seriously desperate.

you laughed quietly to yourself.

there was no way that was a guy, right?

you literally had the exact same can of farrah fawcett hairspray sitting on your dresser.

for a second you considered logging off, but you had already finished the chemistry assignment. and it honestly wasn’t that hard once you understood it.

before you could overthink it, you clicked their profile and typed:

uptowngirl: hey, you said you need help with chem?

you expected to wait at least a few minutes for a response.

instead one came instantly.

farrahfawcettspray: Please

you smiled despite yourself.

dramatic.

you started trying to explain the worksheet the best you could.

uptowngirl: okay so for number 4 you have to balance the equation first

farrahfawcettspray: What equation

you stared.

uptowngirl: the one on the page?

farrahfawcettspray: Oh jesus christ

a laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

for the next twenty minutes the two of you went back and forth. you genuinely tried helping at first, but after realising they seemed completely and utterly lost, you finally gave up and just started feeding them the answers directly.

honestly, whoever they were, chemistry clearly was not their thing.

finally another message popped up.

farrahfawcettspray: You’re a lifesaver, thanks uptown girl

you frowned for half a second before remembering that was your username.

uptowngirl: no problem farrah

a response came immediately.

farrahfawcettspray: Don’t call me that

you grinned.

uptowngirl: goodnight farrah

you logged off before they could answer.

shutting down the computer took nearly five whole minutes, the thing whining dramatically as the screen slowly faded black.

you got ready for bed afterward feeling strangely… good. like you’d actually helped someone.

-

the next morning at school, you told your friends about it during lunch.

“wait,” your friend laughed around a mouthful of fries, “you actually used speak up?”

you groaned. “only once.”

“oh my god.”

“shut up.”

“was it romantic?” another teased dramatically. “anonymous study flirting?”

you rolled your eyes. “they barely knew what an equation was.”

that got another round of laughter from the table.

still, you found yourself smiling too.

the whole thing was kinda funny.

by the end of the day you’d almost forgotten about it completely.

hawkins high emptied fast once the final bell rang, students flooding into the parking lot in loud clusters. you adjusted your bag higher on your shoulder as you headed toward the front doors, already mentally preparing yourself for the walk home.

your house wasn’t exactly close.

but the shortcut you found through the side streets cut the trip almost in half.

the october air was chilly enough to sting your cheeks as you walked, leaves crunching beneath your shoes. the neighborhood was quiet this time of day, most people still at work.

you were halfway down the street when you heard a car slow behind you.

your heartbeat jumped instantly.

you turned slightly and immediately wished you hadn’t.

a familiar bmw rolled beside you.

of course.

steve harrington sat in the driver’s seat, one hand lazily on the wheel. tommy was leaned halfway across the passenger seat already grinning like an idiot while carol lounged in the back.

you rolled your eyes and faced forward again.

keep walking, ignore them. easy.

the car crawled beside you anyway.

“hey!” tommy called.

you kept walking.

“hey sweetheart, why’s a pretty girl like you walking home all alone?”

carol smacked the back of his head immediately.

“god, tommy.”

“ow-”

from the corner of your eye you caught steve shooting tommy some annoyed look before glancing at you briefly.

you just smiled sweetly then flipped them off without breaking stride.

there was a beat of silence then tommy barked out an offended laugh.

“bitch!”

the bmw sped off ahead of you with a screech.

you sighed heavily.

god, you hated those people.

tommy and carol were the worst, loud, mean, constantly acting like hawkins high revolved around them.

and steve harrington?

honestly, you didn’t know him enough personally to hate him the same way but the rumors definitely didn’t help.

every girl in school seemed obsessed with him for reasons you couldn’t understand beyond the hair and the stupidly perfect face. supposedly he’d dated half the girls in hawkins already, and every story made him sound more arrogant than the last.

definitely not your type, not even close.

by the time you finally got home, the sky had darkened into deep blue.

the house was empty.

your parents were both working late again.

you dropped your bag by the stairs, called out a halfhearted “hello?” anyway, then headed upstairs after grabbing a soda from the fridge.

you weren’t really hungry.

your room was warm compared to the chilly outside air, and you immediately sat at your desk with a sigh, pulling your homework toward you.

math first.

then english.

then maybe death.

after about twenty minutes, your eyes drifted toward the computer sitting beside you.

the screen was dark.

you hesitated then reached over and turned it on.

the machine groaned loudly in protest.

“c’mon” you muttered.

eventually the screen flickered to life.

you logged into speak up! mostly out of curiosity.

the second your profile loaded, a notification popped up instantly.

1 new message from farrahfawcettspray

your eyebrows lifted.

you clicked it.

farrahfawcettspray: I failed the chem quiz

you laughed before typing back.

uptowngirl: that sounds like a you problem

three dots appeared almost immediately.

farrahfawcettspray: Wow. Cruel.

uptowngirl: you survived though

farrahfawcettspray: Barely

you smiled a little without meaning to.

there was something weirdly easy about talking like this. maybe because you didn’t know who they were. no awkwardness. no trying to act cool.

just words on a screen.

another message appeared.

farrahfawcettspray: You got homework tonight?

uptowngirl: obviously

farrahfawcettspray: Wanna help me again?

you snorted softly.

hopeless, completely hopeless. and somehow, for some reason, you typed back anyway.

uptowngirl: fine. but this is the last time, farrah.

there was a pause.

then:

farrahfawcettspray: You really like calling me that huh

you grinned at the screen.

maybe this whole speak up thing wasn’t so stupid after all.

-

somewhere along the way, logging onto speak up! became part of your routine.

you’d get home from school, dump your bag by your desk, complain your way through homework, eat whatever leftovers were in the fridge, then eventually sit down in front of your computer with the quiet expectation that there’d already be a message waiting for you.

and there usually was.

sometimes it was something dramatic like:

farrahfawcettspray: I think Mrs o’donnell genuinely enjoys watching teenagers suffer.

or-

farrahfawcettspray: If i fail math i’m becoming a criminal.

other times it was just:

farrahfawcettspray: You there?

simple.

stupidly simple.

but somehow it always made you smile.

you didn’t really talk to anyone else on the site anymore. not because you meant to stop helping other people, it just.. happened naturally. every time you logged on, you found yourself clicking the same username first.

and apparently he did too.

you learned pretty quickly that “farrah” was definitely not a girl.

that discovery came after nearly two weeks of talking.

uptowngirl: serious question

farrahfawcettspray: Uh oh

uptowngirl: why the hell is that your username if you’re a guy

there’d been a long pause before the reply finally came through.

farrahfawcettspray: My sister was talking about hairspray when i made the account

you stared at the screen.

huh.

that actually made sense. kind of.

uptowngirl: still weird

farrahfawcettspray: You’re literally named after a billy joel song

fair point.

you didn’t learn much else about him after that.

not big things, anyway.

he wasn’t great at schoolwork, that became painfully obvious very quickly, but he didn’t seem stupid. honestly, sometimes he said things that surprised you. little observations that were funny or weirdly thoughtful in ways you didn’t expect.

mostly though, your conversations were random.

complaining about teachers, ranting about homework, talking about the absolute freaks wandering the halls of hawkins high.

without naming names, obviously.

farrahfawcettspray: Someone left their lunch in the locker room and it smelled like sweaty fish for a week

uptowngirl: what does sweaty fish even smell like

farrahfawcettspray: Death

or

uptowngirl: i watched someone trip over absolutely nothing in the cafeteria today

farrahfawcettspray: That might’ve been me

uptowngirl: honestly wouldn’t surprise me

you started looking forward to those conversations more than you probably should have.

it was weird.

because you didn’t know him, not really. you tried figuring it out sometimes, usually while lying awake at night after logging off.

you mentally ran through people at school constantly.

who had a sister? who hated chemistry this much? who wanted a big family someday?

who said they wanted to buy an rv and drive around the country because “hawkins is depressing as shit”?

who admitted they could only sleep on the side of the bed closest to the wall because they were scared something would grab their ankle from underneath?

that one had made you laugh so hard you almost woke your parents up.

uptowngirl: you are literally a child

farrahfawcettspray: You say that now until a monster grabs your leg

uptowngirl: from under the bed??

farrahfawcettspray: YES

uptowngirl: you’re insane

but the more you thought about it, the more you realised the things you knew about him weren’t really things that narrowed anyone down.

they were too personal, too strange.

you couldn’t exactly walk through school looking at people and think:

yeah, he definitely sleeps facing the wall because he’s scared of bed monsters.

or

that guy absolutely wants six kids someday.

it didn’t work like that.

maybe that was the point, maybe this was all supposed to be.

just some weird invisible string tying you to a stranger.

still, was it weird that you felt like you liked him? not even physically, you didn’t know what he looked like.

didn’t know his voice, didn’t know how he laughed or walked or what color his eyes were.

but after weeks of talking every single night, it started feeling like you did know him in a way.

you knew the version of him behind the screen. you knew he was dramatic. and funny. and kind of an idiot.

you knew he hated peas with an alarming amount of passion, you knew he procrastinated every assignment until the absolute last second. you knew he got attached to stupid things easily because he once spent ten full minutes ranting after losing a lighter he “connected to.”

you knew him.

just not who he actually was.

just not who he…

was.

yeah.

oops.

-

one friday night, your friend convinced you to stay over at her house.

between movies, junk food, and listening to her complain about her ex-boyfriend for almost two straight hours, you honestly didn’t think about the weird little web page once.

not until the next afternoon when you finally got home.

your house was quiet when you walked in, duffel bag slipping from your shoulder onto the floor with a thud.

almost immediately, your brain went:

check the computer.

which was ridiculous, completely ridiculous. still, you headed upstairs.

the computer took forever to load like always, buzzing loudly while the screen slowly flickered alive.

you logged in and immediately saw two unread messages.

your stomach did a weird little flip before you could stop it.

farrahfawcettspray: Never guess what happened to me today

then, sent hours later:

farrahfawcettspray: Tough crowd

you smiled automatically.

god.

you typed back quickly.

uptowngirl: sorry! stayed at my friend’s house last night

uptowngirl: what happened??

the response came almost instantly like he’d been online already.

farrahfawcettspray: I got home and realised i left my window open

uptowngirl: okay?

farrahfawcettspray: There was a fucking fat frog sitting on my bed

you burst out laughing alone in your room.

actually laughing.

uptowngirl: you’re lying

farrahfawcettspray: Why would i lie about this

uptowngirl: because frogs can’t climb houses??

the typing bubble appeared immediately.

farrahfawcettspray: THEY CAN

uptowngirl: no they can’t

farrahfawcettspray: One was literally on my bed

uptowngirl: maybe it walked in

farrahfawcettspray: Through a second story window??

uptowngirl: good point

farrahfawcettspray: Thank you

for the next twenty minutes, the two of you argued about frog climbing abilities. twenty whole minutes. which honestly should’ve concerned you more than it did.

eventually you leaned back in your chair, smiling at the screen like an idiot.

god, he was stupid.

the thought came naturally now. comfortable. fond, almost.

and immediately after that came another thought.

was he?

you frowned slightly at the screen.

because really you didn’t know.

you didn’t know if he was tall or short, popular or invisible, funny in real life or just online.

you didn’t know if you’d even like him face to face and somehow that was the strangest part of all.

feeling this connected to someone whose face you couldn’t even picture.

-

more weeks passed so quickly it almost made you sick.

somehow talking to him had become the most normal thing in the world.

you’d wake up, go to school, come home, and somewhere in between all of it you’d find yourself thinking about whatever stupid thing he’d said the night before.

sometimes you caught yourself almost telling your friends about him before stopping at the last second.

because what even was he?

some anonymous guy from school you talked to every night?

it sounded ridiculous when you thought about it too hard.

still, the conversations never stopped. if anything, they got longer, easier.

and lately, you could tell you were both trying, very discreetly, to figure each other out.

not outright asking names or anything obvious, just little things.

tiny questions hidden inside normal conversation.

farrahfawcettspray: What were you wearing today?

you’d immediately narrowed your eyes at the screen.

uptowngirl: why

farrahfawcettspray: Curious

uptowngirl: that sounds suspicious

farrahfawcettspray: Or maybe i just care deeply about fashion

you snorted.

another time

uptowngirl: you said your shoes got soaked today. what shoes?

farrahfawcettspray: Nice try

you’d rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

it became a game after a while.

you weren’t even sure if you wanted him to know who you were, that was the weird part. it wasn’t that you were embarrassed of yourself. you weren’t.

but after months of talking like this, what if he’d built some version of you in his head that didn’t match reality?

what if you disappointed him?

or worse what if he disappointed you?

it was stupid, completely stupid, but you couldn’t stop the thoughts anyway.

-

today had felt normal at first.

cold morning air, crowded hallways, just another day at hawkins high. then suddenly over the speakers came principal higgins’ voice.

“all students report to the gymnasium for assembly.”

the entire school groaned collectively.

you slumped back in your seat.

“if this is about safe sex again i’m leaving” your friend muttered beside you.

the gym was loud when everyone piled in, sneakers squeaking across the polished floor as students shoved into bleachers. you sat wedged between your friends half-listening while principal higgins adjusted the microphone awkwardly.

“i’ll keep this brief” he started.

already a lie.

you zoned out almost immediately until one phrase suddenly snapped you back to attention.

“the speak up! program-”

your head lifted.

“-will officially be shutting down at the end of the semester.”

your stomach dropped.

“…what?” you muttered under your breath.

around you, barely anyone reacted.

a few students laughed.

someone yelled “finally.”

principal higgins kept rambling.

“unfortunately, participation has remained low, and despite initial hopes, there hasn’t been a significant increase in overall grades-”

your friends looked entirely unbothered.

“knew that thing was stupid” one of them whispered.

“seriously who even used it?”

you forced out a little laugh along with them.

but honestly? you barely heard the rest of the assembly. because all you could think was the guy. how were you supposed to talk to him now? would you still talk to him?

would he even want to?

“the website will officially close four weeks from today” principal higgins finished.

four weeks.

shit.

-

that night, the first thing you did when you got home was turn your computer on.

you probably would’ve anyway but now it felt different.

the machine hummed loudly while loading, and for once you sat impatiently tapping your fingers against the desk waiting for it to hurry up.

the second you logged in, you opened your messages.

then typed quickly:

uptowngirl: were you in the assembly today?

there was a pause.

then:

farrahfawcettspray: Yeah. I was literally just gonna ask you that

you leaned back slightly.

uptowngirl: it’s so stupid they’re shutting it down

farrahfawcettspray: Right? Some of us actually use this thing

uptowngirl: exactly

then after a second:

uptowngirl: okay maybe not for homework anymore

he replied immediately.

farrahfawcettspray: Yeah we definitely stopped pretending awhile ago

you smiled despite the weird ache sitting in your chest.

the two of you eventually agreed to just keep talking normally and when the site closed, it closed.

that was it.

when it’s over, it’s over.

simple.

or at least that’s what you told yourselves.

and somehow, after awhile, talking to him like usual made you almost forget anything was wrong at all.

-

the next day at school, you were heading toward your locker when you heard familiar voices echoing down the hallway.

tommy.

carol.

steve.

you tried ignoring them.

really, you did.

but then tommy loudly said, “god, some people at this school are actually painful to look at.”

carol snorted immediately.

you glanced over just in time to see them both staring at some poor freshman walking away red-faced.

your expression soured.

same old shit.

steve stood beside them leaning against the lockers, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. he barely chuckled, more out of obligation than actual amusement.

still, he laughed.

you rolled your eyes and kept walking.

honestly, you wondered if they’d ever actually grow up.

-

that night, you found yourself ranting about it online.

without names, obviously.

uptowngirl: some people at school genuinely act like they’re still twelve

there was a longer pause than usual before he answered.

farrahfawcettspray: Do your friends ever piss you off?

you blinked slightly at the screen.

that felt random.

uptowngirl: how so

another pause.

farrahfawcettspray: Like in general

your brows furrowed.

uptowngirl: not all the time

uptowngirl: friends aren’t really supposed to make you feel bad constantly

there was a moment before the reply came through.

farrahfawcettspray: Oh

you sat up a little straighter.

uptowngirl: is it all your friends?

farrahfawcettspray: Kinda

you frowned.

uptowngirl: then make new ones

almost instantly:

farrahfawcettspray: Not that easy

you stared at the words for a second then shrugged it off.

he was right, you guessed.

maybe he was one of the quieter kids at school. the kind who got stuck with shitty people because they didn’t know how to leave them.

you knew people like that.

still, the conversation stayed in your head longer than it probably should have.

-

a week passed.

three weeks left.

three weeks until the website disappeared.

three weeks until mystery guy disappeared with it.

you tried not to think about it too much.

failed miserably.

that night, your room was dark except for the glow of the computer screen when his message suddenly appeared.

farrahfawcettspray: Will i ever know who you are?

your heartbeat stumbled slightly.

you stared at the sentence for way too long before typing back.

uptowngirl: i thought you said when it’s over it’s over

uptowngirl: why does it matter?

his response came faster than usual.

farrahfawcettspray: Screw that

you swallowed.

uptowngirl: why do you even wanna know?

another pause.

longer this time.

then

farrahfawcettspray: Why don’t you?

you froze.

because honestly?

you didn’t have a good answer. there wasn’t one big dramatic reason, just your own stupid thoughts. your own worries.

what if he expected someone cooler? prettier? funnier?

what if meeting ruined whatever this was?

you stared at the blinking cursor for almost a full minute before finally typing:

uptowngirl: i don’t know

for once, he didn’t joke.

didn’t tease you.

just

farrahfawcettspray: Okay

the simple response weirdly made your chest hurt.

then another message appeared.

farrahfawcettspray: What if we compromise?

you frowned slightly.

uptowngirl: how

there was a pause before his answer came through.

farrahfawcettspray: The day the website closes is prom right?

your stomach tightened immediately.

uptowngirl: yeah

farrahfawcettspray: We meet then

your eyes widened slightly.

farrahfawcettspray: Not a whole big thing

farrahfawcettspray: Just somewhere behind the school or something

farrahfawcettspray: So we know

your pulse had started beating noticeably faster now.

you read the messages twice. three times.

farrahfawcettspray: And if it’s awkward or terrible or whatever

farrahfawcettspray: We just go back to our lives

farrahfawcettspray: Deal?

you stared at the screen.

your reflection stared back faintly from the monitor.

this suddenly felt terrifying. and exciting. and horrifying.

all at once.

but maybe he was right. what could really go that wrong?

slowly, you typed back

uptowngirl: okay

almost immediately:

farrahfawcettspray: Okay

your heart thudded harder against your ribs.

in three weeks, you’d finally know who he was.

-

the last three weeks somehow felt unbearably slow and way too fast all at once.

every day dragged.

every night disappeared.

it didn’t help that exam season had officially started, meaning every teacher at school suddenly decided their class was the most important thing on earth.

you were stressed constantly.

your room became a mess of textbooks, loose papers, highlighters, half-empty soda cans and crumpled notes. your desk lamp stayed on until stupid hours of the night while you studied until your eyes hurt.

still somehow, despite all that, the thing making your stomach twist the most wasn’t even exams.

it was prom.

well.

not prom itself, the reveal.

you wouldn’t exactly call it stress. more like nervousness that kept sneaking up on you at random moments.

because holy shit.

you were actually going to meet him and every time you thought about it for too long your brain immediately spiraled.

what if he saw you and regretted everything?

what if you did?

what if it got awkward instantly?

what if one of you didn’t show up at all?

you tried not to think about it.

failed miserably.

honestly though, exams distracted you enough that the days still moved quickly. surprisingly, you actually thought you were doing pretty well too.

and apparently mystery guy was absolutely not.

somewhere during the second week, your conversations somehow circled all the way back to how they first started.

him begging for academic help.

farrahfawcettspray: I’m dropping out

you snorted quietly at your desk before replying.

uptowngirl: dramatic

farrahfawcettspray: Just failed so hard i saw my future

uptowngirl: you said after the first exam you were “done trying”

farrahfawcettspray: Yeah well now i’m scared

you laughed under your breath then spent the next hour helping him study anyway. again.

you honestly should’ve charged him tutoring fees at that point.

-

when exams finally ended, there was only one week left until prom. one week left until you found out who he was.

after that, the teasing started.

mostly from him.

farrahfawcettspray: You nervous?

uptowngirl: not even slightly

farrahfawcettspray: Liar

uptowngirl: you wish

farrahfawcettspray: You’re gonna see me and faint

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly gave yourself a headache.

uptowngirl: keep dreaming farrah

he immediately sent back:

farrahfawcettspray: You still call me that after all this time. Cruel.

still, despite your constant denial, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

you were nervous. terribly so.

thankfully, dress shopping with your friends ended up distracting you for at least one full day.

you all made an entire event out of it. trying on ridiculous dresses just to laugh at each other, eating greasy mall food afterward, arguing over colors and shoes and hairstyles.

for awhile, things felt normal again.

easy.

you ended up buying a buttercup yellow dress that honestly looked really good on you.

it complimented your skin perfectly, hugged your waist just right, and made you feel prettier than you expected.

at least if everything went horribly wrong, you’d still look hot doing it.

-

a few days before prom, the two of you finally made a more solid plan.

simple, easy. less terrifying that way.

at 8:00, he’d go outside to the field behind the school.

at 8:05, you’d follow after him.

that way nobody would really notice you leaving together.

you appreciated that because honestly? the idea of everyone finding out about this made you want to die.

-

then suddenly it was prom night and you were nervous enough to throw up.

your hands shook slightly while fixing your hair in the mirror, your mom fussing over you while insisting you looked beautiful.

which, honestly?

you kinda did.

the yellow dress looked even better all done up properly. your hair sat perfectly for once, your makeup actually cooperated, and when you looked in the mirror you almost felt bad for mystery guy.

almost.

prom itself was exactly what you expected.

too loud, too warm, too many people packed into one room pretending the decorations didn’t look cheap.

still, it was fun enough.

you drank several unfortunately non-alcoholic punch cups, mingled with your friends, danced a little when forced to, and spent most of the evening pretending you weren’t constantly checking the time.

then suddenly 7:58.

your stomach dropped.

7:59.

holy shit.

8:00.

you immediately looked toward the doors.

five minutes, five minutes until you met him.

for a horrible second, you were tempted to stand there and watch the exit like a hawk. just wait and see who slipped outside.

but no. no, you’d waited this long. you could wait five more minutes.

probably.

another part of you briefly considered just not going at all.

seriously.

you could stay right here, pretend none of this ever happened.

but then what?

go home? never talk to him again?

the website would probably be deleted tonight.

this was it.

your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

one of your friends noticed your weird expression almost immediately.

“you okay?”

“yeah,” you lied quickly. “just hot in here.”

“want me to come outside with you?”

“no!”

they blinked at your immediate response.

you forced a smaller smile. “i’m fine. seriously.”

it still took another minute of convincing and multiple be safes and don’t stay gone forevers before they finally let you leave alone.

the walk toward the field felt endless.

seriously endless.

you were convinced the path had physically grown longer somehow.

your heels clicked nervously against the pavement while your mind spiraled violently. was it that guy from health class? was it the one you once saw picking his nose behind the bleachers? was it that angry dude always getting into fights?

your heartbeat got faster with every step.

then you saw someone standing near the benches by the field.

just the back of them.

but honestly?

anyone would recognize that hair.

steve harrington.

your entire body stopped.

what.

the.

fuck.

your brain completely blanked.

there was absolutely no way. no actual way.

you must’ve made some noise because before you could even think about turning around and sprinting back inside, he turned too.

his eyebrows shot upward immediately when he saw you.

you both stared at each other in complete shock.

then at the exact same time:

“you’re-”

you both stopped.

silence.

then slowly, awkwardly, you both nodded.

steve let out a breathy huff of disbelief before a small smile pulled at his mouth.

and honestly?

you couldn’t stop staring.

because somehow it made sense now.

the humor. the dramatic texting. the stupid confidence covering up actual insecurity.

oh my god.

you squinted at him suddenly.

“you don’t have a sister.”

his face immediately changed.

“…what?”

“you told me you picked the username because your sister was talking about the spray.”

steve looked away, then back at you, then dragged a hand down his face with a groan.

“yeah, okay, i lied.”

you stared then barked out a laugh.

“you use farrah fawcett spray?”

he pointed at you immediately. “swear to god if you tell anyone-”

you laughed harder, holding your hands up in surrender.

“okay, okay!”

his expression twisted into embarrassed annoyance while you grinned at him.

god.

of course it was him.

steve glanced awkwardly toward a nearby bench before nodding toward it. you hesitated only a second before following him over and sitting beside him.

for a moment, neither of you spoke.

it suddenly felt so strange hearing the voice attached to the messages.

then steve looked over at you, squinting slightly.

“so…” he said slowly.

you looked back at him.

he pointed vaguely.

“uptown girl.”

you bit back a smile immediately because the expression on his face was so genuinely baffled.

you nodded once.

“…yeah.”

he huffed out another laugh.

for awhile, the conversation was awkward, not horribly awkward, just strange.

you’d spent months talking nonstop and suddenly neither of you knew where to start now that you were face to face.

still, eventually it got easier.

little laughs slipped in naturally. comfortable silences too. you found yourself relaxing without realising it.

then finally you admitted, “i was not expecting it to be someone like you.”

steve raised an eyebrow.

“someone like me?”

“yeah,” you said honestly. “i thought i couldn’t stand you.”

he scoffed softly, glancing away.

“fair.”

you smiled slightly.

then he looked back at you.

“didn’t expect you either.”

you grinned. “upset it’s not someone who’ll sleep with you?”

he side-eyed you immediately, giving you the dirtiest look imaginable.

it made you laugh.

then suddenly he smirked.

“who says you won’t?”

you stared at him flatly.

he laughed quietly at your expression.

god, there he was. the real steve harrington finally showing up.

after awhile, you sighed softly and glanced back toward the school.

“i should probably head inside.”

steve nodded a little.

“yeah.”

“but…” you paused, trying to find the right word. “thank you for being my…”

you trailed off, and when you looked back at him, there was something almost hopeful in his expression.

“…friend” you finished quietly.

his smile softened immediately then he held his hand out toward you dramatically. you laughed under your breath before shaking it.

“yeah,” he said softly. “thanks.”

you started turning back toward the school.

then

“wait.”

you looked back.

steve rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before speaking again.

“can this not be… like, the end?”

you blinked.

“huh?”

“i mean,” he said quickly, “i still wanna talk to you.”

something warm twisted in your chest.

you sighed dramatically instead to cover it.

“do you have paper?”

he blinked at you.

“…obviously not.”

you rolled your eyes.

“do you at least have a pen?”

“maybe in my car.”

you nodded immediately. “okay. c’mon.”

he looked confused but led you toward the parking lot anyway.

once you got there, steve dug around inside the bmw until finally finding a pen shoved somewhere in the center console.

“ha” he said proudly.

you snorted before grabbing his wrist.

he looked startled as you pushed his jacket sleeve up slightly.

then realisation hit his face.

“oh.”

before writing anything, you paused dramatically.

“if i do this,” you said, “you have to get your annoying ass friends to leave me alone.”

steve smiled slightly.

“i’ll see what i can do-”

you gave him a look immediately.

“okay, okay,” he laughed. “fine. i’ll tell them to lay off.”

“thank you.”

carefully, you wrote your number across his forearm. his eyes stayed on your face the entire time, which absolutely did not make your heart beat faster. not at all.

when you finished, you stepped back slightly.

then quietly, before leaving, you said

“you’re better than them, steve.”

his expression shifted immediately.

you smiled softly.

“much better.”

for a second he just looked at you, really looked at you. then slowly, he smiled too. and somehow it looked nothing like the smug cocky smiles you’d seen in school hallways.

this one felt real.

you turned then, heading back toward prom with your heartbeat still all over the place.

and for the first time in months, mystery guy wasn’t a mystery anymore.

-

walking back into prom after meeting steve felt strange in the best possible way, like somehow the whole room looked different now.

the lights hanging from the ceiling seemed warmer, the music sounded less annoying, even the sweaty overcrowded gym somehow felt easier to breathe in. your cheeks actually hurt from smiling by the time you made it back to your friends.

which unfortunately meant they noticed immediately.

one of them narrowed her eyes the second you sat back down at the table.

“okay. what happened.”

you grabbed your drink quickly to hide your smile. “nothing.”

“bullshit.”

“seriously.”

another one gasped dramatically. “oh my god she kissed someone.”

you nearly choked on your drink. “what? no!”

“then why do you look like that?”

“like what?”

“like you’re in love.”

you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, laughing despite yourself while they all continued trying to interrogate you. but honestly? you didn’t even mind.

because your chest still felt warm from sitting beside steve outside. from hearing his voice say uptown girl out loud. from realising that somehow, impossibly, the person you’d spent months talking to was him.

god.

if someone had told you months ago that the boy you couldn’t stand would end up becoming your favorite person to talk to, you would’ve laughed directly in their face.

yet here you were.

the rest of the night passed in this happy blur.

you danced with your friends until your feet hurt, got dragged into stupid prom photos you’d probably cringe at later, and every now and then you’d spot steve somewhere across the room.

sometimes he’d already be looking at you. every single time it happened, he’d smirk slightly. and every single time your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.

-

somehow by the end of the night you ended up at an afterparty. you honestly had no clue whose house it even was. someone said some girl from another school was throwing it, and suddenly everybody was piling into cars and driving there like it was the event of the century.

the house was packed. absolutely packed. music blasted loud enough to shake the floorboards, people crowded every room, and the air inside was thick with sweat, cheap perfume and alcohol.

actual alcohol this time.

which explained why after your third drink you started feeling significantly warmer and significantly less capable of making good decisions.

still, you were having fun. a lot of fun, actually. you laughed so hard at one point your stomach hurt, though later you couldn’t even remember what was so funny.

eventually though the heat inside the house became unbearable. your head felt fuzzy and your skin felt sticky and suddenly all you wanted was air. so, you slipped outside quietly, shutting the door behind you with a relieved sigh.

the cool night breeze hit your face immediately.

“oh thank god” you muttered dramatically.

then your eyes landed on someone sitting near the side of the porch.

steve. he sat alone on the curb, cigarette between his fingers, staring down at the pavement.

you smiled automatically, of course he was outside. but as you walked closer, your smile faded slightly.

he looked pissed. not angry exactly, more upset. his jaw was tense and his shoulders were tight in that way people got when they were trying really hard not to let something bother them.

you almost considered turning around and leaving him alone. almost. but you were already too close now. plus, liquid courage was a beautiful thing.

when steve finally noticed you approaching, he quickly dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe before offering you a tight-lipped smile.

“hey.”

“hey,” you answered slowly, stopping beside him. “what’s up with you?”

“nothing.”

you stared at him.

“steve.”

“i’m serious.”

“come onnn,” you whined dramatically, nudging his shoulder lightly with yours. “you tell me everything.”

his eyes flicked toward you at that, something softened there for a second. then he sighed heavily and looked down at the ground before lowering himself onto the curb fully.

you sat beside him immediately.

for a minute neither of you spoke. music thumped faintly through the walls behind you while cars occasionally passed in the distance.

then finally steve spoke quietly.

“i hope you’re right.”

you frowned slightly. “about what?”

he rubbed his palms together once before muttering

“about me being better than my friends.”

your expression softened instantly.

“what happened?”

he laughed quietly. not in a funny way, more tired. “what didn’t happen?”

you stayed quiet, letting him continue.

after a second he sighed again.

“they were being assholes to some guy inside.”

you immediately knew who “they” meant.

tommy. carol. probably half the people they hung around too.

“just relentless,” steve muttered. “wouldn’t leave him alone.”

he picked absentmindedly at the label peeling off a beer bottle nearby.

“i told them to stop.”

you looked at him carefully. “and?”

“and tommy started calling me a pussy.”

your jaw tightened immediately.

steve shrugged like he was trying not to care.

“said i’ve gotten soft lately.”

you hated how casually he said it, like he’d heard things like that a hundred times before.

“so i left.”

he gestured vaguely around them.

“and here we are.”

you sighed softly. for a second you just sat there looking at him, really looking at him. and honestly? he looked exhausted. not physically, just tired of pretending. tired of acting like somebody he didn’t even seem to like anymore.

you nudged his shoulder gently.

“they’ll probably get over it.”

steve huffed out a small laugh. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you smiled slightly. “you are kinda the leader of the pack.”

that earned a real smile from him, small, but real. still, it faded quickly.

“that’s the thing,” he admitted quietly. “i hate that.”

you tilted your head. “then stop.”

“stop what?”

“being friends with them.”

he immediately gave you a look.

“you’ve literally said this before.”

“because i’m right.”

“i can’t just drop them.”

“why not?”

he opened his mouth. closed it again. then shrugged helplessly. “i don’t know. it’d be weird.”

you snorted softly.

“weird for who?”

“everyone’ll be up my ass about it.”

you shrugged lazily. “who cares?”

steve looked at you for a second like he genuinely wished he could think like that.

then silence settled again.

but honestly, your drunk brain couldn’t stay focused for very long. after a minute you suddenly stood up. “i’m going back inside.”

steve looked up at you from where he sat. then without thinking, you held your hand out toward him dramatically.

“c’mon, harrington.”

his eyes flicked down to your hand. for a second you thought he’d ignore it, instead he took it. you pulled him up with a grin.

“i’m gonna stay out here and smoke another cigarette first” he said.

immediately your nose scrunched.

“gross.”

he laughed quietly.

“then i’ll come in.”

you nodded once.

“okay.”

you and steve somehow never found each other again that night after that

-

break started almost immediately after prom.

suddenly there was no school. no exams. no teachers. just endless warm days stretching ahead of you.

and somehow steve became part of nearly all of them.

at first, it was mostly phone calls. almost every night.

which felt weird initially because now you knew who he was. you weren’t staring at a screen anymore waiting for little messages to appear. now it was his actual voice in your ear while you laid in bed staring at the ceiling.

sometimes you’d catch yourself smiling halfway through conversations for absolutely no reason.

you got used to it surprisingly quickly though.

you’d spend the day with friends or shopping or sitting around bored at home, and eventually every night ended the same way. talking to steve until one of you got too sleepy to keep the conversation going.

sometimes the talks lasted hours. about serious things, stupid things, everything.

one night you spent almost forty minutes debating whether cereal counted as soup.

it absolutely did not.

another night steve admitted he’d never actually learned how to cook anything beyond scrambled eggs and toast.

“how are you alive?”

then eventually, one afternoon, steve casually asked “wanna go out tomorrow?”

you blinked against the phone.

“…out?”

“yeah,” he answered quickly. “like, just us.”

your stomach flipped immediately.

“maybe the drive-in?”

there was this weird nervousness in his voice that made your chest ache a little.

“yeah,” you answered before you could overthink it. “okay.”

he picked you up the next evening at six.

honestly neither of you watched the movie. you tried, for maybe ten minutes, then somehow you started talking and never really stopped.

you learned steve hadn’t hung out with tommy or carol once over break.

that made you smile more than it probably should have.

because maybe he was finally realising he didn’t have to keep pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

at one point while absentmindedly eating popcorn, steve admitted quietly

“i think i like being just steve better.”

you looked over at him softly.

then he smirked slightly.

“or maybe i just like being farrahfawcettspray.”

you burst out laughing immediately.

god, you loved him.

well. not loved. probably, maybe.

okay maybe a little.

because after that first date, which neither of you actually called a date yet, things just naturally snowballed.

you and steve started hanging out constantly.

drives with the windows down and music blasting, shopping trips where he complained the entire time but still carried your bags, county fairs, late night fast food runs, movies, blanket forts. so many blanket forts.

once steve spent nearly an hour engineering one in his living room because apparently “structural integrity matters.”

his parents were never around, meaning his house quickly became your favorite place to be.

you’d never seen steve happier.

he laughed easier around you. acted softer, realer.

he didn’t have to be king steve with you, he could just exist.

and somewhere along the way, he realised he genuinely liked you more than anyone he’d ever met before which was terrifying.

on your side?

you were absolutely gone for him too. completely. hopelessly. but obviously you weren’t going to make the first move.

absolutely not.

you’d wait for when he makes the first move, if that time ever came.

-

surprisingly, it did.

it was nearing the end of the break, only one weekend left before school started again.

you already had plans with steve that night.

nothing unusual. a movie, some takeout.

normal.

but the second you got into his car, you noticed something was off.

he looked nervous, like genuinely nervous. you almost asked about it immediately but decided against it. still, the weird energy stayed the whole drive.

then he pulled into his driveway.

you reached to open the car door and suddenly his hand gently caught your arm. you turned toward him instantly.

he still looked nervous.

your stomach tightened.

“steve?”

he swallowed once before speaking.

“i’ve had some of the best conversations and honestly… some of the best times of my life with you.”

your expression softened immediately.

he laughed awkwardly under his breath.

“which is funny considering how we started.”

you smiled.

but before you could respond, he kept going quickly.

“and i want you to know i really like you.”

you stared at him.

“like really like you.”

he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“and i was wondering if maybe tonight could maybe be a date.”

your smile spread instantly, so quickly your cheeks hurt. but your silence lasted just slightly too long because immediately steve panicked.

“you don’t have to say yes,” he rushed out quickly. “i just wanted you to know-”

“steve.”

he stopped immediately.

you laughed softly.

“i like you too.”

his eyes widened.

“…you do?”

you laughed harder now.

“obviously.”

the smile that spread across his face right then honestly might’ve been your favorite thing you’d ever seen.

he squeezed your arm gently before grinning.

“c’mon then.”

then suddenly he looked ridiculously eager, which only confused you more when he immediately said

“close your eyes.”

you blinked. “what?”

“just trust me.”

laughing softly, you obeyed anyway.

he carefully led you inside while you tried not to trip over absolutely nothing.

eventually he stopped.

“okay.”

you opened your eyes and immediately melted.

the living room floor was covered in blankets and pillows, little lights hung around the room glowing softly, your favorite takeout sat on the coffee table and a movie was already waiting on the screen.

“steve…”

he shrugged immediately like it was nothing but there was a smug little blush sitting on his cheeks.

“it’s cute” you said honestly.

“yeah yeah.”

you grinned harder.

the two of you curled up together on the floor afterward, eating takeout and pretending to watch the movie.

mostly you watched steve slowly get sleepier beside you.

after the movie ended, his eyes were half closed already, hair messy from your fingers constantly running through it earlier.

you smiled softly then leaned over and kissed his cheek.

immediately his eyes opened.

before you could react properly, his hand gently cupped your face.

and then he kissed you.

properly.

finally.

and god it was everything.

his lips were impossibly soft.

the kiss started careful for about half a second before you both melted into it completely, finding rhythm naturally like you’d already done this a hundred times before. perfect. completely perfect.

when you finally pulled apart, steve looked at you with this expression that made you feel like your entire body might dissolve.

then he shifted slightly and pulled you down gently against his chest.

quietly, he murmured:

“i’m glad you decided to help me.”

you snorted softly against him.

“i’m glad you suck at chemistry.”

he laughed immediately and lightly smacked your arm.

eventually, somewhere tangled together beneath blankets and fairy lights, the two of you fell asleep.

and after that, everything naturally fell into place.

steve slowly drifted away from tommy and carol completely, he started hanging around different people. better people.

sometimes your people.

your friends met him properly and somehow immediately loved him, which honestly shocked you considering how much they used to complain about him.

but steve around you was different.

and now steve harrington, formerly known as farrahfawcettspray, was one of the most important people in your life.

and you?

you became his whole world.

-

You spend twenty minutes trying to convince yourself the test is wrong.

Steve spends about thirty seconds convincing you this might be the happiest he’s ever been.

tags: steve harrington x reader, established relationship, accidental pregnancy, dad!steve harrington, soft steve harrington, men crying turns me on, hurt/comfort..?, domestic fluff, post vecna trauma, steve harrington cries first because obviously he does, reader spiraling, steve immediately ready to devote his entire life to this baby, fear of loss, fear of happiness, they love each other so bad it’s embarrassing, “what if he’s upset” meanwhile steve is actively crying from happiness, reader cries over leftovers because hormones are evil, steve would buy her the entire restaurant actually, heavy on the feelings!

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy test, nausea/morning sickness, vomiting, crying, anxiety/panic, references to hospitals/monsters/upside down trauma, language (lmk if i missed anything)

from jules- i fully believe steve harrington would start crying within thirty seconds of finding out he’s going to be a dad and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. this is basically just steve loving you so much he short-circuits about it repeatedly lol anyways first chapter yay

cases that never sat right with me: the lo mein incident of 1989 😟

wc: 6.4k

For almost a week, Steve convinces himself you’re probably just getting sick.

The exhaustion is the first thing he notices, mostly because you’ve always been terrible at admitting when you’re tired. You’ve always been the kind of person who insists you’re “not tired” right up until the exact moment you fall asleep on top of him, but lately it’s different. Lately you’ve been drifting off everywhere.

Halfway through movies with your face tucked into his shoulder while he absently plays with your hair, your breathing starts evening out before the opening credits are even over. Normally you’d still be arguing with him by then about his objectively terrible taste in horror movies, mocking the fact that someone who worked at Family Video somehow still thinks bad slasher films qualify as “cinema.”

Instead, you stay curled sideways against him with one of his sweatshirts bunched beneath your cheek while the television murmurs quietly in the background, Steve’s hand resting loosely around your ankle like he keeps expecting you to wake up and complain about the movie eventually.

Except you don’t.

And it definitely doesn’t end there.

Once, he finds you asleep at the kitchen table with your head resting against folded arms beside a cup of coffee that’s gone cold enough for condensation to collect around the bottom. Another night, he walks into the bedroom to find you sitting upright against the headboard with your glasses still on and an open book sliding dangerously close to falling off your lap.

“You know normal people usually sleep lying down, right?” Steve asks quietly, trying not to laugh as he slides the book onto the nightstand and nudges your glasses up before they fall crooked off your face.

You blink sleepily up at him while his thumb brushes lightly beneath your eye.

“That feels judgmental,” you mumble before immediately falling back asleep again.

Steve just shakes his head softly to himself, tugging the blankets higher over you before climbing into bed beside you a few minutes later, the same automatic way he always does after nightmares neither of you talks about anymore.

Normally, you’d stay awake long enough to complain about him stealing all the blankets while actively cocooning yourself in them five minutes later, or putting cold feet on him on purpose. Instead, the second his arm settles around your waist, you melt against his chest with a quiet sigh, already half asleep again before he even finishes telling you goodnight.

Steve notices that too, even if he can’t explain why it leaves him lying awake a little longer afterward.

Then there was the cologne.

Not even the strong one that burns your nose. Just the stupid, expensive cologne Steve only wears when he’s trying to impress people at work or Robin starts bullying him for “smelling like a rich teenage boy.”

Usually, you love it. The scent clings to half the clothes hanging in your closet, warm and familiar enough that most of your closet smells more like Steve than it does you now.

But one morning, he leans down to kiss your cheek while you’re standing in the kitchen, and the second the smell hits you, your stomach twists so violently it makes you jerk back on instinct.

Steve pulls back slightly, his hand still resting loosely against your waist as confusion flickers across his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say too fast, pressing your hand lightly against your mouth as another sharp wave of nausea rolls through you. “Just—give me a second.”

Concern settles into his expression almost instantly after that, replacing the sleepy amusement he’d been wearing seconds earlier. He watches you turn toward the sink and take a slow breath through your mouth like you’re trying very hard not to be sick right there in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says more carefully now, brows pulling together as he steps closer again. “Are you okay?”

Before you can answer, another wave of nausea crashes into you hard enough to make your stomach lurch painfully. Your hand clamps tighter over your mouth as you turn abruptly away from him.

“Oh—shit.”

Steve barely has time to step aside before you’re hurrying down the hall toward the bathroom, your shoulder clipping the wall hard enough to rattle a picture frame on your way past, nearly tripping over the stupid, loose floorboard by the bathroom Robin keeps saying one of you is eventually going to die on.

“Baby?” he calls, his voice sharpening with concern as you disappear down the hallway.

You don’t answer before collapsing to your knees in front of the toilet, the cold tile digging painfully into your skin as your stomach finally gives up on you completely. Steve is beside you within seconds, one hand already gathering your hair back from your face while the other rubs instinctively between your shoulder blades with the kind of familiarity that only comes from years of loving someone through every ugly human moment imaginable — panic attacks, food poisoning, nightmares, and one memorably horrific stomach bug the kids still dramatically refers to as “the exorcist incident.”

By Thursday night, he’s almost convinced you’re coming down with the flu.

So when he finds the leftovers shoved in the back of the fridge later that night, he doesn’t think twice about eating them.

It’s not like you’ve been eating anything other than pickle flavored chips and the occasional glass of orange juice that accompanies it.

The apartment smells faintly like rain drifting through the cracked kitchen window mixed with garlic and soy sauce from the takeout carton balanced loosely in Steve’s hand. The tiny television near the living room hums softly in the background while pale blue light flickers across the dark apartment, Steve flipping lazily through channels with the remote between bites.

One of Dustin’s science magazines still sits crooked on the coffee table despite the fact you called him twice to come get it before Steve started using it as a coaster.

He’s barefoot, dressed in gray sweatpants and an old Hawkins High swim team shirt so worn thin the collar hangs crooked against one shoulder. Every few bites, his eyes drift automatically toward the hallway, attention catching on the muffled sound of the shower still running. Steve’s always hovered a little whenever you’re sick, the same instinct that once had him sleeping curled awkwardly into a plastic hospital chair for three nights after the upside-down vines left half your nervous system “temporarily inflamed,” according to the doctors neither of you ever really learned how to trust again.

The digital clock on the microwave glows 1:07 in soft green numbers, later than either of you should still be awake, honestly.

By the time the water shuts off down the hallway, Steve’s already scraped the last bite from the bottom of the first container without thinking much about it.

Steve tosses the empty container beside the sink and wipes his thumb absently against his sweatpants after licking sauce from it, already reaching for the second carton when the sink shuts off down the hall. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, warm yellow light briefly stretching across the apartment floor before disappearing again.

You wander into the kitchen still wrapped in steam from the shower, one of Steve’s old basketball shirts hanging loose around your thighs, the faded Hawkins High logo nearly worn away after years of being stolen back and forth between the two of you. Damp hair clings cold against the back of your neck while you rub sleepily at one eye, still looking soft with exhaustion and leftover heat from the shower.

“Baby, oh my god, that smells so good,” you mumble automatically as you drift farther into the kitchen. “I was literally thinking about my lo mein in the shower—”

The words catch halfway out of your mouth.

Your eyes land on the empty takeout container sitting beside Steve on the counter before flicking toward the second carton still balanced loosely in his hand.

You go completely still for a second, staring at it while cold water trails slowly from the ends of your hair down your legs. The television continues murmuring softly in the background, absurdly normal against the awful sinking feeling beginning to spread through your chest.

Steve’s still halfway through another bite when he finally looks up and assesses your face properly.

He also then goes still.

The fork lowers slowly while his expression shifts from distracted confusion into growing concern with each pressing second, his eyes moving quickly between you and the takeout containers as he tries to piece together what exactly he did wrong.

“Baby,” Steve says cautiously, already sounding like he can tell he’s in trouble even if he has absolutely no idea in reality.

“Did you finish… both of them?” you ask softly, your voice trembling enough now that Steve’s eyes widen slightly.

He glances down at the takeout container in his hand like he’s still trying to figure out what exactly the problem is before looking back up at you again. “Uh… yeah?”

For a second, neither of you say anything.

Your eyes burn almost immediately, and you can’t stop the tears from welling up.

The reaction hits so fast it genuinely catches you off guard, a sharp rush of emotion swelling hard in your chest while you stare at the empty takeout containers like Steve personally betrayed you and them.

It’s ridiculous.

You know it is.

They’re leftovers. Leftovers should not feel devastating enough to cry over, and yet your vision blurs anyway before you can stop it, your face crumpling hard enough that Steve straightens almost instantly across from you.

A helpless little sound catches in your throat as your lip trembles, your eyes flicking between Steve and the empty takeout containers again like you genuinely can’t believe this is happening and the perpetrator being your own boyfriend.

Steve straightens so fast the barstool legs screech across the kitchen tile, the fork clattering from his hand as the confusion flashes abruptly into panic across his face.

“Wait— baby, I didn’t know—”

“It’s only the two of us in the house,” you choke out, your voice cracking embarrassingly hard halfway through the sentence as tears spill helplessly down your cheeks. “How did you not know they were mine? I assumed i didn’t need to write my name considering you didn’t order lo mein in the first place! And why would you eat both?”

The second the words leave your mouth, mortification crashes over you almost as hard as the tears which are only falling faster now.

Because now you sound insane on top of everything else.

Steve just stares at you for a second, looking completely thrown, like he genuinely cannot fathom how this situation escalated into you sobbing in the middle of the kitchen over leftover lo mein.

“I didn’t know,” he says quickly, the words tripping over each other as he pushes away from the counter. “Baby, I swear to god, if I knew they were yours, I wouldn’t’ve touched them. I thought they were old or something, I don’t know, I just— wasn’t thinking.”

Another strangled sob slips out of you before you can stop it.

The sound wipes what little composure Steve still had clean off his face.

“Oh my god, no, no—” he says immediately, already crossing the kitchen in two quick steps. One hand settles instinctively against your damp waist while the other cups your cheek, his thumb swiping clumsily beneath your eye like he can somehow stop the tears faster than they’re falling. “C’mere, baby.”

A miserable sound slips out of you somewhere between a sob and an embarrassed laugh, and Steve’s expression somehow manages to panic even harder.

“Why are you crying harder?” he asks helplessly, both hands now tightening instinctively at your waist like he’s trying to physically hold the situation together. He looks genuinely devastated that he’s somehow making this worse instead of better. “Baby, I’ll go get you more right now, okay? I’ll buy six containers. I’ll buy the whole restaurant if I have to.”

You only end up crying harder at how desperate he is to make you feel better, which seems to completely short-circuit the last of Steve’s remaining common sense.

Twenty minutes later, he comes back through the apartment door carrying three containers of lo mein in a wrinkled takeout bag, hair messy from the wind and looking slightly out of breath like he absolutely broke several traffic laws getting there and back.

But you already fell asleep on the couch.

By the time your period is four days late, the possibility has been sitting quietly in the back of your mind long enough that it’s becoming impossible to ignore completely.

You still don’t actually think you’re pregnant.

Not really.

Even if you and Steve have never exactly been careful in the way normal responsible adults probably should be.

Mostly, you convince yourself your body’s just being weird. Stress. Exhaustion. Too many sleepless nights and not enough real food lately. But the possibility lingers anyway, quiet and stubborn enough that on your way home from work one evening, you catch yourself pulling into the pharmacy parking lot before you’ve fully decided you’re actually going inside.

The whole thing feels strangely embarrassing considering you literally live with your boyfriend and split grocery lists.

You spend way too long pretending to look at other things first, wandering slowly through aisles you don’t care about while your pulse beats a little too hard beneath your ribs. By the time you finally drift toward the pregnancy tests, your arms are folded tightly across your chest like that somehow disguises what aisle you’re standing in.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz obnoxiously while you stare at shelves lined with bright pink and blue boxes screaming things like early detection and results in minutes.

You stand there for another full minute pretending to compare brands even though your eyes have long since stopped focusing on anything except the same handful of repeating words.

Early detection.

Results in minutes.

Pregnant.

Your gaze keeps snagging helplessly on that last one, over and over again, like maybe eventually it’ll stop sounding quite so life-altering.

Eventually, you grab three boxes at random and shove them into your basket before you can talk yourself out of it completely.

By the time you finally make it to the register, the boxes feel impossibly conspicuous sitting in your basket no matter how casually you try to stand there. You avoid looking directly at the cashier through the entire transaction, irrationally convinced she’s about two seconds away from grabbing the intercom and announcing your reproductive situation to the entire store.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve been gripping the pharmacy bag until you finally loosen your hold on it in the parking lot and see the faint red marks pressed into your palm afterward.

Steve’s already home by the time you step into the apartment, standing at the stove with the sleeves of his sweatshirt shoved messily up to his elbows while something crackles loudly in a pan. The apartment smells like garlic, butter, and whatever overly ambitious dinner he apparently decided to attempt tonight, quiet music drifting from the little radio near the sink.

He looks up the second he hears your keys hit the counter near the door.

Something in his expression immediately softens when he sees you, the distracted focus he’d been wearing moments earlier melting away almost instantly.

“There’s my girl,” he says in that warm, familiar tone that still somehow invokes a soft rosy hue to your cheeks after all these years. He abandons the spatula long enough to walk over and press a quick kiss to your forehead, both hands settling briefly against your waist before he leans back enough to get a better look at you.

He frowns, his eyes flickering over your face.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he murmurs softly, his brows furrowing in concern. “You look exhausted.” He pulls you close, cradling you in his arms, and kisses your temple before releasing you to glance back at your face.

“Yeah… something like that,” you mutter quietly while biting the inside of your cheek.

You’ve never kept anything from Steve, especially something as enormous as this. You can practically taste the confession on your tongue.

“What’d you buy?” Steve asks, tone light and easy like he’s trying not to push too hard now that he’s clearly noticed something’s off. He turns back toward the stove a second later to stir whatever’s sizzling in the pan.

Your fingers tighten instinctively around the pharmacy bag, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet apartment.

You lift the bag slightly without slowing down, trying very hard to look more relaxed than you feel as you continue drifting backward toward the hallway before he can get too good a look through the thin plastic.

“Nothing exciting. I just—” Your try to clear your throat nonchalantly. “I just really have to pee, so don’t make fun of me if I run.”

Steve glances back over his shoulder from the stove, clearly caught off guard from the random comment before a quiet laugh slips out of him.

“Wasn’t really on my list of things to mock you for tonight, honey.”

“Yup,” you nod quickly, the word coming out with an aggressively emphasized pop of the P that only makes Steve look more confused.

Steve shakes his head to himself with another quiet laugh as you disappear down the hallway, though you can still feel his eyes following you right up until the bathroom door clicks shut behind you.

The bathroom almost feels silent compared to the thoughts ricocheting throughout your mind.

For a second, you just stand there staring at yourself in the mirror while your pulse beats unevenly against your throat. The pharmacy bag hangs awkwardly from your wrist, crinkling softly when your grip loosens a single centimeter.

This is seriously getting ridiculous.

Your period is barely late. Plenty of people are late sometimes. Stress does weird things to your body.

Robin was literally a week late once and made Steve drive her to the emergency room at two in the morning because she convinced herself she had a “vaginal blockage.”

She did not have a vaginal blockage.

Turns out she was just severely stressed and apparently hadn’t consumed a vitamin in six months.

Still, your hands aren’t completely steady when you pull one of the boxes from the bag.

A few minutes later, you’re sitting on the closed toilet lid with the test resting across your palm while your knee bounces restlessly beneath the fluorescent bathroom lights. The other two tests sit face down on the counter while the fan hums softly overhead, loud enough now that it almost makes the entire room feel unsettlingly detached from the rest of the apartment.

At first, you genuinely think you’re seeing it wrong.

You just sit there staring at the tiny result window while Steve moves around the kitchen somewhere down the hall, cabinet doors opening and shutting beneath the quiet crackle of something still cooking on the stove. The bathroom fan only becomes louder overhead, loud enough now that it almost drowns out the sound of your heart slamming against your ribcage.

For one suspended second, you keep waiting for the second line to disappear now that you’re looking at it properly.

It doesn’t.

Instead, when you tilt the test slightly beneath the harsh bathroom light, the second pink line only becomes clearer.

Darker.

Unmistakable.

Immediately, your gaze snaps toward the two other positive tests now faced up and instructions spread open across the counter before dropping back to the test in your hand again like maybe you somehow misunderstood what two lines meant in the last thirty seconds.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.

Your gaze drops back to the test still shaking faintly in your hand.

It says the same thing.

The harsh bathroom light suddenly feels too bright, every sound in the room collapsing inward beneath the violent pounding of your pulse while your vision starts blurring around the edges.

Positive.

The word smears slightly beneath the sudden sting of tears.

Your knees go strangely weak beneath you, sudden and disorienting enough that you finally understand how people faint over things like this.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper instinctively, the sound barely making it out of your throat even though the lines are already dark enough that there’s no possible way you’re reading them wrong.

Your gaze locks helplessly onto the three photos framed on the opposing wall. You and Steve at Scoops Ahoy. A Polaroid of you and Steve on a double date with Robin and Vickie. All the kids the summer before the Byers moved to California.

Your breathing starts turning uneven all at once, panic curling hard through your veins now that there’s no real room left for denial anymore.

Because this can’t actually be happening—

There has to be some logical explanation for this, right? Maybe it’s defective?

Except the second line is still there when you blink a few times and look down again.

The realization finally crashes hard enough that the tears only spill faster down your cheeks before you even fully register your crying. One hand flies up over your mouth as a broken sob leaves your chest, your shoulders curling inward while the plastic test trembles helplessly in your grip.

You’re pregnant.

The thought feels too enormous to properly hold onto, too life-changing to settle cleanly into your head all at once. You keep staring at the second line like maybe if you blink enough times it’ll quietly disappear and everything will slide back into place before this moment ever happened.

But it doesn’t.

The line stays there.

If anything, it only looks darker now beneath the obnoxious bathroom light while tears continue blurring your vision.

And suddenly the room feels too small for the amount of emotion crashing through you all at once. Fear. Shock. Panic. Something dreadful buried painfully beneath all of it that you can’t even bring yourself to look at yet.

Another sob catches painfully in your throat.

There’s a baby inside you right now.

And almost immediately, your mind reaches for every terrible thing that could possibly happen.

Because nothing remotely good ever happens in Hawkins.

How are you supposed to bring a life into a world that’s spent years taking it all of it away from you?

Another shaky sob catches painfully in your throat as you start to hyperventilate in between gasps. You bend farther forward on the toilet lid, one hand pressing hard against your constricting chest while tears blur your vision badly enough that the test becomes a blob of pink and white. The bathroom suddenly feels too hot, too bright, your pulse pounding so hard it makes your entire body feel unsteady.

And then, completely against your will, you hear Steve’s voice in the back of your mind from that day in the stolen RV years ago.

All sunburned skin and tired eyes and quiet honesty while he laughed softly about wanting “six little nuggets” someday like it was the most natural thing in the world to admit out loud. Even amidst the persistent threat of Vecna and loss looming over everybody in that RV.

But, despite it all, Steve was still planning a future with you while knowing there was absolutely no guarantee whatsoever.

Things definitely weren’t simpler then, but they were easier to swallow. Max wasn’t in a coma, Eddie was alive, El was alive.

The memory hits hard enough to crack something open inside you completely.

What if he’s upset? What if he doesn’t want that with you anymore? What if he—

Outside the bathroom, the crackling sound from the stove suddenly stops.

Steve’s humming cuts off with it because after all these years he knows the difference between your grieving crying, your exhausted crying, your post-nightmare crying, and the kind that still sends immediate panic through him before he’s even fully thinking yet.

“Baby?” he calls a second later, concern already creeping into his voice.

You briefly consider throwing the pregnancy test directly out the bathroom window and pretending none of this ever happened.

You squeeze your eyes shut hard, trying desperately to pull yourself together before Steve sees how badly you’re crying, but the second you drag in another breath it breaks apart into another helpless sob anyway.

Outside the bathroom, the apartment goes suddenly quiet.

The low hum of the stove fan cuts off. The music near the sink disappears with it. You didn’t even register Steve making his way down the hallways until his voice was closer.

“Hey,” Steve says softly from the other side of the door, confusion and concern tangled together beneath the gentle knock that follows a second later. “What’s wrong, lover?”

Another sob escapes before you can stop it, shaky enough to completely give you away.

You hear Steve exhale quietly through the door.

The sound somehow makes your panic rise.

You know your only feeding into his anxiety and a part of you almost feels guilty.

There’s only a brief second of silence before the handle rattles gently.

“Sweetheart? Why is the door locked—are you okay?” Steve says carefully, his voice softer now, edged tight with worry in a way that makes it painfully obvious he’s already imagining the worst. “I’m coming in, okay?”

You try to answer him, but another shaky breath catches painfully in the back of your throat and collapses into a sob before any actual words can make it out. All you manage is the smallest nod before remembering a second too late that he can’t even see you through the door.

Your hand flies up instinctively to wipe hard beneath your eyes anyway, desperately trying to pull yourself together before Steve walks in and sees the pregnancy test still trembling in your hand.

After a few seconds, the bathroom door swings open, and the handle hits the wall.

Steve steps inside quickly, tossing the bobby pin he used to open the locked door somewhere on the counter—concern already written all over his face, sweatshirt sleeves still shoved messily up his forearms from cooking dinner. The faint smell of garlic and something slightly burned follows him into the room.

His eyes land on you curled forward on the toilet lid, one hand clamped shakily over your mouth while sobs break unevenly through your chest.

Whatever remaining calm he walked in with disappears on the spot.

“Whoa— hey, hey,” he says quickly, shutting the door behind him before crossing the tiny bathroom so fast he nearly slips on the bath mat. “Baby, what happened?”

He drops down in front of you so fast his knees slam hard against the tile, but he barely reacts to the impact. Both hands reach for you instinctively, one settling warm against your thigh while the other carefully cups around your cheek as he tries to guide you upright enough to properly look at him.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. His fingers tremble slightly while he brushes damp strands of hair back away from your face. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Are you hurt? Did you have another flashback? What happened?”

You shake your head hard, but another sob slips out before you can force a word out.

Steve’s breath hitched, a sharp catch in his throat, before he forced it down with a swallow.

His hands keep moving restlessly between your face, your arms, your shoulders like if he checks carefully enough he’ll finally figure out what’s hurting you and how to fix it.

“Fuck baby, you’re scaring me,” he blurts out, his voice cracking around the words while his gaze flicks frantically over you again like he’s expecting to suddenly find some injury he somehow missed.

His voice cuts off mid-sentence as his gaze finally lands on the test still shaking faintly in your hand.

Confusion flickers briefly across his face at first before turning into something unreadable.

Then he goes completely still.

For one suspended second, he just stares at it without reacting, still breathing slightly hard from hurrying down the hallway while the bathroom fan hums along with your unsteady whimpers.

And then you watch the realization hit him.

The panic slowly drains from his expression, replaced by something else entirely—something stunned and so openly hopeful it almost hurts to look at.

He keeps staring at the test for another second like he’s afraid blinking might somehow change what he’s seeing.

Then his eyes finally lift back to yours, wide and helpless and already shining slightly around the edges.

"Oh," he exhales softly, his shoulders easing as the tension drains from his body.

And somehow that quiet little sound is what finally destroys the last of your composure completely.

A painful sob breaks hard out of your chest as your fingers tighten around the piece of stupid plastic, tears slipping helplessly down your cheeks while panic burns hot beneath your skin now that he’s finally seen it too.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out suddenly, the apology falling out through pathetic attempts at breathing before you can stop it. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve’s demeanor immediately crumples into confused concern, his brows pulling together hard enough that it almost makes you cry harder.

“Things were finally starting to feel normal again,” you choke out shakily which only cracks into a sob.

The second you say it out loud, you realize how stupid it sounds. Nothing about your lives has ever really been normal. Not after funerals and hospitals and inner dimensional monsters. Not after spending years learning how quickly normal could be taken from you.

For a second, Steve just stares at you—mouth agape—genuinely unable to process the words that just came out of your mouth.

Then his eyes turns almost unbearably gentle.

“Baby— what?” He sounds genuinely horrified that you think this is something you need forgiveness for. “What are you apologizing for?”

He scoops your face into his hands so suddenly it catches you off guard, both palms warm against your cheeks while his eyes search frantically across your face like he’s still trying to understand how this conversation somehow turned into you apologizing.

“Hey, hey, no,” he says softly, shifting even closer until his knees slide awkwardly against the tile with a sharp squeak. “Why are you apologizing?”

And then, completely unbelievably, he starts smiling.

Not a small smile either.

It spreads across his face all at once, huge and helpless and so overwhelmed with emotion it almost looks painful. His eyes start glossing over instantly while a shaky laugh slips out of him before he can stop it.

“You think this is bad?” he says breathlessly, sounding almost stunned by the idea. Another shaky laugh slips out of him before he can stop it. “Baby, you seriously think I’m upset right now?”

You stare at him through blurred vision, completely overwhelmed by the fact that he somehow looks happier than you’ve seen him in months while you’re quite literally falling apart on the bathroom floor.

“Oh, c’mere,” Steve whispers as he pulls you into his arms, his voice cracking this time as his thumbs brush helplessly beneath your eyes trying to catch tears faster than they’re falling. “No, no, sweetheart, don’t cry, it’s okay.”

And then his own composure finally breaks too.

A laugh catches halfway into something shakier, while tears spill suddenly over onto his cheeks. Steve resting his forehead against yours, like the force of the emotion hit him all at once, and he genuinely doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re sitting here apologizing to me,” he says again, sounding completely dumbfounded, while his gaze flicks helplessly between you and the test still trembling in your hand. “Baby, after everything we’ve survived? You really think I’m gonna look at this and see something bad?”

“Steve…”

“No, I’m serious.” His smile trembles visibly at the edges as he leans forward again, pressing another kiss to your forehead, then your tear-stained cheek, then the corner of your mouth, like he physically can’t stop touching you now that he knows. “I love you so much. Do you hear me? So fucking much.”

You finally build the courage to look at him properly through the blur of your tears, and it nearly undoes you all over again.

Because you’ve never seen Steve look at anything the way he’s looking at you right now.

Not with this much open love.

Not with this much hope.

He’s still kneeling there on the bathroom floor, you in his arms, with tears clinging to his lashes and his hands warm against your face, staring at you like someone just handed him every dream he stopped letting himself want too badly years ago.

And suddenly, Steve Harrington looks younger.

Not like the seventeen-year-old boy who used to show up bruised on your porch, pretending everything hurt less than it did.

Not like the version of him that kept throwing himself in front of monsters, Russians, nightmares, anything dangerous enough to hurt the people he loved first.

Somewhere along the way, Steve became someone who spent years protecting children that weren’t even his before he ever really let himself imagine having one of his own.

He still looks like Steve. Your Steve. Still warm embraces and messy hair and lips pressed devastatingly gentle as he smiles against your skin like happiness physically hurts to hold inside himself.

But now you can suddenly see every version of him at once.

Every terrible thing he overcame.

Every soft thing he kept anyway.

And for the first time in years, he doesn’t look like someone bracing for happiness to be taken away from him.

“I love you,” he says again, his voice trembling with emotion. “And I love this baby already. I don’t even know how that’s possible yet, but I do.”

His eyes flick back down toward the test, another completely awestruck smile breaking across his face like the reality of it keeps blindsiding him every time he looks at it.

Steve presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders shaking once beneath a soft, breathless laugh.

The sound breaks out of him like the unadulterated joy physically overflowed before he could hold it in any longer, and before you can even react he’s leaning forward again, pressing another trembling kiss against your forehead.

“You’re pregnant?” he repeats softly, still sounding completely awestruck by the words even while saying them out loud, like some part of him genuinely still can’t believe this is real.

“I think so,” you whisper shakily, which immediately makes Steve laugh harder because somehow the answer is still so painfully you.

One hand flies up over his mouth like he physically can’t contain the smile breaking across his face, while the other stays anchored against your cheek, a gentle promise, an unspoken vow.

“We’re having a baby,” he says, and the words visibly wreck him halfway through, another breathless laugh breaking out of him while his entire expression crumples with overwhelming happiness.

And almost instantly your thoughts lurch forward without your permission.

Steve half asleep on the couch with a baby tucked against his chest while cartoons flicker quietly across the dark living room, one hand spread protectively over their tiny back even in his sleep.

Steve in a hospital room crying openly before the nurse has even fully laid the baby onto your chest, laughing helplessly through tears because of course he would cry first.

Steve standing barefoot in the middle of a driveway years from now, both hands hovering nervously beside a bicycle while a tiny furious voice shrieks at him to stop helping.

The images arrive one after another so quickly it almost hurts.

And for the first time since this started, terror isn’t the only thing blooming inside your chest anymore.

For a second, Steve just sits there still looking completely overwhelmed by it all, his gaze dropping briefly between you and the test still clutched in your hand while he shakes his head once like the reality of this is hitting him faster than he can keep up with.

Then his eyes lift back to yours.

And the way he looks at you makes you fall in love with him all over again.

Like you’ve just handed him every single thing he stopped letting himself want too badly years ago.

Then suddenly he’s kissing you.

Hard and messy and emotional, both hands still cupping your face while he smiles helplessly against your mouth like he physically can’t contain how happy he is right now. The kiss breaks apart almost immediately because Steve keeps tearfully laughing through it, forehead knocking clumsily against yours while another disbelieving breath slips out between both your mouths.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” he laughs softly through tears, forehead still resting against yours while another shaky breath escapes him. “Jesus Christ.”

And somehow the sight of him this happy hurts almost as much as it heals.

Because all at once you realize Steve has probably been quietly dreaming about moments like this for years without ever fully expecting them to become real.

Not after everything.

Not after Hawkins taught all of you how quickly good things could disappear.

The happier he looks, the harder you cry, which somehow only makes Steve cry harder. Somehow his smile grows impossibly bigger every time he glances back at you like your tears aren’t scaring him anymore now that he understands what they mean.

Your smile wobbles beneath another wave of tears.

“I’m happy,” you admit shakily. “I think I am. I’m just… really scared.”

Saying both out loud suddenly makes you slightly anxious for his response.

Every single worry melts at once as Steve looks at you like the answer is the easiest thing in the world, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever known about another person.

“Jesus, baby, you already take care of everybody without even thinking about it,” he says softly. “You practically raised half those kids with me. Baby, seriously… you’re gonna be so amazing. I’m literally sobbing just thinking about it.”

Every emotion on Steve’s face is completely unguarded now, bright eyes and trembling smiles and happiness so overwhelming he doesn’t even try to hide it anymore.

Not after the Upside Down or Vecna or years spent surviving things that should have destroyed people your age.

You’ve never seen him look at the future like this before.

Like he finally believes he’s allowed to have one.

Carefully, Steve takes the pregnancy test from your trembling fingers, holding it almost delicately while his eyes drop back toward the second pink line.

Another smile slowly spreads across his face, not the huge disbelieving grin from before, but something softer now. Something deeper. More intimate.

His thumb brushes absently along the edge of the plastic while he hiccups through his own tears, staring at the test like the reality of it still keeps hitting him fresh every time he looks at it.

“Oh my god,” he whispers softly for what must be the hundredth time, sounding completely overwhelmed by the words themselves. “I’m so fucking lucky.”

And somehow his words hurt in a different way because Steve still says things like that sometimes, like some part of him never fully realized loving him was always the easiest part.

There’s so much emotion on his face now, disbelief and love and overwhelming happiness tangled together so openly it almost feels too intimate to look at directly.

One of his hands slips carefully from your cheek down to your waist before settling against your stomach through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is so gentle it invokes another half sob, half laugh, his palm resting there almost cautiously at first, like some part of him is still afraid this moment could disappear if he moves too quickly.

His fingers slowly spread against your stomach while his gaze drops downward again, completely captivated by the reality of what’s beneath his hand.

Then his thumb brushes softly beneath the fabric, absentminded and reverent in a way that nearly makes you crumble all over again, and you physically watch the realization entirely move across his face once more beneath the tears still shining in his eyes.

Like every time he touches you, the reality of it settles deeper into him.

“Hi, baby,” he says softly before he can stop himself, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin.

The words settle over you with a kind of quiet finality that almost makes your heart swell.

Because Steve doesn’t say it carefully or like he’s trying to make you laugh through the panic. He says it instinctively, the same absentminded way he talks to you when he’s half asleep or worried or too full of affection to think before speaking.

Like the baby is already real to him.

Like loving them is already the easiest thing in the world.

And watching that realization move across his face in real time feels almost indescribable, something so open and sincere it makes your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Somewhere beneath all the fear still clawing through you, something gentler finally begins unfolding beside it. Not enough to erase the panic entirely, not enough to stop your hands from shaking or your heart from racing too fast, but enough to exist alongside it anyway.

Hope.