#libby writes

Ilia realised he was fucked the moment their choreographer started running through their new program.

“While still in the lift, you’re gonna look into his eyes, then slowly lower your head to his right shoulder…”

This wasn’t due to the technical difficulty of the routine, they’d done harder. Sure, there were a lot of lifts that would take strength and balance out of him, but he was confident they’d nail it.

“Now here, I wanna make sure you keep your bodies and faces close, eye contact is a must as well…”

No, the reason Ilia was fucked, was due to the fact that this routine was incredibly intimate and romantic.

And he was in love with his skating partner.

He stayed quiet throughout the explanations, looking to the rest of the world as if he was simply deep in concentration.

In reality, he was seeing whatever was left of his sanity pack its bags and go on its merry way, never to be seen again. 

“What are we thinking in terms of outfits?”

“Of course you’d ask that. I swear (Y/n), sometimes I think you care more about the costumes than the actual skating.”

Her smile could light up the world, he was sure of it.

Still, he brought out the draft designs.

Ilia felt his heart stop.

“Ooh, wedding vibes, I see the vision.”

The only vision Ilia was seeing was the vision of him in a casket, cause this was sure to kill him.

.•*¨•..•¨`•.☆

“Ready to win this thing?”

Ready to die, more like.

Training had been tough. He’d made it through every session— barely —and he knew that technically speaking, they were flawless.

But this was it. The world championships. This was the moment of truth.

Their long program to the sound of The Man I Love. 

(Y/n) looked breathtaking in her white dress. Ilia was going to die.

They skated to the center of the rink hand in hand, and he took a deep breath in preparation.

The moment the music started, he knew this would be the program that changed everything. From that first lift, seeing the look in her eyes, the love she portrayed, he knew things wouldn’t go on as they were. She was acting, he knew that. Emotion was so important in this sport, it added to the artistry. She was an entertainer. She was entertaining. 

But in the moment, it almost felt real.

He so badly wished it was real.

By the time the last lift came around, he’d given up on fighting. He had no strength for it anymore. He really didn’t. It had been too long. 

Too many years hiding how much he cared about her.

Too many years laughing and dismissing fans who said they looked like a couple, then saving pictures and videos of them on his burner account.

Too many years staying quiet because having her as a best friend was better than not having her at all.

Because the truth was that (Y/n) hadn't asked for this.

She hadn’t asked for him to fall in love with her. 

She wanted a friend. A partner. 

It wasn’t her fault that he’d gone and fallen in love with her.

If this friendship fell apart because of his feelings, because she felt uncomfortable having to be friends with someone who’s in love with her, he would have no one to blame but himself, and she’d have to mourn the loss of a best friend and skating partner.

This could ruin everything.

Probably would.

But as he brought her down from the last lift, settling into their final position, he found he couldn’t keep his mouth shut anymore.

The moment the cheers started, he felt his knees buckle, bringing them down onto the ice as she got her arms around his neck, hugging him. She clung to her for what would probably be the last time, head in the crook of her neck, knuckles white in the fabric of her dress.

He lifted his head as she laughed and smiled, delighted.

“Oh my God, Ilia, we did it!”

He brought his forehead down to meet hers and she held his face, smiling like a maniac, knowing they’d secured the gold without a doubt.

He looked at her, feeling tears start burning his eyes, and whispered.

“I’m in love with you.”

Her eyes went wide.

“I’m sorry.”

.•*¨•..•¨`•.☆

They won. 

He kept it together during the podium, though he’d escaped every one of (Y/n)’s attempts at talking.

In his mind, it was simple: as long as he didn’t talk to her, he could still pretend everything was fine. He could push away the inevitable end of their friendship, just by a little bit.

But as he made his way out of the rink through the back door, he heard her calling out to him.

“Ilia!”

He sped up his steps.

“Ilia, wait!”

He couldn’t do this right now. He just couldn’t.

“Ilia Roman Malinin, stop right there!”

His feet stopped before his brain could tell them not to.

She caught up to him, turning him to face her with a strong grip on his wrist. He could see her knuckles go white from the strength and wondered if her fingers would leave bruises.

“For fuck’s sake, Ilia, why are you running?”

Isn’t it obvious? He doesn’t want to face the consequences of his actions. He’s selfish like that.

“You can’t just say you’re in love with me at the end of our program and then ignore me, that’s a dick move.”

Yeah, he was aware. He was an awful person, that much had been made clear the moment he opened his mouth.

“It’s confusing as hell, okay? I had about two seconds of being the happiest I’ve ever been, and then you hit me with an I’m sorry? What the fuck are you sorry for? Are you sorry for being in love with me? Are you sorry because you don’t want to be? What does that mean?”

His gaze stayed firmly on the ground.

“Well?”

He swallowed back tears.

“Will you say something, please?”

He could hear the desperation in her voice, but the truth was that…

“I don’t know what to say.”

He’d ruined everything. There was no coming back from this.

“Okay. Then I’ll talk.”

He closed his eyes, bracing himself.

I hate you.

I thought you were my friend.

You ruined our friendship.

You ruined this partnership.

You’re a horrible person.

You broke my trust.

You–

“I’m in love with you too.”

His eyes opened in shock and his head snapped up.

“Huh?”

“Oh, now you look at me? I said I’m in love with you too, though God only knows why when you’re acting like this.”

She was in love with him.

“Like, actually? For real?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yes.”

Huh.

“I think I need to sit down, I’m feeling a bit lightheaded.”

“You’re not gonna pass out cause I confessed my love for you, right?”

No, of course not.

He’d just rest his eyes for a moment.

Just a quick second.

The next time he opened his eyes, his head was laying in her lap and she was stroking his hair.

“Welcome back to the world of the living, pretty boy. How are you feeling?”

“Like I ran into a pole and the pole gave me an Olympic medal.”

She laughed, and he felt his lips stretch into a smile.

“You love me.”

She hummed in agreement.

“And I love you.”

“Oh, do you?”

He nodded so fast it felt like his head might come off.

“I do, I really really do. For like, ages. I mean, years. Probably since we met. I don’t know, I just can’t really remember not being in love with you so I assume since we met.”

She brushed her fingers through his hair.

“Me too. We missed a lot of time, huh?”

Probably, yeah.

“Does this mean you’ll be my girlfriend?”

“Will you run away from me again?”

“Never, I promise.”

“Then yes.”

Oh wow.

Oh, wow.

He was officially dating the girl of his dreams.

“This day can’t get any better.”

And then she leaned down, until their faces were right next to each other, and softly kissed his lips.

Turns out, the day could get better.

That program genuinely lives in my mind rent free, I fear it was the pinnacle of romantic pair skating and we'll never be able to top it.

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed it, and if you did don't forget to like/comment/reblog, just tell me if you like it because I'm a sucker for praise, it's what keeps me going <3

For those who've sent me a request, I currently have six of them in my inbox so don't worry, I'll get to it, it might just take me a minute

Maybe it’s a side effect of your insecurity, or of being raised in a small, conservative-leaning town stuck in its purity culture ways, but the thought of intimacy terrifies you. Letting your guard down and being that vulnerable with another human being feels like the sword of Damocles swinging above your head, ready to chop you in two.

In the summer of 1985, a few weeks after high school graduation, you’re at the Holloway house for a spa night (i.e., painting your nails and drinking wine you pilfered from Mrs. Holloway’s wine fridge). Heather asks you if you really want to be a virgin before college. 

“Virginity is a construct,” you reply, quoting something you read in a zine you bought from a bookstore in Indianapolis. 

“Right, sure,” Heather says flippantly. She shakes one hand, trying to air-dry her Passionate Plum manicure. “But don’t you want to have at least some experience? Because you don’t want your first sexual encounter to be with some drunk frat bro who can’t find the clit.”

“Ohmigod Heather,” you say, embarrassment and anxiety washing over you at her crass words.

“What?! I’m just saying! We should hook you up with someone before we leave in the fall.”

“Leave” was a strong word. You and Heather were going to Cartersville University for college, barely 30 minutes away.

“Ooh, you know what I heard,” Heather says, leaning in conspiratorially. You can smell the Pinot Grigio on her breath. “Steve Harrington is, like, desperate for a date. He asks out every girl our age who comes into Scoops. You should go after him.”

“I don’t really want to ‘go after’ a guy who asks out everyone,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers and already wanting to chip off the baby blue nail polish you haphazardly applied.

Heather shrugs. “Suit yourself. You might regret that, though, because everyone says he’s like…you know.”

She makes some sort of motion with her hands. You’re not sure if you don’t understand it because of your lack of sexual experience or because she’s not adequately expressing whatever she’s trying to. You blink, and Heather huffs. “He’s hung, Y/N. All the girls at school say so.” 

You aren’t sure if this conversation makes you want to laugh or cry, so you change the subject by picking up the half-empty bottle and gesturing to Heather’s plastic cup. “Want more wine?” 

💋💋💋

Less than a week later, Heather calls you in a panic.

“Please,” she begs. “Something’s wrong with my mom! She passed out after dinner. My dad took her to the hospital but I’m really, really scared…I don’t want to be alone!” 

Your parents are out of town caring for a sick relative, so you have no curfew to adhere to and book it to her house on your bike. But after you ring the doorbell and she lets you inside, you instantly get the feeling something is wrong.

“Why is it so cold?” you ask, a shiver involuntarily running through you. Goosebumps raise on your arms and legs, and you don’t understand how Heather is comfortable in a tank top and shorts when it can’t be more than 60 degrees inside her house.

Heather doesn’t respond. Instead, she almost robotically sits on the couch and puts her head in her hands. You take a seat next to her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” you soothe. “Your mom is going to be all right.”

“No, she isn’t!” Heather says, voice muffled in her hands. 

“She will! You just have to be positive. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with her.”

Still with her face covered, Heather says, “Do you think they’ll figure out what’s wrong with you?”

You frown, brows pulling together. “W-what?”

In one swift motion, she pulls a rag out from a couch cushion and covers your mouth with it. You try and fight back, but you feel the pull of sleep calling you.

Her expression is devoid of emotion. “Sorry, Y/N,” she says, as your consciousness wanes. “But He told me He needs more.”

💋💋💋

For the next few days, you become Billy Hargrove’s second-in-command. The creature possessing you seems to like that you’re mousy and insecure. You’re easier to break. Easier to control.

When you’re under the Mind Flayer’s influence, you feel like you’re watching yourself through a pane of glass. Your mind screams at your body to Stop it! Stop! as you knock Mike Wheeler unconscious in the back hallways of the mall. But it’s no use. As long as the Mind Flayer has its hooks in you, you’re forced to be a bystander to your own life.

It changes when you get to the mall’s main atrium: Billy has Eleven in his clutches, and you’re standing nearby in case he needs backup. The fireworks are burning your skin from the inside out, and your ears are ringing, so you don’t hear what El says to Billy. But something in his expression shifts. You watch the darkened veins on his face and arms fade. 

He looks up at you, and sees your skin still covered in those veins.

“What are you waiting for?” you hear yourself ask. “Give her to Him!”

Don’t! you scream inside your mind. God, please, don’t do it Billy.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, remorse flashing on his face when he realizes what he’s done under the influence of a monster—not just to you, but to El, to Heather, to everyone else making up the Mind Flayer’s physical form. “I’m so, so sorry Y/N.”

You blink, surprised, even more so when he turns toward the creature that’s been controlling you two for days. He grapples with one of its tentacles, and then the creature impales him with another. You scream in pain and fall onto your back a few feet away, the pesky hive mind keeping you connected. His pain is very much yours.

“You have to fight it!” someone shouts, from somewhere in this godforsaken mall. Easier said than done.

You close your eyes and try to force the Mind Flayer out of your head. He’d been feeding on your darkest memories to keep you in control, so maybe you could take back over by focusing on happier ones: Meeting Heather in 3rd grade and making a best friend for the first time in your life. Riding bikes through town. Swimming at the pool every summer. Dancing wildly at the Snow Ball. Weekend trips to Indianapolis with your family. Cheering Heather on as she won prom queen, just a few weeks ago.

You focus on the good, and the bad sloughs itself out of you in a big rush. Just in the nick of time, too. You sit up, feeling woozy, and watch as the Mind Flayer falls to the ground, very much dead. 

A few feet away, you watch Billy’s stepsister, Max Mayfield, cry for him. Eleven comforts her. You stagger to your feet, unsure of what to do or where to go. 

You fail to blink back tears, and they roll down your face when the gravity of what’s happened sinks over you.

“H-Heather,” you sob. “No! No!” 

You fall to your knees in front of the corpse of the Mind Flayer, sobbing into your hands.

“It isn’t your fault.”

You whip your head to the side, where Will Byers stands. He’s looking at you with empathy, and is treating you more kindly than you expected this crew to after everything that happened.

“What he did to you,” Will says, nodding toward the monster. “And what he made you do, it is not your fault. Trust me, I understand that more than anyone else here.”

You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you simply offer a hoarse, “Thank you.” 

Steve Harrington, whose face is bloodied and bruised in a way that makes you feel sick, walks up to you next.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s a trace of urgency laced in his words. “We should get out of here before these fires spread. Can you stand?”

You nod shakily, though you stumble a bit, feeling weary. Steve reaches to balance you and you flinch away from him. “Sorry!” he says, and backs up, tucking his hands in his pockets as if to assure you he wouldn’t try and touch you again.

As you walk toward the exit, you feel numb. You profusely apologize to Eleven, Max, and the others, but like Will, they don’t hold it against you. (Well, Mike Wheeler grumbles something about having a concussion, but when he sees how upset you are, he walks it back.)

“It was the hive mind,” he says. “Not you.” 

Right. Not you. It was an external force invading your mind and body. A hostile takeover. The sword of Damocles inches ever-closer to your skull in your mind.

That night, Robin Buckley’s parents drive you and Steve home as well. Steve offers to stay with you, but you want to be alone. You want to crawl into your bed, in the body you don’t trust anymore, and cry yourself to sleep. So that’s exactly what you do.

💋💋💋

You defer your enrollment to Cartersville U, wanting to take a gap year to deal with the grief and pain. Your parents understand, showering you with gifts and attention to make up for the fact that they weren’t there the night of the “mall fire” that killed your best friend and so many others.

You make new friends in Steve and Robin, getting a job at the Family Video with them. However, one gap year turns to two, and then three, when an earthquake hits and the military sets up a barricade. No one in or out, except for extenuating circumstances.

Steve reads you in on the truth: it wasn’t a simple earthquake. It was another monster from the Mind Flayer’s domain opening portals to another dimension, called Gates. The uneasy feeling you’d had all week starts to make sense when you realize the hive mind was active again.

“We’re going to kill him,” Steve tells you quietly as you two sit in Max’s hospital room to keep her company. When you heard about her coma, your heart just broke.

“I want to help,” you say.

“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You’ve been tortured enough by this fucker.”

“Everyone has!” you say. “Let me help, Steve.”

He does, even if he doesn’t seem happy about it. You help the group plan Crawls into the Upside Down, where the “resurrected” Chief Hopper searches for Henry Creel/Vecna/One. The way you understand it, Vecna and the Mind Flayer are partners in crime. So while you were connected to the hive mind in 1985, you were technically connected to Vecna too. The thought makes you sick.

And in fall 1987, after 30-some Crawls, you and Will are dragged back into the hive mind’s orbit. It’s painful, seeing from the vision of a monster—at least it’s not your body carrying out the acts this time.

In the downtime before your plan at the Turnbow’s house, Steve finds you crying in the storage closet at the WSQK station.

“What’s wrong?!” he says, sitting on the floor beside you, but leaving some space. After two years of friendship, he knows better than to reach for you—you don’t love physical touch.

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You screw your eyes shut, deciding to just be honest. “I hate being so close to the hive mind,” you say quietly. “I hate being back there, like I’m out of control of my body again. It’s…violating.” 

You don’t say more, but you could. You could talk about how you still haven’t had sex, kissed anyone, or really dated at all, because your fear of sex and intimacy and vulnerability was ratcheted up after you were flayed. You have this compulsive need to be in control of your body at all times, and sex seems like a surefire way to lose that control. You don’t want to lose yourself to someone else. Ever again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve says. If he can tell you’re not telling the full truth, he doesn’t bring it up. “Listen, we’re going to kill Vecna once and for all. And then he, and the Mind Flayer, and the whole hive mind will be gone.”

You appreciate his positivity, even if you don’t feel so optimistic. “Thank you,” you say. You hesitate, before asking, “Could I get a hug?” 

Steve had secretly hoped you would ask. When you occasionally ask for a hug is the only time you let him close to you.

“Of course,” he says, opening his arms for you. You hug him tightly, but only for a few seconds, before you’re pulling away. Steve stands and offers you a hand. You murmur, “Thanks,” and take it, but let go as soon as you’re on your feet. Steve doesn’t take offense—he’s not that insecure. But he does find his arms and hands feeling a bit warm where he was just holding you…

Steve squashes that instantly. Whatever he’s feeling is a bad idea. Besides, you all have a world to save.

💋💋💋

You do save the world, shockingly. Somehow, your team of quasi-heroes pulls it off, and then you’re all expected to go about life as normal.

Eleven is finally able to get some semblance of a normal life, after the military is exposed for their clandestine experiments. She even gets a hefty payout from the government, which Hopper commands cannot be used on a lifetime supply of Eggos, to her chagrin.

Max re-enrolls in school, hoping to catch up, with Lucas, Mike, Will, and Dustin offering to be her personal tutors. 

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all go far from Hawkins for college in fall 1988. You still end up only 30 minutes away, at Cartersville University. You’re a bit surprised when Steve tells you he’s enrolled as well.

“I think I want to be a teacher,” he says, while the two of you are attending a new student mixer during orientation week (and glomming onto each other so you don’t need to talk to any strangers).

“That’s amazing, Steve!” you say. “You’re great with kids. You’re going to do really, really well.”

He smiles, a bit bashful. “Thanks, Y/N. What do you think you want to study?”

You don’t get the chance to respond before a pretty girl is sidling up to him. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You bite back the urge to make a sarcastic remark about how you’re all new, so of course she hasn’t seen Steve before. As Steve begins to flirt back, you quietly excuse yourself for more punch. Oh, brother.

💋💋💋

Your roommate is the most insatiable human being to exist.

You think she and her boyfriend have sex four times a week, maybe five. Good lord.

Coming home from a long day of one lab, two lectures, and an exam, you scowl at the sight of a bright pink sock with yellow daisies stitched on it resting on the doorknob of your dorm. 

You know your roommate’s boyfriend lives off-campus, so it’s easier for their post-class romps to be in the dorm. But your stomach squeezes and twists, and the fact that she can so easily engage in intimacy while you’re still terrified of your own naked reflection sometimes angers you. You meet Steve in the dining hall for dinner and lament about it, stabbing at your salad with a fork.

“It’s just so goddamn inconsiderate that she’s fucking in our shared room all the time,” you say hotly, spearing a cherry tomato and biting into it. 

“That really sucks,” Steve says, genuinely upset on your behalf. His empathy is one of his best qualities. “I mean, she should at least give you a heads-up or something.” 

“Or something,” you grumble. “I hope she gets a UTI.”

Steve nearly chokes on his grilled cheese sandwich.

You feel a bit ashamed. “Sorry. Was that, like, totally evil of me to wish on another person?”

“Not evil,” Steve says. “A little twisted, maybe.” 

You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed. Steve just laughs.

“I kind of like this side of you,” he muses. 

“Shut up.” You flick a craisin at him. It lands in his perfect hair. It’s your turn to laugh, and his turn to blush as he brushes it away.

“But seriously,” you add, shaking your head. “I just don’t get how they even have the energy to do it so often.”

Now that you’ve successfully vented your frustration, you’re ready to change the subject. You’re about to ask Steve how his club baseball team is going when he says, “I mean, the few weeks I dated that girl I met at the orientation mixer, that was about how often we’d hook up.” 

Suddenly, you’re very invested in your salad once more. 

Steve frowns at the sudden chill in your demeanor. 

“Sorry,” he says, wondering if he overshared. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight.

Steve furrows his brow. “Really? Because I’ve never seen someone inspect ranch dressing that closely.”

“I said it’s fine,” you say, anger creeping in again. You seal up the to-go container holding your half-finished dinner and add, “I’m going to the library. Hopefully Sierra’s boyfriend is long gone by the time I’m done studying.” 

You storm off, leaving a bewildered Steve behind.

💋💋💋

You think you might be sexually frustrated. 

You don’t know what that feels like, exactly. You’re pretty certain in your 20-some years of life, you’ve never felt it before.

But you’re still scared of sex, so the feeling is confounding. Why does your traitorous body want the thing your brain has convinced you is terribly dangerous?

You don’t like masturbating because you can never get yourself off, but your roommate is staying with her boyfriend for the weekend and you have a dorm to yourself, and you might as well try to do something to stave off the burning under your skin. If you don’t, you’ll probably go into some sort of hysteria. Is this when women in the 1800s would’ve been sent to the seaside?

You eye the poster hanging on Sierra’s side of the dorm room, of some hunky male musician you’re certain is popular though you can’t name a single one of his songs, and hope it’ll spark something in you. You fumble around with your hand shoved down the front of your jeans, but your clumsy strokes combined with the swoonworthy stare of Hunky Musician does not make you come.

Could this be something behavioral science can solve? You head to the library, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your eyes as if it could disguise you, wondering if there’s some kind of psychology textbook titled “Handbook For Adult Women Who Are Scared Of Sex But Really Want To Get Off.”

You don’t find that in a shadowy corner of the nonfiction section with the books on sex and relationships, but you do find a rather interesting-looking tome titled “Tending To Her Garden of Pleasure: The Complete Guide To A Woman’s Orgasm.” Close enough.

“Hey, Y/N!” 

You have a small cardiac event when Steve calls your name, dropping the book on the carpeted floor. You burn with embarrassment, shame, and regret, mortified that the book fell cover-side up.

You can’t even bring yourself to say anything, or even put the book back on the shelf. You blink back tears and speedwalk past Steve, ignoring him calling after you.

You sit on a bench by the vending machines outside the library, hugging your backpack to your chest. You should just head back to your dorm, but the thought of being alone in that room again makes you want to peel your own skin off. 

Minutes tick by, and you notice Steve out of the corner of your eye, heading your way. You aren’t sure what to expect as he gingerly takes a seat on the bench next to you, but it’s definitely not a soft, “I think you forgot something.”

He holds the book out to you, cover-side down this time. Your eyes widen. “You checked it out?”

“In case you still wanted it,” Steve said. And he’s not teasing you. He’s being 100% genuine. Though he can’t resist and adds, “But if you don’t, maybe I should study up.”

You snort and shake your head. “I’m sure the librarian got a kick out of that.”

“She’s stone cold,” Steve said. “Didn’t even react. I’m probably not the only desperate schmuck who’s taken this thing home.” He screws his face up with disgust. “Eugh, they like, disinfect the books each time they’re returned, right?”

But you don’t play along. The words “desperate schmuck” rattle around in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shuddery breath.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, suddenly serious again, misinterpreting what’s making you upset and tucking the book in his backpack. “I promise I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say. You sniffle. “I just…Steve, I think I’m broken.” 

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?” 

You consider just walking away, but he sounds so concerned, and it might be nice to open up about this to someone you know and trust.

“I can’t have sex,” you say, voice cracking on the last word, “because the thought of it scares me so badly. And all my hang-ups make it hard to get myself off, too.” You huff out a hollow laugh. “Which makes me sound so babyish, because we’re in college now, and it seems like everyone else is screwing someone or jerking off all the time.”

You slouch in your seat. “And I’ve never even been kissed,” you murmur, so quiet you aren’t sure if Steve can even hear you anymore. “The longer I go without it, the more scary intimacy gets in my head, and I—hell, we’ve fought monsters, I know what real terror feels like, so why do I feel that way about something other people can do every single day?! It’s like I said. I’m broken!”

“No,” Steve says, voice gentle but firm. “You aren’t.”

“Says the guy who’s probably bedded every girl our age in Hawkins!” you fire back, before immediately feeling guilty for snapping at him.

“‘Bedded’?” Steve says. “What is this, a Shakespeare play?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Steve waves it off. “It’s fine. You’re upset. And I guess I do have something of a track record…but I’m serious. You aren’t broken, Y/N.” He shrugs. “Sure, dating and sex can be fun. But it does mean you might get your heart stomped on in the end. Trust me, I know all about that.”

He gets a far-off look in his eye, and you know he’s thinking about Nancy. The one that got away.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your time,” Steve adds. 

“When does it stop being scary?” you ask quietly. “Putting yourself out there, and…and giving up control to someone else?” 

“‘Control’?” Steve asks, confusion flashing on his features. “Sex doesn’t have to be about control. I mean, it can, if you’re into heavier stuff, but—did someone tell you that?” 

“No,” you say. “But I have firsthand experience with feeling like your body doesn’t belong to you.”

It takes a minute for the dots to connect. When they do, Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh. This is because of…”

“Yeah. Well, I was always a bit freaked out by sex, but it just kind of got worse after…all that.”

“Geez,” Steve huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Henry Creel really did a number on us. The fucker.” 

You look down at your feet, unsure of what else to say.

“Listen,” Steve says. “You don’t have to have sex with anyone if you don’t want to. Ever, no matter what someone says.”

You want to articulate that there is a part of you, deep down, that does want sex. You just feel like you can’t have it, because it feels like the most dangerous thing in the world. But that’s more than you’re willing to share at present, so you thank Steve for the support.

“Um, I don’t think I’m ready for the book,” you add, standing from the bench. “So you can return it.”

“Are you kidding?” Steve says, with a smirk. “I’m reading this thing cover to cover. I’m going to become a master of female pleasure by the end of the week.”

You burn again, but not from embarrassment this time. From something else that you aren’t ready to identify. 

But whatever it is, it sure helps you get off for the very first time mere hours later.

💋💋💋

The following spring, you and Steve complete your first year of college. You decide to move into an off-campus apartment together. Before the summer semester begins (because after starting school later than normal because of the quarantine, you both feel like you’re playing catch-up), you return to Hawkins to celebrate the Class of 1989.

Sitting in the bleachers with Steve and Robin, you cheer extra loud when Will, Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Mike walk the stage—though no one cheers louder for Mike than Eleven. Dustin’s valedictorian speech has the whole crowd going nuts.

On the WSQK rooftop after the festivities, you share a drink with your friends. You all agree to meet up every few months at Robin’s uncle’s house to socialize, and also because Jonathan is going to need some major help on his student film.

You laugh, talk, and drink, and it’s nice, for a while. However, after Robin starts teasing Steve for getting dumped by a classmate in Spanish during their Spanish class oral exam, she turns to you.

“Please tell us your love life is going better than Steve’s,” Robin says. “We need a story about Cartersville that won’t depress us.”

An icy panic spreads itself through your body. You force a laugh and shake your head. “No love life to speak of,” you say lightly. “I’m just studying a lot.”

“Oh, come on!” Robin says. “There has to be someone you’re at least crushing on.”

You shake your head and take a long sip of your beer. It’s mostly warm by now, due to the heat. “No one.”

That’s mostly true. Sure, you’ve noticed over the last few months that you find Steve…attractive. Very much so. But he’s your friend. And he knows you’re not ready for a relationship that involves sex, and he has sex all the time. Well, you don’t think he’s hooked up with anyone since you two moved in together. But still. You two would never work.

Nancy scans the twist of your mouth and rescues you. “So, Steve, what exactly did your professor say when you got broken up with during the test?”

Steve groans and shakes his head. “Not you two, Wheeler. I swear, you all relish in my misfortune.” 

But he’s a good sport, and he recounts every detail of the situation that he hadn’t already shared. You force a few more laughs, but deep down, you find yourself feeling anxious. Everyone on this rooftop has fallen in love before. They’ve all had sex before. They probably can tell that you haven’t. Do they think you’re a prude? Or that something’s wrong with you? Something is wrong with you. Fear essentially runs your life. But you don’t want your friends to know that. 

A few hours later, when Steve drives you two back to Cartersville in his truck, he says, “Hey, you’re pretty quiet. All good?”

“Mm-hm,” you say with a weak smile. “My stomach just, uh, hurts a little. So I’m ready to get home.”

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. He glances at you at a red light. “And sorry about Robin. She shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. Steve can tell it’s not. But the light turns green, and you angle your face away from his to watch the trees whiz by, so he doesn’t press.

💋💋💋

Steve is an adequate roommate.

He does his half of the chores in a (mostly) timely manner. He doesn’t leave dishes in the sink or hair in the drain. But he does bring a lot of girls home.

However, he’s respectful about it. Every time he has a date, he gives you a heads-up that they might be coming home with him at the end of the night. Sometimes, he’ll even borrow the phone in whatever restaurant they were just dining at to tell you an exact ETA.

You think that he thinks this is what you want, after your roommate experience from last year; a warning in advance that Sex Is Going To Be Happening, since he knows it makes you uncomfortable. While you appreciate what you assume is meant to be a nice sentiment, all it does is make you frustrated, sexually and otherwise. It’s not fun to get constant reminders that Other People Are Fucking And You Are Not (And It’s Kind Of Your Fault But Also Sort Of The Mind Flayer’s So Who’s To Say?).

You realize that something has to change when you come downstairs one early morning in August and catch Steve feeding his date from the night before, Renee, a strawberry. People actually do that shit? You were certain that couples-feeding-each-other-fruit was made up for Hollywood.

“Oh, hey,” Steve says in greeting when you shuffle into the kitchen. You are wearing a pair of Hawkins High gym shorts and a T-shirt with ALF on it. Renee is wearing one of Steve’s button-up shirts and presumably nothing else.

“Good morning!!!” you say, accidentally too chipper. You flash a smile at Renee. She looks at you like she wishes you were dead. Cool.

“Any fun plans for the day?” you offer weakly, after you throw a waffle in the toaster.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Renee wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. His face flushes as Renee says, “We’ll probably just go back to bed.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. She seems to be trying to mark her territory on Steve, as if she can tell that you’ve been harboring the tiniest, centimeter-sized crush on him for the past few months (that you know better than to act on).

Steve extricates himself from Renee and stands from his seat at the counter. “What are you going to do today, Y/N?”

You appreciate that he’s trying to cut back on the PDA while you’re in there. But Renee has no qualms about it. She stands and hugs Steve from behind while you stammer through some explanation of the portfolio you’re putting together for your summer poetry workshop. While you’re halfway through raving about how “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver really inspired your work, Renee starts kissing Steve’s neck.

“That’s really cool,” Steve says, though you know he stopped listening as soon as Renee got her hands on him. 

“Thanks,” you say. You put your waffle on a plate and say, “I’ll just, uh, eat in my room.”

You scurry out before either of them can say anything else. As soon as you get to your room and close the door, all the tension in your body dissipates. 

Shit, for the very first time in your life, you think you need a date of your own.

💋💋💋

Steve is worried that you’re upset with him.

Ever since Renee tried to pounce on in him the kitchen, you’ve been avoiding him. You spend the last few days of the summer semester locked away in a library study room, leaving before he wakes up and coming home after he’s gone to bed.

After the third day of avoidance, while he assumes you’re out at the library again, he tries to explain to Renee why they shouldn’t engage in PDA in front of you (without blabbing all about your fear and trauma). Renee doesn’t get it.

“What, is she like, in love with you or something?” Renee huffs, as the two of them sit on the couch.

“No!” Steve says, though his heart kicks up a bit at the thought. You’re wonderful, in every way, and if Steve thought you had feelings for him, he would pursue you—at whatever speed you’re comfortable with, whatever that looks like. But you’ve never made any indication that you see him as more than a friend, even when he privately took a vow of celibacy for the first month in the new apartment to prove to you that he’s not just some horndog. “Not at all. She’s just…”

“Lonely?” Renee offers. “Desperate because she doesn’t have what we do?”

She surges forward, keen to end this conversation and start making out, but Steve leans away from her with a frown. “Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Renee rolls her eyes. Steve’s blood boils.

“Whatever,” Renee says. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t really see why you two are friends. Like, you’re you, and she’s less of a person and more of a skittish cartoon mouse.”

Steve is baffled. Has Renee always been casually cruel like this? Truth be told, most of the time they’ve spent together has been in his bedroom, or the backseat of his car, or her bedroom, and none of those times involved a lot of talking.

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he stands from the couch and says, “I think you should probably leave.”

Renee scoffs. “Seriously?” 

Steve walks to the door and opens it. Renee snatches up her purse and storms out. Steve slams it shut, before leaning his forehead on the cool wood.

Later, he wanders into the kitchen and makes a pitiful excuse for a dinner (mac & cheese with pieces of hot dog inside—not very nutritious, but delicious), and he wonders if this is a cosmic sign that he should ask you out. He’s assuming that you don’t feel the same, but he could be dead wrong.

He mulls it over in his mind as he eats. He could profess his feelings and promise that you would set the pace, if you’re interested in him too. This all sounds great, and Steve is actually feeling pretty confident, and he brews himself a cup of coffee (or three) to stay awake tonight.

He’s wired on caffeine when he hears your key click in the lock at 12:08 a.m.

“Oh!” you say, when you enter the apartment and see him sitting on the couch in the low lamplight. “Hi, Steve.” You clear your throat and close the door behind you. “I’m sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. I finally turned in my poetry portfolio after a pretty stressful few days.”

“That’s great!” Steve says. He offers to carry your backpack for you. You thank him and hand it off, heading into the kitchen for a midnight snack before bed.

Steve hangs your bag on its hook and hovers in the kitchen doorway, wondering if the speech he has prepared is a good idea or not. He’s about to just bite the bullet when you turn to him with a shy smile and say, “I have good news.”

“About your poetry portfolio?” 

You shake your head, your grin widening. “Nope. I’ve got a date. For the first time! Ever!!!”

Steve’s eyes widen. He tries to arrange his shocked expression into something that resembles joy, while his heart is withering away inside his chest. “Whoa! That’s g-great! With who?” 

“His name is Gary,” you say as you reheat some leftover pizza.

“Gary,” Steve repeats.

“My friend Judy set it up,” you continue, blissfully unaware of the crisis Steve is currently going through. “She was in my summer poetry workshop. She’s a writing major, and Gary was her math tutor last semester. She said he’s super cool.”

“Super cool,” Steve echoes again. He can’t seem to form any coherent thoughts, except, IDIOT!!! WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?!?!?! WHY DID YOU WASTE TIME WITH RENEE?!?!?!?!

You seem to pick up on the tension radiating off Steve. Your bright expression falters. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve assures you. Because the last thing he wants to do is ruin something that could be good for you, just because he holds a candle for you and continually talked himself out of acting on it. “I’m really happy for you. This is big!” 

You nod and smile again, but it looks a little weaker this time. “Thank you, Steve.”

He excuses himself to bed. As soon as he gets in his room, he picks up the phone on his nightstand and calls Robin.

“Hello?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Robin, I fucked up,” Steve whispers into the receiver.

A pause, and then: “Did you somehow bring the Upside Down back?”

Steve frowns. “Uh, no?”

“Get a girl pregnant?”

“No!” Steve huffs, aghast. “I always have safe sex, Rob, and I’m frankly offended that you’d assume otherwise.”

“Okay, King Condom,” Robin snorts. “Then what the hell are you calling me so late for? What could be so bad?” 

Steve’s quiet for a moment. And then, barely audible, he says, “I have feelings for someone that I probably shouldn’t, but think I missed my chance to act on them.”

“Oh, I see,” Robin muses. “This is about Y/N.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not an idiot, Steve,” Robin says. “I saw the way you looked at her when we were at WSQK together. I could always tell there was something there, simmering below the surface. Simmering? Boiling? What’s the difference, anyway?”

“Can we get back on track, please?” Steve asks, rubbing his forehead. “What do I do? Is it selfish if I beg her not to date this other guy?” 

“I don’t know about selfish,” Robin says. “But if you ask her out now, it is kind of going to look like you only want to date her because she’s unavailable. And that’s shitty.”

Steve agrees that it might not be a good look. So he swallows down his feelings for you, hoping they’ll fade like a bruise before long.

💋💋💋

Your first date with Gary is at a nice buffet in Cartersville. He pays for you, and he’s nice, if a little self-absorbed. 

When he drops you off at your apartment complex after, he doesn’t walk you up to the door. That’s how you always pictured your first date would end: your prince charming walks you to your door and kisses you sweetly. 

Instead, Gary haphazardly parks in the fire lane and leans across the center console, practically mashing his teeth against yours for a first kiss that leaves something to be desired. You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to feel afterward, but it’s not the butterflies you envisioned. It’s just…fine.

As summer slowly turns to autumn and another semester begins, you agree to a second date, then a third. Each ends with a similar attack of a kiss. After the fourth, Gary tries to invite himself up.

“My roommate is home,” you say in lieu of giving him a “yes” or “no.”

“So?” Gary asks. He flashes you an impish grin. “I can be quiet. Don’t know if you’ll be able to, once I get my hands on you…”

You suppress a shiver. You don’t feel any more ready for sex than you did before you started this thing with Gary. But maybe it’s something you just have to do once, and then it’ll feel fine and normal. You fidget with the hem of your skirt and say, “Do you want to come over tomorrow evening? My roommate has a teaching lab that doesn’t end until 9:00.” 

Gary agrees. This time, when he kisses you goodbye, he shoves his tongue in your mouth unexpectedly. Eugh. 

As you ascend the steps toward your and Steve’s apartment, you try to focus on the positives, to avoid drowning in dread: a man is interested in you! He’s taken you on many nice dates, to restaurants and movies! He likes kissing you, and tomorrow, he is going to have sex with you!

Your knees nearly buckle once you walk into the apartment, when the reality of what you’ve just promised hits you. Apprehension clings to you like cheap fabric, and you wonder if you should change your mind. Call Gary and end whatever this is before you have to give him the part of yourself you’re terrified to share. 

As you kick your shoes off by the door, you feel mentally transported to summer 1985. To that feeling of the Mind Flayer invading every one of your senses. The part of your brain that’s so afraid of so many things assumes sex will feel like that too: an invasion. You start to breathe a little harder.

“You okay?” 

You curse and flinch at the sight of your roommate popping in the kitchen doorway, hand on your chest. “Jesus, Steve! I’m putting a goddamn bell on you.”

He gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I heard you come in, but you didn’t say anything.” He scans your face, brow furrowed. “You look pretty freaked. Did Gary cross a line? Do I need to run him over with my truck?” 

“You have your lab tomorrow, right?” you ask, ignoring his question. “The three-hour night class?” 

Steve nods slowly. “Uh, yeah…why?”

“Gary’s going to come over so we can have sex while you’re in class,” you blurt out. You probably should be mortified by your brutal honesty, but you suddenly don’t feel well and can’t stop yourself.

Steve’s jaw drops. Then, he closes his mouth and nods. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “And you’re sure you want to?”

Fuck. He can read you like a book. “Yes,” you say. You breeze past him, heading into your bedroom.

You think he’ll leave it at that, but he follows you in as you toss your purse on your desk. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” Steve says dryly. He leans against your doorframe and crosses his arms. He adds, softer, “Y/N, don’t force yourself to do something you’re not ready for.”

“But that’s just the thing!” you say, barking out a hollow laugh. “At this rate, I feel like I’ll never be ready!” You jab a finger at your temple. “I have to just do it to prove to my fucked-up mind that it’s fine.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I see where you’re coming from, but c’mon. This is different than, like, getting over a fear of heights by rock climbing, or something. This is sex. And it should be special.” 

That grates your nerves. You scoff and yank open a dresser drawer, pulling out your pajamas and throwing them on your bed. “Oh, and is it special with every girl you bring home?”

“Yes!” Steve says, though there’s an edge to his voice now. “Just because I date around doesn’t mean the sex is meaningless!”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do too!” you fire back. “Date around, and make a meaningful connection. So I don’t get why you’re being so weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Steve protests.

“Yes!” you shout, unable to tamp down the fear and dread turning into anger. “You are! You’re acting this is some kind of afterschool special!”

“Because I know you, Y/N!” Steve says, voice breaking a bit on your name. “The look on your face is the same look you had when we were riding into the Upside Down in the back of a refrigerated truck to kill Vecna. You’re scared. It’s not worth pushing yourself into having sex when you’re this freaked out.”

You look away. He’s got you dead to rights. He continues, “Don’t have sex with Gary just to check it off a checklist. There’s nothing wrong with taking your time. With being patient until…until the right person comes along.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s convinced you. Then, you narrow your eyes and say, “Is that what you tell the girls you date?”

“Huh?”

“That you’ll be patient,” you continue, stepping a bit closer. You see Steve swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What would you do if, say, the woman you were going out with told you she wasn’t ready to have sex. Would you wait until she was, or dump her for someone who wants to jump your bones?”

“I’d wait,” Steve says, jaw tense. “Of course I would.”

“Really? Even if she wasn’t ready to sleep with you after three dates? Or three months—hell, three years of dating?” you continue. Tears build up on your lashline. “Would you be able to wait that long?”

You aren’t sure if this is a hypothetical question anymore. 

“I would wait,” Steve repeats, voice low. “However long until she’s ready.”

You want to believe him. Every fiber of your being wants to believe him. Because he’s looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you mean something to him. Like you really are worth waiting for. 

But your insecurity overtakes you and convinces you he’s just being nice, and a protective friend. You aren’t like the women he dates. You aren’t vivacious, and conventionally beautiful, and confident in your body.

“Liar,” you say, not much louder than a whisper. 

Steve frown deepens. “No, I—”

“Will you definitely be gone tomorrow night?” you ask.

Steve sighs and closes his eyes. He nods once, a curt motion.

“Okay. Good. Goodnight, Steve.”

You go to close your door. Steve steps back just as it slams in his face. He’s left standing in the hall alone, with mounting regret, marveling at how he never has the capacity to say what he really wants to.

💋💋💋

Steve’s teaching lab is from 6-9 on Wednesday nights. It usually involves learning classroom management strategies. Steve knows he won’t be paying a lick of attention to any of that today.

Before he leaves for campus, he hesitates, but knocks on your bedroom door. “Hey,” he says, with a soft call of your name. “Uh, can we talk?”

A few seconds later, the door swings open. Steve’s heart stutters at the sight of you. You’re wearing a pale blue dress and matching eyeshadow. You look stunning, even more than you usually do, if that’s possible.

“Whoa,” he breathes out. He clears his throat. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you say coolly. You cross your arms. “You heading out?” 

“Yep.”

“And you won’t be back—”

“Until 10:30,” Steve promises. “I’m going to hit the library after class.” He pauses, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. “Hey, have fun tonight, okay?”

Maybe that was a weird thing to say. But sex is supposed to be fun. Steve hopes you remember that—your expression looks as though you’re preparing for your last rites.

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a smile. Steve awkwardly hovers in the hallway, so you add, “Did you…need something else?”

“Just remember to be safe,” Steve says, his protective side showing. His voice drops in volume, even though there’s no one else around to hear it, and continues, “You have condoms, right?”

Your eyes wide, deer-in-the-headlights style. “Don’t guys usually have those?” 

“I mean, sometimes,” Steve says. “But not always. Hold it right there.” 

He ducks back into his room and returns with a box of condoms. You try not to pass away from embarrassment when he hands it to you.

“Just in case,” he says. “Do not let Gary convince you they won’t fit. You can pull one of those things over your arm up to your elbow.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says. He places his hand on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. For once, the unplanned physical contact doesn’t make you flinch or cause your stomach to roil. “And if at any point you’ve changed your mind, say so. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You nod. “Right. I won’t. Thank you. Seriously.” 

Steve squeezes your shoulder gently before dropping his arm. “Go get ’em, tiger.” With those words of wisdom, he leaves.

💋💋💋

Gary is prompt. You two had agreed he’d come over at 7. At 6:59, he’s knocking on the front door.

At 7:02, you’re pouring him a glass of wine.

At 7:05, he’s kissing you on your couch. It feels weird to you, still, and you aren’t sure if that’s because of your lack of experience or because Gary is a bad kisser. You don’t dwell on that fact, trying to shut down the part of your brain that is freaking out about all this physical touch. 

And, oh boy, Gary is touching you all over. Your shoulders, your back, your chest, your hips. But he’s moving his hands so fast, it almost feels like a pat down. Is he doing this right? Is it rude if you ask him to slow down, to savor you a bit more? What’s the protocol here?!

“We should go to your room,” Gary murmurs against your lips.

You nod, before you can talk yourself out of this. “Y-yeah. Yes. Let’s go.”

And so you find yourself in your bed with him, and the pat down continues over your dress. Gary is whispering something in your ear. You think it’s supposed to be sexy, but you’re too busy trying to keep your brain focused on the task at hand to even comprehend the words.

“Nice rack,” he murmurs in a tone that he seems to assume is seductive, fondling your breasts over the bodice of your dress. 

What am I, a rack of ribs? you think.

“What did you say?” Gary says, continuing his ministrations as he nips your earlobe.

Shit, did you say that out loud? You screw your eyes shut. “Uh, just that I want you to keep going,” you say quickly.

He accepts that without issue, and begins kissing your neck. He slows his hands over your chest, and you believe he’s finally going to take his time with you, and then—

Rrrrrrrip!!!! The sound of tearing fabric has your eyes popping open. You gasp and, with anger coursing through you, shove Gary’s chest with all your might. He tumbles off you, landing with an “Ooph!” on the mattress next to you.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, you scramble off the bed and look at the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door. 

“You tore my dress!” you say, horrified at the big gash down its bodice, now exposing the white lace bra you spent too much money on for this shitshow.

Gary is two parts confused, one part annoyed. “So?” he says. “There were too many buttons.”

You whirl around to where he sits against your headboard and glare. “This was my favorite dress.”

“Just buy another!” Gary says. He stands from the bed and saunters over to you, giving you a sly look. “Maybe we can go to the mall and I can pick out something for—”

“I can’t buy another one just like this,” you interrupt hotly. Your brain is firing on all cylinders. You aren’t sure if you even understand why you’re so upset, but you don’t stop yourself from saying, “This was from the JC Penney Summer 1985 collection. They don’t make it anymore!” 

Gary stares at you and blinks once, twice. “Okay? Uh, sorry, I guess. I mean, I don’t see what the big deal is, but—can we get back to having sex now?”

You shake your head. “No. I want you to leave.” You wave your hand between the two of you. “Whatever this was? It’s over now.”

Gary’s disposition sours. His lip curls. “Are you serious?”

“As a funeral,” you snap. “Now, please, get the fuck out of my house.”

Gary gives you a long, hard look. He huffs in disbelief with an eye roll. “Frigid bitch.”

He storms out of your room, grabbing his shoes without even putting them back on, and slams the door to your apartment.

As soon as he’s gone, you sink to the edge of your bed and put your hands on your knees. You try to control your breathing, to relax, to think whatever happy thoughts you need to so you can put this shitty night behind you.

But when you glance up again and see your ruined dress in the reflection of the mirror, you begin to cry. The sword of Damocles falls, slicing your skull in two.

💋💋💋

Steve parks his truck outside the apartment complex at 10:40.

He gave you an extra 10 minutes. Not that he feels like Gary the math major has enough stamina for 3 hours and 40 minutes of lovemaking, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Steve figures he’ll nurse his broken heart with a beer and then head to bed. Maybe he’ll run into you in the kitchen and casually ask how the night went. (Despite his unrequited feelings for you, he hopes it went well.) But when he enters the apartment, it’s eerily quiet, in a way that sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

Why is it so dark in here? The only light is coming from the crack under your bedroom door. Shit, is Gary still here?

Steve leaves his shoes and backpack by the door and tiptoes down the hall toward his room. He hears a whimper from your room and freezes. One whimper turns into another, which turns into what sounds like a sob.

Panic rises in Steve and he barges the rest of the way down the hall, banging on your door. If Gary is still there and the reason you’re crying right now, Steve is going to jail for first-degree murder. At least his uncle is a pretty good lawyer.

Steve calls your name. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

He hears you sniffle through the door. “Go away!” you shout, though your voice is hoarse, as if you’ve been crying for a while.

“Not until I know you’re okay,” Steve says. “Can I come in?” 

“No!” 

Steve feels helpless on the wrong side of the door. He felt this way countless times in the fight against forces of evil, most notably when he was hanging by one hand off a radio tower in the Upside Down.

“Please,” Steve begs. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are.”

For a few aching seconds, you don’t respond. But then: “F-fine. Come in.”

Steve pushes the door open. You’re seated on your bed, wearing your favorite ALF shirt and flannel pajama pants. Your face is a teary-eyed mess as you sew something blue. Wait a minute. 

“Is that your dress?” Steve asks, sitting on the bed next to you (but leaving you a wide berth of space, as usual). You nod shakily. This doesn’t lessen his panic. “What happened?” Steve says.

“Nothing,” you mutter. You refuse to look at him as you work, though your hands are trembling so badly, your stitches are all crooked. 

Steve covers your hands with one of his. You still, finally looking up at him. “Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.

You suck in a rattling breath and try to get yourself together to recount the events of the night. “He ripped my dress before we even got past second base,” you say. “He didn’t even care that it made me upset! I kicked him out and he called me a—a—a frigid bitch!” 

You cry harder, throwing the ruined dress on the floor, needle and thread still attached. 

Steve’s seeing red. Maybe he’ll do the first-degree murder anyway. “That’s so fucked. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You sniffle again. “Heather and I picked that dress together. For high school graduation. I—I only wear it for special occasions because I want it to last as long as possible and…fuck!” You cover your face with your hands.

Steve isn’t sure what to do or say in this moment to make you feel better. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asks quietly, because it’s all he can think to offer. Without responding, your throw your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. 

“We’ll get the dress fixed,” Steve promises, rubbing your back gently while you cry. “Mrs. Henderson has a really swanky sewing machine, and she can mend anything. I’ll call her tomorrow to ask her about it, and can drive down to Hawkins over the weekend to drop it off.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve says firmly.

This is the longest you’ve touched him—hell, the longest you’ve touched anyone—since…maybe ever. It feels nice. Surprisingly.

Eventually, you feel like you’ve used up all your tears and pull away. “Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say. “Even when I freak out over small things.”

“This isn’t small,” Steve says. “Gary’s a disrespectful prick. Seriously, don’t even give him another thought.”

You nod, and then sigh. “He’s probably already called Judy and told her how neurotic I am.”

“If Judy’s not a shitty person, she’ll be on your side,” Steve says firmly. 

You fidget with your fingers, quiet for a few moments. Then, you whisper, “I really wanted tonight to go well.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to try this again,” you admit. “Like, dating, and sex, and all that stuff.”

An opportunistic asshole would use this moment to confess their feelings, but Steve’s not that guy. “That’s completely fine,” he says. “When the time’s right, you’ll know.”

You aren’t sure if that’s true, but you like his optimism.

💋💋💋

You mope around for the next few weeks. All you do is go to class, study, and sleep. One morning in mid-October, Steve decides to get you out of this funk by inviting you to a Halloween party one of his teammates on the club baseball team is throwing.

“It’ll be the perfect thing for you,” Steve says, when you initially don’t look to enthused about the idea, frowning over your bowl of Cheerios. “We can drink, dance, and forget about shitty people like Larry.”

“Gary,” you correct.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Steve asks innocently. He takes a bite of toast and shoots you a closed-mouth smile, his cheeks puffy and round like a chipmunk. It makes you laugh and roll your eyes. He’s good at that—at disarming you when you feel stress start building. How is he so good at that? 

You stir your now-soggy cereal absentmindedly. “Wouldn’t you rather bring a date to the party?” you say. “I noticed you haven’t really been going out.” You clear your throat. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t date or bring people over just because I don’t.”

You’re secretly happy that he’s not dating a lot anymore. Your centimeter-sized crush on Steve has grown exponentially, ever since he had Mrs. Henderson fix your dress and hunted for the same dress at all the thrift stores from here to Indianapolis, somehow procuring one in green. You just don’t know if that’s the kind of thing a friend does for a friend, or a friend does for someone they’re also harboring a crush on.

Steve’s poker face is too good. You aren’t able to glean anything from his casual expression and even tone as he says, “I know. It’s just not a priority right now.” He sips orange juice and adds, “So. Party?” 

You agree to go, and, to Steve’s immense satisfaction, agree to do a “Return of the Jedi”-themed duo costume. You have the idea to both go as Han Solo, before and after being freed from carbonite. You wear matching outfits with water guns painted to look like blasters, except everything you’re wearing is slate gray. You add some silver glitter to your makeup and hair as well, though you don’t paint your face fully silver to avoid looking like the Tin Man.

“Hey, Han Solo and the Tin Man!” one of Steve’s baseball buddies says as soon as you two enter the party. Well, it was worth a try.

Surprisingly, the party is fun. You and Steve do drink and dance, and the tipsier you get, the more you find your mind wandering to places it shouldn’t. Like how good Steve looks in his Han Solo costume, how good he probably looks out of it, and did he ever read that library book on female pleasure? You drink some more to try and drown out your dirty, disgusting, shameful thoughts.

But are they really all that shameful? You’re human, after all, and Steve’s a good-looking guy. If you weren’t so afraid of intimacy with another person, or of ruining your friendship, you might’ve tried to seduce him years ago. Maybe even back before the Mind Flayer, when Heather told you to ask him out at Scoops Ahoy.

“You okay?” Steve asks, leaning close so he can be heard over the music. You nod and take another sip, trying not to think about your dead best friend saying, “He’s hung, Y/N.” 

“I just need to run to the bathroom,” you say. “Be right back.”

You navigate through the throng of dancing, sweaty college students and—after too many tries—finally find a bathroom upstairs that isn’t occupied by an amorous couple. When you make your way back downstairs, you no longer see Steve on the dance floor. Your brow furrows as you scan the crowd for him, finally catching a glimpse of his infamous hair ducking into the kitchen. 

You make your way there, but once you walk inside, you stop short. Steve is across the way chatting with a girl. She’s wearing a white minidress with feathery wings, and a headband with a halo attached via white pipe cleaner. She reminds you of Nancy Wheeler, with her delicate features and bright eyes. Your heart sinks. Of course Steve wants to talk to her. Not his roommate, who’s probably leaking silver glitter everywhere she goes.

You awkwardly shuffle through the crowd of partygoers and, once you’re a bit closer, overhear the angel practically purr, “You know, Han Solo was my sexual awakening.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Was he now?” 

“We should get out of here,” Angel says, reaching up to brush a stray curl off of Steve’s forehead. Steve smiles politely and, to your utter surprise, says, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” 

Huh? Angel is exactly his type: pretty, available, and unabashedly horny. And Steve’s turning down the chance to take her home? 

To her credit, Angel accepts the declined invitation with grace. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I think I saw an Indiana Jones around here anyway.”

As she leaves, you approach Steve. His face splits into a grin when he sees you. “Hey! I was just looking for you. I requested the DJ play that Duran Duran song you like. Hopefully it’s coming up soon.” 

You consider moving on from what you overheard, but you can’t stop yourself from ignoring his statement and asking, “Why did you shoot down the angel girl?” 

Steve’s smile falters. “You heard that?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. You force a chuckle. “I mean, what gives? She was perfect for you.”

“No,” Steve says. “She wasn’t.”

You’re confused. He almost sounds dejected. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!” Steve says, exasperation leaching into his tone. He nods toward the living room. “C’mon, let’s go dance.”

You shake your head. You’re probably jumping to conclusions, but you have to know if there’s any validity to your hunch. “No. I want you to tell me why you aren’t dating anymore. And if it’s my fault.”

Steve’s expression is pained. “Don’t make me answer that,” he murmurs. He turns on his heel and charges out to the back porch for some air. You follow, guilt gnawing at you as the cool air of the October night hits you. That was practically a “Yes.”

“Steve, don’t stop dating on my account,” you say, assuming that’s what this all is: him trying not to make you feel left out of the Dating and Relationships part of life that you just don’t feel equipped for. “Go hook up with Ms. Angel if you want to.”

“I don’t want to hook up with her!” Steve says. He’s agitated, rubbing his nose in a way he only does when he’s upset.

“But why—”

“Because I like someone else!” Steve explodes. “But if I tell her, it might ruin our friendship, or…” He swallows hard. “Or our living situation.”

His words wash over you, and realization dawns. Part of you is thrilled. The other part of you is terrified, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. “Oh.”

“The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says quickly, sensing your unease. “I know that dating and stuff isn’t, like, easy for you. And if you don’t feel the same way, I won’t be offended. If you want me to move out, I will, and—”

“Steve?”

“...Yeah?”

You can’t believe you’re about to say this, but: “May I kiss you?” 

Steve freezes. After a few seconds, he sounds wrecked and says, “Y-yeah. Yes.”

You inch closer to him, cupping his face in your hands gently. His skin his warm, despite the mid-autumn chill. He hesitates before softly placing his hands on your waist. “Is this okay?” he asks. You nod, before softly pressing your lips to his.

Kissing Steve is nothing like you thought it would be. It’s 1,000% better. Whatever the fuck Gary was doing was obviously, categorically incorrect. Because Gary didn’t kiss you soft and slow, like he was revering the taste of you. He didn’t move his hands from your waist to your back, pulling you in ever-so-much closer. He didn’t make you feel like you were floating.

You’re so overwhelmed with an emotion you can’t quite describe that you pull away. Steve’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, worry radiating off him in waves.

You surprise him by kissing his cheek. He looks a little dazed, touching his cheek in the very same spot. “Nothing’s wrong,” you promise. “I just—I’m sorry, I’m messing this up.”

You start to back away, but before you get very far, Steve intertwines one of his hands with yours. “No, no,” he says. He runs his thumb over your knuckles, and you’re surprised at how nice it feels. “You’re not messing anything up. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

You take a few deep breaths and try to collect yourself. “I—I like you too,” you say, after a beat. “I have, for a while. But I just figured you didn’t feel the same. Because you knew about all my…hang-ups.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” Steve says. You can see that he means it by the expression on his face—regret, with a splash of longing and earnestness. “I hate that you wasted time with Harry.”

“Gary.”

“That’s what I said. Jerry.” 

You wonder if he needs to get his hearing checked, but then notice his sly grin. You shake your head and playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re goofy.”

“You just said you like me,” Steve taunts, looking awfully proud of himself. “So you like goofy.”

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Steve hesitates, before bringing a hand up to brush a stray lock of hair out of your face. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks. 

You want to say yes, but there’s a part of your brain that still panics at the thought. A lot has happened in the past seven minutes, and you feel a tad in over your head.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Steve promises. “We don’t have to rush. Patience is my middle name. Steve ‘Patience’ Harrington.” 

It’s not. It’s Daniel. But instead of reminding him of that fact, you ask, “Can I have a hug instead?” 

“Of course you can,” Steve says, his voice low and fond as he opens his arms for you. The two of you hold each other outside while the party rages on indoors, and it just feels right. 

💋💋💋

Dating Steve is strange at first. You struggle to adjust to the change from friends to more, feeling a little caught off guard with the displays of affection that you aren’t used to.

But Steve never pressures you into anything. He asks every time he wants to hug or kiss you. He even asks if it’s all right to hold your hand. You’re sure that to some other girls, such constant check-ins would be annoying. But for you, it’s a saving grace. You’re able to ease into physical intimacy in a way that feels comfortable to you. It no longer feels like the terrifying beast that you’d been so afraid of for years. Instead, it’s warm and comforting, because you’re with Steve, and he always makes you feel safe. 

However, the metaphorical sword of Damocles has been re-hung, because there’s still something hanging over your head: sex. You and Steve have kissed quite a lot, but that’s about it. He’s true to his word from the Halloween party and makes it clear there’s no rush to do anything more, but sometimes you two will be kissing, and he’ll suddenly pull away and ask if you want to watch a really serious documentary about how paint is mixed, or a sad movie. And then he’ll sit on the opposite side of the sofa from you with a pillow on his lap.

You almost feel bad, like you’re torturing the guy. One day when you try to apologize for still not being ready for that next step, Steve waves away your concerns.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “Really. Let me just, uh, go take a cold shower real quick.”

One day in December, after finals week but before the holidays, you two are watching that paint documentary for the fifth time, and you decide that enough’s enough. You trust Steve. (Hell, you might even love him, even if it’s probably too soon to make such a declaration.) If you’re going to have sex with anyone, you want it to be with him.

You broach the subject, rather bluntly, as the credits roll. “Do you want to have sex with me?” 

Steve almost trips and falls on his way to eject the VHS from your VCR. “Huh? What? Sorry, I thought you just said—”

“I asked if you wanted to have sex with me,” you repeat. “Now. Well, not now now. Maybe give me a few minutes to put on a nicer bra or something.” 

Steve frowns. “You’re talking…weirdly.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Using your professional voice. Like this is a business transaction. I don’t want us talking about sex to feel like hashing out a contract.” He pops the VHS back in its case and returns to the sofa, sitting closer to you this time. He covers one of your hands with his, his touch grounding you. “I promise you, I’m okay waiting.” 

“But you shouldn’t have to wait,” you say. And, to your utter embarrassment, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. “If I was normal, we could’ve done it by now.”

“Screw normal,” Steve says. “We’ve fought monsters, Y/N. We’re the furthest from normal on the planet.” He wipes a stray tear off your cheek. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s really all right.” 

Sweetheart. The pet name has you feeling warm all over. But you agree that maybe now’s not the time. Your hands are shaking, and your throat is tight, and as much as you love him, you feel sort of nauseous about being in bed with Steve.

“Whenever you’re really ready,” Steve says, “you’ll know. Trust me.”

You do. More than anyone else on the planet. 

💋💋💋

There’s a blizzard in mid-January. A total white-out that has classes canceled too soon after the semester began. You and Steve are holed up in your apartment, and he’s kissing you on the couch, and when he stops and asks, “Hey, can we watch that documentary again?” in a pained sort of voice, a realization crashes over you like a tsunami wave: 

You’re horny. 

Like, horrendously horny. Very much so. Sure, you’ve felt this way from kissing Steve before, but it feels more visceral now. Like, it won’t be enough this time to go into your room under the guise of studying and touch yourself thinking about your boyfriend.

You shake your head. “No. Steve, I’m ready. Like, actually this time.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” you say, before kissing him again.

The two of you clumsily stand, barely coming up for air as you kiss and stumble down the hall. You end up in Steve’s room, and in his bed, in record time.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” Steve murmurs as he hovers above you, pressing kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh as he moves lower, kissing your sternum and your stomach over your sweater. “Can I take this off?” he asks.

You nod, and he pulls your top off gently. You’re not in a particularly nice bra today—it’s an odd shade of orange that you bought on clearance—but Steve drinks in the sight with hungry eyes.

“You next,” you say, tugging at the hem of his Cartersville U sweatshirt. As soon as it’s off, you feel your heart race. You run a hand over his chest hair and try not to swoon.

“Like what you see?” Steve teases. 

You nod, before pulling him in for another kiss.

Your jeans get tossed next, and then Steve’s. But as his fingers graze the waistband of your panties, you feel it: panic, crawling its way through your mind and body.

Not now, you think, kissing Steve a little harder to try and push the feeling away. Please, no, not now.

Steve’s hand moves a centimeter lower, and you subtly flinch. You don’t even have to ask Steve to stop. He notices, pulls his hand away, and moves so he’s laying on his side next to you.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, before you can apologize. “We can stop.”

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. “I thought I could do it,” you say, voice muffled through your hands. “But there’s something in my messed-up head that just stops me. I trust you. I want this with you so much. But I just hate feeling like I’m out of control.”

Steve’s mind flashes back to that day from last spring semester, when he found you in the library looking at a book on sex. Outside, on the bench, you’d described sex as “giving up control to someone else.” An idea forms in his head.

“If you want to be in control, take it,” Steve says.

You peek out from your hands. “Huh?” 

Steve leans against the headboard and folds his hands on his stomach, above the waistband of his black boxers. “Have your way with me, Y/N,” he says, in a half-teasing voice.

The words send desire coursing through you, from your head to your toes. “Are you serious?” you ask.

Steve nods. “I trust you too,” he says. “And I want this to be comfortable for you. If you want to stop, we can stop. But if you want to keep going…” He trails off, but the message is loud and clear.

You think about it for a moment. Then, you make your way over to him, straddling his lap. You rest your hands on his shoulders, and he places his on your waist. You roll your hips experimentally, punching out a groan from him and a gasp from you. 

“Is that okay?” you ask, breathless.

“More than okay,” Steve says, voice a bit rough. So you repeat the motion again, again, and again. Steve bucks up his hips to meet yours, and you gasp again. 

The two of you move in tandem, bodies pulsing with need, sighs and moans falling from your lips. You kiss Steve again, with a renewed sense of fervor. You feel too good to be afraid.

💋💋💋

Afterward, while you and Steve are curled up in his bed, you feel your eyes start to water. You quickly wipe the tears away, but Steve notices. His blissful expression is replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “What‘s wrong? Are you all right?”

He relaxes when your face splits into a smile. “More than all right. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

You wrap your arms around him for a tight hug. He returns the embrace, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair.

There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell Steve how you never thought you could have this kind of intimacy with anyone. You want to thank him for being so kind and attentive, and for letting you take the lead. You want to kiss him some more, for hours. 

You want to explain that something has shifted inside you, and your body feels like your own again for the first time in a long time. 

But instead of saying all that, you hold your boyfriend close, feeling the heaviness you've carried for years loosen its grip with every passing second.

💋💋💋

If I told you how I think about him

You’d think I was in love

Dovi hated how much Valentino Rossi was on his mind. Every single nook and cranny had been filled with him for the last few weeks, leaving the smell of gasoline and too much champagne invading his senses and making it impossible for him to think of anything else. He tried to shove the thought of the lanky Italian to the back of mind but he would just never leave, especially when he looked at his boyfriend.

And if you knew how much I looked at his pictures

You would think we were best friends

The photographer in front of them flashed his stupid bright camera at them, a forced smile gracing Dovi’s face. He could feel every single inch of Vale’s arm pressed up against him, his fingers digging slightly too hard into his side. The photographer was oblivious as always, ignoring how tense Dovi was as he was abruptly shoved into Vale only moments ago to take a picture. He could see Marc standing to the side, his eyes blankly looking at the wall to avoid the scene in front of him. He hated seeing Marc like this, the obvious clench of his jaw as he tried to avoid Vale as best as he could.

‘Cause I know his star sign, I know his blood type

I’ve seen every race he’s been in and, oh God, he’s beautiful

Vale was the one who broke his heart in the first place, so why was he so tense everytime he saw Vale staring a bit too long at him? He had held Marc for days after Vale broke up with him again, his soft sobs still echoing into his shoulder months after. If it was up to Dovi, he would have gone and punched Vale right in the mouth for what he did to Marc, and yet…

And I know you loved him, and I know I’m butthurt

But I can’t help it, no, I can’t help it

She can hear Josh answering the mayday, and can see Sue closing the distance between them.

There’s nothing much Maddie can do for the 118, but her job. They might be the firefighters, but right now, they’re the victims. She speaks to victims every single day; eases their worry, gets help to their location, and remains calm. She can do that now, with a deep breath and a tight grip on her desk.

With muscle memory, she presses the petal with her foot. “118, please respond.” All attempts at keeping up pretences in her voice, fades away as her chin tremors and her eyes fill with tears.  “Ladder 118, please respond.”

She struggles with a deep breath and sinks into Sue’s comforting hand pressing against her shoulder. She has seconds before she’s pulled from the floor, told she’s too close to the situation, much like she was when Buck was caught up in the bombing.

She needs a response before Sue has a chance to look her in the eye and tell her to step away.

“118, please respond,” she pleads, but she is greeted by the eerie silence, once again.

Sue leans in closer, but then there’s a crackle, the feedback from a damaged radio. “Dispatch—” She can’t tell who it is, the voice distorts with a fizzle. Then it rushes into focus, with pained grunts and the sounds of debris crashing to the ground. “Dispatch, this is Firefighter Buckley, 118.” While she hates hearing the croak in-between each breath he takes, relief takes over because he’s breathing, he’s talking, he’s alive.

“Firefighter Buckley,” she relaxes her voice. “Help is coming.”

“Maddie….” Buck’s defences have fallen round him, clearly reassured to hear her voice. Before she can ask him where he was when the underpass collapsed, or have him report any injuries, he beats her to the chase. “I’ll save him, okay? I promise.” Maddie’s cheeks are wet with tears, but she finds solace in her brother’s certainty.  “I’m gonna bring them all home.”

One of her two is accounted for, and now, she has to put her trust in him.

Her friendship with Ilia started out as a tentative thing.

When they met, she didn't have time for friends. Her father made it very clear: if she was to become the best figure skater this country had seen, she wasn't allowed any distractions. Her life consisted of homeschooling and training. No friends, no other hobbies, no distractions.

She wasn't allowed to talk to other skaters at competitions; they were her rivals, she needed to focus on her performance.

She wasn't allowed to make friends at their skating rink; they only wanted to distract her so they could get a leg up.

Moving to Virginia had changed everything.

It was an incredible opportunity to be coached by Tatiana Malinina, and her father had made it very clear that he expected her progress to be exponential. She'd gone to that first session with her heart in her throat and her back ramrod straight.

She never saw him coming.

Even at only ten years old, Ilia was already incredible. Not only on the ice, but outside of it as well.

For three weeks straight, he would sit with her as she put on her skates, prattling on about anything and everything. She never talked back. She was too scared of her father's disapproval.

Until one fateful Tuesday, that is.

Why are koalas not bears? Because they don't have the right koala-fications.

It was stupid. 

It still made her laugh.

Leaving the rink that night, her father told her she should stick close to “the Malinin boy”. He was talented, and being close to her coach's son might have its advantages. He also wasn't a threat, since he wasn't her direct competitor.

The next day, she said her first words to him, and that's how it started.

For years, he was her only friend. He cheered her on at every competition, practiced every skill with her. He was her rock.

Moving out at eighteen and deciding to cut contact with her father had been soul-crushing, and she wouldn't have been able to do it without him.

For three months straight, he would come over to her apartment every day, and his voice would chase away the guilt. He picked her up from her therapy sessions every week, helping her undo the years of damage that isolation had caused. He introduced her to his friends, and helped her make her own. 

He was everything. Her best friend.

And now, ten years after their first meeting, she couldn't imagine her life without him.

“You sure you don't wanna just go to bed?”

She felt his muffled “no” more than she heard it, head resting on her thighs with his arms around her waist. A full day after the competition and he was still exhausted. But then again, what else can anyone expect after he landed seven quads in one program and broke four world records in one night?

They were on the couch, as they had been since that morning. The How To Train Your Dragon trilogy had been rewatched, and they'd now moved on to watching Avatar: The Last Airbender for the millionth time. 

She scrolled through her Tik Tok, smiling at all the people praising her best friend. There was little that made her happier than seeing him get his well-deserved flowers.

That is, until a specific video caught her attention. 

It was footage from the Grand Prix final. On screen, she cheered as he landed his seventh quad. The footage then cut to him skating towards the rink’s exit, a bright smile on his face. It ended with them hugging, with Ilia squeezing her tight, lifting her clean off the ground in his excitement.

That wasn’t what caught her attention though. The music playing in the background was Taylor Swift’s The Alchemy, and when combined with the words written on the screen, it had her brows furrowing.

Find someone who looks at you like Ilia Malinin and (Y/n) (Y/l/n) look at each other

She clicked on the comment icon, scrolling through them as well.

They’re literally soulmates😭❤️

They’re the reason I believe in love🥹🥹

Can they get married already???

She couldn’t help but laugh.

How silly of their fans to think there’s anything romantic between them, when it was clearly all platonic love.

She turned the screen down so Ilia could see it.

“Look at what I just found.”

With a barely-suppressed yawn, he took the phone in one hand, rubbing his head against her thigh sleepily.

She saw him scroll through a lot more comments than she herself did, and felt him smile against her skin.

“You know, one of these days we really need to announce our relationship, the fans will go insane.”

She furrowed her brows.

What relationship?

“...Relationship? But they know we’re friends already.”

“No, I mean announce that we’re dating.”

Her brain grinded to a halt.

Dating?

“Dating?”

He hummed, still scrolling through the comments.

“We’re dating? Since when?”

His hand stopped, and she felt his body tense.

“Since June?”

It sounded more like a question than an answer. When she didn’t say anything, he sat up, turning towards her.

“We went to see the How To Train Your Dragon live action, then went to dinner, and I told you I love you, and you said it back.”

The cogs in her mind were turning.

“I thought you meant it in a friend way.”

“I held your hand the entire night.”

“Your hands were cold.”

“I’ve been introducing you as my girlfriend for the past six months.”

“I thought you meant girl space friend. As in a friend who is a girl. A female friend.”

She couldn’t tell if he was hurt or baffled.

“So every time I took you on a date, got you flowers, gave you my shirts to wear… you thought that was all platonic?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

They stayed quiet for a few more seconds, as she slowly ran through all of their interactions from the past six months in her head.

“Wait, so when you said you love me, you mean… you mean you love me? You mean–”

“I’m in love with you, yes.”

She looked at him.

“Since when?”

He shrugged.

“Honestly, I can’t tell you for sure. I just woke up one day and realised that I don’t like being away from you, and every day I don’t spend time with you is a wasted day in my eyes. I realised that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen before, and I’m never more at peace than when I’m with you. I realised that the moment you walked into my life, home stopped being a place and happiness stopped being a feeling, they both just became you.”

She shook her head.

“Well yeah, but that’s just friendship, right? Like that’s what happens when you’ve been friends for long enough, I feel those same things for you, that doesn’t mean we’re in love.”

He squeezed his lips together, clearly fighting off a smile.

“Hmm, so that means you feel this for all your friends?”

She crossed her arms, huffing.

“Well no, this is just a you thing.”

He blinked at her with that awful expression of his. The cocky one. The one that said “I was right and you were wrong”.

“But it’s because you’re my best friend, not because we’re in love.”

The smile was a bit too close to breaking out now.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

He was grinning now.

She had the crazy urge to wipe that smile off his face by any means necessary.

Speaking of which…

“If we’re supposedly ‘dating’, then why haven’t you kissed me? As far as I know, that’s what couples do.”

He tilted his head.

“I was waiting for you to initiate it. I wanted to go at your pace to make sure I didn’t push you into it. I was raised to be a gentleman, you know?”

She rolled her eyes.

“But hey, since you’re not in love with me, and I’m apparently not in love with you either, why are you thinking about kissing me?”

That… was actually a really good point.

“You started it!”

“I didn’t say anything about kissing.”

“Well no, but— you uh— you were smiling—”

She waved her hands about, trying to make her point.

He just laughed.

“Ugh, and you know what? So what? So what if I thought about wiping that stupid smirk off your face and kissing seemed like a good way to do it? And so what if I wanna talk to you all the time? And so what if I don’t like being apart from you, and you’re the first person I wanna talk to every day, and your arms are the safest place I’ve ever found? That doesn’t mean I’m in love with you.”

He just kept laughing.

And yet…

“Okay, so hearing that out loud it kind of does sound like I’m in love with you.”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing the top of her head.

“Nice of you to notice. On the bright side, I’m in love with you too, so this is good news.”

She pressed against him until they were lying on the couch, his arms around her shoulders, hers around his waist. Her head was buried in his collarbone, relishing in the warmth of his skin.

“You’re never gonna let me live this down are you?”

“I’m gonna tell this story to our grandkids.”

He was such a jerk.

“So does that mean we’re officially dating now or not?”

“Just kiss me already, you dick.”

Unsurprisingly, Ilia was as good a kisser as he was a skater.

Hope you guys liked that! If you did don't forget to like, comment, and reblog. I'm a sucker for praise so feel free to interact with me.

Now if you need me, I'll be rewatching the 2025 GPF cause in my mind, that's how the Olympics went.