#mishas masterlists

CHAPTER ONE

Shotgun Rides to What Will Never End

You haven’t slept in twenty-seven hours.

Your hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, and your shirt smells like gasoline and blood. Not yours. Not yet. The air in Hawkins tastes like smoke and sweat and a little bit of something worse—like the underside of a corpse, or maybe the inside of that thing you all just torched in the woods. You’re not asking for clarification.

“Keep your foot on the gas, Dad,” you mutter into the walkie clipped to your belt. You’re not even sure if your dad’s listening anymore. But you say it anyway, because your voice feels like the only thing you have left.

You’re riding shotgun in Nancy Wheeler’s station wagon, but she’s not the one driving.

Steve Harrington is behind the wheel, jaw tight, shirt torn open at the collar, and eyes locked on the road like it insulted his mother. There’s a smear of dried blood on his temple. Again, not his. 

…you think. 

…hard to keep track when everything’s gone sideways and upside down and tunneled in on itself like hell decided Indiana was a good spot to plant roots.

“You sure this is the right road?” he asks, not looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows. “What, the one that smells like a barbecue pit and screams like a dying pig? Yeah, Harrington, I’m real sure.”

He grunts, but you catch the flicker of a smirk tugging at his lip. 

It’s gone in a flash.

Thing is, you’ve known of Steve Harrington for years, in the way you know a poster hanging in the hallway. Pretty to look at, serves no real function, and always seems to just be there as you walk by. You two ran in completely different circles, despite orbiting.

You were the Hawkins sheriff’s daughter with a chip on your shoulder and dirt under your nails, and scoffed when you’d heard yourself as “the silent beauty with a guarded heart” by someone at school, as if that were a compliment and not some backhanded way of saying “oh so that one’s attractive but for no good reason, because her parents divorced after the tragic death of their youngest daughter, so now it’s just the her and her old man — no mother or chance of romance in sight.”

He was King Steve: hair god of Hawkins High. Pretty boy. Mr. Funny, Mr. Cool. The golden only child of the richest couple in Hawkins with the ability to charm you as he undresses you with his big brown doe eyes and crooked smile and perfect teeth and effortless finesse. Yeah, that Steve Harrington, whose biggest worry (until November ‘83) used to be hairspray and whether Tommy Hagan would show up with the keg.

Now you’re both here: sweating in the front seat next to him, teeth chattering not from cold but from the reverb of chaos, and something much, much more dangerous. 

“Why the hell did you even come out there?” he asks finally, voice rough. “That place was a war zone.”

You laugh without humor. “Same reason you did, I guess.”

“To prove I’m not a complete asshole?”

“No,” you say, tilting your head to glance over at him with a very wry expression. “Because someone had to cover the kids’ backs, and I don’t trust you not to die dramatically while making a dumb face.”

That earns you a real smirk, even if it’s a wounded one. 

It’s crazy really. You never spoke with each other until your dad went on a mission to figure out what the hell was Joyce Byers’ deal, after he’d spent day after day, night after night, bitching about her… but things got real, and suddenly you were offering Jonathan a beer after catching him and his mom fight in the literal middle of the sidewalk in the downtown area, sometime before Will’s fakeout funeral. Then you had ended up with freaking Callahan and Powell, watching the damn alleyway showdown from their freaking cruiser before shoving Steve off of Jonathan.

“Unless you wanna call your dad from jail?!—haul ass, Harrington.”

He’d looked at you in bewilderment as Tommy yanked him away, the two of them tearing off down the alley, following Carol and Nicole and narrowly avoiding arrest. You’d seen him again that night, fighting off a Demogorgon that fucked around and found out inside of the Byers’ home. And the last thing you’d expected was to watch none other than Steve Harrington swing a baseball bat with nails sticking out of it swinging ruthlessly at supernatural monsters, defending your life.

Well, mainly Nancy’s life. That had a lot to do with it.

That had basically everything to do with it.

“How’s your head?”

Steve sighed through his nose, jiggling the ice pack with one hand as he drove with the other. “Still throbbing. But I’ll survive.”

You hummed lightly, nodding towards the windshield before reaching for your back in the backseat, digging into the pouch. “Take these.”

He glanced sideways at the three pills now nestled in your palm, and he squinted. “You druggin’ me, Hop?”

“Keeping you from feeling concussed by dulling the migraine. I know damn well it’s splitting your brain open right now.”

That earned a deep sigh, but he took them with a muttered thanks as you handed him a water bottle. He turned onto Maple Street with a screech of tires that probably just woke up half the cul-de-sac. 

You think you should care. You don’t.

“First thing we’re doing is repatching you up.”

“What, you don’t think the kids did a good job?” Steve deadpanned.

You smirked at the dark treeline up ahead as you both approached the woods. “Think they did what they could.”

“Mm. In other words, no.”

“In order words, you need proper medical attention.”

“I really don’t have it in me to go to the ER,” he groaned.

“Welp. You’re in luck.” You pointed out the dash. “Next left.”

He blinked. “Next left?—we’re offroad, driving into the woods."

“And you’re turning left as soon as we do.”

He made a face, eyes flicking from onto the trees as he flicked on the blinker — which made you downright snort.

“What??”

“Sorry. It’s the traffic signals in the woods for me.”

“Umm, it’s the neighborhood GPS driving instructions for me.”

The way that made you deeply chuckle was absolutely impossible to prevent. Your nose scrunched, your eyes crinkled, your chest eased. It was strange, how instant the humorous relief felt.

Steve definitely glared at the road, and you, incredulously. But then he was grinning too, shaking his head. “Unreal,” he mumbled.

The car shook over the uneven terrain, and Steve tried not to outright wince as his injuries burned more with each sharp movement. To his surprise, you not only asked if he was good with an unusually tender tone, but you also placed your hand on his forearm as you continued to navigate him through the pitch black forest.

“Shouldn’t be another ten minutes.”

“You guys are really off-grid out here, huh?”

You nodded once, mind elsewhere. “Yeah.”

Steve wasn’t sure why the way your arm was resting on his bicep felt so warm right now. He also wasn’t sure why he kept looking at your face’s reflection in the rearview mirror as he drove.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

“Probably,” you mutter, instinctively touching your side. 

Huh, you think, feels damp. Could be blood. Could be sweat. 

Could be the fucking Upside Down leaking through your pores. 

“I’ll survive.”

There’s a silence between you then, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… there. Weighty, like the space between a strike and a blow. You tilt your head against the seat and let the streetlights strobe over your face as he drives. You’d forgotten how quiet it can be, after the screaming stops.

When he pulls into your cabin’s makeshift driveway, the porch light is off. Your dad’s not home yet. Probably still out at the Byers’ place or chasing down something with teeth, after he swore to you that he’d be “right behind you” and demanded you to “get the hell home" with a firm forehead kiss as he cleared his throat.

Of course, he was still out handling shit. 

You’re not even surprised anymore.

“What can I carry?” Steve asks, but he doesn’t make a move to get out of the car yet.

You stare at him for a second. There’s a cut on his cheekbone. His shirt is sticking to his chest. He looks like he’s been dragged through three horror movies and came out looking way too hot for someone covered in other people’s blood.

Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe it’s the way his knuckles are still white from gripping the steering wheel. Or maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t felt safe all night, and there’s something in the way he looked back at that burning tunnel before driving away—like he wasn’t ready to leave. Like maybe he understands.

Maybe that’s why you say, “You umm. Wanna stay?”

Why did you put emphasis on the word ‘wanna’ like that, as if you’re asking him to have a freaking slumber party? 

And also, was that hopefulness in your tone…?

He blinks, looking at you. Hard.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” you say. “But stay anyway.”

——

Your house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong after what you’ve been through. 

You toe off your combat boots by the door. Steve doesn’t. He hovers near the entryway like he’s waiting for your dad to yell at him for tracking in demon guts on his Nike’s.

You throw him a look over your shoulder. “Kitchen’s that way. There’s whiskey in the top cupboard, if you’re not a coward.”

He chuckles, low and breathless, and follows as you jog off.

“Just gonna grab the med kit,” you holler back easily, your ponytail swinging and loose strands of hair flying.

Eventually, you’ve got him seated in the kitchen as he guzzles down a second glass of water while you tend to his face. 

You’re surprisingly gentle. Not that you look like someone with brash hands and calloused fingertips. You don’t. But being the daughter of the town sheriff, who’s gruff and kinda mean and cynical to a fault, it’s just a little surprising is all.

“S’gonna sting,” you murmured, lithe fingers around a cotton swab as you carefully pushed back his hair. “Won’t be for long. Ready?”

Steve nodded, secretly tracing the outline of your neck, gazing at the arch of it that isn’t covered up by your jacket anymore. So you got to work. And all the wild, Steve just subtly took in the sight of you. As if that might help him not wince or hiss or grimace too hard. 

You never once made fun of him.

You never once called him a baby.

You never once got rough with him.

You never once made him feel like—

“What you did for those kids? That’s what it’s about, Harrington.”

His brow furrowed. “The hell dogs or the Rottweiler wannabe?”

You smirked as you carefully placed a fresh bandaid over his brow, a certain glint in your eye. “Both. But mainly the racist who threatened an innocent kid for making his sister feel like she can be a kid.”

That made his big doe eyes flick up at you. Steve couldn’t read your expression. You couldn’t read his either. But after a second, you took a deep breath in impulse and kept patching up his pretty face that took a beating for four kids who now worshiped him.

After finishing up, you gave him a pair of your dad’s older sweatpants that no longer fit him, along with a fresh t-shirt and clean flannel. He took them gracefully, adrenaline still buzzing despite the exhaustion. And then the two of you shared drinks together in silence, leaning against opposite counters of the kitchen. 

You’ve discarded your thick, grimy windbreaker. Your shirt is ruined, your ribs ache, your whole body is vibrating with leftover fear and you barely managed to throw a clean albeit faded flannel over yourself so that you’re not wearing slime and grit and grime.

And yet…

Steve watches you. Not subtly now. But not creepily either, like Billy Hargrove. Nowhere near it. Just openly, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one’s bothered to explain to him.

“What?” you ask.

His lips curl inwards, teeth gnawing at them slightly. And you wait, maintaining your resolve as best you can, but almost afraid to hear whatever he’s—

“You’re not what I expected.”

You sip your drink. “You’re exactly what I expected.”

He smiles like it hurts. “Yeah. I get that.”

The moment stretches. Then breaks.

You actually move first.

The bottle hits the counter with a sharp clunk. You cross the distance between you in three steps. You’re not thinking. You’re not planning. You just move. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like survival. Like hunger.

You grab the collar of Steve’s shirt, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just crashes forward, mouth on yours like it’s a goddamn fight. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the only one either of you knows how to win.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. 

It’s not something you’ll tell your kids about one day.

It’s teeth and breath and desperation. It’s pain turned inside out. It’s your fingernails digging into his back and his hands fisting in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s bruises that will bloom like violets. 

And it’s the first time you’ve felt anything but terror in weeks.

Steve pulls back to look at you, eyes soft, pupils blown. The brown of his irises are small rings now, dancing over your face with frenzied wordless questions. You almost ask him what they are. 

But…

“Shit,” he breathes against your lips.

You’re in his arms before you can even process the movement, arms looping around his neck as you feel his hands grip onto your hips and urge you up. In the swiftest heap, both your legs wrap around his waist, letting Steve haul you over to your couch as if you weigh nothing. 

His lips never leave yours, even as you crash onto the worn cushions as he hovers above you, just barely bracing himself with a palm firmly pressed into the pillowy fabric beneath you as his tongue dives into your mouth. The second you gasped at the impact, he all but seized the moment to fill the space between your tongue and teeth with his own.

It’s panicked, scared and messy. So fucking messy.

But fuck he tastes and feels good.

His tongue against yours, faint mint and citrus, even after taking a beating from Billy and having to swallow his own blood. The coppery tang from it laces his saliva, and yet it only enhances the bright flavor from the inside of Steve’s pretty boy pout. 

A shuddered, breathy moan escapes your lips as you feel one of his strong hands slip to your inner thigh, your back arching on instinct. 

“This okay?” he asks you, all breath, pulling back instantly to make sure.

You tug his face back to yours, nodding profusely. 

“Yeah,” you speak into his lips, kissing them senseless with your eyes clamped shut. Your fingers hungrily rake through the hair as my the nape of his neck, taking hold of him so that he doesn’t move away. “Yes, y-yeah,” you rasp.

Steve groans.

The rest all happens in slow motion, but all too fast for you to capture it. All you know is that Steve’s bare chest is against your own at some point, one of your legs hiked up around his back as he slams into you, stretching you out with every overwhelming inch of his length inside your portal, the sounds of slick skin slapping together in a frantic rhythm that underscores the gasps and moans you both sing into each other's throats, mouths and skin, the climax shared between the two of you enough to make you see stars.

And when it’s over, you lie there on the living room rug, sweat cooling on your skin, and your heart hammering in your chest like it’s trying to dig its way out. Steve is on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling like it might cave in. Neither of you speak for a long moment, catching your breath together. But eventually, in the dark, he speaks first.

“…So, that’s a no on telling your dad?”

You laughed, sharp and breathless. “Oh, you’re adorable. If my dad finds out, you’ll be six feet under by sunrise.”

“Cool,” Steve says, exhaling. “Guess I’ll cancel brunch.”

You don’t talk about what it means.

You don’t talk about what it did to you, and he doesn’t offer up any sort of explanation for himself nor ask you questions.

Instead, you just let yourself fall asleep next to the boy you never planned to know, who kisses like war and touches you like you’re the last solid thing in a collapsing world.

Thankfully, tonight, your dad’s now staying with Joyce to watch over Will with Eleven and Jonathan and Nancy, so you’ll have the place to yourselves until late morning.

And tomorrow, you’ll both pretend it didn’t happen and go back to normal. Where it won’t happen again.

Except it will. 

Because you will do it again.

And again. 

Again, and again, and again.

Because little did you know, the first time was all it took for both of you to start lying to yourselves.

CHAPTER TWO

Tell Me What You Need

The next morning starts with your clothes on the floor, a knot in your back, and a sore spot on your neck where Steve Harrington left his mark like a goddamn signature.

You wake up before him, curled on your side on the living room carpet with the sunrise making a slow crawl across the hardwood. Steve’s shirt is bunched beneath your head like a half-assed pillow, and his strong arm is draped over your waist, heavy and warm and too familiar.

You don’t move. Not right away. The clock ticks, the heater kicks on, and you just breathe.

The night was a flinch. A reaction. A release. That’s what you tell yourself as you slip out from under his arm and quietly grab your shirt off the back of the couch. You pull it on inside out, not looking back until you’re standing in the hallway and his voice breaks the silence.

“What time are the kids supposed to be at school?” he mumbles, barely awake.

You glance over your shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, hazy, but tracking you like you matter. It’s infuriating. And comforting. And strange.

So strange.

“Well Harrington, that’s the thing about Sundays.” You shoot him a tiny smirk as you walk back to pluck your jeans off the floor, moving to slip them back on as you stand in front of him. “They get the day off.”

He rolls onto his back, groans. “I don’t even know what year it is, let alone what day.”

You sigh, fastening the button at the waist and letting your hands fall back at your sides so that a solid tap of skin against flannel rings out before you walk down the hall. 

“Makes two of us.”

“Hey, Hop?”

You quietly take a breath, turning to face him with the best casual expression that you can manage. But your eyes definitely sparkle with newfound vulnerability as you look back at Steve. 

And he doesn’t miss it.

“Yeah?” you ask softly.

He leans against his forearm, tucked underneath his head while the other rests across his abs. His toned, really hot abs. The same abs you had pressed to your ribcage last night.

The same ones you kissed as he gasped.

“Sure you’re alright?”

Your lips part slightly, giving him a nod. “All good. You?”

He nods, but his eyes still reflect some sort of question. Another one, different from what he asked. You’ve never realized just how pretty he actually is whenever he looks a little lost in thought. 

“That was just a one time thing,” Steve murmurs. “Right?”

You blink once, eyebrows raising slightly. 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

A beat passed, then two. You shuffle your feet briefly, averting your gaze down to the carpet before meeting his eyes again. “Yeah, just a one time thing.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change. Neither does yours. The two of you just look at each other simply, letting that land.

“Cool, thought so,” he says simply, stretching and moving to sit up. His knees come up, bending so that he can let himself rest his arms on top of them easily with his hands loosely clasped together. He looks straight ahead for a moment, cracking his neck. Then he glanced back over at you, almost to confirm what you both just said.

He finds you nodding at him still, arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. Those same full lips that he’d bitten and kissed and sucked on relentlessly last night.

“Cool,” you echo.

____

Four days later, you and Steve have spent most of the afternoons with the kids and managed all four nights in your own homes, in your own beds. No “holy shit, we almost died sex” took place, just as planned. So things were definitely looking back to normal, exactly how you both intended for things to be.

That all goes flying out the window the night of the Snowball.

By noon, you’re showered, caffeinated, and driving the Chief’s truck like a bat out of hell toward the Byers’ place, because apparently no one else (especially not your dad) is emotionally prepared to dress up Eleven for the damn Snowball except you. 

Which is fine. Totally fine. 

Just another post-trauma domestic errand on a long list of things no one else is mentally stable enough to deal with.

She doesn’t say anything when she opens the door, just stands there holding a soft blue tulle in her hands as they twitch nervously.

“Well, well,” you grin at her. “Look who’s already picked out her dress.”

Eleven smiles at you sheepishly. “Miss Joyce let me pick one from her closet.”

“Oh yeah?” You lifted an eyebrow, still grinning. “Did she outgrow it recently?”

“No,” she giggles shyly. “Her friend’s daughter did. I guess she got too big for it, and brought it over with other clothes.”

You actually pursed your lips at that, curious. “How come?”

Eleven shrugged. “Miss Joyce says that she told them that a little girl new to town couldn’t afford much, and could use some… some hands-them-downs.”

You bit back a laugh. “Ah. You mean hand-me-downs?”

She blinked a few times, computing that.

 “…yes.”

You shook your head fondly at her, biting your lip as you grinned and pulled her in for a big hug. 

“C’mon,” you told her. “Let’s go thank her and get you ready.”

By the time you’d managed to actually give her a decent little face of sweet, gentle makeup, styled her short hair with some hairspray, and gotten her dressed, the older sister in you felt alive again.

As if Sarah was alive again.

“You look like a badass Cinderella,” you say, grinning, “but, like, the kind who might shatter glass with her mind.”

Eleven beams.

The two of you make your way over to the truck, and you help her up into the front seat as she holds onto the tulle skirt with such care. It looks as though she fears she’ll mess it up by just shifting in it.

“There ya go, passenger princess,” you wink at her. “Just wait till dad sees you.”

Her eyes sparkle up at yours. “Will he think I’m pretty?”

You chuckle warmly. “Lovebug, that man has thought you look pretty ever since you showed up with a shaved head and no table manners.”

She smiles all over again, more radiant than ever. You buckle her in, toss her a piece of gum from the glovebox, and make your way around the hood before hopping behind the wheel. The two of you drive towards Hawkins Middle School, watching the sky fade from the same shade of blue as her dress into cobalt with silver specs that shine bright, along with the moon. And as you listen to music and give her any advice that you can about the dance she’ll share with Mike, you try not to think about the fact that you just got railed by Steve Harrington on your living room couch just a few days ago after she saved the world.

__

Steve beats you to the school.

You see his BMW in the parking lot, sleek and smug under the lights. Dustin’s already out and bouncing his way toward the gym in that nerdy little tux, his hair styled in that now-iconic monstrosity Steve forced onto him. It’s charming. It’s stupid. It’s sweet.

It makes you smile.

You park and walk Eleven to the door. She doesn’t need you to, but she happily lets you anyway. Hopper already cried and pretended not to, by doing that choked up grunt talk of his as he hugged her and let you snap a picture of the two of them, before he snatched it from you and took both your pictures together instead. 

Now, he’s taking off with Joyce with plans to consume their feelings at Benny’s Diner.

Inside the school, the music’s already echoing across the gym floor, and you watch the kids vanish into the haze of string lights and hormone-fueled courage. A nice moment passes as you quietly watch, peeking in through the glass one last time before you turn to make your way back to your car.

Then you see him.

Steve.

There he is, standing outside the gym, staring through the tiny glass pane in the door at Nancy Wheeler.

Of course.

You know that look. You’ve seen it in the mirror. That look that says ‘I lost something I didn’t know how to keep.’ It’s why your stomach flips, but not from jealousy. That would be stupid. Not even from anger. 

Just… mirrored recognition.

Yeah, that’s what it is, you tell yourself, convinced of this lie even more than the lies you’ve told yourself since four nights ago.

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

Ugh, you think. Of all the damn people to quote right now, even though it’s sarcasm, really? Billy Hargrove? The guy who just bashed up his face, his obnoxiously pretty face that somehow healed itself in less than a week and went back to being pretty?

He chuckles lightly after glancing at you. “Yeah, it’s me, Hopper,” he mutters, looking down at his feet. He shuffled them briefly. “Don’t umm…”

“We can skip the last part,” you say casually, waving it off with a little tilt of your head and purse of your lips.

Steve nods at you, his sad eyes amused and almost curious. But then he looks back through the glass, so you can’t figure out if you might’ve just imagined that.

You walk up behind him without saying anything. He hears you, though. Doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his weight like he’s waiting for a hit.

“She looks good,” you say flatly.

Steve exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”

“She gonna dance with him?”

“Probably,” he murmurs.

You pause, then squint at him after seeing that he’s staring right at Jonathan. “I meant Henderson.”

Steve blinks a few times, the furrow of his brow softening after his eyes shift over to another part of the gymnasium. He finds Dustin there, waiting for a dance partner. 

“Oh,” he manages, blinking a few more times. “Yeah, yeah, she better. Honestly, that kid’s night would be made, if not his… whole year.”

You nod at him, even though he doesn’t see it. Sure enough, Nancy moves towards Dustin and pulls him to the dance floor, making every eighth grade girl in the room gawk. The two of you smile in sync, watching it happen. Steve even laughs a few times, as your nose scrunches in delight. Especially whenever you see El, dancing with Mike. That’s when you really feel at ease.

Finally, you tilt your head. “You plan on heading out, or just gonna keep staring like a sad puppy?”

He glances sideways. “You always this charming?”

You shrug. “Only when I’m trying to help emotionally stunted babysitters.”

He puffs a laugh… and something shifts as he takes in the sight of you, before briefly turning to look back through the glass. You don’t rush him. You let it happen, content with continuing to watch El dance with Mike, letting it drown out the pulse that audibly drums against your wrist as if it wants to beat its way out from your skin and the sweater sleeve that warms it.

Finally you hear him sigh through his nose.

Without another word, Steve jerks his head toward the parking lot. You follow, not bothering to ask where he’s taking you. He doesn’t look back, at the school or at you, not even as he reaches back for your hand as you approach BMW, his fingers lacing with yours.

You’re in the back seat of his car five minutes later, letting him look at you for a moment before he shuts the door and rounds the front.

Then Steve shuts his own door, and before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours. Urgent and consuming. He tastes like peppermint and denial, swirling with your own.

You barely register the seatbelt jabbing your hip before he’s crawling over you, his hand is already underneath your shirt. This time, he initiates. And he doesn’t let any trace of hesitation or doubt cloud his mind.

“What do you need?”

Steve pulls back just long enough to murmur it against your bottom lip, eyes on you.

Your breath gently catches, brows furrowing as you open your eyes to look up into his… but before you can ask him what he means, he’s asking it again. This time, into your chin. 

“What do you need,” he mumbles there, gliding his teeth along your jaw to the column of your throat. He nips at it, sucks it.  

It earns a little squeak from you, tiny and contained, barely keeping itself from becoming a yelp.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

So you decide not to ask what that means. Because you’re beginning to know what he means. 

It’s not any sort of romantic question. Not sweet, not even soft. No, instead, it’s a question that’s made of sex and sympathy. Made of survival.

“I need,” you whisper, “to not feel like this anymore.”

Steve doesn’t ask for details. He just gives you exactly what you ask for. Because that’s what Steve does.

He gives.

And afterward, when your breath is still catching and your thigh is cramping from the rough angle after he’s made sure to make you feel the traces of loneliness and indescribable bouts of depression morph into something new, something treacherously good… and as he lies there with his forehead pressed to yours like you’re the last cigarette in the pack, he whispers to you…

“Next time, I get to ask.”

You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, still buzzed from the sex. His words let themselves into your veins before you’ve even opened the door to let them.

Next time.

Your forehead nods lightly against his, and his brown eyes search yours for something but he’s closed them the second they go glassy so that you don’t catch it.

——

(Weeks Later)

You’ve stopped pretending it won’t happen again. 

It happens too much to bother. 

In his car. In your bed. In his bed. In the back office of his dad’s workplace, with a coat on the doorknob and his dad too busy with meetings to care. At one point, after you’ve clocked out from a shitty overtime shift at the local coffee shop, it happens in a hotel on the edge of town that he slaps onto his daddy’s AMEX, where you both register under fake names, not for secrecy, but because it’s funny.

Every time, it starts the same way.

A question.

“What do you need?”

Sometimes it’s you, dragging him through the front door by his belt loops and slamming him against your kitchen counter like your hands are made of fire, murmuring, “I need to feel like I’m not just built to burn things for just a second.”

Sometimes it’s Steve, sitting on your bed with a distant look in his big doe eyes, murmuring, “I need to feel good for ten minutes. That’s all.”

Sometimes the answer is rough, all teeth and sweat and low, whispered curses.

Sometimes it’s slow. Messy. Too soft. 

Too honest.

Once, you tell him you need to be held. You expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. He pulls you into his lap and holds you until your eyes sting, holding you through your pique as it swells with his own.

There’s one time he tells you he needs to hear you. You don’t ask what he means by that, you just give him your voice, cracked and real, until he comes with your name spoken from his mouth like a confession.

It’s a game, but it’s not.

It’s sex, but it’s not just sex.

It’s comfort, but it’s too much. It’s too intimate.

And neither of you stops.

Because you don’t know how.

Because it only started as a way to cope.

And now it’s the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

One night, it started with a knock. Not a polite one. Not the kind people do when they mean well. A single sharp tap against your bedroom window, then two more in fast succession. The kind that feels like urgency. Like panic.

You sit up immediately, heart in your throat. It’s nearly 2AM. Your room’s dark. Silent as the grave. The small cabin is asleep. Your dad is passed out in his room, and El is dreaming peacefully inside the comfort of her own room.

Meanwhile, your sleep’s been disturbed. Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain can even catch up, crossing to the window and pulling back the curtain.

Steve’s face is right there. Up close and too close, framed in shadows, breathing hard enough to fog the glass. His jaw is clenched. His brown eyes are wild. Not angry, not high, not drunk — just wrecked. 

You unlock the window without a word.

He slips through like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he was built to find his way into your life in the middle of the night, all heat and heartbeat and shaking hands. His shoulders are trembling beneath his jacket, breath too fast, knuckles scraped.

You whisper. “Jesus, Steve—”

“Don’t—” he cuts in, low and rasped, “don’t let your dad hear me.”

You shut the window quietly behind him. 

“He’s fine,” you whisper back.

“Well I don’t want El thinking this is cool,” Steve hisses out in another harsh whisper.

“She won’t,” you hiss back, but not with heat. Just urgent adamance. “Trust me, she’d already be in here if she suspected anything.”

But Steve’s already backing into the corner of your room, pressing his palms to the wall like it’s holding him up with a ticking jawline. 

Jesus, you’ve never seen him like this.

You step closer. 

“Steve.” You say it softer this time. “What the hell happened…?”

He won’t look at you. His eyes are on the floor. Then the wall. Then the ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally speaks, it’s just a tight, cracked whisper.

“I thought it was real.”

You blink. “What?”

“I thought it was real. The… the shit in the tunnels. You—” He stops himself, swallowing, and wipes a hand across his mouth. “You didn’t come back. Dustin got stuck, so you went after him, he ran back, you didn’t, I was screaming and they kept holding me back—”

“The kids?” you whisper, staring at him as it dawns on you that he’s had another nightmare.

“Yeah, and I couldn’t fucking see you and I couldn’t get to you and it was so loud—”

You’re already moving before he finishes. One hand on his chest, the other in his hair. Grounding. Steve jerks like he might pull away, but he doesn’t. His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

So you do it for him.

You guide him backward until the backs of his knees hit your bed. He sits, breathing heavily, jaw still ticking. His eyes flick toward the door like he expects Hopper to come crashing through it any second.

“You’re okay,” you murmur.

“No, I’m not.” His laugh is hollow. “I’m fucking not.”

You crouch in front of him, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, the soft cotton damp with his cold sweat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real,” he mutters.

“Not that version,” you clarify.

“It felt real.”

“I know it did.” You keep your tone steady, same as your gaze as he stares back at you now. “I get them, too.”

Steve’s hands come up suddenly. His trembling palms and fingers all curl into your shoulders, your neck, your hair. He pulls you in like he’s drowning.

And something gives.

Not in him. 

In you.

Because you can fucking feel it now, just how close Steve really is to shattering. How desperate that he is to anchor himself to something solid, something real, something warm and alive and not screaming in his ears while the walls collapse, or leaving him for another guy, after telling him that he’s bullshit by someone that he loves at some Halloween house party inside a random bathroom.

So you give it to him.

Without asking, without teasing and without pretense, you climb into his lap, straddling him on the edge of your bed, and press your lips to his before he can spiral again.

Steve softly moans like it hurts. 

Because it means something. 

Your mouths crash like flint to stone. No finesse, just the kind of kiss you don’t survive unchanged. His hands are suddenly everywhere. Under your shirt, in your hair, on your hips, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. He mutters something into your mouth. Your name, maybe. Or a plea, maybe a warning.

You can’t tell.

You don’t care.

You grind against him slow and deep, and he bites your bottom lip so hard you gasp, having to shove your face into his neck. 

Then, rough in your ear, Steve’s voice is low and guttural. 

“Tell me what you need.”

You choke on it. 

Your hands fumble at the buttons of his jeans, forehead still pressed into his neck, your answer falling against his collarbone. 

“No, don’t ask me that. I’m asking you—”

“No,” he growls. “I’m asking. What do you need. Tonight. What do you—god, Hop, tell me what you need.”

You swallow hard. “Take it,” you whisper. “Just… take it. Don’t ask. Don’t hold back, please, just fucking—”

The second you say it, something else snaps.

Steve flips you over in one breathless motion, pinning you to the bed with a hand on your throat. Not tight, not mean, just there. Just enough pressure to say I need to feel you under me while you take it.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, nails dragging down his back as you claw at him. It’s like he suddenly can’t be close enough to you now, as if you’d had the nightmare rather than him. 

You’ve enveloped his pain, allowing him to remind you of your own that you bury down so deeply you can’t even fucking find it most days. Which is why he doesn’t waste time, or bother with clothes beyond what’s necessary. You’re both panting, tugging, biting, a half naked pretzel of friction and heat and hushed noise. There’s no build up or foreplay, no prelude. Just raw unadulterated need. 

Every movement is sharp and fast and deliberate, like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he’s burning the memory of your skin into his palms.

By the time you're taking him while laying on your side, leg hiked up over his torso as he keeps an arm looped under the bend of your knee, Steve presses so that you’re still taking him from this angle but hovers just enough while still on his own side.

He leans down, foreheads pressed, hips grinding deep, and breathes against your cheek. “You’re here. Still fucking here.”

You grip his tousled hair hard, pulling him closer. 

“Both are,” you rasp, doing everything in your power not to scream while his cock twitches against your walls and buries itself in you until you feel it pulsing in your fucking ribcage. “We both a-are.”

Steve exhales hard and deep, his eyes boring into yours as he bucks into you aggressively, somehow only making you feel safe as he pants and gasps into your mouth. You can barely see him in the dark, but you feel everything. 

The tension. 

The restraint fraying at the seams. 

The way he’s trying so fucking hard not to let it be more than this, even though it already is.

His rhythm falters only once. And that’s when you moan his name.

That’s when he loses it.

Steve’s whole body shudders violently. He curses under his breath, hips jerking, and his open mouth crashes to your shoulder as he finishes. It’s all breath and heat and emotion he refuses to let out any other way. He doesn’t say it, but it’s in every groan, every grind, every clutch of your hip in his hand as unleashes himself inside of you and paints your insides with his thick ropes.

You’re the thing keeping him tethered.

Even if you’re the secret he won’t name.

——

After your bedroom’s gone still again and the sheets are cold against your bare legs, Steve stays. Not in the usual way, where he fucks you and forced himself to bolt before sunrise.

No, tonight he stays.

Fully clothed now, sitting upright at the foot of your bed with his head bowed, hair in his eyes, and his hands clenched between his knees like he’s in a confessional. Like maybe he’s contemplating staying or going, and running out of ways to convince himself it’s best to leave.

You watch him from the pillow, your chest still rising and falling too fast as you somehow still need to catch your breath. Even after he’s long since slipped out of you, and helped clean you up without you having to ask. Even after he’s collected himself, as if he didn’t just convulse against you after you’d tightly moaned his name into his ear, not even twenty minutes ago.

Steve doesn’t look at you. Just tugs his socks off, murmuring, “what time you gotta get up?”

Your brow furrows, glancing over at the clock. “Eight,” you murmur back. “Basically four hours. Gotta pick up my last check before I start that new job next week.”

He nods, his back still to you as he tosses his socks into the middle of your room. Then he just scoots his way back into the bed, lying flat on his back next to you, shoulder to shoulder. 

With total ease, he lifts an arm up to adjust his wristwatch, taking a moment before he unfastens it.

“I’ll wake you up if you sleep through it,” Steve mutters while setting it down onto the bedside table. Then, he lets himself settle in next to you, the way that he has before.

Only this time feels different. 

It feels charged, borderlining domestic, even as he lays here beside you with his eyes closed, flat on his back with an arm under his head beneath the pillow while he breathes evenly. His shoulder is still pressed against yours, and pushes his leg under your own, already anticipating that’s where it’ll end up eventually.

You don’t know it’s the only way he can keep from outright grabbing your hand and tugging you to him with fear. 

Instead, you just let yourself lean into his subtle touch with your own and let sleep consume you, saying nothing 

Because you don’t trust yourself not to say everything.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s Fine How It Is, Isn’t It?

MAY 1985

It’s so hot the air feels like it’s pressing down on you.

The summer of 1985 is clearly out here to serve as a cruel reminder that comfort is a usury you’ll never afford. Cicadas scream from the trees surrounding the Hawkins community pool, along with several clumps of random children. The pavement is radiating heat through your sneakers, and the kids have already been in the water less than two minutes before a giant splash war breaks out between Max and Lucas. 

Because school’s out and it’s the first day of summer break,

Steve is muttering something about liability under his breath while dragging two towels and a cooler to the shaded side of the pool deck, his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

You follow behind him with a bag of sunscreen, snacks, and Mike’s unholy trench coat of a towel slung over your shoulder like it had personally assigned you the responsibility.

“You know,” Steve starts, flopping into one of the shitty lounge chairs that creaks under his weight. “If we survive another summer with these kids, I'm pretty sure I legally qualify for sainthood. Or at least a timeshare in a place that doesn’t smell like chlorine and Axe body spray.”

You drop the bag next to him and squint against the sun. “Think you meant motherhood.”

He shoots you a wry look. “No. I didn’t.”

You hummed, squatting to grab some sunblock from your bag and pretending not to notice all the bikini girls gawking at his beauty. 

“Either way,” you shrugged with a barely concealed smirk, “you’d last four hours in a timeshare before getting in some territorial feud with someone’s dad over who gets to use the grill.”

“Um, yeah, and I’d be right.” 

You bite back a huge grin.

He’s so weirdly sexy whenever he’s bitchy. You arch an eyebrow at him, loudly squirting the sunblock into your hands with your hip cocked out to the side, as if unimpressed. 

Fuck, why is he hot even when he’s bitchy?

“This is about the barbecue at Joyce’s house last week, isn’t it?” he asks pointedly, tone flat.

“You mean the one where you nearly blue screened, watching my dad operate the grill with Jonathan?”

“Because you can’t just put raw chicken where the corn’s been,” he makes clear. “What kind of barbarian—”

“You’re so suburban it physically hurts.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes and grab your sunglasses out of the bag. “And I’ll take your cooler hostage unless you admit Mike’s just your mini-me.”

Steve pulls a face. “I have way better posture and way better hair.”

“Okay, hair? Maybe. Posture, yeah.” You tossed him the sunblock bottle, watching him catch it one-handed. “But the constant sarcastic monologuing? The obsessive over-explaining of your opinion literally none of us asked for—?”

“He’s a smartass.”

“He’s you with more puberty rage and less haircare.”

Steve points toward the pool. “He just cannonballed and splashed an entire grandma. I have never—”

“She flipped him off and called him a string bean over by the vending machine earlier.”

He stares at Mike, who’s now smugly swimming back to his friend. “…Okay fine, then that was kind of amazing.”

You grin, biting your lip with a light snort. 

The two of you lounge back in the sun, watching them. Max has Will in a headlock and is laughing maniacally. Lucas is trying to invent some new pool sport involving a floaty, a tennis ball, and something he swears he “saw on ESPN once.” Mike’s treading water and yelling about a rule nobody cares about.

“Exhibit A,” you sing-song lazily.

Steve shakes his head, but he’s watching the kids fondly. It’s all loud, alive and normal in a way neither of you really trust anymore. But you stay quiet about that and just let it be, for however long it may last before another demo dog decides to eat another neighborhood cat. 

Just long enough for it to feel like breathing again.

You squint out at the water, despite your sunglasses that shield your eyes from the blinding summer sun despite your hat. And then, without looking at him, you speak.

“Last night.”

Steve’s lips part slightly, but he doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his eyes trained on the kids. After a few beats, he leans back in the chair like he’s adjusting for comfort, eyes hidden behind his shades as he keeps watching the pool.

“What about it?”

You shrug lightly. “It happened.”

Another beat. 

Then, Steve scratches the back of his neck. “As they often do, after the sun’s gone.”

You turn to face him slowly, mirroring his posture like you’re in sync without meaning to be. “That nightmare. It really messed with you.”

“I get those sometimes,” he says, quick. Then adds, “Just not always like that.”

“I know.”

Another long beat. And then, Steve does what Steve does best.

He deflects.

“Hopper would kill me if he knew I came over without being re-read the riot act,” he says lightly, as if it’s the most casual timing for this type of banter. “Like actually murder. Probably with that bat of mine.”

You pretend to ponder that, nodding. “He’d definitely ground me. Since technically you’re not his kid, and even though I’m an official adult.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re his kid. And I’m an idiot climbing through your window at two in the morning looking like I just lost a knife fight with a memory.”

That gets a laugh out of you. It’s short, tired. 

Fond.

You glance sideways at him.

His mouth is curled into the same boyish smirk he wears when he’s pretending that he isn’t spiraling.

“So,” you say carefully, stretching your legs out in front of you, “do we ever actually talk about it?”

He shrugs. “What’s there to talk about? We freak out, we cope, we move on.”

You glance toward the pool again. Lower your voice. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Coping?”

“I mean…” Steve trails off then sighs, shrugging one of his shoulders. “Sure. Works for me.”

“But that’s not all it is.”

He doesn’t answer. Just presses his lips into a line and reaches for a water bottle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

The silence stretches. So you push, just a little.

“You ever think maybe pretending it’s casual makes it harder?”

He opens the cap, hearing you just fine but drinking from it as though you’re just going over a grocery list, rather than trying not to flip a lid.

You feel your stomach twist as you try another approach, dreading it instantly. “Ever think maybe it’s better to stop while we’re ahead?”

Steve looks at you then. 

Actually looks this time, still hidden behind his shades. 

And for a second, he’s not smirking. He’s not cracking a joke. He’s just looking at you like he wishes he knew how to answer that without making everything worse.

“Look, I dunno what you want me to say,” he says, and there’s this tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there just five seconds ago. “What—what are we even talking about? You’re the one who usually makes a break for it first, and now I bring up chicken on a grill and suddenly we’re—”

“I’m not fighting, Steve.”

“I’m not fighting either, I’m just saying it—” His voice lifts slightly, then drops again, thick with breath. “It’s fine how it is. Isn’t it?”

You look at him, really look without faltering. 

And this time, you don’t push. Because you see it. 

The harsh sun gives away his eyes, even concealed by the tinted frames. The panic flickering under the surface. The quiet, desperate desire to keep things where they’re manageable. Where he can still make you laugh. Where you don’t have to talk about how it’s not an actual coping method that people practice. That friends practice. Even though you’re both riddled with otherworldly stresses that normal people can’t even remotely imagine, let alone fathom with a regular coping method. 

This coping method wasn’t even briefed. It never has been. It just… happened. 

Fears getting muffled into bare shoulders. 

Scarred flesh pressed against another’s scarred flesh, naked and petrified, having fought the same fights and survived the same wars.

Forgetting the involuntary screams of terror that you’d both endured with your friends, only by wrenching voluntary screams from one another’s throats as you bury yourselves, skin to skin.

You lean back again, and then your expression softens as you finally answer Steve’s question. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet but even. “It is.”

After a moment, Steve somewhat relaxes. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop half an inch. And then, like he’s either anticipating that you’ll try another angle (or like he’s been waiting for the exact moment to drag you out of uncharted emotional territory) he stands up mid-conversation and shields his eyes from the sun.

“Alright, I’m gonna challenge Lucas to pool dodgeball,” he declares with cocky bravado, wrenching off his shirt. “We’ll see how smug he is when I wipe the floor with his ass and Will defects to my team.”

You blink at him. “That’s not even a real game.”

“It is now.” Steve tosses you a smirk over his shoulder. “I’m calling it Harrington’s School of Pool.”

You snort. “That sounds like a punishment.”

“Oh it is,” he calls back as he walks toward the pool. “Punishment for ever doubting me.”

You watch him go.

Let him have the last word.

Because for now, that’s all either of you can handle — tiny moments of truth wrapped in banter and sunburn, buried under splash fights and sarcasm. No one watching would know the difference. Not even the kids.

But you know.

And he knows.

Even if neither of you says it out loud, not yet — it’s already louder than anything else.

Chapter Four

The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Movie Nights

MAY 1985

“If any of you dumbasses lay another finger on my Wizard’s Cloak of Invincibility,” Dustin states, deadly serious, “I will curse your entire bloodline with lifelong halitosis.”

There’s a comical beat of silence around the coffee table.

Then Lucas snorts, Max breaks first with an open-mouthed laugh, and Mike immediately follows, howling, “That’s not even a real threat, man. You made that up!”

“You made up halitosis!” Lucas shouts.

Dustin adjusts his trucker hat like a young man wrongfully accused. “Tell that to your breath, Sinclair.”

Max falls sideways into Eleven’s shoulder, gasping for air.

You walk in at that exact moment, a bowl of pretzels in one hand, a tray of cut-up fruit in the other, and instinctively slow your steps, blinking at the chaos unfolding in front of you. It takes one second for Dustin to flash you a proud smile.

“Hop!” he says, triumphant. “Back me up. Halitosis is real, right?”

“I’m not taking sides in your magical breath feud,” you say, dry as sand, setting the snacks down with practiced grace. “Also, yes. It is. Also, if I catch one of you trying to use one of these bananas as a sword again, I’m calling the Department of Child Services.”

“They can’t arrest a level five elf!” Lucas yells.

“Kinda related to one who’ll find a way,” you reply. “Find out, Sinclair.”

Mike scoffs. “He’d never.”

“Wheeler?” You flick popcorn at him. “Find. Out.”

Dustin snorts. “You’d be the first one in cuffs, man.”

“Yeah,” Eleven giggles.

The kids all fall apart again. Eleven slides closer into Max, and when you sit back down beside her, she immediately leans into your side without a word. It’s instinct now. She’s barely left your side since spring, and you’re more than okay with that.

From the kitchen, Steve’s hunched over the landline like a desperate sitcom mom trying to order dinner during a school talent show.

“No, no—large pepperoni, yes. Just—sorry, one second.” He presses the phone to his chest and flaps a hand at Mike and Lucas, who are loudly arguing about whether elves can use ranged attacks. “Guys! Indoor voices! I’m trying to give them the address!”

“Try saying it louder!” Mike yells helpfully.

Steve sighs like he’s aged twenty years. 

“Hey, yeah sorry, my daughter is on one today,” he tells whatever Dominos staff is on the other line, shooting daggers at Mike.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to keep from laughing as he turns back toward the phone. Because the fact that he not only just referred to one of the kids as his daughter, and the fact that it was in reference to Mike, not Max or Eleven, is priceless.

“Yes. Pepperoni. One veggie. One cheese.” A beat. “Yeah no, that’s great, we’ve got, like, six kids here, and I’m the one keeping them alive, so please make that fast. I’ll tip fat.”

Max glances at you with a wicked glint. “Are you gonna tell him he sounds like a soccer mom or should I?”

“Oh, I’m just letting him live his truth, girl,” you say, smiling wide, trying so hard not to laugh. Max snickers.

“You’re mocking me, Mayfield,” Steve deadpans without looking up. “I can feel it.”

“Nuh-uhhhhhh.”

“Yuh-huhhhhh,” you growl at her with viscous, tickling fingers that go straight for her, earning a squeaky squawk.

You all settle into Dungeons & Dragons again — elbows bumping, snacks disappearing one by one. There’s yelling, laughter, a furious debate about rule interpretation, and Lucas trying to cheat when he thinks no one’s looking (which Eleven catches immediately and shuts down with a deadpan “No,” like a tiny, psychic enforcer).

And then the doorbell rings.

Steve still has the house phone to one ear as he moves to answer it, mid-conversation. “Yeah, and can we get like three orders of egg rolls? Wait—hang on—”

He pulls the door open, and standing on his front porch are Nancy, Jonathan and Will.

“Oh hey,” Steve says, blinking before ruffling Will’s hair. “C’mon in.”

“Hey!” Will lights up the second he sees everyone at the coffee table. “Oh, sweet.”

The kids all yell his name in unison, immediately waving him over as you stand up, grinning. “Hey, lil’ Byers.”

Will hugs you full-force, knocking the wind slightly out of your lungs. “Hop! You’re here too?”

“Of course I am,” you smirk at him fondly. “You’d all be feral without my adult supervision.”

Jonathan raised his brows. “Didn’t realize you were hanging out too.”

You shrug easily. “Dad trusts me with El. Plus, Steve needs backup.”

Right on cue, you caught a banana mid-air. “What’d I say?—”

Steve waves from the hallway without turning around, still deep in his food order. “Thumper, what do you want from the Chinese place?”

You don’t blink. “Same as last time. But extra soy sauce.”

“Got it.” He turns away, still talking. “Yeah, and one sesame chicken, white rice, extra soy sauce. Also...”

Nancy’s eyes narrow.

Jonathan glances at her sideways.

“…same as last time,” Nancy quietly echoes under her breath, not even meaning to.

Jonathan subtly juts his chin out at you, eyes flicking over to Steve. “Take it you two tag-team on the babysitting now?”

You flash a smile without realizing it. “It’s our routine.”

That earns an odd stare from Nancy. But Will’s already halfway across the living room, being devoured by his friends, and you wave at the couple over your shoulder as you’re dragged back into your place in the game.

“Come on, it’s your turn!” Max barks. “We’ve been waiting!”

“God forbid you wait thirty seconds—” you say, flopping down beside Eleven again, who immediately reattaches to your side like Velcro.

Nancy’s still standing in the entryway, watching you and Steve out of the corner of her eye. Watching the ease. The way he calls across the room to ask you what you want without blinking. The way you answer like it’s nothing. The way he doesn’t even look surprised when you know exactly how to handle the kids. 

Jonathan shuffles awkwardly beside her, clearing his throat as Steve hangs up the phone and catches them still standing there.

“Oh—uh, did you guys… wanna stay…?” he asks, polite but clearly hesitant. “We’ve got a lot of food coming.”

Nancy shakes her head, a little too quickly. “No. No, no, we were just — dropping Will off.”

“Yeah, thanks though,” Jonathan adds, backing it up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Cool, cool,” Steve nods. “Safe drive.”

“Bye!” Eleven calls sweetly. Lucas and Mike and Dustin all yell, “Later!” in a chaotic chorus. You offer a lazy salute from where you’re half-curled up on the floor, sorting dice.

And just before the door shuts behind them, they hear you ask Steve, “What time do we need to pick it up?”

To which Steve answers, without hesitation, “Did delivery. You’re not leaving me alone with these gremlins for five seconds.”

The door closes with a quiet click.

Nancy blinks at it, eyebrows raised, lips parted like she wants to say something — but Jonathan’s already halfway down the steps.

She lingers a beat longer, eyes distant.

Then follows him without a word.

——

A couple hours later, and it was like gravity had pulled every kid in the damn house into the living room, like a pile of cats magnetized to warmth and pizza grease. The game-night-turned-movie-night space was a disaster zone. Pizza boxes half-stacked with soda cans dripping condensation onto mismatched coasters, all adorning the Harrington’s sleek coffee table. There were a few rogue Chinese takeout containers with chopsticks sticking out of them like flags from conquered territory. Which was true, given that you and Steve were moving through them in rapid succession. He earned himself a very approving fist-bump and wink from you, mid soy sauce packet pour, because the kids were eating every slice of pizza as if they were all famished orphans. And Dustin still had the audacity to ask you for an egg roll, and complain about being told no, even as he sat with a literal tower of ‘Pisa.’ 

But none of that really mattered, because currently, all of them were laser focused on the TV. And what was playing?

Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde. 

Not the first Legally Blonde, mind you. Nay, the sequel. 

And not a single one of them had ironically turned it on. 

Max had accidentally flipped to it while trying to find Die Hard, while Lucas had groaned about her thinking that Bruce Willis is hot, but then Reese Witherspoon had appeared onscreen and delivered the ‘You can do anything if you just believe in yourself’ line with such heartfelt sparkle that Will had blinked and mumbled “Wait… what is this?” 

…and they just… never changed it.

Now, every single one of them was all in.

Lucas was curled up with Max on one side of the couch, the two of them wrapped in a shared blanket, with Max holding a slice of pepperoni halfway to her mouth and Lucas shushing her because Elle Woods was giving a speech to Congress, and she was chewing too loud.

Mike and Eleven were cuddled up on the other side of the couch. They were absolutely holding hands like the middle school version of a Nicholas Sparks movie, their heads tilted toward each other, even as Mike occasionally let out comments like, “Wait, is Bruiser like… the best character in this entire franchise?” and Eleven would nod with devastating seriousness.

Dustin sat between Will and a stack of crumpled napkins, chewing quietly and whispering things like “This is exactly how government should work,” to which Will would nod sagely, the crust of a cheese slice hanging from his hand while curled up next to his buddy on the recliner.

And then there was you and Steve, squeezed together on the big loveseat, side by side. But not touching in any way that was technically romantic. No hand-holding, no lingering glances or puppy love stares. Just his arm pressed lightly against yours, your knee brushing his whenever one of you shifted. And neither of you shifted away. You didn’t even notice when you started sharing food between your remaining takeout boxes, his half of beef lo mein and your chicken and broccoli, quietly traded off back and forth with zero verbal coordination. Just this seamless, casual sort of sharing that was so normal it almost broke your heart.

You were thrown by just how badly you wanted to reach out and grab his hand. Just like Mike had done with El. Just to lace your fingers into his and rest it right there in your laps. But you didn’t. Steve was sitting too easy, too relaxed. He wasn’t nervous or tense at all. He was just watching the movie with a soft half-smile, occasionally pointing at the screen when Bruiser barked and getting Dustin to laugh too loud. It was the cutest thing in the world, and you had no clue when you’d become such a damn softie about it. Because anytime Steve cracked a smile at the screen while leaning back against the seat, leg pressing more into your thigh and knee as Dustin laughed his head off, you just felt… warm, fuzzy. All the typical teenage girl shit that you never got a chance to really feel without consequence while in high school. But right now, you got it. Because now, you were seated in the Harringtons’ loveseat, with an unrequited desire to hold Steve’s hand without you both needing to be naked and afraid to do it.

But you didn’t know it wasn’t unrequited. 

You didn’t know that he was thinking the exact same thing. 

You had zero clue that Steve, cool and casually suave Steve, was in the exact same boat as you. Dying to hold your hand like a boyfriend, hating the fact that’s not what he was to you, and wondering if that would ever change. Better yet, if he wanted that to change. He wasn’t relaxed at all. Like, at fucking all. This might be the calmest moment of his week so far, and still, his whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out every time that your shoulder leaned into his just a little more.

But he didn’t fixate on it. Nor did you. Because you both had this. This moment. This softness. That was enough.

And then the front door opened.

Like, literally just opened.

Like the front door of Steve’s house swung wide open as if it were a damn saloon, and in walked Jim Hopper like a thief in the night. Without knocking, without calling ahead. Without even pausing at the threshold.

He walked into Steve Harrington’s house like he owned the place, which honestly? As the chief of police and your father and the secret guardian of one of the teens currently cuddling on the couch? Well, fair enough.

The room reacted in slow motion.

Steve’s head turned first, halfway between stuffing a dumpling in his mouth and passing you a soda.

You froze halfway through lifting a crab Rangoon, your mouth already open like a cartoon character.

And then Eleven looked over, and her whole face lit up. “Dad!” she whisper-yelled.

She was on her feet in a second, practically launching herself over Mike’s knees and running straight for Hopper, her arms thrown around his middle with the kind of force that could knock over a less stubborn man.

“Hey, kiddo,” your dad chuckled. 

He’d caught her instantly, squeezing her with both arms, the tension in his jaw relaxing just enough to let that big, dumb, goofy dad-smile stretch across his face.

“Oh,” you said under your breath, smiling despite yourself as you leaned towards Steve. “He missed her.”

Steve hummed in agreement beside you, then took a bite of your egg roll without asking. “Hey, Chief.”

Jim saluted him. “Harrington,” then he tipped his hat to you, “m’lady.”

“Father,” you smirked, smacking Steve’s hand lightly as took literally one noodle from your box. 

“Sharing is caring,” he said with his mouth full, nudging your shoulder gently like it was muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Hopper was still holding El when he asked, completely baffled, “What the hell are you all watching?”

“Shhhh—!” came at least six voices at once.

Max hastily waved him over, Lucas pointed wildly toward the couch, and then Mike, without hesitation, muttered, “Sit down, man, you’re missing the best part.”

Your dad arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve gotta catch up,” Will added, scooting a pizza box aside to clear space on the armrest. “Elle’s about to testify.”

Hopper gave them a look like he was trying to process all of that information, then shook his head and slowly made his way to the couch, pulling Eleven with him. And when he sat? He very, very, very intentionally wedged himself directly between her and Mike.

You had to bite down on your lower lip to stop from laughing, while Steve sucked in his cheeks and stared straight ahead, clearly doing the same.

Mike blinked, betrayed. 

Eleven looked confused, then entirely accepting. 

And Jim? He looked smug as hell, like he’d just won a damn custody battle in the span of thirty seconds. But then, once they were all situated, he briefly glanced over at you and Steve, the two of you sharing six different takeout boxes like you’d done it a hundred times before.

And he winked, before any of that could really register with him, the way he always does whenever you’re both seated in different parts of a room and not able to talk. You gave him one of those signature faux-awkward smiles and little wave of a chopstick. Because yeah, you technically hadn’t gotten your own hello-hug, but it was okay. El needed it more. She needed him more. You’d had him all your life. She deserved this.

Still, as he turned his eyes back to the screen, you felt him glance over again. Just his eyes this time.

And you knew it.

You felt it.

Which is why you internally cursed yourself for daring to flick your eyes back over at him, succumbing to the peer pressure of it… because sure enough? Your pops was looking right back at you and Steve again, an unreadable expression on his face.

Then his eyebrows started subtly twitching, like maybe he was quietly putting something together. Something he hadn’t let himself consider before. Something he didn’t want to fully acknowledge because… 

No, you and Steve weren’t… that… right?

…right?

But that’s when Steve casually swapped out the container in your lap for the one in his, like he could read your mind before you’d even decided what you were going to do.

You didn’t even say a word. Just looked down at the takeout box with a warm, wordless satisfaction, scooping another bite with your sticks before watching Elle Woods lay down the law in a pink pleated skirt.

And from across the couch, Hopper’s eyes tracked the entire thing as he remained perfectly still, just watching it happen.

He blinked once.

Blinked twice.

Lifted a brow.

Tilted his head slightly.

Squinted…

No. No way. That wasn’t anything. 

You two weren’t anything. 

…naaaaah, Steve Harrington was the last guy you would ever take interest in, and as it stood, you had just as many trust issues as your dad did, whenever it came to love and dating.

The two of you weren’t more than pals. 

You weren’t an item.

Were you?

…but then you smiled at something stupid on the screen. Something like a tiny pink chihuahua barking during a Senate hearing, as if it was just precious. As if it wasn’t something you would normally look at it with a very sour face, repulsed by the pure cheeseball aspect of it. Nope, it made you smile. Like a sweet little grandma enjoying her favorite corny Hallmark movie.

…then you happened to glance back over at your dad in the middle of your smile.

…and your face fell. 

Like, visibly deflated. Comically so, like a cartoon character who just realized they were caught red-handed.

It was so subtle it was almost unnoticeable. 

But Jim noticed. 

And you noticed that he noticed. 

And now you were stuck in this stupid silent staring contest, looking between the movie and your dad, while he stared back at you and Steve with the slow, dawning expression of someone who absolutely was not born yesterday.

But the kids? Oblivious. 

Steve? Still munching on food like nothing was weird.

And you? Couldn’t take it. 

You shoveled three consecutive bites of chicken and broccoli into your mouth and glued your eyes to the screen like you were studying for an exam. Then Steve turned casually to Hopper and, with zero idea what kind of Eye Olympics had just occurred, asked him all too effortlessly —

“Hey Chief, you want anything? There’s plenty. Soda, pizza, Chinese. Take your pick.”

Hopper, not missing a beat, smiled all easy and said, “I’ll take you up on that for the next movie.”

The next movie?

Steve just nodded, turned back to the screen, already reaching for another dumpling. 

But Jimothy Hopper? He looked right back at you. Blankly. But this time, you didn’t dare look back. You just kept on chewing. Too fast. Too obviously.

You were so not ready to have this conversation.

Nope. Nah, let him chaperone Mike and Eleven. Let your old man worry about the literal teens making heart-eyes across the room.

Because if he even thought about asking you what was going on here? What this was?

You might actually crawl inside one of those takeout boxes and never come out.

——

“You’re seriously making us watch The Last Unicorn?”

“I didn’t pick it!” Dustin exclaims, pointing at Eleven like she’s the final boss in a court case. “It was her turn!”

“I’ve never even heard of this,” Mike mutters, inspecting the VHS sleeve like it personally insulted him.

“It’s a cult classic,” Will defends, curling deeper into the corner of the couch as he grabs a blanket. “Also, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah and also, it’s weird,” Lucas adds, plopping down beside Max and dodging the pillow she immediately hurls at him.

“That’s the point, dumbass,” she says fondly.

“Language,” Steve mutters on autopilot, not even looking up as he stands up from the loveseat with his hands on his hips like he’s about to start clapping to a beat and assigning chores.

He’s so goddamn sassy and you have no clue how and when you started loving that about him.

The bickering continues. Dustin’s got his hands on his hips like a mother hen, as if mirroring Steve, arguing with Mike about how “no one appreciates the art of voice acting anymore,” while Mike just continues to side-eye the unicorn on the cover like it’s beneath him. Will is the only one already settled in, while El looks quietly pleased to have won. Max slurps her third soda.

That’s when Steve raises his voice. 

Not loud, not sharp, just final.

“Okay, okay. Movie’s great. I’m excited. Yay. But we’re not starting anything until this place doesn’t look like a raccoon broke in and threw a kegger.”

Immediate groaning. Someone mutters “Ugh, seriously?” but no one even dares to aim that grumble directly at him. 

You’re already standing, sighing with ease, brushing your hands off like you’re about to help.

“Nope,” Steve stops you smoothly, stepping in front of you and gently guiding your hand off the pizza box you just picked up. “You’re off the clock. Sit down.”

You blink. “What if I want to—”

“Nuh-uh,” Steve points at the kids like a crossing guard at the gates of hell. “They made this mess, they clean this mess. You,” he adds, flicking his eyes back to you and raising an eyebrow, “look cute, stay seated. You’re management tonight.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, giving him the floor as he goes full Mr. Mom. 

And the thing is? They do it. 

The kids actually do it. 

Mike Wheeler, full of fire, teen angst and eternal rage, wordlessly gets the hell up and starts stacking pizza boxes. He’s a brat about it, but for the first time ever he’s not vocally expressing his inner brat. Lucas, not one to be outdone, smirks and shoulder-checks him as he passes, which turns into a whole silent wrestling match over who gets to throw the pizza boxes away. Dustin snorts.

“Children,” Steve mutters.

“I heard that,” Dustin shouts from the kitchen.

“I meant for you to.”

Max is singing some Madonna song as she fetches paper towels and glass cleaner from underneath the kitchen sink.

Will and Eleven, of course, are perfect angels, already helping like they’re starring in an after-school special. El even grabs a paper towel and starts dabbing at a spot of soy sauce on the counter. Steve nods at her approvingly like she’s the only employee getting a bonus this quarter.

Meanwhile, your dad is sitting in the armchair with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, watching all of it unfold with his eyes wide and his eyebrows so high they might detach. His mouth is a tight, flat line that’s clearly trying to prevent him from grinning. Or gawking. Or both.

You catch him watching, and he doesn’t even pretend to look away.

He’s seeing all of it. 

Mainly? He’s seeing Mike Wheeler obeying Steve like he’s the law. That alone is a miracle and something he’s definitely gonna need to learn from him, because that little shit is at the top of his list.

Jim also watched Dustin nearly slipping in his socks while throwing away a half-empty container of fried rice. Lucas tries to trip him for the third time in a row. Steve’s running point, like he runs a damn daycare-slash-frat house.

Your dad’s face just says it all. 

This is surreal.

“Hey, Chief,” Steve calls out suddenly, glancing over from the kitchen doorway. “Ready for that grub now? Got extra Chinese if you want a plate.”

Your dad leans back in the chair and raises a brow. “You bought extra?”

Steve just shrugs, all charm and sincerity. “Figured you’d show up at some point,” he replies, as if it was obvious. As if this was the only logical outcome.

“I’ve become that predictable?”

You shoot him a wry smirk. “You’re not exactly subtle, Pops.”

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Steve murmurs, grinning.

That earns a little snort from your dad. “All right, Harrington. You win. Dish me up.”

Steve gives him a quick nod, then throws you a light wink before disappearing back into the kitchen and slipping between the chaos like it’s choreographed. He moves easily past Dustin and Lucas, muttering something about “if one of you breaks something, I swear to God,” while lightly flicking Dustin’s ear on the way — who yelps, while Lucas cackles.

And that’s when your dad turns his head slowly to look at you again.

You meet his stare with your lips pressed into the exact same flat line he was wearing earlier, arms crossed.

Neither of you say a single word.

It goes on. 

And on. 

And on.

Until finally, you click your tongue, glance casually away, and ask, “Soooo, how’s the new AC in the cruiser? Still rattling?”

He squints, grinning a little wider now. “Only when it’s on. Which I refuse to admit is a problem. And before you ask, yes, I’m gonna fix it myself.”

You nod solemnly. “Of course you are. Very manly of you.”

He hums. “Damn right.”

The both of you settle into the most aggressively nonchalant conversation of all time, neither one of you acknowledging the domestic golden retriever in the kitchen who just cooked your father dinner and wrangled a group of feral teenagers into scrubbing the coffee table clean with wet wipes.

Steve reappears with a plate in one hand, a soda in the other. 

“Beef lo mein and General Tso’s,” he says, offering the plate to your dad, who accepts it without hesitation. “Extra fortune cookie in there. You look like you could use some wisdom.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Jim drawls, eyeing the food like it’s the best offer he’s gotten in months. “Thanks, kid.”

“Of course,” Steve says with ease as he hands you the Sprite. Iced cold. Perfectly timed. Like he read your mind.

And now the kids all start noisily making their way back into the living room as he plops down beside you again and exhales like he’s been coaching a soccer team through finals. 

“You good?” Steve asks under his breath.

You smirk and nod, popping the tab on your soda. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he says breezily, glancing around at the now semi-clean room. “All according to plan.”

“You planned for Lucas to body-check Dustin into the trash can?”

“No,” Steve admits. “But I liked it.”

The kids are all returning to their places, collapsing on the couch and floor in a pile of limbs, grumbles, and sarcastic insults. Will is already tucked back into his blanket. Eleven curls up next to him like they’ve been doing this forever.

“Alright, gremlins,” you say, sipping your Sprite. “Let’s roll it.”

“Will, make room,” Mike grumbles, now squishing himself in between him and El.

Max groans. “Why are you such a Velcro boyfriend—”

“Mayfield, just save it,” Mike snaps at Max, huddling into the blanket with his girl and his best friend.

“Everyone shut up, the movie’s starting!” Dustin suddenly announces at full volume, nearly shrieking while throwing his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea.

The room falls dead silent.

Steve blinks slowly at him, eyes narrow, unimpressed. “You wanna say that a little louder, Henderson? Think the neighbors in Ohio didn’t hear you.”

Your dad loses it. 

Just straight up barks out a laugh, head tossed back. Even you can’t help but snicker into your soda can, nose wrinkling, eyes shut.

Max is biting her lip trying not to join in, but Lucas fails entirely and wheezes. Mike mutters something about Dustin being a narc. Will is holding his face in his hands while El just eats her popcorn.

Steve huffs exasperated, right as the TV flickers. 

The movie begins, and for a second, for a whole stretch of minutes, it’s just… warm. Like family. Like a weird, chaotic little found family that just sort of formed out of exhaustion, loyalty, bad jokes, and Steve Harrington’s inability to let you else do the dishes.

——

🤍

🏹 Chapter One: The Reaping 🏹 Chapter Two: A Train to Tyranny 🏹 Chapter Three: Robin’s Ghost 🏹 Chapter Four: Tension on the Trolly 🏹 Chapter Five: A Thief of Time 🏹 Chapter Six: Meeting Cinna 🏹 Chapter Seven: Rewriting the Rules 🏹 Chapter Eight: The Midnight Black Parade 🏹 Chapter Nine: The Tribute Training Center 🏹 Chapter Ten: Passarounds 🏹 Chapter Eleven: An Olive Branch

🏹 Chapter Twelve: Eyes on Me, Ren. 🏹 Chapter Thirteen: Press Day Prep 🏹 Chapter Fourteen: Fire Incarnate and the Fallen Angel 🏹 Chapter Fifteen: Symbol of Rebellion 🏹 Chapter Sixteen: The Capitol Gala 🏹 Chapter Seventeen: Pixie Dust 🏹 Chapter Eighteen: Suite Sparring 🏹 Chapter Nineteen: Dissecting the Districts 🏹 Chapter Twenty: Dalmatians and Dinner 🏹 Chapter Twenty-One: The President’s Luncheon 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Two: Dismantling the ‘Short-Game’

Apparently, Tumblr believes in randomly saying "HEY! NO MORE FUN FOR YOU!" >:[ so because of that stupidity, here are the remaining chapters for ALL OF BOOK ONE.

It wouldn't let me include them all in this singular post, so I'm afraid it'll have to be all scattered. But please follow all the links to the next books below as well :)

📗

BOOK TWO: Catching Fire “I See Fire” Series

🏹 Chapter One: 72 Questions 🏹 Chapter Two: Winter’s Bone 🏹 Chapter Three: Sexiest Man Alive & Covergirl 🏹 Chapter Six: A Hidden Love Affair? 🏹 Chapter Six: The Whipping Post 🏹 Chapter Six: Second Star to the Right

🏹 Chapter Seven: The Victory Tour 🏹 Chapter Eight: Shot Onsite 🏹 Chapter Nine: Sticking to the Script 🏹 Chapter Ten: Sleepless Nights 🏹 Chapter Eleven: The Banquet 🏹 Chapter Twelve: Can We Always Be This Close?

🏹 Chapter Thirteen: The National Quell 🏹 Chapter Fourteen: A Favor 🏹 Chapter Fifteen: Chariots of Fire 🏹 Chapter Sixteen: Consent Was Never Mine to Give 🏹 Chapter Seventeen: Scouting Allies 🏹 Chapter Eighteen: Nationwide Shock Value

🏹 Chapter Nineteen: Blood Before Battle 🏹 Chapter Twenty: Powerplay 🏹 Chapter Twenty-One: Demodog Mutts 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Two: Morphling Martyr 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Three: The Hourglass 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Four: Tethering Time

🏹 Chapter Twenty-Five: High Ground 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Six: The Basin 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Fog & Its Horrors 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Eight: Real or Not Real? 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Nine: Jabberjays 🏹 Chapter Thirty: Who is Max?

🏹 Chapter Thirty-One: I Need You 🏹 Chapter Thirty-Two: The Plan 🏹 Chapter Thirty-Three: Dear Johanna 🏹 Chapter Thirty-Four: The Final Arrow 🏹 Chapter Thirty-Five: You’re a Liar 🏹 Chapter Thirty-Six: No More Hawkins

📘

BOOK THREE: Wildfire “I See Fire” Series

🏹 Chapter One: TBD 🏹 Chapter Two: TBD 🏹 Chapter Three: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD

🏹 Chapter Seven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eight: TBD 🏹 Chapter Nine: TBD 🏹 Chapter Ten: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eleven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twelve: TBD

🏹 Chapter Thirteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Fourteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Fifteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Sixteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Seventeen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eighteen: TBD

🏹 Chapter Nineteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-One: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Two: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Three: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Four: TBD

🏹 Chapter Twenty-Five: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Seven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Eight: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Nine: TBD 🏹 Chapter Thirty: Safe Haven

📙

BOOK FOUR: Hellfire “I See Fire” Series

🏹 Chapter One: TBD 🏹 Chapter Two: TBD 🏹 Chapter Three: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Six: TBD

🏹 Chapter Seven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eight: TBD 🏹 Chapter Nine: TBD 🏹 Chapter Ten: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eleven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twelve: TBD

🏹 Chapter Thirteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Fourteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Fifteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Sixteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Seventeen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Eighteen: TBD

🏹 Chapter Nineteen: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-One: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Two: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Three: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Four: TBD

🏹 Chapter Twenty-Five: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Six: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Seven: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Eight: TBD 🏹 Chapter Twenty-Nine: TBD 🏹 Chapter Thirty: TBD

THE PARALLELS

Steve Harrington -> Katniss Ren Everdeen -> Peeta Jim Hopper -> Haymitch Dustin Henderson -> Primrose Nancy Wheeler -> Gale (*does not follow canon, nobody panic) Billy Hargrove -> Finnick Odair Chrissy Cunningham -> Madge Tommy H. -> Cato Carol Perkins -> Clove

All role reversal characters remain true to their origin, based on their assigned universe, whether that is as an established afab! or amab! character (i.e. Steve is still male, versus Katniss — who was written as female; Ren is female, versus Peeta — who was written as male)

Other canon characters from the THG universe not listed remain canon compliant.

incredible artwork gifted to me by @raspberry-sunshinee [this literally makes me happy cry every time I look at them]

-> read lore facts on my blog via the hashtag: # I SEE FIRE: Almanac

💌 my favorite love letters for i see fire

“You’re really not gonna fight back?” he asked after a moment, voice rougher now, like he didn’t like how easily she'd just let it go. “You’re really just gonna stand there and let me say whatever the fuck I want?” The words had landed on Mercer's back while she slowly walked away. She inhaled quietly, turning to look at him now. Her lips parted slightly, but no countered words came. Because resignation flooded her numbed senses.  Mercer was done. “I’m tired of this back-and-forth, Gator.” A muscle in his jaw visibly twitched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He looked frustrated. Restless. Like he wanted to say something, or wanted to push her into doing something. Anything.  Because pulling away meant that she'd really given up. But instead, he just scoffed, turning sharply on his heel. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, not looking back, “you’ve been tired of me for years, haven’t you?” And just like that, he was gone.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆☾⋆

📕

BOOK ONE • early childhood -> elementary school -> middle school

♡ 1) Blood Red Capri Sun ♡ 2) Dogs With Goddamn Matches ♡ 3) Bonnie + Clyde ♡ 4) Circumstantial Circles ♡ 5) A Storm Named Lilah ♡ 6) The Gift ♡ 7) Court Jester With a Truck ♡ 8) Junebug ♡ 9) Still in Town ♡ 10) The Shift

♡ 11) Happy Motherf*ckin' Birthday, Andrew Clarence Jenkins. ♡ 12) Sweet Escape ♡ 13) Unspoken Rule ♡ 14) House of Cards ♡ 15) Backfiring! ♡ 16) A Privileged Invitation ♡ 17) The Ballerina, Her Guardian & the Vultures ♡ 18) The Road to New York ♡ 19) Arrival ♡ 20) …Louise Would.

♡ 21) Residency ♡ 22) Lost in Transit: The Legend of Ted ♡ 23) Truth Never Lived in the Words ♡ 24) This City Spits Back ♡ 25) Off the Record ♡ 26) Talk to the Tillman ♡ 27) Ain’t That the Pointe? ♡ 26) Getaway Plans

(-> scrapped chapters moved to later in the book series. ignore the cryptic inclusion vs. me just deleting ily thx)

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

📗

BOOK TWO • freshman year

♡ 1) Sixteen Candles ♡ 2) The Outlaw, His Princess and Their Jester ♡ 3) First Impressions, Unlikely Bonds ♡ 4) The Hallway Gauntlet ♡ 5) Torque and Tension ♡ 6) Roy Tillman Loves Jesus ♡ 7) The Schulte Boy ♡ 8) The Fraternal Twins ♡ 9) Gut is God ♡ 10) Ain’t That the Pointe?

♡ 11) Sugar, Pumpkin Spice and Gator? Be Nice. ♡ 12) The Hunt ♡ 13) Coyote Ugly ♡ 14) Skin and Bone ♡ 15) The Photo in the Hallway ♡ 16) She’s Roy’s Problem ♡ 17) Thanksgiving at the Tillmans ♡ 18) Till Kingdom Come, We Feast on Revelations

♡ 19) Growing Pains ♡ 20) A Little Princess in Fargo (1/2) -> chapter continued (2/2) ♡ 21) After Curtain Call ♡ 22) Daddy’s Little Girl ♡ 23) A Madison Family Christmas ♡ 24) Merry at the Madison's ♡ 25) Goodnight from D.C. ♡ 26) Windchill Touchdown ♡ 27) Sin City Sweethearts ♡ 28) The Resolutions Club ♡ 29) Second Time’s a Charm! ♡ 30) Roadside Rocky Road

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

📘

BOOK THREE • sophomore year -> junior year

♡ 1) Sophomore Year ♡ 2) A Date with Reed Calloway ♡ 3) Uncharted Territory ♡ 4) Some Protectors ♡ 5) Equestrian Elites ♡ 6) Read the Goddamn Syllabus! ♡ 7) Hey, Hallmark ♡ 8) Barlow’s Ballet Company ♡ 9) TBD ♡ 10) TBD ♡ 11) Nothin’ Good Starts in a Getaway Car [A Reckoning] ♡ 12) Bloodstained Canvas ♡ 13) Talk to the Tillman ♡ 14) Old Habits, New Hobbies ♡ 15) Ice! Ice! Baby! ♡ 16) Brunch with Barlow ♡ 17) Ah, Puck It! ♡ 18) Off-Brand Machine Gun Kelly ♡ 19) Edge of Seventeen ♡ 20) Leverage

♡ 21) Daylight Fills My Heart with Sadness ♡ 22) Cold Storage ♡ 23) TBD ♡ 24) TBD ♡ 25) Scouted ♡ 26) TBD ♡ 27) TBD ♡ 28) TBD ♡ 29) TBD ♡ 30) TBD

♡ 31) TBD ♡ 32) TBD ♡ 33) TBD ♡ 34) TBD ♡ 35) TBD ♡ 36) TBD ♡ 37) TBD ♡ 38) TBD ♡ 39) TBD ♡ 40) TBD ♡ FULL LIST OF CHAPTERS COMING SOON

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

📙

BOOK FOUR • senior year -> college

♡ FULL LIST OF CHAPTERS COMING SOON

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

♡ misc. series archives

Steve looked down at you instantly, squinting… as if he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t bolting out of bed for the phone. Ever since you got back from California two days ago, every ring of the landline had you tense, hopeful, dreading. Waiting for bad news. For a voice from the other coast. Honestly, it’s been that way since your dad died. It’s never stopped being that way.

But tonight? Nothing. You were gone to the world.

That alone told Steve how bone-deep tired you were.

So he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, let his lips linger there for a beat, before sighing and peeling himself out of bed. He dragged his hand down his face, hair sticking out in a thousand wrong directions and eyes half-shut as he shuffled across the creaky floorboards like a zombie, shuffling his feet, shoulders slumped.

“Who the hell calls at two a.m.,” he muttered to himself, his voice a groggy rasp.

The phone wailed again, a jagged note cutting through the quiet, and Steve finally stumbled into the living room, rubbing at his eyes as he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” His sleepy drenched voice cracked halfway through.

There was a pause, then a voice on the other end. “Uh… Steve?”

Steve froze. Blinked.

“…Jonathan?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Steve’s stomach twisted. It nearly plummeted to the bottom of his gut as every nerve in him sharpened, and his mind jumped to the worst possible place that swam with names: El. Will. Joyce. 

Something had happened. 

Something bad.

Why else would Jonathan Byers be calling you at nearly three o’clock in the damn morning?

“Wait, is—” Steve swallowed hard, his words tumbling out too fast, voice low. “Is everything okay? Is El okay? Joyce? Will? You?”

“…oh…” Jonathan’s voice responded slowly. Measured. Almost too measured. “Sorry, yeah… Yeah, they’re fine. Everyone’s fine.”

Steve stopped letting his mind scramble, now standing in the middle of the room, gripping the cord like it might snap.

“…Then what the hell—?” His brow furrowed, confusion bleeding into irritation. “Jonathan, it’s the middle of the night.”

There was a brief pause, then Jonathan chuckled faintly on the other end. A low, dazed sound. “Yeah, sorry, it’s...time’s kinda…fuzzy right now.”

That made Steve scowl into the dark, eyes narrowing in suspicion. In wordless bewilderment.

…and then it hit him. The sluggish tone. The lazy drawl. 

The delayed laugh that didn’t belong.

“You’re high.” 

Steve’s words fell out flat. Incredulous.

Jonathan didn’t even deny it. “Maybe a little.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t fucking believe this. He’d been ripped out of bed, out of you, asleep and warm and safe beside him — for this?

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice sharp now. “Jonathan, what the hell’re you doing calling here stoned at two a.m.? Do you have any idea—”

“I just…” Jonathan trailed off. There was a rustle on the other end, like he was shifting the phone between hands. His voice came back even slower, weighed down with something Steve almost didn’t want to be explained at this point. “…I wanted to tell her I’m sorry.”

Steve’s chest went tight. He stood frozen in the middle of the living room, grip tightening on the phone. “…Sorry for what?”

“For like… just… for kind of… like, dumping on her. When she was out here. I just kinda word-vomited all my thoughts’n feelings, and…”

Steve’s blood went cold.

Dumping on her.

Feelings.

The words tangled in his brain, burned like acid.

“What feelings?” Steve’s voice cut sharp, sharper than he meant, but he couldn’t reel it back. His pulse was hammering in his ears now.

Jonathan hesitated, realizing how that sounded in slow motion. “No. No, no… not like…” He sighed. “Just… I’ve been going through a lot. Feeling stuck. Not motivated. Using… y’know, weed, just to escape. And I guess I unloaded all that on her instead of asking how she was doing. Instead of just being her friend.”

Steve’s jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Friend. Feelings. Dumping.

The words rattled around his head, wouldn’t settle. He tried to shove them into place, tried making them make sense, but all they did was twist and sting with the last. 

Because it didn’t matter how Jonathan meant it. 

It mattered how it sounded.

And to Steve? It sounded like history trying to repeat itself.

Nancy and Jonathan. 

The last time Steve let his guard down, let someone close, Jonathan had been there. Waiting. And then taking. 

And now here he was again.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Steve hissed, more to himself than into the receiver.

It almost made Steve laugh as he glared into the dark, but it didn’t. It wasn’t funny. Not a bit. Nothing about this did anything but trigger the shit out of him, listening to Jonathan call you for some weed-induced trauma bonding.

As if Jonathan didn’t have enough already. He already got Nancy. He doesn’t need to add you to his sneaky conquests. You’re not his best friend.

You’re Steve’s. 

What you two share is his.

“What?” Jonathan’s voice was faint.

“Why.” Steve’s voice sharpened, dropping lower. He glanced toward the hallway, toward your bedroom where you still slept, so blissfully unaware… and he kept his tone at a harsh whisper. “Why the hell are you calling her about this?”

“…because I owe her an apology.”

“At two o’clock in the fucking morning?”

“I—” Jonathan cut himself off with a defeated chuckle. “Sorry… time difference, I forget…”

“Midnight’s no better.” Steve cut him off. He was not having it. “Two hour timezone difference or not.”

He practically felt Jonathan wince through the phone. “I jus’wanted to call her—”

“Why aren’t you calling Nancy?”

That made Jonathan go silent. 

Even through the goddamn phone, even from several states away, Steve could see him freeze up in that tense pause, he could hear the breath caught in his throat.

“That’s your girlfriend,” Steve pressed, his words sharper than knives now. “Remember her? Nancy Wheeler? The girl you fought me tooth and nail over? The girl who fucking left me for you?”

“…Steve, I didn’t think—”

“What, that I’d be here?” 

“No. I mean… well, yeah, but… not because I didn’t, like… want you to be. Honestly, man, I’m gl—”

“You don’t get to call her—” Steve’s voice cracked, raw. “At two in the morning with your feelings. That’s not her job. That’s yours.”

“…I know,” Jonathan murmured feebly. “Really, that’s why I called.”

“Call Nancy.”

Jonathan sighed. “We’re not exactly, uh…”

He trailed off while Steve waited expectantly. 

But now, Steve was livid. “Aren’t exactly what—actually? No. Save it. Not my problem. Or Hop’s. That’s your relationship. You chose her.”

Now Jonathan stammered, really caught off-guard. “I—Steve, that’s not what this is—”

“Then what the fuck is it?” Steve snapped, now pushing off the couch arm where he’d been leaning, the floors creaking under his bare feet. His free hand clawed through his hair, tugging hard. “You’re high as shit in California, calling Indiana just to tell her you’re… what, sorry? Sorry for what, sorry you can’t get your shit together? Sorry you can’t keep your own girlfriend in the loop? Sorry you’re using Hop as your fucking therapist when she’s not even got her own?”

All of that landed like a brick bluntly knocked against a skull.

The silence could slice through air, sizzling with unresolved tension and longtime simmering resentment.

Finally, Jonathan’s voice returned. But it wavered, sounding small. “I didn’t mean it like that. Hop’s like a sister to me. That’s all. I just… I felt bad. And I wanted to say that.”

Steve only chuckled, bitter and humorless. “Then maybe say it when you’re sober. At a normal fucking hour. Like a decent human being.”

On the other end, Jonathan went quiet again… 

And for a hot second, Steve almost felt bad. Almost. 

But then he looked over at you, curled up asleep underneath your old quilt, finally getting some rest, finally letting go and leaning into your own exhaustion… and the fleeting guilt turned to steel.

Because he wasn’t going to let anyone fuck with that. With you, with your peace, or lack thereof. 

Not Jonathan. Not Nancy. Not anyone.

Jonathan’s voice came back soft, almost pleading. “Just… tell her I’m sorry, okay? Or to just… call me in the morning.”

Steve’s throat worked. His grip on the receiver shook.

“Fine,” he bit out. But then he added for good measure, ignoring the burn behind his eyes, “but don’t call here again. Not like this. Not at this hour. Call when you’re solid. She doesn’t need your late-night budlaced epiphanies, Byers.”

And with that, before Jonathan could answer at all, Steve slammed the receiver back down into its cradle.

The cabin went silent again.

Steve stood there in the dark, chest heaving, hands braced on the counter. The shadows around him felt heavier now, pressing in close. He stared at the empty room… and for a second, almost saw Hopper sitting in his old chair. Watching. Arms tightly crossed, brow raised.

He imagined the look Hopper would give him now. Half-disappointed. Half… maybe, just maybe, half proud.

Steve swallowed hard, throat tight. Then he turned back towards the hallway, toward the faint crack of your bedroom door. His feet moved before he even thought about it.

Inside, you were still asleep, curled up into the same spot he left you. The old quilt rose and fell with each soft breath.

Steve stood there for a long moment, just watching. Something in his chest twisted so tight he thought it might snap.

Because the truth was ugly and simple: he couldn’t lose you. Not the way he lost Nancy. Not the way he lost everything else.

So he crawled back into your bed, careful not to wake you, wrapping himself around you again. He pulled you in close, tucking his face against your hair. And you stirred faintly, instinctively curling in tighter to him, and that broke him in ways nothing else could.

Steve pressed a kiss to your shoulder, breathing you in like oxygen as his arms locked tighter around you. Desperate, protective, like he could hold you here forever if he just tried hard enough.

Because everyone else could leave. 

Everyone else could fall apart. 

But you couldn’t.

You were everything.

And he wasn’t letting anyone — not Jonathan, not Nancy, not the upside down, not the goddamn universe — take you away. Not now. Not ever.

Even if some other guy came along eventually.

Even then, he’s gonna be this way.

But he’ll figure that out later.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Coping.

The car is crisp with the early spring air, the windows rolled halfway down so that the wind tousles Robin’s bangs every time Steve takes a turn a little too sharply. The three of you are packed into his BMW like some trio of inter-dimensional chaos survivors who didn’t quite win the war but somehow lived to tell the tale that had a continuously pending conclusion.

Steve drums the heel of his palm against the wheel in rhythm with whatever New Wave cassette is crackling through the BMW’s sleek speakers, his other hand occasionally adjusting the volume knob, or reaching back to poke Robin’s knee when she makes some smartass remark about how terrible his parking is going to be — again.

“Betchya five bucks he ends up half a foot into the crosswalk,” she snickers, cupping her iced coffee like it’s her only child.

You laugh from the passenger seat, arm out the open window, elbow sunkissed and warm. “Make it ten. I’ve seen him parallel park. It’s like a nature documentary. Painful but weirdly impressive.”

“Um, hi,” Steve shoots back, mock-offended but grinning anyway. “I’ll have you both know I passed my test on the first try.”

Robin’s already raising her brow like she doesn’t believe a word. You don’t believe him either, but you let it go. He’s smiling. That’s enough.

You’re also not working today. You took the day off. You’re just here because being around them, your best friends, is the only thing that keeps your thoughts from unraveling too far. 

Especially now. 

Especially now that El’s gone.

Off to sunny California, with Will and Joyce and Jonathan, starting her new life. Not horrifically far, not another country. But everything feels far now, like everyone’s slowly slipping just past the edge of your fingertips. You’ve told yourself it’s fine. You’ve told yourself it’s good. That she’s safer out there. That she gets to have a high school experience that doesn’t come with interdimensional trauma and bloodshed.

But it still guts you when you’re alone in the cabin and it’s too quiet.

This morning started off better, though. You got to talk to her on the phone, her very own landline this time. Joyce had it installed just for her. Just for you. That way, she can call you in the middle of the night if need be, and vice-versa. You still remember the conversation you had with Joyce weeks ago. Her voice steady but shaking around the edges as she told you, “She needs to come visit. You both need that. But she’s got to start school strong. She deserves a good start.”

You’d agreed instantly. Of course you had. 

You love El like she’s your little sister. 

But you also remembered how Joyce had looked at you like she was about to cry, right before they’d pulled away with the U-Haul. You could see the grief clinging to her like smoke, and you could hear the overwhelming sincerity behind her words whenever she’d said, “I lost the man I wanted to spend forever with. But I’ll take that pain over the kind of pain you’ve got. And I’d trade with you if I could.”

You didn’t cry in front of her. 

You’d waited until she left.

Now, with the car windows down and Hawkins flashing by in blurs of small-town nothingness, you let yourself breathe again. This?—this is manageable. Steve and Robin are bickering about whether or not Keith will dock their pay for being six minutes late, and you’re in the middle, grinning… and for once it’s not forced.

They tell you not to stress coming in while they open, saying you can relax and grab coffee. But you walk in with them anyway, like you always do.

Steve clocks in with a bored flourish of the pen, flipping it in the air. Robin punches the time clock with a middle finger. Keith doesn’t look up from his stool, with his bag of Cheetos and notebook.

You end up lounging in the breakroom for a while, flipping through an old magazine while Robin restocks tapes and Steve alphabetizes the horror section, muttering under his breath about the twenty different movies starting with the word “blood.” At one point, he ducks into the breakroom for a price sticker gun, and when he sees that you’re still there, you catch that flicker in his expression. 

It’s not surprise, not discomfort. 

Just… awareness. 

Familiar heat in his eyes whenever they lock with yours. 

That unspoken thing that sits between you, heavy and patient.

But he doesn’t touch you. Not now. Not here, while on the clock with Robin rambling at top speed. But there’s something in the way that his gaze drops to your mouth before he snaps his gum and winks at you as he heads back out.

It keeps happening like that.

At the grocery store. In his car. In your kitchen. At parties, in passing. Sometimes it’s nothing. Sometimes it’s just a look. 

But every time, it’s everything.

That house party three nights ago? You were both drunk. Laughing. Sweaty. Some rando had given you watermelon-flavored vodka, and you’d comically scowled at it right before drinking it with that classic Jim Hopper expression — the one where you squinted and gritted at the taste of something with what tried to be disdain, only to realize the current predicament wasn’t actually all that bad.

It’s a look that reminds Steve just how much he’d come to adore that expression, how much you looked like your dad whenever you made it, and how much he’d come to crave it.

How much he’s come to need it.

Which is why he’d stopped letting Courtney ramble at him, and didn’t let Blythe’s forward advances get the better of him, because it didn’t fucking matter that you two were some unorthodox version of ‘fuck buddies,’ or ‘trauma-bonded friends with benefits.’ It didn’t matter that he got girls' numbers, while guys never stopped trying to shoot their shot with you.

It didn’t matter if you weren’t exclusively his.

“The hell’s Allen been babbling to you about?”

He let the alcohol subdue his possessive jealousy with a teasing tone that didn’t make it tragically obvious, even if it already was.

You’d lazily smirked at Steve’s tipsy question, damn near looking like a freaking drunk cartoon character of yourself. “Nothin’ that stuck.”

That earned a slurred snort from Steve, and the two of you snickered as Blythe glared in your direction. Neither one of you noticed. Even Robin hadn’t glanced over to notice, because she was in the kitchen looking at Vickie with googly eyes as she laughed with her over the loud music. 

…and the next thing you remember clearly is sitting on the edge of a bathtub, Steve’s mouth on yours, his hands already under your shirt, the two of you acting like the world outside this stranger’s bathroom didn’t exist. You didn’t even fixate on the fact that it wasn’t sadness pulling you under this time… it was joy. 

It was stupid, drunken joy, and you wanted to feel it like it would last.

It was blurred vision and hot breathy laughs into each other’s skin as Steve stared at your reflection in the mirror, pounding into you from behind, loving how your neck felt in his chokehold, how your mouth looked as it hung open like that, and watching the way you all but purred into his touch. You’d gripped the sink with one hand, your other hand in his against your cunt… letting him stroke your clit as you thrust into him, feeling his girth stretch you wide, sighing into it, eyes rolled back in your head as you came, feeling him frantically rut into you during his own euphoric climax.

The next morning, Steve had brought you coffee in bed and neither of you mentioned what happened. 

It’s always like that. Always has been. 

And maybe that’s part of why it keeps happening. Because it’s not messy. Not on the surface. Because no one’s calling it anything.

Because it’s never awkward, never forced, never needing any sort of clarification. Not anymore. Now it’s just a part of what you are to each other. Like the way you know his favorite brand of gum, and how he knows how you take your coffee. Like muscle memory.

And the truth? The truth is, you love him. 

Not in the way people say they love someone and then put it in a box and tie it with a ribbon and hand it to them. No. 

No, you love Steve Harrington in the way that’s irreversibly lived-in. 

You love him like it’s none of anyone’s business. Like it’s this secret room that no one else gets a key to.

He’s so beautiful. Almost painfully so. 

Not in a glossy, polished way. Not in a way that belongs on the front cover of magazines. At least not based on what society says, and what that load of bullshit says is that someone like him has too much scarring for that. Too much ‘tired’ in his smile. Too much real. Pretty and masculine and scarred and sweet and a little broken but fucking perfect in every single fucking way.

Sometimes you just stare when he isn’t looking. 

And when he is looking… God, it makes you forget how to blink.

It’s not always soft. It’s not always good. But it’s yours. And you can’t help but wonder how long it’s only ever gonna be all yours.

Robin somehow doesn’t know. Miraculously. 

You’re sure of it, and it’s a relief honestly.

She’s not judgmental, not in the least. And even if she did know, she probably wouldn’t even care. But one time she’d asked Steve, that summer before your dad died, and he told her that the two of you’d hooked up once. Maybe twice. A long time ago. 

He lied.

And you don’t blame him, because you secretly relate to why.

It’s not because he’s ashamed. It’s because he likes the way it feels to have something no one else gets to touch or comment on. Even if he has to listen to you go along with Robin or the kids joking about how some guy “looked at you all lovey-dovey” and that “you should go for it,” because “it’s not like you’re taken.”

Steve gets a twinge of something dangerously territorial whenever it happens. But he also feels a surge of pride, knowing that you’ve not ever seemed to entertain dates with other guys or pursue them, just like he hasn’t taken up dates with other girls either. 

Not ever since Starcourt. 

Not ever since you’d wound up having the most wrecked sex of your cursed lives, after everything went up in flames.

That’s when Steve had stopped. He’d tried going on dates, he really tried. Even had sex with some of them, whenever he would internally panic and think he should “get ahead of it,” in case you dropped him at any given second.

You never did.

Because you’d tried too, but it wasn’t any use. 

Nothing was. Nothing would be.

Not that Steve knew that. But even so, despite everything, it makes him feel a sense of unspoken peace and understanding. Like there’s this little invisible string between you both that only requires a little tug from his direction or yours, and it’s acted on with niche exclusivity that doesn’t need the limits of a label or the expiration of a title.

Steve cherishes it.

Sometimes, it feels like you do too.

And then there are the quiet things you share.

Lucas’s basketball practice. Mike’s homework. Max refusing to wear a helmet while skateboarding. Erica giving everyone hell and being right about everything. Dustin still making absurd, borderline illegal inventions out of household appliances.

You start working overtime. 

Robin and Steve hate it. 

They don’t say it like that, but you can tell. Robin starts showing up at your cabin uninvited with takeout, while Steve starts finding excuses to “run errands” damn near every day and ends up on your porch with Lucas or Mike in tow, even Max, like maybe if he brings them, you won’t say no. 

He’s right.

The days, weeks, months pass. Some blur. Some sting. Some stand out like blurred polaroids that got stuck to your ribs. You don’t stop missing the people who are gone, like your dad or Sarah. And you never stop wondering what it would feel like to say I love you and actually mean it out loud.

But you keep showing up.

And sometimes… sometimes Steve kisses you like he’s trying to remember what happiness feels like. Most times, you let him.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now, at least.

MARCH 1986

Family Video is already chaos by the time you swing the glass door open and step inside, shoulders still tight from the walk over. You’re barely five feet in before Max Mayfield whips her head toward you like she’s expecting the FBI.

“HI,” she says quickly, throwing a guilty glance over her shoulder at you, next to Dustin — who is absolutely not supposed to be using the store’s computer system like it’s his own private command center.

“…please tell me this isn’t exactly what it looks like,” you deadpan, stepping past the drop box and leaning against the counter.

“It’s not,” Max says immediately.

“It is,” Dustin replies at the exact same time, furiously typing like the fate of the world depends on it.

You press your lips into a hard line. “Great.”

Steve, behind the counter, lets his forehead drop to the surface with a quiet thud.

Robin throws her hands up. “They barged in like little red-headed and curly-haired hurricanes. What was I supposed to do, fight them?”

A pathetic, bitchy whimper slips from Steve mid-groan as he lifts his head, gesturing exasperatedly. “They’re hijacking the system.”

“Not hijacking the system!” you echo, trying not to laugh. Then you sigh. “Dustin, you’re barely in high school. Why do you know how to do this like it’s your decade long career?”

“I’m extremely gifted,” he mutters without looking up.

“And completely deranged,” Steve grumbles, rubbing at his temples. “Seriously, what is it with you guys and breaking into every place I’ve ever worked?”

“It’s not breaking in if the door was open!” Max argues.

“Also? Murder,” Dustin emphasizes. “We’re here doing very important detective work. Not video games. Chrissy Cunningham freaking died, like died-died, and Eddie’s missing, and something’s wrong.”

You blink. “Wait. Chrissy Cunningham’s dead…?”

“Do you even watch the news?” Robin asks, horrified.

“No, Robin, I’ve been—” 

But you falter. Because you’ve been avoiding it. All of it. 

The way that grief eats holes in your memory and leaves you unable to look at phones, or televisions, or even certain corners of your own bedroom.

Robin’s face softens immediately, while Steve’s doe eyes flick toward you, sharp and worried.

Dustin sees it too. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean—” he begins, already backpedaling.

You wave him off. “No, guys. It’s okay. I just—wait. Did you say Eddie is missing…? As in Munson?”

“Yeah,” Dustin exhales worriedly.

You arch an eyebrow. “That’s… okay yeah, that’s weird.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Dustin throws his arms in the air. “And no one’s doing anything about it! So we are. Robin, did you get that address?”

“Got it.” She’s scribbling something on a sticky note.

“Okay,” you squint. “So lemme get this straight: Max and Dustin have turned Family Video into their own private ops center. Robin is now complicit, and Steve just gave up on parental control somewhere around ten minutes ago?”

“I’m not complicit,” Robin says bewilderedly.

“I’m not surrendering control,” Steve counters simultaneously, making a face at you. “I’m being held hostage.”

“Oh, please,” Dustin scoffs.

The banter keeps going, your voice added into the mix as you scold and tease and try to make sense of it all. Steve doesn’t say much now, just watches you. He watches you smile even though your eyes look tired, watches how you poke fun at the kids while pulling your sleeves down over your hands like you’re colder than you admit. Like you haven’t decided to own up to the fact you haven’t eaten nearly enough over the last several months, grieving your dad.

You only catch his expression once, whenever Max elbows Dustin and Steve leans against the counter to bark, “Don’t knock over the returns again, or I swear to God—!”

That’s when you meet his eyes, and his mouth tics up just barely with eyes that see straight through your soul. It asks, you okay?

And you wink, because yeah, you are. 

But also, you’re really, really not.

——

Twenty minutes later, after the two kids have gone to fetch a booth across the street at the diner and hang out while they wait for you, the staff door closes behind you with a click.

You’d told them you were going to cash your check at the bank first, just around the corner.

Well, you weren’t.

It’s dark in the breakroom. Cool and quiet. Steve’s chest is still rising fast from the argument with Dustin about password security. He runs a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, until you touch his wrist gently and he looks at you like he’s about to fall apart from something he can’t name.

You don’t bother talking first.

You just kiss him.

It starts with your hands in his hair, and his mouth on yours. Hot and fast and messy. Your fingers are trembling, your chest feels heavy, and when Steve backs you toward the bathroom sink, you think it’s because he’s being impatient. 

But the truth is, he can tell you need this like oxygen.

He doesn’t undress you fully. Just lifts up your shirt enough to bare your ribs. Just pulls down your jeans enough to settle between your thighs, where he mouths your name against your skin so tenderly, so softly, you almost don’t hear it.

The fluorescent light flickers above. Somewhere, outside the door of this tiny employee restroom, past the staff room, Robin is out there begrudgingly arguing with a customer about late fees. 

You and Steve barely process it. Because currently, you’re gripping his shoulders now, breathing like you just ran a mile. Steve drops to his knees, and before you can say anything, his mouth is on you. 

Quiet. 

Careful. 

Devastating. 

Sexy and cocky in all the right ways.

“Promise I’ll be fast,” you barely whisper, eyes clenched shut.

“Nmh-mh, y’take all the time y’want, angel,” Steve murmurs, his hair flopping in his eyes as he looks up at you, diving right in.

He’s not trying to get you off like it’s a race, he’s trying to anchor you and imprint his fucking name into your folds like a tattoo.

Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue, is slow and reverent. 

Every glance up at you is something close to worship. 

And when your thighs start to shake and your hands bury in his hair, Steve whisper-moans like the feeling itself is enough to undo him.

You climax quietly, biting your fist, unable to stop the way that you shudder with blissed out relief. Steve holds you through it. Mouth still on you, still moving, drawing out every last twitch until your vision goes white and your knees give as he drinks your pleasure like it’s water after a long day of thirst.

He stands up after a second, breathless. His mouth is wet. He looks like he’s high on you.

You don’t even have the words. Not yet. So instead, just grab his face and kiss him. Long, languid, shameless, tasting yourself on his tongue… 

Until Robin’s voice breaks the spell.

“Steve?”

You both freeze.

“I thought you were back here—are you sorting or what?”

Steve doesn’t even blink. He shouts back, “Yeah! Be right there!”

Then he kisses you again, harder. 

“Oh sorry,” she calls, “didn’t realize you were pissing—ah fuck, more customers…hurry, it’s packed—”

She trails off, vanishing again.

But Steve’s not even listening, still kissing you hard. When he pulls back, he can still taste you on his lips. You swallow hard, also tasting it along with his own spit.

“You okay?” he mouths.

You nod, still stunned with euphoria.

He cleans you up quickly, sweetly. You help him straighten his collar. And then he walks you to the back door, kissing your forehead once before letting you slip out. 

You don’t know if he’s like this with other girls. 

But you don’t ask. 

You just press a hand to your heart like maybe that’ll hold it together.

——

Later that night, it all goes to hell.

You’re in Reefer Rick’s boathouse, heartbeat hammering inside your chest, when Eddie Munson — the Eddie Munson — pops up from underneath a tarp and pins Steve against the wall, knife to his throat.

“STEVE!” Robin screams.

“PLEASE!” Max shrieks.

“EDDIE, STOP!” Dustin pleads, voice cracking. “He’s safe, I swear, he’s with us—!”

You don’t scream. You don’t freeze. 

You fucking draw.

Your gun is in your hand so fast you don’t remember reaching for it. And it’s now leveled right at Eddie’s temple, and your finger’s already tightening on the trigger.

“Get off him,” you growl.

Eddie jerks back, panicked, and Steve’s eyes go wide. Not from fear for himself, but from fear for you.

But you couldn’t care less about yourself.

“NOW!”

“I—! I don’t—!” Eddie stammers, glancing around wildly. 

He sees Max’s expression. Dustin’s pleading face. Robin’s panic.

…and your eyes, locked on him like laser sights, cold with a look that could kill him faster than the gun you cock and get ready to pull.

So he backs off. Drops the knife.

You don’t lower the gun. Not yet. 

Even as Eddie drops his weapon, holding his hands up, terrified of you… that doesn’t stop you from keeping it aimed straight at him as you circle him like a vulture and stare daggers into his soul. You don’t look away once, not a single time, as you find your way over to Steve with your dad’s pistol raised high.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, now close enough for you to feel him.

You seize hold of him. One moment, you’ve got your composure, and the next he’s got your arm cinched around his waist, tugged to you as you keep pointing the gun at Eddie.

And you’re trembling. 

Fuck, you’re trembling. 

“Hop, s’okay,” he tries, close to your ear while your arm stays looped around his waist as he holds you back. “It’s alright, it’s—”

“No, it’s not,” you hiss it out, bitter and cold. 

But not towards him. Towards Eddie.

Towards this stranger, who threatened your person.

This dark-haired, bug-eyed, high school flunk-out of a stranger that looks at you like he’s all innocent. 

“…listen,” Eddie tries warily, taking one step forward.

“BACK UP.”

“Hey hey, shhh,” Steve urgently soothes you, his lips to your temple as he holds you tight.

You had barked it at Eddie before you could even help it, which had caused him to startle back fast. Max had jolted. Even Dustin looked freaked. Robin did too… but she got it. She definitely got where you were coming from and related to your protectiveness completely.

But it was different.

And Steve knew that more than anyone. 

Which is why he holds you now, reminding you that he’s here by just letting you keep your aim fixed on the stranger and not forcing you to trust him. But also not letting you spiral.

“Hop, it’s alright,” he says quietly, but it’s firm. It’s that tone he’s safe using with you. The one that’s only ever meant for you.

You still shake violently against him, your teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek as your jaw flexes. Your fingers tremble on the gun, and Eddie’s eyes stare back into your hard, cold stare… guilty. 

He feels guilty.

…except…

…fuck, except he’s not guilty.

A tiny sound gets trapped inside your throat, your mouth still closed, pressed into a hard line to keep from baring your teeth at him like a dog. But then the gun drops to the floor, and Steve immediately sighs with relief as you throw your other arm around him, half burying your face into his chest, half of you still staring back at Eddie… 

Eddie, who definitely feels like shit now. 

“I’m sorry.”

You vigorously shake your head at Eddie’s words, vision blurring. 

You feel angry. 

At everything. At him, at yourself, at the world for taking your dad. At cancer for taking Sarah’s life, at the government for taking El away from you, at the blood that now lightly drips from the tiny puncture at Steve’s neck onto your cheek, and how he could be taken away from you at any moment too.

“S’okay…” Steve murmurs so softly against you, lightly swaying you.

A low, deeply anguished growl forms in your throat as you bury your entire face in his chest, all ten of your fingers digging and clawing at his back.

God, you hate yourself. 

You’re a mess. 

You’re such a weak, fucking goddamn mess.

You need your dad here to set you fucking straight.

“I didn’t…” Eddie stammers. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“Just give her a second,” Steve assures him carefully, still holding you tight. His heart aches, knowing exactly what this is but also not. He feels the way that you refuse to let him go, and it kills him. 

Because you’re never like this. 

You’re almost never the one to cave first. 

But now you remain clinging to him, even whenever you eventually pick the gun up again and hold it steady at your side, but this time without aim. Just as a precaution.

Because you refuse to fucking lose him.

Because you won’t lose Steve Harrington with everyone else.

The group explanation happens fast. Fast enough to make your head spin. The Upside Down. The monsters. Vecna. Visions. Something deeper. Something is wrong, and seemingly worse than before.

Eddie shakes the whole time as he listens and asks questions, his eyes blown wide but his mind blown wider. You don’t put your gun away until Steve touches your hand and whispers, “I’m right here.”

You almost believe him.

But you’ve learned better than to believe in good things.

——

That night, after you’ve dropped everyone off and Steve’s told them to all get good sleep in order to face any more demands tomorrow, he doesn’t say anything.

You don’t either.

But once his car is parked under that lonely stretch of trees, it’s like something snaps.

You’re bent over the center console. He’s gripping your hips like a lifeline. Your jeans are barely pushed down before he’s inside of you, and neither one of you is quiet.

He ruts into you like he’s trying to lose himself. Like he needs for you to feel something more than fear and frustration. 

Your hands are gripping the seat, his car windows fogging up, your voice whispering his name again and again, practically whimpering it.

Angrily whimpering it.

“What do you—” Steve breathes, trying to speak, trying to ask what you need as he pounds into you. “Tell me what you ne—”

But you look over your shoulder, trembling and messy, cutting him off and saying it like an animal mewling in pain. 

“I need to know you’re not going anywhere.”

Steve goes still for a long second. 

But just long enough to wrap his arms around you from behind, bury his face in your back, and whisper, “I’m not. I’m not. You’ve got me.”

Bitter, hissed sobs all try to claw their way over your lips and through your gritted teeth. And they succeed, after you stop fighting it and let them rip you wide open.

You cling to every part of him that you can, hiding your face into your forearms as you cry so that Steve can make you feel his words and make you believe them. And whenever you both come, it’s not the high that breaks you, it’s the sob you don’t want to let him see. 

It’s the way he holds you through it anyway.

Like he already knew.

Like he always does.

“…Hop…”

You don’t even know when you ended up on your back, staring up at him as you wept like a bitter child. You have no damn clue when you got to this point, while Steve carefully cradles the back of your head, his big brown eyes piercing into your with concern.

But apparently, that’s where you are now.

Weeping. Mewling. Breaking.

Losing it.

“Hey, babe, hey…” Steve’s trying to keep his rapidly growing worry in check, to not let it bleed through his whisper, but it does anyway.

You just cry harder, teeth gritted as you bawl like a baby. 

“Nrnnnhh—d-don’t…” you pathetically try to speak, through snot and tears and bitter anguish. “Don’t—l-l-leave—m-m-me too—oo…”

Every single part of Steve that’s held on for you, that’s known all this time that you’re not alright, and told himself to be ready the moment, completely dismantles.

His eyes burn.

His soul screams.

His chest tightens.

His mind explodes.

And his heart shatters.

“Need—you. To not. Leave mm-eeeeeee…” you sob.

Steve barely rasps out your name in response to your worst request yet, which you’ve wailed and sobbed, convulsing… before he engulfs you in his arms, swaying you with despair and determination and desperation, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream while he lets you fall apart in his arms. 

Only once he knows that he won’t let his own anguish override yours, does he swear to every single god there is that he won’t. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When the World Starts to Tilt

“Say lovers lake one more time, it’ll be a drinking game.”

Robin had huffed it exasperatedly, listening to Dustin and Steve go at it like brothers who refused to let the other have the last word.

All of you walked through the woods, finally having found Eddie and trying to figure out what the hell was up with Dustin’s compass.

You’re near the front again. Not on purpose, not leading, just… there. It’s how the group naturally broke apart when Dustin and Max started arguing about which way to go. Dustin’s holding the walkie like it’s a compass now and pretending that he knows where he’s headed. Max keeps second-guessing him, her voice sharp, her steps erratic. 

She’s clearly unraveling, but won’t admit it. Won’t give in. 

Dustin’s frustrated, too, but he’s trying to carry it all… her, the weight of the curse hanging over her head, the illusion of a so-called “plan.”

They both sound like siblings who’ve done this dance forever. But something about it feels brittle now. Like the only reason they haven’t actually screamed is because neither one of them has the energy left to do it right.

Robin, walking beside you, keeps lobbing little distractions into their bickering. “Okay, okay, but like—if this was The Goonies… which one of us is Chunk? Be honest.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Dunno, but Max is Mouth.”

“Excuse you,” Max fires back without even turning around.

“Nah, she’s got a point,” Eddie chimes in easily from your other side. “You’re snarky and emotionally unavailable. That’s textbook Mouth.”

“And if she’s Mouth,” you add, glancing toward Dustin, “he’s Mikey. Way too confident in a plan that’s barely half-formed.”

“Excuse me?” Dustin turns around, affronted. “I’ll have you know I’m the only one who has any idea where we’re going.”

“We don’t need to go this way,” Max grits out, pushing past a fallen tree limb. “We need to think, Dustin. God, for once can you like, stop trying to win and actually pay attention?”

“Can you stop undermining me every time I make a call?”

“Guys,” Steve tries again, exhaling exhaustedly, hands up like a flight attendant on a turbulent airplane. “Let’s not self-destruct before the intermission, alright?”

You sigh through your nose, eyes on the forest ahead as you walk. It isn’t because you don’t want to contribute to the conversation, or that you don’t want to help him wrangle the kids per usual. You just sort of… can’t. Like you’re too tired. Too burnt out.

Too lost.

Nancy is quiet, just a few paces behind you, watching, staying out of it. Maybe because she’s too out of the loop, or maybe because she knows this is one of those moments people have to burn through to get to the other side. But really, she’s just watching Steve.

Because Steve is definitely watching you.

He’s hanging back at first. Letting Eddie flank you again, knowing that he’s trying to make up for what went down yesterday in the boat house. And maybe Eddie isn’t doing anything different from his usual nonsense, whatever that is. He’s just cracking jokes, tossing around commentary, asking you little things, brainless things, like what kind of weapon you’d choose in a zombie apocalypse or whether you think Dustin or Max would survive longer on a desert island. Nothing flirty. Nothing bold. But he’s there, and you’re letting him be. You’re responding, even if it’s just with half-smiles and muttered comebacks. 

But still, Steve sees all of it and he doesn’t like it.

Because it’s far more than you’ve given him all day.

He hears you laugh once, and it’s not even a full laugh. Just a breath, an exhale with shape. But it hits Steve like a sucker punch anyway. Because it’s his laugh. It’s the one you give him.

You’re his.

So he moves forward… like gravity’s had enough of being ignored, almost like he’s feeling left out and not understanding why, given the fact you need him just as much as he needs you.

He makes his way up the line and slides into the space between you and Eddie. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you as he jumps in on the conversation with ease.

Eddie lifts an eyebrow and slows, falling back a step but conversing easily and keeping up. Meanwhile, you side-eye Steve as he walks and chats beside you, close enough that your arms almost brush. But you don’t say anything. Just listen to them go back and forth, and even whenever they include you, your answers are distracted. Brief.

You all walk like that for a while. A strange, quiet rhythm to it. 

The kids are both still bickering up ahead, Robin’s still narrating like a soundtrack only she hears, and Eddie has now drifted toward Nancy and is making her snort about something in that reluctant way she does when she doesn’t want to be charmed but is anyway.

But you and Steve? You’re quiet.

The air between you is heavier than the sky.

And then, without looking at him, you go ahead and say it.

“So that’s what you think, huh?”

Steve’s brow furrows at your words. 

It was soft, but it was dry. Still sharp enough to land before you give the final blow, delivered just as casually. Just as unsettling.

“That you and I are just really good war buddies.”

Now Steve’s whole body tightens beside you. His hands flex like he wants to shove them in his pockets but doesn’t trust himself not to miss if he tries.

He had said that earlier to Eddie, whenever he had asked how long the two of you had been together. That had been Steve’s answer. Not because he wanted it to be. But because he knew that would be the answer you would want for him to give.

Or so, he thought.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, a little too fast.

“Yeah, no. No, I got it.” You nodded, eyes forward, tone brittle. “You were just clarifying, right? Like, setting the record straight.”

Now he feels sick. 

Completely sick.

“It’s not what I—shit, okay, just—” He stops himself, rubs a hand over his face. “I was trying to keep things easy. With him. For you.”

You squint at the trees, looking and sounding so much like your dad that it’s scary. “Because I’m what, hard? Too complicated to explain?”

“You’re not complicated,” Steve says immediately, not even trying to mask his panic. “You’re—Hop, you’re everything.”

That makes you pause.

But only for a second.

“Didn’t sound like that earlier.”

He curses under his breath, now turning his head slightly toward you, even though he can’t quite meet your eyes yet and you aren’t even bothering to spare him a glance.

“I just didn’t wanna say something that would make it worse, or—or upset you.”

“Sure,” you coolly frowned, nodding but not meaning it.

“You’re always saying that we—”

“Shoulda stopped while we were ahead. Yup. I know. You’re right. That was me.” You still won’t look at him, inhaling deeply before you exhale just as deeply. “That was alllll me,” you drawl quietly.

The way that you say it, as if you’re completely detached, like you’re totally unbothered, even though you absolutely aren’t, pisses him off.

“Hop, you think I don’t know how this looks?”

No answer.

No looking back at him.

Just disassociation.

Steve scoffs. Because that’s worse.

“You think I didn’t see him talking to you, making you laugh? Think I don’t know that I’ve got no right to be pissed off about it?”

You stop walking.

Right in the middle of the path. The others are too far up now, just faint outlines through the trees. No one notices.

Steve halts beside you, but doesn’t say anything.

You turn slowly to look at him, and this time, there’s no sarcasm on your face. No distance. Just the raw hurt that’s been sitting under your ribs for days. 

Weeks. 

Months, years.

“Who are you…?”

“You know who.”

“…Eddie—?”

“Don’t act like you weren’t talking to him.”

“I barely spoke with him.”

“Still more than you’ve spoken to me all day.”

That response was audacious enough to make your lips part in even further surprise. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No.”

“You’re—”

But you stopped yourself. Or maybe you just couldn’t even continue. You really couldn’t tell. Suddenly, you felt exhausted. Suddenly, you couldn’t stand the way Steve looked so defiantly hurt. As if you had done it on purpose.

As if you had been careless enough to let him feel this way.

…and maybe you had been.

…maybe grief really has gotten the better of you.

“…so we’re going there,” you nodded slowly, letting this stage of grief have its way with you. Letting grief do to you exactly what it had done to your dad, when faced with it head on in the eyes of someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. “The good ole comparison game.”

Steve’s face subtly faltered. “Hop.”

“How ‘bout all those dates, huh? Those post-it’s with phone numbers and smiley faces and hearts and doodles?”

“What?”

“How about Blythe. And Courtney, and Tanya, and Kelsey. All those girls that come into Family Video pretending it’s for movies—”

“I don’t care about any of those girls,” he cut in with bewilderment.

“—or all those girls you went out with back in ‘85, took here—” you gestured around, “to make out with. Have sex with.”

“That was before,” he cut you off again. “Before we kept going.”

You chuckled deeply. Darkly. 

“We’d been going, Steve.”

“Not like that.” He shook his head hard, jaw clenched, eyes raw. “Not like that.”

A long, tense beat passed.

Then you squinted. “Oh,” you mused flatly. “You mean not like after my dad bit the dust, and you stuck around because I asked you to?”  

He nearly scoffed at that. 

Hell, he nearly screamed at that. 

But Steve was so taken aback by just how angry you were right now, how consumed with venom you were right now, he didn’t even know how to navigate this.

“You know what?” He asked you, nodding, stepping further into your pace as the others got farther and farther ahead. “Yeah. Like that.”

You stared at him.

Glared at him.

“Like after you’d gone out to Enzo’s with Carter,” Steve continued, heated but quiet. So dangerously quiet. “Like we hadn’t just had sex in each other's blood and snot on a cold bathroom floor of a Russian base posed as a mall.”

Your heart sank. “You’d told Blythe you’d call her Friday.”

“Yeah, because you told me you didn’t want anything to change!” 

Now it was a standoff. 

A staredown.

Two against one, both hearts on the line, one truth dangling between you like a pendulum that couldn’t be stopped.

“You told me in that elevator,” his voice cracked slightly now, as if the sudden anger was subsiding and immediately being overtaken by defeat. “You told me you…”

He trailed off with a huff. Because he didn’t need to say it.

You knew exactly what you had told him.

And it killed you.

“I need you and me to stay the same.”

Your eyes burned. Your heart ached. And your mind was in this constant fog of blurriness and dreariness, hopelessly wandering with nowhere to land other than in Steve’s arms that you didn’t have the courage to ask him to let only be yours.

“I know.”

You had said it in such a flat way. But it didn't lack sincerity. 

This time, it wasn’t detached. Not like before.

This sort of detachment was different.

It almost sounded like surrender. 

Like accountability in the form of a white flag.

“So then I guess…” you barely shrugged, eyes already blank. “I don’t have an argument.”

Steve blinks, new fear taking over.

You can see it hit him. The realization that it was just bullshit. Empty air. He was scared of the quiet so he filled it, and now it’s come back around.

He doesn’t argue you this time.

So you start to turn.

“I need something,” he blurts.

You pause mid-step.

Your body goes still. Your breath holds. 

And you turn your head, but not your whole body.

“What?” you ask.

He’s standing stiff, like even speaking hurts. His fists curl at his sides, but his voice… it doesn’t waver this time.

“I need you to stop pretending you don’t matter to me.”

That lands.

It doesn’t sweep you off your feet. It doesn’t fix everything either. But it knocks the wind out of you anyway. Because it’s not a confession. Not really. It’s not an apology. It’s not a plea.

It’s the truth.

You stare at it.

And it stares back.

Steve’s eyes hold the truth, and they always will.

“…YOU TWO GOOD BACK THERE?”

Somewhere far up ahead, Robin shouted. But you don’t look away. You holler back an answer without breaking the moment.

“We’re fine!”

“…OKAY BUT IF DUSTIN PASSES OUT IN THIS ARGUMENT, IT’S ON YOU!”

Steve doesn’t flinch. You don’t laugh. Neither one of you looks at just how far the group has gotten from you both. How far back you both have fallen. How completely and utterly deep you both have fallen.

Finally, your shoulders rise with a breath, then lower again. 

“C’mon,” you murmur.

You start walking.

You don’t look back.

But after a second, you hear Steve let out a long, uneven breath, followed by the sound of his footsteps catching up. He jogs quietly, wipes a hand over his face like he’s trying to wipe the emotion off it. 

Resets himself. 

And as he falls into step beside you again, he doesn’t say anything.

He just stays right there.

Right where he’s always wanted to be.

Right next to you.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I’m Trying to Say Hello

The light inside Eddie Munson’s trailer was doing its best, which is to say: it was failing.

There was something oppressive in the air. Maybe the dust, maybe the tension, maybe the way Nancy’s voice had finally trailed off like she was being pulled under again. She hadn’t even blinked after she told them. After she recounted what she saw. 

Barb. Her mom. Her dad. Mike and Holly. 

Every one of them was torn to shreds. 

Burned. 

Broken. 

Drowned in the same visual decay that always followed Vecna. 

And still, Nancy just… sat there now. Spine straight. Eyes unblinking. Elbows on her knees.

You were leaning against the wall near Max, your arm just slightly behind her back where no one could see it. You weren’t touching her, not really. But she hadn’t shifted away, either. And in Max language, that was an embrace.

Everyone else was talking over each other. Lucas tried to keep his voice from cracking as he asked Nancy to repeat something. Robin paced in place and moved her hands like she was conducting a silent orchestra. Dustin’s theories came out rapid-fire. Erica was glaring a hole into the wall, trying to process, while Eddie gnawed on his thumbnail, nodding like he was hearing an execution date being read aloud. 

And then there’s Steve, watching you. Or maybe not watching, but warily clocking the way you hadn’t said anything in a full minute. The way your eyes flickered too long on Nancy’s hands, her fingers curled into her pants like she was still in the trance.

You said something eventually. A small thing. Measured. A question about the timelines, maybe. Whether what Nancy saw was a vision or a promise. But your voice didn’t feel like your own. It barely landed in the room. No one questioned it.

And it was insane, really, because if anyone could’ve noticed that you weren’t okay, it should’ve been them. These people. Your people. The only ones who’d kept you breathing since Starcourt. 

Since the weight of Hopper’s death was finally confirmed by silence.

But the truth was, you’d been good at surviving.

Better than good.

You hadn’t cried in front of anyone since they’d pulled you off the floor of your childhood home last summer, your palms bleeding from punching a wall that never gave in. You hadn’t told a soul about the dreams, either. Because how do you explain that you’re just used to seeing death now? That in the beginning, the night terrors had just been Hopper. 

Hopper in the snow. 

Hopper in the fire. 

Hopper bleeding in your lap as you screamed and screamed but nothing ever changed.

So when they became other dreams, jarringly sour ones, darker, like you were looking at yourself from a great height as the world bent around you… you didn’t say anything, because honestly? You figured grief made everything ugly. Grief made you mental in the head, and it made your imagination run wild in sleep.

Even when your nose bled.

Even when you heard the clock’s chime, right after Nancy’s trance.

Even when it rang and no one else said anything.

You didn’t tell a soul.

Not even Steve. 

Steve. The one person who’d held your head while you dry-heaved on the floor of his bathroom for the third night in a row that first week. The one person who never treated your grief like it was contagious. The one person who lets you be angry, messy, selfish, nothing at all. 

The one person who made you feel like you weren’t a gaping hole.

But you couldn’t tell him now. Especially now. 

Not with Max’s life on the line. 

Not with Nancy barely back from the edge.

Not with it just now dawning on you in real time, just now connecting the dots in your head…

You were standing still against that wall, staring too long at the floor, when the headache came back in full force. One of those inside-out migraines that burned behind your eyes like a tiny match.

And then you felt it.

Just a trickle.

A warm burst inside your nose, up inside the nasal cavity, beginning to leak… 

So you cleared your throat lightly, easily murmuring to the room, “Be right back. Gotta rinse this dirt off my hands.”

Nobody looked up.

Max didn’t move.

Steve glanced, just briefly, but his eyes went right back to Dustin, who was talking again. So you slipped out of the room, quiet as a whisper.

The bathroom was barely a closet. Yellowed tile. Flickering lightbulb. Mirror spotted like it had been sneezed on by time. But after closing the door, you didn't even take a full step inside before reaching out for the nearest wad of toilet paper and stuffing it to your face.

You tilted your head back and clenched your teeth.

Do not cry.

Do not panic.

Do not let them find you like this.

Your heart was thudding so violently it felt like your ribs were rattling. Not because you were scared. You’d been scared before. This was worse. This was recognition in real time. This was the moment you finally understood the thing you’d been pretending not to see.

You weren’t imagining it.

You weren’t special.

Vecna had noticed you, too.

“...fuck…”

You barely mouthed the word as you pressed harder into your nose, quietly pacing in a space too small to even turn around in. You wanted to scream. You wanted to punch the wall until your knuckles broke. You wanted your dad. Not Hopper-the-Chief. Just your dad. His dumb voice and his loud chewing and the way he’d kiss your temple like you were six again.

But you only got ten seconds of quiet.

Because there was a soft knock.

And then, too fast, the door opened.

Fuck, did this shit not lock?!

Steve stepped right on in like it was nothing. Like you were brushing your teeth. Like he hadn’t just walked into the most private unraveling of your life, as your best friend that you’ve shared a bed with for four years usually does…

You jumped back like he was a gunshot. “Jesus—Steve—”

His eyes landed on the toilet paper, the angle of your head, and the way your hand trembled.

And he froze.

All the color drained from his face like someone sucked the soul out of him. 

His mouth parted. No words came out.

Until he whispered, “What the fuck—?”

You shook your head, voice barely audible. “It’s nothing, just—please, Steve, don’t—”

“What the fuck,” he mouthed again, his whisper louder, his jaw slack. “Wait—what the fuck.”

You turned toward the sink. “Please—”

“When did this start happening?”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“When?”

He was whispering but it was feral, a serrated whisper, the kind of sound people make before they snap. He slammed the door shut behind him and locked it. He wasn’t even looking at you anymore, like if he looked too long he’d scream.

You tried to grab more toilet paper, but he beat you to it. He took the blood-soaked wad from your hand and replaced it with clean as he stared down at the bloody one in horror. 

“How many times has this happened?”

You couldn’t answer. The tears came too fast, and he was staring at you in purely petrified horror that you looked away.

“How many fucking times, babe?”

You winced. He never called you that in public. Not even in private unless you were curled into his chest. Not unless you were safe.

“Th-three,” you choked. “Maybe four. I don’t know—”

“Jesus Christ—”

Steve turned away so hard his hand smacked into the towel bar. He grabbed the edge of the sink and dropped his head like he might hurl. His shoulders rose and fell.

“I didn’t know,” you whispered.

“Bullshit.”

“I didn’t know what it was. I just—I thought—Steve, I dream about my dad every night, okay? Every night. I thought it was just—grief, or, or—I miss him—”

“You thought grief gave you fucking nosebleeds?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing.

He turned, and his beautiful eyes were now wet. Bloodshot. Furious.

You desperately reached for his arm. “I got one after a flight back from California. Then when I landed. That’s it. That’s all I thought it was. Just—just air pressure, alright? I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think.”

“Neither did you!” you hissed. “You didn’t notice either!”

That hit him like a punch.

His pretty face crumpled.

And now you felt like a monster.

“I didn’t mean that,” you whispered urgently. “Steve. I didn’t mean that.”

He looked down at your hands, your nails still stained red. 

…and his breath shuddered.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“I should’ve known,” Steve muttered. “I should’ve fucking. Known. I thought—I just thought we were past the part where we don’t tell each other things.”

“We are. We do, I do. I did. I just—”

“But not this,” he said. “Not this.”

Steve slumped on the edge of the tub like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore. You were both shaking.

“I heard the clock,” you finally said.

He looked up, eyes full of dread.

“I heard it the second Nancy came back. Just one time. I thought maybe—I thought it was in my head. Or, like—just leftover noise.”

Steve buried his face in his hands.

“Please don’t do this,” you whispered, lip quivering. “Please don’t shut down.”

“I’m not—I’m not shutting down. I’m—” His voice cracked. “I’m losing you, I’m failing you…”

That made your entire heart seize up inside your chest, ice coursing through your veins.

“...no,” you knelt in front of him, cupping his face. You felt his tears against your palms like acid. “Steve, no. You didn’t fail me,” you tell him insistently. “Don’t you dare act like this is your fault. You didn’t do this.”

“You didn’t even tell me.”

“I didn’t know until—”

“Not even then,” he shook his head in your palms. “Fuck, Hop, not even then—”

“I wasn’t sure, I was just—scared.”

“I’m scared,” he snapped, leaning into your hands like he was trying to vanish. “Don’t you get that? You’re the only thing I’ve got, you’re all I need, and you’re telling me Vecna might already have you on a fucking countdown and I didn’t see it and you didn’t tell me and now I—what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

You pulled him down, forehead to forehead.

Steve was crying harder now, but silently. Desperately.

“I didn’t wanna scare you, or—or even admit it was happening,” you confessed. “I didn’t know if it was a false alarm, it just—happened, and you’ve been through enough.”

“So have you.”

“I thought I was past it.”

“We’re never past it.”

“Well I don’t wanna die,” you croaked. “And telling you would’ve made it real.”

He kissed you suddenly.

No ceremony. No rhythm. Just need. 

Just ache, just pure ache.

And his hands gripped the back of your neck like he was anchoring himself to the edge of a cliff. You didn’t want to cry, but you were. And you felt it when Steve broke again. When his breath hitched against your mouth, and his shoulders jolted.

“God,” he whispered, breaking the kiss, teeth gritted. “If it has to be one of us, it should be me.”

You flinched. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“No. Don’t.”

“I have more regrets than you. More guilt. More—I should be the one Vecna wants. Not you.”

“I can’t lose you.”

“Hopper—”

“Steve, you think I’d survive it?” you snapped, tears spilling now. “You think I’d survive losing you? Because newsflash, I didn’t even survive my dad, Steve. I just postponed it. You’d end me.”

His face warped, and he held your face like it might disappear.

“I love you,” you confessed, and you hadn’t even meant to. “I didn’t say it before, because I thought it’d just—jinx something, or scare you, or—fuck, I don’t know.”

He shook his head frantically. “I’ve loved you since Starcourt.”

You sobbed, once, like a child.

“I’ve been in love with you since you made me forget everything I thought mattered before you,” he wept bitterly, “since the fucking tunnels and the Snowball and the summer, but I fucking knew at Starcourt, I—fuck, I knew it and—n-now—”

“Don’t say goodbye,” you begged.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying to say hello.”

Both of you quietly bawled into each other.

Every single year, month, week, day, hour and second that had passed between the two of you was now coming undone, plaguing the two of you with the harsh reality of regret.

Because now you are here. Two kids in a cursed bathroom of Eddie Munson’s trailer. Two people held together by grief and secret and the kind of love that can’t be said out loud. And outside, the others talked and planned and fidgeted and hoped.

But inside, you bled while Steve held you.

And neither of you knew what would happen next.

——

“So, we all agree the Creel House is ground zero, right?”

Eddie’s voice cuts through the dim of the trailer, jagged and anxious.

“We lure him there,” he went on, “set the trap, get Max in, then what, we just—blast him with Metallica until his brain leaks?”

“No, we don’t blast him,” Nancy snaps, flipping through her messy notebook of chicken scratch. “We use distraction, not destruction. This is psychological warfare.”

Robin, still pacing, flings her hands out. “Great, so we’re gambling on trauma. What happens if Max trips too hard down memory lane and doesn’t make it out?”

Lucas flinches. “She will.”

“Don’t say it like that’s a guarantee,” Erica mutters from where she’s perched on the arm of the couch. She’s usually all sharp teeth and sarcasm, but right now she just sounds… scared.

Meanwhile, Max doesn’t respond. 

Headphones on, arms crossed, one foot pacing back and forth like a metronome ticking out the seconds before a bomb drops.

Eddie slaps a hand down on the table. “Okay, you know what? Let’s not spiral. Let’s just—get through the plan again. From the top. Deep breath, people. Big inhale. Center your chi, or whatever.”

Dustin barely hears him. His eyes flick to the empty hallway again.

Where the hell are you?

He blinks. Once. Twice. The conversations blur into static. Lucas and Erica are bickering again. Robin and Nancy are arguing about what time to hit the Creel House. Eddie’s mumbling something about the booby traps and bat deterrents. Max hasn’t moved, hasn’t looked up, hasn’t spoken.

The living room still smells like stale blood and bleach and whatever cheap air freshener Wayne Munson tried spraying to cover it up. It hadn’t worked. Not really.

This is the house Chrissy Cunningham died in. 

Right out here. On this floor.

And now you’re gone. So is Steve.

Dustin’s whole chest tightens up, not from fear exactly, but something adjacent. Like dread. Like he already knows whatever’s down that hallway is going to change something. He doesn’t know what. He just knows he won’t come back the same. His entire heart stutters as he realizes that not only are you still gone but so is Steve. 

So he pushes up off the floor and slips away. 

No one notices.

He makes his way down the trailer’s shitty excuse for a hallway that feels narrower than usual… like the walls are listening. Like if he so much as breathes too loud, they’ll cave in on him.

Each step sounds louder than it should.

Each breath sticks just a little.

The air shifts colder, somehow.

There’s still chatter behind him, just over his shoulder (Eddie saying something dumb, Robin biting back) but the further Dustin walks, the more it fades, until it’s just white noise muffled under water.

The hallway pulses with memory. 

Like it’s trying to warn him.

Or trap him.

Then he stops in front of the bathroom door. Listens…

A shuffle. 

A sniff.

A silence that feels shaped like people trying to pretend they’re okay.

Dustin swallows hard… 

…lifts his fist… 

…hesitates…

“Um… you guys good in there?”

Silence. Just for a few seconds.

Then more shuffling. A click of the lock.

The door creaks open. Barely.

Steve’s face appears.

And he looks like hell.

Bloodshot eyes. Red nose. Tear-streaked cheeks. A jaw that won’t stop twitching, like it’s taking every ounce of strength not to fall apart all over again. He’s not just shaken. He’s wrecked.

Dustin stares. “Steve…?”

Steve opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Just the sound of his breath catching, like he’s been holding it for ten minutes straight. His eyes darted to the side. Likely toward you, hidden just out of view. He shakes his head slightly, like he’s begging Dustin to not push.

Dustin, being Dustin, pushes anyway.

He steps forward.

Steve blocks. It’s gentle, but firm.

Dustin frowns. “Dude. Move.”

“Dustin, not now—”

But Dustin is already ducking under his arm, shoving his way through with all the stubborn rage of a fourteen-year-old who refuses to be left out of anything, least of all this.

He stops short.

You’re standing up quickly. Shakily. Flushing bloody tissues down the toilet like they don’t matter. Swiping under your nose with a shaking hand. Your eyes are swollen. Your shirt’s damp from where you cried into your sleeves. 

Then you look over at him and there’s a flash of something that isn’t fear or pain or sadness.

It’s guilt.

“Wha…?” Dustin’s mouth is agape, his eyes big and round staring at you with childlike fear.

“Hey, hey—shhh,” you whisper, stepping forward before he can say a word more. “Dust, I’m okay. I’m good. I promise.”

But he’s never seen you look like this. 

Not when Hopper died. 

Not even in the hospital after Starcourt. 

This is different. 

This isn’t pain you’re carrying. This is residue. 

Like something burned you and never stopped smoldering.

“But you—you…?!”

You wrap him in a tight hug so fast he doesn’t have time to protest. His arms are pinned. His face is buried in your shoulder. His breath hitches against your neck.

You rock him slowly, eyes shut tight. “It’s okay. We’re figuring it out.”

There’s so much more you want to say. 

That you’re scared. 

That Steve found you mid-nosebleed, while you looked up at him and thought it was the last face you’d ever see.

But you don’t say any of it. You just hold onto the kid who somehow always finds you right when you’re about to fall apart and don’t let go. Dustin doesn’t speak again. He just grabs the back of your shirt and clings like a kid lost in a grocery store. 

Behind him, Steve is leaning against the wall, one hand covering his mouth. His shoulders shake once, violently. He bites it back. And he keeps his eyes locked on the two of you, like it’s anchoring him to see you still breathing and holding his favorite kid.

He doesn’t know how to hold you right now.

Doesn’t know if he even should.

Because he’ll fall apart again.

And this time… it won’t be just in front of you.

“Don’t tell the others yet, okay?” you’re murmuring to Dustin now as your eyes look past his temple at Steve, worried. “Just give me time. Please.”

But the damage is done.

The hallway’s not empty anymore.

“…Hop…?” 

Robin is now standing there, wide-eyed, one hand pressed against her heart as her gaze darts from you to Dustin to Steve. 

She sees you first. The color drained from your face. 

The fear still stitched into your skin, as you hold Dustin.

Then she sees Steve, and something in her whole posture shifts.

“Steve, what’s—??” Robin barely starts asking him as she reaches out for him, and he barely casts her a glance before ducking his head against her shoulder, like she’s the only hiding place keeping him from falling through the floor.

“Hey, hey,” she murmurs urgently, wrapping her arms around him in a flash. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t even fight it.

He just lets himself fold into her. 

Just buries himself into the crook of her neck like he’s been holding the world up on his shoulders and finally, finally, he doesn’t have to anymore.

And Robin doesn’t ask anything else. Doesn’t make a scene. Doesn’t cry yet, doesn’t demand immediate answers. She just holds her best friend like she’s done it before. Like she’ll do it again… and Steve lets her, because it’s always been you or her.

The only two people he can ever come undone in front of.

And for the first time in four years, he’s not trying to hide it.

Erica’s halfway through a retort whenever she finally notices. “Uhm, you guys—?”

In the living room, chaos breaks as they rest if the gang notices. 

The air shifts. 

The rest of the group catches on like a spark hitting dry leaves.

Lucas follows her gaze. “What the hell?”

Max pulls off one headphone and turns. Then halts mid-step on her way towards you all. She’s standing there now, frozen in the tight hallway’s mouth, red braids shadowing her expression as her jaw slackens and her breath stutters in her throat.

Then Nancy is up. 

Then Eddie’s on his feet. 

Nancy’s posture is sharp, her bright blue eyes narrowing, her spine straightening like a gun loading, whereas Eddie’s thick brows furrow beneath his mess of dark curls, expression shifting from confusion to dread as the silence registers.

“What happened?” Nancy demands, stepping forward.

She passes Max, who stays frozen in the center of the hallway, her mouth slightly open, caught between dimensions: the hallway and the living room, between what she’s afraid of and what she refuses to believe. Because now she can see you’re crying, Steve is crying, and Dustin looks like he’s about to punch a wall just to make sure the world still makes sense, while Robin’s in silent shambles.

“What…happened.” Nancy demands as she takes yet another step forward, her voice cracking with forced authority.

No one answers.

Because no one knows.

You turn around slowly, your arm still around Dustin, who is glued to your side, his fists still curled in the back of your shirt, breathing like he just sprinted a mile and still isn’t sure if he’s alive.

“We need to talk.”

Your voice is quieter than it’s ever been. Not fragile. Not meek. Just deliberately controlled, edged like a knife sheathed in velvet. Low, calculated, careful, restrained. 

Soft, but not safe.

But beneath the steel is something ancient. 

Something terrifyingly inherited.

Something so deeply familiar, it chokes the air.

Jim Hopper’s voice in your throat.

Max actually shivers. Lucas feels chills run up his arms and legs like rapid fire, while Erica looks like she’s seen a ghost speak from your lips.

Eddie’s freaking hallway doesn’t feel like a hallway anymore. It feels like a funeral procession. Robin’s still got both arms wrapped around Steve’s shoulders from behind, holding his weight as he leans into her with everything he can’t say. He still hasn’t spoken. Neither has she. She’s trembling but silently so, her mouth tight, her chin resting gently near his temple like she might be the only thing tethering him to the earth right now as he keeps his emotions hidden from sight.

Nancy stares at the sight of him like this, observing the way Steve’s shoulder tense, the way that the veins in his neck bulge and twitch, how his thick waves of hair shake, and how he hides.

Her mouth opens again like she’s about to ask more.

But Eddie quietly catches her elbow. “Wait,” he mutters under his breath.

So she does.

You jut your chin out. “C’mon,” you command easily, almost inaudibly but still having the group in the palm of your hand. All of you walk back into Eddie’s tiny living room, dragging the silence with you along with Dustin, who doesn’t leave your side. 

Steve trails behind, his head still bowed, shoulders hunched, Robin’s arms still around his whole body that continues to tremble like it’s trying to collapse in slow motion.

Nancy and Eddie also follow, warily, eyes wide with dread.

You don’t let yourself stop moving. 

Because if you stop, you’ll break.

Max finally moves, only her eyes at first. She tracks your every step like you might vanish if she looks away for a second. 

Like she’s already mourning you.

“Guess it’s my turn to have the floor,” you huff. Again, sounding like the female version of your father.

You stop in the center of Eddie and Wayne’s tragic living room, giving Dustin’s shoulders a quick squeeze and couple of pats before finally letting himself take a seat on the chair next to you. The light is dim. The opaque old curtains block out most of the dull afternoon sun, but what little glow slips through hits your face like it’s trying to illuminate something holy and haunted all at once.

So you look at Max first. Then Lucas. 

Then Erica and Dustin.

Because the kids always come first. 

“I’m okay,” you begin carefully, but not with patronization or speaking in any sort of condescending tone. Just a wary tone. “I swear. But I need you to listen to me. All of you.”

They do.

You tell them about the nosebleed on the flight to California. You tell them about the nosebleed on the way back from California, once in the airplane and once at the airport, and how you figured it was just pressure. Just something stupid and small.

You tell them about how when Nancy was finally let go from Vecna’s trance, you heard the clock chiming off in the distance, but didn’t see anything and wondered if it was just a result of the curse temporarily taking hold of Nancy. Right after it was broken. And you emphasize that you didn’t see it. You just heard it. One time. 

It didn’t linger. It didn’t echo. It didn’t feel real. So you assumed it was just your brain playing tricks after witnessing what Nancy had just been through.

Then you tell them about how chronic migraines runs in your family, all thanks to your mom. However, vertigo has been something she suffered from since her teen years, and you’ve managed to avoid them until right after Starcourt. After you took the big fall and nearly got wiped out by the Mind Flayer before Steve came to your rescue at top lightening speed. 

…you don’t mention how right after that, Steve had tried to hold you together with his bare hands and spit and prayers, and you’d done the same with his bruised and battered face from the fucking Soviets who never once let up on Steve, never once gave him a break.

…you don’t mention the anguished skin to skin contact that the two of you shared on the grimey floor of an employee restroom before all of the ambulances arrived.

But you do tell them it didn’t surprise you to experience migraines after that, especially because it wasn’t anything unusual and it wasn’t even persistent. 

You confirm that Steve is right. You have not had any visions.

You confirm that Vecna hasn’t filled your mind, filled your head, filled your ears with his voice or his curse or his warnings. Haven’t felt his presence pushing inside your skull.

And slowly, you watch the logic start to land. You watch your friends actually realize that this makes sense, that grief has had a hold of you along with traumatic events that have not made this anything that’s actual cause for concern.

Grief explains a lot.

Trauma explains more.

The weight behind your words makes the kids go still.

“—so for all we know, this is just a coincidence.”

Erica, usually the first to snark, doesn’t say a word. She’s pale. Her mouth is a thin line. Dustin listens without much as a peep, distraught and unable to even cut in with his own thoughts. Robin feels sick, so does Eddie, so does Nancy. Steve stays fucking quiet because he doesn’t, he’ll scream, so his fingernails dig into his biceps and the angry cut around his neck shift every time that his throat bobs. Lucas has a hand on Max’s shoulder, and his other is clenched so hard his knuckles are white. 

But Max won’t meet your eyes. She looks like she’s vibrating out of her skin. 

“So…” Robin clears her throat. Her arms haven’t moved from around Steve’s, where she’s needled his one crossed arm in between hers, but her eyes are wet now too. “This might just…be shitty timing.”

She watches you. 

She watches Steve. 

Then you again, as you give one hesitant nod.

The gears in her head turning so fast she might combust.

“…but is it Vecna?” Max whispers now. “Is it you now, too?”

Steve flinches like she slapped him.

You close your eyes for a second. “We don’t know.”

Nancy lets out an exhaustive breath behind you. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I mean we’re not sure it’s him, Wheeler. It could be. Might be.” Then your brow furrows, giving a light shake of your head. “But I’ve had nosebleeds before after flights. I’ve had nightmares about my dad for years. Even before he died. After Sarah. This could just be…” You drown, shrugging, “…be nothing.”

Eddie scoffs. Loudly. “Sorry, no offense, but the only people I’ve seen bleeding from their noses this month are either possessed or…”

“…dying?” you finish, calm.

He winces. “Yeah.”

You nodded, letting that land. Still unusually calm.

“It’s not her,” Steve finally speaks.

Everyone looks at him.

His voice is ripped raw, but it’s steady.

“It’s not. It’s not the same. She’s not seeing clocks.”

“I only heard it after Nancy got back,” you murmured barely.

“No visions,” Steve cuts in again. “She didn’t see it.”

“It’s true. I didn’t.”

“No pop-in’s, no premonitions, no goddamn eyes rolling back in her head yet. Just—just nightmares. And they’re not new. It’s grief, okay? It’s grief.”

But his voice cracks on the word grief. Like it betrayed him.

Because Steve needs that to be true.

You needed for that to be true, too.

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what you need.

Tell me what you need.

Kiss. Teeth. Tongue. Sex. Moans, groans, whimpers, laughter, that backseat in December. That hotel in spring. His couch last summer. Your sleepless nights at the cabin, the showers, the loud love that is never said outright but buried in your ribs, wrapped around his hips.

The silence after. 

Always the silence after.

“…but it could be him,” Nancy’s voice is almost a whisper as her blue eyes flick from yours to Steve’s with something unreadable, almost unbearable behind them.

Not fear.

Not disbelief.

Something like… regret.

“You know it could.”

You don’t answer that, and neither does Steve. 

His hands are shaking again. But this time, Robin just silently takes them in hers.

And Steve lets her.

For a moment, no one moves. The silence is wet, thick, suspended midair like fog that’s about to collapse under its own weight. But then tiny, smart, impossible Erica steps forward. 

Her lip trembles before her voice even finds shape. “What do we do if it is him?”

God, her usually sassy voice is so uncharacteristically small, it’s like a needle pricking through the chest.

You crouch low like a smoker, knees splayed out, fingers clasped so tight they ache. “Then we stick to the plan. We protect Max first. We finish the fight. And if anything changes with me…” you pause then, breathing through the catch in your throat, “—we’ll handle it.”

“…how?” she asks, the word cracking with real childlike fear now, in a way she’s never sounded since she was eight. Her chin wobbles. “How do we handle it?”

You give her a smile.

A real one.

A brave one.

A familiar one.

“Same way my dad would,” you say. “One step at a time.”

It lands like a thunderclap. 

Not flashy. Not dramatic. But final. Certain.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Your friends all look at you differently now. Not because your eyes are rimmed red and your lips are puffy. Not because you might be cursed. But because for the first time, they see it.

They see him.

Jim Hopper.

The grit, the quiet fury, the calm in the eye of the storm. The same voice that once barked orders through a radio, that softened when he carried El through blizzards and bloodshed, now lives in your throat.

And it’s fucking haunting.

The way you command the room, just like him. The way your voice doesn’t tremble even when your body does, just like him. The way you look every single one of them in the eye and give them a reason to believe they’re going to be okay, just like he would.

You’re Hopper’s kid.

You’ve always been.

Even when no one said it out loud. 

Even when no one dared.

Dustin’s the one to break the silence, voice strained and brittle. “We need Eleven.”

“We’ve tried,” Lucas mutters, frustrated, defeated. “No one’s picking up.”

“She’s gotta be okay,” Max says suddenly, desperate, like the words will make them true. “She has to be.”

You don’t say anything right away. Because if you do, the truth will pour out like blood. And the truth is, you’re scared, too. Because you haven’t heard from her. Or from Jonathan, or Joyce, or Will. Not a single soul out west. 

Every phone call’s been a dead line. 

Every voicemail goes unanswered. 

Every time you dial, your fingers go cold, your pulse stutters, your stomach knots and the endless ringtone loops with threat.

But you can’t break. Not in front of them. Not now.

So you lift your chin up, exhale deeply and look at them — your kids, your family, your goddamn heartbeats.

“She’s safe.” You say it like scripture. “But we can’t wait for her.” 

Then you bite your lip, a new harsh reality now flashing through your mind. “Even if we did, it’s no use. Her powers are…” you trail off.

Silence.

Real silence.

The kind that hurts.

Robin tightens her grip around Steve as he trembles beneath her hands, jaw locked, bottom lip bitten raw. He won’t speak. Can’t. His arms are folded like a shield, but his posture’s breaking, shoulders hunched, knees swaying like the floor might give out.

And now Max is crying.

And Lucas is crying.

And Erica, too. Both her fists clenched like it’ll stop the tears.

Eddie’s pacing in a manic loop, running both hands through his hair, muttering a low string of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck like a prayer that won’t save anyone, as Dustin stares into oblivion, speechless.

You feel it cresting.

The wave.

The end.

But you don’t let it take you.

You move before it can.

You move like Hopper did, like El does, like your lungs have to stay ahead of the fear or they’ll collapse under the weight.

And you move right toward him.

Steve.

The boy who hasn’t looked up once. The boy whose hair is hiding his eyes. The boy whose knees are damn near giving out, his sharp jaw clenched, his bottom lip gnawed so hard it’s bleeding now. The boy who’s always been the strong one. The funny one. The dependable one, the hot and heroic one.

The one who’s never unraveled in front of anyone but you.

So Robin lets go. Like she knows. 

Like she’s known all along but couldn’t see it until now.

You cross the room in a heartbeat and pull him into your arms. And that’s all it takes. Steve Harrington collapses into you like he’s been waiting four fucking years to do it. His chest caves against yours. His hands claw into your back, and his head drops into the crook of your neck like it’s home, his tousled hair flopping over your shoulder. And then comes a sound you’ve never heard him make, even during your worst nights made right in each others’ arms. 

A small, stifled, broken and wounded sound. 

His breath shatters, and so does the last of his pride.

Everyone is watching. But neither of you care. Because for once, it’s not about who’s looking. It’s about who finally sees it.

Nancy swallows hard, blinking back a sea of something she doesn’t want to name. Her heart aches in a way she thought she’d buried.

Robin presses her fingers to her mouth, then her palm… suddenly breathless, suddenly ashamed for not piecing it together. She always knew you two were close. She just never imagined it was this deep. 

This devastating. 

This sacred.

And that makes her feel more stupid than ever.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters under his breath, like a revelation and a funeral all at once.

And Dustin just stares.

Sweet, loyal, brilliant Dustin stares at the two of you. 

Because now he gets it. They all do.

The way Steve only breathes when you’re near.

The way you never laugh the way you do with him, with anyone else.

The way that both your hands always find each other.

The way that both your silences sound like conversations.

The way that… 

The way that love doesn’t have to be loud in order for it to be real.

It’s been four years. 

Four years of unspoken grief and nights that ended in arms and teeth and skin. Four years of running into each other and not away, coping with each other through routine, through habit, through need.

And tonight, the kids and your friends and past lovers all see it.

All of it.

Suddenly, nothing is safe.

Suddenly, nothing is secret.

Steve trembles in your arms, and you feel that split-second of terror behind his eyes. The ancient ache of abandonment, the way he’s still afraid you’ll vanish the second things get too close.

You know that fear.

Because you’ve had it, too.

“Don’t go.”

His voice doesn’t even break the silence. It’s barely there at all, too raw and too rasped into your baby hairs at the nape of your neck.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m right here.”

“I mean it, Hop,” he barely hiccups, voice like a rubber band, pitching up an octave as it squeezes past his lungs. “Don’t go.”

Your lips graze his temple. “I won’t.”

Not ever, if you can help it.

Steve deeply breathes in like it’s the first breath he’s taken all night. And slowly, his fingers stop shaking.

Your heart doesn’t.

You rest your cheek against his hair, closing your eyes. 

And just like that, the entire room, the panic, the noise, the trembling unknown just… fades. 

All that’s left is the two of you, along with every unspoken thing that’s ever passed between you, louder than any scream, truer than any promise.

Tell me what you need.

You don’t have to say it out loud.

Not anymore.

He already knows.

He always has.

So have you.

🤍

Steve’s mid-shift at Scoops Ahoy. You spot him through the counter window before you even get inside. Sailor getup. The stupid hat. His name tag crooked, because of course it is. And still way too damn good looking for his own good, Sailor Moon dreamboat fit and all.

You’d helped him find the job, after finding out which spots would pay best inside the brand spankin’ new mall. The two of you had brushed up his resume, using his mom as a reference after you had passively (aggressively) given her no choice when letting her know she could expect a phone call.

“Because I know this town loves you, and you’d love to see your boy make some big bucks this summer instead of hosting here in your eternal absence, right?”

That might’ve been a little much. But she’d done it. And Steve hadn’t done anything except smile at you sheepishly, rock the interview and land the job.

Now he’s here, looking like a wet dream.

And beside him? Some girl. Faintly freckled, sharp, short hair, sailor sleeves rolled, one sly eyebrow arched at something Steve’s saying. She’s answering back before he even finishes. Their rhythm is snappy, quick, like a duel that’s already ten rounds in.

Her voice hits first when you walk up. “Welcome to Scoops, home of capitalism’s finest frozen shame spiral. Want a sample?”

You blinked at her.

Steve leans into view from behind a massive tub of strawberry, not looking up yet. “Ignore her. She’s defective.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s rich, coming from Mr. Conehead.”

He looks up, surprised, then just smirks like he’s been expecting you anyway. “Well look who it is. Office royalty.”

You grin. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, I feel betrayed. You traded me for filing cabinets.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t talk back.”

That deepens Steve’s smirk into something coy. Secretly coquettish.

His coworker watches the whole thing with faint confusion. “Wait, you two… know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” you both say. 

In unison.

Robin blinks a few times. “Wow. Jesus. Okay.” She glances at Steve. “You have weird taste in friends.”

That makes you tilt your head at her with the faintest, most wry-ass little smile at her. Pardon me, bitch?

“Not that you’re weird,” she backpedals, eyes wide. “Steve’s weird.”

“Oh so my friend is weird. Got it.”

Now she’s really stuttering. “Like weird as in just—just like, his weird sorta balance of having uhm, middle schoolers and folks his age as friends, not like—like he’s weird.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I like your shirt!”

“Thanks.”

“You score it here at the mall?”

“…it’s my mom’s.”

“Oooooh,” she wiggles her eyebrows, trying to get back in your good graces and make a better first impression. “She let you steal her best fits often?”

Your lips pressed into a hard line. “Wouldn’t exactly say that, given the whole, y’know. Divorce-and-dip thing.”

Her eye twitches. “Right,” she barely whispers, taut with strain.

After giving her a painfully long beat of silence, your lips curve into a wry grin as you glance down at her name tag. Then right back up, as if unimpressed. 

Steve looks mortified… but changes the subject easily, looking at you the whole time until he sees you ease up and not look quite so stiff.

With him? It’s easy. 

With his coworker, you stay neutral. 

Not unfriendly, just… uninterested. 

This “Robin” girl seems too aware, too observant. She doesn’t insult you intentionally, which somehow makes it worse. Oddly? You would almost prefer it. At least then you’d have something to aim at. 

Instead, she tries too hard to be nice to you and not to Steve, while lowkey being too smart for her own good. 

And more than anything, she’s there. With Steve, all day, every day. 

Unlike you, at your new desk job.

You catch yourself staring, looking away whenever you do. Or, well. Trying to, and failing. Eventually, Steve offers you a sample like some sort of peace treaty. 

“It’s the least terrible one,” he claims.

With a sigh, you take it, raising it once before sampling. Your face sours in signature displease Hopper fashion. “God, it tastes like glue and regret.”

“Then I nailed it.”

You scowl at the little wooden sample spoon, giving it a toss then lick your thumb, tapping the glass. “Give me the next worst.”

It keeps going like that for a while. Samples and sarcasm. Effortless back and forth that you never seem capable of with anyone else. And you don’t even realize how long you’ve been there until he asks…

“So?” Steve leans against the glass, tossing his little sailor hat over his shoulder without looking. “First week recap?”

You shrug, then surprise yourself by actually answering. In detail. As in you tell him about the building, about the guy who brought in a box of photos from 1942, about the coffee machine that doesn’t work unless you kick it. You talk, while Steve listens. Really listens. Like no one else has in weeks.

You find yourself enjoying it, opting not to bother rushing home and sticking around for a movie afterwards with him and the kids. It goes like that for all of June. Coming in to pester him when you’re off work, bringing El (after damn near bribing Hopper by promising him a pint of rocky road, all for him). You bring Dustin to the mall to surprise him whenever he finally gets back from space camp, grinning like a devil as you watch Steve lose his shit and then witness the most ridiculous handshake known to man go down between the two of them. On top of that, Robin grows on you. Somehow, over the month of June, she found a way to make you snort and laugh. And she always gives you and Steve space, knowing when to participate then bow out without having to be asked.

The next thing you know, it’s July Fourth and you’re on the floor of an employee bathroom, somewhere tucked inside of Starcourt Mall from a remaining outlet. 

Tile.

Mess.

Gunsmoke.

Blood somewhere.

Breathing hard enough to taste iron in your mouth. 

You’re on your back now, legs trembling, knees bent around Steve’s torso, nails sunk into his arms with his cock sunk fully into you. Your heartbeat’s still a wildfire. You don’t fucking remember getting in here. Just that there was running, there was screaming, there was blood dripping from El’s nose, and then you’d been cornered. Almost killed, trying to get to her while Billy towered over her but getting side swept and narrowly missing your chance at a chest deep puncture, the way that Billy ended up taking it after that instead. 

But then Steve had been there. 

The second you had been thrown and left winded, he was screaming your name like it was the only one he knew, diving for you.

You’re not even sure if the bruises on your knees now are from being thrown like that, or from right now. 

But one thing you’re sure of is that right now, you and Steve are both a mess. Dirt, sweat, panic, that ‘holy shit we almost died’ frenzy back in full swing again. 

But worse. So much fucking worse. 

Your pants are wrapped around your ankles, bunched at your penny loafers from work, blouse halfway unbuttoned, ripped, smeared with blood and grime that you can’t remember getting there.

He’s still wearing part of his uniform, half-ripped and stained with his own blood that had spilt after he’d taken punch after punch, blow after blow, instead of you and Robin. Steve had taken every brunt force of a fist, time after time, after the Soviets had caught up to you both, along with Robin and Dustin and Erica. He’d let them torture him senseless on repeat, no matter how hard you tried to intervene, tried to get to him, begging them to stop, please stop.

They hadn’t. 

The soldiers just kept wailing on him, over and over, on a loop, until you’d both gotten drugged with Robin, thrown up, bonded in the bathroom stalls. Found out that she’s gay. Then you reunited with your sister, along with everyone else. From your dad, to the kids, to Nancy fucking Wheeler looking at Steve, then you, then Robin, with audacious curiosity and irritation, all while you managed to hug El tightly plus help Steve keep all the other kids calm before that damn parasite had to get ripped out from El’s shin as you held her tightly, along with Mike. 

After that, you’d all but sagged into your dad’s arms with relief, only to find yourselves being pulled in opposite directions again, crashing into Billy’s car, hurling fireworks at a fucking Mind Flayer, then getting yourself hurled by it into oblivion and barely managing to survive it… 

Only to find yourself cornered. 

Seriously, you’d landed and felt the harsh blow of the air being blown right out of your lungs, and that thing’s damn tentacle had flown at you as it went in for the kill. 

That was when Steve had tackled you sideways with him, taking the brunt of the next blow himself, no chest puncture in sight.

You remember him shouting. 

You remember your name wrecked on his lips.

You remember the bone-crushing crash of limbs.

Now you taste copper on your tongue and it’s not yours.

Steve is panting into your neck, saying your name like it’s a broken prayer, a stuttered warning and a dark curse all at once. You feel his forehead pressed to your collarbone, his voice cracking, his body shaking like the adrenaline’s still ripping through his bloodstream, his shorts and briefs around his knees.

You barely register that the damn building’s still trembling beneath yours and his trembling limbs. Hell, you barely even register that Steve’s inside of you, that your hands are clenched in his ruined uniform, that you’re not kissing but devouring each other like oxygen, like this is the only way either of you remember how to live.

…and there’s voices calling out from somewhere.

“Don’t,” he wheezes out, pounding harder. “Not yet. Not—fuck—not yet.”

“I know,” you whimper, arching up into him. “I know, I know.”

His hands are everywhere, frantic and greedy and gripping too tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your own fingers thread through his hair and pull, and the sound that rips out of him isn’t something you’ve ever heard before.

Jesus, you don’t even remember finding this bathroom. You don’t remember undressing what was in the way. But now you’re here. And Steve’s not gentle. You aren’t either. You don’t want to be gentle. 

You want pain. 

You want proof that you’re still alive. 

You want something louder than your heartbeat and the way the mall still smells like fire and blood.

“9-1-1,” someone is hollering loudly from far away. “…coming! …9-1-1!…”

It’s drowned out as you choke on a sharp gasp, while Steve’s hips harshly slam into yours again, a helpless sound breaking from your throat like a gargled sob. He catches your face with a shaking palm, pressing your foreheads together, breaths tangled and ragged. Damn near-animal. Primal.

And somehow, somehow, even with the world ending around you, he still asks you…

“What do you need?”

It’s guttural. 

It rips out of him involuntarily. Like it’s more reflex than question now.

You can’t speak. You don’t have words. You nod hard. Once, twice. Then you wheeze out, hoarse and fractured, “You. Y-y-you, Steve, just you—”

Steve shoves his tongue down your throat as you all but swallow it whole, moaning and groaning into his open mouth. Then you dig your nails in deeper and echo it, unthinking as his thumb presses into your pulse at your throat.

“What—y-you. You too, what—w-what do you. N-need.”

Steve chokes on something that might be a laugh or a cry as his girth pounds into you relentlessly.

“You—breathing.”

That’s his answer. 

Then quieter, wrecked, “—you not gone.”

You can’t cry. There’s nothing left, the tears are already out from the way your whole body has been clenched around him, and still is, like it’s trying to hold onto him on some cellular level. And he’s not even kissing you anymore. He’s practically sobbing into your mouth, blood and snot all over both your faces.

Both of you can hear the faint echo of sirens. 

But the two of you just keep holding each other like it’s the only thing keeping you both from blacking out, hands gripping, fumbling, both of you desperate to finish and to finish together before you’re torn apart again.

You hear the world still falling.

But all you can feel is Steve Harrington, holding you down on the tile floor like he’s the only thing anchoring you to gravity. His mouth now pressed to your temple, his fingertips bruising you with their grip, all heat and desperation and the kind of madness that doesn’t wait.

You both reach your climax like you’re breaking. Like it’s not pleasure at all, it’s the flood that comes after holding your breath too long, way too long.

“Steve, fffffuck, S-S-S-teve—”

“C’mon angel, c’mon, come—”

Steve’s cock twitches violently inside of you, his entire body seizing against yours, absolutely no control. 

Your own body follows suit, convulsing violently against his own. 

Then mid-babble, mid-sob, you both collapse together. 

And when the sirens get louder, neither of you move.

The shrillness of it multiplies, roaring, along with voices. But neither one of you moves to come down any quicker than you’re capable of, despite the urgency to get back to your friends. To reunite with your dad, with Murray and Joyce, who you pray to God are back by now.

Steve kisses your cheek once. Not sweet. Not soft. Just real. Then he presses his forehead to the tile beside your head and breathes.

You feel your heart trying to slow. It doesn’t. 

So you just lay there underneath him, hiccuping for air as his hand slips into yours. He keeps it pinned to the tile on the side of his head, which stays right next to yours.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you says what just happened. 

And even when the sirens get louder, getting closer, neither of you move yet. His forehead stays right there. Bent low, and pressed to the floor beside your skull like gravity’s got him by the spine. Both of you just shudder against each other, both sets of lungs still synched and offbeat, every muscle twitching with the withdrawal of adrenaline, climax, sex, terror, everything.

There’s something being shouted.  

Distant and distorted, muffled voices you know too well. 

Jonathan and Nancy, shouting commands.

Robin’s panicked rasp. 

Mike’s shrill retorts. 

Dustin, yelling back. 

Paramedics and officers, barking orders.

You part your lips to speak... Maybe to say Steve’s name. Maybe to warn him.

But he doesn’t let you.

Steve drags his face from the tile back to your mouth, so sudden that it feels like whiplash… but the kiss he gives you this time is nothing like the ones from before. 

It’s slower. Thicker. 

Softer somehow, but not gentler. And he just… holds you there. Right there, with his lips. Again. Again, and again. And again. Like he’s checking that you’re real each time, or like you’ll vanish if he stops. He’s shaking so badly you can feel it in your teeth. 

But he doesn’t stop. 

Not until you hum into him, quiet and low, and even then, he kisses you again. Long. Exhausted. Dominant in a way that feels less about control and more about clinging. Like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your mouth just to stay alive a little longer.

There’s snot. Blood. Sweat. Saliva. All of it mixing between your lips, your chests, your trembling bodies.

The mall still smells like smoke and terror. But all that you can smell is Steve, his faded cologne and his sweat mixed with it. And when he finally pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe.

The stretch of silence that follows is somehow too long and not long enough. Eventually, though, still on top of you, still inside you and still barely stitched back together… Steve shifts, pulling out of you with a slow, pained sound that isn’t quite a groan and isn’t quite a whimper. His hands are frantic again, fumbling to help you sit up as you both start clumsily pulling back on your clothes, grabbing at your ruined uniforms, trying to remember how to stand, how to function.

You’re still only half dressed when you reach for him. 

Quietly and deliberately, both hands slide underneath his sailor shirt, crusted with blood, finding the tender edge of a fresh bruise along his ribs. And you press your palm right there.

Steve makes a noise you’ve never heard from him before. Strangled. Sharp. He jerks like he’s been electrocuted, gasps loud enough to echo off the tile, and nearly throws his head back—but you keep your hand there. Keep the pressure firm. Keep your body angled into his like an anchor.

His breath breaks apart, and then he sags against you so suddenly it knocks you both into the wall. He’s gripping your wrists now. Hard. Not to stop you. Just to hold on.

And he’s whispering your name in pieces. “Don’t, just— fuck, wait—”

But you don’t. Not yet, you can’t. Not until he tells you.

“Please, please tell me what you need,” you whisper, barely above a breath.

Steve shakes his head hard, then grips your face with both hands, as if trying to physically force the words out of his own mouth. 

“Need—” he swallows, voice shredded, “—I need us to get. Looked at. Together.”

Your bleary eyes blink, stunned at the specificity of it. 

But he keeps going, stammering through it, still working to pull your shirt over your head as he talks, voice breaking all over the place.

“I just—if they separate us—if they make you leave—if I don’t see you walk out of here with me—I can’t fucking do it. I can’t not know you’re okay. You’re not okay. I know that. But I need—need to see it.”

“Okay,” you barely breathe, nodding. 

“—I need to see you. The whole time.”

The words are nonsense. The words are everything. And somehow, he gets you both dressed. Of course he does. 

Because that’s what Steve does. He gives. 

He gives everything. 

Even when it guts him. Even when he’s bleeding and shaking and too wrecked to think straight. Even when he’s running on empty.

He gives and gives, and doesn’t expect anything in return.

Steve might not talk about this. Might never let you talk about it. You might keep pretending it’s normal. That this is just what friends do. That this is just about comfort and coping and getting each other through it. But none of that matters right now. 

Maybe it won’t ever matter again. 

Because for now, the only thing that does matter is this: You’re alive. He’s alive. And he’s still holding your hand.

Even as the door slams open.

Even as the medics flood in.

Even when the world comes crashing back.

He doesn’t let go.

CHAPTER NINE

The Cruel Comfort of Summer: I Wave Goodbye

...and it's new, the shape of your body It's blue, the feeling I've got... It's a cruel summer.

You’re seated in the back of an ambulance with Steve on one side and Robin on the other, a thermal blanket draped around your shoulders like a goddamn costume. The illusion of being whole. 

Erica’s got her arms crossed like she’s trying not to shiver, sitting on the ledge beside Dustin, who’s got a bandage pressed to his head and a wild-eyed calm that only Dustin Henderson can manage after something like this.

No one suspects a thing.

Not Robin. Not Dustin. Not even Erica.

Not with the way your knees are still drawn up to your chest, or the way that Steve keeps himself perfectly composed beside you. Hands braced to his thighs. Breathing measured. Jaw tight.

It’s almost impressive, the performance you both give.

The kind where no one would guess that minutes ago, seconds ago, you were both shaking apart in each other’s arms. That his forehead had been against tile, not an EMT’s glove. That your mouth had been on his, not pursed tight with shock. That you both had just shared the most unraveled sex of your lives and broke not broken confessed the neverending need for one another. Because this is the part you both know how to do. 

The seamless transition from frantic survival to brittle functionality.

The aftermath. 

You don’t even look at each other. And it doesn’t matter, because you don’t need to. You feel him anyway. Steve’s thigh brushing yours. The way that his shoulders twitch every time someone new walks by the ambulance, like he’s ready to go again. Fight again. Die again.

Dustin is talking now. Something about what the fuck just happened. Erica’s filling in with her version of things. Robin is dazed, and her voice keeps cracking as she contributes. You nod, hum responses, even let out a laugh at one of Henderson’s ridiculous punchlines, and Steve somehow manages to pull off being the most collected one in your group, even though he looks wrecked beyond all reason.

And still, not a single person in that ambulance has any clue. That’s how good you and Steve are at this. You don’t look like two people who just fell into each other like dying stars.

You look like two friends with trauma and a history. 

Which, technically… you are. 

It’s just far more than that, regardless of what you both don’t admit to each other or even yourselves.

Then you glance at Steve once, just once, and his gaze flicks toward yours for half a breath, then down again. His hands haven’t stopped shaking.

You’re reaching for it, and he takes it right when—

“Hey,” Robin suddenly blurts, leaning halfway out of the ambulance. “Is that—?”

Your breath catches before you even look. 

As if you already know.

Outside the rear doors of the emergency vehicle, Joyce Byers is now hugging someone so tight you’d think her arms might snap. She’s crying… but that’s not what stops your breath.

It’s who she’s holding.

Eleven.

Your Eleven. 

Your sister, not by blood but by bond. 

Your dad’s second daughter now. 

The little girl who looked at your broken family and quietly climbed in after only a single peace offering of Eggos in the woods.

And she’s sobbing.

Crashing to her knees.

Hard on the pavement.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shove the blanket right off, legs aching, ribs flaring. You vault out of the ambulance barefoot, and Steve nearly trips trying to follow, but you’re already running. Robin shouts your name behind you, but it’s too late.

You fall to your knees in front of El.

Her hands are over her face. Her shoulders shake so violently you can feel the quake of it just sitting near her.

“Hey, hey—” you whisper, reaching for her wrists, gently pulling them from her eyes. “Baby, what’s wrong? You’re okay. You’re alright, I’ve got you, I’m right here—what’s—??”

But she’s not answering. She’s just clutching onto you and bawling… 

…the kind of bawling that comes from the center of something that’s already broken, shattered beyond repair.

…the same kind of bawling you experienced after you’d lost Sarah.

And that’s how you begin to dreadfully understand.

…that’s when you realize…

You don’t see him.

You don’t see Hopper.

You don’t see your dad.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Jonathan’s there suddenly. Nancy behind him, white as paper. Mike sprints over like he can outrun the truth. And then, slower, deliberate, dreading, Will follows. And you’re registering Joyce’s face now, even though she’s been there this whole time… how it looks like it’s been carved out of grief.

And you know.

You know.

The world tunnels.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t convulse.

You just sit there holding Eleven, slowly turning your head as all your friends begin to form a circle around you like a protective wall. You hear the blood rushing in your ears louder than the sirens now. You see their faces before you register their words.

Nancy, ghost-pale, eyes glistening. 

Jonathan with his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might snap. 

Mike stammering. 

Dustin right behind him. 

Robin and Erica flanking the edges.

And Steve, standing right above you, eyes blown wide.

“Where’s Hopper?”

Callahan’s voice. Powell’s, too.

Your dad’s coworkers. Practically your uncles. 

Their eyes dart everywhere — over you, over El, over Joyce.

And Joyce… can’t even speak. She tries. She opens her mouth three times, closes it four. Then finally, she just manages, “He—he told us to go. He stayed behind. He—he said he’d buy us time—”

Callahan stares. Blinks. Nods once.

Powell covers his mouth. Walks away.

You still don’t physically react.

You register it. You hear it. You even believe it.

…but the weight doesn’t quite land.

Not like it had with Sarah.

Not with that instant knife to the gut that draws blood, and tears from the jump, and lets the screams bleed out from your eyes and soul in sweet relief.

It’s like your body refuses to let it this time. Like somewhere inside of you, there’s a valve that’s been locked shut. And behind it, your grief is now pacing. Screaming inwardly. Waiting. 

But right now? It’s not allowed in.

So you just… nod.

You just… breathe.

And you hold Eleven tighter.

Steve trembles like a leaf, lips parted in soft despair as a paramedic kneels beside you with a flashlight, checking your pupils, as another asks if they can check your ribs. You say yes. Sure, yeah of course.

Because what else are you supposed to say? They lift your shirt to gently prod at the bruised bones. You let them. 

You answer their questions. 

You let them touch your shaking hands. 

You’re polite. You’re normal.

…and it’s terrifying.

Because you are not okay.

And the only person who sees it, who really sees it, is Steve. 

He’s still standing just behind you. Robin’s beside him now, Dustin too, all of them stunned and pale… but Steve?

Steve is only looking at you.

He hasn’t blinked.

He hasn’t spoken.

He just… watches you with that expression he only wears when he’s holding back the entire ocean behind his eyes.

Because he knows you.

And he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Knows that your silence isn’t strength, that it’s a scream your body is too numb to let out. Knows that you’re leaning into shock, allowing it to bury you as you cast comfort for yourself away and give it to El in your place.

“Hop,” he rasps, now kneeling to place his hands on your shoulders as you hold onto Eleven, feeling you let your spine lean against his chest, even as you soothe and gently shush her. And still, even then, no one suspects a thing between the two of you.

Because that’s the last rule you and Steve have never broken.

Even when everything else does.

You don’t even really notice at first, because your brain is still locked in that cold, quiet white-noise place… but he’s there. Steve, your one constant, your tragic source of comfort and reminder that you still feel deeply, even when you try not to. You feel the warmth of his hand now grazing your elbow. The gentle, grounding pressure of his palm between your shoulder blades. Jonathan’s on your other side, steady as ever, and Mike’s hovering just a step behind, trying not to fall apart himself. Then Will kneels down, quietly devastated.

Eleven’s still clinging to you, her weight almost gone limp except for the sharp little tremors in her small frame. And somehow, the five of you (Steve, Jonathan, Mike, Will, you) all become this silent convoy, guiding her and each other back to the ambulance.

Joyce is anguished looking at you, unable to speak, in fear that she’ll somehow make things impossibly worse for you as she tries hard to answer Powell and Callahan’s questions.

No else one says a damn thing. That’s how you know it’s bad.

Robin’s now sitting back where she was, knees hugged to her chest now. She clocks the way Steve’s hand lingers on your back, the way that he’s doing too good a job of not looking directly at you. But she doesn’t say anything either. She just scoots to the side, makes space for you both, like she’s just simply making room in the narrative, not suspecting a thing. Because no one does.

That’s the power, albeit danger, of what you and Steve have crafted. A whole universe buried under plain sight.

Just like the fucking upside down.

“Hey, you,” Powell grips your shoulder firmly, tears brimming his eyes but doing his best to not let his expression, or voice, wobble. “C’mon, let’s get you somewhere quiet.” 

You think you nodded.

It was hard to tell, given how disorienting everything felt.

Eventually, you’re being seated in the back of Powell and Callahan’s cruiser, letting El fold into your lap again without hesitation. Your fingers curl into her hair. Lightly, protectively. And paramedics start checking your vitals again, checking Robin too, and you nod along to their questions without really hearing them. 

Everything’s moving slowly and also way too fast.

Powell and Callahan both hang nearby, nervous and stiff, their eyes flicking to your face and back to the paramedics like they don’t quite know where to look. You’ve known them since you were a kid, grown up bringing your dad leftover dinner on late shifts and running in their circles in and around the station. They’ve always let you call them Uncle, always treated you like an actual niece. 

But now, neither of them are saying much.

“I’ll take her home,” Callahan says eventually, nodding solemnly and slowly as he glances from you to Powell. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

But Powell’s still eyeing Eleven with pensive confusion, despite him nodding at Callahan’s words. Not even five seconds go by before you open your mouth to respond, but Steve beats you to it.

“She can come to mine.”

Just like that. 

Solid, like there was never going to be another answer.

“Both of them,” he adds, glancing once at Joyce.

Joyce doesn’t argue. She just nods, one single sharp nod. And then something wordless passes between the two of you. 

I’ll be there soon.

Steve hears it, too. Of course he does.

“She’ll be safe there,” Jonathan adds, voice hoarse, gently brushing his hand against your arm. “We’ll meet you. Okay?”

You nod. That’s all you can do. 

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. 

You just… nod.

Steve feels a strange sort of anger flare up inside of him as he glares at Jonathan, as if his kindness were some other attempt at taking yet another person who means the world to him far away. And he knows better than that, but his heightened emotions, and all of the dwindling adrenaline, cloud his judgement.

“Hey.”

But then you’re looking up at him as he blurts. He didn’t even realize he had until your eyes shined up at him through your lashes, even with the fog that washes over them and the tears you won’t let fall.

He shudders a sigh. “I’ve got you.” Then he nods at El. “Both of you.”

You’d cry if you could. 

The paramedics finally finish clearing you. Then Robin gives you a long, searching look, her eyes full of questions that she doesn’t ask. Maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe she just knows this is the part where she can’t help. She’s used to being the one who keeps folks upright. But now she watches Steve steer the ship, and doesn’t flinch once at that either, knowing better than to overstep.

Even Jonathan took the hint, catching Steve’s glare and stepping off to the side. He doesn’t even need context to understand. His gut gets it enough to tell himself, leave it be.

Powell and Callahan insist on escorting the whole thing. They’re both visibly shaken but trying not to show it. They still think your dad’s just… missing. Hurt. Caught in the fire or smoke. Not actually gone.

You know better. 

So does Steve.

Which is why he just keeps you close. Never touching you too much, never doing anything that would give it away and make people ask you too many questions in a time like this, or make you wanna just throw it all away and abandon him for good.

But he keeps you close. Always.

Outside the ambulance, the crowd has shifted. 

Mike’s mom is there now, tear-streaked and frantic. Karen Wheeler nearly knocks over a row of traffic cones trying to get to both him and Nancy. Her voice breaks somewhere between a sob and a shout as she wraps her arms around both of them.

Mrs. Sinclair shows up next. Her hug around Lucas is so tight he winces, and even Erica lets it happen without sass. Dustin’s mom appears not long after, her eyes wide and desperate as she scans the crowd. The second that Claudia finally sees him, she crumples a little, crying openly as she pulls him into her arms.

They’re all distractions. Loud, chaotic, emotional distractions.

Which is perfect.

Because while they’re busy reuniting, Jonathan helps Joyce and El quietly load into another car so that the officers don’t start looking too closely or asking more questions. So they load up into Joyce’s car… one that peels off gently and unnoticed into the dark.

And then it’s your turn.

Steve opens the door to the front seat of one of the squad cars. Powell’s already behind the wheel, while Callahan gets up front. You hesitate for half a second, glancing toward where El disappeared.

You suddenly hear your dad’s voice…

“Never let each other outta either of your sight. Not when I’m gone. Got it? You wait for me. Wait for me to—”

“Hop…?”

But then Steve touches your elbow again. Just briefly, breaking the spell. His big brown eyes are soft but firm. 

“Come on,” he says. Just to you.

So you do.

You climb in next to him, eyes hollow, pulse slow. And you don’t ask questions or even speak. You just stare straight forward, letting this nightmare keep unfolding around you. 

And you know that what you are about to step into… Steve’s house, Steve’s care, Steve’s silence… will be the only thing holding you together once the stillness breaks.

And it will break eventually.

But not yet.

For now, you ride. Quiet. Numb. Not alone.

Callahan and Powell are too engulfed with the whiplash of everything that they can’t even suspect a thing as you two sit together.

Not about Steve.

Not about you.

Not about what you’ve built in the dark.

Not about what you just lost in the light.

Not about the way it’s all about to come apart.

It’s been just over a week.

Nine days, if you’re counting. Not that you’ve been counting. 

At least not on purpose.

Currently, you’re standing in a church you’ve never once stepped foot inside before. One of those old county buildings with the hollow acoustics and too many fake ferns. All you can think about is how your father hated this kind of place. Hated organized religion. Hated the pageantry. Hated being told how to grieve or when to believe.

But here you are anyway. In an unfamiliar building that smells like old hymnals and perfumes that don’t blend. Wearing the black dress that your mother wore to Sarah’s funeral and left behind, along with you and her husband. Standing beside a closed casket, and listening to a preacher mispronounce your dad’s name while talking about “God’s grace” and “healing” and “mercy” and other words that mean less than nothing to you right now.

Eleven stayed home with Max. She hadn’t even argued about it. In fact, to your surprise, she’d been the one who suggested it. 

“He always wanted me safe,” she’d whispered tearfully to you that week while you sat at the dinner table, staring blankly at the wall and pretending to mull over casket selections.

She wanted to respect Hopper’s wishes, even if he was gone.

She also didn’t want you to worry. But you’re pretty sure that a part of her feels unworthy. Like this isn’t her place to grieve him the same way as you, even though that’s preposterous.

It’s the only time you’d snapped at her.

“Stop acting like you weren’t family to him. He’d hate that.” You’d all but glared at her. “After everything he—”

Thankfully, you’d stopped yourself in time. 

Not in time for her eyes not to brim with tears, or for her bottom lip to not quiver. But in time to take a sharp, deep breath in… and exhale it slowly before hugging her, eyes clenched shut while forbidding her to apologize as you did instead.

It hasn’t been warm. It hadn’t been gentle or kind.

But it had been remorseful and tightly laced with regret.

So now, she’s home with Max. Safe and sound, away from the eyes of people who ask too many fucking questions. 

And right now, Joyce Byers has both her hands around your bicep, fingers digging in… not painfully, but with purpose. Like she’s holding on for both your sakes. Jonathan stands on your other side, solid and tall, while Will is tucked in beside him. 

None of them speak. None of them need to.

They’re all dressed in black, just like you. 

Just like everyone else in the room.

And across the aisle, every one of your friends is lined up in a jagged formation of worry. Mike and Nancy stand stiffly beside Karen and Ted, who look just as hollowed out as the pews behind them. Lucas and Erica are flanked by their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, both subdued in the kind of way that comes when you’ve got kids who are too young to carry this much trauma but too old to be shielded from it anymore.

Dustin is gripping his mom’s hand so tightly, her knuckles are white. She’s crying openly, unlike you. You haven’t cried at all.

And then there’s Steve. Steve and his parents. 

His mother, polished and blank-eyed. His father, checking his watch. Both of them are completely oblivious to the fact that their only son, their boy, standing between them… has never once left your side since the moment this all came crashing down. That he’s spent every waking hour doing anything that he can to keep everyone else from falling apart, especially you. That he’s spent night after night inside of your bedroom, stayed at the cabin, refusing to let you sleep alone, or just staying on the couch with you as you stare at the TV playing with reruns of Miami Vice.

Robin is next to him now, her parents right behind her. Her mouth’s pressed into a thin line, her green eyes raw with concern. She keeps glancing between you and Steve, like she’s trying to send you and him psychic encouragement, or maybe just keep herself grounded by knowing he’s standing there. 

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you. Not once.

But none of them are close enough. None of them are holding your arm like Joyce is right now. None of them are standing in the center of it with you, right beside the closed casket that holds nothing.

Because that’s what’s left of your father.

And you’re here: the last standing Hopper.

“…the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

The preacher’s voice drones on, praying over you before going into something about integrity and public service and how Chief Hopper kept all of Hawkins safe for decades. Like this was some quiet, noble death. Like this wasn’t all tied up in the kinds of horrors no one in this room would dare to believe, even if you screamed the truth into their faces.

You haven’t screamed. You haven’t spoken. Not really.

You’ve nodded. You’ve accepted condolences. You’ve sat through silence. You’ve allowed El to fall asleep curled up next to you, night after night, without ever saying aloud that you’re not okay, letting the need for sleep become a forgotten afterthought. You’ve answered questions with empty expressions. You’ve let Murray Bauman barge into Steve’s house, insisting on cooking meals you don’t eat. You’ve let Joyce tuck you into bed like a child. And you’ve let the grief wrap around your brain like static. Like a fog machine that never turns off.

No one’s forced you to do more than survive. 

That’s the one small mercy.

And it’s only because you’re eighteen. Barely. Just young enough not to be sent back to a mother who left you years ago. Just old enough, just legal enough, to not be anyone’s problem, even though clearly you are. Even though everyone in this room is looking at you like you might collapse under the weight of a single gust of wind, and almost seem disappointed that you’re not outwardly falling apart.

Joyce hasn’t moved. She’s still clutching your arm.

Jonathan and Will haven’t either.

You don’t remember anything the preacher says, really. You just keep watching the casket. Closed. Wooden. Shiny and wrong. Your father should’ve had a Viking funeral, something on fire, something primal. Or a freaking cremation in Scotland, lit up with scotch. Not this.

Goddamnit, not this.

And there are too many people. So many you don’t even know. So many you do, in the way that small towns make everything intimate, even when you wish that they wouldn’t. Cops. Firemen. Grocery clerks. PTA moms. Teachers. People your dad arrested. People your dad protected. People who never liked him, but showed up anyway, probably because someone told them they should.

Eventually, the service ends. The preacher says amen. 

The casket doesn’t move. But people begin to line up. People who want to shake your hand and say they’re sorry for your loss and tell you that he was a great man.

You stand perfectly still.

Mike is the first to approach. His hands are trembling. He pulls you into a hug and doesn’t say anything. And then Nancy, soft-voiced and uncharacteristically shaky. Then Lucas, who hugs you like he’s afraid that you’ll disappear, and Erica, who hugs you like she dares you to disappear. And then Dustin, crying again, whispering something you can’t hear because his face is buried in your shoulder.

Their parents follow. Karen’s face is splotchy from tears, while Ted is pale in dulled surprise. Claudia Henderson clutches both your hands. Mr. Sinclair mutters something gentle. Mrs. Sinclair offers you tissues you don’t need but nod at her for… letting that be your sign of thanks for the offer.

The Buckleys eventually reach you. Robin hugs you with both arms, hard, and her parents offer their names like it matters, and maybe it does, but you’re too far under the surface to reply. Their aloofness still seems intact, which subconsciously justifies your not engaging much with any verbal conversation.

And then it’s Steve’s turn.

He walks up beside his parents, tall and handsome and haunted, his big brown eyes locked on yours with such brutal softness you almost forget how to stand. The Harrington’s have that effect on people. Your dad used to clock that, any time Dane would walk into a town hall meeting and make everyone suddenly feel small, or when his trophy wife Verena would walk out of the nicer dining establishment after a “spontaneous lunch.”

His mom says something polite to you. 

His dad doesn’t say much at all. 

But Steve engulfs you.

He hugs you like it’s the last thing holding him together. Like he is trying to fix something without letting it show. Like he wants to say so much, everything, but all that he can do is hold you. His cheek rests against your temple and you close your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what real contact feels like.

And then he lets go. Too soon, always too soon. Steve’s parents tug him gently away, and you watch him leave as your gut and stomach both threaten to bottom out. But you don’t show that, don’t overreact. 

You don’t call after him. All you do is stare. 

You stare at him as though you can see straight through the version of him he shows the world, and he looks back at you like he wishes that were enough.

More people come. More people go.

And eventually, after the viewing, without warning, you slip away.

No one stops you. You don’t even walk fast, just move with wordless intention, with numb silence, like a ghost leaving the room she never wanted to haunt.

You find an elevator at the end of a hallway. The old kind with bronze doors and a button that sticks. You press it once. Maybe. Or maybe it was already coming.

Either way, you step inside. Alone.

Fatherless and alone.

The tall doors close with a soft metal sigh as you lean back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to watch the numbers change.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t do anything except exist in that little metal box, suspended in silence, letting gravity do what it always does. 

Pulling you down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

…but then the doors open again. 

Softly, no sound except the subtle click of release and the breath of air conditioning rushing in like a sigh, stirred by movement.

You don’t look up right away. Not until you feel the shift in pressure. Something warm, something familiar, entering the elevator with care. Then you lift your gaze just in time to see someone step inside.

Steve.

He’s alone now, too. No parents, no voices, no expensive black coats or passing friends or strangers pretending to know you more than they actually do. No looming crowd or flurry of adults talking over his shoulder, no worried glances from your friends down. 

No Robin. No Dustin. No Mike, Will or Lucas.

No Nancy or Jonathan.

Just Steve Harrington, stepping into the elevator like it was always meant for him. And you actually see him now, more than you had earlier as everyone paid their respects. His signature hair is less styled than usual, but somehow still perfect. Thick and soft, his chestnut waves a little windblown, like he’s been outside longer than he should have been, or like maybe he couldn’t stand the stale air inside the funeral home any longer. His mournful attire fits him in that uniquely Steve Harrington way. Casual but sharp, nothing showy, nothing stiff. A sleek black button-up tucked into charcoal slacks with a belt, sleeves rolled once at the subtly veiny forearms of his lightly sunkissed skin. No tie, with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. 

He looks as though he couldn’t stomach anything too formal today. Like he needed to feel like himself. 

And yet he’s never looked more grown, more beautiful, than he does right now. Somehow a boy and a man, all at once. Still only nineteen. Still not really equipped for grief, but already carrying so much of it on his shoulders. 

Just like you.

His expression is unreadable, except for how open and glossy and dark his eyes are. His mouth is set. Gentle with intent. There’s no hesitation in his steps. No panic. No fear.

And he doesn’t let his gaze linger for too long before he turns to the panel of buttons instead.

You watch him. 

Quietly. 

Blinking. 

Breathing…

“You. Breathing.”

The memory of him saying this to you, pleading this to you, comes rushing in now, watching him reach for the circled numbers. You’d let Steve speak it into your mouth, let him weep it into your skin…

blip, blip, blip.

There’s a soft mechanical sound as he presses one of the top floors now. Not the one the elevator had already started drifting toward, but another one. Not down but higher. 

Because that's what Steve does. He lifts you up when your spirit tries to pull you down, when life gets too heavy and feeling is too much for you to bear, unless it’s with him.

Last time you two were in an elevator, just last week, you’d wound up plunging down towards the very bottom. But not this time. This time, the destination is decided. And Steve decided that it’s going up.

He does something else then. You’re not entirely sure what, but his thumb moves over a small metal keyhole, pressing a combination. A few buttons light up briefly in sequence, then die out. The elevator doesn’t move yet. It stalls with a subtle shudder. 

And once it does, Steve finally turns to face you.

You’re still leaning against the back wall, unmoving… but your eyes are steadily on him now. Distant, lost and still somehow seeing right into him instead of through him.

He crosses the space with a kind of careful reverence. Stopping right in front of you. Close. Not claustrophobic. Just enough to let the air shift around the two of you. He’s taller than you. The generous height difference between the two of you has never been more apparent than it is right now. 

You don’t tip your chin up, but you don’t have to and nor does he let you. Because Steve lifts his hands slowly to gingerly cradle your face like you’re something delicate. Like you’re glass but warm. 

Human and trembling. 

Real and impossible.

“I need to feel like I’m not just built to burn things.”

That’s what you told him before. Back when this thing between the two of you had just barely gotten started. When this strange, passing ‘tell me what you need’ sort of binding contract that was wordlessly spoken into existence.

And Steve has made you feel that ever since.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes now.

It’s so quiet it’s not even a whisper. It’s the ghost of a voice. Like wind through a crack in the door. 

“I’m so, so sorry.”

He kisses you then. Not the kind that breaks you open. Not the kind that tries to fix anything. Just featherlight on your lips. Barely there. Tender. Not in the way that kisses usually are. It’s more like he’s asking permission in real time, breath warm and mouth brushing. 

Steve doesn’t say hello. 

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

His palms simply cradle your cheeks so delicately, so tenderly, that it barely counts as touch. Just warmth. Just presence. Just him, his thumbs moving slowly along the edges of your jawline, like he’s reminding himself that you’re here with his lips in yours. 

“You—not gone.”

He kisses you again, just the corner of your mouth. Your cheek, then the other. Your brows. There’s a quiet tremble of air in the way that he exhales against your skin, comforting you and your safety in the silence when he’s near. 

Your hands, loose by your sides, don’t rise just yet. 

You’re still trying to remember how they work. 

But your eyelids flutter, melting in his hold, embraced by Steve as he pulls back only a fraction to look at you through hooded eyes. 

“What do you need, tell me,” he murmurs. Still with that voice. Like breath, like breeze against your face. “Tell me so I can do it, tell me.” 

One of his hands slides to the back of your head, thumb brushing lightly just behind your ear… cradling you there. Holding you steady. Holding you like you’re something he’s terrified of dropping. Not because he thinks you’ll fall, because he knows you already are. The other stays at your jaw, his fingers resting in the hollow under it like he’s memorizing the way you’re put together. He’s looking into your eyes. Not trying to search for the answer. Just staying there. With you. 

As if he knows you might not say anything at all. 

As if that’s okay if you don’t.

But you do.

It takes a while. A long silence. But Steve’s large hands never leave you. And your fingers, at some point, curl into the belt loops of his pants, like they got there without your permission, because they’ve done that so many times before, and every time you’d swear to yourself that you’d never do it again. 

It’s just enough to feel him breathing beneath your palms.

You’re looking at his waist now. Not his eyes. Your breath shudders. Not from crying. Not from anything so dramatic.

Just from being seen.

Then you let your gaze drift down to his chest, to the curve of his jaw. To the freckle on the left side of his neck. He smells like fresh linen and cinnamon gum and warmth and summer days shared together when everything seemed like it might all end up being alright, even if you knew better.

And finally, finally, you look at him.

The elevator hums around you both. Still suspended. Still quiet.

And you say, soft as his voice, “I need…”

You trail off. 

Not because you don’t know, because it’s hard to explain.

But Steve waits. 

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t move. And eventually, you breathe in deeply again, thinking through the weight of it as you exhale through your nose silently and slowly. Letting the words shape themselves inside your chest before they reach your mouth.

“I need everything to stay the same.”

His brows twitch. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“I need everyone to act like he’s still here,” you go on. “Like he just stepped out. Like he’s in the other room or getting snacks or waiting in the car. I need it to feel normal. I need you and me…”

Steve holds his breath, almost fearfully.

“…to still be you and me,” you continue. “Same as always. I need the kids to have a routine. I need us to have one. I need it to keep going. I need to not…” You swallow. “I need to not fall.”

Your fingers are still curled through his belt loops, loose but there. And you glance up at him through glossed-over, haunted eyes that drown in loss and pain and heartbreak that’s never been able to repair.

Steve is silent for another long moment. His mouth pulls inward, lips pursing… but then he gives you the smallest, most devastated smile you’ve ever seen. 

He nods once. Twice, then again. Slow, and then smaller. 

Like each nod is harder than the last, and yet like it’s the easiest yes in the world.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

And his lips part like he’s going to say something else, but he closes them again… before his throat bobs.

So instead, he leans in again. His kiss this time isn’t quite as light. It’s still gentle. Still careful. But fuller. Anchored. Steve kisses your lips again and again, his Cupid bow brushing your upper lip as though he’s planting something there. Rebuilding something, letting himself press into you with every ounce of breath he has, giving it all to you because you need it more than he does.

And now, this time, you kiss him back.

Weakly, maybe. Quietly. But not without strength. Because there’s something in it that’s steady. Something that reaches out instead of just receiving. It’s not passion. Not urgency.

It’s survival.

It’s Steve’s.

It’s yours.

It’s the act of living for your dad now.

You don’t close your eyes. You just let them flutter. Let yourself feel his breath, the way he exhales so slow, trying not to scare you.

He feels it, the way you’re drifting.

He feels how gravity is trying to take you again.

Which is why he chose to send the elevator up.

Not down.

Because he won’t let you fall.

He can’t let you fall.

So Steve presses his forehead to yours, still holding you gently like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered, nose brushing yours, eyes still shut, his arms now wrapping around you, and tells you in a whisper that’s barely audible, but one that’s decided something…

“We can stay here. You and me. For as long as you need.”

Somehow, he found the exact way to say it that doesn’t sound like a line, or a promise he can’t keep. 

It’s just the truth.

You don’t even have to answer.

He already knows you’re not ready, and that’s okay.

You’re both in this little box. Floating. Stalled. Together.

And there’s nowhere else you’d rather be, other than in a world where your dad was never taken from you, or Sarah… or your belief in beautiful things never leaving once you’ve finally made yourself at home.

CHAPTER TEN

California Isn’t Real

You don’t expect it to start like this.

Because when you wake up that morning, still curled in beneath the soft plaid quilt Hopper always used to use for cold nights and worse moods, you’re in the cabin. Alone. 

El’s not here right now. She’s at the Byers’ house. 

You’d let her go over. Every time she asks, you let her go. And you always call her, and she always answers. Sometimes she wants you to come pick her up, and sometimes she stays.

Joyce makes her feel mothered in a way that you don’t know how to replicate. 

Joyce knows how to hold a child. How to feed them without making it feel like a transaction. 

How to tell a story without spinning a cautionary tale out of it. 

El gets to be a kid there. With Will, and with Mike. With normal food and terrible TV and the full strength of a matriarch who survived hell and decided to live louder because of it.

So she stays for a few days, while you collect yourself.

And that means sometimes, you’re alone in the cabin not collecting yourself at all.

Steve comes over every day.

Most times, he doesn’t say anything right off the bat. Just takes his shoes off by the door then pads toward you slowly, like if he moves too fast he’ll break something and mess this whole thing up. But then finally, someone moves first. Usually it’s you. Sometimes, it’s himself. Steve touches you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still in your body. Kisses like he’s trying to convince you both that you still live in one. He never says the part about being afraid, not even when you cry so quietly that he starts silently crying too and pretends it’s from the cold. But you know better. You know damn well, Steve Harrington wakes up terrified that one day he won’t be enough to pull you out of your own head. That one day you’ll disappear inward and forget how to come back. That he’ll be just another thing you erase to keep the pain manageable.

So he makes it impossible. 

He fucks you like he’s memorizing proof of you, like if he does this right, maybe you won’t forget him or cast him out.

And sometimes you go to his place, whenever El’s with Joyce. You hang out with Robin and the kids. Jonathan shows up. Murray brings over weird homemade dishes. You pretend to laugh while everyone else finds real ways to laugh like the world’s not ending anymore.

In group settings, you don’t fixate on Steve. He doesn’t fixate on you. But the second everyone leaves, your hands are in his hair and his mouth is on your neck, pulling at each other like the air’s running out.

That part you expect.

What you don’t expect is this phone call.

“Hey,” Steve says. Sharp, immediate.

You smile before you even register it. “Hey—”

“You home?”

His tone is tight. Clipped. Strained.

Your brow furrows. “Uh, yeah?”

“Good. I’m coming over.”

Click. He hangs up.

You just stare at the receiver like it insulted you.

And when he gets there? When you open the door and find him on your porch with his jaw clenched tight and his hands already halfway through a nervous gesture… you realize that this is a whole different kind of storm.

“This is about El, isn’t it?” you ask, the moment you sense it. “I talked to Joyce.”

Steve’s usually warm brown eyes blaze. Fire and fury.

“You talked to Joyce?” he parrots. “You talked to Joyce—that’s the part you’re starting with?”

You cross your arms. 

You’re already tired, and you haven’t even made it to the part where you explain anything.

“She asked me what I thought,” you say.

“Yeah, and apparently what you thought,” Steve snaps, “was maybe you should just go with them. To fucking California.”

You blink. “That’s not—”

“She told Mike,” he cuts you off. “Eleven told Mike, and then he told everybody.”

You gape. 

Son of bitch, you think, how does word travel this fast...

“...I didn’t know she told Mike—” you nearly sputter, voice rising.

“But you did know,” Steve cuts in again, undeterred, “that you weren’t gonna tell me?”

You blink again. “I was going to tell you.”

“When? After the U-Haul pulled out?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve—”

“No,” he barks, pacing now. “No, because this—this—you were just gonna leave.”

“No, I wasn’t,” you say, firm now, tracking him. “I’m not. Steve, I’m not going anywhere.”

But he doesn’t stop pacing. 

Doesn’t stop moving, like if he stands still he’ll actually feel what he’s terrified of feeling.

You take a breath and try again. “Joyce asked me if I’d consider it. If I thought El might need that. And she wanted me to feel okay, too. She didn’t wanna make me feel like she was just trying to take her from me, Steve.”

“She wouldn’t have to,” he snaps bitterly. “You were already packing.”

“No, I wasn’t,” you damn near laugh now, exasperated. 

Your frustration is on edge, and if it weren’t literally Steve across from you right now, you would have already flown way off the handle and kicked the person out. 

But you don’t. Because it is Steve.

So instead, you huff out whatever irritation wants to shriek its way out and step towards him. 

“Steve,” you speak more evenly now. “I never said yes. I never even considered going. I just… El needs stability. She needs a mother.”

“I know,” Steve mutters, still pacing, but not as hostile. Now he feels guilty for not validating that, despite his frazzled aggravation. You can hear it.

“…El needs to live in a house that doesn’t creak with grief every time the wind blows,” you continued carefully. “I’m trying to do right by her.”

“I know, Hop. Trust me, I’m—” he cuts himself off, still pacing while dragging a hand through his hair as he looks at his shoes that keep traipsing the length of the cabin's wooden floor. He sighs heavily. “I know she needs that, I do. She does.”

“Which is why I’m sending her,” you nod, staring hard at him while standing perfectly still. The exact opposite of what he’s doing. “I’m sending her somewhere safe. Somewhere stable. Where she can actually be a regular kid, just like dad wanted.”

“She can’t be without you,” Steve interjects quickly, locking eyes with you urgently as he keeps treading a moat into the floor. “El needs you. Your dad wanted you to be a family. Together.”

“And we are,” you manage, not letting that make you cry. You’re too tired at this point, honestly. “Which is why she’ll come visit me on weekends, once a month. No less. Or I’ll go visit her, but really, she deserves to see the kids too. Mike’s already lost her enough. Max needs a friend more than ever now that Billy just got slaughtered in front of her. And Dustin’s not gonna stay focused on school if he’s too busy missing both Will and her.”

Steve finally stops fucking moving. 

He stops dead in his tracks, looking at you as if your words are finally sticking. He’s silent. Staring. 

And you stare right back, lifting an eyebrow.

Steve squints. “You’re not going?”

“I’m not fucking going.”

More silence. 

More staring from Steve. He doesn't blink.

And it makes your hands twitch, so you keep talking.

“I’m gonna keep working that boring job until I figure out something else. I’m gonna keep taking the kids to school. With you. Keep on listening to Murray rant, and helping Robin pretend she’s not in love with Vickie while you support all her lesbian dreams, and I’m gonna live right here. Inside this cabin that Dad’s gonna haunt the rest of my life, so yeah. I’m staying right here.”

Steve’s lips part, processing everything as if he’s got twenty-two tabs open.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

…yeah, no. It still doesn’t land. Jesus, you can see it not landing. 

Because Steve’s staring at you like he’s trying to find the trap door in the words. Like he doesn’t trust them to stay still. Like he’s waiting for a punchline that’s going to wreck him. So you will yourself not to roll your eyes, not let yourself huff, and not throw your hands up in the air from sheer exhaustion and bewilderment that he thinks you’d ever just disappear in the night without a trace. As if you’d ever even think about moving off to some west coast hippie city where dreams are scams and heartbreak is currency. 

You’ve got more than enough where that came from.

“Harrington,” you try carefully.

…he’s still just staring.

Great.

You inhale deeply, and then exhale just as deeply through your nose. Resetting. Just like your dad always did, and how he taught you to do it. Because you got your shirt fuse from him, so he had to help you navigate through it better than he did himself.

You take a tiny step forward. “Steve.”

He opens his mouth to speak. But he doesn’t. And so you do what you both always do best. 

You ask.

“Tell me what you need,” you say softly.

His surprised, barked laugh breaks and cracks like a dry leaf. “I have no damn clue, Hopper. I’m trying to figure that one out.”

That makes you smile. 

Because that’s Steve. 

Because now he’s not hiding from you. 

He doesn’t ever hide it from you when you’re both naked. 

Not when his jaw is slack as you tug on his hair and let him shudder out confessions that make their way off his tongue as he swirls it with yours, or when he’s smearing it into your eardrum as he lathers and nips at your earlobe. 

Not when your bare chest is beneath his hands, pressed against his own, swallowed by him.

But he’s not naked right now, and neither are you. And maybe that’s why he’s hiding behind a facade. Behind this barely concealed anger and pain and rage that’s now bubbled to the surface, and wants to provide him a mask to help conceal all that his heart wants to say. Because that’s what he does.

Because sometimes hiding is the most honest thing that Steve’s got.

“It’s just—everything’s changing.” 

Oh great, he’s pacing again. 

And rambling. 

“The Byers are going. El’s going with them. That’s just…what the fuck, and the kids—? They’re in high school. Like actual high school. Starting next month, like I don’t even remember what I did in high school. I think I blacked out for four years.”

You laugh, quietly. “Same.”

“And now you—God, you could leave. And it makes sense. That’s what really messed me up. It made sense.” He chuckles bitterly, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head at no one. Another thought crosses his mind, pulling his hand away from where it’s gripping his locks so that he can gesture. “And what if you go next year, y’know? What if you get tired of Hawkins, of me, of this—”

“Steve.”

“—and then Robin’s gone, Nancy’s gone, some point all the kids will be gone, and I’m still here, like some dumb ghost that doesn’t know he’s dead—”

“Steve.”

He finally stops as you march up to him, eyes locked on his. You’re reaching for his belt and begin to undo it before he can even glance down.

Steve blinks. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just dragging the belt out from his belt loops and tossing it aside. 

“Hey,” he blinks, hands raised, half questioning and half prematurely surrendering. “Hey, Hop, hey—what’re you—?”

“Giving you what you need, Steve.”

Your eyes fiercely look into his, while your fingers begin to unfasten his jeans. 

Steve’s eyes dart across your face, but he doesn’t stop you. 

Because as you tuck your loose hair behind your ears, he’s realizing that you’re not teasing him. You’re not trying to provoke anything.

You’re giving.

You’re handing yourself over, entirely. 

No conditions. No returns. 

“Just take what you need, Steve.” Ziiiip. The zipper parts. “For once, without asking. Just let me give it to you.”

Just take. 

You watch his throat bob as he swallows, hard. His dark eyes flicker down for just a second, then flick right back at yours like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he looks away too long. Your fingers have continued moving with quiet precision throughout each step. Unhooking the button, undoing the zipper, slow and sure… like you’re dismantling something sacred. Not his clothes. Not his body. 

His fears.

Steve jolts, slightly by sudden, as your hand slips beneath the denim. Instinctive, almost panicked, even though he doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t say no. But he does speak, because he always speaks when he doesn’t know what to do with the way he feels.

“Hey—hey, what are you—” 

“Safe word is mercy.”

He gapes. Tries to speak, voice cracking.

But he doesn’t use the safe word.

He doesn’t give himself the literal mercy of its use. But you also don’t give him the safety of words. You stay close, breath on his cheek. Fingers curled around the softest, most undone part of him… even though he’s already hard. 

And he’s flushed to the root and trembling, helpless to stop the way he shudders against you.

“I can’t—I don’t—fuck, baby, wait—your dad—he’s gonna kill me—”

He almost yells it, except halfway through it catches on the thick heat building inside his throat and turns into a strangled moan, a garbled half-laugh, like his own body’s betraying him even as he tries to stay upright.

“…oh yeah, he’d kill you,” you murmur against him, tears brimming behind your smile.

Steve shudders.

“Shhhh, I got you now,” you whisper. But not to quiet him. You want to hear him. All of it. So you say it like a lullaby, like you’re soothing something wild in him, something that’s not used to being cared for this gently, this fiercely. “Yeah, dad’s gonna kill you...”

His back hits the wall, and you crowd him there. Your body lines up with his, holding him steady with one hand on his hip as your other hand works against his hardened gift below the belt. Slow, then fast, then slow again… each movement shaped around him like a prayer. 

“…Guess he’ll just have to kill me, too,” you say, low and husky and raw, your eyes on him as you press your thumb to his leaking tip.

Steve groans, forehead thudding against yours, his jaw slack, breath ragged, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t do this if you—if you’re just—” His eyes clench shut, shaking his head against yours, “—fuck, it’s not fair when you look at me like that—”

But you’re not breaking eye contact. Not for anything. 

You want him to see. To know. To feel everything.

Even as you look soft.

Even as tears blur your vision.

And all the while, Steve can’t stop trying to talk, like maybe if he just keeps speaking, maybe he can keep some part of himself hidden, some sliver of composure intact.

“You’re gonna ruin me.” 

He says it like a warning, like a promise, like he’s already ruined and still wants more.

But all you do is lean in, lips at the shell of his ear with your tongue barely grazing his skin before your teeth nip at his earlobe. Your hand inside his jeans never falters. If anything, you move even more deliberately now, every flick of your wrist perfectly attuned to him and the way that his thick cock twitches in your grasp.

“You’re. Y-you.” 

He stammers, hips rolling slightly as his pelvis arches into your hold. And when you tilt your head at him with that smile? The smile that makes him feel as though he’s some sort of precious cargo being delivered to your doorstep, as if he’s some sort of gift on this earth? It’s why he can’t get any more words out. Can’t finish what’d started to say, when saying ‘you’re, y-you.’

Because that smile you give him just lets your lips soften around your words as you murmur, “…you’re beautiful, Steve Harrington.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment the tension inside him snaps. 

He chokes on a sob, a laugh, a moan all at once. Eyes squeezed shut, his head thrown back against the wall. The sound he makes is wrecked and gorgeous as your hand strokes him with fervency. 

Your other hand comes up to your mouth, and you slick it with spit before replacing your other hand with it. His hips jerk, stuttering against your wet palm as it slides up and down his thick girth cruelly. Sensationally.

It earns the most ugly, beautiful, primal sound from his lips before it abruptly cuts off as your tongue slips into his ear, causing him to sharply gasp, mouth wide open but unable to form a single word. Steve has to keep his eyes scrunched shut as he fists the back of your shirt between your shoulder blades, while his other hand firmly grips your ass now as he feels your arm shifting against the front of his Henley that covers his chest.

“That’s it, take it baby,” you hum into his ear, lapping your tongue around the shell. Then in a wet whisper, you add, “Jus’keep taking and taking and taking...”

“Fuck,” Steve rasps, nearly growling as his body rocks against yours. His eyes are rolled so far back into his head that having his eyes open would do him no good, and his pelvis isn’t able to stop rolling against your hand as he bucks up into your hold.

You rush nothing. 

Both of you stay like this for an amount of time Steve almost never allows himself when he’s the one receiving. 

The one being given versus giving. 

And he lets himself sensationalize it and feel every wave of bliss that threatens to orgasm against his burning need for you to keep going. 

But eventually your pace picks up speed, feeling him losing it. He’s really losing the fight to keep from bursting, and you know it. You can feel him beginning to climax as he writhes and clings to it…

And then he’s coming with a full-body tremble, chest heaving, and he attempts to silence it by tucking his face into yours, but you duck so that you're biting at his neck and making him cry out into the room with his jaw slack and mouth wide open around the sound. 

Thick, hot creamy ropes of his cum splash against your hand inside of his jeans. And you hold him up when his knees go, catching him like you’ve always been meant to. Your other arm circles around him, your hand gripping the back of his neck while he just slumps forward into you, barely holding himself together.

And finally, finally, you kiss him. 

Steady, firm, heavy with heart.

You kiss Steve like you’re anchoring him back to the earth, like his whole world just tilted and only you know where the ground is. He whimpers into your mouth, his arms curling around you like you’re the only thing left standing between him and complete collapse.

He tries to say something. Anything. 

But all that comes out are pieces. 

Bits of broken syllables and breathless hiccups. 

So you kiss him again. And again. Swallowing every half-word, every ruined plea, every little echo of that final sound he made when he let himself go completely, because of you.

Because you loved him enough to give him that.

No questions. No pride. No fear. 

Just love. 

Right there in the palm of your hand.

Even if you don’t speak it out loud.

“Wh—wait, I… baby, I can’t…”

Steve’s mouth is still parted beneath yours. 

Still breathless. Still stammering.

“…what are—what’re you—doing to me—”

Each word is a gasp caught on the back of his tongue. And you catch them before they can fully form, kissing them away like secrets. The ones he never had to say out loud.

You look deep into his eyes as your fingers lift at his shirt, peeling it upwards from the hem until it’s off.

And he's letting you. 

Steve is very willingly letting you, despite the fact that his mouth is now open in shock and confusion, brain short-circuiting all over again as he still rides the last high.

He exhales brokenly against your mouth. “You—Jesus Christ, you don’t understand, I’m not gonna survive this, I—”

“Please Steve, I need this...”

“Wait, wha—hey. Need what. Hey, wait. W-what do you need—?”

“This,” you sigh.

Your lips trail down. His jaw. His throat. The soft underside of it that makes him twitch and arch, like your mouth is flame and he’s all dry leaves. You follow the line of him, down past his collarbone, past the hollow of his ribs. He tastes like sweat and summer. Poolwater and sunscreen, sweet with want and something deeper. Something hot and human and trembling under your tongue.

“…this,” you sigh the word again, intoxicated as you gaze up at him through your lashes…

His brows knit. “I meant you. Hop, you, not me, Hop—”

“I need to feel you feeling this much,” you whisper against his skin, just below his navel. “I need to know you can.”

Steve just… 

God, Steve just freezes. 

His mouth hangs open again, but nothing comes out except this tiny, croaked and stunned… 

“...Oh.”

Like he didn’t think you could mean that.

Like no one ever has.

But you do. God, you do. 

As you pull his jeans down further, as you free him completely, you want every inch of him. Not for possession, not for conquest, but for closeness. To give him back to himself in the most vulnerable, raw, exquisite, helpless way.

He’s already too sensitive, too spent, but your mouth?

God, your mouth.

It’s not just pleasure. Not even close. 

It’s love. 

It’s full-blown love. Unwavering, unconditional, unrelenting.

Even if neither of you says it. 

Even if the word hangs unsaid, unneeded, suspended in the air like a shared hallucination. 

You take his overwhelming length into your mouth like it’s instinct… reverent and hungry and impossibly gentle, all at once, and his whole body jolts like he’s short-circuiting.

“Ah—oh my fffffucking hell—” Steve grits out, hips twitching like he’s trying not to move but can’t stop it.

Your hands are on his bare thighs now, grounding him, keeping him steady as his fingers dig and fist into your hair and then flail wildly for something. Anything to hold onto. He knocks over a couch cushion, clutches at the edge of the armrest, then ends up just gripping the hem of his own damn shirt like a lifeline along with your hair.

“Shitshitshit, babe, you’re gonna—you’re actually gonna kill me,” he babbles, the words all melting together now. “You’re not—you’re not even a—a person, you’re an angel, the devil, a witch, what the fuck, Hop, what… w-what do you want from me—please, tell me—”

But you don’t answer.

You just keep going.

Keep giving.

And he’s unraveling. Whimpering, then cursing, then laughing like he doesn’t know whether to cry or scream. Steve’s head thumps back against the wall and he stares down at you like he’s afraid to blink.

“Please,” he begs, “please, just tell me what you want—fuck, what do you want from me, Hop, baby—”

He’s shaking now, violently, his breath hitching, sobs nearly breaking through as he chants the word over and over please, please, please, but your hands just hold him steady while your mouth never stops moving with him, never stops giving, never stops loving.

You moan and drool around him like it’s quenching years of thirst.

And whenever Steve finally comes again, it’s with the sort of noise that splits the air in half. Raw. Shattering. Beautiful. His thighs seize, his large hands fisting in your hair. And he watches you. 

Steve forces himself to watch you, as you swallow all of it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And then he collapses.

Just folds, slumps back against the couch, one arm flopped over his eyes, chest rising like he’s just been dragged out of a warzone.

You crawl up beside him and lie there quietly, your hand still resting on his bare stomach, against his toned abs. He twitches under it like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or morbidly beg for mercy after it’s already been done. The overstimulation ripples through him for a long time in euphorically blissed out waves, and you let it while the most surreal sort of adoration courses through your veins with lovesick satisfaction.

After a long, long moment… he barely mutters… 

“…think I saw God.”

You smirk against his shoulder. “Was he impressed?”

Steve turns his head. Blinks at you. 

“You’re not allowed to be funny right now,” he says hoarsely, but it’s already cracking into a grin. “Christ, Hop, you just—I just—”

“Yeah, Harrington, you did.”

You’re grinning so brightly at him, you’d think you hadn’t just lost your father for all of a few seconds. He groans, flopping his other arm over his face now. 

“Knew I shouldn’t have gone off what Mike said...”

You snort. “Yeah, honestly Harrington? Not your best move.”

Steve huffs. “Well after this, we can never look at any of those shits in the face again.”

You laugh softly. “Good thing we’re out here in the woods.”

“Yeah, for now,” he mutters. “Until Mike Wheeler goes full Dracula and writes it in his damn diary and it spreads through the party like a goddamn virus. Oh wait, kidding. Already happened.”

You blink. “Wait. So everyone else already knows?”

Steve lifts his arm and glares at you. 

“…You didn’t even make it a day, Hop.”

“I didn’t tell him! Or even mention my going.”

“So it really was just based on how he took what El said?” he frowns.

You nod sheepishly.

He groans loudly, hands to his face. “Oh, come on, dude. I haven’t even fully processed the whole ‘you gave me a spiritual awakening with your mouth’ thing. Now I gotta emotionally prep for Robin giving me a thumbs up next week at lunch.”

You chuckled deeply, fond and head over heels for him. “Thumbs up for what we just did, or…?”

“No, for my Freudian slip-up. I’m still processing what we just did.”

“Babe,” you snorted. “You already told Robin…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve pouts, grimacing at himself. “Don’t really know why. Nothing she could do about it other than whine with me.”

“You say that like you don’t love her approval.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “That’s not the point.”

You bite your lip, your eyes tracing his features.

There’s a beat. The two of you are quiet. 

Then Steve turns to you. And he finds you smiling at him, warm and tender and terrifyingly open. All for him. Just for him.

…Jesus, he wonders. Have you always looked at him like that?

Your fingers trace his bicep, cheek nestled into the crook of your arm, lips ghosting over his bicep as you gently grin up at him through your lashes. Your gaze is almost timid, yet teasing.

“You ever think you could do that?” you asked, murmured against the crook of your arm, your breath fanning over his bicep. “Feel good twice, back to back, 'til you see stars?”

He sighs. Then he speaks again, and his voice is softer. 

Less shaky, more him.

“I think I can do anything,” he murmurs. “If you’re near me.”

You stare at him.

And suddenly, he panics again. “I didn’t mean—fuck, that sounds so codependent—”

“No, hey. Steve.” 

You stop him with a hand pressed to his chest. Right over his heart. 

“It sounds real,” you murmur. “That’s real. S’alright, it’s… mutual.”

He breathes, his eyes never leaving yours. And then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, he confesses out loud… whether it's by mistake or intentionally…

“I really don’t think I can live in a different city than you.”

Or state.

Or country.

Or lifetime.

Your eyes sparkle as you stare back at him, a smile sweeping across your face. “Good. I don’t wanna.”

He keeps staring at you, as if hoping you might say more.

So you do. “Where I go, you go.”

Steve’s big doe eyes gaze into yours, and now there’s a smile behind them. A sad one, a tragic one. But a relieved one nevertheless. 

Even if this thing between you never changes into more.

Even if it never has a name or label or any orthodox definition.

Right now, you just stay there beside him, tucked inside the couch at your dad’s cabin, the shadows still warm with grief and healing and everything in between. You don’t move.

And Steve? He doesn’t ask you to. 

But he lets himself need it. Just this once.

Just forever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Hanging On, Letting Go

LATE 1985

The BMW coughed once before the engine evened out. Steve Harrington was on edge, but in that restless, jittery way that wasn’t bad — not bad at all. It was the sort of nervousness you get when you’re on your way to something you wanted. Something you missed.

You.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel at the red light, checked the clock again, and cursed under his breath. He’d left early on purpose. Didn’t matter. Time was crawling. You’d been in California for the last five days, and it might as well have been five weeks. Keith hadn’t granted him the time off again, unlike last month when traveling out there with you. He’d already gotten a raise, which was honestly a big surprise. Because Keith wasn’t the giving type, plus him and Robin were barely four months into working there now. So the raise almost felt too good to be true.

Which, it was.

Because it’s exactly what Keith used against him when declining the time off.

Steve was pissed. You weren’t, though. Of course, you were disappointed, but not with Steve. He needed the money so that he could eventually get the hell out of his parent’s house and add it to his secret hush money in his savings account.

“Trust me,” you’d told him last week, while packing your duffel. “All we’re gonna be doing is whatever form of sister bonding time El’s got in mind, and I’m gonna cook all week so that Joyce can get a damn break.”

“Yeah, and I should be there helping,” Steve had moped, tossing you the travel sized bottles of toiletries that he’d now successfully packaged into a thick ziploc.

“You are helping,” you smirked at him warmly. “Literally, you’re double-ziplocking every single one of my liquids and going full blown Mr. Mom on me with this damn carry-on.”

“Umm, yeah? You’re welcome?”

“You’re also dropping me off, and picking me up.”

“That’s the bare minimum of best friendship,” he’d deadpanned.

Steve remembers the way that you’d slowly nodded at that, eyes on your duffel bag.

…friendship.

…best friendship.

You’d hummed, zipping up your duffel with mock flourish, flipping on a dime as you smugly grinned at him while leaning over the packed bag, resting on your forearms. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to bring you back a stupid little walk of fame souvenir, and make sure El calls you whenever she opens her gift from you and the kids.”

That finally earned a coy little smile from him.

The station never hesitated giving you a weekend off to go visit El. Or well, not El. “Jane.” That’s what she was named on paper, all thanks to your dad along with Sam Owens. No one ever hesitated to give you anything, given your dad’s passing.

Not that you ever asked for anything else. Ever.

Which only made Callahan and Powell want to help you more.

It gave Steve some peace of mind, knowing that you had them at work. Which honestly made him laugh, especially now, right as he drove past the movie theatre where he’d gone full asshole mode, back in ‘83, whenever he and Tommy H. and Carol had spray painted the display sign out front. Back when he was so miserably lonely and whipped for Nancy and bitter after finding Jonathan in her room… then chased down the alleyway by both Callahan and Powell.

He’d narrowly escaped that. And now, all he could do was be grateful that those two cops never gave him shit when seeing him hanging out with you. Like… ever.

That was likely all thanks to you.

And that thought alone made him softly smile to himself, snorting under his breath as he glanced at the rearview mirror, briefly watching the movie theatre get further away.

What a time to have been alive, Steve morbidly thinks to himself.

The gas station came up on the right, so he flicked the blinker, slid into the lot, and pulled up to the pump. Full tank. Couldn’t risk running late. He wanted to be standing right there when your flight came in, wanted to be the first face you saw when you walked out of the gate, wanted—

“God, Harrington.” He muttered it out loud, shaking his head with half a laugh. “You’re pathetic.”

Except he didn’t feel pathetic. He felt alive, given newfound purpose.

The nozzle clicked into place and he leaned against the car, watching the numbers tick higher. The spring air was sharp but sweet, carrying the faint scent of gasoline, fried food from the diner across the lot, and the steady hum of Hawkins’ nothingness. He tugged a hand through his hair, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

That’s when a faded blue Corolla pulled into the pump across from him.

And that’s when Nancy Wheeler stepped out.

She hadn’t expected to see him. Also, she was tired. She’d been tired for weeks now, with journalism deadlines stacking and Jonathan’s calls getting shorter and shorter, his voice distant even through the crackle of the line. She’d convinced herself it was fine — that distance was distance, nothing more. 

But seeing Steve now?

It hit like a gut punch.

Because he looked… good. Not just good, but different. Steady. Confident in this quiet, unshowy way she didn’t remember from before. The polo was tucked, his forearms tan, his hair a little longer than it used to be, catching the sunlight. Or maybe just less styled. He was smiling to himself, like he had a secret.

A secret that wasn’t her.

Nancy hated the flare of heat that crept up her throat.

“Steve.”

His head snapped up, and then he grinned. Not the charming, sweet grin that he used to save just for her, even after things had gone bad between them. No, this was genuine, easy, warm.

…platonic.

“Nance,” he said, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Hey. Wow. Uh—hey.”

They stood there for a beat too long, both pretending not to notice the hesitation.

Nancy forced a small smile, sliding her debit card into the machine. “On your way to work?”

“Nah, off today. Airport run.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Picking up Hopper.”

Her hand froze mid-motion. She pressed her lips together before she could stop herself. “Oh.”

It was ridiculous — it wasn’t like Nancy hadn’t seen you around with him, hadn’t clocked the way his eyes followed you, how protective he got, how it was just… different. Everyone saw it. Everyone.

Still, hearing it out loud was something else.

Nancy kept her tone neutral. “That’s nice.”

Steve tilted his head. “What about you? Work?”

She nodded, gripping the pump handle. “Hawkins Post. Deadline day.”

“Right, right. Chasing down the truth, huh?” His voice was light, teasing. But there was a flicker there, a flash of something more pointed.

Her jaw tensed. “Someone has to.”

Steve nodded slowly, glancing at the gasoline meter before offering her a small, kind smile. “You always were good at that,” he said easily. “Getting to the bottom of things. Regardless of anyone else not pulling their weight, or y’know. Dragging their feet.”

That was a bigger compliment than anything Nancy has received from Jonathan ever since she’d gotten this job. Maybe even since they’d been interns together last summer. Better yet? At all. Ever since they’d met and gotten close, back in ‘82.

Nancy now shuffled her feet, feeling herself flush, despite her heart feeling blue.

“Thanks, Steve,” she said quietly, giving him a tight smile and nod.

The conversation should’ve stayed there, should’ve died a quiet death underneath the buzz of the pumps and the squawk of a crow overhead or the passing cars. But it didn’t, even as they stood at separate gasoline pumps. 

Because Nancy couldn’t stop glancing at him. At the way he shifted on his heels, restless, like he couldn’t wait to get moving. At the way his smile lingered every time he said your name.

Because Steve couldn’t stop noticing how sharp her tone had gone, how her eyes narrowed just a little too much when he’d mentioned you.

“You look good, Steve,” she said suddenly, almost too quickly, like she needed to get it out before she lost her nerve.

He blinked. “Thanks.” A pause. “So do you.”

But he didn’t linger on it. Steve didn’t fold into the compliment like he used to, back when a word from her could level him and make him feel more than anyone else ever could. He just smiled politely, checked the ticking numbers on the pump, and went back to waiting.

Nancy felt her stomach twist. “Been… busy?” she asked.

“Yeah. You know. Work. The kids.” He shrugged. “Keeping Hop above water.”

You again. Always you. 

Always Hopper.

The name again, so casual on his tongue, like it belonged there. Like you belonged there, carrying on the name of a man who had died for all of you and hadn’t deserved it.

Just like Barb.

Nancy’s throat tightened. “You spend a lot of time together, huh?”

Steve raised a brow, caught the edge in her voice. He squinted, just barely. “Yeah. Especially given… you know, everything.”

After your dad died.

After your sanity went out the window.

After you were left lying about the way that he’d died.

…just like how Nancy had been left having to lie about how Barb died, and now had to face on her own, without Jonathan.

Just like she’d had to do without Steve.

…unlike you.

“Glad she’s got you,” Nancy said stiffly, boring a hole into the swiftly ticking numbers of her gas pump.

Steve’s eyes narrowed at her more now, regardless of his shade blocking the sun. He caught it. Her tone. Her underlying bitterness towards him, for not being there for her whenever Barb died. For not being the person that she could lean on, no matter what. For not being a better boyfriend to her.

It made guilt flood through Steve’s veins. But it didn’t erase the sharp flicker of defensiveness he felt. Not towards himself, but for you.

“Someone’s gotta be there for her,” he said flatly.

He watched Nancy nod curtly at that, humming once. 

But she didn’t soften. At all. Not even a little bit. Because you weren’t even his girlfriend and yet somehow got treated like one anyway. At least compared to her, who barely got Steve to join her at Barb’s parents whenever they'd go over for dinner to help support them in their grief.

Now Steve supports your grief in every single fucking way.

With airport pickups and drop-off’s.

With bringing you food at the station, and doughnuts to the officers in mourning.

With picking up the kids, including Mike – her own brother, for God’s sake.

She exhaled deeply through her nose, all but glaring at the pump before yanking it out of her car to slap back into its holster.

Steve’s posture instantly tensed another several fractions, almost statuesque still with newly boiling rage. “Sorry, is that a problem?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “Of course not.”

But it came too fast. Too sharp. 

And they both knew it.

The silence that pressed in was heavy for a moment.

Steve finally swallowed, looking away. He hadn’t thought about Nancy like this in a long time. Honestly, he barely thought about her at all anymore, and it startled him to realize it. Once, she’d been the center of his world. Once, he’d have done anything for her, even when he wasn’t good at it.

And now?

Well, now he was standing at a Shell Station, itching to get to you, and realizing that he didn’t owe Nancy Wheeler a damn thing. Even if he’d fucked up in the past. Even if he’d been a shitty boyfriend, whenever it came down to Barb and being there for the loss of her. 

Because unlike Nancy Wheeler, he wasn’t shitty in the fidelity department.

He hadn’t gone and fallen in love with someone else while they were together. He hadn’t gone off to solve mysteries with another girl, like she had, then slept with them while still in the “are we breaking up or not” phase of things, pre-actual-breakup. 

No, unlike Nancy? Steve had actually waited. He’d waited until he knew that she was gone, and after he’d told her that it was okay. Then, and only then, had he gone over to your house to patch up his face then ended up in a tangled mess of naked limbs and desperate sex with you. Only then had he begun to move on and pursue whatever the hell it was that he shared with you, and never seemed to find with any of the other dates he’d gone on with girls a little while after that. Barely went on now.

But it still stung, seeing the hurt flicker across Nancy’s face.

“Look,” he said finally, softer, “I should get going. Her plane lands soon.”

Nancy nodded too quickly, blinking hard. “Sure. Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

She tried to smile, but it wavered.

He almost said something more. Almost. But then the pump clicked, his tank full, and the moment ended.

“See you around, Nance.”

And just like that, he was gone — sliding into the BMW, peeling out of the lot, the sunlight flashing against his windshield as he drove toward you.

Nancy stood at the pump for a long while, even after it clicked off. Then she sat in her car a minute longer, hands gripping the wheel. She didn’t cry at first. She bit it back, dug her nails into her palms, told herself she had no right. No right to cry.

But the tears came anyway, hot and angry, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Because she hadn’t wanted him anymore. Not really. She loved Jonathan. She did, she does. She swears that she does.

But now, seeing Steve Harrington like that… so steady, so sure, already halfway gone to someone else? Maybe all the way gone for someone else?

It gutted her.

Because she’d broken up with the boy who didn’t know how to be there for her.

And now, years later, he finally knew how.

Just not for her.

For you.

You got the young man he was becoming, and he didn’t even owe it to you.

Nancy wiped her eyes, restarted her car and pulled out of the station, telling herself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t change anything, it wasn’t anything she should feel upset about, and it was cruel to think this way when you were left fatherless and without a sister. The one you’d grown up with, and the one that you had taken in with Jim Hopper before he passed and you had to send her off to safety and rarely ever see.

But the hollow ache in her chest said otherwise.

🤍

Then, like a glitching animatronic, his hand slowly rose and swatted the air in a lazy arc, nowhere near the damn source of the offending kernel. He grunted softly in protest before resuming his slumber.

“I mean… he’s technically alive,” Steve offered from the loveseat beside you, head propped up on an elbow that dug into the arm, watching Mike with something between horror and admiration. “But that was a delayed reaction if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Maybe we should put a mirror underneath his nose,” you suggested, deadpan.

“Or a match,” your dad muttered. “See if he flinches.”

“Jim.” You swatted at your father’s shin with your socked foot.

He just shrugged. “What? Not saying I want him dead. Just saying if he was, at least it’d be quieter around here.”

“Not when he’s like this,” Steve said, tilting his head at Mike, who had just made a soft, half-snore, half-sigh sort of noise that sounded suspiciously like he was dreaming about El. “This is the only time I like him.”

“You’re such a good influence,” you smirked.

“I know.” Steve grinned at you, unbothered.

Over on the other side of the couch, opposite from your dad, Max yawned so hard she nearly knocked into Lucas, who was blinking slowly and clearly losing his own battle against sleep. They were curled up on the far end of the sectional, a heap of limbs and junk food wrappers. Lucas looked like he’d just finished running a marathon. A true fourteen-year-old who’d maxed out every bit of energy being a summer menace with his friends and eating way too much fucking pizza. His head was resting sideways, his mouth parting slightly as he leaned deeper into the cushions.

Dustin, meanwhile, was sprawled face-up on the damn floor like a sugar-crashed toddler, just inches from the TV, staring glossy-eyed at the credits. 

“The light is still so bright,” he mumbled.

“It’s the credits,” Will said kindly.

“It’s my grave,” Dustin replied flatly.

“Dude,” Max muttered. “Same.”

Your dad sighed as he checked the time, glancing at his watch. Then he glanced around at the human wreckage of teens slumped across Steve Harrington’s living room.

“Alright,” he grunted, half-standing, groaning with his bad knees. “I should probably get outta here. Don’t wanna deal with the morning rush hour on top of all this.” He gestured vaguely toward the teen apocalypse around him.

“I can get El home,” you said immediately, already standing and stretching your arms overhead with a yawn. “It’s no problem.”

But before he could answer, Max’s sleepy voice piped up from the couch. “Can she stay here instead?”

Jim looked at her.

Max yawned again and blinked hard. “She can sleep in the guest room. With—” She gestured vaguely toward you. “I just wanna have a sleepover if that’s cool. You know. Too much boy time.”

Your dad’s brow furrowed, uncertain.

“She’ll be with me,” you reassured him. “I’ll stay with her.” You turned to Steve. “As long as it’s good with you.”

Steve sat up straighter from his spot on the floor. “Totally fine with me. Seriously. I mean, everyone’s already here. And like…” He trailed off, gesturing again toward Mike’s lifeless form, then Dustin’s sugar-coma self. “They’re not going anywhere.”

That was true enough.

Hopper looked around the room once more, taking in the sleeping forms of the kids, the absolute comfort on El’s face, and the way you were already moving toward the hallway to get things ready without a trace of stress. His hesitation melted into something softer. Something a little weightier. Parental. 

He stood fully and moved toward Eleven. 

She looked up at him immediately, eyes hopeful.

“Can I stay?” she asked softly.

He sighed deeply. “You’re makin’ it real hard to say no when you do the puppy eyes,” Jim grumbled.

She stood and opened her arms without a word. And he walked right into them, hugging her close.

Behind her, Mike let out a snort as he kept sleeping.

Jim glanced down at him, then gave the back of his head the most intense I am watching you even in death type of glare imaginable.

“I don’t trust that kid,” he muttered to Steve.

“Psh,” Steve just shrugged. “Makes two of us.”

“Where are they sleeping?” Jim asked, pulling back from El’s hug. He nodded at Max, referring to her and the girl in his arms.

“With me,” you said from the hallway. “Guest room downstairs.”

“And the boys?”

“Basement or up here,” Steve verified. “Wherever they pass out.”

“Your folks don’t mind?” Jim raised a brow. 

You glanced at Steve, who just shook his head, too nonchalantly. 

“My parents are out of town, so—”

Jim blinked. “Still?”

“Cruise,” Steve said. “Caribbean this time, I think.”

There was something cold in the air then. Quiet. 

Almost too quiet.

Jim looked at him a little longer than necessary, the easy humor slipping from his face. It wasn’t that Steve looked upset. He didn’t. If anything, he looked fine. Too fine. The way people do when they’ve spent so long not being checked on that they’ve gotten used to the absence.

“They ever call?” Jim asked finally.

Steve gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Not lately. Reception’s spotty in paradise, I guess.”

He said it with a light grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not really. You watched him with a sort of sadness that you rarely ever expressed for someone with words, let alone with facial expressions. But it radiated from your eyes, the empathy and melancholy understanding that you held for him shining through your pupils.

Hopper watched him a beat longer, then gave a quiet grunt and turned back toward the door. “Well,” he said, reaching for his jacket. “Don’t let anyone die while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” you said, tossing him his keys.

He caught them. “Seriously,” he said, quieter now, stepping past you. “Call if anything happens.”

You nodded, already shifting into the hallway behind him, lingering near the front door.

But before he could go, Hopper turned back. Not quite ready yet. He stepped once more into the living room and made his way to Steve.

There was no dramatic pause. No speech. Just a hand offered, firm and unshaking.

“Thanks for dinner.”

Steve stood up immediately to meet it, startled but not ungrateful. 

“Yeah. Thanks for coming over.”

“You’re a decent guy,” Hopper muttered, giving a solid handshake. “And a damn good host. I can vouch for that.”

You silently grimaced.

Oof, yeah. Your dad had definitely gotten some late-night calls from neighbors complaining about the partying that took place. 

“Yeah,” Steve smiled, half a wince. “Yeah. I get that a lot.” He makes a face. “Or well. Used to. Y’know, whenever I’d throw parties and rightfully get busted by you for ‘em.”

Hopper actually chuckled at that, all air out his nose, right before he turned to you.

And that was different.

His burly arms opened without question. And you, yawning, but not pretending to be tougher than you were, walked right into them. Your dad wrapped you up tight in his hold, like maybe he was grounding himself. 

Tight like he had to, or else maybe he wouldn’t be able to leave. 

There was no need for dramatics between you two. You’d never been a sentimental pair. Neither of you was good with that. But that only made the rare moments like this mean so much more. Quiet and unspoken and real.

His chin brushed the top of your head. You breathed in the scent of wood smoke, cheap cigs and gas station coffee.

“Take care of yourself, alright?” he murmured into your hair, his voice almost too low for anyone else to hear. “Don’t try to take care of everyone.”

You gave a small, stubborn shrug into his chest. “No promises.”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Yup.”

He sighed heavily and pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Pain in my ass.”

“Love you too.”

Then, still holding you by the shoulders, he caressed your hair with one giant hand, before ruffling it up. All messy, and affectionate, and completely unapologetic. And for once, you didn’t shove him off or make a face. You just smiled. Sleepy, warm, content.

You’ve been his girl from the start.

Behind you, Steve had gone still. Not out of discomfort. Not jealousy. Just something quieter. More reverent, and observant.

It wasn’t lost on him, the way that Jim Hopper looked at you, his first born, and the way you softened in his arms. The weight of it. The history in it. And Steve didn’t feel bitter, or envious, or shut out like he might’ve once upon a time when witnessing something like this. 

Not tonight. 

Not when it looked like this.

Steve knew what your dad meant to you. Meant, in the most literal, life-anchoring sense of the word. He also knew what it had cost both of you to be this close. 

The sister you’d lost. The mother who couldn’t bear to stay. How grief had made everything hollow for a while, and yet you and Hopper had somehow managed to climb back toward something solid again. Something stitched together, ragged but strong.

Steve hadn’t grown up with this kind of love. But watching it now, it didn’t make him ache the way it used to. It made him grateful.

Because whatever hole had been left in your life, you’d still fought to fill it. And this? This unspoken affection, this sharp, protective, and scarred kind of true love between a daughter and her dad… It was something you let Steve witness. Something you shared with him without fighting it.

Hopper gave your shoulder a final squeeze and glanced toward El, who was smiling faintly at both of you from the couch. Then, he stepped toward the door again.

“She looks good,” he said, glancing back at you one last time with a small smile. “Happy.”

You matched his expression. “She is.”

Jim nodded. “You did that.”

There was no grand gesture to the way he said it. Just simple truth, weighty and unadorned. You didn’t answer. Instead, you just smiled softly at him and watched him go, after he hugged you one last time.

You sighed with ease, turning around to see Steve giving you a rare, tender smirk. It made your cheeks feel warm. Then, just as your eyes began to flutter closed in a sleepy yawn…

A groan.

A long, dramatic groan.

Followed by the slow, scraping shuffle of socks on hardwood.

You both looked over just in time to see Mike Wheeler — disheveled, dazed, absolutely haunted — rising like some cursed, sleep-deprived revenant from the underworld.

He blinked blearily at you.

“…Where’s El?” he croaked, voice like gravel in a blender.

Steve didn’t miss a beat. “She left you,” he said.

Mike froze. “…What?”

“Gone. Took Max, stole my car, said you snored too loud.”

Mike’s entire soul seemed to leave his body. “Wha—”

“She’s in the guest room,” you sighed, cutting Steve off, trying not to laugh. “Go back to sleep, Michael.”

Mike blinked. 

Then blinked again. 

Then groaned and slowly sank back down onto the floor right where he’d been sleeping like a vampire.

“…I dreamed we were in hell,” he muttered.

“Not a dream,” Dustin said without opening his eyes. “You just sat between Steve and Hopper for two hours.”

You snickered under your breath. 

Steve grinned, but it was softer now. Quieter. Because somehow, this was what survival looked like. Kids dozing on his floor. Found family scattered like forgotten laundry across his furniture. Quiet that didn’t mean danger anymore. Quiet that just… was.

All their eyes were closed, and right as Max padded down the long hallway with El, Steve felt your hand slip into his.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence in his house felt safe.

“Gonna go settle ‘em in,” you murmured to him.

Steve watched you go. 

The low rumble of Hopper’s cruiser disappearing into the summer night sounded off from the other side of the closed door of his house. You didn’t linger long, just stood there for a second or two, letting the silence settle before moving down the hall to check on Max and El as he stayed behind in the living room, making sure all four of the boys were taken care of.

Blankets. Pillows. Some half-hearted grumbling from Mike when Steve tossed one at his face, but otherwise, no complaints.

Dustin was half-asleep already, still slouched against the beanbag he’d sunk into hours ago. Will wasn’t far behind him, curling up quietly into another beanbag on the floor with his hoodie tugged halfway over his head. Lucas was full-on dead to the world, sprawled out on the couch on his stomach, one arm dangling dramatically over the edge like he’d passed out mid-sentence. Mike had somehow managed to stay in the recliner the whole night, his legs tucked up awkwardly and his mouth hanging open just a little.

Steve moved between them gently, pulling a second blanket up over Will, draping one across Mike’s lap. He grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and slid it under Dustin’s arm where he was cradling his walkie like it was a stuffed animal.

It was kind of stupid, how fond he felt all of a sudden.

They were safe. Finally. And if that meant letting them all crash in the middle of your living room like overgrown puppies, then so be it. He’d take this over last fall’s chaos ten times over.

From down the hall, he could hear your voice — all low and steady, softened by the walls. You were probably giving Max and El the whole don’t stay up too late spiel, even though everyone in the house knew damn well they would. And also knew you didn’t care.

It was summer. They deserved that.

Especially after everything.

Steve was just grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen when his wall phone chirped, ringing through the gentle silence of his house. He walked towards it, answering it quickly before it could disturb the boys and wake them in alarm.

“Harrington residence,” he said with ease.

“Hey, it’s me.”

Nancy.

Steve straightened. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she said, breezy like she wasn’t surprised he picked up on the first ring. “We’re just leaving Joyce’s now. Jonathan’s grabbing the keys, so I figured I’d check in and let you know l know we’re on the way to get Will.”

Steve rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry about it. He’s spending the night.”

“Oh.” A beat. “He is?”

“Yeah. All the kids are. Everyone just crashed.”

Nancy was quiet for a second longer than she needed to be. Then, “…everyone?”

Steve blinked, slow. “Yeah.”

“As in… like, Dustin, Lucas, Mike?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And… Max? El?”

He leaned against the kitchen counter, exhaling through his nose. “Yep.”

Another pause. 

And then, carefully, she dared to ask more. 

“Is… Hopper okay with that?”

Steve shrugged irritatedly, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. He was just here. Left a little while ago.”

“Oh.”

It was a small word. Flat. Noncommittal. But something about the way she said it made the back of Steve’s neck prickle.

He waited, almost bracing himself for impact.

Sure enough…

“Is…” Nancy trailed off like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t care. Like she was totally chill, like she was just voicing a nearly forgotten afterthought. “Is she staying, too? Hoppette?”

Steve straightened without meaning to.

“Yeah,” he said easily. “She’s here.”

Silence. Not a heavy kind. Not dramatic. Just… the kind that said too much by saying nothing.

Steve frowned. “Why?” he asked.

“What?”

“Why do you sound weird about that?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Nancy sighed, quick and defensive. “Steve, I’m just asking. You made it sound like this was a whole group thing and I was just surprised. That’s all.”

“Well, it is a group thing. That’s why I’m saying, don’t—” He huffed. “Don’t drive over here. Will’s already asleep. They all are.”

“…Right.”

Steve didn’t know what made his jaw tighten just then. Maybe the way she said ‘right,’ like she didn’t believe him. Or like she was pretending not to care when she clearly did. As if she had any right to do either one.

They weren’t together. Hadn’t been for a long time now.

She had Jonathan.

She’d picked Jonathan.

So why did it still feel like a trap every time they had a conversation that drifted even near this territory?

Steve didn’t owe her anything. Not a damn fucking thing. But still, he kept his voice calm. Cool. 

Final.

“Everyone’s fine,” he said. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

I’m not yours to worry about anymore.

That was the subtext, and it landed.

Nancy hesitated. Just long enough to make him notice. Then she said, “Okay. Tell Will we’ll come get him in the morning, then.”

“I will. When he’s up.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night.”

He hung up before she could say anything else. And then he just stood there for a moment, his hand still pressed to the side of the phone.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. That strange sort of taste paired with heavy weight behind the ribs that only happened whenever something you thought you were over came back like a bruise getting pressed too hard.

He hadn’t thought about Nancy much lately. Not in that way. 

Not since everything with you had started to blur into… something more. Something unorthodox but consistent, low and tangled and undefined. 

Which only made it more dangerous.

But hearing Nancy’s voice like that… 

Hearing the catch in it…?

It reminded him of last fall. Of how messy everything had been. How he’d loved her, really loved her, and watched her leave anyway, calling him bullshit and dismissing their relationship like it had never even mattered to begin with.

Steve didn’t know what irritated him more: that she still sounded like she might care, or that he still gave a damn whether she did.

From the hallway, soft giggling filtered out from the guest room. Max and El. The creak of the mattress as someone shifted. And then your voice, low and warm and amused.

“Max, if you eat one more piece of candy, I swear to God—”

A burst of laughter twinkled through the hall. More whispering. The rustle of sheets.

Steve closed his eyes and let himself smile. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t triumphant. It was sad, maybe. But it was real.

Because the sound of your voice, alive and easy like that… that was what mattered to him most, more than all of the other uncertainties stirring up inside him right now, because he’s here. 

Right now, he’s here.

And strangely? Here is where he wants to be.

By the time you got back from tucking Eleven into the guest room with Max (who had miraculously rallied long enough to lend El a t-shirt and mumble something about girls sticking together), the house had mostly gone still. Steve was on the couch now, one leg tucked beneath him, an arm over the backrest like he’d been waiting.

The hallway was dim as you padded quietly back toward the living room, only to find Steve sitting there like a dream, with his head tilted slightly toward Dustin… who had not moved a single inch since your dad left.

You nudged Steve’s shoulder as you passed him. “Come on, Harrington. You’ve earned a good night’s sleep in your bed.”

“I kinda dig the couch,” he said.

You paused. “Seriously?”

He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not the worst.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you saying that as some former jock who just needs to defy all odds and be ‘chill’ by being stubborn for no good reason, or as a hovering mother hen to these ducklings you’ve taken in as your own?”

“…Yes.”