#nancy

“Okay,” Jonathan said, clearing his throat, fingers tightening around his mug. “So. Are we gonna adress the elephant in the room, or…?”

The base of your cup hit the wooden table with a soft knock, not loud, just enough to draw his attention. Jonathan looked at you the way only an older brother could, careful and sympathetic, already bracing himself for whatever might spill. He always had that look, like he was afraid of stepping wrong and breaking something fragile.

The coffee shop was curated to be calming. Low lights, exposed brick, a chalkboard menu that didn’t try too hard to be trendy. The cappuccino was good and the pecan cake was sweet without being cloying.

This was your life now.

After Vecna was defeated, after Hawkins stitched itself back together as best it could, the only thing that made sense was leaving. Running, really. Away from a town that had swallowed most of your adolescence whole, a place that took your innocence, chewed it up, and never bothered to apologize.

People died there. People you loved.

NYU had felt like oxygen, a clean inhale after years of breathing smoke. Jonathan had gotten in too, and even though you lived in the same city, your lives rarely overlapped.

That was the magic of New York. You could disappear in it, become someone new.

Still, some habits never die.

Once a month, without fail, you and Jonathan picked a different café, sat for hours, talked about classes, professors, projects, laughed until your faces hurt, and pretended, just a little, that you were normal siblings in a normal city with normal lives.

Sometimes, it was easy. Like today.

Jonathan was animated, hands moving as he talked about a short film he was working on for class, something experimental, political, definitely anti-capitalist. His eyes were bright in a way you didn’t see often. 

You hadn’t seen that look much. Except when—

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice light, airy, and entirely dishonest.

You did know. Of course you did. You’d just been very careful not to.

There were rules to starting over. Unspoken ones: You didn’t talk about the ghosts.

Jonathan sighed, shoulders dropping as he toyed with a handful of sugar packets. “You do,” he muttered. “You got the invitation.”

The invitation.

It sat on your desk back home, buried under unopened mail and old receipts. Cream-colored paper. Neat lettering. It had a way of catching your eye at night, like it was waiting for you to acknowledge it.

But hearing it out loud did something else entirely.

Steve Harrington’s wedding.

You took another sip of coffee, ignoring the sudden tightness in your throat. Jonathan was reading you, scanning the micro-expressions you were trying so hard to suppress.

“It’s next month,”  he added, his voice softening into a plea. He was offering you a doorway.

You set the cup down carefully. “Tell them I said congratulations. And that I wish them the best.”

Jonathan frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows hovering near the table, posture folding in on itself the way it always did when he was nervous or about to say something he’d rehearsed too many times in his head.

“As your older brother,” he started.

You scoffed. “You’re older by a year.”

“That still counts,” he said, then hesitated. “I just… I don’t want you to regret the things you didn’t do.  I don’t want you to wake up five years from now wondering if you should’ve done something different.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I don’t want you to do what I did,” he finished quietly.

“With Nancy?”

Jonathan pressed his lips together, nodded once. “Yeah. With Nancy.”

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, it was just heavy. It was the weight of two people who had survived the end of the world only to realize they didn't know how to live in the one that was left.

Outside, the New York traffic roared on, indifferent and fast. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” You stopped yourself, then tried again. “Have you talked to her?” You shrugged, though your shoulders felt heavier than they had a moment ago.

Jonathan shook his head.

Nancy Wheeler remained another subject neither of you touched unless absolutely necessary. The love of your brother’s life. Brave, relentless, the kind of girl who would throw herself into danger without hesitation if it meant saving someone she loved.

You knew they weren’t together anymore. He hadn’t given you the details over coffee and cake, but you didn’t need them. The answer lived in the drained tension around his eyes, in the way his gaze drifted when her name came up. 

He wasn’t over her. He had just learned how to live around the hole she left behind.

“Not since she went to college,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Jonathan.”

“Don’t be, okay?” He offered a small, careful smile. “Nancy and I… we were complicated in our own way. But this isn’t about me and Nancy. It’s about you and Harrington.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Hearing his name out loud sent a chill straight down your spine, sharp and involuntary.

Sometimes, when the sky defiled into twilight and the city felt strangely hollow, the memories came back. Strong red lights. The tower tearing itself apart as the Abyss swallowed it whole. Steve’s body is thrown hard into the void, your knees buckling as a cry ripped from your throat before you even realized it was yours.

You always woke alone, heart racing, tears stinging behind your eyes, your chest aching with the weight of memories that never quite loosened their grip.

“There is no ‘me and Harrington,’” you said, folding your arms, already bracing yourself for an argument.

But once, there had been everything.

The summer of ’85. The sailor suit at Scoops Ahoy that should’ve been humiliating but somehow wasn’t. Becoming El and Max’s personal chauffeur under the excuse that it was too hot to stay home, that they needed air conditioning and the free ice cream Steve handed out like it was currency.

Somewhere along the way, you got close. Suddenly, you were spending every day with him and Robin, lingering during his shifts, laughing behind the counter, decoding Russian messages that dragged you all headfirst into blood, terror, and things no one your age should have survived.

You went through hell together, literally. Loving someone like that rewired you. It meant danger wasn’t just something to fear, it was something you met head-on, something you’d face without thinking if it meant keeping the other person safe.

Jonathan would understand that better than anyone.

Steve was getting married. Good for him. When the invitation arrived on a random Thursday after you came home from your internship, it felt unreal, like your eyes refused to process the words. Steve Harrington, married. Less than two years after everything you’d survived together. The nausea hit so hard you barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up the lunch you’d just eaten.

Not that you would ever say that out loud.

“Hey,” Jonathan said softly, his hand reaching across the table to tap the wood near yours. “Hey. Just think about it. Everyone’s going. Robin. Nancy. The kids.”

You stared at him, at the familiar concern written across his face, and found yourself without an answer.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “I don’t know, Jonathan. I don’t know if it’s exactly appropriate to show up at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding just to remind him of the time his life was a literal horror show.”

Jonathan paused, brow furrowing.

“I don’t think that’s how he sees you.”

“And how does he see me?” You leaned forward, arms resting on the table now, searching his face.

Your brother pressed his lips together, then leaned back in his chair.

“I guess,” he said softly, “you’ll have to go to find out.”

You said goodbye to your brother at your monthly meeting with a tight hug and a vague promise that you would think about it. The promise you gave Jonathan was a lie, and you both knew it.

In truth, you didn’t want to think about anything at all.

The moment you turned the key in your apartment door, you gave yourself exactly five seconds before reality came crashing down.

Your breathing fractured into sharp, jagged gasps. You dropped your keys onto the ceramic plate by the door with a jarring clatter, barely making it to the bed before your knees gave out. You collapsed, the weight of the last two years finally crushing you into the mattress. Muffled, ugly sobs filled the small loft.

Steve was getting married.

He was really, truly, finally belongs-to-someone-else getting married.

In that godforsaken town, amidst the rot and the shadows, you had known with a terrifying, bone-deep certainty that he was your epic love. The kind of love that didn't just happen, it forged you.

And there were so many proofs of it.

The evidence was written in the scars on your soul. It was the way he had clawed the Upside Down apart to find you when Vecna used you as bait. It was the way he had cried—shame-faced, gut-wrenching sobs—when the Russians beat you bloody, his voice breaking as he begged them to stop, offering his own life like it was nothing if they’d just leave you alone. It was the way the Mind Flayer had nearly snapped you in two, and Steve had been the only thing standing between you and death.

Every single time, he saved you.

Pretending you were over him was a full-time job, and you were exhausted. Even after the breakup, the one you initiated because you were so terrified of seeing him die that you thought letting him go was a preemptive strike against grief, he had still looked at you with that same, open devotion. Anyone with eyes could see it.

He still loved you. He was just waiting for you to come home.

And you never did.

The phone rang, vintage trill slicing through your breakdown.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and forced yourself upright, legs heavy as you crossed the room. When you lifted the receiver, you cleared your throat, coughing softly to disguise the damage.

“Hello?”

“Hey, babes. It’s Robin.”

"Hi, Robs."

Despite the hollow ache in your chest, a ghost of a smile touched your lips. Robin was the one constant you’d kept. Even after leaving for Smith, she’d written letters, sent photos, treating distance like a minor inconvenience she refused to acknowledge.

“Jesus,” she said immediately. “Are you sick? Your voice sounds terrible.”

A chill ran down your spine. “No. I mean... I don’t think so.”

“Well… okay.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then barreled on with characteristic Robin-velocity. “I just got back from my last class, and I really wanted to talk to you about something.” She put an unmistakable, heavy emphasis on the word really.

“I’m listening, Robs.”

“Okay. Right.” A pause. “Steve’s getting married, right? So I was thinking it might be nice if we—you, me, Nancy and Jonathan—stayed in Hawkins for a bit. You know. For old times’ sake.”

You held your breath, then let it out slowly as your forehead pressed against the worn wallpaper. 

“Oh my God,” Robin said, her voice dropping an octave. “You know about the wedding, don’t you?”

“Yes, Robs. I know he’s getting married.”

He. Never Steve. Never your Steve.

“Okay. Okay. Is this weird? Because if it is, I can just—”

“No, it’s not weird,” you interrupted, rubbing your temple. “Jonathan’s already on my case about it, and now you… I just—I don’t know if I’m going, okay?”

“Have you completely lost your beautiful mind?” Robin nearly shouted.

“My ear, Robin—Jeez!”

“Sorry! Sorry!” she rushed out, though her intensity didn't dim. “But what? Why? You have to go. It’s the end of an era! The hair-spray king is retiring!”

“I don’t think it’s the right choice. For anyone.”

“But it’s us,” she insisted, her voice softening into something more vulnerable. “The team isn’t complete without you. It’s just… it's wrong if you aren't there.”

“I get that, but—”

“Nope. Not hearing it,” Robin cut in, regaining her momentum. “I refuse to take no for an answer. I will literally drive to Manhattan and drag you across state lines in a trunk if I have to. And besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, “maybe this is exactly what you need.”

You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see it. “Robin, I—”

“I have to go, my roommate is glaring at me! We’ll talk soon! Love you, bye!”

The line went dead.

You stood there with the receiver still pressed to your ear, listening to the hollow silence where her voice had been, knowing, deep down, that Hawkins was already pulling you back.

Hawkins wasn't just a town. It was a gravity well. And it was already pulling you back into its orbit.

Steve was alone in the kitchen when the phone rang.

Late afternoon light slanted through the window, catching on the edges of stacked envelopes and carefully labeled folders spread across the counter. Place cards, seating charts, RSVP lists. His fiancée had an eye for details, Steve had learned to appreciate that. Order made things easier.

He wiped his hands on a dish towel, a domestic gesture that still felt slightly alien, and picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Buckley.”

“Wow. Straight to the last name. Formal groom energy already?” Robin said, breathless in that way that meant she’d been walking fast or thinking faster.

Steve huffed a soft laugh. “If you start making jokes about tuxedos, I’m hanging up, Robs. I mean it”

“Relax. I’m calling from a very non-tuxedo environment.” A pause. “You busy?”

He glanced at the counter, at the future he was meticulously planning. “Define busy.”

“Mentally busy.”

That made him hesitate. He shifted his weight, leaning his hip back against the counter, the cool stone pressing through his jeans. “Okay. Hit me.”

Robin exhaled. He could almost picture her pacing, pushing her hair back, winding the phone cord around her finger.

“So. I talked to her.”

The words landed quietly. No thunder, no crash.

Still, something in his chest went tight.

He closed his eyes for half a second before opening them again. “And?”

“She knows about the wedding.”

“Yeah, no way. I invited her, Robs.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“She might come, Steve.”

For a moment, the room felt too small.

It wasn’t panic that hit him, or even fear. It was memory, keen and unwelcome. Your laugh in the middle of chaos. The weight of your hand in his when everything else was falling apart. The way loving you had felt like standing in a burning building and deciding to stay anyway.

He forced himself to breathe.

“That’s—okay,” he said, the words careful, measured. “That makes sense.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately. Too immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Robin didn’t buy it. She never did. “You don’t have to do the whole cool guy thing with me.”

“I’m not.” He grabbed a stack of place cards and squared them against the counter, grounding himself in the motion. “I’m getting married, Rob. It’s fine.”

But not wholly.

Because he had spent two years learning how not to picture you in rooms he was trying to move on in. Because he had trained himself to think of you in past tense, like a chapter he survived instead of a story that kept going without his permission.

He loved his fiancée. Maybe not in the catastrophic, end-of-the-world way he had loved you but in a steadier way. A kinder way. One that didn’t involve blood or loss or learning how to say goodbye in the middle of a war.

The idea of seeing you again, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him like you knew him, really knew him, made his chest ache in a way he thought he’d outgrown.

Robin’s voice softened. “I just thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” he said. The word came out heavier than he expected.

A beat passed.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “She doesn’t… hate me, does she?”

Robin softened. “Steve. You know she couldn't.”

That was enough to answer. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.

“I hope she comes,” he said finally.

Robin blinked on the other end. “You do?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers catching on the hair there. “I want her to see that I’m okay. That I made it.”

And maybe, though he didn’t say it, that choosing someone else hadn’t meant erasing what they were.

Because it hadn’t.

After they hung up, Steve stood there for a long moment, the house quiet around him. He picked up a place card at random, read a name that belonged to a future he was building carefully, purposely.

Then he set it back down and stared at the empty space beside it, where another name might have been, in another life.

Breathing the air of Hawkins again felt like filling your lungs with fire and ash. After Robin’s call, the idea of attending the wedding refused to leave you alone, lingering at the edges of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to push it away.

There was something deeply nostalgic about returning to the place where you were born, where you grew up, where so much of your life had taken shape. The feeling was unsettling, sharp and aching, but threaded with a strange sweetness that left your eyes burning with unshed tears.

A few days later, after a long call with Jonathan, you decided it was time. Time to come back. Time to face it. Time to put an end to whatever unfinished thing Hawkins still had its hands wrapped around.

The town looked exactly the same. Bright sunlight. People laughing on the sidewalks. Tourists stopping at the memorial, snapping photos as if the horrors of the past had been carefully packaged into something consumable, something distant enough to be harmless.

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek and watched the streets pass by. Everything felt familiar and foreign all at once.

Maybe Hawkins hadn’t changed at all. Maybe you had. The town seemed frozen in time, its darker history sealed away, known only by the small group of people who had survived it and sworn to carry the truth quietly for the rest of their lives. The unfairness of it settled heavy in your chest.

You held the tears back until Jonathan pulled the rental car to a stop in front of your old house. The sight of it hit you harder than you expected, a dull, excruciating ache spreading through your ribs.

“Hey,” Jonathan called from outside. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’m coming.”

You followed him inside. The house was empty, but it didn’t feel abandoned. Everything looked the same, as if your mother might walk in at any moment. Joyce was living with Hopper now, finally allowing herself a life that didn’t revolve around fear and loss. Will was away at college, which meant the house existed in this strange in-between state, reserved for moments like this, when nostalgia took over.

You set your bag down and leaned against the doorframe while Jonathan carried the suitcases into the bedroom.

“We should meet the others at the bar around six,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You nervous?”

He didn’t look at you, just kept unpacking. “I don’t have any reason to be.”

“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Jonathan had never been a good liar, and growing up with him made it impossible for him to fool you. “So if Nancy doesn’t show up, you’re totally fine with that?”

“She’ll be there,” he said easily.

“And how do you know?”

He straightened, snapping his suitcase shut. “Because it’s Nancy,” he replied, like that explained everything. “Is that okay with you?”

You pressed your lips together and nodded, biting back a comment, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds.

“Okay,” you said finally. “Just so you know, the shower's mine.”

Jonathan barely had time to register what you’d said before you grabbed a towel and sprinted down the hall, locking the bathroom door behind you. He followed instinctively, too slow, stopping short as laughter echoed off the walls. A soft knock tapped against the door, and you could hear him smiling on the other side.

It felt just like old times.

The bar hadn’t changed much.

Same low ceiling, same sticky floors, same neon signs buzzing like they were one bad night away from giving up entirely. Someone had painted over the old water damage, but you could still see the outline if you knew where to look. Hawkins loved pretending things were fixed.

You had been here before, years ago, back when sneaking into places like this felt thrilling. Once because it felt grown-up, rebellious, like borrowing a future that wasn’t meant to be yours yet. Once because Steve Harrington had chosen this place for a date, sliding into a booth with boyish confidence, making the cracked vinyl and warm beer feel romantic simply by sitting across from you. Back then, the bar had seemed softer.

Jonathan ordered first. You followed, mostly out of habit, and then stood off to the side while he waited for the drinks. The place was busy for a weekday evening, locals unwinding, a few college kids passing through, laughter spilling over the music.

You scanned the room without really meaning to.

“Don’t,” Jonathan said quietly.

You blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Look for him.” He handed you a glass. “He’ll show up when he shows up.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you took a sip. “You’re so annoying. I’m not doing that.”

Jonathan smiled despite himself, the corner of his mouth giving him away. “Yeah,” he said gently. “You are.”

Robin arrived like a sudden change in weather, all motion and warmth, dropping into the seat beside you as if the years apart were nothing more than a long weekend. She looked incredible, hair loose around her shoulders, a soft white lace blouse peeking out from beneath her denim overalls, familiar and new all at once.

“Okay, wow,” she said, looking between you and Jonathan. “Seeing you two here feels illegal. Like we’re about to summon something.”

You laughed despite yourself, tension easing just a fraction. Robin wrapped you in a hug without warning, squeezing tight.

“You’re real,” she said into your shoulder. “I was worried you were just a stress hallucination.”

“I missed you too, Robs,” you murmured, meaning it more than you were ready to admit.

She pulled back just enough to study your face, her eyes sharp and uncomfortably perceptive. “You okay?”

“Sure,” you said.

“Great,” she replied, unconvinced but kind enough not to push. “Did you order yet?”

Nancy arrived a few minutes later.

You noticed Jonathan before you noticed her, the way he straightened, the way his shoulders went tense and still, like his body had recognized her before his brain caught up. When you turned, she was already there, standing just inside the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

She looked older. Just sharper, more sure of herself. Like someone who had learned how to walk into rooms and expect to be heard.

Jonathan stood first. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Nancy said softly.

They hugged, brief and careful, the kind of embrace that acknowledged history without reopening it. You watched closely, surprised by the calm of it. The acceptance.

Nancy smiled when she saw you. “It’s really good to see you. You look great.”

“You too,” you said, and meant it.

The five of you settled into a booth near the back. Conversation came easily at first, college stories, mutual acquaintances, Robin’s latest rant about academia, Jonathan’s short film. You laughed while you drank. You almost forgot why your chest felt so tight.

Almost. Then the door opened.

You didn’t look right away. Neither did Jonathan. Robin noticed first, she always did, and went still mid-sentence, her eyes flicking toward the entrance before darting back to you.

“Oh,” she said. “Okay. So. He’s here.”

Your heart stuttered.

Steve Harrington walked in like the place had been waiting for him.

He looked good in that unfair, effortless way, hair a little shorter, shoulders broader, posture calmer. He wore a jacket you didn’t recognize, one hand shoved into his pocket as he scanned the room. There was a steadiness to him now, something grounded and adult, but his eyes still searched the way they always had.

Like he was counting exits. Or people.

His gaze landed on Jonathan first. Recognition flickered. Relief, maybe. Then Robin, who lifted a hand in an overly enthusiastic, unmistakably Robin wave.

And then he saw you.

For a second, he didn’t move. Neither did you.

The noise of the bar faded into something distant, muffled, like you were underwater. His face changed in the smallest way, something tightening around his eyes, something careful settling over his mouth.

Then he smiled. It was controlled-polite. Not the smile you remembered.

Steve walked over, stopping just short of the table. “Hey.”

“Hey, man,” Jonathan said.

Robin stood immediately, as if she might combust if she didn’t. “Steve! Hi. You made it. Wow. Look at you. Very… groom-y.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that a thing?”

Nancy stood next, offering him a warm, familiar smile. “It’s good to see you, Steve.”

“You too,” he said easily.

Then his eyes came back to you.

“Hi,” he said.

Your throat tightened. “Hi.”

It was just a word. One syllable. And somehow it carried every version of you that had ever existed together.

He pulled out the empty seat at the edge of the booth, hesitated for half a second, then sat. Close enough to feel his presence. Far enough to breathe.

Conversation resumed, but it was different now, careful, aware. Steve listened more than he spoke, his arm resting along the back of the booth, his knee angled just slightly toward yours without touching.

You didn’t look at him again. You didn’t trust yourself to.

But you could feel him there, solid and real and painfully familiar, like a scar you’d learned to live with suddenly aching again.

Hawkins hadn’t changed.

Neither, it seemed, had the things that mattered most.

More drinks arrived, heavy mugs sweating onto the table, the sharp smell of beer cutting through the warmth that had settled between you all. Someone, probably Robin, pushed them into a loose circle, like it mattered that no one was left out.

“We should make a toast,” Robin said, already lifting her mug, eyes bright with something between nostalgia and defiance.

“I agree,” Steve added easily, raising his own. His voice was steady. 

You exchanged looks around the table. Five people bound together by things no one else in the room would ever fully understand. There were soft smiles, the kind born from survival rather than happiness, from having seen each other at their worst and still choosing to sit down together anyway.

“To the future,” Nancy said, lifting her mug with quiet certainty.

“To the good ol’ days,” Jonathan followed, raising his free hand.

His eyes flicked briefly to Nancy before he looked away again, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like an old habit he hadn’t quite unlearned.

“To us,” you said then, your voice calm even as your chest tightened, lifting your mug to meet the others.

For a second, Steve watched you when you weren’t looking, his brow drawn together like the sight of you hurt in a way he hadn’t prepared for. You looked like a memory that had learned how to breathe. Like he was eighteen again, standing in a hallway, staring at a future he hadn’t known he’d lose.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you, recognition, regret, a shared understanding that didn’t need words. You offered him a small smile, soft and sympathetic, not asking for anything, not accusing him of anything either.

“To love,” Robin said suddenly, her voice rough but bright, stubbornly hopeful.

Steve swallowed and nodded.

“To love,” you echoed.

“To love,” the others repeated, and the mugs met in a quiet clink before you all drank at once.

You had forgotten how effortless it was to be with them. How laughter didn’t need to be coaxed out of you or softened first, how it simply rose, unguarded, from somewhere deep in your chest, surprising you with its ease. For the first time since arriving in Hawkins, your shoulders weren’t tight. Your breath came normally. You almost felt like yourself again.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. Empty glasses multiplied on the table, and the sharp edges of the evening dulled into something warm and familiar. Steve relaxed into the space between you all, his posture loosening, his voice growing more animated. You did too, catching yourself leaning closer when he spoke, answering him without thinking, forgetting, just for moments at a time, everything you were supposed to remember.

At some point, Steve looked around the table with that expression you knew far too well. Eyebrows lifting slightly, eyes brightening with the thrill of an idea that had just taken hold.

“I have a perfect place for us to go.”

“Where?” Nancy asked, smiling in that careful, contained way of hers, curiosity softening her features.

“You’ll see.”

He didn’t elaborate. He just stood and waited, confident you’d follow. A short walk later, you were climbing the stairs of the Squawk building. At the top, Steve lingered behind the others and offered you his hand, casual, almost shy.

“Thanks,” you said softly, taking it.

By the time you reached the top, night had fully settled over Hawkins. It was past nine, the air cold enough to sting your lungs, breath blooming white when you laughed. Robin’s voice carried loudest, her laughter slicing through the quiet as Steve finished telling a story about one of his students, something ridiculous and endearing.

“Sex ed,” Robin wheezed. “I still can’t believe that’s your life, dude.”

“Hey,” Steve protested, grinning. “I’m shaping young minds.”

You watched him as he spoke, the way he gestured with his hands, the way his face lit up when he talked about coaching, about teaching. You remembered the nights he’d confessed his fear of being trapped in his father’s shadow, of never being more than a version of someone else’s expectations.

Seeing him now, steady, fulfilled, made your chest ache in a quiet, complicated way.

You were proud of him.

“Okay, but be honest,” Steve said suddenly, standing and moving closer to the edge. The cold wrapped around him, his breath visible as he spoke. “Don’t you guys miss this? The view? The movies, the late nights, the stupid stuff? I don’t know—everything?”

You looked out over Hawkins. The rooftops. The dim streetlights. A town frozen in time whether it wanted to be or not.

You glanced at Nancy. At Jonathan. At Robin.

Then back at Steve.

“No,” you all said at once.

The laughter that followed was loud, honest, almost cathartic, echoing into the night, carrying with it the relief of knowing that some places are meant to be remembered, not returned to.

Steve tipped his beer back and shook his head, half-smiling at nothing in particular.

“I don’t know. There’s something about this town, man.” He took another sip. “But honestly? I like teaching these kids.”

You hummed. “Why do I get the feeling you go easy on all of them?”

“I have a strict A policy,” he said casually. “B, if you’re a real knucklehead. That’s about the low as I go.”

Jonathan laughed. “Hey, can you come teach at NYU?”

That did it, you laughed too, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

“What, you want me to grade your weird film about capitalism or cannibalism or whatever?” Steve teased.

Jonathan groaned and launched into an explanation—again—gesturing wildly as he clarified the plot for what had to be the third time. You listened with half an ear, smiling.

When he finally finished, Nancy turned to you. “So,” she asked gently, “how’s New York treating you?”

You inhaled and shared a quick look with Jonathan, something wordless passing between you.

“It’s… different,” you said, tracing the rim of your red plastic cup with your finger. “The city never sleeps. I work, I study, I’m always running somewhere. But it’s good. I like it.”

Robin chimed in about Smith, animated as always, talking about classes and plans and how badly she wanted to transfer. Then Nancy surprised everyone by admitting she’d dropped out and taken a trainee position at the Herald.

“Hey, Robin,” Nancy said suddenly. “Total coincidence, but do you still have the key to the Squawk?”

Robin’s smile turned slow and mischievous as she reached into her pocket. “Nancy Wheeler, today is your lucky day.”

“Thank God,” Nancy said, already standing. “I really need a bathroom.”

Jonathan stood too, finishing his drink in one go. “Yeah. Same. Too much beer.”

Robin glanced at you and Steve. “Anyone else?”

You shook your head, and a moment later the three of them disappeared down the stairs, their voices fading.

You became acutely aware of the silence.

The cool Hawkins breeze brushed against your skin. Even with your eyes closed, you could feel it—Steve’s presence beside you, steady and close. And you didn’t have to look to know he was watching you.

Steve shifted beside you, resting his forearms on the low ledge. He stared out at the view, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something.

“So,” he said eventually, voice easy but not careless. “New York, huh?.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

“Figures.” He nodded once, as if that confirmed a theory he’d carried for years. “Good for you, Byers.”

You didn’t argue. There was no point. Instead, you leaned forward too, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

“It’s weird being back,” you admitted. “Everything looks the same, but… smaller. Does that make sense?”

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh. “That’s Hawkins. Tries to trap you in time.” He glanced at you, just for a second. “Guess it didn’t work on you.”

Something in his tone softened the words, took the edge off them. You looked at him then, really looked, at the familiar slope of his nose, the faint line between his brows, the way his hair refused to behave no matter how old he got.

“Well, you stayed,” you said gently.

“Someone had to,” he replied, half-joking. “Plus, I’m kind of bad at leaving things behind.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than he probably meant them to be. Steve cleared his throat and straightened, hands slipping into his jacket pockets.

“I’m glad you came,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you would.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t either.”

Below you, Hawkins breathed on, unaware of how much history stood on that rooftop. Steve glanced at you again, this time holding your gaze a second longer.

“Still,” he said, offering a small, crooked smile, “it’s good to see you.”

You returned it, soft and aching.

“Yeah,” you said. “It really is.”

Steve shifted his weight, the tip of his shoe scraping against the concrete with a rhythmic, nervous grit. He didn't look at you right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something that wasn't there.

“You look... good,” he said finally. 

You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the Indiana state line. “You too.”

He nodded, accepting the compliment like a heavy gift, then a small, bitter frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn't always think it would be like this. For either of us.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the cold railing, feeling the chill seep through the fabric of your jacket. Below, the town looked so normal, so infuriatingly mundane.

“I still wake up sometimes,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “Thinking something bad is going to happen. Like the world’s about to split open again.”

Steve went very still.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “For a long time... I kept the bat next to my bed. I'm not kidding. Right there on the nightstand.” He let out a short, self-deprecating huff. "It's stupid. I know."

“No,” you said immediately, turning your head to look at him. “It’s really not.”

That earned you a brief, unguarded look. It was the expression he used to give you in the backseat of his car after a fight—when the adrenaline had evaporated and the reality of being alive finally settled in. It was raw and terrifyingly intimate.

“I thought moving on would be louder,” he continued, voice low. “Like there’d be some big moment where everything finally felt… over.” He shrugged. “Turns out it’s just quiet. And you’re left with it.”

“With everything,” you added.

“Yeah.”

The wind picked up, tugging at your hair. Steve reached out without thinking, steadying it, then stopped himself halfway, hand hovering awkwardly in the air before dropping back to his side. The almost-touch lingered longer than the wind.

“So,” you said, forcing a wide, brittle smile that felt like it might crack your face. “Marriage, huh?”

 “Oh. God.” A nervous, breathless laugh escaped him. “Yeah."

“I’m happy for you, Steve.” It was the truth, but it was a truth that tasted like ash. You wanted him to be safe. You wanted him to be loved. You just hadn't realized how much it would hurt to watch someone else do it.

“I know,” he said. “I mean—yeah,” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Kristen s’great.”

“That sounds great, Steve,” you said, your voice thick with the effort of holding back a sob that felt like a physical weight in your throat.

“Yeah” He looked out at the town. At the place that had once belonged to the two of you, and only you. “It is. It really is.”

He said it one more time, as if he were trying to convince the silence.

Two days later, the morning was quiet in a way that felt borrowed.

Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of the kitchen, catching dust in the air and warming the chipped counter where you and Jonathan sat. The house smelled like toast and weak coffee. Jonathan was halfway through his second slice, reading something folded and creased.

You were spreading jam when the phone rang.

Jonathan glanced at it, then at you. That was odd.

You shook your head and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Okay, don’t freak out,” Robin said immediately, words tumbling over each other. “But also—maybe freak out a little.”

Your stomach tightened. “Robin. What’s going on?”

You could hear her breathing, uneven, like she’d been pacing.

“Do you… have any idea where Steve is?”

You frowned, instinctively looking at Jonathan. “What? No. Why would I—”

“Because,” she cut in, then stopped herself. “Because he didn’t show up.”

The room seemed to tilt, just slightly.

“Didn’t show up where?” you asked, already knowing you wouldn’t like the answer.

Robin swallowed on the other end. “Today. The wedding day. He’s not at the house. He’s not anywhere.”

“Robin,” you said carefully, “what are you saying?”

“I’m saying his wife called me,” she replied, voice thinner now. “Crying. She woke up this morning and Steve was gone. No note. No explanation. Just—gone.”

Your fingers tightened around the receiver.

“That’s not like him,” you said, more to himself than to either of you.

“I know,” Robin said. “That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t know why, I just—” She exhaled sharply. “Did he say anything? Anything at all?”

You stared at the table, at the faint ring a mug had left behind, at the normalcy of it all. The memory of the rooftop pressed in on your chest.

“No,” you said. “He didn’t.”

“Okay,” Robin said finally, trying to steady herself. “Okay. I just—I don't know, had to ask.”

You closed your eyes.

“Keep me posted,” you said. “Please.”

“I will.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, babes. See you later.”

The line went dead. You lowered the phone slowly. Jonathan watched you, concern etched into every line of his face.

“He disappeared,” you said. “On his wedding day.”

The silence that followed felt too big for the kitchen, too heavy for the morning light.

Steve Harrington didn’t vanish. He always stayed. He showed up bloody, terrified, exhausted, still there. He was the one who stood between danger and everyone else without asking if anyone would do the same for him. The one who carried guilt like a second spine and kindness like muscle memory.

This wasn’t like him.

"Gimme the car keys."

Jonathan nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee. He stared at you over the rim of his mug, eyes wide. "What?"

You didn't wait for an explanation. You grabbed your coat, shoving your arms into the sleeves. "Jonathan, the keys! Now!"

He scrambled, digging into his pocket and tossing the ring toward you. You caught it mid-air, the metal cold against your palm.

"What—Where are you going?" he called out, his voice laced with that familiar, protective dread.

"I'm going to look for Steve. What else am I supposed to do?" You didn't wait for his answer. You slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the hallway.

"Jesus Christ, Harrington," you hissed under your breath as you hit the pavement. "You don't even give me a break on your own wedding day."

Hawkins was slowly waking up, the town bathed in a soft, buttery dawn that felt far too peaceful for the storm in your chest. Heaven played softly on the radio, but all you could see was the way he used to look at you on this very roof. Those big, tender, bambi eyes that always seemed to be asking for a permission you weren't sure you could give.

You wanted to slam your head against the steering wheel, to turn the car around and drive until the Indiana state line was a blur in the rearview mirror.

After two laps around downtown, the school, and every old haunt you could remember, hope was beginning to fray. Steve was gone, and the thought of Kristen—probably a vibrating nerve ending of a person right now—made the guilt churn in your stomach.

Then, something clicked. A memory of a high vantage point and a quiet place to hide.

The trees around the Squawk building danced slowly in the cool morning breeze. You spotted his car before you even put the car in park.

"I swear I’m going to kill that idiot," you muttered, throwing the door open. It was only as you started running toward the building, your hair whipping into your mouth, that you realized you were standing in public in an oversized, faded Bowie t-shirt and pajama pants.

Screw it, you thought. The world already ended once. Who cares about pants?

You climbed the steps, one by one, your hands aching from the bite of the cold metal railing.

Steve was there. He was standing near the edge, a silhouette of silver and gray. He was already wearing his wedding suit, the tailoring sharp, his hair perfectly combed into place. He looked like the picture-perfect groom from a magazine, but he was standing on the edge of a roof instead of an altar. He had his back to you, looking out at the horizon.

You stopped halfway across the roof, your chest heaving, a hot, prickly anger rising to meet your exhaustion.

"Did you know it’s not very polite to run away without leaving a note?" you shouted, your voice cracking the morning quiet. "Especially on your wedding day?"

You saw his shoulders hitch, a small, tired shrug, but he didn't turn around.

"What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you," you said, closing the distance.

He lowered his head, then looked back at the skyline. A spark of sharp nostalgia and deep-seated melancholy ran across his face. "I needed some air."

"Bullshit."

"Christ—," he snapped, finally turning his head just enough to give you a profile of his jaw. "Will you just stop for a second and let me think?"

You recoiled, genuinely stung by the bite in his tone. "Oh. I’m sorry. Sorry for being so inconvenient. Sorry for actually giving a damn about a friend."

Steve let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Right. Friend."

The word felt like a slur. He turned fully now, his pupils dilated, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look less like a groom and more like a soldier.

"Don't do this," you warned, your voice trembling. "Don't make this about me. This is about you. About your marriage, about your li—"

"Sure. Right, right." Steve poked his cheek with his tongue, a defiant, old-Harrington gesture. He put his hands on his hips, his suit jacket flaring out. "How about you just—I don't know, run away again? Isn’t that your specialty?"

You felt the words like a physical punch to the gut. You flinched, your irises trembling. Steve’s eyes were rimmed with red, he’d been crying, or trying not to, and the sight of it made the anger drain out of you.

"What the hell do you want from me, Steve? Huh?" Your voice rose, desperate and raw. "You said it was okay for me to be here! You invited me!"

"Well, yeah," he stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. "That was a lie."

Your eyes widened.

"And what am I supposed to do with that?" you cried. "You disappear on your wedding day and start dumping all this bullshit on me! This is not fair!"

Steve pressed his lips together and looked up at the sky, blinking like he was trying to outrun something. It didn’t work. Tears gathered anyway.

Seeing him like this—actually breaking—hit you harder than you expected.

“My God,” he muttered, voice rough. He shut his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “What am I doing?” He laughed once, hollow. “Is this a mistake?”

The wind swallowed the rest of his words, but you heard them anyway.

“Tell me it wasn’t wrong,” he said quietly. “Tell me letting you go was the right thing.”

Your heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. You looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes. 

"I can't give you permission to leave me behind, Steve," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm still trying to find a way out myself—"

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at you. There was a wealth of exposure there, you were finally seeing him naked. He closed the space between you and took your hand, his fingers sliding across your skin, caressing every inch as if there was a hunger inside him that knew you inside and out.

He traced your wrist, then gently held it. “I would leave it all behind.”

“St—Steve, you’re getting married in five hours,” you stammered, the reality of the clock ticking in the back of your mind.

“There’s no wedding.” He let out a short, wet chuckle, sniffing as he looked at you.

“Steve, you moved on, you—What?” Your eyes widened, your brain struggling to process the words.

“I canceled everything. Yesterday. I—I can’t do this. I told her I couldn't.”

A cold wave of despair and shock washed over you, your throat suddenly as dry as a desert. “You—what? Steve, what did you do?”

“You think I moved on? That’s bullshit. That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Every time I close my eyes, I’m losing you. Again. And again. Every single night is a different version of you leaving me behind.”

“Please don’t do this—" You let out a shaky sigh, reaching for him, but your hand faltered halfway.

He didn't let it fall. He caught your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, his grip firm and bruisingly honest.

“No, shit—listen to me," His voice dropped to that desperate, urgent tone that always made you follow him into the dark. “I wake up reaching for you. I turn over in bed to tell you something, and I realize I’m in a house you’ve never been to, next to a woman who doesn’t know me. Not really.”

He let out a trembling sigh, his gaze searching yours with a terrifying, soul-baring intensity.

“I love Kristen. She is… she is safe. She is peace. But she isn’t everything. She isn’t the person I want to fight for. She isn’t the person I would die for.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of your faded Bowie shirt, his knuckles grazing your skin. "I thought if I did the 'normal' thing, the 'adult' thing, this feeling would eventually pass. But it only got stronger. It’s like a rot, but it’s the only part of me that really feels alive."

Tears blurred your vision until the world was just a smear of gray and gold.

"Steve, you have guests arriving. A lifetime awaits you at the altar," you said, even though your heart begged you to stop.

"I don't care," he said. A glimpse of the old, reckless Steve Harrington flashed in his eyes. He moved even closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm serious. If you tell me that there's still a part of you inside that—if you give me even a glimpse of a reason to believe there's still an 'us,' I'll give up everything.”

Your breath caught. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he swallowed hard, his voice trembling, "that if you say one word—just one word—I'll end the charade for good. I'll call the priest again, I'll tell the truth to whoever is left, and we can get in that car and leave. Together. Like old times.”

He looked at you then, pleading for you to save him from the life he’d built as a consolation prize.

"Just say it," he whispered, his hand closing around your wrist, pulling you so close you could feel the frantic heat of his body. "Please—babe—please. Say you want me to stay. Say you still love me. Gimme the word, and I'm yours. I've always been yours."

You looked into his teary eyes, your lips trembling, and finally, the dam broke. A sob escaped you—loud, ugly, and honest.

"I've always loved you." Thick, hot tears rolled down your cheeks. “I loved you for every second, every moment I thought I could just leave it behind. It never happened, Steve.”

He shook his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek and resting on his upper lip. He looked like he was finally able to breathe.

“You are the love of my life. Always have been. Always will be.” You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely. “There isn’t a life where I’m not completely in love with you.”

“Jeez—you’re killing me here.” Steve looked up at the sky and laughed through the tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand. It was a broken, beautiful sound.

You laughed too, sniffling, both of you a total mess of salt and windblown hair on a roof that had seen too much history.

“I want you to be happy, Steve. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“There’s only one way for that to happen, I guarantee you.” He pulled you back into his chest, his arms locking around you like armor.

The wind hummed around the building, carrying the morning song of birds and the soft sweep of leaves against the pavement below. The world was still there, and it was still complicated, but for the first time in two years, the air didn't feel like smoke.

“What do we do now?” you asked quietly. “They’re still looking for you.”

Steve took a deep breath, his chest expanding against yours. He shook his head slowly, a strange, calm clarity finally settling over his features.

“I don’t know. But I know one thing I need to do first.”

Your eyes glistened, fresh tears blurring the sight of him as you looked up. “What?”

“This.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, and the invitation was written in the way he breathed your name. Automatically, your body responded, your heels lifting as you stood on tiptoe. Steve’s hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gripped the lapels of his wedding jacket. Your other hand found its way into his hair and your fingers tangled in the strands, undoing the carefully groomed layers until he looked like the boy you had loved in the woods.

The kiss was everything the last two years hadn't been.

It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't polite. It was a catastrophic-violent battle of lips and breath, a desperate, starving hunger that had been growing day by day since you’d left. He held you with a crushing strength, as if he were physically terrified that if he loosened his grip, you’d vanish back into the New York fog.

You squeezed him back, your palms memorizing the solid weight of his shoulders, your hands realizing they knew no other body but this one. You loved each other in a language that required no words, a dialect of shared scars and whispered promises in the dark.

As you closed your eyes, the memories didn't feel like ghosts anymore, they felt like a roadmap.

You saw him leaning against the lockers at Hawkins High School. You saw him standing on your porch in the sweltering summer of '85, looking ridiculous and beautiful with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. You felt his hand find yours in the dark of the movie theater, the palms sweaty and nervous. You tasted the salt of that first kiss in the backseat of his BMW. You felt the suffocating terror of the Upside Down, when he had held you so tightly you thought your ribs might crack because he truly believed the world was ending and you were dying.

And you felt that last, agonizing goodbye—the way he had kissed the single tear on your lip before pressing his mouth to your forehead and letting you walk away.

That was your Steve.

The boy with the golden heart hidden under layers of bravado. The man who had stayed behind to be the protector, the one who became a "weirdo" to save the world, deciphering codes and fighting demons while the rest of the town slept. He was sensitive to the bone, a unique soul that only a few were lucky enough to truly see.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he needed proof you were real.

With the old, unglamorous town of Hawkins looming around you, with the bruised sky, the swaying trees, and the rising sun as your only audience, the old Squawk building stood as a silent witness to a truth that could no longer be denied.

He was yours. You were his.