#simon-writes

JJ noticed that much early on—how you never seemed annoyed by Spencer’s ramblings, how you never cut him off or rolled your eyes the way some of them did when he rambled on for too long. You actually listened. You asked questions. You encouraged him.  

At the time, JJ thought you were just kind. She appreciated it, really. Spencer had been lonely since Morgan left, and he needed someone. She assumed that was all you were—someone filling a space, a way to keep him from retreating back inside himself the way he had after Maeve.  

She didn’t realize it was anything more.  

Not when Spencer began seeing more of you outside work.

Not when you were the first person he asked for after a case. 

Not even when he hugged you a little too tightly after a tough day.  

—

She convinced herself it was just a close friendship. 

And then prison happened.  

JJ had cried in response to the verdict, but you were broken.  

She found you in the hall after they carried Spencer away. You were propping yourself against the wall, eyes on the floor, hands trembling at your sides. When she called your name, you didn’t look up at first. 

"You okay?" JJ asked, echoing her question to Spencer from the night before.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "No." “He didn’t deserve this,” you croaked, voice heavy with emotion.

“I know,” she said.  

“He—” You took a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s not going to be okay in there.”  

She stood beside you. "He’s strong. He’ll get through this."

You shook your head. "You don’t get it, JJ." Your voice cracked. "I can’t lose him."

JJ didn’t understand. Not then. She had always been protective of Spencer, but the way you said it was different. It wasn’t just concern—it was something deeper, something raw. And for the first time, she wondered just how much Spencer meant to you.

—

Then he got out.  

And the first person he hugged was you.

JJ had been right there, had reached for him instinctively, but before she could even take a step, Spencer had gone straight to you.  

He buried his face in your shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around you, like he needed to feel you to believe this was real. And you—God, the way you held him, whispering reassurances, grounding him—JJ had never seen anything like it.  

That should have been her first clue.  

But it wasn’t.  

Not until she told him she loved him.  

The moment the words escaped her lips, she saw the way his whole body froze. He didn’t look at her the way she had hoped, the way people do in movies when they realize they’ve been in love all along.  

He looked shocked.

And maybe—just maybe— a little disappointed. 

After they were rescued, after the chaos, after everything settled. He had gone straight to you. He didn’t come to her. Not to ask how she was doing. Not to talk about the confession. Not to do anything.

That, more than anything, sent a burning, ugly rage surging through her.  

Then, not long after, she saw him kiss you.

Before she could look away, his hands were on your face, and he was kissing you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it.  

JJ felt something crack inside her.  

It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the way he kissed you—the certainty, the desperation, like he couldn’t bear to go another second without showing you how he felt.  

She had never seen Spencer like that before.  

Not with Maeve.  

Not with anyone.  

—

So when Spencer finally came to find her, she was already bracing for a fight.  

"You shouldn’t have told me, it wasn’t fair" he told her the second he walked into the BAU’s empty break room, his voice strained with tension.  

JJ blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "What?”  

"You shouldn’t have told me you loved me," he said again, firmer this time. "It was selfish, JJ."  

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, so now it’s selfish to tell someone how you feel?"  

"Yes!" Spencer snapped, stepping closer, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite name. "Because I didn’t need to know that. You didn’t need to say it. What did you think was going to happen? That I’d just—what? Drop everything? That I’d throw myself at you?"  

JJ flinched. "Spence—"  

"You don’t get to do that," he cut her off, a sharp edge to his voice. "I’m not your backup plan, JJ."  

"That’s not what this is about!" she shot back, feeling the heat rise in her chest.  

"Then what is it about?" Spencer demanded. "Because as far as I can tell, you dropped this confession on me after years of nothing, when I finally found someone who makes me happy. And now—now what? I’m supposed to apologize? I’m supposed to feel guilty?"  

JJ exhaled sharply, her fingernails digging into her arms. "I didn’t know I was going to say it, Spencer. I didn’t plan for this, I didn’t—”. "I don’t know what I expected!” She yelled, tears of frustration stinging her eyes. "But I didn’t expect you to just—just disregard my feelings like this! I didn’t expect you to move on so fast!”  

"Fast?" Spencer laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Fast? JJ, I have spent years thinking I wasn’t good enough for anyone. I have spent years being alone, thinking no one could ever love me the way I wanted to be loved. And now, when I finally have someone who does, you think I should just—what? Erase that? Drop everything? Forget that you have a husband and a family? To wait for you?"

JJ swallowed hard, the words hitting her like a blow.  

"You never even gave me a chance to begin with," Spencer said, his voice soft, but still fierce. "And maybe, maybe there was a time where I would have jumped at this—where I would have given anything to hear you say you loved me." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "But that time has passed, JJ. And you—you need to be happy for me. The way I’m happy for you and Will."  

JJ felt something in her snap.  

"You’re choosing her over me," she accused, her voice breaking.  

Spencer’s face twisted with something like disappointment. "JJ—"  

"You are!” she insisted. "I’ve known you longer than she has, Spencer! I’ve been there for you! I’ve seen you at your worst—"  

"And yet you never saw me at all."  

The words stopped her cold.  

"You may have known me longer," Spencer said, his voice quiet, more raw. "But you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."  

JJ opened her mouth, but nothing came out.  

Because she knew, in that moment, that he was right.  

—

JJ didn’t go straight home after the argument.

She sat in her car for a while, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white, Spencer’s words repeating over and over in her mind.

"You may have known me longer, but you never really knew me. You never cared to understand me."

She had never seen him that angry before.

JJ wasn’t even sure what she had been expecting when she confessed to him, but it wasn’t that. Not the sharp edge in his voice, the sheer finality in the way he spoke. Like whatever bridge that had once existed between them was now burned to ash.

Eventually, she made herself drive home, even though she didn’t feel ready to face her family.

But the moment she stepped inside, Henry sprinted into her arms, and Michael wasn’t far behind, chattering excitedly about something he had done that day.

JJ swallowed the lump in her throat and crouched down, hugging them both tightly.

Will was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, glancing over his shoulder with that easy smile of his. "Hey, babe. I heard from Emily, Are you okay? Did you get checked out?"

JJ hesitated. Then she nodded. "Yeah, just feel like shit."

Will didn’t press. He just wiped his hands and walked over, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Go sit, I got everything."

She watched him as he moved through the kitchen, effortlessly balancing cooking and keeping an eye on the boys. He had always been like that—steady, reliable, taking care of things before she even needed to ask.

She had never doubted Will’s love for her. That he would always put her and their family first.

And she had always wanted that for Spencer, too. She wanted him to be happy, to find someone who would love him the way he deserved.

On the drive home she tried to convince herself that’s all this was. That she was just watching out for him. Making sure he didn’t get hurt again.

But now, standing in her warm, bustling home, with Will taking care of dinner and the boys playing at her feet, she felt something ugly crawl up her spine.

Because Spencer finally had a chance at happiness- happiness with someone else, someone that wasn’t her.

And she was jealous.

She thought about how Spencer had gone straight to you after his release. The way he held you. The way he kissed you. The way he chose you.

Did he take care of you the way Will took care of her?

When you had a bad day, did Spencer know exactly how to comfort you? Did he cook for you? Hold you? Brush your hair out of your face, without a second thought, the way Will did for her?

If she and Spencer had gotten together—if she had realized her feelings sooner—what would they be doing right now? Would Spencer be standing in the kitchen, making dinner, smiling at her like she was his whole world?

JJ clenched her fists.

She had no right to feel this way.

She had a family. A husband who loved her. She had made her choices, and she had never regretted them.

So why did it feel like she lost something?

Why was there an ache inside her she couldn’t quite name?

Maybe because, for the first time, she was coming to terms with the fact that she and Spencer were never going to happen.

And it was her fault.

—

JJ tried not to let it get to her.

She and Spencer had years of friendship between them. A bond that couldn’t be broken so easily.

One night—one argument—didn’t change that.

And yet, things between them hadn’t been the same since.

There was an awkwardness now, something heavy that settled between them in the quiet moments. It wasn’t that Spencer was avoiding her—if anything, he was trying. She could see it in the way he made an effort to talk to her, the way he still offered her those random tidbits of information he knew she’d find interesting, the way he searched for cracks in the wall she had built.

But JJ wasn’t sure if she wanted to let him back in.

Because every time she looked at him, she remembered the fight. His words, sharp and unforgiving. The way he had looked at her—not like a friend, not like someone he trusted, but like someone who had failed him.

She knew Spencer well enough to know he wasn’t trying to hurt her. But that didn’t change the fact that she still felt angry. 

At him.

At you.

You, who knew nothing of the past—who had no idea about her history with Spencer or the complicated web of feelings she had buried so long ago that she convinced herself they didn’t matter.

And yet, she couldn’t escape you.

You were everywhere.

Weeks had passed since that night. Since Spencer’s words cut deeper than she cared to admit.

The way Spencer gravitated toward you in the bullpen, how he always seemed to position himself near you, even when there was plenty of space elsewhere. The way he looked at you—soft and unguarded, as if you were something precious and rare.

She realized, with a strange sort of ache, that she had never seen him look at anyone like that before.

And it wasn’t just him.

You never seemed exasperated when Spencer launched into one of his long-winded rants, the kind that had even the most patient members of the team zoning out. Instead, you listened intently, nodding along, asking questions, actually absorbing the information.

JJ had spent years learning how to keep up with Spencer, but you? You made it look effortless.

Then there were the subtler things, the things that spoke volumes even in the silence.

Spencer had always been fidgety, his mind moving a mile a minute, his body following suit—bouncing his knee, tapping his fingers, shifting from foot to foot. But she noticed now that whenever his leg started bouncing under the table, all it took was the briefest touch from you—a gentle hand on his arm, a slight brush of your fingers—and he immediately stilled, his entire body relaxing.

JJ wasn’t sure if you even realized you did it.

But Spencer did.

And he let you.

He wasn’t a huge fan of pda, at least not in front of the team. But lately, it seemed like the distance between you two had disappeared. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he seemed to be doing little things—things she would have never imagined him doing with anyone else.

She noticed it now: the way his fingers casually brushed against yours when you passed him a file, the way he gave you a soft smile when you caught his eye, the way he kept looking at you like you were the only person in the room.

And the others had noticed, too.

Luke had raised an eyebrow when Spencer absentmindedly reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Emily had smirked when Spencer leaned down to whisper something in your ear and you laughed, nudging him with your elbow. Even Rossi had made a passing remark about how Spencer seemed different lately, more at ease.

But what struck JJ the most was the way you and Spencer seemed to exist in your own little world, oblivious to how obvious it all was.

It was frustrating, the way she kept catching herself looking for something—some proof that she still knew Spencer better than anyone else. That he wasn’t really different, that you weren’t the only one who saw him.

She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Maybe she was just trying to remind herself that she still knew Spencer, that there was still some part of him that was hers—even if it wasn’t in the way she had once imagined, but in the way that came from years of friendship, of understanding each other in ways no one else did.

But it was getting harder to fool herself of that.

Because the way Spencer was with you… it was different.

JJ had spent years convincing herself that she and Spencer had a connection that no one else could touch. But now, she was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong.

And the worst part?

She wasn’t sure what to do about it.

—

The three of you were stationed at a table, going through case files late into the evening. JJ had barely said a word to Spencer that didn’t pertain to the case, and she knew he noticed.

“Do you want something to drink?” Spencer asked after a while, his voice tentative, another olive branch extended her way. “Coffee? Water?”

JJ glanced up at him, her expression unreadable. He was trying, she knew that. But it still didn’t sit right with her—the way he was acting like things were fine, like they could just slot back into place without addressing the damage that had been done.

Before she could answer, you spoke up.

“I’ll get it, Spence,” you said, shaking your head lightly as you stood. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. Both of you relax for once and stop thinking about the case, at least until I’m back.”

Spencer hesitated, but at the slight nudge of your hand against his arm, he gave in, slumping back into his chair.

JJ watched the exchange in silence.

It was so easy for you, the way you just knew what he needed before he even did.

The awkwardness was palpable, even as you walked back into the room, three cups in hand. The atmosphere between her and Spencer had been tense, but now, it was like everything had shifted.

You placed a cup of coffee in front of JJ, a cup of tea in front of yourself, and a cup of tea in front of Spencer, your movements careful, but sluggish from the lack of sleep.

“Two teas and a coffee,” you said lightly, your back to them as you made your way over to the board, eyes scanning the case notes.

JJ blinked, her gaze drifting from Spencer to you, then to Spencer again.

“You don’t drink coffee anymore?” she asked, trying to sound neutral.

Spencer shifted in his seat, his posture suddenly stiff. “Not really.”

JJ swallowed. “Since when?”

Spencer didn’t look at her immediately. Instead, his gaze was on you, the familiar soft smile that had been reserved for so few people now spreading across his face. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he shrugged, a subtle but unmistakable affection in his posture.

“I don’t know. A while, I guess,” he answered simply, his voice low and easy.

JJ’s stomach twisted in a way she couldn’t quite explain. She’d seen it—the way Spencer looked at you, the way he sounded when he spoke to you. He was different now, and the realization hit JJ hard.

She hadn’t been paying attention. She hadn’t been listening, hadn’t truly seen what had been right in front of her.

And suddenly, it felt like the weight of her frustration—the anger that had been building for weeks—was slipping away. Maybe, just maybe, she had been looking at the situation all wrong.

JJ looked at Spencer for a long moment, realizing just how wrong she’d been. She had let her own bitterness and hurt cloud her judgment, had let the past define their friendship, when what really mattered was the present. And she wanted to fix that.

With a deep breath, she smiled at Spencer, the tension in her shoulders easing.

She stood up, walking over to where you were standing at the board. You looked up briefly as she approached, and JJ could see the soft warmth in your eyes.

“I was thinking about the timeline,” JJ began, standing beside you now, glancing at the board, eager to refocus on the task at hand.

You nodded. “Yeah, the key thing is we need to tie everything together—look for patterns in the victim’s movements.”

As JJ stood there, side by side with you, she knew now that Spencer was right. And as she watched you both—watched you understand him, steady him, love him—she realized something painful. There had never been a chance for her. Not really. Not since you walked into his life. Maybe, if you had never entered the picture, there would have been a future for her and Spencer. But that’s all he was to her now.

Her biggest what if.

And you?

It’s two a.m when you feel his fingers twitch.

At first you think you imagined it—your eyes sting from exhaustion, and you’ve had too many false alarms, too many times you thought the monitors jumped because of something you did.

But then his brow pinches.

And his hand moves again.

“Steve?” You sit forward so fast the chair squeaks. “Steve—hey—can you hear me?”

Robin is on her feet instantly shouting for the doctor.

Dustin scrambles backward, “I’m gonna call the others.”

Your heart leaps into your throat.

His lashes flutter, jaw clenching around a grimace.

“Steve?” you whisper, terrified and hopeful at the same time. “I’m right here—just breathe, okay? Just—”

His eyes open.

Not all the way. Barely a squint. Hazel and unfocused, pupils blown wide. He stares at the ceiling first, then the bright light the doctor swings over him, then Robin and Dustin hovering anxiously at his sides.

And then…finally at you.

His gaze lands on your face.

You expect something, a smile, a blink of recognition, a sarcastic comment about how bad your hair must look at two in the morning.

Instead, his expression shifts into confusion. Deep. Sharp. Like you’re a puzzle piece he’s holding the wrong way.

“Wh—where…” His voice rasps, raw and hoarse. “What happened?”

The doctor steps in. “Mr. Harrington, you’re at Hawkins General. You’ve been unconscious for several days. You took a hard hit during the collapse of the chemical plant at the old Creel house.”

Chemical plant. The official government line.

Steve frowns like the word doesn’t match the picture in his head. “How long?” he asks.

“Ten days,” Robin says too quickly, trying to sound encouraging. “You—you scared the crap out of us, dingus.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a muffled cough.

Dr. Patel continues gently, “Steve, I need to ask you a few questions. Just to check how your brain is doing.”

He nods stiffly.

“What’s your full name?”

“Steven Harrington.”

“And your birthday?”

He answers.

“And the year?”

He hesitates. You see the panic begin to creep in around the edges of his expression.

“Uh… ‘86?” he guesses. “Summer? We just—we just dealt with—” His breath shakes. “Vec—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, correcting himself to fit the “earthquake” explanation he’s been given. “The, uh… the tremors, from the earthquake?”

Robin and Dustin trade looks.

Dr. Patel hums thoughtfully. “Steve, tell me the last thing you remember before waking up here.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes dart across the room, searching for something that isn’t there.

“I was talking to Nancy,” he finally says. “In the RV. We were… I don’t know. Catching up, I guess.” His voice softens in confusion. “She was scared. We all were. And then… then the ground started to shake. And… nothing.”

Your pulse pounds.

Because that was a year and half ago. Before he met you. Before your first apartment together and late-night confessions and soft I love yous whispered into your hair. Before everything you built with him.

The doctor finishes the test, as the door bursts open. Jonathan is first inside, breathless, eyes wide. “We came as soon as Dustin called.” Eddie and Nancy trailing behind him equally as breathless and relieved. 

Eddie leans on the foot of the bed like his legs might give out. “Jesus H. Christ, dude—you scared the shit out of us.”

Steve blinks at all of them, overwhelmed.

“Could I speak with you all,” Dr. Patel says quietly, “out in the hall?”

Robin squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll be right back, okay?”

He nods, breaths coming uneven.

Dustin stays behind as Steve’s shakingly pleads, “Don’t—don’t leave me alone yet.”

Dr. Patel closes the door gently behind him. His expression is gentle, but serious. “Steve shows signs of retrograde amnesia,” he explains. “The memories leading up to his injury—months, possibly more than a year—are currently inaccessible.”

“Like… gone?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.

“Not gone,” the doctor corrects. “Think of memory as a file drawer. The files are there, but the drawer won’t open.”

“And when does it open?” Robin presses.

There’s a heavy silence.“It could be days,” the doctor says. “Or weeks. Or years. Or… never.”

Your lungs stop working.

“Can we… tell him?” Eddie asks, voice pitching higher. “Like, fill in the gaps? Show him photos, talk him through it?”

Dr. Patel shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says firmly. “Forcing memories can be damaging in cases like this. The brain is in a vulnerable state. If you bombard him with information, try to ‘make’ him remember, it can cause severe anxiety, confusion, even setbacks in his recovery.”

“And—and we’re supposed to just pretend he didn’t lose the last 18 months of his life?” Nancy whispers.

“Pretend? No. Avoid triggering details? Yes,” Dr. Patel says. “Keep him grounded in what he does remember. Familiar routines. Familiar places. Familiar people.”

Your heart splinters. Because you…you are none of those things to him anymore.

Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “So uh… where’s he supposed to stay? ‘Cause he sure as hell can’t go back to the house he doesn’t remember living in.”

Jonathan nods toward you. “He was staying with—”

“No,” you interrupt immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “He can’t… he doesn’t know me. That would freak him out.”

Robin winces sympathetically.

Nancy adds, “And staying with me and Jonathan would confuse him even more. He doesn’t remember patching things up.”

“I’ll take him,” Eddie says without hesitation. “My place is basically a cave of familiar smells and poor hygiene. Should feel like home.”

It draws a strained, grateful laugh from the others.

You nod numbly, “Yeah. That’s… that’s good.”

The door opens again, Dustin peeking out, “He’s asking for you guys,” he says softly. “He’s… um… kinda scared.”

Steve is sitting up more, breathing hard like he’s trying not to panic.

His eyes scan each face—Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan—landing on each with some level of recognition.

Then he looks at you. And his brows pull together in apologetic confusion.

“Um,” he says, voice hoarse, “sorry but… do I… know you?”

For a second, no one breathes. You force a small smile. Force your voice to work.

“I’m just… a friend,” you whisper. “One of the people who came to see you.”

His shoulders relax, but he still looks guilty. “Sorry. I’m just—everything’s blurry.”

You swallow the burn in your throat. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

–

The day Steve is discharged is strangely bright.

One of those Hawkins afternoons where the sun feels performative, like it’s trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. The hospital lobby hums with murmured conversations and the low squeal of wheelchairs against polished floors. Families gather with flowers and get-well balloons; nurses laugh at inside jokes you’re not part of.

You’re not there.

Instead, you stand in the middle of the apartment you once shared, drowning in the silence that used to feel comforting and now feels impossibly loud. It still smells like him—laundry detergent, cheap coffee, the cologne he always applies too generously in the morning because he insists it “fades by noon.” The couch cushions hold the shape of his favorite spot. His sneakers lie abandoned in the corner, one toe pointing toward the door like he left in a hurry. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair the same way it always does, never quite making it to the hook he installed and promptly stopped using.

On the fridge, the Polaroids watch you as you move. You, in his old Scoops hat, smiling like an idiot, while he flips off Eddie behind the camera. And the one Eddie took where Steve isn’t looking at the lens—just at you. Eyes crinkled. Mouth mid-laugh. A moment caught in the exact shape of adoration.

He doesn’t remember any of it.

You walk through the apartment like you’re trespassing in your own life, touching objects that feel suddenly foreign. You kneel beside the bed and pull out a duffel bag, spreading it open like a wound you’re trying not to look directly at.

T-shirts first. Sweatpants. Socks—even though he never matches them, insisting that the washing machine “eats the good pairs out of spite.”

Robin kneels beside an open duffel bag on the bed, her expression tight with concentration as you hand her his favorite mug with the stupid cartoon shark on it, wrapped carefully in an old sweatshirt you stole from him months ago. “This sucks,” she says conversationally, yanking a hanger free. “Like, in case you were wondering, this sucks. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.” 

The cassette box sits by the stereo, full of tapes you made together—his messy handwriting, your neat labels. You pick it up gently, thumb brushing over the one marked simply: YOUR STUFF. 

You snort weakly, “You don’t say.” 

“You sure you don’t want to come to the discharge? We could go with Joyce and Hopper, then straight to the trailer. Like a whole welcome-home parade. Balloons, confetti, you bursting dramatically out of the cake.” 

You make a face, “Absolutely not.” 

She sobers, “Okay, but for real. You don’t have to hide.” 

“I’m not hiding,” you lie. “I’m just… doing this instead. If he woke up and they told him he had to move back to a house he doesn’t remember packing for, that’s weird. At least this way when he gets there, he has his stuff. That’s… useful.” 

“And you?” she presses softly. “What’s useful for you?” 

You shrug one shoulder, eyes on the socks you’re shoving into the side pocket of the bag. “I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t have to be. Not with me.” 

You blow out a shaky breath. “If I go,” you say quietly, “if I stand there and watch him walk out of that hospital and into… not our home… I’m gonna fall apart. And I really… really don’t want to do that in front of him.” 

“Okay,” she accepts. “Then I’ll go. I’ll take this—” She gestures to the duffel. “I’ll say it’s from his parents’ place, or something. But now he’ll probably think I raided his underwear drawer.”

Meanwhile, Eddie guides Steve out of the hospital, one hand hovering near his elbow like he expects Steve to topple over at any moment. Steve insists he’s fine—“For the fifteenth time, Munson, I can walk”—but the stiffness in his movements betrays how exhausted he really is. “My parents aren’t here?” he asks, tone attempting casual but landing closer to wounded curiosity.

Eddie adjusts his grip on Steve's arm and shakes his head. “Business trip. Overseas. They got the messages, though. Said to tell you they’ll call once they’re back in the country.”

Steve nods in a way that tells Eddie he expected nothing else.

Eddie jogs ahead, swinging the van door open with an exaggerated bow “Your ride, sir.”

Steve rolls his eyes but can’t quite smother the smile. “Did the royal chariot break down?”

“This is the royal chariot,” Eddie retorts. “She’s got character.”

“She smells like Cheetos,” Steve says, hoisting himself up into the passenger seat, “And maybe… weed.”

When they pull up outside the trailer, Steve goes quiet. The place is the same and not. The cracks in the ground nearby have been filled, the damage patched badly. There are still scorch marks on the grass where things fell from the sky that “didn’t happen.” 

The trailer is cluttered but clean. There’s a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink. A stack of tapes by the TV—some horror, some metal concerts, some romcoms Robin smuggled in “for balance.”

“That’s your room,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the small door off the hallway. “I mean, technically it’s my room and that’s technically my bed, but I’m feeling generous.” 

Steve steps inside like he’s expecting the floor to shift under his feet. There are posters on the wall he half-remembers. A pile of laundry in the corner. The bat—the bat—leans against the wall, grip worn. He runs his fingers over the bedspread, the edge of the nightstand, the window frame. His head hurts. He sinks onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face. 

Eddie watches him carefully. “You alright? You look like you swallowed a brick.”

“Just… trying to make it all match up,” Steve mutters. “Doc says about ‘one year,’ but it feels like someone ripped pages out of a book and kept the ending. I’m assuming we won. And that Vecna’s…  gone. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what we did. Are the gates closed? I don’t know when Max…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “When did she wake up? How bad did it get? What did I… do?” There’s a jagged frustration under the questions. A helpless anger at his own brain. 

Eddie sees it. Hears the edge in his voice. “That’s a story for another time, pal,” he says gently. “All you need to know is that Vecna is gone for good, Hawkins is still miserable, and all you need to worry about is your flat hair.” 

Steve huffs out a startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. “That’s, like, three things.” 

“I believe in your ability to multitask,” Eddie says. 

Robin appears in the doorway, hair windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold. The duffel bag you packed hangs from her shoulder, heavier now with everything you folded so carefully. “Special delivery!” she announces, stepping inside with exaggerated flourish. “Straight from Casa Harrington.” 

Steve brightens a little. “My parents’ place?” 

“Yup,” Robin lies smoothly. “They, uh… left the key taped under the mat. Super secure. Very responsible.” 

“Thanks,” he says, soft. “Really.” 

Robin’s smile falters for a second—just a second—before she recovers. “Yeah, dingus. That’s what friends do.” 

Eddie catches her eye. She gives the smallest shake of her head. Steve doesn’t see that either. 

They spend the next twenty minutes unpacking shirts and socks and the hoodie he doesn’t remember buying. Robin chatters about mundane things—Joyce’s attempt at making bread that could double as a weapon, Lucas’s new videogame obsession, Dustin’s twelve-step plan to introduce Steve to every campaign he missed. Steve tries to laugh in the right places. He tries to feel grounded in the little stories of a life he doesn’t remember living. Still, every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the door.

To the empty space beyond it. To the missed presence he can’t name.

He doesn’t know who’s missing. He doesn’t know why.

He only knows that something important isn’t here— and that the absence feels wrong.

–

Movie nights, dinners, and game nights stop being weekly and start happening every other day, now. Not just for Steve, but for everyone. Staying alone feels worse than crowding into too-small spaces, so they choose noise. 

You skip the first movie night because you’re scheduled for a late shift at work. The second because you tell yourself you’re tired. By the third, you don’t even bother coming up with an excuse.

But the invites never stop. 

Robin calls you while you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, a half-unpacked box of Steve’s things open in front of you—things you didn’t have the heart to finish putting away. His sweatshirt is folded on top, soft from too many washes, still faintly smelling like him.

“We miss you,” she says into the receiver, voice light but tired. “He misses you.”

Your chest tightens.

“He doesn’t know me,” you reply quietly.

There’s a pause on the other end. You can hear the low hum of voices behind her, the sound of a life continuing just out of reach.

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It does,” you interrupt gently. “It does mean something, Robin. He doesn’t need… complications. He needs to feel normal.”

You hang up before she can argue, the silence feeling louder than the conversations you’re avoiding.

At the next get-together, Steve volunteers for the snack run.

He comes back with grocery bags filled with a specific brand of chips none of them remember him liking, a box of cookies no one else reaches for, and a candy bar that makes Eddie wrinkle his nose.

“Since when do you eat those?” Robin asks, watching him unload everything onto the counter.

Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t know. Just… grabbed them.”

“For who?” Dustin presses, crouched on a chair to see over the counter.

Steve pauses. He feels it — that moment when his brain stalls out mid-thought. A faint pressure builds behind his eyes, like trying to remember how a dream ends after you’ve already woken up.

“No idea,” he laughs, the shrug coming a second too late. “Must’ve looked good.”

It’s a few gatherings later when he finally brings it up.

It’s late. The kids are swallowed by a board game, voices raised in mock outrage. Eddie stands at the sink, washing dishes. Jonathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching soap bubbles drift down the drain.

“Can I ask you something?” Steve says.

Jonathan glances over and nods. “Sure.”

“The girl from the hospital,” Steve continues carefully. “She said she was a friend.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “She is.” He hesitates, then adds, “She doesn’t come around much anymore.”

Steve frowns. “Why not?”

Jonathan exhales slowly. “She’s trying to deal with all of this on her own. Everything that happened. Losing people. Almost losing people.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the living room. “Being around all of this can feel like reopening a wound.”

Steve absorbs that, jaw tightening. “That seems backwards,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t it help? Being around people who actually get it?”

Jonathan looks at him — really looks.

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people think staying away is easier. That it hurts less in the long run.”

Steve frowns deeper. “That still doesn’t make sense.”

Jonathan gives him a small, sad smile. “No. It usually doesn’t.” After a beat, he adds, “Next time you see her, you should invite her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

–

The grocery store smells like overripe fruit and burned coffee.

You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for too long, staring down two different boxes like one of them might solve something bigger than breakfast. Your cart has the basics — bread, milk, eggs — and the coffee you swore you wouldn’t keep buying anymore because it still feels like buying it for him.

You tell yourself this is normal. That it’s fine. That you’re doing fine.

You reach for the box on the left.

At the exact same time, someone else reaches for the one on the right.

“Sorry—”

The voice stops you cold.

You don’t look up right away. Your fingers stay curled around cardboard. Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, the sound of it loud enough that you’re convinced he must hear it.

You already know.

Steve Harrington stands in front of you in a worn Tigers hoodie and faded jeans, hair doing that familiar floppy thing that makes your chest ache. He looks healthier now — less pale, steadier on his feet — but there’s a faint scar at his temple that your eyes go to automatically.

His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he exhales. “It’s— it’s you.”

You swallow. “Hi.”

You don’t mean to smile. It happens anyway, small and brittle, like your face remembers before the rest of you can stop it.

He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. One of them rests on the red plastic handle of his cart; the other hovers, then drops awkwardly at his side.

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says, then winces immediately. “That sounded weird. Not like— I mean—”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, because it always used to be your job to make things less hard for him. You almost laugh at that thought. “I just… yeah. Hi.”

He nods, once, then twice, like he’s confirming something invisible. “Hi.”

There’s a beat where neither of you move. The store hums around you — carts rattling, a kid crying somewhere near produce, the muffled sound of a radio playing something forgettable overhead.

Steve clears his throat. “Jonathan said you might… might be doing this whole ‘handling everything by yourself’ thing.”

Your mouth tilts faintly. “That sounds like him.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “He’s annoyingly perceptive.”

He glances down at your cart without thinking and freezes.

Coffee.

The exact one.

His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh.”

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“Nothing,” he says, then pauses. “I just— I keep buying that.” He gestures vaguely. “And I don’t even like it. It tastes burnt.”

Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the cart. “Then why do you buy it?”

His eyes go distant for half a second, frustration tightening his jaw. “No idea,” he admits. “I just… felt like I needed to.”

Silence stretches between you, fragile and heavy.

He breaks it first. “So,” he says, forcing casual into his tone. “Uh. There’s… there’s stuff happening. Movie nights. Dinner. Game nights. A lot of… togetherness.”

You nod. “Robin’s told me.”

“Yeah, well,” he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Robin tells everyone everything, so.”

You smile despite yourself. There’s a pause. Long enough for the hum of the lights to fill the space between you.

Steve clears his throat. “So, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. “There’s another movie night coming up. Dinner too, probably. People crammed onto couches. A lot of noise.”

You wait.

He gestures vaguely. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. Or talk about anything. Or— you know— do anything, really.” He winces, clearly aware he’s rambling. “This sounded smoother in my head.”

“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll… come. Next time.”

His face lights up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Great,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean— cool. No pressure. Totally casual.”

You smile, real this time. “You’re terrible at casual.”

“You should see me try flirting,” he replies before thinking.

You both freeze.

He flushes immediately. “Not— not flirting with you! I mean— not that I—” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Wow. I’m just gonna shut up now.”

You laugh.

It slips out unexpectedly, warm and sharp and painfully familiar.

His eyes soften when he hears it.

“Guess I’ll see you,” he says, backing toward his cart.

“Guess you will,” you answer.

He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”

“So am I,” you say, and you mean it — even though it scares you.

–

The next movie night is at Hopper’s cabin.

You stand in the driveway for a long second before you knock, keys cool and solid in your palm like an anchor. The windows glow warm against the dark, voices overlapping inside—too loud, too alive. Laughter punches through the wood of the door, Dustin’s unmistakable cackle cutting loudest.

You almost leave.

Almost.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, the door swings open.

“Hey!” Robin says, already grinning—and then she’s hugging you. Tight. Arms locked around your shoulders like she’s afraid if she lets go you’ll disappear. “You actually came.”

“Careful,” you mutter into her shoulder. “You’re gonna break a rib.”

She ignores that and squeezes once more before pulling back. “Worth it.”

The cabin smells like popcorn and woodsmoke and something questionable Eddie brought in a foil tray. The couch is already half-full—Lucas and Max twisted together at one end, Dustin sprawled on the floor with a blanket, Eddie perched on the armrest like furniture is more of a suggestion than a rule. Nancy looks up from where she’s setting drinks on the table and offers you a soft, relieved smile.

You step farther inside, shrugging off your jacket, trying to remember how to occupy space like this again.

And Steve—

Steve is in the kitchen.

He’s got his back to you, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild like he forgot the mirror existed today. He’s holding a mug beneath the coffee pot, focused in a way that suggests he’s taking the task far too seriously.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, barely audible over the noise. “Not boiling. That’s… probably important.”

You pause. For a second, it feels like stepping into a room you used to know by heart. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just him half-awake in your apartment kitchen, hair sticking up, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple while the coffee brewed.

You shake the memory loose and move farther into the room.

When he sees you, his expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable. Like tension easing from his shoulders, like something unknots behind his eyes before he can stop it. “You came,” he says, surprised enough that it doesn’t sound casual.

“I said I would.” 

“Right,” he says, nodding once, then glancing down at the mug like he’s suddenly remembered it exists. “Uh— drink? Coffee, soda, whatever. Eddie tried to make punch again but I’m pretty sure it violates some kind of health code.”

“I’ll take coffee,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Your fingers brush his when you take the mug from his hand. The contact is brief. Barely anything. But still sparks something sharp and familiar, a lightning-bolt jolt that runs straight through you.

You retreat to the far end of the couch, heart beating a little too fast, mug warm in your hands. The taste is right. Warm. Familiar in a way you don’t examine too closely.

The movie ends sometime after midnight.

You don’t know exactly when it happens—only that at some point the room gets quieter, the sugar rush burns off, and the easy noise settles into something softer. Dustin is half-asleep on the floor, Lucas and Max murmuring to each other beneath a blanket. Eddie’s fallen into an argument with Robin about whether the movie counts as “cinema,” and Hopper has retreated to the doorway with a beer and a headache.

You stand to grab your jacket quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself, almost making it to the door.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice isn’t loud. It’s careful, like he’s testing it out before committing. He’s standing near the couch, hands shoved in his pockets, the easy sprawl he usually carries himself with dialed back into something smaller. There’s a moment where it looks like he might say something else—but then he straightens, decision made.

“Are you heading out?”

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s late.”

He nods. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

There’s a pause. The kind that asks for something without saying what.

“Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. “I mean. I can walk you out if you want. It’s dark.”

You consider it. The driveway. The woods. The quiet that will follow once the door closes behind you.

“Okay,” you say.

The word seems to surprise him.

Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, the kind that seeps under your sleeves and wakes you up a little. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step down from the porch. The cabin behind you hums faintly with muted laughter, the sound softened by walls and distance.

Steve walks beside you, not too close. Just enough to be there.

They've filled the cracks in the ground near the treeline, patched the scars as best they can. It’s obvious where things broke anyway. Hawkins wears it quietly now.

“You good?” he asks after a moment.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”

He hums, not convinced but not pushing.

“Thanks for coming,” he adds. “I know it probably wasn’t… easy.”

You glance at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw set, like he’s afraid if he looks at you he’ll read too much into whatever expression he finds.

“I’m glad I did,” you say.

That earns you a quick look. Something warm flickers there before he reins it in. Steve stops a few steps back, rocking on his heels. “So. Uh. Next time—if you don’t feel like staying long, that’s okay. Or if you don’t come. Or if you—” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I’m bad at this.”

“At what?”

He hesitates. “Inviting people without making it weird.”

You smile softly. “You’re doing okay.”

He studies that answer like he’s checking it for cracks. “Good,” he says. “Then… next time?”

You nod. “Next time.”

A beat passes. Another.

“Night,” he says.

“Night, Steve.”

You get in the car, shut the door, and don’t pull away right away. Through the windshield, you see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until your headlights come on.

And for the first time in a while, the quiet that follows doesn’t feel empty.

It feels… anticipatory.

–

You never say it out loud.

You barely admit it to yourself.

But some small, stubborn part of you still hopes that one day he’ll remember.

And on the days when that feels like tempting fate — like asking the universe for something it’s already taken — you hope instead that time will do what it always promises to do.

Soften things.

Sand the edges.

Turn this ache into something survivable.

Because loving him like this feels less like healing and more like erosion. A slow wearing-down. A thing you can’t stop without walking away completely — so, you learn how to exist in this strange in-between.

Movie nights blur into sleepovers. Dinners turn into late evenings where no one wants to be the first to leave, because empty houses feel louder now. You show up, linger, and leave early. But Steve keeps finding his way to you.

Not pointedly.

Not obviously.

Just… naturally.

He doesn’t remember you — not in the way that matters — but his attention keeps skidding in your direction all the same. Catching on little things he can’t explain.

The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.

The sound of your laugh, which seems to echo oddly in his chest, like he’s heard it before in a dream.

It starts small.

At a crowded diner table, he ends up across from you, shoulder tipped just slightly in your direction. He asks what you’re getting and then orders something new from the menu. When the food comes, you trade plates without discussing why, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

At the arcade, he drifts closer as the place fills, not invading your space so much as silently claiming it. He leans in over the din of machines to say something stupid about high scores, his mouth near your ear, his voice pitched only for you. When you laugh, he smiles like he forgot what he was going to say next, eyes lingering a beat too long before he looks away. Later, when you step back to grab tokens, he follows without realizing — like you pulled him there with an invisible thread.

Sometimes it’s quieter than that.

You sit on the hood of someone’s car after a long night, the air cool and damp, everyone else talking in loose clusters behind you. Steve leans beside you, forearms braced on the metal, eyes on the stars like he’s trying to map something familiar.

“You ever think Hawkins feels… smaller?” he asks.

You hum. “Yeah.”

He smiles at that. “Good. Thought it was just me.”

He asks questions.

Small ones. Safe ones.

“What do you order at diners?”

“Have you always lived around here?”

“Were you always into that music, or did it just… happen?”

He listens when you answer. Really listens. And every time, something in you tightens — because it would be easier if he didn’t.

He saves you a seat. Hands you his jacket without comment when the night cools. Walks you home after group dinners even though his place is in the opposite direction. He says it’s late. That it’s dark. That it’s not a big deal. He keeps pace with you anyway, close enough that your arms brush when the sidewalk narrows.

Sometimes you talk about everything.

Sometimes you don’t talk at all.

Either way, it feels dangerously close to intimacy — the kind you’re no longer sure you’re allowed to have.

That’s when you start to think of it as a slow death.

Because leaving always hurts.

And staying close somehow hurts worse.

–

Of course you notice Nancy.

You always have.

She’s impossible not to notice — all sharp edges and sharper mind, fearless in a way that feels deliberate. You respect her. You always have. That almost makes this harder to stomach.

You notice the way Steve looks at her sometimes. Like he’s lining up memory against reality and trying to see where they overlap.

You know what the last clear thing he remembers feeling is. You heard about the conversation in the back of the vehicle — whispered hopes about kids and road trips and growing old. A future shaped in the middle of chaos.

Not with you.

If his memories never circle back to you… why wouldn’t they land on her instead? Why wouldn’t that path feel safer? Simpler?

So when you step out onto the cabin porch for air and find them there, your chest sinks before either of them even speaks.

They aren’t standing close. They aren’t touching. But they’re angled toward each other, voices low and serious, framed by the soft glow spilling out from the cabin behind them. You don’t hear the words.

You don’t have to.

You see Steve lean back against the railing, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A gesture you know by heart — the one that means something matters.

Nancy’s posture is steady. Arms crossed. Expression soft but intent. Like she’s anchoring him through something delicate. Personal.

Your stomach drops.

The screen door creaks behind you before you can stop it.

Both of them turn.

“I was just—” Nancy starts.

“I’m—” you say at the same time, already stepping back. “Sorry. It’s getting late.”

Steve takes a half step forward. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, forcing a small smile that feels brittle on your face. “Really. I need to head home anyway.”

You don’t wait for a response. But by the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You don’t tell yourself not to cry, just let the thought settle, heavy and unkind in your chest:

Maybe he doesn’t remember you because he wasn’t meant to.

–

The porch is quiet, washed in the soft hum of insects and the distant noise from inside the cabin.

Steve leans back against the railing, elbows locked, gaze drifting out toward the dark tree line.

“I mean… you and Jonathan seem good,” he says, glancing over at Nancy. “Like you figured things out.”

Nancy hesitates. It’s subtle — just a slight shift of her shoulders — but it’s there.

“And how does that make you feel?” she asks carefully.

Steve lets out a breath. Not heavy. Not shaky. Thoughtful.

“I remember what I said before,” he admits. “What I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And I know that mattered. It mattered a lot.”

“But?” Nancy prompts gently.

“But it doesn’t feel like that anymore,” Steve says, frustration edging into his voice. “That’s the part that’s messing with me.”

She doesn’t interrupt.

He gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite grab onto the thought, “I remember loving you,“I remember being so sure. But when I picture my life now…” he continues, a faint frown pulling at his brow, “it doesn’t land there. I keep waiting for that feeling to come back. Like I’m supposed to want that future again. And I don’t.” 

Nancy studies him for a long moment. Then she smiles — small, soft, and understanding.

“That means you’re healing,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

Steve exhales, shoulders easing just a little, then adds, “I am happy for you, though. For you and Jonathan.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m… actually glad we’re friends now. All of us. That part feels right.”

–

Eddie’s trailer is quiet in a way Steve still isn’t used to.

Not peaceful — just empty between sounds.

He lies awake on the mattress, staring up at a crack in the ceiling he’s been tracking for the past ten minutes. It vaguely resembles Indiana. Or a boot. Or nothing at all. His brain won’t settle on it.

His chest feels… off.

Not tight. Not panicked. Just restless — like something is vibrating just underneath his ribs, an irritant he can’t scratch.

He rolls onto his side. Then his other side. Then onto his back again.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his palms flat against his stomach like that might help. “You’re exhausted.”

He is. He knows he is.

But every time his eyes start to drift closed, something tugs him back.

A sense of… unfinishedness.

He exhales and lets his gaze drift, unfocused, toward the dim outline of the wall. He doesn’t fight the thought when it comes this time.

You - like a gravity point.

The way you listen. The way you pause before laughing, like you’re deciding whether to let yourself. The quiet steadiness of you, the way being around you makes his shoulders drop without him noticing until afterward.

His mouth curves slightly, fond despite himself. 

He drags a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “I don’t even—”

The thought stalls.

Because that’s not true.

It’s not just liking you. It hasn’t been for a while now. Not the way his chest reacts when you walk into a room. Not the way he keeps finding reasons to stand near you, talk to you, walk you home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The realization settles, heavy and unmistakable.

I’m in love with her.

The word doesn’t scare him.

If anything, it feels like relief — like finally naming something that’s been quietly demanding his attention for weeks.

He stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.

“Okay,” he whispers to the dark. “Okay.”

Tomorrow, then.

He’ll ask you out. Nothing big. Just honest — just the feeling in his chest that hasn’t been wrong yet.

The restless pull eases, finally dulling into something warm.

Sleep comes softly, catching him mid-thought.

–

He wakes with a sharp gasp.

For a disorienting second, all he knows is pain — bright and sudden behind his eyes, like someone just switched on a light inside his skull. He fumbles blindly, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock.

3:07 a.m.

He sucks in a sharp breath, hand flying to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels wrong. Too unfamiliar. Too small. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely.

He sits up too fast and the world tilts. For half a second, he doesn’t know where he is — doesn’t know whose blanket he’s holding, why the air smells like cigarettes and old flannel instead of detergent and burnt coffee.

Then it hits him.

He’s on his feet before the thought finishes forming, bare chest goosebumping in the cold air, the floor icy under his soles. He stumbles into Eddie’s chair, sends it clattering, doesn’t even slow down.

Eddie jerks awake with a startled noise. “What the—?”

Steve yanks the door open, cold air slamming into him.

“I gotta go,” he blurts over his shoulder, voice hoarse and urgent. “I—I gotta go right now.”

Eddie blinks. Then smiles, tired and knowing and soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Figured.”

The night air burns his lungs, sharp and unforgiving. Asphalt bites into his feet, each step a jolt of pain he registers distantly, like it’s happening to someone else. Streetlights streak past as he sprints, chest heaving, breath puffing white. 

By the time he reaches your building, his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He takes the steps two at a time, slips at the landing, catches himself on the railing.

He pounds on the door with both fists.

Once. Twice. Again.

“Please,” he breathes, forehead pressed to the wood. “Please.”

The door opens.

You’re standing there in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, confusion still clinging to your expression.

Steve can’t speak. For a split second, he just stares — at your eyes, wide and alarmed; at the familiar hallway behind you; at the sad, wilted spider plant hanging near the keys. 

“Steve?” you ask, voice thick with sleep. “What—are you okay? Why are you—” 

Your gaze drops.

Bare feet. Red and scraped. His chest rising and falling too fast. No jacket. No shoes.

“Did you run here?” you start, alarm bleeding into your voice. “Steve, you’re barefoot—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

He steps forward, hands coming up to your face like muscle memory finally given permission, and kisses you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not slow.

It’s desperate and grounding all at once, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re real. His mouth crashes into yours, breath shaky, lips cold from the night, kissing you like he’s been holding this in for weeks without knowing why.

You freeze for half a heartbeat.

Then you melt into it.

Your hands fist into his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as his breath stutters against your mouth. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard.

“I remember,” he says, voice breaking on the word.

You still.

“What?” you breathe.

“I remember everything,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Us. The apartment. The fights and the good parts and the stupid plant you kept forgetting to water.” A shaky laugh escapes him. “I fell asleep thinking about you and the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was just… there. Like my brain finally caught up.”

Your breath stutters. “Steve—”

His hands are still caressing your face when the words start to tumble out of you, messy and panicked now that he’s really here.

“Steve, I— I’m sorry,” you stammer, tears already blurring everything. “The doctor… he said we couldn’t force it. Said it could hurt you, and I— I,” Your voice breaks. “… wondered if maybe this was your chance to go back. To something easier. Someone…” You swallow hard. “Maybe Nancy. Maybe someone better than me.”

He makes a broken sound in his throat and shakes his head, eyes shining, completely undone.

“No,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head against your skin. “No, no— don’t do that.”.

You keep going anyway, breath hitching. “I thought if you never remembered me.. You could go back to-”

He cuts you off by kissing you.

Not your mouth this time, but your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your eye, where tears are still spilling over. Your cheek. Everywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to erase the words before they can carve permanent scars into you.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. You really thought forgetting you would make me want someone else?”

You meet his eyes and lose the fight to stay composed altogether, you sob, nodding helplessly.

He’s crying now too — tears slipping down unchecked, mouth trembling as he cups your face tighter, like you might break if he doesn’t hold you together.

“There is no someone better,” he says, voice rough and earnest and wrecked. “There never was. Not even when I didn’t remember. Not even then.”

He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs brushing desperately over your cheeks.

“Even when I didn’t remember you,” he continues, tears falling freely now, breath uneven, “I still wanted you. And I still couldn’t stop wanting to be near you. Couldn’t stop looking for you in rooms. Couldn’t stop feeling wrong when you weren’t there. Every instinct in me knew something was missing, and it was always you.”

A sob shakes through him, “I fell asleep thinking about you, wondering how to ask you out without screwing it up. Wondering why not being near you made my chest hurt. I fell in love with you all over again,” he says shakily. 

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“And you didn’t need to.” She threw the pen back at him. “Steve, I like girls. Practicing with you would be like… I don’t know, practicing for the spelling bee by playing ping pong. Two completely unrelated skills.”

Steve blinked. “Fair point.”

“And,” she continued, “I’m just as catastrophically bad at dating as you are. Maybe worse. I’d give you the wrong advice and you’d end up alone forever, haunting Family Video like a sad polo-wearing ghost.”

Steve groaned, covering his face. “Great. Amazing. Cool. Perfect.”

Robin patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

He blew out a sigh, shoulder slumping- and then his widened like he’d just had the worst idea of his life. 

“...I could ask Nancy?”

You and Robin both choked on air. 

“NO,” Robin snapped instantly. “No. Absolutely not. That is a multiverse-ending-level bad idea.”

You nodded in agreement. “Steve, you cannot ask your ex to help you date other people.”

He winced, already regretting it. “Okay, yeah, yeah, that sounded bad in my head too.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassingly close to waving a white flag. “So what am I supposed to do? I need someone honest. Someone who won’t make fun of me the whole time. Someone who actually would give me good pointers.”

He looked around helplessly. 

Then- only then- did he look at you. 

His expression softened. Brightened. Hope flickering behind his eyes. 

And your pulse skipped, then stumbled, then practically face-planted. 

“What about you?” he asked. 

“No way,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too defensive. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

Because I already like you. 

Because fake dating you is basically a death sentence for my heart. 

Because watching you try to get better for someone else will shred me slowly, one date at a time. 

Because I know exactly how this ends - I’ll sit there across from you, trying hard to remember all of this pretend, knowing you’ll eventually use everything you learned on a girl who isn’t me. I’ll be left in aisle four, next to the action movies, with a broken heart that only you can fix. 

Out loud, though, nothing came out. 

Your throat had sealed itself shut. 

Robin leaned her hip against the glass counter, smirking. “Well dingus? Make your case.”

Steve turned fully to you, hopefully and unbearably earnest. 

“You’re honest. You know me. You’ll tell me what I’m doing wrong. And… I trust you.”

The last part hit you like a soft blow to the chest. You were a goner. 

Of course he trusted you. Of course he saw you as safe. And of course he had no idea that the safest place for him was the most dangerous place for your heart. 

You swallowed hard. “This would be strictly practice. You understand that, right? I give you honest feedback, almost like a report card. And that’s it.”

Steve nodded eagerly. “Yes. Totally. No funny business, just practice. A training arc. Like Rocky but… romantic. 

Robin snorted so hard she nearly dropped a tape. 

But Steve wasn’t joking. His smile was boyish and relieved, like someone had tossed him a life raft after he’d nearly accepted drowning. 

“So… Friday?” he asked softly. “Our first test run?”

Your heart was already aching - and yet you smiled anyway.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Friday.”

Steve pumped his fist and as he beamed at you - warm, grateful, oblivious to the storm he’d just invited into your chest - you knew this was going to hurt. 

–

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That was the first thing you thought as you stared at yourself in the mirror one last time before the first “fake” date. Your stomach churned in anticipation as you smoothed down your clothes. The mirror reflected a version of yourself that looked calm, collected… which was a lie. Your chest tightened every time you thought about Steve; you already liked him. Way too much. And agreeing to fake-date him? Emotional suicide.

But it was too late.

Fuck Steve Harrington and his deep brown eyes and his perfectly coiffed hair.

Steve had insisted on picking you up, suggesting it should be as “realistic” as possible. You wanted to argue that making it realistic was exactly the problem—but then he flashed you that goofy Harrington grin, and that was it. You were doomed.

Your eyes flitted to your watch as you paced in front of the door. He was ten minutes late and it wasn’t helping your anxiety. Just as you were about to call him, you heard a knock that made you jump.

You hurried over, opening it to find him standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, his hair tousled to perfection. He grinned like he had won some private lottery.

“Hey, Coach,” he said. “Ready for… uh, training?”

“You’re late,” you said deadpan, trying to keep your cool as your heart betrayed you.

Steve scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… there was traffic?”

“In Hawkins?” you asked, incredulous.

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “Fine, I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. Of course. You waved off his tardiness although you made a mental note of it. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll love it, it’s a classic.”

The drive over made your stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with your feelings. Steve had the stereo cranked so loud that every power ballad and synth riff rattled through the car, vibrating your chest and giving your pulse a nervous rhythm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

When he pulled into the parking lot, you caught your first glimpse of Benny’s Burgers, far from the hometown diner you would have loved. The place reeked of old grease and something that might have once been cigarette smoke but had since evolved into its own species. The floor was sticky in a way that made your shoes feel unsafe, and men in faded denim jackets sat at the bar, leering in that slow, lazy way that made you pull your coat a little tighter around yourself.

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. “See? Totally chill.”

The waitress waved a notepad at him. Steve didn’t even glance at the menu, “Two burgers, extra pickles, large fries, a chocolate shake with two straws, please.”

You folded your hands in your lap, trying not to think about how this whole night was already a sinking ship. “Classic,” you muttered under your breath.

–

He leaned back in the booth, stretching out like he owned the place, one arm slung over the vinyl seat. The pose would’ve been charming anywhere else. Here, it mostly looked like he was trying very hard not to touch anything sticky. “Man, I haven’t been here since high school. The guys and I used to come after basketball practice. We’d cram like six people into one booth and try to beat the record for the tallest stack of ketchup cups.”

You hummed softly. “Basketball, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, missing your tone entirely. “Basketball, Swim, a little baseball when I felt like it. Coach used to say I could’ve lettered in just about anything if I put in more effort. But, y’know—” He grinned. “—girls were kind of a distraction.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Of course they were.  

He didn’t notice how your smile was strained.

He didn’t notice—the way Steve Harrington never noticed—when your heart pinched.

Instead, he kept talking, oblivious and charming in a way that made your heart ache. 

“Okay,” he said with a grin that was too bright for the dim room. “Oh! Speaking of distractions - Family Video. You know we got some amazing returns lately and we’re running this, like, insane deal on rentals—"

You blinked. “Steve, I literally work there with you.”

“Right.” He laced his fingers together on the table, leaning forward with sheepish enthusiasm. “This lady brought in a bunch of old classics—like black-and-white classics. I kind of recognized the titles because Nancy made me watch some of them back when we were dating.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

There it was. Her name.

He didn’t even notice he’d said it.

“Yeah, like, uh… Casablanca. Rear Window. That stuff.” He waved a hand. “At the time, I pretended to be bored, but honestly? Some of them were pretty good. Don’t tell Robin or she’ll call me pretentious.”

You swallowed. “They’re… good movies,” you said carefully. Maybe it was a slipup, everyone deserved one mistake, right?

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly! And, like, I don’t know. It’s nice watching stuff that’s not just action and explosions. Nancy really opened my eyes to, like, the artsy side of film,” he finished with a proud smile, completely unaware that the conversation had been slowly siphoning the air out of your lungs.

You nodded, letting your gaze fall to the table. “Right. The artsy side. Makes sense.”

He brightened. “See? You get it!”

You didn’t know if you wanted to bang your head against the table for letting his words tear you apart or bang his head against the table for saying said words. 

The rest of dinner wasn’t any better, then — as if he’d been saving the worst for last — he wiped his hands on a napkin, leaned back, and said, “This is the part where I would ask if my date would want to go back to my place.” 

Your soul left your body.

He held his hands up fast. “But not—not you. Because this is training. And I wouldn’t, like, hit on you. Obviously.”

Obviously.

You pasted on a smile. “Good call.”

He grinned.

You wanted to scream. You didn’t know if you hated that Steve didn’t see you as worthy enough to ask him back to his place or the fact that he used this move on other girls. 

The check arrived. You reached for your wallet. Steve, to his credit, did slap his hand over yours.

“No way — I’ve got it.”

Which would have been nice, if he hadn’t immediately followed it with:

“…Because obviously none of this is real or anything.”

Your smile tightened like a noose.

When you finally slid out of the booth, you felt dirty. Not in a fun way. In a why did the floor do that to my shoes? kind of way.

–

When he pulled up to your apartment, he flashed you that signature Harrington smile.

“So,” he said, hopeful, “be honest. How’d I do?”

You inhaled slowly. “Steve,” you said, steady, sure, “I didn’t even take my coat off.”

His face went blank with confusion.

You continued before he could say anything,“That’s how uncomfortable I was. I kept my coat on in a heated restaurant because men were staring at me and you didn’t notice.”

His expression collapsed slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“And that’s not even the start of it,” you added gently but firmly. “You were late. You didn’t ask a single thing about me. You talked about Nancy—not vaguely, not accidentally—by name. Multiple times.”

He winced.

“And then you mentioned taking girls home,” you finished softly, “and made sure I knew I wasn’t one of them.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” you said, and you did. He wasn’t cruel. Just oblivious. “But the thing is, Steve, dates are about presence. Not just showing up, but actually being there. Being aware. Being with the person you’re taking out.”

He stared at you with something that looked like regret, like dawning realization, like he was watching a reel of mistakes he didn’t realize he’d made.

“So,” he whispered, “that’s…an F?”

“That’s an F,” you confirmed.

He slumped in his seat, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit.”

You reached for the door handle.

“But,” you added gently, “you’ll do better next time. That’s the whole point.”

When you stepped out, closing the door behind you, you knew three things with absolute certainty:

He would do better.

And when he does get better you’re going to fall apart completely.

And even after everything tonight—after the staring men and the Nancy slip-ups and the obliviousness— you still liked him. Maybe even more than before. More than what you considered safe.

–

Steve was early this time.

Not dramatically early, not flowers-before-sunrise early, but early in the way that showed he tried — really tried — to get this one right. He waited outside your building, leaning against his BMW with his hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on his heels like he was psyching himself up for a job interview.

He gave you a bright, almost relieved smile when you stepped outside. “Hey Coach, you look nice,” he said, gently, causing a warm flicker in your chest.

The place Steve picked this time was an upgrade. Not a wow Steve Harrington has cracked the dating code kind of upgrade, but there were actual table cloths, steady lights, and families instead of men who looked like they collected DUIs the same way some collected stamps.

When he saw you shrug your coat off, you heard him murmur to himself, “See? Better already,” almost like he was checking boxes off on an invisible clipboard.

Steve pulled out your chair for you, and the surprise almost knocked you over more than the gesture itself.

“You good?” he asked, grinning like he knew he’d earned a gold star.

“Yeah,” you murmured, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Just… polite. Very unlike you.”

He made a wounded noise. “I can be polite!”

Menus open. Drinks ordered. The first ten minutes were lovely, you’re in “small talk territory,” which should be safe. 

But then the conversation just… tanked.

“So,” you began, giving him an easy opening, “how was work today?”

“Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine… how?”

He shrugged. “Just fine.”

Silence spread across the tabletop like spilled ink. You tried again.

“Did you and Robin ever fix the VCR rewinder that kept eating tapes?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah… as in…?”

“Fixed.”

Your eye twitched.

Okay. Fine. Not all men were conversational juggernauts.

He drummed his fingers on the table. You wondered briefly if you slipped into a parallel universe where Steve Harrington forgot how to speak to women.

You tried again. “Any weird customers today?”

“No.”

No elaboration. No story. Nothing.

Your brain went flat. Airy. Almost amused.

He’s trying—but dear God, was he boring tonight.

You picked at your napkin. “So… movies. Anything good come through the store today?”

“Yeah.”

You exhaled in relief.

“We got a drop-off of older movies the other day. You know—black-and-white stuff.”

“That’s cool,” you said. “Did anything catch your eye?”

 “Mm.”

The waitress arrived just in time with your food. You would’ve kissed her hand if it hadn’t been for her smile - a little too sparkly, a little too Hi, I’d like to sit on your lap. She rested her hand on Steve’s shoulder when she set down his drink and leaned a little too far when she asked if you needed anything else.

And Steve Harrington — without even noticing — turned on that effortless charm. Not flirty on purpose. Just… Steve. The Harrington Effect. She practically glowed.

He grinned too wide. Sat up straighter. Gave her that easy, golden-boy attention he wasn’t even aware he was giving.

Meanwhile, you sat there hoping you were back at Benny’s, At least the waitress there knew how to keep her hands to herself.

God. What a sentence.

How had your life gotten here?

You forced a smile at your food, pretty certain that the couple at the next table thought you’re the third wheel.

–

The meal itself was fine. Pleasant. Easy. Steve was a gentleman in all the mechanical ways—doors, chairs, napkins, the check—but not in the ways that required intention. He asked about your day, but he didn’t follow up when you answered. He smiled at your jokes, but only after a beat. His attention was here, but not anchored here.

By the time he pulled up to your building, you were both quiet. He tapped the roof of the car and glanced at you with that hopeful grin.

“I guess this is the end, right?” he asked.

You raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t even going to walk your date to the door?”

Steve’s eyes widened. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… sorry. I… I’m an idiot sometimes.”

You chuckled softly. “Sometimes?”

“Okay, all the time,” he admitted with a shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin.

You shook your head, smiling. “You’ve got to be careful around people like me. I hold grudges.”

He leaned back against the car, crossing his arms mock-seriously. “People like you? Dangerous types?”

“Extremely dangerous,” you said, poking his arm playfully.

“Noted,” he said with a grin. Then he tilted his head, mock-curious. So… uh…Better than last time, right?”

You exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t bad, Steve.”

His face lit up — prematurely.

“But…” you added gently.

He froze.

“This is a C. A low C. Like… C-plus on a curve.”

He looked wounded, like you’d taken a bat to the King Steve ego he swore he no longer had. “What? Why?”

You tilted your head at him. “Steve, you didn’t even come to my door before or after the date, and you flirted with the waitress more than you talked to me.”

“What? I didn’t—” He stopped. Brow furrowing. “Was I? I swear I wasn’t flirting.”

“I know you weren’t intentionally flirting,” you said. “But some girls might not be okay with… all that.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

“And the date was just… bland,” you said finally. “Very not-you, you didn’t tell any real stories, you didn’t— I don’t know — open up. Honestly… you were kind of boring”

He winced. ““Boring? I— I was trying to be normal.”

“Don’t look so shocked,” you interrupted, “We talked about the weather like four times Steve.”

“I didn’t wanna screw it up. I wanted to be a better version of myself. So I figured… fewer words equals fewer screwups? I didn’t mean to be boring.”

You stared at him.

“That is not how talking works.”

He groans, throwing his head back. “Okay, okay, noted.”

“That Steve,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward him, “at the restaurant, the one who was quiet, careful, trying to be perfect? That’s not you. Your personality is the best part of you - the Steve who’s ridiculous and charming and makes people laugh without even trying. Don’t lose him. Anyone would consider themselves lucky to date the real you.”

He blinked at you. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, smiling. “When I told you to ‘stop talking about yourself’ on the first date? I didn’t mean you should change who you are. I meant… also get to know your date, too. Not replace yourself.”

Steve’s grin widened, the kind that made your chest twist and ache in equal measure. “Got it. Be myself. And pay attention.”

“Exactly,” you said, laughing. “That’s all anyone could ever ask for, don’t be too hard on yourself. A C is still passing, mediocre, but passing. Just keep in mind that not every girl is okay with mediocre.”

“I’ll do better than mediocre next time.” he promised. 

As you closed your door, you thought—Steve Harrington, in all his messy, oblivious, charming glory, was far too dangerous for your heart.

–

You weren’t supposed to look forward to the third “date”.

You told yourself after last week, you were going to turn off your emotions and stop letting your heart fling itself against Steve. But then he knocked -exactly on time this time- holding the most beautiful bouquet. 

He smiled sheepishly, boyishly. “Uh… these are for you. I don’t know what any of them are called but the lady said they were pretty.”

Your heart stuttered, the warmth in your chest almost searingly painful. “Thank you, they’re really pretty.”

“So are you,” he said shyly. His eyes widened—like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but he didn’t take it back either. He just scratched the back of his neck, cheeks pink, and motioned toward the car.

Steve’s car rumbles down the quiet road, headlights cutting through the dusky gold of late afternoon. You hadn’t expected mellow music - not for him at least. Not from the guy whose tapes were usually a rotation of upbeat pop and hair-band rock. 

You glanced at him. “You, uh… switched up your playlist,” you said, trying to keep your voice casual. 

Steve shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. Though you might like it a bit more.”

Your chest tugged as you stared out the window so he wouldn’t see your face soften too much. 

The rest of the drive stayed quiet - but not awkward. Just warm. Comfortable in a way that made your nerves flutter in excitement rather than dread. 

Twenty minutes later, Steve turned into a parking lot and cut the engine. You blinked looking around the familiar sign. “Steve… the museum?”

He only smiled, shy but a little proud. “You told me once - that day Keith made us reorganize the entire sci-fi section - that you hadn’t been back since our elementary school field trip. And how you always meant to come back, but something always came up.”

You stared at him in awe. He remembered that? You barely remembered saying it. 

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… though it’d be a good place. Figured it was about time you make new memories.”

You didn’t know what to say, at least not at first. Because no one ever picked dates based on something you said offhandedly. No one bothered to remember the small, throwaway things you said to pass the time at work.

But Steve had. 

“Steve,” you whispered, almost breathless, “this is perfect.”

His smile turned soft, not charming, not cool - just… real. 

“Good,” he murmured, opening his door. “C’mon. I wanna show you something inside.”

You followed him through the museum’s towering front doors, your steps echoing across the marble floors.

Inside, the air was cool and still, dust motes floating lazily in the streams of light from the skylights. The familiar childhood awe tugged at your chest — but something else tugged harder.

Because Steve Harrington looked completely at home here.

Like he’d been waiting for this more than he let on.

“You come here a lot?” you teased.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, almost bashful.“Uh… maybe.”

Your brows shot up. 

He huffed a laugh. “Okay, yeah. I mean, not like a lot a lot. Just… sometimes. It’s quiet. And kinda cool. And—”He paused in front of a display of old astronomical instruments, glancing sideways at you.“I like knowing stuff,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Real stuff. Not just… whatever people think I’m supposed to know.”

You stepped closer to him without even thinking.

“What’s your favorite thing here?” you asked softly.

That lit him up.

“Ooh. Okay. Come here — look.” He guided you toward a huge bronze armillary sphere.“This thing,” he said, hands animated, “I used to think it was just a big metal ball, but it’s actually like— it maps the sky? The stars? Sort of like a 3D calendar but cooler.”

You blinked. He wasn’t fumbling his words. He wasn’t pretending.

He knew this.

And he liked it.

“You’re kind of a nerd,” you whispered, unable to stop the stunned smile spreading across your face.

Steve flushed immediately. “Okay, wait—”

“No,” you laughed, “a cute nerd.”

He froze.

Blinking.

Processing.

Then that slow, shy smile — the one he never used on anyone else — spread across his face.

“Well… then maybe I don’t mind being a nerd,” he said quietly. “If it gets that smile out of you.”

Your heart tripped in your chest. And as you wandered deeper into the exhibits, it got harder and harder to tell the difference between real and pretend. 

He asked questions — real ones. He listened, not the “waiting for his turn to talk” kind of listening. The real kind.

He told you stories too — not the polished King Steve ones. The honest ones.

How he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be anymore.

You watched him rub the back of his neck, embarrassed.“I don’t know,” he murmured, fiddling with a brochure. “I think… I’m still figuring stuff out. Who I am now. What I want. Some days I think I’ve got it, and then other days…” He exhaled slowly. “…yeah.”

Your chest tightened in a soft, aching way.

“Steve,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to figure things out.”

He looked up at you like no one had ever said that to him before.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was… a lot.”

“It wasn’t,” you murmured. “It was real.”

He smiled — small, shy, tender.

Something inside you unspooled so gently it almost hurt.

And he made you laugh. Really laugh. The helpless kind.Every time he did, he looked proud, like your laughter was a rare collectible he’d spent years trying to find.

Somewhere between the mellow music in his car, the dusty halls, the way he remembered offhand comments from months ago…

You realized:

You were in trouble.

Because Steve Harrington wasn’t trying to impress you. He was showing you who he really was.

And you were falling for him anyway.

–

Steve insisted on opening the car door for you again when he drove you home, which would’ve felt old-fashioned coming from anyone else… but from him it just felt sweet. Gentle. Like he actually wanted to.

The quiet hum of the streetlights filled the space between you as you walked up the path toward your front door. Neither of you talked. Neither of you needed to. The whole night had been full — full of laughter, full of stories, full of things that felt too important to ruin with small talk now.

When you reached the step, you turned to face him.

Steve stood a little too close, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicked over your face, then down to your shoes, then back up again — nervous. Really nervous.

Not King Steve. Just… Steve.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh… I had a really good time tonight.”

You smiled, soft and real. “Me too.”

His breath caught. It was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

He rocked back on his heels. “Can I—” He stopped, tried again. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

Because you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

But it wasn’t real. Not to him. Not the way it was to you.

Still, you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can.”

Steve stepped forward, slow like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hand lifted, hesitated, then gently cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, feather-light.

And then he kissed you.

It started soft — questioning, almost chaste — but when you exhaled against his mouth, he leaned in, deepening it just slightly, just enough to make your knees weaken. His other hand slid to your waist, holding you steady, like he couldn’t help it.

It felt like a promise.

It felt like possibility.

It felt like everything you’d secretly wanted.

And it meant nothing.

When he finally pulled back, the cool night air rushed between you.

Steve looked dazed.

Really dazed.

His eyes dropped to your lips, then lifted again, searching your face as though he was trying to memorize it.

“Same time next week?” he asked, voice low, hopeful.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You forced a laugh — light, breezy, like your chest wasn’t cracking apart. “No. I think you’ll be okay.” You tapped his arm gently, teasing even through the ache. “That was at least an A-. Consider yourself graduated.”

Something flickered across his face — surprise, confusion. Like he’d genuinely forgotten this was supposed to be fake.

But then he blinked, straightened, and the mask slipped back into place.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “Sure. Graduation. Cool.”

You smiled like it didn’t kill you.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

You stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind you. And the second it latched, your back hit the wood and your legs gave out. You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

But the sob still clawed out of you.

Because no matter how sweet he’d been — no matter how gentle, how real, how warm the night felt —it wasn’t real for him.

Not the way it was for you.

And that was the part that hurt the most.

–

Steve didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night like he was afraid letting it fade would make it unreal.

The museum. Your hands brushing. The way you looked at him when he talked—not confused, not bored, not judging.

Just… seeing him.

And the kiss. Jesus. He could still feel the tremor in your breath, the way you’d leaned in like you didn’t want it to end.

He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He just knew that when you told him he didn’t need another fake date… something inside him had fallen out. Perhaps his heart. 

The idea of not seeing you again—not seeing you like that—made his stomach twist painfully. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, he realized something that shook him so hard he sat upright:

He missed you.

Not the version of you from the fake dates.

You.

He itched to grab the phone and call you. The only thing stopping him was that you deserved a good night of sleep. Little did he know, a few streets down, you were caught in a similar dilemma—sobbing into your pillow until exhaustion finally claimed you, dragging you into a restless sleep. 

–

The next morning right as the clock struck eight, Steve called you, forcing you into the reality of headaches and heartbreak.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice too bright, almost jittery. “I… I need your help again.”

You blinked, still trying to clear the fog from your head. “With what?”

“There’s this girl,” he said. “I like her. And I wanna ask her out… the right way this time. She’s… different.”

Your stomach dropped like it had just been punched. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast, like he was trying to fill the silence. “And I want it to be perfect. I just… I need someone who can help me figure it out.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be helping him plan a date for someone else, but your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to hear him. Because even in heartbreak, it was him. Always him.

“What kind of date are you thinking?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Something… meaningful,” he said. “Thoughtful. Quiet. Nothing crazy. What would be your perfect date?”

And because you were a masochist, because a part of you still loved him more than your own self-preservation allowed, you told him exactly what you’d dreamed of once upon a time:“Something quiet. A picnic under the stars. Lowkey, but special.”

There was a pause on the line. Then, softly, “Got it.”

Got it.

Your chest twisted. He got it.

There was a pause, and then he said, almost nervously, “Could… could you come by Lover’s Lake around six? I… I need your help setting it up.”

You hesitated. Your mind screamed at you not to go, not to put yourself through it. But the sound of his voice, the way he was holding himself so carefully on the other end of the line, made you falter.

“I… I don’t know, Steve,” you murmured.

“I get it,” he said quickly, like he was afraid you’d say no. “But… please? I can’t do it without you. I just… I really want it to be right.”

Your fingers itched to hang up, to run away from this mess of feelings. But another part of you—the part that had been hopelessly tangled in him since day one—softened.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice quiet, reluctant. “Six.”

“Thanks,” he said, relief softening every syllable. “See you then.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving your chest aching with a mix of dread and something else, something you couldn’t name, as you braced yourself for whatever awaited at Lover’s Lake.

–

When you arrived at Lover’s Lake, your steps slowed. The air was cool, the water reflecting the faint pink of the setting sun, but your chest felt tight, like someone had pressed a fist against it. You had expected to help him—maybe lay out blankets, arrange candles, set up a little picnic—but what you saw stopped you cold. 

The blankets were already spread. Lanterns were softly glowing along the edges. A wicker basket sat ready, your favorite snacks peeking out as if someone had peeked into your private thoughts. 

And Steve… Steve was standing there, just beyond the blanket, hands shoved nervously into his pockets, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked too long. 

You couldn’t breathe. “This…” you whispered, voice trembling. “Steve… what’s going on? I thought you needed help – I… ” 

Steve shifted, hands twitching in his pockets, avoiding your gaze for a moment. He swallowed, a nervous sound that made your stomach twist. “I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know until last night, when… when you said you were done. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how you looked at the museum. About how you laughed. About how… kissing you felt.” He took a shaky breath, voice low. “Like… everything.” 

You felt dizzy. Floating. Heart caught somewhere between hope and fear. 

“I like you,” he said simply. “I think I’ve been liking you for a while. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you grade me like a report card just to figure out how to be good for you.” 

Your pulse roared in your ears. Every nerve in your body screamed, but your feet moved anyway, bringing you closer, hesitant, afraid of what would happen if you got too near. “Steve,” a shaky laugh slipped out of your lips.

He took a careful step closer, lifting your chin gently with his fingers. “Can I kiss you?” he murmured, soft, tentative. 

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t practice. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a graded exercise. 

It was Steve, warm and real and entirely yours. When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he grinned, wide enough to make your chest ache. “I can’t believe you said yes after all those crappy dates.” 

You snorted, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. “But I liked those crappy dates.” 

“Why?” 

“Because they were with you.” You smiled, soft, certain. 

Steve choked out a laugh, relief and affection lighting up his whole face. “Well,” he whispered, pulling you closer again, “good news then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, and murmured against your lips, “Because from now on… they’re real.” 

–

The first time you said his name, it was like unlocking something buried deep inside him. You didn’t even notice how your voice softened, how the word Steve seemed to linger in the air, hanging between you. It wasn’t just a name—it was a recognition, a moment of something real, raw, and quietly powerful. He had been called “Steve” a thousand times before, but this was different. The way you said it felt like the beginning of something, and it made him feel seen in a way he never had before. Steve didn’t sound plain or burdensome—it felt like a truth you were just discovering together.

It started so simply. He’d introduced himself with an easy smile, his hand extended toward you. “Hi, I’m Steve,” he’d said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place—nervousness, maybe? Hope?

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his, and without thinking, you said, “Hi, Steve.” The sound of his name on your lips was unassuming, almost casual, but it did something to him. The way you said it felt warm, like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Your voice carried a quiet sincerity that lingered in the space between you, and for the first time, Steve didn’t feel like just a name. It felt like it belonged to him in a way it never had before—personal, meaningful, significant.

He held onto that moment longer than he meant to, replaying the way your voice pitch changed and the way you dragged out the e a perfect amount to keep him longing. It wasn’t just the first time you’d said his name—it was the first time it had ever truly meant something.

_

The moment leading up to your first kiss was a quiet symphony of stolen glances and charged silence, where every movement seemed deliberate and every breath felt heavier. You were standing close—closer than you ever had before—your shoulders almost brushing as the night wrapped around you like a cocoon. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of leaves and distant rain, but all Steve could focus on was you. The way your eyes flickered to his lips for the briefest second before darting back to his, the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, and how your fingers fidgeted nervously at your sides as if they were itching to reach for him.

Steve felt like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this heartbeat where he could lean in or step back, caught between the fear of messing it up and the overwhelming pull of you. His heart thundered in his chest, loud and unruly, as if it were urging him forward. He searched your face for a sign, a hint, anything that might tell him this wasn’t just him, that you felt it too—that invisible string tugging the two of you together.

Then, you tilted your head ever so slightly, your lips parting just enough to breathe his name softly, “Steve…” It was barely above a whisper, but it was all the permission he needed. He leaned in slowly, his hand brushing against yours as he moved, tentative yet desperate to close the gap. The world seemed to hold its breath, the seconds stretching out as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question being asked. But then, as if some dam had broken, it deepened, filled with all the unspoken feelings that had been building between you. It was everything and more—sweet, electric, and full of possibility. And when you pulled back, breathless and glowing, your eyes met his, and you whispered his name again.

“Steve…” you breathed, and it was like the world held its breath for a moment. You spoke his name with the same sweetness and stickiness found in honey, each syllable melting into the quiet night air, tasting like something sweet and familiar. It was a sound that wrapped itself around him, settling deep inside his chest, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the weight of it. He realized, for the first time, how his name could sound when it was spoken with love, with tenderness, with a kind of intimacy that had been absent all his life. His name had never sounded so soft, so intimate, as if your lips were tasting the very essence of him, drawing out everything unspoken.

_

The lead-up to that night unfolded naturally, like the quiet turning of pages in a story you had both been writing for months. Every shared glance, every lingering touch, seemed to hold a question neither of you had dared to voice yet. The air between you was charged but unhurried, a quiet intensity building with every stolen moment.

It started as it always did—a night spent together, lost in conversation, the kind that made time slip away unnoticed. You were sitting close, your legs brushing against his, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm halo around you both. There was nothing particularly unusual about the moment, and yet, something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, his gaze lingering a second longer than usual, his thumb absently tracing circles against the back of your hand.

His touch felt different that night—more intentional, though he still hesitated, as if waiting for you to meet him halfway. He laughed at something you said, but his voice wavered just enough to give him away. You could sense the nervousness behind his easy smile, the way he was holding back, testing the waters.

You weren’t immune to the nerves either. Your heart raced every time his fingers brushed against your skin, every time his gaze lingered on your lips just a little too long. You could feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the night. Would this change things? Would it be everything you’d both dreamed it could be?

When his fingers finally laced with yours, it wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, quiet moment that felt heavier than it should have. Your heart raced as his eyes met yours, his expression soft, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, as if by some silent agreement, you leaned into him, and he met you halfway. His lips found yours, soft and searching, as if he was trying to pour all of his feelings into that one kiss. It started slow, hesitant, but quickly deepened, the nervousness giving way to something more sure, more consuming. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t—you stayed, leaning into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

It wasn’t planned; it didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt real, like the natural culmination of everything that had been building between you. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, and when his lips finally met yours, it was tentative at first—soft, searching, full of questions neither of you needed to ask aloud.

And yet, even then, there was a quiet hesitancy, a moment of pause where the weight of what was about to happen settled between you. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you said, the word carrying more certainty than you thought you could muster. In that moment, the space between you disappeared, and the unspoken tension finally gave way to something deeper, something that felt like it had been written into the very fabric of who you both were. The nervousness was still there, but it was joined by a sense of trust, of connection, that made everything feel right.

When the two of you finally gave in to the pull that had been building between you, tangled in a haze of desire, your voice broke the quiet with his name, and everything seemed to fade except the feeling of him, the sensation of your bodies moving in unison. “Steve,” you moaned, and it was like a spark, a rawness that ignited in him.

His name, slick with need and desire, slipped from your lips and hit him like a wave. It was as if every syllable of his name was drawn out by the rhythm of your breath, hanging in the air like a fire that kept burning, fueled by the need between you. Each time it left your mouth, he felt it in his chest, in his bones, the way it shifted from something ordinary to something undeniably his.

The sound of his name now was everything—urgent, desperate, and filled with so much connection. It wasn’t just a name—it was a thread that tied you together in that moment, every syllable carrying the weight of the desire that you both shared. And in that moment, all of the nerves, all of the fears, melted away, leaving only the two of you, completely and irrevocably intertwined.

_

Steve was barely conscious when he heard the sound of your voice, soft yet filled with a tremor he couldn’t ignore. The pain was sharp, every breath a struggle, but your voice cut through it, like a lifeline pulling him from the edges of everything dark and dizzying.

“I love you, Steve,” you choked out, the words trembling with raw emotion. It wasn’t a confession made in some grand, orchestrated moment—it was born out of desperation, of the fear of losing him. Those three words carried everything you couldn’t say, every ounce of love and fear and hope tangled together.

His eyes widened, softening as they met yours, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain, focused only on the sound of your voice. He wished he could gather the strength to hold you, to pull you close and reassure you, but all he could do was listen, feeling the weight of your words in the marrow of his bones. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, yet desperate enough to feel like a plea. The way you said it made him feel like he was more than the hurt, more than the moment—like he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

He never expected it to be so simple, so pure, but the way you said his name made him feel like he belonged in your world. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, with an understanding that transcended words.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with something unshakable, as if the weight of your love was enough to hold him steady. But you only shook your head, tears spilling over as you said it again, quieter this time, softer, “I love you, Steve,” as if repeating it would make him believe it more, make him understand the depth of what you felt. And in that moment, he did. Every word, every breath of yours seemed to fill the cracks in him, stitching him together with something stronger than anything he’d ever known.

_

Years passed, each moment with you stitching together a life he never imagined he could have. There were quiet evenings, shared laughter, and moments of tenderness that wove themselves into the fabric of his world. The milestones came in small, beautiful bursts—there were birthdays, each one a marker of how far you had come, from the first one where you celebrated together as a couple. Then came the day you packed up your past in boxes, willingly unpacking it in the new solace, with Steve by your side—the simple act of combining your lives into one space, where every corner felt like home because it was with you. And then, the wedding day—a small, intimate moment at the courthouse, just the two of you standing together, hand in hand. In that quiet, unassuming space, he saw his future stretched out in front of him, brighter than he'd ever dared to dream. The anticipation was palpable, the air thick with the weight of the moment. There was a quiet nervousness, but also a profound sense of peace, as if everything that had brought you both here—every laugh, every tear, every shared glance—had been leading to this single, perfect instant. It wasn’t a grand ceremony or extravagant celebration—just a simple vow, a promise made in the presence of each other, where the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you and the love that had quietly woven itself into your lives. When you spoke your vows, it wasn’t just words—it was a reflection of every moment you’d shared and all the moments yet to come. And when you sealed it with a kiss, it felt like the universe paused, holding its breath for a brief moment, before gently exhaling with the realization that this was just the beginning.

This moment, in the quiet of the delivery room, marked the culmination of everything that had come before. It was there, amid the exhaustion and the flurry of new beginnings, that he realized just how much had been building between the two of you all along.

The air was thick with anticipation. You were both exhausted, caught in a haze of nervous energy as you prepared to meet your son for the first time. The weight of the moment pressed in on him, but when your eyes locked, time seemed to stop. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, waiting together to give your child a name—a name that would carry the love and the journey you’d shared, and the life yet to be written.

You looked up at him then, a soft smile playing on your lips. With a tenderness that made his heart ache, you whispered, “Steve.”

The name hung in the air like a promise, a future unfolding in the space between you. It was more than just a word—it was everything.

He stared at you, his heart swelling, feeling the weight of your words, of the moment. “Steve?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief and awe, as if trying to understand why you would want to name your son after him.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “It’s simple,” you said. “Steve is my favorite thing to say.”

And in that moment, it hit him all over again—this name, his name, wasn’t just his anymore. It had become something more, something that felt right in a way he had never imagined. It was the name of a legacy, a symbol of your love. His smile softened as he shook his head, overwhelmed by the significance. “I’ve never loved my name until I heard you say it.”

Spencer Reid, someone you thought you had an idea of who he was when you first saw him—the genius with the messy hair. But now, five weeks in, he’s become something different: a shadow. Brilliant, tortured, and untouchable. He barely spoke, kept to himself in a way that made him seem even more unreachable than the walls he’d built around himself. He hardly acknowledged you unless it was for work, and even then, it was a quiet exchange, all business. It wasn’t that he was rude—it was that he wasn’t… there. It was like talking to a shadow of the person everyone had described to you. The legend of Spencer Reid remained just that now, a folktale that once was.

—

You kept trying though—maybe not all at once, but little by little. You'd try to make small talk while working on the latest case, commenting on a theory, or discussing a strategy. You'd caught a glimpse of Spencer looking at something on his computer once and, with a smile, asked if he wanted to grab coffee after finishing the report. He had nodded curtly, but his response wasn’t an invitation. It was a polite rejection that you couldn’t quite place at first, until you realized it wasn’t just the work. He just didn’t want to engage.

On another occasion, when the team had gathered around the conference table for a case briefing, you shared a funny memory from a training session at the academy. It was a small anecdote, one that usually drew a laugh from Luke or JJ, but Spencer only offered a barely noticeable grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes still fixed on the file in front of him. The briefest of glances, and then he was back to his usual space, mentally miles away from the conversation. It stung more than you’d expected.

Even simple gestures didn’t seem to reach him. One day, after a long stretch of overtime, you left a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, knowing he’d be up all night. When you came by later to check in, the coffee was still there, untouched, as if he hadn’t even seen it.

It wasn’t that he was cruel—he was never outwardly dismissive or rude. But his silence spoke volumes. Every attempt to connect felt like it fell short. You’d find yourself lingering by his desk, hoping for a spark of warmth, but he remained like a stone statue, absorbed in his world of facts and logic, leaving no room for small talk, no room for you.

You knew it was because of what he’d been through—the years on the job, seeing the darkest corners of humanity, and the months he’d spent in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. You didn’t expect him to open up immediately, but you couldn’t help feeling like you were being shut out, as if you didn’t even exist in his world.

One afternoon, after another grueling case, Emily pulled Spencer aside. You watched from a distance as they spoke quietly in the hallway outside the bullpen. It wasn’t unusual for them to have private conversations, but this time, you could tell it was different. The tension in Emily’s posture spoke volumes, her usual calm demeanor strained as she spoke to him in a low, controlled voice.

"Spencer," Emily said, her tone gentle but firm. "Go easy on her. She’s still learning the ropes."

Spencer didn’t respond immediately, but you could see the furrow in his brow. He crossed his arms, a familiar sign of resistance. "I don’t know why she’s here in the first place," he muttered, his voice tight. "You brought her in like she’s going to replace me."

Emily sighed, her patience palpable. "Spencer, that’s not what’s happening. She’s here because she’s talented. She solved that case when none of us could get close. There’s something in her that we don’t have. This job has toughened us all, but she’s in tune with emotions in a way that lets her read people better. She thinks outside the box and picks up on things we miss. That’s a skill we need."

"She’s just a rookie," Spencer shot back, almost as if to dismiss her entirely.

"Rookies can make a difference," Emily replied, her voice softening. "You were a rookie once, give her a chance. She’s not here to replace you. No one ever could." She patted his shoulder before walking away, Spencer’s frown now morphing into a glare as he caught your eyes through the halfway open blinds.

—

The case was already making waves back at Quantico—a chilling pattern that left even the most seasoned agents unsettled. Young women, all in their early twenties, had been disappearing without a trace, only to be found days later in isolated, hauntingly serene locations. Each scene felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, with the victims bound and posed in ways that suggested some twisted form of reverence or ritual.

The killer’s signature was unmistakable: he wasn’t just abducting and murdering these women—he was creating a spectacle. At each scene, small tokens were left behind, items that seemed personal to the victims but whose significance the team had yet to decipher. There was no discernible link between the women—no shared acquaintances, no overlapping routines—but the precision and consistency of the unsub’s methods made it clear he was following a meticulously thought-out plan.

What pushed the case into even darker territory were the videos. Hours before each body was found, the unsub would send footage to the victim's family—a harrowing glimpse of their loved one in her final moments. The videos were devoid of color, the black and white feed only amplifying the horror. The unsub would taunt the families by delivering the footage in person, leaving USB drives on doorsteps or mailing them with cryptic, handwritten notes. It was a psychological attack as much as a physical one, designed to shatter the survivors and leave them with a burden of unanswered questions.

—

After the team wrapped up the debriefing on the jet, Emily turned to you and Spencer. “I want the two of you to work together on interviewing people associated with this case,” she said, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

Your eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. This was your first real assignment—no shadowing, no taking notes in the background—actual fieldwork where you’d be directly contributing to the case.

Spencer Reid—the prodigy, the one with a photographic memory and an endless well of knowledge—was someone you admired since before you joined the BAU. You smiled faintly, eager but trying to hide just how much this opportunity meant to you.

Spencer, however, didn’t share your enthusiasm. He glanced at Emily, then at you, and though he didn’t say anything, the faint tightening of his jaw and his unreadable gaze told you everything. He wasn’t thrilled about the pairing.

Still, you told yourself it didn’t matter. This was your chance—to learn from him, to prove to him and the rest of the team that you had what it took to contribute. Spencer’s reluctance might have stung, but you weren’t going to let it deter you.

—

The first stop was to interview the family of a missing woman, a college student who’d been found dead three days after her disappearance. The parents were devastated—shocked, grieving, and desperately trying to piece together anything that could help them understand who had taken their daughter. You listened intently, jotting down notes, but there was something off about one of the alibis given by a neighbor—the last person to see the girl alive. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something felt wrong.

You brought it up to Spencer, speaking carefully but with conviction. “I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. Something about his story doesn’t add up.”

Spencer barely glanced at you, his tone sharp. “His alibi checks out. There’s no reason to think he’s lying.”

You shook your head, the feeling in your gut growing stronger. “But something is off, I can’t really explain it but I just feel it.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You feel it? We’re not here for feelings. This isn’t some sort of instinct game. You have to trust the evidence.”

“But something’s not adding up,” you pressed, feeling the frustration rise in your chest.

Spencer’s tone grew colder. “This isn’t a job where everything works out because you think you have some sort of spidey sense. You can’t go around guessing. You need to understand what it really takes to solve a case.”

You let the conversation drop, trying to focus on other details, but his dismissiveness was starting to sting. Spencer wasn’t just disagreeing with your instincts—he was questioning your competence, as though your opinion didn’t matter at all.

The day dragged on, with Spencer continuously shutting down your ideas. Every time you tried to offer a new perspective or suggest a potential lead, he dismissed you with a harsh, dismissive comment.

“This isn’t the job you think it is. It’s not about theories, it’s about hard work and experience,” he snapped at one point.

The more you tried, the more it felt like Spencer was deliberately undermining you. Every suggestion, no matter how thoughtful, was met with a cold refusal.

When you finally presented another lead from a witness, Spencer’s frustration exploded. “You’re inexperienced. Everyone here earned their place through hard work. You? You got in because you were in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. Maybe you wanted to experience the darkness, to see what it’s like, but you don’t really understand what it costs to live in it every day. One day, your luck is going to run out, and when it does, no instinct or gut feeling is going to save you. You don’t think like a profiler, you just react. You walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to you. But in the real world, there’s no safety net. No one’s going to follow some gut feeling into the dark and magically find their way out."

The words hit you like a slap to the face. You stood there, trying to hold yourself together, but his words tore into you. Spencer wasn’t just dismissing your ideas; he was attacking you personally, questioning your entire existence.

You kept your composure, nodding absently as though agreeing, though inside, you were cracking under the weight of his accusations.

—

When the day finally ended, you excused yourself, telling Spencer you needed to clear your head. As you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the weight of the day pressed on your shoulders. You needed a moment to breathe, to process everything Spencer had said.

That’s when you saw him—the neighbor you’d interviewed earlier, the one you were convinced was lying. He was standing by his car, watching you. Something about his posture, the way he loomed in the shadows, sent a chill down your spine.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t completely honest earlier. Can we talk privately?”

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to leave. “Actually, I need to get back—”

Before you could finish, he lunged. You fought back, kicking and clawing, screaming as loudly as you could, but he was stronger. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries.

He wrestled you into a car, duct-taping your mouth and wrists as he muttered to himself. You could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes, the satisfaction he got from the struggle.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, shutting out the pounding of your heart. Stay calm, you told yourself. Panic wasn’t an option. You had been trained for situations like this, and you knew fear was his weapon.

As the car sped away, you focused on observing everything around you. The unsub kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching into a twisted grin. You realized then—Fear gave him power. That was his fuel. He didn’t just want to hurt his victims; he wanted to break them emotionally, to revel in their terror.

Don’t give him that power, you thought, straightening your posture and meeting his gaze with an icy calmness. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, but you saw the flicker of frustration.

You started piecing together his personality. He wasn’t impulsive; this was calculated. He had planned every detail, which meant he was confident, methodical, and most likely familiar with his hunting ground. His muttering gave you a glimpse into his psyche—fragments of sentences about being “misunderstood” and “showing them” painted the picture of someone who felt wronged by the world and used his crimes as a way to reclaim control.

The car took a sharp left turn, and you counted silently. One left turn. You pressed your bound hands against the door for stability, straining to catch the noises outside. Gravel crunched under the tires as they left the pavement. Two right turns. The road sounds uneven now—it’s gravel, maybe leading to a more isolated area.

You kept your eyes sharp, scanning for anything that could give away your location. A small victory came when you caught a glimpse of a weathered sign as they passed under a flickering streetlight. The sign was faded, but you managed to make out “Thornhill Dr.”

Thornhill Dr, two right turns off the main street, and we’re heading north, you calculated.

The sound of an approaching train caught your attention, and you noted the rhythm of the horn. You mentally mapped where train tracks were in proximity to Thornhill Dr—another clue you could use later.

Your mind sharpened as adrenaline coursed through you, heightening every detail. A slight creak in the car’s suspension suggested the vehicle was older, poorly maintained. The air grew colder, hinting that you were moving into a less urban area, away from the warmth of the city’s dense buildings.

Every observation mattered. Every detail was a potential key to your survival. You couldn’t scream for help, but you could think, analyze, and stay one step ahead.

The unsub’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You’re too calm. You think you’re brave, huh? Acting like you’re not scared.”

You met his eyes through the mirror again, your face expressionless. He leaned back in his seat slightly, as though unnerved by your lack of reaction.

The car began to slow, and you braced yourself. We’ve arrived, you thought. You made a mental note of the landmarks—a rusty mailbox near a dirt driveway, the faint outline of a barn in the distance. The weathered boards of the barn seemed to match the descriptions from the case files.

I know where I am, you realized, a small surge of hope igniting within you. Now I just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.

Your heart pounded, but your mind stayed sharp. You had everything you needed to leave a trail for your team—now it was just a matter of time

You sat stoically bound to the chair, your eyes cold and unwavering as the unsub stood before you. His anticipation was palpable, as if he expected you to break, to cry, to beg. But you didn’t. You simply met his eyes with calm indifference.

“So your dad left and your mother doesn’t love you,” you said, your voice steady. “That doesn’t give you a right to do this.”

His grin faltered for a moment, the words hitting him harder than he anticipated. There was a brief flash of anger in his eyes, but you could see the confusion behind it. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not with the emotional weight of his own troubled past.

“Where’s your family?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “Don’t you have anyone who cares about you? Anyone who’s going to watch this and cry for you?” You held his gaze, emotionless. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t fear—it was control. “I have no one,” you said quietly, your words landing with deliberate weight. “The only ones who would care about seeing this... are my team.”

He seemed to hesitate, his fingers hovering over the phone as if unsure how to respond to your calm. But soon, his frustration took over, and he hit the ‘record’ button, turning the camera on you. The feed blinked to life, broadcasting your image across the screens of the BAU.

—

Back at the base, chaos reigned. Penelope, usually confident in her skills, was visibly breaking down. Her fingers trembled as they flew over the keyboard, trying to track the signal. Her mind raced as the seconds dragged on, but the pressure was beginning to get to her. “He’s jumping between different servers. This isn’t random. It’s deliberate,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaky. She wiped a tear away, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The desperation was palpable in her voice as she typed furiously, willing herself to focus.

Emily, standing beside Penelope, shot her a supportive glance, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. She was all business, trying to calm the team down and make sense of the situation. “We’re going to find her,” she said, voice steady but tight with the weight of leadership. Her mind was already formulating the next steps, calculating the possibilities with quick efficiency.

JJ, still pacing back and forth, shot a glance at the screen. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze flicking from the monitor to the team. “We’re not losing her. We’re not,” she repeated, more to herself than to anyone else. The anxiety was evident, but so was her determination to stay focused.

Rossi stood nearby, scanning the screen. His brows furrowed as he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the livestream. His calm, composed demeanor was cracking, and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Luke’s chest tightened as he watched the screen, unable to look away. The helplessness gnawed at him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Matt grabbed at his hair, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the fear that gripped him, the uncertainty of the situation weighing on him.

Spencer, who usually remained calm in the face of danger, was visibly shaken. His mind kept returning to his own experience, the terror he’d felt when Tobias Hankel had taken him. The helplessness, the fear—he remembered it all too vividly. Now, seeing you in the same position, his heart raced with a familiar dread.

But what gnawed at him even more was the guilt. The last conversation you had kept replaying in his mind. He had dismissed your concerns about the neighbor. If he had listened, if he had trusted your instincts like others had done for him when he first joined the BAU, you wouldn’t be in this position. The guilt ate at him. He silently begged for another chance, wishing he could take back his words and make things right.

—

As the live stream continued, the unsub’s taunting voice cut through the tension in the room. He kept his camera trained on you, trying to get a rise out of you, his twisted satisfaction evident in his every movement. But you didn’t break. You stayed calm, your mind working at full speed, calculating, analyzing. You had to focus, remain steady, and find a way to give the team the clues they needed—subtle enough for the unsub not to catch on.

“Do you think they’ll come for me?” you asked softly, eyes fixed on the camera, keeping your tone even. “Do you think they'll find me before the next train comes?”

The unsub scoffed, amused by your apparent defiance. “They won’t find you,” he spat, looking away, clearly oblivious to the significance of your words. But Spencer wasn’t. His eyes snapped to the screen, and his mind began to piece together the details. The mention of the train, the faint rhythm of the horn in the background. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were giving them a hint, telling them you were near the tracks.

The unsub didn’t respond, busy with his phone, and you knew he had his attention fully on the camera now. It was the perfect moment for you to speak in code—something only Spencer would understand.

You paused and added, almost casually, “The sky’s still gray, like it’s waiting to rain. Makes you want to drive a little farther into the hills, doesn’t it? Somewhere the roads are too narrow for anyone to follow.”

Then, as if you couldn’t keep it inside any longer, you looked straight into the camera and addressed Spencer directly. “Spencer, I don’t know why you’re so mean to me sometimes. You told me my luck was going to run out. That I walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to me. But you need to start trusting me, I promise I won’t lead you astray. I may be a thorn in your side, but thorns are there for a reason."

The moment you spoke those words, Spencer’s eyes widened at the base. He had caught it—the final clue. Thorn. It wasn’t just the pain of those words—it was the road. Thorn Hill Drive. It all clicked for him.

Without hesitation, he turned to Penelope. “Thorn Hill Drive. Check the train routes, the roads, everything. We need to know exactly where she is.”

Penelope worked furiously at her computer, cross-referencing the details Spencer had given her. Within moments, she found the location.

—

The team rushed into action, each agent moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Emily was the first to stand, her voice clear and commanding. “Penelope, pull up the map of Thorn Hill Drive. Luke, Matt, Reid you’re on the ground—get ready to go. Rossi, JJ, stay here to monitor the live stream. We need to move fast, people.”

Luke and Matt didn’t hesitate. They grabbed their gear, ready to head out the door, their determination etched across their faces. The urgency in Emily’s tone pushed them forward with a sense of purpose that only years of experience could cultivate.

As the team dispersed into their assigned tasks, Penelope’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “I’ve got it! Thorn Hill Drive is in the outskirts of the city, about twenty miles north. There’s a set of train tracks that run parallel to the road.”

Spencer’s mind raced as he watched the details unfold on the screen. He was no stranger to the chaos that followed a kidnapping, but this time, it felt personal. He couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him. He should’ve listened to you. Your instincts had been right, and now you were paying the price.

“She’ll be okay, Reid,” Emily’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We’re going to bring her home.”

He snapped his attention back to the task at hand, shaking off the guilt and focusing on the case. “I know, the unsub underestimated her. I underestimated her.”

Penelope’s voice was strained but full of determination. “I’ve got eyes on the location. There’s a barn near a dirt road—looks like the area she described. There’s only one way in and out.

“Perfect,” Emily said, her voice all business. “Everyone, gear up. Luke, Matt—take the lead. The rest of us will follow. Let’s move.”

The team was in motion within seconds. They moved with urgency, knowing that every second counted. Spencer was out the door before anyone else, his legs pushing him faster than he thought possible, the guilt and fear weighing heavily on his chest. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there, alone, in the hands of a killer who was savoring your terror.

—

You had been tied to a chair for what felt like hours, though time seemed to stretch and warp in the silence. The unsub had retreated into the shadows, likely hoping you’d break under the pressure, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. Your mind kept racing, cataloging every detail you could—every sound, every movement. You weren’t about to give up. Not when you were so close.

The sound of a car engine revving in the distance made you stiffen, but you forced yourself to remain calm. It could be him preparing to leave, or it could be the team. You’d left them all the clues you could; now, you had to trust that they were on their way.

The unsub returned, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “You think they’re coming for you?” His voice was dark, twisted with amusement. “I’m not stupid. I know they’re out there looking for you. But you know what? They’ll be too late. They always are.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your face expressionless, focusing on your breathing.

He seemed to enjoy your silence more than anything, pacing around you. “Do you want to know why I picked you?” he asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Because you’re just like me. Alone. Abandoned.”

You blinked, your pulse quickening. “You’re not alone,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “You have your family. You have your victims.”

His eyes flashed with anger at your words. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore. I’m the one who’s been forgotten. I’m the one who’s been ignored. But this? This is my revenge. I’ll make them remember me. I’ll make them know what it’s like to feel powerless.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling the tension between you grow. But something in his words clicked in your mind—a piece of the puzzle fitting into place. His desperation, his need to show the world his pain—it wasn’t just about power. It was about feeling seen. He wasn’t just hunting women. He was hunting validation.

As if reading your thoughts, the unsub smirked. “You’ll be the one to show them. You’ll be the one to remind them that they can’t forget.”

You didn’t have time to entertain his twisted philosophy. You needed to focus on the one thing that mattered—surviving.

The car engine noise grew louder, a flicker of hope rising in your chest. You were running out of time. You needed to find a way to break free, to survive.

Matt and Luke leapt out of the vehicle, their weapons drawn, ready for action. “We’ve got to move fast,” Luke said, his voice low and urgent. “He’ll be expecting us. Let’s breach the barn from both sides.”

They flanked the barn, eyes scanning every inch for movement.

Spencer’s heart was pounding in his chest as he finally caught up with the others. Emily’s words replayed in his mind: “You were a rookie once, give her a chance.”

The team moved with precision, no longer just a group of agents but a family, united by the mission to save you. Spencer’s chest tightened, a storm of emotions warring within him. He had to make things right. He had to.

Inside the barn, you could hear the footsteps approaching. Your heartbeat quickened.

This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Spencer.”

And then everything went black.

—

the first thing you noticed was the sterile scent of the hospital room and the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor beside you. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you sore, but there was a deeper ache—a lingering exhaustion that settled in your bones. You groaned, and it was the sound of discomfort that made Spencer stir beside you.

His head jerked up from the uncomfortable chair he was slouched in, eyes wide and clouded with sleep. The exhaustion on his face hit you all at once. He'd been there for a while. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his posture was stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, your voice raw.

Spencer blinked at you, clearly startled by your groaning. His gaze softened as he pushed himself up from the chair, stretching his stiff neck. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress.

You nodded slowly, trying to push yourself up in bed but wincing at the ache in your muscles. Spencer immediately moved to help you, his hand gently pressing against your shoulder to keep you steady.

“Don’t try to move too fast,” he warned softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You sank back into the pillows, feeling the weight of everything that had happened crashing down on you. “How long…?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead running a hand through his hair and exhaling sharply. “A while,” he said quietly. “I’ve been here all night. I didn’t want to leave.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion and worry etched deep into his features. It was clear he hadn't left for hours—maybe longer. You felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away.

“Spencer,” you whispered, your throat tight. “You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to,” he said firmly, his gaze intense. He took a breath, eyes flickering with hesitation. “You did good back there. How did you stay so calm? The whole time… with everything he was doing, the livestream, the situation… you never cracked.”

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting too close to home, but you knew it was time to be honest.

“It’s not about being calm, Spencer,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “It’s about survival.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. “What do you mean?”

You inhaled shakily, struggling to find the right words. “The reason the unsub livestreamed my abduction… the reason he didn’t send the footage to my family... it’s because I don’t have anyone, Spencer. Not really.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you continued, voice trembling, “but he knew. He knew there was no one waiting for me, no one to watch the screen and beg for my return.” You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “My parents were negligent. They were never there. My whole life… it was like I didn’t exist to them. And when they did pay attention, it wasn’t in the way a parent should. I wasn’t loved, Spencer. I wasn’t protected.”

The words felt heavy, a weight that had been buried deep inside you for so long. Spencer was silent, his expression unreadable as he watched you.

“And that’s why I’m good at this,” you said, the words coming out almost automatically. “Why I’m so focused, so good at picking up on things that others miss.” You swallowed, struggling against the lump in your throat. “I had to survive. I had to learn how to read people, to hone my instincts. It was the only way to stay safe in my own home. I lived like that for so long, always waiting for something to happen. Always trying to figure out the next move before it happened.”

Spencer’s face softened as he listened to you, his eyes filled with empathy and a sorrow that you hadn’t expected. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “It’s not about deserving it, Spencer. It’s just what happened. And I had to learn to live with it. But that’s why… that’s why I reacted the way I did. I couldn’t just let him control me. Not like that. I had to stay calm. I had to keep fighting.”

Spencer reached out, his hand gently brushing yours, a gesture of reassurance. “You’re strong,” he whispered. You’ve earned my respect.”

You looked at him, not sure how to respond at first. You were still feeling the sting of his earlier words, the harshness that he’d used to shut you down. “I don’t need your respect, Spencer,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with frustration. “But I do need you to stop taking advantage of my kindness. You’ve been so cold, so dismissive. And all I’ve tried to do is help—especially with this case. Every time I tried to contribute, you brushed me off. It’s like you think I don’t belong here.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, the guilt flooding back. He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

“You can’t keep doing that,” you continued, your voice steadier now, though the anger still burned in your chest. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m just the ‘rookie.’ You’re better than that.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his throat tight. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I… I don’t know why I’ve been so hard on you. Maybe it’s because I’ve been shutting everyone out, and it felt easier to push you away too. But that’s not your fault, and you don’t deserve it. I’m sorry for not listening to you when I should’ve.”

You stared at him for a long moment, considering his words. The apology didn’t undo the hurt, but you saw the sincerity in his eyes.

“Just… try to trust me next time,” you said quietly, your voice softening. “I know I’m new, but I’m not stupid. I’m not here by accident, Spencer. I’ve earned my place just like everyone else.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady but still guarded. “I’ll try to do better,” he said, his voice quieter this time, less defensive. “I’ll listen more, take you seriously. I won’t shut you out like I did before.”

There was a pause, and you could sense the effort it took for him to even say that much. It wasn’t a perfect apology, but it was a start—one that made you wonder if there could be more to this than just the professional walls he’d built around himself.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both seemed to understand, without saying it, that this wasn’t the end of the conversation. It was only the beginning. And though Spencer’s walls were still up, there was something different in the air—a shift, a subtle change in how he was letting you in, even if just a little. Maybe, just maybe, you were both ready for whatever came next.

Jeff let out a breath of relief. "Alright. You start tomorrow."

As you left the office, you could feel Harry's eyes following you, still assessing, still deciding how he felt about the arrangement. You had a feeling this wasn't going to be an easy job, but you were used to challenges.

—

The next morning, you arrived early, determined to start taking action. You wanted to make the house feel like a safe space for Harry, not one that reminded him he was constantly under threat. As you entered, Harry’s house was still quiet, but you could hear the faint hum of a coffee machine in the kitchen. Harry’s team had already started arriving, but they barely noticed you as you moved with purpose. You couldn’t afford distractions.

The first thing you did was walk the perimeter of the house. The gates were solid, but outdated. You noted the number of hidden spots that weren’t covered by security cameras. There was an entrance to the side of the house that led to a narrow alley, and another hidden behind a tall garden wall. You couldn’t trust that nothing could slip by unnoticed.

You took mental notes—doorways, windows, gates, and even the trees that created shadows by the fence. No blind spots could go unaccounted for. After another quick call, you arranged for a full security system update.

By noon, new security cameras were being installed. You had chosen ones with facial recognition, ensuring that only those Harry authorized would be able to get past the front gate. Each camera was strategically placed in spots Harry didn’t even think to look. One was on top of the high garden wall, offering a bird's-eye view of anyone who came too close. Another was hidden behind a small decorative tree in the yard, monitoring the back door.

The most important change, however, came at the gate. You had noticed the gate code was easy to remember, but anyone who had once had access to it could still get in if they tried. The security team replaced the old keypad with a biometric scanner—fingerprint and face recognition—making it nearly impossible for anyone other than Harry or trusted personnel to gain entry. It was a decision made in the best interest of both privacy and safety.

Later in the day, as Harry returned home from a brief meeting, you watched him pull into the driveway. He came to a stop, giving you a quizzical look as he noticed the new setup.

"Okay, this is new," Harry said as he got out of the car, motioning toward the new camera at the gate and the biometric scanner you had installed. He raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d need to scan my face just to get into my own house."

You smiled coolly. "Better safe than sorry. You never know who might have access to your old codes. This is the next level of protection."

Harry paused, eyeing the scanner, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. You weren’t just a bodyguard anymore. You were someone who understood how to keep him safe. His face softened slightly, but there was still a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

“I don’t know how I feel about all of this," Harry said, clearly uncomfortable with the changes. "It feels a little... extreme.”

You could sense his resistance, but you had expected this. "The changes are necessary, Harry," you said gently. "And it’s all for your safety. Trust me, it’ll feel like second nature soon enough."

You stepped away, watching him for a moment, before giving him some space. You knew Harry wasn’t the type to embrace change quickly, especially when it came to his personal life. But the new measures weren’t negotiable, and you couldn’t afford to back down.

—

That evening, after a brief rundown of your expectations, Harry seemed to nod along, seemingly compliant. However, as soon as he left Jeff’s office, you noticed his quick pace and sharp turns. You felt a shift in the air—the subtle challenge of Harry trying to lose you. He walked quickly, turning corners sharply, hoping you'd fall behind.

But you didn’t. You kept pace, your eyes scanning the area with precision, anticipating his every move. He stopped by a coffee shop, ordering something he didn’t even want, just to see if you’d relax your guard. You didn’t. By the time he reached his car, you were already standing beside it, waiting for him.

Harry sighed, shaking his head with a small, reluctant smirk. "Alright, I get it. You’re good."

"You should’ve figured that out when they hired me," you replied evenly, opening the door for him. He slid in, still watching you with mild curiosity, his eyes darting over your face as if trying to piece together the enigma that was you.

You didn’t talk much during the ride, but every so often, you could feel his gaze flicking toward you, studying you in his own quiet way. He wasn’t convinced yet, but he was starting to accept that you weren’t going anywhere.

—

After you dropped Harry off, you headed back to the office to wrap up the day’s tasks. Just as you were about to leave, Jeff caught up to you in the hallway. His expression was serious, a far cry from the casual confidence he usually carried.

"Look, I know this is only your first day, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up," Jeff said, lowering his voice. "Harry’s stubborn, and he’s not going to make this easy. He’ll try to shake you, test your limits. He doesn’t believe he needs this level of protection, and he’ll resist at every turn."

You nodded, already anticipating the challenge. "I can handle it. I’ve dealt with difficult clients before."

Jeff glanced at you, his eyes softening just slightly. "It’s not just that," he continued. "Harry doesn’t just push back because he’s stubborn. He won’t admit when he needs help, especially when it comes to anything related to his safety. He’ll act like he’s fine, even when he’s not. Just… be patient with him. This is going to take time."

You absorbed his words carefully, already starting to form a strategy in your mind. This job wasn’t just about physical protection; it was about navigating Harry’s emotional landscape, too. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Jeff sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Just don’t back down. He might push you, but that’s just how he is. You’re doing good, though. I can see it."

You offered him a small, confident smile. "Thanks. I won’t let you down."

—

The following morning, after a restless night of monitoring security systems and reviewing the updated perimeter, you decided it was time to establish some ground rules. As you entered Harry’s house early, you noticed he was still in his pajamas, a mug of coffee in hand as he browsed through his phone. His hair was messy, and his usual polished aura was absent. He didn’t look up as you approached, but you knew this conversation was inevitable.

"No unannounced outings," you said firmly, your voice cutting through the morning air. "If you’re leaving the house, I need to know ahead of time. If you’re meeting someone, I vet them first. No exceptions."

Harry scoffed, slumping back in his chair as if the weight of the world had suddenly been placed on his shoulders. "You want to approve my dates now, too?"

You met his gaze without flinching. "If your date is a security risk, yes."

Mitch, one of Harry’s closest friends and bandmate, smirked from across the table. "She’s got you there, mate."

The room was filled with Harry’s band and team, all gathered together. Mitch and Sarah were there, along with Jeff, who had accompanied you to the house early that morning. Sarah stayed mostly quiet, watching the interaction with interest, while Mitch, as always, was ready with a teasing comment. Jeff, however, stood firmly on your side. He knew the importance of what you were doing and had already helped arrange the meeting. His presence was a reminder that this wasn’t just about you and Harry—it was about Harry’s safety, and Jeff understood that.

"I called everyone in this morning to go over some new ground rules," you continued, setting a folder of documents down in front of Harry. "This isn’t just about you, Harry. This is about your team too. It’s important that everyone is on the same page, especially when it comes to security."

Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately, still holding onto his coffee mug. Mitch, noticing the tension, leaned back in his chair, making a show of stretching. "Alright, boss," Mitch said with a playful grin. "What’s the first rule? Can we still sneak out for late-night gigs without her tracking us down?"

You shot Mitch a look, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "Mitch, you’re not a teenager anymore. If there’s something important you want to do, you let me know first. No more spontaneous plans. You know I need to vet it. Same goes for all of you. It’s for your safety and Harry’s."

Jeff, who had been quietly watching, finally spoke up, his voice calm but assertive. "Mitch, she's right. We can’t afford to take any chances anymore. If we’re going to do this right, everyone’s got to be on board with the rules. For Harry’s safety and all of ours."

Harry muttered something under his breath but didn’t argue. He toyed with a bracelet on his wrist, his fingers absentmindedly twirling it, clearly irritated by the restriction. You could tell the added pressure was building. It wasn’t just the rules—it was the idea of being watched, the feeling of someone else controlling parts of his life.

But you had to be firm. He needed structure, even if he didn’t want it. And it was your job to make sure he understood that these boundaries were for his own good. You had to pick your battles carefully, but you couldn’t back down now.

"Look, I get it," you added, noticing the strain on his face. "You don’t want to feel like you’re being treated like a child. But I’m not here to ruin your life, Harry. I’m here to make sure you stay safe. That means I need to know where you are, who you’re with, and if anything goes off track. You may not like it, but it’s non-negotiable."

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Sarah, always the mediator, glanced between Harry and you. She didn’t speak up, but you could tell she was trying to gauge the situation. Jeff, on the other hand, nodded in approval.

"This is exactly why we need to stay organized," Jeff added. "We’ve all seen the risks. It's better to be proactive than reactive. It might seem over the top now, but trust me—it’ll pay off."

Harry’s eyes flashed with mild frustration, but he didn’t speak up. The rules were getting stricter, and though you could tell he wasn’t thrilled, you weren’t about to bend. His life wasn’t just his own anymore—it was part of a much larger, more complex world now, and everything had to be accounted for. This wasn’t just about protecting him from the outside world. It was about making sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

You turned back to Harry, who was still fidgeting with his bracelet, seemingly lost in thought. "I’ll be reviewing all of your appointments and travel schedules. No more impromptu decisions. If there’s anything outside of the ordinary, you’re to clear it with me first. This includes interviews, public events, and meetings with anyone who isn’t part of your team."

Mitch, always ready to throw in his playful commentary, grinned. "So, does that mean you’ll be approving my plans too, or are you going to let me live a little?"

You gave him a deadpan stare. "If your plans involve a security risk, Mitch, then yes. I’ll be reviewing them."

Mitch raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I see how this is going."

Harry let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t argue further. His team wasn’t exactly hostile, but there was a clear air of tension. They were used to having more autonomy, and now they were all adjusting to the fact that you were calling the shots when it came to security.

As the meeting wrapped up, you found another chance to add more rules. "I’m going to be implementing a detailed daily check-in. If you’re going anywhere, I want to know your exact plans for the day. That means no unplanned stops, no sudden changes of heart. Everything is to be accounted for."

Harry slumped further into his chair, running his hand through his hair. "Fine," he muttered, clearly exhausted from the conversation. "But this better not become a habit."

You leaned in slightly, your voice calm but firm. "It will, for your safety. And we both know this isn’t just a ‘habit.’ It’s necessary."

Harry nodded stiffly, his posture still tense, but you could see a flicker of acceptance in his eyes. There was a silent understanding growing between you two—a recognition that this arrangement wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way forward.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. "I know you’re not used to this, but in the long run, it’ll make things easier for both of us."

Harry nodded stiffly, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. There was something unspoken between you now, a mutual understanding. He might have fought the rules at first, but you had a feeling he was beginning to see the logic behind them.

Mitch shot Harry a teasing smile. "Looks like she’s got you on lockdown now, mate."

Harry rolled his eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. He was adjusting, even if it wasn’t easy. And as for you, you knew this was only the beginning. Building trust took time, but you were willing to work for it. The rules you were setting were necessary. And despite his initial resistance, Harry was starting to realize that he needed them.

—

The next few days passed without incident, but you stayed vigilant, constantly assessing Harry’s routines and the security setup. You knew that with a celebrity like him, the danger wasn’t always obvious, and there would be moments when he’d try to slip through the cracks. He was stubborn, determined, but you had a feeling that this wouldn’t be the last time he tested you.

That night, after another late evening of monitoring Harry’s schedule, you retired to the security room once more. You pulled up a map of Harry’s estate, overlaying it with your notes. Every camera feed was up on the screen, every exit was accounted for, and you had finally established a solid perimeter.

As you closed the laptop, your gaze lingered on the footage of Harry smiling in front of the cameras, pushing through the crowd for his fans. The image on the screen didn’t capture the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes always darted around when he was surrounded.

You’d noticed it before, but now you understood it better. Harry wasn’t just worried about his fans. He was worried about the cracks that formed around him—the way people expected him to be perfect, the endless demands for a version of himself that could never be entirely real. The pressure was immense. Behind that charming smile, behind the carefully curated persona, was a man who wasn’t sure where the public’s love for him ended and where his own fear began. People wanted to be close to him, to see the man behind the legend, but the truth was, they didn’t always know what to do with the raw, unguarded version of Harry. The one who, when the cameras were off, sometimes felt like he was drowning in his own image.

You understood it now—the anxiety that haunted him, the cracks that formed around his confidence. It wasn’t just about the crowds or the pressure to always be "on." It was the constant battle of being vulnerable in a world that only ever seemed to want the version of him that smiled on stage, not the person who carried the weight of his own flaws, fears, and humanity.

Your job wasn’t just about protecting him from the outside world. It was about protecting him from his own vulnerability, making sure that he wasn’t consumed by the relentless expectations placed on him.

As you sat there in the dim glow of the monitors, you couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take before Harry truly accepted the help he needed. He had always kept his guard up, never fully letting anyone in. You had learned that much about him already. But you had to admit, there was a subtle shift in the way he relied on your presence. Even if he didn’t admit it, he was beginning to let you in, piece by piece.

You leaned back in your chair, taking a breath. You had your work cut out for you, but it was the job you had taken, and you were determined to make sure Harry never had to face the world alone.

Steve didn’t know the meaning of love until Nancy Wheeler broke his heart and Dustin Henderson nuzzled his way in with an unlikely friendship and demodog. Since then, he’s opened up his large and previously empty heart to a talkative Robin Buckley, Dustin and his group of ragtag friends, Nancy Wheeler (albeit it’s different now), a smidge for Jonathan Byers, and even Eddie Munson. Even though he loves his friends to the point of self sacrifice he can never seem to spare them a hug. He’ll give them an encouraging nod and an affectionate high five, but he’s never been able to engulf any of them in the warmth radiating off his chest. And Steve feels awful for this, he truly does. He felt awful when Dustin had to seek solace in Robin’s arms when Eddie was injured and when Lucas clinged onto Max’s hand while she was on life support. He knows they understand it isn’t anything personal, but he still wants to be able to show his feelings through a soothing hand hold or a comforting embrace.

The first time he sees you he's at Nancy’s house for a small gathering celebrating the completion of her and Jonathan’s internship at the big fancy newspaper in New York. You’re in the kitchen helping Nancy with the snacks, smiling wide at her full of sunshine and sparkle, a stark difference from the gloomy aura of Hawkins.

“I see someone’s caught your eye already,” Jonathan giggles, breaking him out of his trance.

Steve glances at you a final time before he turns to Jonathan and steals his drink.

“Hey, why can’t you just get your own?” Jonathan whines a little, the result of a smoke sesh with Argyle and Eddie slowly wearing off. Steve can tell he’s only got a few minutes left to question Jonathan about you before he sobers up and uses this to tease him in the future.

“Who is she? Don’t think ‘ve seen her here before,” Steve tries to act as nonchalant as possible, but he can tell he’s failing with the way Jonathan smiles.

“She’s mine and Nance’s friend. We met her at the internship and she wanted to visit here for a change of scenery. Isn’t that crazy, someone from New York finds a place like Hawkins interesting enough to visit?”

Steve nods in agreement, because why would someone like you, someone so full of light and everything good want anything to do with the drabby town of Hawkins.

“What’s her name?”

When Jonathan says your name loud enough for him to hear over Robin and Eddie’s loud chatter Steve gasps softly. He mumbles your name to himself thrice because it tastes sweet on his tongue, sweeter than the cherry popsicles he likes so much. You talk for the first time that night, nothing past basic introductions, but it’s enough for him to drive home with a smile on his face because he liked the way your lips looked when you said his name.

_

The first time you hug him he’s taken by surprise his body goes rigid and then pliant. He isn’t exactly reciprocating the hug, but he isn’t pushing you away like he would the others. He pulls back first taking a look at your disheveled appearance, Nancy had called him earlier frantically telling him you needed to be picked up from Creel House and he wasted no time coming to your rescue.

He brushes the dust off your shoulders as you huff in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry for this, Nancy told me to wait for her and Jonathan to get back but I wanted to see the house for myself. I thought I could handle it, but I guess it’s a little too creepy for me,” you explain sheepishly.

Steve chuckles awkwardly, still a little loopy from your hug, “Yeah this house isn’t for the faint of heart. We brought the kids here once to err- explore and we still have nightmares about it.”

Steve curses under his breath as you give him a curious look, pushing more details out of him. “There were just a lot of spiders, ya know and the history makes it creepy enough,” he plays it off like it was no big deal but he had an inkling you knew there was more to the story.

_

The second time you hug Steve it leaves him winded, but he decides he likes the feeling. He lets you hold onto him longer than last time and pulls back when you sneakily go to ruffle his hair. He pouts a little, hands swatting yours away while he tries to fix it the best he can without a mirror.

“Don’t worry Steve, you’re still the prettiest person in all of Hawkins,” you say giggling.

His cheeks heat up but he likes you too much to throw a fit about your teasing. You’ve gotten closer over the past few weeks, always bringing him and Robin lunch during work and he thinks he might just keep you.

_

Steve realizes you're a hugger when the first thing you do after you pick him up from the station is trap him in your warm arms instead of yelling like the others would have. He thought he was over high school bullshit, but he couldn’t hold himself back when Robin called him from Tammy Thompson’s house on the verge of tears because Tommy Hagan accused her for looking at a girl a little too long for it to be considered straight. He was fuming when he pulled up to the house, Eddie meeting him at the doorway trying to convince him to not make a scene. He tossed Eddie his keys telling him to take Robin home while he threw punch after punch at Tommy for making someone he loved feel unsafe.

He pushes you off gently trying to explain what happened but you shush him softly, eyes falling to Hopper as he claps him on the back a proud smile on his otherwise stoic face. Everyone’s waiting for him when he arrives at the Byers, Joyce with a first aid kit, Jonathan with a smug smile (probably reminiscing his first fight with Steve), and Robin with eyes full of love and gratitude. He lets everyone fuss over him that night before he falls asleep on the Byers’ couch with your hand holding his.

_

Steve lets you hug him often now, he rolls his eyes and huffs a bit, but allows it with the pretense of it being the last time. It never is, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

You’re on his kitchen floor passing a bottle of wine back and forth sharing core memories. The others have gone home already after the last movie ended but you seemed reluctant to leave, so Steve offered you the guest room and a pair of old pajamas.

“Do you have any happy memories, Stevie?” You ask gently.

Steve shakes his head, “Not really, didn’t really have much of a happy childhood I guess, the only one I can think about is going to my Nana’s for christmas, but she died when I was five.” Steve’s a little tipsy now absentmindedly spilling his heart out to you not thinking about the repercussions.

You smile sadly, “I know what you mean, sort of.”

Steve waves his hand urging you to go on. You sigh softly, “I’ve been almost everywhere and yet it feels like I haven't experienced anything. I have loving parents but I never feel like they love me for who I am, they only love me for what I am, you know? To them I’m more of a trophy, something crossed off on the path of life to show accomplishment. I told you I came to Hawkins to research small towns for a project, but I think that was just an excuse. When I met Nancy and Jonathan they spoke so fondly about everyone back home. They might’ve been in New York, but their hearts resided in Hawkins. I wanted to find that for myself and followed them here…and I think I did.”

Steve shoots you a soft smile full of hearts as your eyes fill with unshed tears. You try your best to scoot over in your tipsy state and fall into his lap resembling a clumsy hug. This time he doesn’t pull away.

_

It’s nearing summer break for everyone now. Nancy and Jonathan are heading back to New York in a few weeks to present a proposal to your guys’ boss in New York for a new paper about small towns with mysterious histories. They put together a portfolio with files full of research done by you, articles written by Nancy, and photographs taken by Jonathan. The kids are finishing up finals and making plans for junior year. Robin passed her first year at community college and he quit his job at Family Video to work at the station with Hopper. And you, you decided to stay back in Hawkins. Steve can’t find a better excuse than this to throw a summer party at his house.

The sun is shining, bellies are full, hearts are happy, and laughs are loud in Steve’s backyard. Steve opened up his pool for the first time since Barbara Holland’s death and he thinks it’s time he starts moving on. Everyone is in the pool having fun, everyone except you and Steve. You’re lounging on one of the chairs, Jane Eyre in your hand and a lazy smile on your face, so it was no surprise Steve chose to stay at your side.

Steve is terrified to bare his heart to you, to tell you how he really feels, he thinks he might as well hand you his heart and a hammer on a silver platter. But then he remembers the shy smile you had when you told him you were leaving New York for good and you were staying in Hawkins. He looks over to you, your book finally pushed aside in favor of watching your friends have fun and he can’t hold his feelings in any longer.

His fingers brush up your arm slowly making their way to pet at your soft cheeks.

“You know you’re the only one who’s allowed to hug me.” It’s a concealed declaration of love an I love you that only the two of you can decipher.

“I know.” I love you too.

Steve smiles shyly before gently cupping your chin and pressing his lips to yours in a much awaited kiss. He pulls back gently only to pull you into his chest. He squeezes you hard pouring all his love into the first hug he’s ever initiated.