#simon-writes-steve

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.” 

Your stomach lurches.

Nancy’s hands fly to her mouth. Even from here you can see the way she freezes, the way her whole body seems to tilt toward him as if gravity itself is pulling her into the moment. Jonathan says something you can’t hear through the glass, and then Nancy nods—fast, frantic, over and over again—and the woods swallow the sound of her yes while the cabin explodes.

“Oh my god—”

“She said yes, she said yes—”

Cheers slam into the windows. Someone whoops loud enough to rattle the glass. Someone else pops champagne too early and sprays half the living room. Joyce laughs and scolds at the same time. People clap and stomp and hug whoever’s closest, like this is a victory they all get to claim.

You don’t move.

Not right away.

You watch Jonathan pull Nancy up into his arms, watch her bury her face in his shoulder, watch him hold her like he’s afraid she might vanish if he loosens his grip. They kiss, framed by twilight and trees, and the sight of it is so sharp it feels clean—like a single cut, deep and quick, instead of the slow, dull kind you’ve been living with.

You tell yourself to remember this version of the hurt. The clean one. The honest one.

Because you can already feel the other kind waiting.

The door swings open minutes later. Cold air rushes in with them, carrying pine and damp earth and the bright, disbelieving kind of happiness that makes everyone in the room surge forward at once. Nancy steps inside first, cheeks flushed from the walk, eyes shining like she’s still trying to convince herself it happened. Jonathan follows close behind, his hand glued to hers, like letting go would be a mistake.

“Surprise!” everyone yells.

Nancy startles—then laughs, breath catching, one hand flying to her chest as she spins in place, taking in the banner, the string lights, the spread of food on the counter, all the faces staring back at her with pride and excitement.

Her gaze drops to her hand again. The ring flashes.

It’s beautiful, just like her.

Of course it is.

Someone pushes her toward the center of the room. Someone hands Jonathan a drink. Someone else presses a hug into Nancy’s shoulder. The cabin fills with noise again—laughter, applause, overlapping voices—until Joyce clinks a spoon against a glass and shouts for everyone to settle down.

Jonathan rubs the back of his neck, bashful in that way that still makes him look like the boy who used to hide behind his camera. Nancy stands beside him with her fingers threaded through his, looking at him like she might actually combust from happiness.

Jonathan clears his throat.

“Okay—uh,” he starts, and the room quiets in a way that feels tender instead of tense. His voice wobbles just slightly when he continues. “Thank you. For… for being here. For all of this.”

He glances down at Nancy, and his entire face softens like he can’t help it.

“I can’t believe,” he says, and the words catch for a second, “I can’t believe I’m marrying my best friend.”

Nancy laughs softly, eyes wet. She squeezes his hand hard enough that you can see his knuckles shift.

“And I just—” Jonathan looks back up at everyone, his smile crooked and stunned, “I just want you all to know how much it means. That you’re here. That you… you kept us going. More than once.”

People murmur. Someone sniffles. Someone claps too early and gets shushed with a laugh.

Nancy takes over, voice steadier but still bright with disbelief. “We’re really lucky,” she says, and her eyes sweep the room. “To have all of you. To have… made it this far. And we just— we love that you wanted to celebrate us.”

You smile when everyone cheers, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You clap when people clap. You lift your cup when someone yells “to the happy couple!” You swallow down the lump in your throat like you’ve swallowed down everything else for years.

You step sideways, letting the crowd close in around them so you don’t have to stand in the direct line of sight. You let people’s shoulders block your view. You let noise fill your ears. You let yourself become the background.

Robin finds you anyway.

She appears at your elbow with two red cups like she conjured them out of spite. Her face is flushed from the warmth and the chaos, eyes sharp even while she smiles like she’s having the time of her life.

“Drink,” she says, and shoves one into your hand.

You do. Immediately. It’s strong enough that you gag at the bite.

Robin watches you over the rim of her cup. “On a scale from crying in the bathroom to arson,” she asks lightly, “where are you?”

You swallow. The alcohol hits your stomach like a stone.

“Homicide,” you say.

Robin’s mouth twitches. “Cool. Cool, cool. I’ll make sure I have an alibi.”

That earns something that might be a laugh from you—short, humorless, but real enough to feel like a betrayal. Robin bumps your shoulder with hers, steady and casual, like she can hold you up without making it a big thing.

Across the room, a spike of laughter rises near the kitchen. You don’t have to look to know who it is, but you do anyway—because your brain is cruel like that.

Steve Harrington leans against the wall with a beer in his hand like he’s been surgically attached to it. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. His hair is doing that infuriating effortless thing it always does, even when he’s half way to tipsy. He’s smiling at something Eddie says, but his eyes drift—like they’re scanning the room without permission—and land right on you.

You look away immediately, jaw tightening.

You tell Robin you’re going to get air before you can talk yourself out of it, and she doesn’t stop you—just watches with that knowing, careful expression she gets when she’s letting you choose your own disaster.

The back door swings open easily. Cold night air rushes in, clean and sharp, and you breathe it in like it might rinse you out from the inside. You step onto the porch, cup still in your hand, and for a second you just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, staring out at the trees where the trail disappears into dark.

The cabin behind you looks warm and golden through the windows. Everyone inside is laughing and clinking glasses and circling Jonathan and Nancy like moths around a flame.

A voice slides in beside you, low and amused.

“Wow.”

You freeze.

“I didn’t know this party came with unrequited-love seating.”

You turn your head and there he is, close enough that you can smell beer and cologne and the warmth clinging to him from inside. Steve’s eyebrow is arched, mouth curved like he’s pleased with himself for saying it.

“Didn’t know they let washed-up exes in,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His mouth twitches. “Touché.”

The humor lingers for exactly one second before his gaze flicks past you to the window, to the ring flashing under string lights, to Jonathan’s hand on Nancy’s waist—then back to you.

“You look like you’re about to hurl,” he says, quieter.

“I’m thrilled,” you deadpan.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Radiating joy.”

You stare at him for a beat too long, irritation and hurt tangling together until you can’t tell which one is keeping you upright.

Steve shifts like he’s about to say something else—something more human—but the door opens behind him and a burst of laughter spills out. Someone calls his name from inside. The moment snaps.

“Anyway,” he says lightly, pushing off the railing. “I’ll leave you to it. Front-row seat and all that. Try not to implode.”

He turns and disappears back into the cabin, and you hate that part of you feels relieved.

—

You stay outside long enough for the cold to bite through your sleeves. Long enough for your hands to start shaking for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature. Long enough for you to realize you can’t stand here forever, because eventually someone will come looking, and you cannot survive being found.

So you go back in long enough to steal what you need.

Not keys.

Not reassurance.

Champagne.

You grab the bottle from the counter like it’s contraband, keep your face neutral while people cheer around you, and escape up the stairs with the quiet, efficient urgency of someone fleeing a crime scene.

Upstairs, the hallway is quiet—or quiet compared to the chaos below. The laughter and music are dulled by wood and distance. The air smells like pine cleaner and spilled beer. Muddy boots sit abandoned by the stairs. Somewhere down the hall, someone has left a door cracked open and light spills out in a thin line.

You stop outside the room you’re sharing with Robin, champagne bottle sweating in your hand, bare feet cold against the carpet.

You try the handle.

Locked.

Of course it is.

Robin has the key.

Robin, who is very much still downstairs. Robin, who is probably thriving in the noise and the music and the freedom of not being emotionally wrecked.

You let your forehead rest against the door.

You could go back down.

You imagine pushing through the crowd, dodging congratulations that aren’t meant for you. You picture Nancy’s hand flashing every time she talks, watch Jonathan look at her like she hung the stars and pretend it doesn’t make you feel like someone’s lining up your ribs and snapping them one by one.

No.

You’d rather chew glass. You’d rather step barefoot into a frozen creek and let your toes go numb. You’d rather sit right here until the champagne runs out and your thoughts finally slow down.

So you slide down the wall.

The carpet scratches faintly at the backs of your thighs as you sit, spine pressed to drywall, champagne balanced carefully between your knees. You peel the foil with less ceremony than the moment deserves, pop the cork with a muted thunk, and bring the bottle to your mouth.

It burns.

Good.

You drink again, longer this time, staring at nothing. Listening to the faint thump of music from below, the ghost of applause echoing in your ears like it got lodged there and never left.

You barely notice the footsteps at first.

They aren’t quiet. Slightly off-step. A little careless—someone who’s had enough drinks to stop pretending they’re graceful.

A voice carries down the hall, mid-sentence, then trails off.

You tilt your head just enough to look.

Steve Harrington stands halfway down the hallway, keys dangling from one hand, jacket slung over his shoulder like he forgot it belonged on his body. His hair is messier now, softer at the edges. There’s a flush on his cheeks that wasn’t there earlier. His eyes narrow when they land on you sitting on the floor like a problem no one wants to claim.

“What are you doing,” he asks, flat and incredulous, “sitting on the floor?”

You lift the bottle slightly. “Drinking.”

His gaze drops to the champagne. Then your bare feet. Then the locked door behind you.

“…You get locked out?”

You take another swallow before answering. “Robin has the key.”

He exhales through his nose like that alone offends him. “Jesus.”

You shrug, which is harder to do sitting on the floor. “She’s busy.”

“I can see that,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely toward the stairs. The music swells for a second and then fades again. He rubs a hand over his face like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here. “You know you could just… go back down.”

You laugh once—sharp, humorless.

“Hard pass.”

“It’s a party.”

“It’s an engagement party.”

“Same thing.”

You tip your head back against the wall, swallowing down another mouthful. “If I have to look at that ring one more time tonight, I might actually lose my mind. And I’d rather not do that in front of Joyce.”

That earns a huff. “Fair.”

He stands there another second, clearly debating whether to leave you to it. You can practically see the thought pass through his head: Not my problem.

Then he jerks his chin down the hall.

“C’mon,” he says. “You can crash in my room until Robin comes back.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m not letting you camp in the hallway like a goddamn victorian orphan,” he says, already turning. “And before you say something smart, I’m offering because I don’t feel like explaining to anyone why you passed out in the corridor.”

You push yourself up on unsteady legs, champagne bottle wobbling slightly in your grip.

“You’re not doing this to be nice,” you say, suspicious.

He snorts. “Absolutely not.”

You sigh. “Fine. But don’t expect any gratitude.”

“Wasn’t hoping for any, anyway” he mutters.

You follow him down the hall, the carpet muffling your steps. His door isn’t far. He fumbles with the key once—twice—then gets it open with a quiet curse, like the lock has personally betrayed him.

The room smells like clean sheets and cologne. The unmade bed looks slept in already—like he came up here to get away from the party at least once. A jacket is tossed over a chair. Shoes are kicked off without care.

He steps aside to let you in, then shuts the door behind you with a soft click that feels louder than it should.

He gestures vaguely at the bed. “Sit. Or don’t. Whatever.”

You sit. The mattress dips under you, and for a second the softness feels like permission to fall apart.

You bring the champagne up again. Drink. He watches you with his arms crossed, jaw tight, irritation simmering in the set of his mouth like he’s waiting for you to do something even more inconvenient than crying on his bed.

“Don’t get it all over the place,” he says.

“Relax,” you reply. “I’m heartbroken, not feral.”

“Debatable.”

You glance up at him. His eyes look darker in the low light. There’s something restless in the way he leans against the dresser, like the room is too small for his mood.

“You always this grumpy when you drink?” you ask.

“Only when people do stupid things.”

You lift the bottle toward him, an almost-smile tugging at your mouth. “Want some?”

He hesitates.

Then takes it, like refusing would be admitting he cares.

He drinks for longer than necessary. When he hands it back, his mouth is a little wet, his throat working as he swallows, and you hate the way your attention snags on it.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing at you again. “So,” he says, voice rougher now. “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

You scoff. “What, you want a report?”

He rolls his eyes. “You helped plan the proposal. You stood there and smiled. And now you’re acting like you didn’t know it was coming.”

“I did know,” you snap, heat flaring fast in your chest. “That doesn’t magically make it hurt less.”

His gaze sharpens, like the anger finally makes sense to him. “You don’t get to play surprised martyr,” he shoots back. “You made yourself part of it.”

That lands like a slap.

Your fingers tighten around the bottle until the glass creaks faintly under the pressure.

“Well sorry, Steve,” you spit, and your voice shakes with it—anger and alcohol and something uglier underneath, “not everyone can be as heartless as you, able to turn your emotions on and off.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, but there’s no humor in it. He takes a step closer, just one, enough to crowd the air. “Heartless,” he repeats quietly, like he’s tasting the word.

Then his jaw clenches, expression flickering—something crosses it fast, like pain trying to make itself known and getting shoved back down.

“You don’t think I know how it feels?” he says, and the irritation you’ve been hearing in him turns sharper, more personal. “How it feels watching someone you’ve pined for—loved—marry someone else? Marry the guy she left you for?”

Your throat tightens.

You should shut up. You should stop. You should swallow it all down like you always do.

Instead, the champagne makes you brave in the worst way.

“You’ve got nothing on me. I was there when his dad left,” you swallow hard, throat tight, and the words come out like broken glass. “I was there when people called him a freak. I fought with bullies for him. I was there when everything was falling apart and he didn’t know how to hold it together. I was there every night with a flashlight searching for Will, promising him we wouldn’t stop until Will was back home…and I—” Your breath catches, anger turning molten. “I was there for him when no one else was. I was there for every ugly part. Every hard part. Every lonely part. And somehow I still managed to be replaceable.”

Steve stares at you like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or break something.

“You think being there earns you something?” he says, harsh. “You think loyalty buys you a place in his life?”

“It should!” you snap, and your face burns. “It should mean something.”

“It means you let him get comfortable,” Steve shoots back. “You made it easy. You made it safe. You made it so he never had to question if you’d still be there.”

You flinch like he actually hit you.

Your voice drops, dangerous and shaking. “You don’t get to talk about him like you know him.”

Steve’s laugh is short and humorless. “I know enough. I know he’s standing downstairs acting like he’s won the lottery, and you’re up here drinking in my room like you’re trying to drown your own lungs.”

You push off the bed, rising to your feet so you’re not looking up at him. The movement makes the room tilt slightly; you steady yourself with rage.

“You’re such an asshole,” you say.

Steve steps closer again, close enough now that you can smell beer on his breath, close enough that the anger between you feels like heat. His eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I know. Add that under heartless.”

You should back up, but you can’t.

Or you don’t.

“Don’t act like you’re the only one bleeding tonight,” Steve adds, and something in his expression shifts—hard edges cracking just enough to let something raw show through.

Your heart bangs wildly against your ribs.

You tilt your chin up, defiant even while your pulse betrays you. “Why are you here, why did you offer me a place to crash?”

His gaze flicks to your mouth. Back to your eyes.

“Because,” he says, low and unapologetic, “I don’t wanna be alone either.”

—

The air shifts.

Something raw and electric coils tight between you—anger, jealousy, alcohol, too much truth laid bare. You can feel it in the space between your bodies, in the way neither of you moves but neither of you steps back, in the way the room suddenly feels like it’s holding its breath.

You swallow hard.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave your face.

Neither of you says anything. You don’t need to. The line between argument and mistake is already bending, already bowing under the weight of want you’ve both been pretending you don’t have.

Your hand tightens around the champagne bottle until your knuckles ache.

Steve’s attention drops to it—then back to you—like he’s daring you.

“You started this,” you whisper, but it isn’t an accusation so much as a warning you’re giving yourself.

His mouth curves—barely. “Did I?”

The anger in you snaps into motion.

You step into him.

Your shoulder brushes his chest and you feel him go still for half a second, surprised by the contact, surprised by you—then his hand catches your waist on instinct like he’s afraid you’ll fall, or like he wants to keep you exactly where you are.

You should shove him.

Instead, you kiss him.

It’s not soft.

It’s a collision—mouth to mouth, teeth clicking, breath spilling hot between you. You taste champagne and bitterness and Steve, and the sound you make against his lips is sharp, frustrated, almost feral.

His grip on your waist tightens. He kisses you back like he’s mad too, like the anger is the only thing keeping him from admitting how much he wants this. His mouth is hot, insistent, and when your hands fist in the front of his shirt and yank him closer, he makes a low sound in his throat like you’ve just given him permission to stop pretending.

The champagne bottle slips from your fingers and thunks onto the carpet, rolling a few inches before it stops.

Steve doesn’t break the kiss to look.

He backs you toward the bed, not gentle about it, not careful. The mattress hits behind your knees and you fall onto it with a soft gasp, and Steve follows immediately, hands on you—everywhere—like he’s trying to prove a point with his palms.

You push at his shoulders and he pauses just long enough to glare down at you, hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from kissing. His gaze is blown wide and dark, angry in the same way you are: not cruel, not careless—just too full of something that has nowhere to go.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough.

You laugh once, breathless. “You’d love that.”

His jaw ticks.

You hook a hand in his hair and pull him down again, harder this time, and he lets you—lets you take, lets you demand. He kisses you like he’s been waiting to be told what to do, like he needs the fight in you to match the hunger in him.

His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin. You gasp at the contact, at the contrast between cold air in the room and the heat of him. He palms your ribs, thumbs dragging over your stomach, then higher, and your breath stutters when he finds your chest and squeezes like he’s testing how much you can take.

“Still wanna call me heartless?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Shut up,” you breathe, but you arch into his hand anyway, and the way he exhales—sharp, satisfied—makes your stomach tighten.

Steve pushes your shirt up, impatient, and you let him. He drags his mouth down your throat, teeth grazing skin, leaving the kind of marks you’ll hate later and crave right now. When you hiss and grab his hair again, he laughs into your neck like he’s pleased to find out you’re not the only one who bites when cornered.

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

“So are you,” you shoot back, and you shove at his belt with clumsy urgency that makes him curse under his breath.

He catches your wrists for a second—not to stop you, just to steady you—then releases them and lets you tug at him until the room fills with the messy sounds of fabric and breath and frustration turning into something darker.

When he climbs fully over you, knees sinking into the mattress, you feel the weight of him settle against you and it makes your whole body go hot and loud. His hand slides between your thighs, and you jolt at the touch—half shock, half relief. He presses there, firm, deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s done this a thousand times and he’s still angry enough to make it count.

Your head tips back, a sound tearing out of you before you can swallow it.

Steve’s mouth finds yours again, swallowing the noise. “Keep looking at me like that,” he says against your lips, voice low and wrecked. “Like you’re gonna kill me.”

“Maybe I will,” you breathe.

He huffs a laugh, but it dies fast when your hips lift into his hand. He curses, eyes squeezing shut for a second like it’s too much.

His fingers slide under the waistband of your pants, pushing them down in hurried, ungraceful motions. You help—kicking, wriggling, impatient. The alcohol makes you reckless. The anger makes you bold. The ache in you makes you want.

Steve pauses, looking down at you like he’s trying to read your face through the haze.

“You wanna do this?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours, breath ragged. “Because I swear to god, if you’re gonna regret it—”

You bite his lip. Hard. “Shut up.”

He strips the rest of the space between you away like it’s an insult—mouth on your skin, hands everywhere, the bed creaking under the frantic rhythm of both of you trying to take the edge off something that can’t actually be fixed.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s slow only for a second—slow enough to make you gasp, to make your fingers claw at his shoulders, to make your whole body go rigid with the stretch—then you exhale and your hips tilt up like you’re meeting him halfway, like you’re telling him you want it, and Steve’s face tightens like he’s trying not to lose control immediately.

“Still okay?” he asks, quieter now.

You nod, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel—”

You don’t let him finish.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, impatient, desperate, needing him closer than is probably healthy. He swears, hips snapping forward, the stretch and heat and connection stealing the breath straight out of your lungs.

He moves, and it’s not gentle.

It’s desperate. It’s angry. It’s the kind of intensity that feels like you’re both trying to outrun your own thoughts, trying to chase the hurt out of your bodies with friction and heat. The bed rocks. Your breath breaks. Steve’s hand grips your thigh hard enough to leave marks, and the ache of it makes you shiver.

“You’re—” you start, but you don’t finish, because he shifts his hips and the sensation punches the rest of the sentence out of you.

Steve watches your face like he can’t look away, like he needs to see exactly what he’s doing to you. His mouth is open, breathing hard. His forehead drops to yours for a second, sweat and heat and breath mixing between you.

“Say something,” he demands softly, like he’s not sure if he’s grounding you or himself.

You laugh, broken and breathless. “What—like a review?”

His lips twitch, but his eyes stay dark. “No,” he says. “Like you’re here.”

“I’m here,” you gasp, and your nails bite into his back. “I’m—right here.”

Something in his expression cracks at that—something raw flickering through the anger—and he kisses you hard enough to steal your breath again.

Your body remembers even if your brain will pretend it doesn’t. It remembers the rhythm, the pressure, the way he says your name like it’s a challenge. It remembers the way your own anger turns into need and then into something white-hot that builds faster than you expect.

When you start to fall apart, it hits you like a wave you don’t know how to ride—your thighs trembling, your breath turning sharp, the world narrowing to Steve’s weight and the sound of his breathing and the way his hand slides to the right place and presses like he knows exactly what will break you open.

You make a sound that is not dignified.

Steve’s mouth drops to your throat, swallowing it, muttering something filthy against your skin that makes your stomach clench harder. Your hands clutch at him like you’re trying to anchor yourself in the only thing that feels real.

You come undone around him.

His mouth is everywhere — your jaw, your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts — like he’s trying to ground himself in you, like proximity is the only thing keeping him upright.

“Look at me,” he demands suddenly, breath ragged.

You do.

Steve curses, a low, guttural sound, and he follows—hips stuttering, breath shaking—burying his face in your neck like he’s trying to hide from the fact that this is real, that you’re real, that he’s done this and he can’t take it back.

For a moment, there’s only breathing.

Only heat.

Only the thud of your pulse in your ears.

Steve stays over you, heavy and warm, and you can feel the way his breath slows in increments, the way the anger drains out of his body and leaves something quieter behind.

You swallow hard, throat dry, and the first coherent thought that surfaces is absurdly practical:

“It’s getting late,” you whisper.

Steve lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown wide and tired, mouth still swollen, hair a wreck.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, like agreement is the only thing he can manage.

You reach for the blanket with clumsy hands and tug it up, not looking at him as you shift on the bed. Steve moves too, equally silent, equally careful now that the damage is done. The champagne bottle lies on its side in the carpet like evidence.

Neither of you talk about it.

Neither of you say this didn’t happen.

You just let the exhaustion settle over you, thick as the dark, and drift—foggy, heavy, not thinking far enough ahead to ruin the moment with consequences.

Steve’s arm finds your waist again in sleep like muscle memory.

And you let it.

—

You wake up slow.

Not the gentle kind of slow—more like your body is piecing itself back together. First the hum in your skull. Then the dry ache in your throat. Then the weight.

There’s an arm across your waist.

For one blurry, disorienting second, you think you’re back in your own bed. You think maybe Robin kicked off the covers again, stole all the space, wrapped herself around you in her sleep like she used to after bad movie nights.

Then you breathe in.

And the room smells wrong.

Not wrong—just unfamiliar. Clean laundry and something warmer underneath it. Soap. Cologne. Steve.

Your eyes open.

The ceiling isn’t yours.

Neither is the arm.

You stay very still.

Too still.

Like if you don’t move, you might fade back into sleep and whatever happened last night will stay soft and indistinct, tucked away behind the alcohol haze where it belongs.

Except your body remembers.

Not clearly—not in images or details—but in sensation. Heat. Proximity. The way your muscles feel loose and sore in places they shouldn’t be.

The arm tightens slightly at your waist.

“…fuck,” Steve mutters, voice rough with sleep.

Your stomach drops.

He shifts behind you, clearly waking in the same slow, awful increments you did. His breath fans against your shoulder. You feel him freeze almost as soon as it hits him too—your body, your warmth, the undeniable fact that you’re still here.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Thick. Pressed tight with everything you’re both avoiding touching.

Eventually, he clears his throat.

“So,” he says, hoarse. “Morning.”

You close your eyes again. Just for a beat.

“Morning,” you reply, equally rough.

His arm doesn’t move right away. When it finally does, it slides away carefully—like he’s worried sudden movement might shatter something fragile. The mattress dips as he rolls onto his back.

You follow suit, sitting up and immediately regretting it when your head throbs.

“God,” you mutter. “My brain feels… punitive.”

He lets out a weak huff. “Yeah. Same. Like it’s mad at me specifically.”

You rub at your temples, squinting against the pale light leaking through the curtains. You catch a glimpse of him in your periphery—hair flattened on one side, eyes tired, mouth set in that defensive, half-awake line like he’s already bracing for you to say something that hurts.

You don’t look directly at him yet.

You don’t trust what your face might do.

“This was—” you start, then stop.

He shifts. “We were drunk.”

“Yes.”

“Very drunk.”

You drag a hand down your face and glance toward the nightstand—and the clock punches you square in the chest.

Too late.

Way too late.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like your organs rearrange themselves.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, already moving. The sheet slides off your legs as you scramble out of bed. The cold air bites at your skin, sharp and sobering. “What time is it—”

Steve squints at the clock. Blinks. “Shit.”

Your pulse spikes. Suddenly your body is all sharp angles and urgency, the hangover chased out by panic. You drop to your knees, scanning the floor like your clothes might have dissolved into the carpet overnight. You spot your jeans—half under his dresser—your shirt crumpled near the bed like it gave up on you.

Your fingers fumble, clumsy and frantic. Fabric sticks to your skin. Your head pounds with every movement.

Steve pushes himself upright, sheet gathered low on his hips, watching you with a look that’s half disbelief, half irritation.

“Why are you rushing?” he asks.

You don’t answer. You can’t. If you say it out loud, it becomes real in a way you can’t undo.

If you say it out loud, you have to admit you’re still that person—the one who holds her breath for a boy who already chose someone else.

You shove your arm through your shirt too fast and almost fall over.

Steve’s gaze narrows.

“Is that what this is?” he continues. “You scrambling like this because you’re worried Jonathan might catch you?”

You don’t say yes.

You don’t have to.

He scoffs, a short, humorless sound. “Wow.”

You flinch, because the sound is worse than any insult. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… disappointed. Like you’ve proven something he already suspected.

“So let me get this straight,” he says, swinging his legs off the bed. The sheet shifts with him, and he doesn’t even bother to keep it tidy. He looks too tired for shame. Too annoyed for modesty. “You sleep with me, and now you’re panicking because the guy who just proposed to someone else might—what—reconsider if he doesn’t see you in my bed?”

“That’s not—” You stop yourself, jaw clenching. You hate him for making it real. You hate him for saying it like it’s a shared language. You hate him for being right. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” Steve says, and it’s sharp now. He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes following you like he’s watching a car wreck he can’t look away from. “I get it perfectly, you’re worried about losing your place.”

You yank your jeans up, fingers shaking on the button, “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” He turns on you then, eyes dark, voice low. “Because it sure looks like you’re more upset about the idea of him seeing you with me than you were about actually sleeping with me.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and unpleasant.

You exhale slowly, shoulders dropping. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You finally pull your jeans on, movements slower now. Defeated. “I just… I didn’t plan this. Any of it.”

“No shit,” he mutters.

You sit on the edge of the bed, head in your hands for a moment. When you look up again, your voice is quieter. Tired.

“I’ve been there for him my whole life,” you say. “I don’t know how to not be… there.”

You expect him to soften. To comfort you. To do that irritatingly human thing.

He doesn’t.

He steps closer, not gentle, not sweet—just there, filling the space with his presence, his frustration, his own bruised pride.

“And now you’re here,” he says. “In my room. In my bed. Acting like you’re about to sprint out of it before the sun’s even fully up because you’re still saving a spot for him in your head.”

Your cheeks burn. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in, sharp. “You are. And it’s pathetic.”

The word lands like a slap.

For a second you can’t breathe.

Then your face twists, and you laugh—once, harsh, like it hurts too much to do anything else.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “Fine. I’m pathetic. Congratulations. You won.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, but there’s no victory in it. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard, like he’s tired of himself too.

A beat passes.

You pull your jacket on with jerky movements. He watches you like he’s waiting for you to bolt, like he wants you to bolt so he can be angry about it instead of whatever else this is.

The silence is loud enough to feel.

Then, softer—too casual, like he’s trying to pretend this doesn’t matter—Steve says, “You know… I always thought you and Jonathan would end up together.”

Your hands pause on the zipper.

You look at him. Really look at him.

His hair is a mess. His eyes are bloodshot. His mouth is still a little swollen. He looks like last night and this morning and the worst decisions you’ve ever made.

And he’s saying something that’s been haunting you since you were old enough to understand what everyone meant when they looked at you and Jonathan and smiled.

You swallow.

“Well,” you mutter, bitter, “get in line.”

Steve gives a quiet huff. Not a laugh. More like air escaping something too tight.

“It’s not just you,” he says. “It’s—everyone. Everyone thought that. Well at least until Nancy came into the picture”

You look away, because if you hold his gaze you might crack open in a way you can’t afford.

He shifts, leaning his shoulder against the dresser now, arms folding across his chest like he needs something to do with them.

“They’re not right for each other,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

Steve’s jaw works. He looks annoyed with himself for saying it, like the thought has been circling his head and he didn’t mean to let it out.

“Nancy,” he says, “wants… bigger things. Always has.” His eyes flick to yours. “She talks about New York like it’s a promise. Like it’s the only place she can breathe.”

Your stomach twists, because you know. You’ve heard it. The way Nancy’s voice changes when she says it—bright and hungry and desperate.

“And Jonathan,” Steve continues, “he’s not leaving his family. Not really. Not the way she’d want.” He scoffs under his breath, humorless. “He’ll try. He’ll tell her he will. But he won’t.”

You stare at him, chest tight. “So what, you’re suddenly an expert on Jonathan’s life?”

Steve’s eyes flash. “No. I’m an expert on what happens when two people want different lives and pretend love will work itself out.”

The air goes strange—thin and electric, like a storm building.

He keeps going anyway, like he can’t stop.

“Right now, it’s a relationship,” he says. “If it falls apart, it sucks. It hurts. People cry. They move on.” His mouth twists. “But a marriage? That’s not just heartbreak. That’s paperwork and lawyers and everyone picking sides and—”

He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

“Messy,” you whisper, because your brain is connecting dots you don’t want to connect.

Steve nods once. “Messy.”

You rub at your forehead, trying to steady the pounding behind your eyes. “Okay, so… what are you saying? That they should just—break up?”

“I’m saying,” Steve replies slowly, like he’s choosing the words as carefully as he can with a hangover, “that maybe they should think about it. Really think about it. Before they lock themselves into something they can’t undo cleanly.”

You stare at him. “And how exactly do you plan on making them ‘think’?”

Steve’s gaze sharpens. He pushes off the dresser and takes a step closer, and you can feel the shift—the moment where this stops being casual and becomes a plan forming in real time.

He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out how to say something without sounding insane.

Then he does it anyway.

“From a guy’s perspective,” he says, voice low, “we don’t start realizing what we’re about to lose until we can’t have it.”

Your throat tightens.

He watches your face like he’s measuring the impact.

“Right now,” he continues, “you’re Jonathan’s guarantee. The safety net. The backup plan he doesn’t even realize he’s keeping because you’ve always been there.”

Your stomach drops, hot and humiliating.

You open your mouth to protest.

Nothing comes out.

Steve’s expression hardens, not cruel—just honest. “He doesn’t have to choose you because he assumes you’re not going anywhere.”

Your fingers curl around the zipper of your jacket until the plastic bites.

“So what,” you say, voice thin, “you want me to leave?”

Steve’s eyes flicker. “No.”

The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like it surprised even him.

He clears his throat, recalibrating. “Not—like that.” He exhales, frustrated. “I mean we make it look like you’re gone. Off the table. Not an option.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But tell me I’m wrong.”

You want to.

God, you want to.

But your brain betrays you with memories—Jonathan leaning into you like you’re an extension of his body, Jonathan calling you at midnight because he can’t sleep, Jonathan assuming you’ll be there because you always are. Jonathan never having to name what you are to him because you never make him.

You swallow.

Steve’s gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes. “If he thought he couldn’t have you,” he says quietly, “he’d have to think. Just for a second. He’d have to look at what he’s doing and what he’s choosing.”

“And Nancy?” you ask, voice rough.

Steve scoffs. “Nancy’s not exactly blind.”

You blink.

He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “She pretends not to notice things when they don’t fit the story she wants. But she notices.”

You drag a hand through your hair, messy and frantic. “Okay, so you’re saying… what? We—what—fake something?”

Steve’s eyes lock on yours.

The idea lands between you, heavy.

Dangerous.

It feels like walking toward a cliff because you’re convinced the fall will be better than standing still.

You swallow hard. “How do we make them see their mistake then?”

Steve’s mouth tightens like he’s committing to it. “We make them jealous.”

Your chest tightens. “Steve—”

“Us,” he says, cutting you off before you can think too hard. “Together.”

A beat of silence.

The room feels too warm. Your skin feels too sensitive. The memory of last night presses at the edges of your mind, foggy and sharp all at once.

You stare at him like he’s lost it.

He stares back like he already has.

“It would get their attention,” he says, voice rough. “It would make them… question. Re-evaluate. See what they’re about to do before it’s too late.”

“And you think we’re doing them a favor,” you say, and it comes out half accusation, half realization.

Steve’s jaw flexes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t.

Because the sick part is—you believe it. You convince yourself it’s noble. That you’re protecting them from the kind of messy, dragging heartbreak that ruins people. That you’re saving Jonathan from making a decision that chains him to a life he won’t want. That you’re saving Nancy from settling and waking up five years from now resentful and restless.

A small, selfish part of you wants Jonathan to look at you and finally see you and feel panic for what he’s losing.

You hate yourself for it.

You hate Steve for putting words to it.

You hate that the plan sounds like it would work.

“So,” you say, voice careful, “we just… make them jealous.”

Steve nods once. His eyes are steady now. Determined. Like he needs this to be true as badly as you do.

You stare at him for a long moment, heart banging against your ribs.

Then you swallow.

“Okay,” you say, and it tastes like sin and justification all at once. “Okay. How do we do it?”

Steve exhales through his nose, the closest thing to relief you’ve seen on him all morning.

“We start small,” he says. “And we start today.”

Downstairs, the cabin is still warm with celebration.

Up here, in Steve Harrington’s bedroom, you stand half-dressed and hungover and making a decision that feels like it could either save everyone from disaster—

Curiosity settles in where certainty used to be.

“Same friend group for years,” he continues. “Newest couple on the board. Possibly the most surprising.”

Steve’s eyes find yours before looking at the crowd, a flicker of something—confidence, amusement—settles into his expression before he reaches for your hand and leads you forward.

You follow.

Because what else is there to do?

You don’t know if it’s the crowd or the way Steve’s still looking at you, but something tightens low in your chest as you step into the light.

“How long have you two been together?” Dustin asks.

Steve answers before you can.

“Long enough.”

Laughter breaks immediately, the room already leaning toward him.

“Long enough,” Dustin repeats, amused. “Mysterious. I like it.”

You sit at the third table, the space settling around you in pieces—chairs, cards, pens—something structured when everything else feels loose.

Across the stage, Nancy adjusts her bracelet while Jonathan leans in to say something too quiet for the mic. She smiles, nods, their shoulders brushing like there’s no gap to close.

You wait for it.

The familiar ache.

The one that usually follows without asking.

It doesn’t come.

Or maybe it does, but softer—muted at the edges, dulled before it can settle properly—because something else moves in its place before it has the chance.

Steve’s hand crosses the table without looking, sliding your water toward you. “Drink,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry past you. “Your throat’s already going.”

You frown slightly, the response automatic, already forming—I’m fine—but it catches halfway up, snagging on something you don’t notice until you try to swallow and feel nothing give, no relief, just the dry pull of it sitting too high in your chest.

You reach for the glass, the water going down too quickly, cool and immediate, easing something that had been tightening slowly enough you didn’t clock it, and you don’t realize how much you needed it until it’s gone.

Only then does the thought catch up.

You lower the glass more slowly than you lifted it, your fingers still curled loosely around the rim as you glance at him—not fully, not enough to make it obvious, just enough to check.

His attention is fixed on the crowd, posture loose, expression easy, like nothing about that moment required thought, like it wasn’t anything worth noticing.

—

Dustin taps his cards against his palm at center stage, the soft shuffle enough to pull your attention back to him, “Alright,” he says. “You all know the rules, but for the sake of our very invested audience—”

A ripple of laughter.

“Each of you writes down what you think your partner’s answer is. No talking. No cheating. Thirty seconds.”

He lifts the timer.

“Then we find out how well you actually know each other.”

The room stills around it—anticipation slipping into place.

“First question, what is your partner’s biggest fear?”

A low oooh rolls through the crowd.

You don’t hesitate, pen moving before you can think about it—before you can soften it, reshape it, make it easier to explain.

Across from you, Nancy pauses just long enough to consider. Jonathan’s jaw tightens slightly as he writes. Lucas glances sideways at Max like he’s trying to cheat without getting caught; she keeps her eyes forward, stubborn.

Beside you, Steve doesn’t look at you.

He just writes.

The timer ticks louder than it should.

“Five seconds!” Dustin calls.

A few rushed scribbles. A quiet curse from Lucas. Someone laughs.

“Time!”

Cards are set down as Robin sweeps through to collect them, unnecessarily dramatic about it.

“Nancy and Jonathan,” Dustin says. “Let’s start with you.”

He turns to Jonathan.

“Biggest fear?”

Jonathan exhales once. “Losing my family.”

Something soft moves through the room.

Dustin checks Nancy’s card. “Letting down the people he loves.”

Nancy tilts her head. “That’s basically the same thing.”

“Basically,” Dustin echoes, “but not exactly.”

A few chuckles.

“Nancy?”

She answers immediately. “Not reaching my full potential.”

Dustin flips Jonathan’s card. “Being seen as less than.”

Jonathan shrugs. “That’s what I meant.”

“It’s not what you said,” she corrects, but there’s no edge to it.

Close, but not a match.

“Moving on, Lucas?” Dustin asks

“Not being good enough,” Lucas responds.

Dustin flips Max’s card. “Losing.”

Lucas frowns. “That’s not—”

“It is,” she cuts in. “You hate losing.”

“That’s not my biggest fear.”

“It’s definitely up there.”

The crowd laughs, amused by the young couple that seems like they already have thirty years under their belt. 

“Max?”

“Becoming boring.”

Dustin flips Lucas’s card. “Being ignored.”

Max snorts. “That’s your problem, not mine.”

“Zero points,” Dustin says, delighted.

And then—

“Steve.”

The mic tilts.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“Being left.”

It lands heavier than it should for a night that was supposed to stay light. 

Dustin flips your card.

“Being left.”

A pause.

Then applause—sharper now, something like recognition slipping through it.

“And you?”

Your fingers press lightly into the table.

“Being second choice.”

Dustin flips Steve’s card.

“Being second choice.”

This time the silence lasts longer.

Not uncomfortable.

Just aware.

“Well,” Dustin says, lowering the cards, voice dipping just slightly, “that’s our first perfect match.”

Applause breaks again.

Under the table, Steve’s hand finds yours—no hesitation—just threading your fingers together like it belongs there.

—

“Second question,” Dustin says. “First time you ever hung out. Even if it was in a group setting,” he adds. “We’re counting technicalities.”

Pens move again.

Slower this time.

Nancy’s smile fades into focus. Jonathan stares at his card longer than before. Lucas writes quickly, confident. Max barely pauses, already smirking.

You hesitate—

just a second—

then write.

Beside you, Steve doesn’t stop.

“Time!”

Dustin turns. “Jonathan?”

“When Will went missing,” he says. “We looked for him together.”

The room softens.

Dustin flips Nancy’s card. “Photo lab.”

Nancy smiles faintly. “That’s when we started talking.”

Jonathan nods. “Yeah, but we didn’t really hang out until—”

“Until something happened,” she finishes.

The answers don’t match, but they fit.

“Emotionally correct,” Dustin decides. “Technically wrong.”

“Lucas?”

“She was basically begging to be friends with us,” he says.

Max scoffs.

Dustin reads her card. “‘You and your friends were staring at me like creeps.’”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, quick and easy.

“And then—‘you cornered me at the arcade and asked me to join your nerd group.’”

“You were interested,” Lucas insists.

“You were weird.”

Half a point.

Barely earned.

And then—

You.

Steve gestures toward you like he already knows.

You lean toward the mic.

“The first time we actually hung out,” you say, “was at Jonathan’s house.”

Jonathan stills, just slightly, but your eyes stay on Steve.

“He’d just gotten the crap beat out of him,” you add.

“By your best friend,” Steve cuts in.

The reaction comes softer this time—scattered laughs, a few knowing looks passing between people who remember.

You shrug. “You deserved it. But Joyce would’ve killed me if you died on her couch.”

That pulls a few more smiles, quieter, warmer.

Steve leans in. “She threatened me with disinfectant.”

“It was necessary.”

Dustin watches the two of you a second too long, something curious settling in.

—

By the sixth question, it isn’t subtle anymore.

Nancy and Jonathan circle the same answers—close, almost there, never quite landing together. Lucas and Max swing wide, right and wrong in equal measure, arguing through both with the same stubborn energy.

But you and Steve—

you just match.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Dustin’s grin sharpens, amusement thinning into something more watchful. “This is getting suspicious,” he says.

“Separate them,” Lucas calls.

Max nods immediately. “Yeah. No way this isn’t rigged.”

“We’re not cheating,” you say, but you’re already laughing with them.

“Prove it.”

The audience joins in.

“Switch seats!”

Dustin lights up. “Yes—separate the suspects.”

Steve exhales a quiet laugh as he stands.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters.

You move apart, the space between you feels wrong immediately—too open, too noticeable.

“No visual contact,” Dustin says. “No telepathy. No weird psychic connection— let’s see if that changes anything.”

The room whoops.

By the time Dustin calls it, there’s no suspense left to build.

“Alright,” he says, dragging it out anyway. “I think we have our winners.”

Applause crashes through the room—whoops and hollers taking over. 

He reaches under the table and lifts the prize high.

“And as promised—our very prestigious, highly coveted—trophy made by Ms. Holly Wheeler herself.”

It’s small and crooked, covered in glitter like someone got carried away and no one stopped them.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh beside you as Dustin hands it over, the sound close enough to feel grounding for a second, until something else settles low in your chest, quieter but harder to ignore.

Have you always been this compatible?

The thought slips in before you can catch it, before you can decide what to do with it, and once it’s there it doesn’t leave—it lingers, pulling at everything else that suddenly feels too aligned to dismiss.

How long has he known you like this?

How long have you known him?

You don’t remember learning it, don’t remember noticing any of it in a way that felt significant at the time, and yet the answers keep coming anyway—without hesitation, without doubt—easy in a way that feels almost unfair, certain in a way that doesn’t leave room for second-guessing.

The laughter around you doesn’t disappear, but it shifts—thinner now, distant at the edges—like it belongs to something you’ve already stepped slightly outside of.

Because somewhere between the third question and the sixth, this stopped feeling like a game.

Or maybe it never was.

Maybe it’s always been this easy, and you’re only just noticing now—only just realizing that you weren’t calculating, weren’t performing, weren’t trying to make anything fit.

—

The adrenaline lingers longer than it should.

Not sharp anymore—just a dull hum under everything, stretched thin as the room reshapes itself around dinner. Plates appear where there weren’t any before, chairs scrape and shift into place, voices overlapping in loose, uneven layers. Someone calls for more forks while someone else laughs too loudly and lets the joke fall apart halfway through.

You stay busy.

It’s easy—there’s always something to carry, something to fix, something to pass off before anyone notices you’ve been standing still too long. You hover near the kitchen, near Joyce, near Nancy when she needs it, stepping in before either of them has to ask.

Helpful. Efficient. Just enough to make it look like you’re doing it for them and not for you.

Because if you keep moving you aren’t lingering long enough for Steve to find you.

You manage it, too. After the game—after the noise, the congratulations, the laughter that stuck a little too closely—you slip through it, one task bleeding into the next, one room into another, always just out of reach. Not obvious. Not deliberate enough for anyone to call it out.

Just never quite in the same place at the same time, until dinner pulls everything back together.

There’s no avoiding it now—people settling in, voices folding into each other, plates passed over shoulders instead of hands. Someone argues about music while someone else opens another bottle like it’s necessary.

And somehow, you still end up beside him.

You don’t hesitate long enough for it to look like a decision. You just slip into the seat next to Steve, close enough that your knee brushes his under the table before either of you adjusts.

You reach for your plate like eating will give you something to do with your hands, something steady to hold onto that isn’t him—something quiet, something safe.

Steve doesn’t take the hint, of course he doesn’t. He leans in slightly, voice low enough to stay between you, and starts talking like nothing’s changed—small things, nothing important, whatever comes to mind first and doesn’t need thinking through.

You answer where you have to, a hum, a nod, throwing in a quiet “yeah” when silence follows. 

It doesn’t slow him down. If anything, it seems to settle him more, like the conversation doesn’t need to go anywhere to work, like just having it is enough.

You don’t notice when, but at some point, his arm settles along the back of your chair. You don’t lean into it, but you don’t move away either, his hand landing briefly at your waist when he reaches for his drink.

Across the table, Nancy says something you don’t catch, and Jonathan answers without hesitation. You keep your eyes on your plate, until Steve stills beside you.

His knee presses into yours again, deliberate this time, a quiet signal that pulls your attention where his already is—past you, toward them.

Nancy’s hand lifts as she speaks, frustration slipping through despite how controlled she tries to keep it. “I can’t believe you got the most basic questions wrong.”

Jonathan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nance—”

“No, I mean it,” she says, softer now, but tighter around the edges. “Those weren’t hard.”

Steve leans a fraction closer, his voice dropping so it stays between you. “If there’s ever a better time,” he murmurs, “it’s now.”

Your stomach tightens as Nancy pushes her chair back, standing, and Jonathan follows without hesitation.

“He’s vulnerable,” Steve adds, quieter now, like he’s already thinking three steps ahead. Then, after a beat, softer—“Show him what he’s missing.”

You swallow, forcing something that resembles a smile. “Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

—

You don’t mean to listen.

You tell yourself you’re just stepping outside for air, just following them because that’s what you’re supposed to do, because Steve’s voice is still sitting somewhere in your head telling you to go, to fix it, to push.

But then you hear Nancy’s voice before you reach them, softer than it’s been all night, and something in it makes you stop.

You linger at the edge of the porch, half-shadowed by the doorway, close enough that their words carry without effort, far enough that you could still pretend you weren’t listening at all.

“Do you think we’re right for each other?” The question lands heavier than anything she’s said before.

Jonathan blinks, caught off guard—not by the words, but by the way she says them, like they’ve been sitting somewhere deeper than the game, waiting for a reason to surface.

“All this from a game?” he asks, softer than it should be.

Nancy exhales, the frustration turning inward now, more at herself than him. “We didn’t even get a single question right.”

“On a technicality,” Jonathan says, quick but gentle, like he’s trying to meet her where she is without letting her stay there. “We were in the same area.”

She doesn’t answer. The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but searching, like something unspoken has finally made itself known between them.

Jonathan studies her for a moment, something in his expression settling, softening into something steadier.

“I like that I don’t know everything about you,” he says.

Nancy looks up at that.

“I like that you aren’t an open book,” he continues, quieter now. “That I get to spend the rest of my life getting to know you.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly.

“It feels like Christmas.”

Nancy’s shoulders loosen before she can stop them, tension slipping out of her in pieces as a smile forms—slow, reluctant at first, but real.

“I like that we were… circling each other,” she admits, her voice softer now, less guarded. “That it forces us to actually talk about things instead of just assuming we already know.”

Jonathan nods, something quiet and certain in the movement. “Yeah.”

She hesitates, the thought catching before it fully forms.

“But part of me is scared that we’ll—”

“—end up like our parents.”

They say it at the same time, words ending with giggles. It’s quiet, a little disbelieving, but it breaks whatever tension was left between them, something easing into place instead of pulling apart.

Jonathan shakes his head, smiling now. “Guess we do know each other a little bit.”

Nancy lets out a breath, stepping closer without thinking. “More than a little.”

Her hand finds his, like it always does. “And even when we don’t,” she adds, softer now, “we figure it out.”

Jonathan’s fingers tighten around hers, grounding, certain. “We always do.”

Nancy searches his face for a second, like she’s checking for hesitation but instead finds comfort.  

“Okay,” she says softly.

Jonathan’s thumb brushes over her knuckles. “You’re stuck with me, you know.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A small pause.

“Good,” she says.

—

You don’t move, because something in your chest is coming undone too quickly to follow.

They’re fine—more than fine. They’re right for each other.

The thought doesn’t hit all at once. It seeps in instead, slow and heavy and impossible to ignore, like something that’s been true for a long time and is only now being said out loud. And beneath it, something else takes hold—quieter, more dangerous—because if they’re right, then what does that make this? What does that make you?

Your thoughts tangle before you can catch them, turning too fast, too loud, until it feels like there isn’t enough air in your lungs to keep up. You inhale, but it doesn’t go deep enough, your chest tightening as your hands begin to shake.

No—

You step back before you mean to, your shoe catching on gravel, the sound small but sharp, breaking the quiet.

Nancy turns. “—hello?”

You freeze. Jonathan looks too.

There’s nowhere to go, so you step forward because you have to, because hiding isn’t an option anymore.

“I—I was just—”

Your voice breaks, and that’s all it takes.

Nancy’s expression changes instantly, concern replacing everything else. “Oh my god—hey—are you okay?”

You shake your head, not even sure what you’re answering, only that you can’t breathe.

Nancy reaches for you, then hesitates, glancing back toward the door. “I’m gonna grab water,” she says quickly. “Stay with her.”

Jonathan nods, and then it’s just him and you and the sound of your breathing coming apart between you.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Hey—look at me.”

You try, but you can’t quite focus.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs. “In—and then out. You’re okay.”

You shake your head again, tears spilling before you can stop them. “I’m sorry,” you choke out.

He frowns. “For what?”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, the words breaking as they leave you.

He crouches in front of you, steady and grounding, like he always has. “It’s just a game,” he says gently. “Hey—it’s okay. Nobody cares about the score—”

“No,” you shake your head harder now. “You don’t understand—I—Steve and I—”

The words collapse before they make it out. You try again, but they don’t fit, because the truth is this was never about the game. It was never about winning him back. It was never even about Jonathan.

And that thought hits all at once, sharp enough to steal what little air you have left.

Letting go of Jonathan doesn’t feel like losing him. It feels like losing the version of yourself that still belonged to him—the version that didn’t have to look anywhere else, the version that didn’t have to admit—

Your breath stutters.

Because if you let him go—if you actually let him go—then there’s nothing left between you and it. Nothing left between you and the truth that’s been building, quiet and steady, underneath everything else.

That you’re in love with Steve.

The thought is terrifying, but undeniable.

And you don’t know what to do with it.

Jonathan’s expression softens, something like understanding flickering across it—but not the right kind. Not the truth.

He exhales slowly. “Hey,” he says. “Okay. Let me—let me talk, yeah?…I was surprised,” he admits, “when you and Steve… happened.”

A shaky breath leaves you.

“And maybe—” he hesitates, then pushes through it, “—maybe I was a little jealous.”

Your head snaps up.

Jealous? Your eyes ask him what your voice can’t.

But he’s already shaking his head. “Not like that. I just… I think I got used to you always being there.”

Something in you folds inward, your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“I didn’t realize how much I depended on that,” he continues, “until you weren’t. I think I was being selfish,” he says. “Not wanting to admit you had your own life. Your own… priorities.”

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again.

“You deserve to be happy,” he says quietly. “To be in love.”

Something in your chest tightens at that, sharper than before, because this time you can’t pretend you don’t know what he means—or who he means.

“I see the way you look at him,” Jonathan adds.

Your stomach turns.

“And Steve—he’s a good guy. Nancy thinks so too. I’m happy for you.”

And that’s it.

He thinks he’s offering you something—permission, closure—but what he’s really done is loosen the last quiet thread you didn’t realize you were still holding. And it’s the way he says it, so easy, so familiar, that almost makes it bearable—like this was always where the two of you would end up, just not in the way you once held onto.

Your grip tightens in the fabric of his shirt as you fold into him, the sound that leaves you uneven, breaking against his shoulder.

He keeps his arms around you, not tightening, not letting go, just steady in a way that feels instinctive—like he’s done this before, like he knows how to hold you through it. And for a second, it feels the same as it used to, like scraped knees and quiet bedrooms and problems that could be soothed instead of carried, like the world hasn’t grown sharp around the edges yet.

—

Inside, through the window, Steve catches it without meaning to.

At first it’s just movement—something shifting at the edge of his vision—but then it’s you, and he doesn’t look away quickly enough to pretend he didn’t see.

You’re folded into Jonathan.

He doesn’t hear what’s being said, doesn’t see how it started. Just the shape of it—the way your face is pressed into his shoulder, the way Jonathan’s hand rests firmly at your back, the way you stay there like it’s where you’re meant to be.

Something in his chest tightens before he can stop it, sharp and immediate, catching on something he doesn’t have time to name.

His jaw sets, watching a second longer than he should, long enough for it to feel like a choice– then turns and leaves before it can become one.

—

Nancy steps outside just as your breathing begins to steady, still uneven but no longer breaking apart.

“Hey,” she says softly, kneeling beside you as she presses the water into your hands.

You take it, your fingers brushing hers, and something in you—something that’s been held too tightly for too long—finally loosens.

She doesn’t ask questions or push for answers. She just stays, one hand warm against your arm, the other steady at your back, like she’s holding you together without needing to understand what pulled you apart in the first place.

You lean into her before you can stop yourself, and she folds you in without hesitation, her arms sure and grounding in a way that feels unexpectedly easy.

And it doesn’t hurt, at least noot like it used to.

When you pull back, it’s only enough to look at her, your eyes still wet, your breath not quite steady but no longer out of reach.

“I’m really happy for you,” you say, and this time it comes without strain, quiet but certain. “For both of you.”

Nancy studies your face for a moment, like she’s searching for something beneath the words, and whatever she finds there softens her expression into something warm and sure.

“Thank you,” she says.

It’s simple, the kind of exchange that doesn’t need anything added to it, and for once it doesn’t feel like there’s anything left unsaid between you.

You stay there a second longer than necessary, close enough to feel the warmth of her, the steadiness of it, and when you finally step back, it isn’t with the same resistance that’s been sitting in your chest for years.

—

Steve doesn’t knock.

You feel him before you see him—the shift in the air, the quiet way the room fills with his presence—and you choose not to turn, focusing instead on the nonexistent crease in your dress like it actually needs fixing.

You smooth it once. Twice. Then give up on it entirely, lifting the hanger and moving it toward the closet.

The rest follows in pieces. Shoes lined up neatly beneath, jewelry gathered carefully into your palm, an extra pair of earrings set aside for Robin, because she’ll forget hers and pretend she didn’t.

“This is a nice surprise,” Steve says from somewhere behind you.

You hum, because it’s easier than answering.

He steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him, and for a second he just watches you—like he’s trying to figure out what version of you he’s walking into. Then he moves, easy and familiar, closing the space between you without asking.

You feel the heat of him at your back, his hand settling at your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now.

You don’t pull away and that’s all the permission he needs.

His other hand finds your hip, turning you slightly, guiding instead of asking, and his mouth brushes your temple—testing, familiar—before drifting lower, slower, like he already knows how this goes.

“Been avoiding me all night,” he says quietly against your skin.

You swallow, “Busy.”

“Yeah?” His thumb drags along your side, unhurried, grounding himself there. “Looks exhausting.”

Your breath catches.

He lingers, just enough to feel deliberate.

“C’mon,” he adds, softer now, “lemme take care of you.”

For a second you almost let him pull you under again, until you remember the ache that stays behind. “No,” it comes out sharper than you mean, but you don’t soften it.

His hands fall away a second too late, and Steve blinks—not angry, just thrown. “Okay,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to keep this light. “Did I miss something, or—”

“No,” you cut in.

He pauses, watching you, waiting for the backtrack that usually follows. Realization follows instead. “Oh,” he says quietly.

“I’m guessing the talk with Jonathan went well,” he adds, more careful now.

You don’t answer.

He nods anyway, “Yeah, I saw you two,” he continues, voice lighter than it should be, “so when are they calling the wedding off?”

“The wedding is still on,” you don’t look at him when you say it.

You don’t need to.

“…what?”

“The wedding is still on,” you repeat, adjusting the edge of your dress like your hands need something to do. “So you should probably get your clothes ready.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, and this time there’s something sharper underneath it.

The silence stretches, heavier this time, carrying something neither of you is saying.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to work it out before it turns into something else.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Then we just keep going.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Steve—”

“No, we’re close,” he cuts in, stepping toward you again, not touching you but close enough that you feel it anyway. “You saw them.”

You shake your head.

He doesn’t accept it—of course he doesn’t.

“Then we pivot,” he says quickly, already thinking out loud. That’s fine. We don’t need to blow everything up over one bad read—”

“Steve.”

He keeps going.

“—we just need one crack, that’s it, one thing that makes them hesitate and then—”

“Steve, stop.”

That does it. He goes still, like the word physically halts him, like he didn’t expect it to land that way.

“I’m done.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, like this is another part of the plan he hasn’t caught up to yet.

“…what?”

“We were wrong,” you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. “About all of it. Nancy and Jonathan—they’re right for each other.”

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like disbelief slipping through it as he shakes his head.

“This wasn’t a bad read,” you cut in, and now he hears it, the edge in your voice that wasn’t there before. “This was never what we thought it was.”

His expression shifts, the patience thinning into something tighter. “Then what was it?” he asks.

You hesitate, and that’s all it takes.

“Right,” he says, a humorless edge creeping in. “You don’t actually have an answer, do you?”

“I do,” you say quickly, but the words don’t follow.

Because the truth is too close to the surface now, and saying it would change everything in a way you’re not ready to face.

He watches you for another second, something in his expression hardening as the silence stretches.

“You’re shutting me out,” he says, quieter now, but sharper for it. “You know something I don’t, and instead of just saying it, you’re acting like I’m supposed to just go along with whatever this is.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It is,” he pushes, stepping closer, frustration bleeding through now. “You don’t just get to decide we’re done and expect me to be fine with it.”

“I’m not asking you to be fine with it,” you say, your voice tightening despite yourself. “I’m telling you we shouldn’t be doing this anymore.”

“Why?” he demands, the word cutting through the space between you. “What changed?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because the answer is standing right in front of you, looking at you like this is something he can fix if you’d just explain it properly.

“Yeah,” he says when you stay quiet, his mouth pulling into something sharper. “That’s what I thought.”

“Don’t—” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“You get what you want and suddenly this is all wrong?” he says, his voice rising now. “Suddenly we’re the bad guys for doing exactly what we agreed to?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” he fires back. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you finally got your moment with him and now I’m just—what—collateral damage?”

The words hit harder than they should, because they’re wrong in a way you don’t know how to explain without making it worse.

“I didn’t get anything,” you say, your voice slipping. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me,” he says, stepping closer again, frustration sharpening into something raw. “For once, just say it.”

You shake your head, “I can’t.”

Something in his expression closes off at that, quick and decisive. “Yeah,” he says. “Didn’t think so.”

Your chest tightens, the pressure building faster than you can keep up with. “You’re not even trying to understand,” you say, quieter now, but the words tremble anyway.

“How am I supposed to understand something you won’t say?” he snaps. “You just shut down and expect me to go along with it.”

“I’m not asking you to go along with it.”

“No,” he says, his voice dropping, sharper now, “you’re just walking away and expecting me not to have a problem with it.”

“Because there shouldn’t be a problem,” you push back, the frustration finally breaking through. “This isn’t a game anymore, Steve. It’s our friends.”

“And it wasn’t before?” he shoots back immediately. “Or did that only start mattering when you decided you were done?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this.”

The room feels smaller the longer this goes on, the air heavier, harder to breathe through.

“You don’t get it,” you say, shaking your head, tears starting before you can stop them. “You don’t get anything.”

“Then help me out,” he says, but it comes out harsher than he means it. “What am I missing?”

A broken laugh slips out. “You,” you say, your voice cracking around it. “You’re missing you.”

He frowns, thrown for a second. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you don’t see anything unless it fits what you want,” you say, the words coming faster now, messier, harder to stop. “You don’t see people unless they’re doing something for you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, it’s not,” you shoot back. “You’re so focused on winning, on getting Nancy back, on proving something, that you don’t even look at what’s right in front of you.”

His expression hardens, his jaw tightening as he stares at you. “And what exactly is in front of me?” he asks.

You stop. Because there it is, the moment where you could say it. Where everything changes. Your throat tightens, the words sitting there, heavy and impossible to force out.

You shake your head instead. “I’m done,” you say again, weaker this time.

A bitter laugh escapes him, short and sharp, “Of course you are.”

You wipe at your face, overwhelmed, the frustration and hurt bleeding together until you can’t separate them anymore,“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Then don’t,” he says. “No one’s stopping you.”

You nod once, because there’s nothing else left to hold onto, “Then get out.”

He blinks, caught off guard this time. “What?”

“Get out,” you repeat, your voice shaking now. “Just—leave me alone.”

A beat passes before he answers, “This is my room.”

And that—

That's what breaks something.

A hollow laugh slips out of you as you nod, more to yourself than to him. “Right,” you murmur. 

You move quickly after that, grabbing your things with hands that don’t quite cooperate, folding what you can, leaving what you can’t, because staying here for even another second feels impossible.

Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches, like he’s still waiting for you to explain, still expecting something that will make this make sense.

That almost makes it worse.

You open the door, your hand closing around the handle, and for a second you hesitate, because you could still turn around, could still say it, could still tear everything open instead of leaving it like this.

But when you look back at him, he’s still standing there, still looking at you like you’re something he can figure out instead of someone he’s already losing, and something in your chest tightens in response.

“I wish I never got to know you, Steve.”

The words leave before you can stop them, sharper than you mean, heavier than you can take back.

–

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.”

Steve dreaded going to sleep nowadays. Instead of a peaceful 8 hours, he always woke up feeling restless and scared. He knows that everyone had nightmares even the strongest like Hopper and Joyce, but everyone had someone. Steve had to face his nightmares alone, with no one to hold him or comfort him through the fear. He sometimes slept over at the Byers’ or Dustin’s, but he always felt like a burden when someone had to wake him up in the middle of his fits. 

Tonight was no different, he tried to stay awake, even drank an extra cup of coffee but his body succumbed to the tiredness. 

As soon as his eyes closed he was transported back to that night at the lake. He felt his throat closing up as the demo bat’s tail squeezed harder and harder. He tried to make himself wake up, tried to remind himself that this was just a memory but his unconscious mind wouldn’t allow it. His life was slipping away and his eyes were slowly closing until he saw a flash of purples and greens. An animal of some sort with a thick tail that glimmered in the deep lake. He saw the shiny tail slam into the bat forcing it to loosen its grip around Steve. He tried to reach out and grab the bat by its wings but then two hands came to his rescue and ripped the rest of the bat tail from his neck. He swam up and was finally able to see what saved him. 

It was a girl. Well, a girl with a tail. She had the upper body and face of a human, but just below her bellybutton were scales, scales that led to a tail. A gorgeous tail reflecting shades of purples and greens. She was there fighting for him, for his life. He started swimming towards her, but was stopped by another bat taking a hold of his neck, again. He flailed around trying to get her attention, but she disappeared as soon as a splash was heard from above. This time when he opened his eyes he saw Nancy followed by Robin and Eddie fighting off the bats. 

Steve woke with a startled gasp, hands going up to his neck to make sure nothing was there. His fingers found the faint scars as he rubbed it in an effort to remind himself it was all in the past. This nightmare had felt especially real, more like a memory and while he feared the real memories the most, he was grateful for finally being able to see his hero. The girl with a tail. 

_

The next morning Steve eagerly rushed to work. 

“Woah, not only are you on time, but you’re 30 min early. Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?” Robin quirked her eyebrow teasingly.

Steve huffed, trying to get his arms through his vest. “It was a girl, Rob. That night a girl saved me.”

Robin shook her head, “Steve you’re telling me that a girl jumped in after you. There was no one on the lake, but us. We would’ve seen her if she was there.”

“You’re right. There was no one on the lake, she was in it.”

“So you’re saying that she just magically appeared in the lake and was able to hold her breath and fight off bats with you. Well why didn’t she help us afterwards?”

“She wasn’t a regular girl though, she had a tail. And she could breathe underwater. It’s like she had the abilities of a sea animal, but she was also part human,” Steve explained patiently.

Robin rested her head in her hands tired of Steve’s antics, “Please not another supernatural creature. I honestly think you’re starting to get hallucinations because this can’t be real. I’m going to call Dustin, cause you’re really starting to worry me, Steve.” 

Steve sighed trying to explain his vision as Robin dialed for Dustin. 20 min later Dustin showed up with a stack of library books overflowing from his backpack. 

Dustin pulled out a book flipping to the page that displayed a terrifying monster with sharp teeth and mean eyes. “So what you’re describing is either a Siren or a Mermaid. Both creatures that don’t exist.”

“Isn’t most of the ocean undiscovered anyway? So there’s technically no proof that these creatures don’t exist,” Steve defended. 

“Well, because this isn’t an ocean, it’s a lake. These types of creatures are usually in the deep sea,” Dustin argued.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re buying into this,” Robin exclaimed, pointing at Dustin. 

Steve groaned, “How can you guys see everything we’ve seen, fight monsters, be friends with a literal superhero, and not believe in sea creatures? Look, I know what I saw. I know I sound insane, but most of our life is insane. If anyone would believe me I thought it would be you guys.”

Robin rubbed his back comfortingly, nodding at Dustin, “Alright Dustin, tell us what you know.”

“Okay so, Sirens are usually described as beautiful creatures that had alluring voices. Sometimes with a bird’s head or a human head and a fish’s tail. According to Greek mythology Sirens used to lure sailors to their rock island where they then would kill them…”

“This wasn’t a siren,” Steve cut Dustin off, “This girl had a fishtail, sure but she had a face and the upper body of a human. And she wouldn’t have saved me, just to lure me away and kill me.”

Dustin nodded, “Then I think you’ve found a Mermaid, Steve. Mermaids are known for their voices too, but it says that they are part human and part fish, sometimes having magical powers. They are known for protecting the waters and the creatures in it.”

Steve nodded, satisfied with the theory. 

“So now, that you know all this and know what-or-who saved you… Are we done talking about this now, can we forget it and move on?” Robin asked.

“No, this is just a theory, I have to see her, thank her. There’s something going on and I don’t know, I feel a pull towards her, Robin. I don’t think I’ll be at peace until I actually meet her. It’s like she’s meant to be in my life.”

Robin laughed nervously, “Please tell me we aren’t going after another supernatural thing. I don’t think I can take it, I’m still recovering from the last time.”

“Yeah, and how are you even going to meet her? You’re too traumatized to even get in the pool with us Steve. Everyone noticed Mr. Swimteam Captain staying on the sidelines at his own pool party,” Dustin pointed out. 

Steve looked down dejectedly, “Guys, I get it, but I need to do this. If I ever want to sleep peacefully again, I have to do this. I won’t ask you guys to get involved, but I need your support.”

_

Steve was on edge the rest of the shift. He was eager to leave and do some of his own investigating. The only thing stopping him, like Dustin said, was his newfound fear of water. Ever since he got pulled under and almost died, he hasn’t even been able to take a relaxing bath, let alone go in a pool. He connected everything back to the water. Barb dying in his pool, him almost dying, Eddie almost dying, the gate being opened underwater. If he wanted to meet this mermaid then he was going to have to get over his fear of the water. 

Steve swerved to the right, taking the turn to Lover’s Lake before he missed it. He had to go in the lake tonight, before he lost his small boost of confidence. He parked his car and jogged over, taking off his sweater and vest. 

“Every night I go to sleep and I dream of you, and I’m on the verge of losing my goddamn mind because I don’t know what’s real and what’s not,” Steve sighs, “so either you show me you exist or I come in there to see for myself.”