#st fic

steve had never been so bored.

right now, he was sitting in the parking lot of the mall, his shitty AC blowing insufficiently cold air onto his body while robin sat in the passenger seat, flipping through static-ridden radio stations. after the past year of his life, he'd have thought he'd at least be doing something entertaining with his free time.

but no. he was babysitting. again.

well, not technically. the kids were all inside the arcade, old enough now to not need a constant supervisor. but he was the ride. always the ride. and right now, he was waiting on you. you were inside with the kids, having a particularly strong bond with max and will, playing games with them on your off time. plus, you supplied the quarters.

you'd dumped him three months ago in a blaze of shouted heartbreak and slammed doors. now, thanks to the tangled web of friendships in hawkins and the love you had for the kids, he was constantly, unavoidably forced to be around you.

"can you at least try to be civil today?" robin asked, finally settling on a crackly pop station. "my ears are still ringing from the last time you two went at it in the scoops ahoy break room."

"i'm always civil," steve snapped, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "she's the one who starts it."

"she asked you to pass the salt and you told her she was 'seasoned enough with bitterness.'"

"it was a joke!"

"it was a declaration of war, steve."

the arcade doors slid open and you walked out, a vision in your summer dress, a small, victorious smile on your face. still as infuriatingly gorgeous as you'd always been. dustin was trailing behind you, chattering excitedly, no doubt about some high score you’d just helped him achieve. the sight sent a familiar, unwelcome pang through steve’s chest. you looked happy. you looked free.

you spotted the car and your smile tightened into a polite, distant line. the war mask was on. you slid into the backseat, the air in the BMW instantly turning frigid despite the struggling AC.

“took you long enough,” steve muttered, putting the car in reverse.

“some of us were actually having fun, steve,” you said sweetly, buckling your seatbelt. “it’s a novel concept, i know.”

the kids clambered in on either side of you, max having to sit in your lap due to the cramped back seat. you shifted to allow her some space as she looked down at you with pleading blue eyes. they screamed 'not again.'

the silent plea in max's eyes was a gut punch. she, more than any of them, knew what real fighting sounded like, and the last thing she needed was to be trapped in a metal box with another one. you gave her a small, reassuring squeeze, a silent promise to try.

the promise lasted all of five minutes.

the drive was a tense, silent standoff. steve would adjust the rearview mirror, and you’d be staring out the window, pointedly ignoring him. you’d lean forward to ask dustin a question, and steve would crank the radio just a little too loud.

it came to a head at the stoplight by the town square.

“so,” dustin said, his voice unnaturally high, “mike’s having a D&D session tomorrow. you guys in?”

“wouldn’t miss it,” you said at the exact same time steve said, “i’m busy.”

you locked eyes in the mirror. a challenge.

“doing what?” you asked, your voice dripping with fake curiosity. “scooping ice cream and realizing you peaked in high school?”

steve’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “no. i have a date.”

the words hung in the air, heavy and poisonous. robin visibly flinched. dustin sank lower in his seat, lucas pretended to not notice his surroundings, and will frowned. max went rigid in your lap.

you, however, just smiled, a sharp, brittle thing. “oh? anyone we know?”

“tammy thompson,” steve said, the name feeling like ash in his mouth. it was a lie. a stupid, petty lie.

you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “tammy thompson? the one who cries when she sings? wow, steve. raising the bar, i see.”

“at least she can carry a tune,” he shot back, the words out before he could stop them. he was referring to your tone-deaf rendition of “total eclipse of the heart” you’d sung together, drunk and happy, in this very car a lifetime ago.

the light turned green. the car didn't move.

the air was so thick with hostility you could taste it.

“you’re an asshole,” you whispered, the hurt finally breaking through the icy facade.

“takes one to know one,” he retorted, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hated this. He hated every second of it.

a horn blared behind them. steve slammed his foot on the gas, lurching the car forward.

in your lap, max let out a tiny, involuntary gasp at the sudden movement, her hands flying to grip your shoulders. the sound was small, but it cut through the anger like a knife.

you looked down at her wide, anxious eyes, then up at the back of steve’s head. this wasn't just about you and him anymore.

the rest of the drive was a silence so profound it was deafening. when he finally pulled up to your house, you were out of the car before it had fully stopped, the door slamming shut behind you. you didn't look back.

steve watched you go, a hollow ache spreading through his chest. in the rearview mirror, he saw max staring out the window, her expression closed off and weary.

“tammy thompson?” robin finally said, her voice flat. “really?”

steve just rested his forehead against the steering wheel, defeated. “i know.”

dustin piped up, his voice matter-of-fact.

"all you two do is fight. and never about the actual issue."

the car was silent for a beat, the truth of dustin's words hanging in the air, sharper and more accurate than any insult you or steve had thrown. steve lifted his head from the wheel, his eyes meeting dustin's in the rearview mirror.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

dustin shrugged, but his expression was uncharacteristically serious. "it means you're not fighting about tammy thompson, or who can carry a tune. you're fighting about how you broke up. you're fighting about who was right and who was wrong. but you're just.. poking each other with sticks instead of actually talking about it."

will nodded slowly, looking down at his clasped hands. lucas mumbled, "he's not wrong."

max, still sitting stiffly, added, "it's getting really old."

steve felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. he looked at robin for backup, but she just raised her eyebrows in confirmation of the kids' statements.

he was being schooled by a bunch of teenagers. and the worst part was, they were right.

the "actual issue" was a tangled mess of miscommunication, stress, bruised egos, and one stupid, heated argument that had spiraled into a nuclear winter between the two of you. he missed you. he was pretty sure, underneath all the venom and ice you had on the surface, you missed him too. but all you did was lob grenades at each other, and the kids were stuck in the crossfire.

he sighed, the fight draining out of him completely, leaving only exhaustion and the same hollow ache he'd felt for three whole months.

"okay," he said, his voice quiet. "point taken."

he pulled away from your house, the silence in the car now contemplative rather than hostile.

robin glanced at him. “what are you gonna do about it, hair?”

steve kept his eyes on the road.

"i don't know."

you wiped your tears, sticky and black with mascara, and checked your reflection in the mirror of your vanity. groaning, you smudged it off the corners of your eyes. behind you, max, who had skated to your house shortly after steve dropped her off, frowned. sniffling, you tried to muster a half-assed smile in her direction.

"don't worry about me, mayfield. i'm tough."

max didn't buy it for a second. she crossed her arms, leaning against your headboard. "you're not tough. you're sad. and he's an idiot."

a wet laugh escaped you. "he is an idiot." you grabbed a tissue and wiped the remaining smudges from your face, your reflection looking raw and tired. "a massive one."

"but you still like him," max stated, not a question. she knew these things.

you sighed, dropping the tissue into the trash. "it doesn't matter. it's too messy. we're just.. we can't be in the same room without trying to murder each other with our eyes."

"because you're both too stubborn to say sorry," she said, her voice blunt. "its easier to be mad than to be hurt."

her words, wise beyond her years, hit a little too close to home. you sat down next to her, the mattress dipping.

"it's not that simple, max."

"isn't it?" she asked, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. "you guys used to be so happy. and cool. you made him less of a douche. now he's just.. a douche again. and you're.. not you. you're sad."

you looked at her, at the genuine concern in her blue eyes, and felt a fresh wave of tears. the kids weren't just bystanders, they were casualties. they'd lost the easy dynamic, the fun group outings, the two people who used to be a unit now acting like rival generals in a nasty war.

"i don't know how to fix this."

max shrugged.

"just stop breaking it more."

the words were so simple. but they meant so much. the reality of it made your chest ache, forcing you to confront the truth. you were the problem too, not just steve. your desire to fight with him was just to keep a connection.

maybe the solution was to let the connection go? the thought made you genuinely sick, but maybe it was the best choice for you and the kids. and steve.

it wouldn't be easy. but then again.. nothing about this was.

parties weren't really steve's scene anymore. especially since he'd graduated high school and didn't even want to see half of the people he used to be inseparable from. but here he was, one of the only nights that he wasn't being the babysitter, holding a half full cup of warm beer and talking to tommy.

tommy was home from college, so naturally, it meant he was throwing the biggest party of the year. the guy talked his ear off, prattling on about college, the women, the sports. but all steve could think about, usually, predictably, was you.

it had been a month. you'd been avoiding him.

not like before, when you only saw him around the kids. this time, you even avoided the kids for the most part, too.

it was a clean break. a quiet, devastating ceasefire. there were no more arguments in the video store, no more sniping in the car. the kids had stopped trying to get you both in the same room, their hopeful attempts dying out one by one in the face of your polite, distant refusals.

it was what he’d thought he wanted, wasn’t it? peace. quiet.

it was hell.

he hadn't even noticed tommy was still talking until the subject changed.

"--so honestly, they could've won if they just-- yo. isn't that your girl?" tommy said, jaw dropped straight to the floor.

steve raised an eyebrow, looking in the direction of tommy's pointed finger. the bass of the music vibrated the beer in his stomach, making him physically ill at the sight before him.

there you were. he could tell you were drunk from where he was standing, thirty feet away. your eyes were hazy, lips stretched out in a lazy grin. you were dancing on the fucking table, slowly inching your shirt up, slowly, slowly, slowly, until the hem was just below your ribs. the crowd around you was whooping and cheering, a sea of faces he mostly despised, all looking at you. at the skin you were revealing.

"oh jesus christ." steve hissed, the plastic cup in his hand cracking, soaking his sleeve with warm beer. he didn't even notice. he was already on the move.

he was across the room in seconds, shoving people out of his way without a word of apology. the music was a distant thrum, the only sound he could focus on was the pounding of his own blood in his ears.

he reached the table just as you laughed, a loose, carefree sound that felt like a personal insult, and went to pull the shirt higher.

his hands closed around your waist. not gently.

you yelped as he hauled you off the table, your feet stumbling as they hit the floor. the crowd groaned in disappointment.

"hey, man, what's your problem?" some guy slurred.

steve ignored him, his grip firm on your arms as he steadied you. your hazy eyes struggled to focus on his face.

"steve?" you mumbled, your grin fading into confusion. "what're you... i was dancing."

"you were making a spectacle of yourself," he snarled, his voice low and vicious, meant for your ears only. the horrified feeling was a live wire under his skin. "what the hell is wrong with you?"

your confusion sharpened into defiance. "i'm having fun. something you wouldn't know anything about anymore." you tried to pull away, but he held fast. "let go of me."

"not a chance," he bit out, his eyes scanning the leering faces around you. "you're drunk and you're coming with me. now."

"i'm not going anywhere with you!" you shouted, your voice rising above the music. the fight was back, bright and ugly in your gaze. "you don't get to tell me what to do! you lost that right!"

the words hit their mark, but he was too far gone to care. he started pulling you toward the door, your heels digging into the carpet.

"steve, stop it! get off me!"

he didn't stop. he couldn't. all he could see was you on that table, all he could feel was the need to get you away, to get you safe, to make you stop. the quiet ceasefire was over. this was all-out war.

he finally managed to manhandle you out the front door and into the cool night air. you wrenched your arm free, stumbling back a few steps on the lawn.

"what is your problem?" you shrieked, your chest heaving.

"you are my problem!" he roared back, gesturing wildly toward the house. "dancing on a table? for them? letting them all... look at you like that?"

you laughed bitterly, drunkenly stumbling into the opposite direction. getting as far away as possible.

"now you decide you give a shit. well guess what? it's too late!" you shouted.

steve didn't have time for this. you were drunk, he was irritated, and it was very possible that you wouldn't even remember this conversation in the morning. he needed to get some water into you and get you home.

dragging you back toward the house, he sat you down and filled a glass of water from tommy's sink, stalking back outside.

"you're going to drink this," steve said, his voice tight as he thrust the glass of water toward you. you were slumped on the curb, head in your hands. "now."

you looked up, your eyes glazed with tears and alcohol. "go to hell."

he crouched in front of you, shoving the glass into your hand. "drink. it. or i'll pour it down your throat myself."

a fresh wave of anger surged through you. you took the glass, but instead of drinking, you threw the contents directly into his face.

the cold water was a shock, dripping from his hair and nose onto his shirt. he froze for a second, water plastering his bangs to his forehead, before he slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. the look in his eyes was dangerously calm.

"feel better?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"no," you spat, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it came, leaving you shivering and miserable.

"get in the car," he commanded, standing up and turning away from you, his shoulders rigid.

you did what he asked. you slid into the passenger side of his car, crossing your arms and leaning your head back, the spinning dizziness making you nothing short of sick. the ride was silent for about five minutes before, inevitably, your slurring voice could be heard again. angry. resentful. drunk.

"i hate you, steve. y'know that?" you slurred out, your lips and tongue not quite matching your vocal chords. you were so drunk that you were barely awake. but the words still had the effect they were meant to.

the words, slurred and heavy with alcohol, hit him with the force of a physical blow. his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles were bone-white. he didn't look at you. he couldn't.

"i know," he said, his voice flat and empty. it was the only defense he had left.

"you don't," you insisted, your head lolling against the window. "you don't know. you broke… you broke everything. and now you… you just get to drive me home. like you're… like you're some kinda hero." a bitter, wet laugh escaped you. "you're not a hero. you're just… a boy. a stupid, mean boy."

each word was a shard of glass. he focused on the yellow lines of the road, counting them as they passed, a desperate attempt to anchor himself.

"and i hate that i… that i miss you," you whispered, the anger dissolving into a heartbreaking confession you'd never make sober. "it's so stupid. i'm so stupid."

steve felt his own eyes burn. he blinked rapidly, staring straight ahead, trying to make the tears disappear. he'd never let them drop in front of you. he knew they'd come back later.

"just go to sleep, Y/N," he managed to rasp out. "we're almost there."

you didn't say anything else. a few moments later, a soft snore told him you'd finally passed out.

the rest of the drive was a special kind of torture, trapped in a metal box with the ghost of everything he'd ruined. when he pulled into your driveway, the silence was absolute.

he carried you inside, your body limp and heavy in his arms. he laid you in your bed, taking off your shoes and pulling the comforter over you just as he had time and time before, but this time, he didn't get to join you. he didn't get to hold you. in the dim light from the hallway, he could see the tear tracks dried on your cheeks.

he stood there for a long time, just watching you sleep, the echo of your words -- i hate you... i miss you -- playing on a loop in his mind.

he stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. the anger was gone, leaving behind a vast, empty ache. you were right. he wasn't a hero. he was just a boy who had been too stupid to hold onto the one good thing in his life.

then, he drove home in a daze, the silence in his car now a heavy, accusing presence. in his driveway, he punched the steering wheel until his knuckles were raw. the sharp pain was a relief, a physical distraction from the emotional maelstorm inside him. he sat there in the dark, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint, metallic ring fading from the steering wheel.

he didn't even make it to his bed. he sank onto the couch in his dark living room, head in his hands.

and then, finally, alone in the dark where no one could see, the tears came. silent, shuddering sobs that wracked his entire body. they weren't just about tonight. they were for every stupid comment, every missed chance, every moment of the last three months he'd spent pushing you away when all he'd ever wanted was to pull you closer.

he cried for the "stupid, mean boy" he'd been, and for the man he was too scared to become without you.

for now, all he could do was sit in the dark and feel the weight of it all. the silence wasn't peaceful anymore. it was just heavy. he wasn't sure he'd ever truly wanted it in the first place.

the vile taste of tequila and regret created a film on the inside of your mouth. a pounding headache rocked your temples, making you want to rip your head from your shoulders and throw it in an ice bath.

sunlight stabbed through your eyelids like a hot knife. you groaned, burying your face deeper into your pillow, but the movement sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you. fragments of the night came back to you in a nauseating kaleidoscope. the bass of the music. the feeling of the table under your shoes. the whooping crowd. then… steve.

steve’s furious face. steve’s hands on your waist, hauling you down. the cold water hitting his face. the silent, tense car ride. your own voice, slurred and venomous.

i hate you, steve.

i hate that i miss you.

a fresh wave of humiliation, hot and sharp, washed over you, worse than the hangover. you’d said that. you’d actually said that out loud. to him.

you dragged yourself out of bed, your body protesting every movement, and stumbled toward the kitchen for water and aspirin. as you passed the living room, you froze.

there, on the coffee table, was an empty glass of water. next to it sat two aspirin, and a note, written on a ripped piece of notebook paper in a familiar, slanted handwriting.

Drank the water. Take these. There’s Gatorade in the fridge. - S

no “love,” no “xoxo.” just his initial. it was so simple, so practical, and it somehow made everything a thousand times worse. he’d been in your house after you’d passed out. he’d seen you at your most vulnerable, your most pathetic, and his response wasn’t anger or a lecture. it was… caretaking. the one thing he’d always been good at, even when he was being a world-class jerk.

it was a peace offering you didn’t deserve and didn’t know how to accept. you picked up the aspirin, dry-swallowing them with a wince, the gesture feeling like a surrender you weren't ready to make. the war was over, but the aftermath was a minefield, and you were standing right in the middle of it, hungover and heartbroken.

as you were dissociating, your phone rang, worsening your headache. muttering a curse, you stumbled to the wall it was on, answering it begrudgingly.

"hello?"

will's voice crackled through on the other end, soft and hesitant as it always was. at least it wasn't someone annoying.

"hi, y/n. it's will," he said. "i was just wondering.. well, max told me to call and ask.. if you're still planning on coming to dustin's birthday party today? we really want you to come. we haven't seen you in forever."

the question felt like a physical blow. dustin’s birthday. you’d completely forgotten. of course steve would be there. he was the official party chauffeur, the defacto older brother. the thought of facing him, sober and raw, after last night made your stomach churn.

“i, uh…” you stammered, your mind racing for an excuse. a work emergency. sudden illness. a spontaneous trip to antarctica.

“please?” will’s voice was small, and you could picture his earnest, worried face. “it hasn’t been the same without you. everyone keeps arguing about the campaign rules and steve just… mopes. it’s not fun.”

steve just mopes.

the image was so pathetic, so unlike the loud, boisterous king steve of old, that it pierced through your own self-pity. the kids were suffering. they were caught in the crossfire of a war they didn't start, missing the easy dynamic that used to exist.

you looked back at the note on the coffee table. s. a simple initial that held so much weight. he’d taken care of you, even after you’d thrown water in his face and called him names. he was trying, in his own, messed-up way.

taking a deep, shaky breath, you made a decision. it wasn't a surrender. it was a ceasefire for a higher cause.

“yeah, will,” you said, your voice softer. “i’ll be there. what time?”

“four o’clock!” will said, his relief palpable even through the phone line. “at mike's. thanks, y/n!”

you hung up the phone, your heart hammering. you were going to have to see steve. sober. in broad daylight. and you were going to have to find a way to be in the same room without vomiting.

mike's basement was decorated with streamers. a banner read "happy birthday, dustin!" courtesy of joyce byers, who had a particular eye for these things. after the parents let the kids know that they couldn't go on random, spontaneous trips through the woods or accidentally on purpose set the basement aflame, they were cut loose. it wasn't too long after that that steve showed up.

the air was thick with the smell of pizza and the sound of bickering over the D&D board. steve ran a hand through his hair, desperately trying to keep the peace between lucas and mike.

"look, who cares what color the wizard's robe is? is it significant to the story line?" he sighed tiredly.

lucas glared at him, crossing his arms.

“it establishes his alignment!” lucas shot back, his voice cracking with teenage indignation.

“it’s a robe, sinclair! it’s not that deep!”

max bounced her leg restlessly from her spot on the couch next to el, staring at the basement stairs. she missed you. steve knew it. she hadn't seen you in a while since the argument about tammy thompson, when you'd obviously decided that being around steve was too much.

"when's y/n gonna be here? did you tell her it was at 4?" max questioned will.

will, who was carefully arranging dustin's new dice by color, looked up nervously. "yeah, i told her. she said she was coming."

the unspoken i hope hung in the air. steve, who had been pretending to be deeply invested in the pizza box design, felt his stomach clench. he hadn't known you were invited. he hadn't allowed himself to even consider the possibility. the fragile, silent truce from the last party felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.

the creak of the basement door opening cut through the bickering.

all heads, including steve's, swiveled toward the stairs.

you appeared, looking hesitant, holding a clumsily wrapped present. your eyes immediately found Max, and a genuine, relieved smile broke across your face. "hey, mayfield."

max practically launched herself off the couch, skirting the D&D board to wrap you in a quick, tight hug. "you're here."

"wouldn't miss it," you said, your voice soft. you handed dustin the present. "happy birthday, dude."

as dustin tore into the gift (a ridiculously advanced model rocket), your gaze inevitably drifted across the room, colliding with steve's. it was like two magnets, repelling and attracting at once. the air grew thick. the kids, sensing the shift, went unnaturally quiet.

steve gave you the same small, cautious nod he had before. an acknowledgment. a white flag held aloft. you returned it with a tight, almost imperceptible dip of your chin. a reluctant acceptance of the ceasefire.

then, you deliberately turned your back to him, focusing all your attention on max and el.

steve felt the dismissal like a physical blow. he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back to the pizza, the cardboard box suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. the party continued, the noise level slowly rising again, but a new, unspoken rule had been established. you and steve existed in the same space, a careful, orbiting distance between you. for the kids, it was enough. for steve, it was a special kind of agony.

and for el and max, it was annoying.

they sat on the couch, doing their teenage girl thing, analyzing with their eyes and whispering to each other. the occasional giggle, the occasional annoyed groan, and the formation of a plan bubbled from their lips.

you, of course, were oblivious due to the nature of the party. you listened to the boys rant and rave about D&D like you had for hours, curled into a recliner next to will, who sometimes glanced at you dozing off and smiled in amusement.

steve was too busy staring at you to notice either. it was pitiful, if you asked max.

with one final exchanged, deciding glance between blue and brown eyes, max and el clambered up from the couch and walked up to the chair you and will shared. they tried to look innocent (max mostly struggled) as el spoke.

"help." she simply said, gesturing to the upstairs.

you raised an eyebrow, sitting up.

"with what?"

"closet. need supplies."

groaning, suspecting no foul play, you sat up and followed the girls.

you followed max and el up the basement stairs, the noise of the party fading behind you. they led you to the closet they spoke of. when the door opened, your eyebrows furrowed. it was karen wheeler's cleaning supplies, full of pine sol, mops, and buckets.

"what do you--"

without another word, you were shoved in. the door shut behind you and clicked, the sound of a lock.

"what the fuck? jane hopper! maxine mayfield!" you seethed, pounding on the door.

you heard a giggle before you heard, "we will go get more help. don't worry."

they sprinted downstairs, now quickly approaching where steve sat, completely dissociating and sprawled across the couch they'd just been sitting on. he'd come over to claim their spot.

"help. y/n is stuck in the closet!" el said excitedly, grabbing steve's hand and attempting to yank him up.

steve matched your look of confusion, sitting up slightly.

"stuck? what are you talking about?"

"stuck," max confirmed, her face a mask of exaggerated urgency. "the door locked behind her. she can't get out."

a flicker of genuine concern crossed steve's face before it was replaced by deep suspicion. he looked from max's poorly concealed smirk to el's wide, "innocent" eyes. this had "ambush" written all over it.

but the thought of you, trapped and probably furious, was enough to get him moving. he sighed, heaving himself off the couch. "fine. show me."

they led him back upstairs, practically vibrating with suppressed glee. he could already hear you on the other side of the door.

"--so help me god, when i get out of here, i am telling joyce you've been using your powers to cheat at monopoly!" you were yelling, your voice muffled by the wood.

steve almost smiled. almost.

"stand back," he said, his voice firm. "i'm gonna try the door."

he heard a huff from the other side, but the pounding stopped. he grabbed the doorknob. it opened without an issue. there you were, face red, surrounded by cleaning materials. he smirked, turning back around to look at the girls.

"really? that was-- jesus christ!" he exclaimed.

el shoved him into the same closet, slamming the door behind him before he could get his hands on it. the lock clicked again. steve groaned, trying the knob, but it was damn near cemented. el using her powers.

"talk." el simply said from the outside, crossing her arms.

"without yelling." max added. "for twenty minutes."

crossing their arms, the girls turned and walked away.

"goddammit," he muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool wood of the door.

on the other side, you stood frozen, your own anger momentarily eclipsed by sheer disbelief. you were locked in a broom closet. with steve harrington. by two fourteen-year-old girls.

the space was suddenly, unbearably small. the sharp scent of pine-sol filled your lungs, mixed with the scent of steve's aftershave and the mint gum in his mouth. you could feel the heat radiating from his body just inches away.

"this is ridiculous," you whispered into the cramped darkness.

"you think?" steve's voice was a low, frustrated rumble right next to your ear. he shifted, his shoulder brushing against yours, and you both flinched away, pressing yourselves against opposite walls. it was a futile effort; the closet was barely big enough for the two of you and karen wheeler's cleaning arsenal.

silence descended, thick and heavy. you could hear his breathing, a little too fast, and the frantic thumping of your own heart. twenty minutes. it felt like a lifetime.

you knew that if you didn't address what had happened the other night, you'd look weak. and you'd also explode. neither were good options, and if you and steve kept ignoring what was happening between each other, things would only get broken worse.

"thank you." you whispered, crossing your arms.

the two words, soft and unexpected, seemed to suck all the air out of the cramped closet.

steve went completely still. "for what?" he asked, his voice cautious, confused.

"for the other night," you clarified, your voice barely audible. you stared straight ahead at a bottle of bleach, unable to look at him. "for... getting me home. for the water and the aspirin. i was... i was a mess. and you didn't have to do that."

there was a long pause. you could almost hear him processing, the gears turning in his head.

"i did have to," he said finally, his voice low and earnest. "Y/N, i will always have to. even if you hate me. even if you never want to see me again. if you're in trouble, i'm... i'm there. that's never going to change."

the raw, unvarnished truth in his words was a battering ram against the walls you'd built. it wasn't a grand romantic declaration. it was something deeper, more fundamental. a promise of loyalty that transcended their broken relationship.

a sob caught in your throat, and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle it. the sound was small, but he heard it.

"hey," he said softly, his tone shifting from defensive to concerned. "don't... don't cry. please."

"i'm not crying," you lied, your voice trembling.

you felt him shift beside you, his arm hesitantly brushing against yours again, but this time, neither of you pulled away. he tried to turn your body towards his.

"look at me," he whispered.

you shook your head, still facing the bleach bottle as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"please, baby."

the pet name simultaneously shot sparks down your spine and poured cold water over your head. slowly, reluctantly, you turned your head. your eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and you could see his face, all sharp angles and shadows, his expression open and unbearably sad.

"i'm sorry," he said again, his gaze holding yours. "for all of it. for being a stupid, mean boy. for not being the man you needed me to be."

the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. you didn't wipe them away.

"i miss you," you whispered, the admission feeling like both a failure and a liberation. "and I hate it."

a shuddering breath escaped him. he lifted his hand, his fingers hovering near your cheek before he gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. the touch was so familiar, so achingly gentle, it made you want to scream and lean into it all at once.

"i know," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "i miss you too. and i hate that you hate it."

you stood there, trapped in a closet, crying while steve harrington wiped your tears, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like a battle. It just felt sad, and real, and like maybe, just maybe, a beginning.

you could feel him getting closer, his smell, the heat of his body, until you were breathing it all in. his nose brushed yours gently. two days ago, you would've never dreamed he'd be this close to you ever again. it felt like you were floating, an out of body experience.

his lips were a breath away from yours. you could feel the warmth of them, the ghost of a touch you’d ached for and resented in equal measure. your eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing to the space between your mouths. jt would be so easy to close it. to fall back into the familiar warmth, to let the anger and the hurt dissolve into this. but you couldn't move.

steve could. this was all he'd ever wanted for months.

"i promise you," he whispered, his scent fanning over your face. "i swear on everything i love. i will never hurt you again."

the words were a balm and a brand all at once. a promise you desperately wanted to believe, seared into the air by the heat of his proximity. your resolve, already cracking, began to crumble.

that was all the invitation he needed.

he closed the infinitesimal distance, his lips meeting yours.

it wasn't like the frantic, desperate kisses from before the breakup. it wasn't like the angry, bruising clash you'd shared in the middle of your worst fights. this was slow. reverent. a silent apology and a desperate question all in one.

a sob escaped you, muffled against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. your hands, which had been braced against his chest, unclenched. your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his t-shirt, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

he kissed you like he was memorizing you, like he was trying to pour every unsaid "i'm sorry" and "i miss you" and "i love you" directly from his soul into yours. one of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, while the other splayed across the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until not even a whisper could fit between you.

the world outside -- the party, the kids, the months of pain -- ceased to exist. there was only the dark, the scent of pine-sol and his cologne, and the devastatingly gentle pressure of his lips on yours.

when you finally broke apart, you were both breathing heavily, foreheads resting together again in the dark.

the lock clicked.

the door swung open. max and el stood there, their eyes wide.

max’s mouth dropped open. "whoa."

el just smiled, a small, knowing smile.

steve didn't jump back. he kept his forehead against yours for a second longer, his eyes still closed, as if savoring the moment before the real world intruded. then he slowly straightened up, his hand sliding from your back to find yours, lacing your fingers together.

he looked at the girls, a new, quiet confidence in his gaze. "we're good," he said, his voice low but firm.

it wasn't entirely true. the hurt wasn't gone. the trust wasn't magically rebuilt. but the war was over. the peace talks had ended with a treaty sealed with a kiss.

you looked down at your joined hands, then back up at him, and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. it was an answer.

You, Robin’s other best friend, never pass up an opportunity to remind Steve that actually, according to Best Friend Law: you were there first. Which allegedly gives you some sort of eternal precious connection to Robin and bragging rights until death.

It was you who defended Robin against the Chocolate Milk Bullies of ‘74, you who has spent countless hours in the Buckley basement for sleepovers, you who Robin has clung to through the tumult of the last decade.

But if Steve ever needs to rile you up, he’ll mutter something about the ‘psychokinetic bonds formed through drug-induced hallucinations’ and that’ll get you going for a good half hour, at least. (He doesn’t actually know what the words mean, beyond memorizing them to imply a badge of closeness with Robin that drives you up the wall.)

If it weren’t for Steve’s deep love for Robin, he’d have weaseled you out of the psuedo-triangle of friendship already. But he’s not a total jealous tyrant and he respects Robin’s wishes, however irritating those wishes may be. 

If it weren’t for your deep love of Robin, Steve would be buried six feet under. Somewhere offroad, past mile marker 10. 

You’ve run the logistics enough to know you probably wouldn’t get away with it, but there’s always room for a plan b in your heart.

___

Robin has a right to be worried about this evening. 

During the Thanksgiving meal at the Wheeler’s, you’d snuck a giant spider (courtesy of Dustin and your bribe of twenty bucks) through the cracked window of the Beemer. 

Steve ran to get the leftover can of whip cream in his front seat before the pie was cut, and screamed so loud Hopper nearly shot out the Wheeler’s living room window.

You’ve never seen Steve that color before- a bright, cherry-cheeked red, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, shaking with adrenaline and anger. 

It’s a personal goal of yours for next year to make him return to that color, somehow.

But for tonight, you really do mean to swallow it down, for Robin's sake. To put your bitter rivalry on the back burner and come together in holiday cheer, just for an evening.

And then you walk in the room, and across a room full of faces you love, there he is- wearing a green cashmere sweater that looks stupid expensive and is hugging his frame stupidly tight across his stupidly broad chest. 

There’s a glass of champagne in his hand; he’s leaned a shoulder against the wall, talking to Jonathan on the couch- but when Steve see you walk in, he stops conversation altogether to grin wicked, calling out far too loudly- 

“Hey, look who it is! Lay any evil spider eggs recently?”

“Funny, Steven,” you shoot back, bickering coming as easy as breathing, pushing it even when Robin gives you a sharp warning look over the coat rack- “I’ve reserved all further egg clutches for that towering mess you call hair.”

You catch the twitch in Steve’s fingers, like he’s dying to push a hand through those auburn strands falling over his forehead but doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. It makes you smile. 

“OH-kay!” Robin announces, brightly, pushing at your shoulderblades to hurry you into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, everyone- let’s not fight in front of the kiddies.”

The kiddies, in various groups of board games and television watching, remain undisrupted. It’s not exactly new to hear you and Steve exchanging barbs; most of them keep absorbed in their current holiday fun.

Dustin manages a wave before you’re ushered into the bustling kitchen, much to Steve’s chagrin. 

“What?” From the couch, Dustin shrugs off Steve’s death glare, eyes dropping back to the screen of Lucas’s new GameBoy. “I’m not the one who thinks she’s the devil incarnate, come to slay us all. Maybe it’s time you turn a new, reasonable leaf.”

“You’re twelve,” Steve retorts, with stunning childish inaccuracy. The stem of the champagne flute creaks under his grip. 

Once you’re in the kitchen it’s easier to ignore your rival’s presence- Mrs. Byers and Nancy set you up with a cutting board, and you get to work, chatting happily over the holiday radio station.

Dinner passes mostly without incident, a blend of families and friends so big that some of the younger kids resort to stretching out on the living room carpet with plates piled high. 

You and Steve are sat on opposing corners of the extended table, so you’re able to keep true to your deal with Robin. No chance for you to accidentally knock the table vase of flowers into Steve’s mashed potatoes; no chance for Steve to sneak a spoonful of gravy into your water glass. 

It’s almost a little boring. You wonder if Steve (seven seats away and listlessly pushing his fork through a mound of peas) is missing the chaos, too. 

After dinner and cleanup, everyone disperses back to various groups. An instrumental of Silent Night plays softly from the handheld radio, while in the living room, A Charlie Brown Christmas rerun is just beginning.

Eddie catches your eye from across the kitchen, pack of cigarettes raised in question. Your jean jacket and boots are thrown on in record time, shoulder bumping into Eddie’s genially on your way out the back door.

___

Steve is really trying to pay attention to Argyle’s one-sided debate about the merits of flats or wings, but he can’t stop thinking about your coat. 

And about how thin it looked, and how much it’s snowing, and how long you’ve been out there- jesus christ, is Munson trying to kill you? It’s been thirteen and a half minutes. How long does a smoke break take, anyways?

“-but the sauce, brochacho, you gotta consider the sauce-” Arglye gestures towards Steve with emphasis while Jonathan, two couch cushions down, hums in sage agreement. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes on his watch. “That’s awesome, man. I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Back in a bit.”

The kitchen is still bustling with conversation as Steve ducks in unnoticed, snagging two clean glass tumblers from the side table and bringing them over to the cooler resting on the far counter.

Among other drinks in the ice bed, a vintage whiskey lifted from Harrington Sr.’s cellar for the occasion lies in wait. Steve uncorks it, then pours a generous stream into each glass. 

His eyes flick to the window above the sink- it’s dark, but in the dim back porch lights he can just make out two forms at the edge of the yard, backs turned and feet stomping with cold. 

“Be nice,” Robin calls in warning from her seat at the table, slung over Vickie’s lap and being no help at all in the current round of Jenga.

In answer, Steve raises two glasses of perfectly nice alcohol, an extra coat tucked under his arm as he backs out the front door and into the chill of the night air.

The snow has eased some, but there’s still plenty on the ground; it soaks through the bottom of Steve’s jeans as he crunches across the frozen grass to join you and Eddie on the far side.

Duel clouds of smoke trail and twine into one as Eddie passes you a joint, and you pass him a cigarette- a trade off, as both of them are lit. 

Steve tsks in greeting. “What, not enough fresh air out here for you two to desecrate, so you gotta smoke twice as many things?”

“I knew I smelled hairspray.” You’re quick with another hit off the joint, blowing it downwind, the pretty shape of your profile hitting Steve with unusual force. “Careful, Eddie- Harrington here isn’t supposed to be near an open flame with the amount of product it takes to keep it up.”

Steve’s sigh floats out of him in a cold cloud. “C’mon, princess, lighten up- ‘tis the season. I brought you some spirits.”

You squint at the glass Steve leans to hand you, immediately suspicious- “Did you spit in it, or something?”

“No, I didn’t spit in it,” Steve protests- and then, knowing you won’t believe his word without action, takes a sip from both glasses to prove his point.

“I dunno.” Smoke streams from your nose, eyebrow cocked. “You might be the type of guy to drink your own spit.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Exasperated, Steve makes to give the whiskey to Eddie, instead, but you intercept the glass.

Eddie takes a step back with his fingerless gloves palm-out in surrender. “Hey, man, as long as you two promise not to tear each other to ribbons, I’m gonna head in.”

Steve waves him off, and you give a half-hearted scout’s honor with your free hand. The back door creaks closed again, and Steve steps into place at your side, proffering the flannel-lined coat he’d brought. “Here. For you, too.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You’re appreciative but don’t say anything more as Steve helps you into the first sleeve, then the second, and soon it’s quiet as the fresh snow all around.

Steve swirls the whiskey in his glass and takes another swallow. Then, because he can’t stand the silence anymore- “Smoking is bad for you.”

“God,” you groan, but it’s followed by a snort of amusement. “Thanks for the health tip, mom.”

Steve smiles into the rim of his cup. He sees you smiling, too, from the corner of his eye- until it fades and you’re staring unseeing into the winter forest past the fenceline. 

“Do you think we’re totally just gonna end up like our parents? Mine, they used to fight just like this. Like you and me. I’d hate to be like either of them, when I get older.”

Steve’s heart flickers at the raw, open vulnerability in your voice. 

He thinks about the Christmases spent between his parents at either end of the dining table, used once a year; his father talking incessantly about the world of law, trying to mold his son into it like an ill-fitting suit; his mother, all blurry lipstick and distant smiles as she used the holidays as an excuse to polish off the fancy wine.

Steve thinks about his parents’ absence from the last three Christmases, and how little he misses them. How the seasons have brought him siblings in droves, aunts who always make sure to send him off with overflowing tupperware, friends to warm the cold interior of the Harrington mansion and make it feel like home for the first time.

From what Steve’s heard in bits and pieces over the years (via the ever-accessible Robin gossip line and the more rare drunken confessions from yourself), your parents weren’t exactly batting a thousand, either. 

Probably, you’ve had it even harder- which is why Steve is so awed by your nature. You’re a caretaker, a shining pillar of quiet goodness, with a soft quality that’s only obscured like a finely-tuned reflex during tiffs with Steve. 

Memories weave in and out, seamless and shifting into the next- your hands braiding Holly’s hair at the breakfast counter. Your grin, bright as a sunbeam, for Max’s skating trick, then a whoop and a holler and a round of applause that makes Max blush but secretly preen. Your arms around Robin on the couch, Nancy in the summery front yard, Jonathan on the porch; always willing and eager to give kindness where you can.

Even to Steve, when he really needs it. Mugs of tea that have appeared noiselessly at his elbow. The gentle pressure of a hand on his back. The poke of your sneaker against his knee under the table. Small ways to show that you care, that you see him, usually when no else bothers to. 

The fights with you are just a bonus. He counts himself lucky that he’s been hand-picked to take on this side of you.

Steve realizes he’s been quiet for a long time, thoughts tumbling; you shift beside him from one boot to the other, and he pinwheels his way into speaking-

“Oh, like- you mean like, we’re playing at being adults. With their bad habits, and everything.”

You nod. Still staring off into the distance, still with your hands around the unsipped whiskey glass. The cherry of the cigarette between your fingers is no longer glowing.

“I know what you’re saying,” Steve starts, cautious but earnest- “-but no, I don’t think we’re like our parents. Either of us.”

There’s a beat, a moment where you really absorb this- and then, as if the honesty makes you squirrelly, you breathe out a sigh and close your eyes in mock contemplation. “I think this fighting’s good for my aggression outlet. So. I’m not gonna stop.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Steve says dryly, reaching to clink his glass into yours. “What would I do without your smart mouth and the threat of life-endangering pranks in the new year?”

“Quit talkin’ about my mouth or I’ll hit you in yours.” 

You both descend into quiet snickering laughter, and Steve feels something loosen in his chest. Words bubble to the surface before he can think to censor them.

“Y’know, some days, the only reason I get out of bed is because I know I get to fight with you at a party.”

And then he turns on his heel, cutting a swift path back towards the house, leaving you in open-mouthed silence in the gently falling snow.

___

Steve thought that statement was a clear white flag. An unsubtle declaration of wanting to stop pretending- pretending like he doesn’t stare at your mouth just to memorize the shape, pretending to take no heed of your laughter even and especially when it’s at his expense.

Three days after Christmas, in yet another crowded family kitchen, you’d eased past Steve with your hands settling on his hips, briefly, the pressure there and then gone in your path towards the living room.

Steve had to go to his parked car for a bit. He sat in the passenger seat and bit his knuckle raw, reciting every Mets player like a Hail Mary just to will away the stiffness in his dick. 

So yeah, Steve’s in deep, and while he has the distinct feeling you and him are speaking different languages entirely, he’s still trying to send signals. 

The softer he gets, the more you resist, claws digging in with a bite, remarks sharper than usual. Never cruel, but pointed and quick. 

Steve knows he’s throwing off the whole rhythm you two have built up over the last few years. The bitch-for-bitch routine only works if he’s a bitch, too-

but he can’t help it. He’s tired of the bullshit. He’s tired of pretending. 

He just needs you to see it, too.

___

Steve has been so weird, recently. 

The more you’ve been dishing, the more he’s been taking- graciously. With a smile quirked at the corner of his lips like the whole thing is funny. You’ll tee up a snide comment and he’ll bow his head, hair flopping over his forehead in a puppy-like way that makes verbal combat so much harder.

You feel like the rug keeps getting pulled out from under you in every social interaction. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be friends anymore. What’s the point of this whole arrangement if you’re sparring by yourself?

There’s a sneaking suspicion you have- that after that night in the snow, Steve pities you. He feels bad, and that’s why he’s been going so easy. 

It makes his niceness much harder to swallow. 

Which is why the reappearance of your crush on Steve is so goddamn inconvenient. 

Usually, you’d be in the rightful position to take advantage of his lack of comebacks- but he has you feeling flustered. Goddamn twitterpated. 

Looking at you under long lashes, with those doey eyes. The moles on his neck deeply confronting every time he wears a low collar. 

And the killer is, you don’t even have the guts to talk to Robin about it. Your best friend in the whole world. It becomes a secret guilt, something that pushes your psyche to the avoidant side.

You start withdrawing from Steve. You stop picking at him like you normally do the second he walks in the door; you excuse yourself to activities in other rooms, on other couches; you pick up extra shifts and tell yourself it’s for the holiday pay but really, it’s to get out from under the potency of Steve’s gaze.

Most of your friends are too wrapped up in their own shit to really notice the new strangeness, the new tension that’s formed (one-sided though it may be). 

It comes to a head one evening, though. 

With that fucking sweater. 

The off-white, heavy-knit, rainbow-thread-pricked sweater that fits Steve like it was made for him. The contours of his shoulders, hunched against the winter winds in the Wheeler’s driveway, draw your eyes in like a beacon. 

“Did you hear me?” Steve says your name again, pointing at Eddie’s van idling on the curb. “There’s not enough seats. I’m gonna stay behind- it’s past my bedtime, anyways.”

The idea of leaving Steve in an empty house while the rest of you enjoy the heated interior of the kids’ concert hall performance is ridiculous. It jolts you from the single-mindedness of watching a snowflake melt into the golden apple of Steve’s cheek.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you say, pulling him by the sleeve to the open door of the van. The last empty seat is by the window. “I’ll just sit on your lap. As long as you promise not to be a weirdo about it.”

Steve grins. The flash of his teeth feels like a shot through the heart. “Promise.”

Nancy and Jon had the same idea, already snuggled up with a shared lap belt, so it shouldn't be weird, except that Jon and Nance are a couple, and you and Steve aren’t, and you’re really trying not to overthink it-

and then you’re sitting in Steve’s lap. Someone else closes the door, the van kicks into gear, and the radio fills in all the gaps as your world shrinks down to just the feeling of his thighs underneath yours. 

You’re not sure how to place yourself best, half-perching and holding onto the seat in front until Steve slips an arm around your waist. 

“I won’t break,” he says, low at your ear, just for you. 

So with his coaxing you settle your weight further in, letting him ease the front of his chest to your back. There’s a bump in the road, and Steve tightens his hold to keep you steady.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath spilling down the line of your neck. 

Goosebumps cascade across your skin. You’re grateful you thought to wear jeans tonight, not a dress- although feeling him all around, so suffocatingly close, feels just as revealing.

“It’s okay,” you breathe back, nose turning down over your shoulder to reply. His right eye, the one you can see, squinches like he’s smiling. 

The drive to the community center is a staggering 15 minutes. Around you, your friends are laughing, talking over the radio like nothing has changed and Steve isn’t pressing his forehead to the back of your neck in the dim light.

There’s an ache growing steadily between your thighs. You try your best not to shift around too much, but then there’s a bend in the road that has Steve’s thumb slipping against the bare skin of your stomach, and it takes enormous effort to keep your legs from snapping shut at the feeling.

“Are you cold?” Steve asks. In that same quiet, just-for-you voice.

You shake your head. He feels it. 

The tenderness of his thumb stroking over your hipbone is making your head foggy. Impairing your better judgement. He smoothes gently, at first, waiting for you to snap at his wrist or maybe tell him off- but when you don’t, Steve grows more confident with his touches.

He settles into a stroking rhythm with his thumb while his other hand subtly crawls up the path of your outer thigh, one wide, warm palm coming to rest over the seat of your jeans. If anyone looked now, it would simply seem like Steve had your best interests at heart, wanting to steady you from the rocking of the backroads.

When in reality, Steve was taking you apart at the seams. Splitting them open one by one. 

His nose is pressed just above the collar of your coat, like he’s breathing you in the same way you’re taking lungfuls of his spiced cologne and laundry detergent. You think his breath might be shuddering, but whether it’s from the cold or the proximity, you can’t tell. 

The spell breaks when the van screeches to a halt in the parking lot. There’s a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs as everyone catapults back out into the chilly night air. 

Steve’s lips brush the back of your neck before he withdraws. It feels like it might’ve been an accident. You’re not sure of anything, anymore. 

He opens his arms, releasing his hold, and you crawl from the van, stepping into the snow without looking back.

___

The night before New Year’s Eve, Robin comes over to help Steve prep for the party.

There’s tinsel strewn across the dining table, black and gold balloons in various states of inflation bobbing in a cluster underneath Robin’s chair. She ties off the end of another gold one and drops it unseeing to the pile below.

“Jon will grab the pizzas, Vick’s on soda duty, and Eddie will supply us with all the age-appropriate drugs our devious little hearts desire.” Robin reaches for a deflated black balloon, wincing around the taste of latex. “And Sweets will bring the cake. You got any top-shelf champagne you’d like to gift us from Dear Old Dad?”

“Technically basement-shelf,” Steve corrects, letting go of the half-blown balloon in his hand. It squeaks a loud path upwards, careening towards Robin’s side of the table and glancing off her shoulder with the last of its air. 

Steve feels unsettled and overly warm at the mention of your name, the epithet rolling off Robin’s tongue like it’s simultaneously precious and nothing to call you that. 

He spins a string of tinsel around his pointer finger, winding it tight enough to cut off circulation, then releasing it again. “Is Sweets- is she, um. Seeing anyone? Recently, I mean.”

“Not since Roy.” Robin pokes her tongue out in concentration, flat end of the balloon twisting in her uncoordinated fingers. 

Steve almost flinches at the name. Roy Stillwell, the biggest idiot on the former football team, who somehow managed to capture your attention for nearly six months. 

Robin finishes tying off the balloon and lets it slip through her grasp, already reaching for the next. “He wasn’t nice to her, like, at all. I’m so relieved she listened to the good sense of her most wise best friend and dropped his hulking ass after the earthquakes.”

It’s been almost a year, then. Steve tries not to sound suspicious but fails, ears tingeing pink as he asks- “So no one… no one special for her since then?”

Robin looks up from her self-imposed balloon wrangling job with a withering squint. “Why? Are you planning to mess with her, or something? You’ve both been so good recently. It’s been bringing my poor torn heart such healing.”

“Shut up,” Steve tells her, feeling overly fond and deeply embarrassed. The tinsel stretches between his fingers and breaks, noiselessly. “I was just thinking, if she wants to get back out there- I could set her up with one of my buddies.”

“Buddies,” Robin echos, incredulous. “I’m sure our graduating class of high school rejects would absolutely froth at the mouth to get a chance with her, but honestly, Steve, she doesn’t deserve it. You can’t sabotage her love life. I draw the line at food and animal-based pranking.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes dropping to the half-drunk beer between them; he picks it up just to have a label to pick and peel at. “I wasn’t planning any love-based sabotage, so you can cool your jets with that.”

He cringes to think about the narratives you’ve likely been fed by Robin regarding his own love life (or lack thereof), what with her fantastic propensity to bloat the truth. Daliances distorted and disproportionate and probably miles away from reality. 

Steve Harrington might not hold the king’s title any more, but his track record this last year as far as keeping women around where any meaningful long-term capacity is concerned has not been good.

He’s lied, here and there, to Robin, which he hates doing, but there are only so many times he can come crying to her about a girl never calling him back after the third date before it gets pathetic. 

The details of who, exactly, neglected to call whom after sleeping together have been fudged enough to make Steve seem slightly less lame. More in control, more laid back and casual than he actually is. 

He really shouldn’t bother, anymore. Like he said- he’s tired of pretending, tired of the bullshit- 

and Robin already thinks he’s kinda lame, yet loves him anyways. 

Robin rises from the table, breaking Steve from his thoughts. She kicks gently at the balloons to begin herding them into the living room, and says over her shoulder with finality on the issue- “She deserves better.”

Steve peels the label off his beer in one clean sweep. “Yeah. Can’t argue there.”

___

In the end, it’s Robin that brings the two of you together. 

As she always does. Intentionally or not. 

Two AM in the new year finds Robin belting out a jazzy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeks flushed with spirits as she’s half-carried, half-pushed up the stairs by you and Steve.

“Don’t worry,” you’re calling down the hall to where Vickie stands giggling, car keys in her hand. “We’ll take good care of your girl.”

“If she doesn’t kill us first,” Steve grumbles, ducking another one of Robin’s far-flug arms. “All right, songbird, that’s enough out of you.”

He takes a wider stance against the stairs, leaning forward to tuck Robin’s waist against his shoulder, then straightening up with a grunt. She drapes like a sack of potatoes, and Steve grits his teeth before the next step. “Christ alive, Buckley. You’re practically sloshing.”

Robin’s head lifts from the small of Steve’s back as she declares, “You are the slushed one. Shteve.” 

Your hands go to stabilize Robin as you follow them both, and Steve can hear you laughing quietly at her drunken antics. 

Steve decides to put her to sleep in the second guest bedroom- it’s the one furthest down the hall, with a bathroom attached. He eases Robin from his shoulder straight onto the mattress, supporting her neck on the way down- then gets stuck halfway to standing as she throws her arms around him.

“Steve,” Robin sighs. “You’re the best- my best- friend. Ever. Love you, dingus.”

Steve’s cheek is squished into the side of her neck. He chuckles and pats at her hips. “Hey, love you too, Goose. Unhand me and I’ll take your shoes off for you.”

Robin’s arms flop back to the sheets, and Steve bends to ease the sneakers from her feet. He sets them under the bedside table, where you’ve just appeared with a glass of water and two blue Tylenol pills.

“I scrounged around in the bathroom cabinets,” you say, by way of explanation.

“No, that’s- that’s cool,” Steve rushes to assure- but your focus has already been pulled entirely to Robin.

You kneel at the mattress edge, the back of your hand lifting to brush down the side of Robin’s flushed cheek as you tell her softly- “Gonna leave you some water. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Sweets,” Robin croaks, eyes hazy and roaming over your face. “Jus’ you’n me?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping to the same soft tone, even as your free hand jolts backwards. “Just me, honey pie.”

Somehow you land a perfect hit to the side of Steve’s ribs, and he’s forced a step backwards into the shadows of the room. He stifles a laugh into his fist, your touch melting into his skin long after the initial impact of your fingertips. 

Robin doesn’t notice the noise, eyes only for you as she catches your hand in both of hers and says, “You should tell ‘im goodnight. Go onnnn. It would be so fun, I love y’both so much-!”

You shush Robin’s stream of consciousness, in a mild way, like one might for a child fighting a much-needed nap. “Hush, Robs, you’re talking silly. Beddy bye time.”

Then you pull up the covers to her chin, lean in to kiss her sweaty forehead, and brush past Steve on your way out to the hall. 

After turning out the lamp and ensuring Robin is snoring, Steve follows in your wake; he finds you downstairs, on the living room couch. Feet tucked under yourself, hands twisting in your lap. 

It’s a bit of a disaster area, empty bottles and Happy New Year ephemera strewn about the room. The lamp over your shoulder is the only source of light in the room, casting your profile in warm oranges. 

“Hey.” He eases onto the cushion next to you but keeps his knees tilted away, leaving a careful amount of space between your bodies. “What did, uh. What’d Robin mean?”

Steve’s heart thumps unsteadily at the base of his throat, waiting for your response. 

It comes quietly. 

“She wanted me to tell you goodnight. Which I guess is code for, like, admitting my big fat crush on you.”

Steve jerks his gaze to yours, heart thudding louder. 

There’s no indication of any life-altering statements that have just been made- in fact, your chin is tilted upwards, an expression of practiced nonchalance settled into your features.

When Steve meets your eyes, though, there’s something that courses over your face unhidden. It’s fear, or embarrassment, maybe, the intensity of it there and gone in the span of a breath as you work to smooth back into a blasé manner. 

Your gaze drops to the knee of your jeans, plucking at a stray thread. There’s a bitter quality to your voice as you speak. “What, no punchy comment? It’s fine. You can let me have it. You pity me, and I’m the last person you’d ever wanna-”

Steve moves on pure instinct and desire, closing the gap of your bodies in a moment, hands reaching to cup your cheeks, noses bumping together briefly as his face crowds yours. He hears the quick intake of your breath before he whispers, sharp-

“Please shut up.”

And then Steve is kissing you. In the hungry, desperate way he’s been thinking about for the better part of three years. Lips pressing and sliding together, teeth clacking with the force but it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing back. 

Parting your lips for him, tongue sliding against the front of Steve’s teeth, the roof of his mouth; your hands fly to his wrists, keeping him in place, keeping him close as the kiss keeps spiraling. Drawing back only to readjust, to fit your nose to the side of his, angling to get in deeper-

Steve’s hands are trembling. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, along with a dozen other emotions rapidly rising to the surface. He sends a silent prayer to every god ever that you won’t notice, that you’ll let him keep kissing you and drinking you in.

You do notice, though. There’s a wet click as your lips leave his, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, begging to keep the moment for just a little longer, nose still pressed to your cheek.

But all you ask, in a quiet whisper, is- “Are you okay?”

Steve nods. A hoarse exhalation shudders through him, as his thumbs memorize the path of your jaw. He wants to tell you that he’s more than okay- that the tremors are just a pesky side effect from all that torture and trauma, that he’s shaking with anticipation and delight, not nerves, exactly- 

then you’re swinging a leg over his hip and sitting in his lap and under the weight of you, Steve’s racing thoughts go silent. 

All he can think about is that car ride where he felt suffocated by lust, by wanting, and how badly he’s longed for this, the pressure of your thighs draped over his and your fists in the roots of his hair like they’re doing right now. 

“I don’t pity you.” Steve says the words before his brain gets too clouded by your smell and touches. He settles his hands at your waist, guiding you to sit more heavily, just like he had in the car. “You believe me?”

This won’t work if you don’t. 

To Steve’s immense relief, you nod, eyes flicking from his spit-slick lips to his gaze still locked on you as you whisper back, “Yeah. I believe you.”

With a stifled groan, Steve reaches one of his trembly hands to the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss again. His cock is rapidly filling out a hard line in the leg of his jeans, brain going static at the tiny whimpers you’re making into his mouth.

It’s nearly overwhelming, being this close to you. Steve has always wondered what noises you’d make when kissed, how you’d respond to a hand sliding under your shirt along the length of your back- and now, he’ll never have to wonder again. 

Your tongue twists against his. Steve’s glad he had the foresight to close his eyes, because the way they’re currently rolling to the back of his head is probably not very pretty. 

His left hand, beneath the sheer black shimmer of your shirt, grazes the edge of your bra, and can’t help but think he used to be good at this. Good at hookups, at fun, meaningless sex; at unhooking a bra with nothing but an unshakeable pinky. 

This hookup isn’t nothing, though. It’s sort of everything to Steve. The culmination of all the pent-up feelings of the last few years, channeled into every touch, sinking deeper than the surface of his skin, down into his bones. 

The hands in his hair tighten and loosen in a repetitive pattern, sharp then gentle, like you’re having a conflict of your own- you break the kissing again just to let out a frustrated huff. “I can’t- I don’t know how to be soft. It might break me, to be that with you.”

Steve knows what you mean. The intimacy of gentleness, with your shared history of bickering, can’t be overstated. 

He pets at your hip, across the planes of your back, leaning forward again to kiss at the downturned edge of your mouth. “Hey. I get it. Even though I do think you know how to be nice, I’m not asking you to be that. Not right now, at least.”

You shift again in his lap and Steve grits his back molars at the feeling of your thigh against his cock, electric even through all the layers. Tentatively, you tug at the roots of his hair again, then harder, gaining confidence as Steve responds to the sharper pulls. 

Your mouth is back on his and there’s a flash of teeth again, on purpose this time as you bite into the plush bottom of his lip. Steve hisses, brows drawing together, another lightning strike of arousal turning his thoughts to dead air. 

“Like that?” You question, but it’s self-assured and slightly smug and Steve feels like he’s burning up.

“Please let me go down on you,” he murmurs, instead of a simple ‘yes’. 

He doesn’t have time to consider how very whiny he’s sounding because the begging increases, surges with force as Steve licks under your jaw, planting kisses down the pretty line of your neck in between each word.

“Please let me, please, I’ll make it so good- wanna taste you-”

You’re already guiding him with the pull of your limbs to a much more horizontal position on the couch, Steve catching his weight with a hand planted on either side of your shoulders as he continues to kiss his way down your body.

He carves a path between the valley of your breasts, leaving wet lip imprints against the sheer shimmering black fabric of your shirt (a New Year’s-themed low-cut number that Steve didn’t put a whole lot of effort into pretending not to stare at all night). 

There’s the darker outline of the lace edge of your bra so Steve kisses that, too, then continues to your tummy, a bare stripe of skin waiting for his lips to press over. Steve’s left hand drifts underneath the hem of your shirt, exposing more skin to kiss at, seeking out the soft mound of your breast and squeezing to mold the shape in his hand.

At this, your hips give a short jolt upwards, and Steve hears a soft gasp leave you. The sound lights him up, moving on pure instinct to drive his own hips down into the pressure of the cushion beneath. 

Steve ruts the bulge of his cock forwards and fumbles at the button of your jeans with his free hand, tremors at an all-time low as his focus hones in between your thighs.

Everything Steve has ever learned by fumbling in the back seat with girls who wouldn’t care about him in a week- he thinks it might’ve been all for you. 

All to be able to hear that noise you make the first time he gets his mouth on you.

It’s halfway to a long, breathy moan, cut short by the slap of your own palm, but it doesn’t matter because Steve’s already burned it into his mind for forever as he laps against your bare cunt. You taste just as good as he’s always imagined, sweet and bright and honeyed as his tongue slides into the channels of your muscle. 

He feels you pulse around him. Steve moans, the vibrations making your hands snap to his hair again, taking the reins to pull him further in. 

“Steve,” you whisper, thighs beginning to close around his ears. “Steve-”

His name has never sounded better, coming from you. Not ‘Harrington’, not ‘King Steve’ with sarcastic derision. Just Steve. He’s never felt more seen. 

It’s probably for the best that his mouth is occupied, because Steve gets pussy-drunk at an alarming rate- a rate that’s made even worse if he likes the person. 

And he really, really likes you.

Steve withdraws his tongue from your cunt and seals his lips around the beating heart of your clit, listening for the hitch in your breath as he finds the right pressure. His fingers squeeze tighter around your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching at your nipple; your back arches from the couch, pressing yourself into his touches. 

His hips grind mindlessly down and forwards, trying to find a reprieve for all the blood currently pooling southwards but it only serves to draw the band of pleasure even tighter. 

Steve distracts himself by sinking his middle finger into the wet heat of your center, sucking on your clit in time with the exploratory thrusts he gives with the digit. He slides another alongside it as your thighs begin to quiver.

When Steve curls his fingers and drives the angle against your front wall, a choked cry and a sudden sharp pull at his hair tells him to keep going. Steve does, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, humming a low note of encouragement. 

He stays the course until you’re spasming around him, cursing quietly with his name thrown into the mix. 

Steve pulls off just long enough to look at you, still keeping the rhythm up with his hand but resting his chin briefly on your lower stomach.

“I gotta give you three, sweetheart, okay? Not trying to blow my own horn, or whatever, but- uh- I won’t fit unless I stretch you out a little. Yeah?”

“Oh my god-”

You take his third finger like you were made for it, head lolling back and hands still fisted in his hair. There’s another spasm of your walls and then you’re coming, unexpectedly soon but Steve acts quick, latching back onto your clit and coaxing you through the wave of it with feverish enthusiasm.

That’s it, he thinks, instead of speaking aloud, mouth full of your taste, a palm full of your slick. That’s it, baby- 

Steve draws out your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, fingers finally pushing at his forehead when you’ve had enough. He lifts his mouth from you, but not before leaning forward to lick the flat of his tongue through the new wetness dripping from your hole. 

His dick leaks in the confines of his briefs at the sight of you- sweat dewing your skin, making you glow, lips parted in short heaving breaths as Steve gives you another kiss. A lingering but overall rather chaste one from someone who was just drinking from you like a starving man.

“I don’t have- I didn’t really stock up on condoms,” Steve stammers, suddenly remembering as your hands wander down the front of his button-down chest. “Shit. Sorry. It’s, uh- it’s been awhile, for me.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur back. Hands fiddling with the buckle of his belt. “Been awhile for me, too. But I’m on the pill. So. Have your way with me, or whatever.”

You give a shrug and a grin and Steve feels like the luckiest person to have lived, maybe ever. He buries a groan into the plush of your breast as you giggle at him. 

His burn of embarrassment quickly gives way to the hot flame of desire, rutting into the flat palm of your hand as you work your way to the top of his zipper.

Steve is overcome with a need to be good for you- to let you have whatever you want. He’s spellbound with obedience, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“Let me see you.” You thumb at the button of his jeans. Half of a smile on those lips Steve knows so well.

Steve helps by sliding the waistband of both his briefs and pants down, settling them just under his ass because he’s too wound up to stop for a proper strip. He can’t help himself, brushing over the head to spread his pre over his shaft, pumping a few times before you reach to bat his grip away. 

Then your hand is wrapping around the throbbing length of his bare cock and Steve has to restabilize against the cushions again, putting his weight in his forearms that sit snug along your sides. He has to dip to bite at the column of your neck in order to smother a loud moan as your fingers tighten around his girth.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding.” You’re still speaking in a low voice but this time it’s hushed with awe and disbelief. “You really are huge.”

Steve licks at the indent of his teeth in your skin and huffs a laugh, then chokes on it when your hand twists around the base and up again in a cruelly slow arc.

You help pull the collared tee from his body and then your hand is trailing down his chest, through the thicket of hair, with curiosity- lingering on parts Steve doesn’t normally think of as hot. Fingertips trace the outline of his scars, the round of his stomach, the sparse line of hair leading below his belly button.

It’s the way you’re looking at him, too, eyes skipping between his and down lower to the cock in your fist. It’s almost like you’ve been dreaming of this, as well. 

“So handsome,” you’re murmuring, still roving over the scars at his side with the hand that isn’t pumping him into oblivion. “Steve- you’re so hot, so good-”

Steve feels it in that space behind his chest, the white-hot bloom of feeling. You’re not saying it like he’s some sort of novelty, some sort of side-show you’ve been jonesing to see, a ticket punched with no promise of return.

You’re saying it like Steve’s something to really look at. Like he’s worthy of the praise and kindness you’re doling out without expectation. 

Steve tries his best to take it in stride, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when all the blood in his body is currently being siphoned into the led pipe of his cock in your hand. 

He’s spilling precum onto your stomach, and you pause mid-stroke to gather some of it from your skin before taking him up again, moving more slickly with the help. 

Steve feels the weight of your gaze again as he tilts his hips, aligning himself with your entrance; his own hands rest on either side of your head, thumbs at your temples as he leans in to kiss you again.

He reaches to shove the hem of your shirt up to your throat, exposing the stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric of your bra, chests crushing together as the head of his cock notches into place. 

Steve’s toes are curling in his socks while the arches of his feet press for further stability against the couch’s arm. From between the press of your bodies, your hands slip out to rest at the tops of Steve’s freckled shoulders. 

He kisses your breastbone, your jaw again, then says at your ear with ill-concealed strain- “I’m gonna- I’ll go slow, okay? And you tell me if- if anything, something- doesn’t feel good, and we can stop, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, fingernails beginning to sting into his skin. “C’mon, Stevie. Let me have it.”

Fighting words, Steve thinks, hiding a smile into the side of your neck. He pulls back only so he can monitor your expressions as he begins to enter you.

The thick head of his tip gets swallowed up with immediacy by the warm, wet embrace of your walls, sinking further in, pausing when there’s some resistance. Steve’s trembling again but this time it’s with the concerted efforts of slowing down, of avoiding the overwhelm for both of you. 

Your cunt is so blissfully tight. He’s only got the first few inches in but already Steve’s having trouble breathing, stuttering out short pants as he keeps watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

“It- you’re so- so big.” The words are strung thin, your brows knotted together, eyes pinched in concentration. 

Steve presses another kiss to your sweaty cheek, feeling the dampness of his own hairline and hoping he doesn’t drip any onto you as he sinks another inch inwards. “I know, honey, I know- and you’re doin’ so good, that’s my girl-”

The term of endearment leaves before Steve thinks to drag it back, but all it does is make you sigh, eyes blinking long-lashed and half-open to look up at him again, right hand leaving the top of his shoulder to fist back into the longer curls at the nape of his neck. “Steve… I can take it all. Let me.”

And who would Steve be, denying you a thing?

He lets you have all of him, pelvis lowering to seat the length of his cock fully inside you. Your nails dig past the first layer of his skin in your ecstasy, crown of your head tipping backwards as Steve feels the pulse of your walls surround him.

“Fuck me.” Another hoarse whisper as he waits, letting you adjust to the feeling of being stuffed before dragging his cock back again, until it’s just his head at that upper wall of your cunt- then sinking back in with one long thrust.

This makes you moan, loud enough that Steve instinctively curls a hand to fit over your parted lips. His best friend may be notorious for being able to sleep through a hurricane after a few shots but he’d really rather not invite chance to play tonight.

If Steve is worried about the covering being too much, he’s instantly gratified when your teeth sink into his middle fingers, like you needed something to mouth on. 

You’re so wet from Steve’s earlier work that his length glides smoothly with every rock forwards and back of his hips, a maddening cycle that’s starting to steal his breath again. The sharp tugs to his hair and the punctuated, muffled whines you’re making are enough to have his climax looming close. 

“Ah- fuck, shit-” Steve curses, stilling when his hips are pressed to yours, cock throbbing. “Not gonna last long, sweetheart, fuck- sorry, you feel too good. Pussy is choking me.”

The dirty talk has your eyes fluttering. Steve takes his hand off your mouth and kisses you, once, twice, then whispers- “Feels good, yeah, honey? Y’like taking me like this?”

Your ankles lift to cross at the small of Steve’s back, hand like a vice at his roots once Steve starts up a rhythm of fucking into you again. “Steve, keep- keep talking like that, and I’ll- I’m right there-”

He obeys, holding your shoulders again to keep you in place as his cock drags against the inner front wall of your cunt with precision. The beginning stages of an impending orgasm have Steve babbling- “That’s it, sweetheart- let me give it to you. I’ve got you, shit- y’feel so amazing. So good for me-”

“Fuck, Steve-!” Your face turns to profile as one side presses to the couch cushion beneath, mouth dropping into a silent o.

Steve slides as deep as he can, muffling his own shout into the fat of your breast, nuzzling in as your cunt flutters and squeezes around him. Your ankles pull him in hard, pelvis hitting at your clit and sending you over the edge for a second time. 

You’re silent as you come, back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Steve feels the wave of it wash over you, every sense dialed up to 10 as he memorizes how it rolls through your body. 

When you return to earth, you gasp in a breath, reaching to cup Steve’s face in your hands, stars still sparkling in your eyes when you whisper-

“Your turn, Steve. Gonna fill me up?”

Steve is done for three sharp jerks of his hips later, spilling into you with a growl caught at the back of his throat, abs rippling and jaw clenching with every rope of cum pulsing out. 

He swallows down noise as he keeps circling his hips. The highs spiral down slowly; once you begin to squirm under Steve with overstimulation, he takes it easy on you and stops. Kissing at your collarbone with apologies. 

Breathing still struggling to return to normal, he sags into your arms, careful to keep most of his weight off you. You’re giggling at him somewhat breathlessly, dotting kisses along the apple of his cheek and petting over the back of his skull with a gentle hand. 

In all those hidden fantasies with you at the back of his mind, Steve never let himself linger on the afterglow, one of the best parts of sex, in his opinion- holding his partner, feeling the bellow of their ribs, the hitches as everything simmers back to normal. 

It felt too personal, like just by wanting it bad enough (because Steve did want it, badly) the sacredness would somehow dim. 

Steve’s delighted to find this isn’t the case. 

Even with all the bodily fluids, sweating, and achy muscles that have accumulated, you don’t seem to care, pulling Steve to fit between your back and the couch. He wraps his arms around your middle, nose tucking to the hollow of your neck, breathing in the trace smell of your faded perfume and hormones. 

You breathe a long, contended sigh. Somewhere beyond the far window, an owl hoots into the dark night.

Your hands smooth across Steve’s forearms absently as you break the room’s silence with a whisper. “Hey. Do you think- would it be okay if we don’t tell Robin? Not yet, at least.”

Steve holds you a little tighter, running the tip of his nose up the line of your neck. “Yeah. ‘Course it’s okay. And, y’know, we don’t have to do this again, if you- if you don’t want-”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this again.” There’s a shadow of a former tease in your voice. “It’s just- she’s gonna be so goddamn smug when she finds out. She already said I wouldn’t last two weeks from when I first told her about the crush-”

“And how long’s it been? Since you told her?” Steve interrupts to ask, ears perking up. 

He can only see the back of your head, but the long silence is enough to clue him in to your loss of pride before you mutter, “About 12 hours.”

“Oh my god.” Steve laughs against you, even as you growl at him to shut up, even as your teeth skim over the soft skin of his elbow, daring him to say more. “If I knew you had it so bad for a jock I would’ve pulled out the ol’ Hawkins Tigers shirt way sooner.”

“Former jock,” you correct, turning in Steve’s arms to plant one elbow against the cushions, other arm lifting to rest your hand over his heart. “And I think you look best wearing nothing at all, so. Might want to take that note.”

Steve doesn’t care at all how dopey he might look right now, fondness all-consuming as he reaches up to thumb at the corner of your wry smile. “Note taken. Y’know, I think this setup will be a great outlet for your aggression. Feel free to use me any time.”

Your wide smile pushes into the pad of his thumb, sweetness on your tongue when you lean down to kiss him again. “Note taken.”

Your own fingers lift to roam over Steve’s face, tickling at his hairline, down to the corner of his brow, like you’re memorizing the feeling. Steve lets his eyes slip shut, smiling as your pointer finger traces at the edge of his right eye.

“I like these little lines,” you murmur. “They only happen when you smile, though. Lights your whole face up.”

In the dawn of a new year, Steve rises with a heart overflowing to kiss at your bare shoulder. 

he sighs sweetly, hugging you. “i’m gonna miss you.”

“i’ll be right upstairs,” you say with a giggle.

“yeah but i gotta pretend you don’t exist.” he presses a few kisses to your neck.

“still upstairs.”

“shut up,” he said, tapping your ass playfully.

“hey!”

──

so now, you were in steve’s bedroom. you just heard a car park up outside, so you locked the door - like promised - and grabbed a few of your cassettes from one of steve’s drawers.

your issue now, was that you somehow only just realised you left your walkman downstairs. in the kitchen. damnit.

you sighed, flopping back onto steve’s bed. all the voices from downstairs were just audible, so it was obvious people were arriving. how the hell were you gonna sit in silence for a whole three or four hours? then your eyes flicked to steve’s boombox that was on his bedside table. bingo.

after selecting an album, putting it in, and skipping to your favourite, track 6 — hungry heart, on the river by bruce springsteen — you were very pleased, for a second. then loud music began to play. very loud. much louder than you expected, actually. “shit,” you say to yourself, instantly panicking and trying to turn down the volume.

it was that moment you remembered what steve said the other week. “hey, do you think you could look at my boombox for me? the volumes broken, i can’t turn it down from full.”

“sure thing baby,” you had said with a smile - but of course you hadn’t looked at it because you would’ve actually remembered if you did.

eventually you gave up, and thought - you may aswell make the most of it if they can already hear your music.

──

meanwhile, downstairs..

everyone had gathered in the living room, using a random whiteboard that hopper had brought to discuss ideas and plans. and while hopper was mid sentence, the loud intro drums of hungry heart interrupted him.

the moment everyone heard music, eyes flicked to steve. his eyes widened, and he certainly regretted offering his house as a meeting place in that moment.

“sorry guys uh.. my boombox is faulty.. it does that sometimes,” steve states unconvincingly.

robin glares at him, “i didn’t know you liked bruce springsteen.”

he opened his mouth, and yet no excuse came out - because then he heard the situation get even worse - you singing.

“oh jesus,” he groans, hiding his face in his hands.

“harrington, are you aware that somebody is in your house, or is there an intruder?” hopper asks, shaking his head.

“yeah uh.. one of my friends is up there. sorry guys.” steve still hadn’t taken his head out of his hands. he was mortified that everyone would find out like this.

the kids all found this hilarious, clearly, as they started giggling to eachother. dustin leaned over and whispered, “that’s a girls voice, do you have a girlfriend i need to know about?”

“no, no.. nope. definitely no girlfriend.”

dustin gasps, “OH MY GOD STEVE HAS A GIRLFRIEND!”

“i- no- dude what the hell?!”

everyone just stayed quiet. well, you didn’t- you were still singing your heart out up there.

“I met her in a Kingstown bar We fell in love, I knew it had to end We took what we had and we ripped it apart Now here I am down in Kingstown again..”

“okay, so she might not be your girlfriend - but whoever that is has a beautiful singing voice,” robin said, ending the awkward silence.

“thanks for that input,” murray says sarcastically.

“alright, guys can we get back to the focus of the meeting?” hopper asked, clearly starting to get irritated now.

“i’m honestly more interested in the mystery ‘hungry heart’ girl,” lucas says. max hits him “hey, i didn’t mean it like that! i just want to know who she is.”

“harrington, go get your girlfriend so that we can carry on with the meeting.”

“okay, fine.” steve complies, already leaving and going upstairs.

he knocks on the door, since he knows its locked. “hey baby it’s only me can i come in?”

you unlocked the door, and smiled at him. “are they gone already? that was so quick! i didn’t even get through one song!” you skip across the room, reaching to turn the music off.

“uhh.. no, about that.. hopper wants to come you downstairs.”

“what?!” you ask, snapping your head back to look at him.

“what can you expect? why did you do that? with the music.. and the singing?” he replies, gesturing vaguely with his hand at the boombox.

“i forgot my walkman. and then also forgot your boombox was broken. and i just.. thought i may aswell sing and stuff if everyone could already hear my music,” you say, frowning. you felt guilty now, steve was obviously slightly embarrassed. “did i embarrass you?”

“no, no, it’s not you that’s embarrassed me.. like, i’m not embarrassed of you. i- i don’t.. i didn’t really want everyone to find out like this.” he sighs. steve grabs out for your waist and pulls you towards him.

he gently brushes hair from your face. “but i’d never be embarrassed of you baby,” he says, kissing your nose, “never.”

“okay, cool. let’s hope i made a good first impression then!” you say, instantly walking out of the room and pulling him a long with you.

────────────

“Max,” she uttered softly upon the door swinging open, the little redheaded girl falling into her warm embrace. “Oh my God, Max.”

The two held each other, standing in the doorframe. Silence consumed them, yet so much was said. Tears pooled in Y/N’s eyes, her mouth beginning to tremble as she began to speak.

“I’m so happy you’re okay. I didn’t want to leave your side, or Billy’s, and I’m so sorry, Max-“

“Stop apologizing, Y/NN.”

Max tried to make light of the situation, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Y/N fell into her arms yet again, the two holding each other as they broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.

“I’ve been visiting her at the hospital, but it kills me to see her like that. I tried to help her, I really did.”

“I know,” Max assured, her eyes sincere.

Seeing Eleven in a hospital bed, lying lifeless. No one could stand to see her in such a condition, but Y/N’s priority was to protect her that night. Billy instructed her to watch over the young girl after she shared a compassionate moment with him, and she did. But when she saw that Billy was almost killed right before her eyes, she ran to cover him. It was a trick, alright. That was just what the Mind Flayer wanted — El all alone, defenseless. And so when Billy saw her running to him, abandoning El, he shouted her name, and at the same moment, El’s body was struck, sending her into an unconscious state.

The chaos slowly died down as they continued their fight, everyone running over to El once it was safe enough. Y/N lingered back with Billy, and albeit feeble, she attempted to wrap some of his injuries that gushed with blood. He said not a word, his body trembling, anger in his expression.

“Billy?”

“Get off of me.”

He shrugged her off his arm, storming away to assist El. Her entire body grew cold, and she didn’t realize she was losing blood too, until she felt a dull pulse near her ribcage. Her body was growing weaker by the second, but she nonetheless dragged her figure to the group. They all tended to one another, mainly keeping their focus on Eleven as they eventually signaled down an ambulance for her.

Y/N sat still next to Billy, feeling as if breathing or shifting wrong would set him off. It was almost as if he knew what she was thinking, though, finally uttering, “She showed me my mom.”

She remained silent, tugging a bit on the dull grey blanket that sat on her shoulders. It did nothing to keep her warm, but it was something, nonetheless.

“She showed me my mom. I hadn’t seen her in years, at least not the way El showed her to me,” he let out a cold chuckle. “Bitch left and I never saw her the same. Until tonight. And I remembered, and I wanted to thank El for showing me that, but I didn’t get to. No, I didn’t, and that’s all thanks to you.”

Her heart staggered, her breath hitching as tears welled in her eyes. It felt as if someone were pressing down on her chest with all their might, knocking the wind out of her lungs. “Billy, I didn’t me-“

“No, I know. If I hadn’t known you all this time, I wouldn’t. But…she almost died. Because of you,” he turned to look at her, his stare ice cold. He got up, walking away. He didn’t say anything else, his figure fading in the distance as Y/N was stuck in her position.

They were best friends before anything. They were in middle school when Billy moved to Hawkins. She was assigned the task of touring him around the school, and eventually she was tasked with tutoring him. Billy was freshly into his troublesomeness, making many horrible attempts to look up her skirt when she would guide him around the school. She would always keep a hand behind her, holding out for Billy. He was always too full of himself to hold her hand in public, but when they were at her house and she did the same thing, holding out her hand to lead him to her dining room, he didn’t hesitate one bit.

High school rolled around and their friendship wasn’t so innocent anymore. She went through all of middle school crushing on him, and he felt the same way, but neither made a move. She hadn’t visited his home once, only seeing the outside when her parents would drop him off at home after their tutoring sessions. He thought the coast was clear one day and he was sorely mistaken.

Neil was having a bad day at work. Nothing could have fixed his state of anger. So when he heard obnoxious laughter and saw another pair of shoes at the door, the kitchen a mess with no dinner ready, he was at his wits’ end. He quietly moved to the living room, gaining a small view of the two teens. Billy looked too happy for his liking. When he saw the way Billy’s eyes glimmered at you, he just had to make his presence known. He cleared his throat, startling the pair. Y/N chuckled a bit, but she stopped quickly when she saw Billy’s demeanor change.

“So, I come home, the house is a mess, better yet, the kitchen’s a mess, and there’s no dinner on the table. You’re here instead, goofing off with another one of your little sluts. What’s the meaning of this?”

She felt a knot growing in her throat, her cheeks heating up. “Sir, I’m s-“

“Don’t call her a slut.”

She didn’t know it, but that was the first time he was able to look him properly in the eyes and not back down from an argument. It escalated rather quickly; Neil grabbed him by the collar and busted his lip. Billy didn’t hurt him in return, opting to push him away. He made sure to grab Y/N and get her far away from the house. Eventually, they were in the woods, parked up in Billy’s car.

Her heart physically ached in her chest as she looked over his features. His lip was busted, his blood drying and starting to harden against his skin. She turned his face to her, rummaging through her bag and trying her best to clean him up with whatever she had in her bag. They remained silent as she dabbed a makeup wipe ever so gently along his skin, softly prying at the pellets of dry blood. He hissed occasionally, Y/N offering a small “sorry” as she continued to clean him. She blotted some of her strawberry-scented lip balm around the cut, hoping it would do something for his skin.

“How long has this been going on?”

The silence had to be broken at some point.

“Y/N-“

“How long?”

She persisted, tears welling in her eyes as Billy recalled Neil’s first outbursts toward him, not believing he went so long without saying a thing. She looked at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed and lips parted, “You don’t have to hide it, Billy. Not from me.”

He looked at her, his own icy blue orbs drowned in tears. Without thinking twice, he leaned over the center console, lips brushing hers before capturing them in a delicate smooch. She tensed momentarily and her body jerked backward. Her lips moved gently so as not to hurt him once she relaxed. The metallic taste of his blood seeped onto her tongue, strawberry ever so faintly as he slipped a hand behind her head, deepening the kiss.

“Bill-“

“I love you.”

In all their years of friendship, he’d said those three words all of three times — one night after he’d found her shitfaced at a party, crying over a guy she liked who ended up getting with someone else right in front of her face, another when she was at his side after a horrible car accident, tending to him at the hospital, and now.

She felt the butterflies going wild in her stomach, and knowing how long she’d been suppressing her feelings for Billy, she redirected the phrase to him, allowing her lips to find his again. One thing led to another and they were in the backseat of his car, fogging up the windows. Soon enough, they laid there, blissfully, tracing their names and random shapes along the foggy surfaces.

“Look, princess, I don’t want to jeopardize what we have, okay?”

She slowly felt her heart being torn from her chest. She read it all wrong. It wasn’t love, it was pure lust. He was letting his dick talk as he’d done several times with plenty of girls before. Suddenly, she felt disgusted, pulling an item of clothing further up to cover her exposed skin. She remained silent a moment longer, a single tear falling as he used a finger to turn her face to his. “Princess?”

“Yeah,” she sniffled. “Yeah, Bill, I get it.”

But each encounter hereafter, whether they were drunk or high, ensued as such. He would kiss her, make her feel like she was floating. They would have sex. They would bask in bliss, hold each other for a moment or two. And then Billy would run the same line: “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

She couldn’t help her feelings. She felt what she felt for him, concealing it to the best of her ability. She tolerated sleeping with him if it meant it made him happy. She would've done anything to keep him happy. But it was only so long that she could conceal her feelings, allowing them to show when he boasted about his one-night stands or when she saw yet another girl clinging to him at a party.

She allowed them to show a lot more when everything went to shambles with Vecna, genuinely fearing for his life, and trying her best to aid him through that point in time – hence showing up at Neil's. She caught up with Max and the rest of the kids, all of them sitting with glum expressions on their faces. They were drained, but they were just worried about Eleven. No one blamed Y/N for what happened, but both she and Billy had it engraved into their minds that she was the sole cause.

"How're you holding up?" Dustin broke the deafening silence, eyeing Y/N.

Her hands were trembling, and her mouth was dry. She managed to speak properly, but her body felt as though it were about to shut down. She took a deep breath, "I'm hanging in there. I came here to see Bills, but I don't know if he wants to see me."

They all gave her sympathetic looks as she excused herself, making her way to Billy's room. The few steps she took felt elongated as if she had blocks of cement for feet. She knocked on his door, and the pit in her stomach grew tenfold, her throat starting to close up on her. She watched the doorknob turn, wanting to run and hide immediately. As soon as she saw Billy’s face, however, her manner softened. His piercing blue eyes met hers, matching hers that were bloodshot. She wanted to hug him immediately but he walked away from the door, leaving her standing there with tears in her eyes.

“What’re you doing here?”

His tone was cold.

“I wanted to see you,” she whispered, shutting the door behind her. The room was dark with a faint blue hue as the daylight shone through his curtains.

“What for?” he scoffed.

“I missed you, Bill. I-I can’t be at peace knowing you’re mad at me. I’m sorry. I didn’t me-”

Her voice broke, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. He sat on his bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the ground.

“You didn’t mean for it to happen, I know. I know, I know, I know, Y/NN. You’ve said the same shit to me about fifty times already. I know,” he paused. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that it happened.”

It felt like a knife was being twisted even further into her heart.

“Are people not allowed to fuck up, Billy?”

It came out harsher than intended, but she was sick of feeling as though she had committed a crime. She knew she had messed up and that none of it had happened on purpose. If she could change all of what happened and turn all of it around, she would, but she literally could do nothing more. 

“She could have died, Y/N! So if you think that was some tiny fuck-up then you’re far beyond mistaken.”

“What part of that not being in my intentions are you not understanding, Billy? Why can’t you get it through your thick fucking skull that I didn’t try to get her killed!? I saw that your ass was about to die right in front of me! I’m so utterly and fucking sorry that I abandoned her and ran to you, Billy, because I was scared they would get you instead! I’m sorry!”

He stormed up to her, his pupils now blown.

“I’m a grown fuckin’ man, Y/N! So what if they got to me!? I can handle it! I don’t need you!”

“You make it so clear that you don’t need me, Billy, so fucking clear.”

She backed down, the two of them holding eye contact intensely and breathing heavily, the rest of the room so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

“Y’know what?” his eyebrows furrowed, anger still evident in his features. “It should’ve been you.”

And that was the final blow. The knife couldn’t be twisted anymore. It was lodged into her heart as far as it could reach.

He turned his back on her, striding back to his bed. She remained still, a breath managing to sound from her mouth. She spoke slowly, “I’m going to give you a chance to say that you didn’t mean that. If you say nothing, I promise you, William Hargrove, you will be sorry those words ever came out of your mouth and you will never hear from me again.”

She waited a moment, total silence consuming them aside from the faint murmurs of the kids in the living room. He shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. She nodded, slowly backing her way to the door.

“Got it. I just want to say that I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you and you didn’t show me much of your shitty side as you did with everyone else, but you are a grade-A asshole, Hargrove. Have a nice life.”

With that, she sauntered back to the kids, bidding them farewell.

“I’m not sure if I’ll see you much around here anymore, but you guys are always welcome at my place. I love all of you so much.”

Dustin was the first to hug her, her tears gently falling on top of his head. Everyone else followed, Max kissing her cheek as she offered a look of sorrow.

It’d been about two weeks since then. Her boss knew all of what she was going through, so he didn’t question it when she showed up only three times within those two weeks. She spent most of her time locked up in her bedroom. She had a little cabin all to herself in the woods, Hopper and Joyce just a few miles down. They knew the deal as well, dropping off a meal ever so often. They offered comfort, but nothing satiated the ache in her chest.

On the days she mustered up the strength to fix herself and visit El at the hospital, she wished she would run into Billy. She was met with disappointment each time he didn’t show, but she shook it from her mind, putting a smile on her face for El’s sake. El was doing better, thank God, so she didn’t hesitate to ask for all the details on what had gone down between the pair. Y/N didn’t want to bombard her much, but when Billy visited her alone, he didn’t hesitate. He was miserable, losing his mind without his right hand. They’d done everything together all this time and a part of him was simply missing without her there. 

This was her third day in a row spent rotting away on her bedroom floor. She was so sure he would never show. He hadn’t even made any attempts at calling her, so why on Earth would he show up? All of her thoughts were silenced when she heard her window slam open. She got a glimpse of his disheveled blonde curls, frizzier than usual, puffy red lips complementing his eyes. 

“You moved the spare key.”

She stared at him, nothing coming to her mind.

“You moved the key, baby.”

“‘Baby’? You have the audacity to call me ‘baby’, Billy? After two weeks of not speaking to me, you come in through my bedroom window, confused as to why I moved the spare, and you call me ‘baby’? Billy, last time I checked, you were fully okay with losing me. What the hell is wrong with you?”

She stood up, anger brewing within her. She was happy to see his face after so long, but he was acting like nothing had happened.

“’M sorry, Y/NN. I’m an asshole and I fucked up, but I am so sorry,” she gave him a chance to get close. “I missed you, princess.”

Then she smelled it. He reeked of liquor.

“You’re drunk.”

“Princess-”

“Billy, get out.”

“Babe-”

“Get out, Billy!”

Soon, she was crying again. It seemed as if she didn’t know him at all anymore. He walked over to her trembling figure, allowing her to just fall apart in his arms.

“I was drinking, but ‘m not drunk, princess. I didn’t mean it. ‘M not just comin’ to my senses now that I drank. I've been missin’ you all this time.”

“Why didn’t you reach out to me sooner?” she sniffled.

“Because,” he paused, sighing. “Because I didn’t wanna look weak. Didn’t wanna make it look like I became a pussy.”

She was seething once again but she couldn’t yell anymore, gently pushing him off instead.

“You hurt my feelings and you were worried about looking like a pussy? Really? I thought I knew you so much better, Billy. I guess I was wrong.”

He looked like a sad puppy, his head hanging low. 

“Babe-”

“Shut up, Billy. Please just shut up. Please get out of my house and never speak to me again. Leave me alone. Please.”

Her tone was desperate. She loved this boy with every ounce of her being. He was engraved into every fiber of her. And to hear all of what he had to say was just disheartening. She moved to the door and he followed, taking hold of her wrist and turning her body to his.

“Please, Y/NN,” at this point, his face was dripping with tears. He fell to his knees, his arms instinctively making themselves at home around her hips. “Please forgive me, baby. Please! I will beg, do whatever the hell you want, if it means you’d forgive me and talk to me. I miss you so much! I can’t fucking live without you! ‘ve been a piece of shit to you for so long. You don’t deserve any of it and I really don’t deserve you, but if you give me the chance to make things right, I can’t promise I won’t fuck up, but I will try my best not to just for you.”

She took a breath, her mouth hanging open for a bit until she found the right words.

“You know I love you, right, Bill?”

He nodded, watching her every move.

“And you know that I’ve been in love with you?”

Silence.

His arms just tightened around her and his expression was as clear as day.

He knew. He knew all along. And so was he. But he stuck with his reasoning of not wanting to appear weak or seem like a pussy for actually loving someone. She was the only person he had a soft spot for. He didn’t show it very well, but he’d do things for her he’d never done for anyone else: he’d hold her hair back while she puked after a wild night of drinking, carrying her home and putting her to bed, making sure to tuck her in on those same wild nights. He didn’t do that for just anyone, a girl at that. It had to be his girl. It had to be his Y/N.

“Billy,” she started again, her voice softening. Her hands found his hair, moving to rest on his shoulders as her tears fell one by one. “I’ve been in love with you all this time, and you knew. You didn’t say anything because what? You’re scared of love? You don’t wanna show everyone that you’re a lovable person?”

The side of his face rested on her stomach. He couldn’t stand to see how much he was making her cry. A moment of silence passed, her hands finding his hair once again.

“‘M sorry,” was all he managed to get out at that moment. He looked up at once. “Please, baby, ‘m on my knees, beggin’ you to just gimme a chance. If you hate me and you really just want nothing t’ do with me, tell me and I’ll be out of your hair. But, just so you know, I will never be at peace with all I’ve done to you, princess, and I’ll make sure the dickhead that gets the pleasure of bein’ yours makes you feel like the most special girl in the world if it can’t be me.”

She’d never seen him like this, features and emotions so raw. She tried her best to silence the voice in the back of her mind that suggested he was bluffing. She held onto his shoulders, muttering “get up” as she braced herself for her following question.

“So, what does this mean, Billy?”

He took hold of her hips, pulling her body into his ever so delicately, like she were a piece of glass.

“Means I’m asking you to be my girl. Properly. I don’t wanna hear someone else call you theirs. I don’t want you in my bed or me in yours for a hookup just to leave the next morning and say we’re just friends. I don’t want to show you that I love you only when we’re high or drunk. I don’t. I want to wake up next to you every single morning. I want to hold you like this every single day after work. Wanna shout from the rooftops how much I love you and how lucky of a man I am to have you in my life and by my side. I wanna be the reason you smile every day. I want to be the shoulder you lean on when you don’t have the strength all on your own. I want all of it. I want all of you, princess. I’m all in, just for you, sweetheart.”

In that moment, she felt like a daft little girl, allowing a boy to sweet-talk her.

“How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes avoiding his, showing that she was thinking of letting him back in but holding back due to her fears.

“I won’t hurt you, baby.” he took her hand and placed it on his chest, his heart drumming a mile a minute. “I promise, I won’t do anything stupid to hurt you, sweetheart. And I won’t do it simply because I love you.”

She finally looked into his eyes, and she didn’t have to search much as sincerity was written all over his expression. His eyes glimmered with hope, hope that she wouldn’t give up on him just yet.

“You promise?”

“I promise, princess.”

He waited for her to speak, watching as if he saw her thoughts unfolding in her mind.

“I forgive you, Billy, and…yeah, I will be yours.”

She took a leap of faith, her lips finding his as her arms entangled themselves around his neck. His wet eyelashes tickled her skin, their tears mixing into the kiss. In all the years she dreamt of being with Billy, she didn’t think they’d get together under circumstances like this. Nonetheless, it was perfect; both of their emotions and feelings out in the open, raw, unfiltered – like never before.

“I love you, Billy.”

Fuck both of you. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie murmurs, dropping his arm around you, heavy and comforting and him. 

You stare at your meagre lunch, and rest your cheek against Eddie’s shoulder for a moment, just the one. You’ve built so many walls around yourself over the years. One brick at a time for every time you’ve run into casual cruelty of your existence (poor, a woman, smart in a way that makes men feel inadequate), and it’s only with him and a few others that you allow yourself to be soft, if only for a moment. 

“Fine,” you reply distantly, pressing closer for a breath. “Just—fine.”

You’re not fine, and you both know it.

. . .

Tuesday, you glimpse Billy in the hallway between third and fourth period.

He’s got Tina Morrison pressed against the lockers, hand braced above her head, leaning in close enough that their mouths are almost touching. She’s giggling at whatever he’s saying, twirling her hair, and Billy is smiling with his teeth but not his eyes. You hate the fact that you recognise the difference now. 

You force yourself to keep walking. Force yourself not to look or linger, or give him any indication you’re watching. But you feel his attention snap to you like a rubber band pulled taut. Feel the weight of his gaze tracking your movement down the hallway, heavy and deliberate, a physical touch between your shoulder blades.

You don’t turn around.

In calculus, he shows up fifteen minutes late, his hair mussed and his collar skewed. Doesn’t look at you once as he swaggers across the classroom, all eyes on him. Just sprawls on his chair in the back row and stares out the window like he’s planning his escape route in his head. 

There’s a new bruise on his knuckles when his skin catches sunlight. Fresh. Purple spreading across the ridge of bone and tendon.

You wonder who he hit. Wonder if it helped. Wonder if anything helps when you’re Billy Hargrove and your Neil’s voice lives in your head. 

Mr Martinez calls on you to solve a problem on the board. You stand, move to the front on automatic, and as you’re writing out the equation, you feel it—that prickle at the base of your skull that means someone’s watching. No, not just someone. 

You glance over your shoulder. 

It’s him, of course, because it’s always him. Billy is looking at you, sprawled back into his seat, the chain around his throat winking in the afternoon light. His eyes are flat, empty, and when you meet his gaze head-on, he doesn’t look away. Just holds it, unblinking, until you’re the one who breaks first, something like shame curdling inside your chest, strange and unfamiliar. 

Your hand trembles as you finish the equation.

“Correct,” Mr Martinez calls, but you barely hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

You return to your seat with your pulse throbbing in your throat.

By Wednesday, everyone is talking about the party at Tina’s and, even more importantly, the Halloween bash next week. 

You cut through the hallways like a minefield, ignoring the bodies and the noise. You’ve been good; work, scholarships and grants, helping Eddie with his homework, ignoring the unspoken weight between you. 

Billy hasn’t so much as spoken a word to you, and a part of you is glad, while another part keeps you awake late into the night, staring at your ceiling, mulling over your words. How easy it was to reach for something you knew would hurt him. 

You sigh, lift your eyes from the floor, and stop dead in your tracks. 

Billy is half-leaning, half-slamming his weight against the locker beside yours, one hand flat on the dented metal, the other braced on his hip. His head tips back, laughter spilling out of him in a rough, deep spill that makes several girls down the hall turn reflexively towards the sound. 

There’s a girl under his arm. Blonde. Cheerleader skirt, perfect hair, lip gloss that catches the fluorescent light. She’s laughing too, high and breathy, one hand pressed to his chest like she’s trying to keep herself upright.

Your stomach does something unpleasant.

You’ve seen her before. In the halls, at games you showed up to only for Eddie—on those rare occasions you went at all—holding pompoms and cheering loudly. She’s not mean, as far as you’ve seen, not the way some of the others have been, treating you like a stain, a freak. She’s just… one of them. The ones who know precisely how to move through this world: eyes forward, lip gloss perfect, never bumping into the edges, an ease to her life you’ve always envied rather than resented. But it feels, oddly enough, like a slap to the face to see them together near your space. Because of course this is the type of girl Billy goes for, he’s been consistent if nothing else, and you’re just…

A stain. 

“—you’re terrible,” she giggles, swatting at his arm.

“I know,” Billy drawls, sounding delighted, a devilish grin tugging upwards. “That’s why you like me.”

“I never said I liked you,” she argues, but it’s a weak, unconvincing statement, and Billy knows it, too. 

“No?” he poses lightly, dipping his head closer in that cocky, confident way. “Could’ve fooled me Friday night.”

Your eyes flicker down her neck before you can stop yourself. And there it is—a faint bruise at the curve, half-hidden by her glossy hair. His handiwork. 

You slam your locker door a little harder than you strictly need to. They both look over at you due to the proximity of the sound. For a split second, his expression does something strange when he recognises you—surprise, then something else, darker and hotter, predatory around the edges. 

Then the mask slides back, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, hey,” he says as if you’ve just wandered into his living room. “Didn’t see you there, grease monkey.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You’re shouting. The entire hallway sees you, Hargrove.”

His jaw pulses, once, gaze darkening further, growing more stormy by the minute as he drags his eyes over your features. Perhaps because he was expecting this conversation to go differently, but your tongue won’t obey, and you’re not sure how to backtrack on what you said to him that night outside of Gareth’s place. And another, smaller part of you is unsure whether he deserves an apology, given everything he’s said and done since getting to Hawkins. To you, to Max, to others. 

The girl under his arm looks between you, evaluation flashing in her eyes. She’s pretty in that effortless, catalogue way. Blue eyes, small button nose, hair glossy and smooth in the overhead light. 

“Hi,” she says, a little uncertain. “Do you… need the locker?”

“No,” you reply, briefly flicking your attention towards her. “Already got my stuff. You’re fine.”

“Oh. Okay.” She smiles, tentative but surprisingly sincere. “I’m Jessica. Jess for short.”

You know who she is. Everyone in Hawkins knows who Chrissy Cunningham’s best friend is. The two best cheerleaders at Hawkins High, beautiful and intelligent, both from good families. 

You give her a shallow nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen you around.”

“You’re the mechanic girl, right?” she asks, recognition sparking. “You fixed my dad’s car last fall. And for a lot cheaper.”

“That’s me. Cheap labour.”

“That’s really cool,” she says, and you can tell she actually means it, not just performing. “Thanks again. It’s running great.”

Something in your chest eases a fraction, defences folding back an inch or two. Billy’s eyes flick between you and Jess, like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Look at you, grease monkey,” he huffs, amused, but there’s something edged in meaness about how he rolls his words. “Making friends.”

You adjust your weight, cutting a brief look at him, then force your gaze away. “I have friends.”

“Sure you do,” he begins, and there’s something soft and cruel about his tone. He’s looking for a fight, you realise, nothing about your last interaction has left his mind. “Little brats and a local freak—”

“Don’t talk about Eddie like that,” you snap automatically, fire flushing through your system. 

Your gazes clash, and he grins, teeth on display. It’s his victory, you realise angrily, he’s forced you to meet him toe to toe again. “Jealous?”

The look you shoot him is withering at best, the air between you pulling taut, prickly with heat. 

You’re not running because you like this. 

The urge to prove him wrong, to shut out his voice from your head, wins out, working your tongue before you can pull the words back. “Of what? Your ability to turn any girl in a ten-foot radius into a cautionary tale?”

Jessica’s confused little smile falters. You see it, feel it, the way her fingers curl tighter on the strap of her bag as if holding on means she can brace for what’s coming.

“Hey,” Billy begins, but there’s no gravity in his voice, no incredulous anger on Jess’s behalf. You think, deep down, that he enjoys this, seeing you throwing back the same viciousness he can. “Be nice.”

You snort. “That’s a bit rich, coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jess whispers, frowning faintly as she tracks the tension between you two.

You hesitate, your tongue frozen behind your teeth. In truth, you don’t know her. She’s not your friend. She’s just some girl with perfect hair who picked the worst possible guy to hang out with. That’s on her, not on you. Not your business, not your headache. And yet…

You could let it go. 

You don’t.

“It means,” you begin deliberately, levelling your gaze on her, “he goes through girls like cigarettes. Enjoy the attention now, because once he’s bored, you’re just another stomped-out butt in the parking lot.”

Her face flushes red. “Excuse me?”

Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Damn,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Don’t act like it’s not true,” you snap at him, nostrils flaring, hating the knowing, smug little curve of his mouth, as if you just proved something right. “We’ve all seen it. You show up, you turn on the charm, you drag them into your car or some sad corner of a party, and then you move on. Next name, same boring game.”

“That’s not—” Jess starts, then stops, gulping down a breath. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know him.” And it’s frightening how certain you sound, how Billy’s expression tenses, eyes blackening like he’s considering wrapping his hand around your jaw again, dragging you towards him until you’re sharing oxygen again. “And guys like him don’t suddenly become relationship material because you wear a bow in your hair.”

Her eyes flash. There’s no mistaking the hurt beneath the anger, and you immediately hate yourself a little. She straightens, shoulders pulling back, drawing away from Billy altogether. He doesn’t stop her. 

“You’re just jealous,” she exhales, loud enough that several people around you look in your direction. “You’re jealous because he’s with me and not with some… grease-stained weirdo from the auto shop.”

“Ouch,” you say mildly. “There she is.”

“You don’t know what he’s like when it’s just us,” she pushes on, ignoring you. “He’s actually… he’s really… he’s nice.”

You risk a glance at Billy. He’s watching you with that familiar, intense stare. Not her. You. Something in your stomach twists, constricting painfully, leaving your skin tight and hot. 

“I’m sure that’s what he wants you to think,” you say quietly, weakly.

“You think you’re so much better than everyone,” Jess scoffs, voice going shrill at the edges. “Like just because you work with cars and hang out with those kids and know big words, you get to judge everyone else.”

You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “I don’t think I’m better,” you articulate in such a painfully flat way, you hope she realises how ridiculous her assumption sounds. “I’m the resident freak, okay? I’m fully aware of my social standing. I just think I know how this ends. Spoiler: not well.”

Jess swallows, folding her arms over her chest. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” You shrug, conceding the fact. Sighing, you attempt to soften your expression. “Which is why I’m telling you to be careful, not to stop. You wanna keep hooking up with him, go for it. But understand it’s not because you’re special. It’s because you’re available.”

A couple of students whisper under their breath, exchanging looks, sensing drama. Your spine prickles, tension coiling tighter around you. 

“Wow,” Jess says, eyes shining. “You must be really fun at parties.”

Humiliation burns your skin. “I don’t go to parties.”

“That explains a lot,” Billy mutters knowingly.

You glare at him. “Stay out of it.”

“You’re talking about me,” he replies boredly. “Kind of hard to.”

“That’s because you make it about you,” you snap, sucking in a breath, and it’s so much easier to do this with him. To argue, to fight, because you know which buttons to push, because you know he’ll push back. “You treat girls like… like they’re accessories. Something to hang off your arm until you get bored, then toss them aside. And everyone just goes along with it because you’re good-looking and you have a nice car. You’re not some bad boy, Hargrove, you’re just a bad person.”

The word “girls” comes out harder than you intended. Everything about your words slips out, knife-sharp, ready to tear and cut. 

Jessica flinches; a small, troubled thing, shoulders slanting downward. Billy spins fully to face you, stalking a step towards you, a feral glint in those blue eyes. You try to ignore the way both your chests expand simultaneously, as if something has loosened between you now that you’re near each other again.

“And what?” Billy poses, his voice going quiet in that way that makes your pulse spike. “You want me to take them to church instead?”

“I want you to stop acting like they’re disposable,” you argue, breathing hard. “Like they don’t walk away from you feeling smaller than when they met you.”

Jess’s face goes paper-white, her mouth wobbling. 

“Stop it,” she says suddenly. “Just stop.”

Your mouth snaps shut, your pulse deafening in your ears.  Jess looks between the two of you, chest rising and falling too fast.

“You don’t get to talk about me like I’m not here.” She looks towards Billy, but he’s still glaring holes into your face, ignoring her. “You don’t get to talk about him like he’s some… some monster and I’m too stupid to see it. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

“Yes,” she shoots back fiercely. “And if he… if he doesn’t feel the same way about me as I do about him, that’s my business. Not yours.”

The word feel hangs in the air like smoke. You see Billy’s jaw clench, something about his expression cooling immediately. 

“I didn’t say you’re stupid,” you say, a little softer. “I’m saying he’s… not good at this, with anyone. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t care to learn. And you deserve someone who doesn’t have to unlearn treating you like trash.”

“Shut up.”

You look towards Billy. There’s a raw edge to his expression again, half-frozen, half-feral. The one from your drive when he backed you into your truck, the one outside Gareth’s house. The one that says you’ve hit something raw. Again. 

Jessica notices too. You spot the way her hand curls into his jacket, like she’s not sure if she’s holding back from putting his hands on you or anchoring herself.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks you, her eyes narrowing. “Did he reject you or something? Is that why you’re so obsessed with what he does?”

You actually laugh at that. You can’t help it. The sound comes out sharper than you intend. Meaner, too. “He didn’t reject me. He wouldn’t know what to do with me if he tried.”

“Try me,” Billy snaps, no hesitation. 

There’s a beat of silence. He looks like he regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, but it’s too late. Jess’s face crumples, cracking around the edges. Her fingers jerk away from Billy’s jacket as if he burned her. But this is worse, so much worse. A breath scrapes down your throat when you suck it in, your eyes still locked. 

“You’re disgusting,” she whispers, and the quiet devastation in her voice makes you wince.

“Hey,” he says, turning toward her. “Jess—”

“No,” she snaps, stepping back. “You are. And you—” she hisses at you, tears bright in her eyes, burning in a way that makes something cramp in your stomach, “—you’re cruel.”

She snatches her books out of her locker with shaking hands and slams it so hard the metal rings. Then she pushes past both of you and disappears into the stream of bodies, one hand up to her face. You stand there, the echo of the slam vibrating through your chest, ringing in your bones. The hallway noise rushes back in like coming up from underwater. Snatches of broken conversations. Laughter. A locker door slamming shut two rows down.

Billy turns on you. Right there, too close, physically in your space in a way that makes your skin tingle. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he snarls, low and furious.

You blink, trying to process everything that’s just transpired. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem,” he repeats, more snarling this time, his head bowed towards you. “You see a girl smiling for five seconds, and you gotta come in and piss all over it?”

“You’re the one who said—”

“I know what I fucking said,” he snaps. “You think I don’t hear myself?”

“Funny,” you say, heat rising up your throat. “Because you sure act like you don’t.”

He steps in even closer, crowd tightening around you like you’re both generating your own gravity. You’re aware of people watching, pretending not to, the whispers, but breaking eye contact now would mean his victory. 

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, low and furious. “You stand there with your big brain and your big mouth, acting like you’re better than everyone. You treat people like projects. Fix this, fix that, fix them. And the second they don’t work the way you want? You write them off as faulty parts.”

Heat creeps up your throat, your glare clashing with his. “I see patterns. And I’m not gonna stand there and watch you chew up somebody who actually seems nice just because you’re bored.”

“Maybe she’s not bored,” he says. “Maybe she likes it.”

Something about the way he says she likes it lingers in your mind, the implication blatantly clear. You cross your arms over your chest. “Maybe she thinks you’re capable of more than this,” you reason, voice dropping. “Maybe she’s wrong.”

His eyes flicker.

There it is—the nerve.

“You really think I’m that bad?” he asks scornfully, a laugh caught in his throat. “That I just… what, go around ruining lives for fun?”

“I think you go around making sure no one gets close enough to see you,” you argue back, equally as scathingly. “So you treat people like crap before they have a chance to expect anything from you. That way, when you bail, you can tell yourself they’re better off.”

He scoffs, but it’s weak. “You’re projecting. Daddy bailed, so now you walk around with a chip on your shoulder.”

You don’t bother asking how he found out, if someone told him, but the words are barely out of his mouth before you go for his throat in return. “Or maybe you just like being like him.”

His hand moves so fast you barely see it. Billy slams his palm into the lockers next to your head, hard enough that the metal dents. Several people jump. Someone gasps. You don’t move an inch; no blink, no gasp, just steady, hard eye contact. Your heart rockets, though, beating so loud you fear he might hear it due to your sheer proximity, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you shrink.

He’s inches from your face, breath hot, eyes wild. Your lips tingle where his breath fans over your skin. 

“Don’t fucking talk about things you don’t know,” he hisses through his teeth. “Or next time I won’t just hit the locker.”

He peels his hand away from the metal with a screech of protest and takes a step back, raking a hand through his hair. He turns and strides down the hallway, shoulders tense, head high.

You lean back against the cool metal and let out a breath caught in your windpipe, dizzy from the rush inside your head. The dent next to your head stares back at you. You slide your fingers over it, almost a caress. The metal is warm to the touch. You should feel shaken, and you do, but not in the way you expect. Because under the adrenaline, under the anger, there’s this stubborn, stupid ache.

You hurt him. Again. You meant to hurt him because he hurts everyone else. To make him feel, just for a moment, what it’s like to be on the receiving end of it. 

You also didn’t. It’s a tangle you can’t unravel properly. He brings out the worst in you, he’s an itch you can’t scratch, and yet… 

His face springs to your mind, the split second before his hand flew free, the series of small decisions and their outcome. It would be so easy to hate him because he’s a hateful person, because he fucks up, because he uses people and treats them like shit. He could choose to be better, but he doesn’t. Maybe because it’s all he knows, maybe because this is easier. His pain isn’t an excuse, you know that. 

You gather your books with hands that only shake a little and head to class.

. . .

After school, the shop feels more like home than your actual trailer.

The air is warm with the familiar mix of oil, rubber, and metal. The radio on the shelf keeps drifting between classic rock and static. The big bay door rest rolled halfway up, letting in a band of cool autumn air that smells faintly like wet leaves and something vaguely rotten. 

You brace one knee on the bumper of a sedan, elbow deep in the engine, fingers slick with grease as you retighten stubborn bolts. Your shoulders protest, but your brain never does. You like this part—problems with clear causes, clear solutions, parts that either work or don’t. Machines you’re good at, excellent at, even. 

If only people came with specs and wiring diagrams. If only you didn’t care about the damage your mouth can do. If only you could fold time back and choose less poisonous words. 

You get the bolt finally, the wrench slipping just enough to bang your knuckles against metal.

“Shit.”

You suck the sting, shake out your hand, and grin despite yourself. Pain makes sense when you can see where it comes from, when the price for it is success. 

“Everything alright back there?” Frank calls out from the office.

“Peachy,” you shout back.

You’re just leaning back from the hood when you hear it, a soft crunch of bike tyres on gravel. Your eyes skim towards the bay doors. A small figure on a bike slows to a stop just outside the concrete lip. The kid dismounts awkwardly, one foot hitting the ground before the other, hands wringing the handlebars like he’s reconsidering this whole endeavour now that he’s here.

Will Byers.

You recognise his rounded shoulders, the bowl-cut hair, the way he seems to fold in on himself like he’s practising taking up less space. You also recognise the hesitant half-wave he gives when he spots you looking.

“Hey,” he says, voice light but thin. “Uh. Is this a bad time?”

You wipe your hands on a rag and toss it onto the cart, searching for Mike or Dustin or even Lucas behind him, but it’s only Will, and after last year, the lonesome sight pings something like worry in your chest. “That depends. Did you bring snacks?”

His mouth twitches, eyes widening. “No?”

“Then yeah,” you say, mock-seriously. “Terrible time.”

His eyes bulge further before he catches the smile you can’t entirely hold back. He gives a huff of relieved laughter, visibly relaxing. 

“Oh. Right. I forgot you do that.”

“Joke?”

“Say things like you hate everyone when you actually really like us,” he replies sheepishly, wandering a little closer, eyes scanning the tools with an endearing kind of awe. “Dustin insists he’s your favourite person in the world.”

“Bold assumption,” you muse, tracking the unsure way he lingers, not entirely committed to staying yet. “What did you need, Byers? You’re a bit far from Castle Byers.”

The way his shoulders twitch at the mention of his hideout makes you wince inwardly. After the horrors he’s been through last year, the word castle must burn like a brand. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Habit.”

His feet shuffle, and you’re struck again by how small he is, even now, and your anger returns, fresh and hot. “It’s okay,” he whispers, avoiding your eyes.

You nod toward his bike to change the subject towards safer waters. “She holding up okay?”

He glances back at it like he’d forgotten it was there.

“Oh. Yeah. Mostly,” Will explains quietly. “Chain slipped earlier. But that’s not why I came.”

You lean back against the workbench, crossing your arms. “Alright. Lay it on me.”

He bites his lip, clearly rearranging thoughts in his head.

“Can I… hang out here for a bit?” he blurts finally. “Just… until my mom’s shift is over? Jonathan’s at work and… I don’t really wanna be at home alone right now.”

Something in your chest folds.

“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Of course. You don’t need a reason. You wanna sit, sit. You wanna help, help. Just don’t touch the welder unless I say so.”

His face loosens minutely. “Okay. Thank you.”

A pang goes through your heart at the shaky gratitude in his soft voice. You pat the stool near your bench instead, swallowing. “Parking spot for visiting royalty.”

Will climbs up, swinging his legs a little, eyes darting around the shop like there might be monsters hiding in the racks of tyres. You go back to the sedan, but not entirely. Your attention splits—half on the engine, half on the quiet shape perched on the stool.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask casually. “Or just rest in mutual silence and pretend the world isn’t awful?”

He huffs. “The second one sounds really good, actually.”

“Done. Silence it is.”

The radio crackles through songs while you work. Will examines his surroundings with curious eyes, now a little looser, less sharp angles and trembling shoulders. You work quietly, falling back into your familiar rhythm, cycling through tools like they’re extensions of your hand. He watches you with a solemn sort of silence. If it were Dustin, he would be asking you a thousand questions right now, but Will has never been a loud audience, not even the few times he’s shown up alone. This feels different, though. Like something’s been fundamentally stripped from him since last November. 

“Do you ever feel…” he starts, then stops.

He’s quiet for a second, but you don’t rush him, keeping your attention on the engine in front of you. You hear him pick at the edge of the stool, fingernails clicking softly against metal.

“I feel… wrong,” he exhales finally. Small voice, yet bigger than the shop.

You put the wrench down.

“Wrong how?” you ask quietly.

He shrugs, shoulders hunching. “Like… like everyone else got given a script, and I missed rehearsal. So I’m saying my lines too early or too late, or I don’t know them at all. And they—” he gestures vaguely toward the world outside “—can tell and they judge me for it.”

Your throat tightens.

“And also,” he adds, voice dropping, “there’s the… other stuff.”

You know what he means. The shadows. The Upside Down and its stain. The lab visits Joyce and Hopper barely talk about. The way his eyes go somewhere else sometimes, dark and far away.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “That’ll do it.”

“Kids at school think I’m weird,” he blurts out, as if now that the dam burst, he can’t stop. “They always did, but now it’s… worse. They look at me like…” He fumbles for words. “Like I’m freak. Or cursed. Or… crazy.”

You drop the hood of the sedan with a careful thump and turn to face him fully, leaning back on your hands against the bumper.

“You’re not crazy.”

He shoots you a look that’s halfway between sceptical and please.

“I’m not saying you’re not dealing with some serious supernatural nightmare bullshit,” you explain carefully. “Because you definitely are. But reacting to that? That’s not crazy.”

He lets out a breath, shoulders shaking a little. He shoots you a wide-eyed look, panic and desperation, small beacons lit with frantic need.

“Sometimes I just want to be… normal,” he whispers shakily. “But then that feels wrong too. Because if I were normal, I wouldn’t see things. I wouldn’t be able to help.”

“Exactly,” you say calmly.

He blinks, swallowing. “That’s not what everyone else says.”

You hum knowingly. “What do they say?” 

He shrugs one shoulder, scrubbing jerkily across his face. “‘It’ll be okay.’ ‘It’s over now.’ ‘It’s all in your head.’”

You make a face. “Yeah, that last one’s my favourite. Like, no shit it’s in your head, Brenda.”

He snorts, surprised.

You soften your tone. “You know why they say that?”

“Because they don’t believe me?” he guesses.

“Maybe some of them.” You search his expression until he’s looking at you, making sure he takes in your following words. “But mostly I think it’s because they’re scared. The idea that what’s happening to you is real? That it could happen to them? That breaks their whole brain. So they try to shove you back into a box where everything makes sense—‘oh, he’ll get better, everything’s fine.’ It’s not fair to you. But it’s easier for them.”

Will’s eyebrows crease. “That’s… messed up.”

“People are messed up,” you say, nodding. “I diagnose them all the time.”

He studies you for a moment. “Do you feel like that?”

“Like the world is wrong?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a little shyer now. “You don’t… I mean you… You don’t seem like everyone else.”

A small snort escapes you. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he says quickly.

You let your gaze drift over the shop. The stains on the concrete, the pegboard lined with tools, the calendar with a girl in a bikini leaning on a sports car that you keep threatening to take down.

“I’m a girl mechanic in a town that thinks women should only touch cars to wash them.” You swallow over the lump in your throat, sniffing once. “I’m poor. I’m smart in a place that doesn’t know what to do with smart without it becoming about a man. So yeah. I get it.”

The groove between Will’s brows deepens. “Do people… treat you differently?”

You huff. “You mean besides the customers who ask to ‘talk to the man in charge’ when I tell them what’s wrong with their cars?”

His eyes go wide. “They really do that? Still?”

“Weekly,” you confirm flatly. “Sometimes daily. Had a guy last month call me sweetheart three times and explain to me how the engine works while getting every single part wrong. I finally let him finish and then told him I’d put his air filter in his glove compartment if he didn’t shut up.”

Will laughs out loud—a real laugh, not the strained kind.

“What did he do?” he asks.

“Got red,” you say. “Left. Came back two days later when the car stalled out on the highway, like I said it would. Didn’t call me sweetheart that time.”

Will’s smile fades into something more thoughtful.

“But,” you continue, “being treated like I don’t belong? Like I must be confused about what I want? Yeah. That’s… constant.”

Something about that clearly hits close to home because he follows that up with, “How do you handle it?” 

“Badly,” you admit. “Yell a lot. Get into arguments I shouldn’t. Say things that are too sharp.”

Your jaw remembers the pressure of Billy’s fingers. Your tongue remembers the taste of every nasty thing you hurled at Jess. At Billy. How easy it is to judge, to tear down because you’re so used to baring your teeth, to biting, so you won’t be hurt first.  

You swallow again, a discomfort blooming inside your chest, alongside realisation you shouldn’t have done what you did. 

“But sometimes,” you add more carefully, shaking off your spell, “I use it.”

“How?” Will asks curiously.

You dip your head in a nod, rubbing the edge of your thumb, oil sunk deep into the groves of your skin. “Everyone underestimates me. That’s their first mistake. They talk over me, so they don’t hear the part where I’m right. Then, when the car fails—or whatever metaphorical car they’re driving—I’m the only one who knows how to put it back together. That gives me leverage. Options. And someday, if I play it right? A way out.”

“A way out,” he echoes, more thoughtful.

“Yeah,” you say. “I wanna be an engineer. Or… something like that. Fix bigger things than transmissions. Design stuff that doesn’t break in the first place. But college costs money, and money costs time, and time is currently measured in overtime pay and how much sleep I can sacrifice without turning into a zombie.”

“You’d be a really good engineer,” he says, earnest in a way that punches clean through you.

“Tell the scholarship committee,” you choke out, but the warmth lands anyway, warming you from inside.

He hesitates, eyes dropping to the floor. “Do you… ever feel guilty for wanting to leave? Like you’re abandoning people?”

You think of your mom, asleep in her small bed with her back to the wall. You think of Dustin and Lucas and Max and Will himself. Of Eddie, his warmth all encompassing, his laugh thawing something cold and jagged inside you. You think of Hawkins, with its rotting underbelly and monsters both literal and metaphorical. That horrible, belly-deep sense that what happened last year isn’t concluded, not really. 

“Yeah,” you exhale heavily. “All the time.”

“But you still want to go,” he says slowly, a question there.

“I have to try.” You shrug, kicking the floor with the tip of your boot. “If I stay here forever just because other people need me, I’m gonna end up resenting them. Or myself. Or both. And that’s… not fair.”

He looks down at his hands. “I want to go too. Sometimes. But it feels like the other place is tied to me. Like if I leave, it might follow.”

“That’s not on you,” you say immediately. “You didn’t ask to be kidnapped by a monster and kept in another dimension.”

He laughs weakly. “No, guess not.”

“If anything,” you go on, “you’ve done more than anyone to keep the rest of us alive. You’ve survived, Will.”

He looks up, eyes dark and too old for a face so young. “Then why do I still feel so…” He scrunches his face, searching for the right word, exhaling a shaky, “Broken.”

You exhale slowly.

“Because people keep treating you like you are. Because kids are jerks. Because adults are cowards. Because what happened to you was horrible, and it’s not a light switch you can flip off when it’s inconvenient.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Depressing is telling you everything’s fine when it obviously is not.”

He considers that. Then: “Is that why you told Jess those things? Yesterday?”

You blink, thrown by the sudden change in conversation. “How do you—?”

“People talk,” he answers, tips of his ears going red. “Also, Lewis Brown’s older sister saw the whole thing, and he overheard her on the phone last night with a friend.”

You press the back of your wrist to your brow, trying to rub out the dull ache suddenly forming there. 

“He said it was kind of awesome,” Will adds hastily, seeing the twist of your mouth. “In a terrifying way.”

You grimace. “I was… not nice.”

“You told the truth,” he says, echoing your own words.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “But…”

You picture Jess’s face, the way her eyes filled with tears, the tremor in her voice when she said, That’s my business, not yours.

“I talked about her like she wasn’t there. Like she was stupid. Like she needed me to tell her what was good for her.”

“She kind of does,” Will says, frowning. “You were just being honest, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you say with a tired groan. “Honesty is great. Necessary, even. But there’s a line between being honest and being cruel. And I stomped right over it.”

He swings his legs a little, the soles of his sneakers scuffing the stool. “You were trying to protect her.”

You wish it were the case. Because maybe, yeah, a part of you was. But this wasn’t about Jess, or even doing the right thing. It was about Billy. Everything in your life is about him these days. “Maybe. But I was also… angry. At him. At the way he uses people. At how everyone lets him. At how normal it is. Jess caught the shrapnel for that.”

Will watches your struggle play out, frowning thoughtfully, then, “Do you feel bad?”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly, the response immediate. “I do.”

He looks at you for a long beat. “You should tell her.”

You huff out a breath. “I know.”

“You’d tell me to,” he insists, giving you a pointed look. “If I yelled at Mike because I was mad at the world and made him cry, you’d say I should apologise. In fact, that’s exactly what you did last summer when Lucas and Mike had their fight.”

“Don’t use my own logic against me, kid,” you grumble, squeezing your eyes shut.

Will smiles, small but real, slightly crooked. “Then maybe you should stop being so logical.”

You throw a rag at him. He ducks, chortling.

“I’ll… think about it.”

“You’ll do it,” he corrects right away, looking smug and knowing, and you can’t even be mad because it warms you to see him like this again, even if only for now. “Thinking about it is for people who aren’t you.”

You flip him off lovingly and go back to the sedan.

You work until the sky outside the bay door goes from light grey to deep slate. Will sits in his spot, legs swinging, notebook out, scribbling something with a pencil you pulled out of your pocket and passed to him with a sworn promise you’ll get to see the finished thing. 

A soft call of your name jerks your head towards him. You haven’t noticed him pack up, but he stands there, backpack on, no notebook in sight. There’s something about his expression that makes you stand up straighter. 

“What’s up?”

Will sucks in a tiny, wet breath. “There’s…. something else. I haven’t told anyone, but…”

The hairs on your arm prick up, the comfortable air from moments prior dissipating like smoke. You bite your tongue, not pushing him, letting Will process whatever it is in his own time. Will battles with whatever is stuck in his mouth, the words that won’t come out, but you can tell it’s something bad. He’s shaking, you realise with a quiet curl of dread in your stomach. 

“Hey, kid, I’m—”

You both jerk towards the office, where Frank stands frozen in place, his eyes on Will. “Oh, Will. It’s good to see you again, son.”

Will attempts a weak smile. “Mr Hopkins.”

Not waiting for another moment, Will hurries towards his bike. You follow after him, your eyes narrowed. “Will.”

“Thanks,” he blurts out, one foot on his bike pedal, one hand on the brake. “For… you know. Everything.”

You search his face. He drops his gaze first, fingers wringing around the bike handles. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You wanted to tell me something.”

He jerks his head in a nod. “It’s fine. It can wait.”

He pedals off, light blinking on the back of his bike, disappearing into the early evening light. You watch him go until he’s no longer visible, then turn back to shut the bay.

His words linger.

You should tell her.

You go to bed with them still echoing in your head, and the lingering terror on Will’s small face burned into your mind.

. . .

The next morning, you get to school earlier than usual.

Partly because you finished your shift at the shop on time for once. Partly because you woke up before your alarm with your heart pounding from a dream about pipes bursting and water flooding everything you own.

You see Jess in homeroom. She looks rough in a way that’s unusual for her.

Her ponytail is lopsided today, dark circles linger under her eyes highlighted by too much concealer. Her cheer jacket is wrinkled around her shoulders. Her laugh rings too loud when her friend says something, the sound unusually brittle.

You see Billy later in the hall after the second period.

He looks… fine. Tired, maybe. There’s a scratch on his neck that wasn’t there the other day, and a hickey peeking above his collar that you try very hard not to stare at. His walk is the same, his smile the same. If anything, he seems more relaxed. Loose around the edges, content. 

You hate the way your brain puts two and two together.

After the third period, you march towards your locker, only to find Jess already there. 

She’s in her cheer skirt, a sweater layered over it, hair pulled up into a high ponytail that’s been redone since homeroom to be sleeker. Her back is to you, shoulders hunched slightly, like she’s trying to make herself small even while wrapped in school colours.

You suck in a deep breath, square your shoulders, and walk forward. 

“Hey,” you call out, keeping your voice low.

She stiffens. Slowly, her head turns in your direction. Up close, Jess looks more haggard, drained somehow. There are faint shadows under her eyes, the kind you only notice if you’re looking for them. Her smile sits on her face wrong: polite, small, flat.

“Hi,” she says.

You lick your chapped lips. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re not great at this—apologising, being vulnerable, admitting mistakes. You’re much better at fight-or-flight. Mostly fight.

Still.

“I—” you start, stop, force yourself to go on. “Look, about yesterday.”

Her hands close around the books in her arms. She stares at the locker door. “It’s fine,” she says too quickly. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s not fine,” you cut in. “I was an ass.”

She blinks, surprised enough to look at you.

“I shouldn’t have talked about you like you weren’t there,” you say, grimacing. “Or like you’re stupid. You’re not. It wasn’t my place to make you feel small. I was angry at Hargrove, and I took it out on you. That’s… not okay.”

She swallows. The movement is small but visible. “You were just trying to help.”

“Maybe, but intent doesn’t cancel impact. I meant what I said about him being bad at this. But you didn’t deserve to be collateral damage in our weird little war.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, like she wants to smile but isn’t sure if it’s allowed.

“Your… war,” she repeats.

This time, you grimace for a different reason. “We’ve been… clashing. Since he came by the shop. He brings out the worst in me.”

She nods like she gets it. You lean against your locker, watching her, scratching at the spine of your textbook.

“Look,” you begin, sucking in a fortifying breath. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about what’s going on between you two. And I’m not gonna tell you what to do. If you like him? That’s your business. But if he hurts you? If you ever need someone to… not look at you like you’re crazy for feeling how you do? I’m around.”

The words feel clumsy and too soft in your mouth, but you let them sit. Jess studies you, something complicated jumping across her features, as if she’s unsure whether you’re making fun of her. 

“Why?” she asks quietly.

“Why what?”

“Why would you care?” she clarifies bluntly. “You don’t even like me.”

“That’s not true,” you disagree, almost offended. “I don’t know you enough to like or dislike you. I dislike what this place does to girls like you.”

“Girls like me,” she echoes, but there’s less heat this time.

“Ones who are expected to smile,” you explain, watching understanding dawn across her face. “To be pretty and sweet and small and never complain. To date the quarterback or the new guy with the cool car, and be grateful even when he’s a dick. To never be angry in public.”

You pause, cutting your gaze across the moving throng of students around you.

“Girls like me are allowed to be angry. That’s the only thing we get. We do something wrong, and everyone rolls their eyes and says, ‘of course she’s like that, look at her.’ But girls like you? You’re not allowed. So when you do snap, they call you crazy, or ungrateful.”

Her throat works. “You’ve thought about this a lot,” she says.

“Occupational hazard,” you say with a scoff. “I overthink everything. Comes with the wrench, I’m afraid.”

She huffs a tiny laugh despite herself, and it makes you feel at least ten pounds lighter to hear it.

“Anyway,” you say, clearing your throat. “What I’m trying to say is… sorry. For yesterday.”

There’s a long pause between you, too much noise, but not enough relief in the tension arcing between you.

“It hurt,” she whispers at last. “What you said.”

“I know.” The admission sits heavily in your chest. “You don’t have to forgive me.”

“I…” She fidgets with the edge of her sweater. “I don’t know. Yet.”

You fight to keep your expression steady. “That’s fair.”

“But,” she adds, so soft you almost miss it, “thank you. For saying it.”

You nod, too, a little stunned by how much lighter you feel just hearing that. How a tight knot in your chest loosens, letting you breathe a little easier. Briefly, your traitorous mind slots Billy in her place, and you almost bite your tongue in retaliation. Would it feel like this? Would forgiveness and communication be even possible between you, or would you default to your usual warfare?

Before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice slices down the hallway.

“Jessica.”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. The hair prickles at the back of your neck anyway.

Billy. Like your mind has conjured him up from thin air. 

He’s striding down the corridor like he owns it, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, boots hitting the floor in measured, unhurried thuds. Even at this hour, he looks like he’s been awake for days and doesn’t intend to sleep anytime soon.

Jess goes still.

You watch her knuckles whiten around her books. Billy stops a few feet away, gaze flicking from her to you and back again. There’s a tightness around his mouth that wasn’t there yesterday. He looks coiled.

“Can we talk?” he says to Jessica, not taking his eyes off you.

She hesitates. Then she nods, looking equal parts determined and focused.

“Alone,” he adds pointedly, chin jerking in your direction.

You feel your spine stiffen.

“I should get to class anyway,” you say, catching Jess’s eye as you turn to go. “ You need me, you know where I am.”

Her mouth parts slightly, like she wants to say something, but Billy is already stepping into the space you vacated. You move down the row, pretending to fuss with a poster on the bulletin board around the corner. You’re not proud of it, but you don’t leave, either.

You lean your shoulder against the cool cinderblock wall and listen, the thin metal of the lockers carrying their voices along like a tin can telephone.

“What do you want?” Jessica asks stiffly, her voice small but not weak.

“Yesterday,” Billy says bluntly, as if it explains everything. “We need to clear that shit up.”

“There’s nothing to clear up,” she replies, trying to match his tone. “You made it pretty clear what you think of me.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

This is the part where the charm starts to fray, you think knowingly, tracking the pitches in his voice like weather. 

“I don’t have to,” she says, and there’s a tremor under the steel now. “You said them yourself.”

You close your eyes briefly, remembering his careless, heated, Try me. 

Billy exhales sharply, laughing under his breath. There’s heat under the sound, smoke fanning, but it’s not seductive; it’s heated in an angry, destructive way. 

“I was pissed,” he says. “She was being a—”

“Don’t talk about her,” Jess cuts in, surprising you enough to blink.

“I’m not here because of her,” she continues. “I’m here because of you.”

“What, you believe every word that came out of her mouth?” he demands, mockery creeping back into his tone, pointed and sharp. “You’ve known me what, a few weeks? A couple of nights? You think she’s got me all figured out?”

“No.” Jessica’s voice shakes, only once. “But I think she was right about one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” His tone dares her to say what you’re all thinking. “Which part?”

Don’t do it, you want to warn her. Don’t pick this fight, not with him, because he’ll break you. He will find a way to rip you apart from the inside out. Because a monster raised Billy Hargrove, and the monstrous parts in him keep winning, keep eating the man he could be and spitting out something ugly and cruel. And worse still, you realise how much you’ve done to draw that side of him out.

“You don’t care,” she says, her voice quiet with defeat. “About me. Not really.”

You hear the soft thunk of locker metal. You picture Jessica setting her books down, needing her hands free.

“You’re fun,” he says eventually. “We have fun.”

“I’m not… a toy,” Jess says shakily. “You can’t just pick me up when you’re bored and then drop me when you’re done.”

“I never said—we never said this was anything. You knew what it was.”

Fun. A way to pass the time. A distraction so he doesn’t have to go home and face reality. 

“I thought I did,” she says miserably. “But then you said those things in front of her like I wasn’t there. Like it didn’t matter what I felt.”

“What you felt,” he repeats, like the word is a foreign language.

“Yes,” she says, voice gaining strength. “What I feel matters. Maybe not to you, but it does to me.”

Billy lets out a derisive noise, and you hear him moving, maybe adjusting his position, maybe something else. “You’re a cheerleader, Jessica. This isn’t a goddamn romance movie. We hang out. We mess around. That’s it.”

“That’s not it, though,” she argues. “Not for me.”

“So that’s my fault?” he demands with a cold laugh, and you can almost see how he rolls his eyes. “Because you decided to catch feelings?”

You wince. He always manages to find the sharpest possible phrasing. No hold backs, no hesitations. It scares you, just a little, how much of yourself you can hear in him sometimes. How attuned you are to going directly for the throat, directly for the softest bits that hurt the most. 

“I didn’t ‘decide’ anything,” she says. “It just happened.”

“You know what else just happens?” Billy asks, voice going cold and hard. “Gravity. People fall. Doesn’t mean the ground is to blame when they hit it.”

“You’re comparing yourself to the ground? Like you can’t help it if you hurt someone?”

“That’s not what I—” He cuts himself off with a growl. “Jesus, you’re twisting everything.”

You hear her shaky exhale, deep and exhausted. You feel sorry for her standing there with your shoulder against the cool wall, because Billy is a hurricane, pure destruction, and Jess is just a girl folding under his intensity. 

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just tired.”

“Of what?” Billy scoffs. “Of being seen with me? ‘Cause I can solve that real fast.”

“Of pretending that it doesn’t hurt when you act like I’m… nothing,” she says, voice cracking. “Like I’m just—just some girl you can kiss when you feel like it and ignore when you don’t.”

“You’re—”

He stops. The silence stretches between them. You find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his response.

“I’m what, Billy?” Jessica asks, barely audible. “Say it.”

“You’re pretty,” he grinds out finally. “You’re easy to be around. You don’t nag. You don’t ask questions. Or you didn’t, until she—”

“Don’t,” Jess snaps, and this time her voice rings louder, clearer, syllables more solid. “Don’t blame her. She might be rude, but at least she doesn’t lie to my face.”

“I haven’t lied.”

“Yes, you have,” she snaps back. “Every time you looked at me like I was special when I wasn’t.”

Something in your chest twists. You’re not sure who you’re feeling it for.

“You are special,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. “Just not—”

“Not enough,” she finishes for him. “Not the right kind of special.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I like you,” she says. “I know that’s stupid. I know you’re… you. But I do. And I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you might care. Even a little. Eventually. Not just about how I look in your car.”

“You look good in my car,” he says automatically.

“You’re not listening,” she spits back, “You never listen.”

“I listen,” he protests.

“To what you want,” she stresses, more assured now. “What you need. What you’re angry about. But when I try to talk about me? You change the subject. Or you make a joke. Or you…” She trails off.

You hear a soft thud. Maybe her head against the metal.

“I shouldn’t have slept with you,” she says quietly.

You exhale through your teeth.

“Don’t say that,” he snaps.

“Why not?” she asks, genuinely confused, and you close your eyes. “It’s true. You wouldn’t talk to me if I hadn’t. You’d just find some other girl to climb into the back seat with.”

Don’t say you regret him. Your eyes open, a shaky breath escaping your lips. That’s why he’s angry, why he’s demanding she doesn’t say stuff like that. Because it hurts. Deep down somewhere, it nags at him because it’s one thing when he uses, but another when someone regrets letting him. 

“That’s not—”

“You told her you’d ‘try her’ right in front of me,” Jess snaps, voice shaking with anger now. “Do you have any idea how that felt?”

You hear him move. A shoe squeak, a shift of weight, you stop breathing for a moment.

“I was pissed,” he repeats. “She was being a bitch.”

“Maybe she was.” Jess lets out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “But she saw something I didn’t want to see. And instead of proving her wrong, you proved her right.”

“She doesn’t know me,” he says, low.

“Do I?” she demands immediately.

Silence. You stare at the chipped paint on the opposite wall, jaw clenched. You could and should walk away, but your feet won’t move. 

“Answer me,” Jess says, fiercer than you’ve ever heard her. “Do I know you?”

“No one knows me.”

There’s no brag in it. No cocky edge. It sounds… empty. Hollow in such a way that it rips clean through you. Once upon a time, you thought the exact same thing: that no one could understand you, that no one saw you. Or ever could. You were an oddity in a world demanding conformity, to be eradicated at first chance, not here to be understood or accepted. 

What must it be like? To live with Neil Hargrove in your house, to fear the hand and voice and presence of a man who should love and protect you, but instead hurts you? It doesn’t excuse the harm Billy does, but does it not explain it? If all you know is fear and hurt, is that not going to be what you put out into the world? Kindness requires the kind of bravery people like Eddie possess. To be open and loving in a world that’s determined to punish you for it. 

“Whose fault is that?” Jess whispers after what feels like a small forever.

Billy laughs once, sharp and humourless. “Yours, apparently,” he replies flippantly. “For thinking there’s something to know.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You want some douchebag who’s gonna write you poems and hold your hand and talk about forever?” he asks, words turning cruel in that quick, familiar snap. “Go find someone else. I’m not your fucking boyfriend, Jessica. I’m not your saviour. I’m not your anything.”

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she chokes out, voice cracking.

“You wanted honesty,” he spits out. “There it is. Now get lost.”

There’s a sharp, wet inhale, and you hear, more so than see, the hurried retreat. The slapping of feet and the hiccup she sucks in as she runs past, mercifully turning in the opposite direction and not noticing you standing there. Your heart thuds as you watch her retreating back, your brain buzzing, caught in a maelstrom of warring emotions. 

Footsteps draw in your direction, and you tense, hurriedly checking if you can make a quiet escape. 

“This is where you say I told you so,” Billy announces dryly, rounding the corner, his expression closed off. 

Your gaze roams over his profile, the glinting earring at his ear, the tension in his jaw. “How did you know I’m here?”

He barely turns his head, but the electric blue of his eyes is devouring, zapping you until your back brushes the wall behind you. The way he’s looking at you is answer enough. Because you both always know. Because your personal, inbuilt fucked up sensor for one another never seems to fail. 

“And I wasn’t gonna say that,” you add, readjusting your stance.

“Why not?” he sneers, his teeth appearing in a predatory smile. “You were right.”

“Being right doesn’t feel good right now. It just feels… sad.”

He laughs once, bitter enough to sting. “Get used to it, grease monkey. That’s life.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

He shoulders past you. You catch the faintest brush of his arm against yours. No shove. No deliberate hit. Just contact, like he has to have this, even now, when everything is bubbling hatefully between you. 

“You think you’re so different from me,” he throws over his shoulder. “But you’re not. You break things too. You just convince yourself you’re doing it for a good reason.”

You flinch. An hour ago, you would have argued with him until you were ready to drop. But you can’t, not anymore because he’s not wrong. Billy disappears into the flow of bodies, broad shoulders swallowed by noise and colour. Yet he lingers on your mind the entire day. And maybe that’s the real problem.

Because for all the ways you can see him clearly—

You still haven’t figured out how to stop looking.

. . .

Friday arrives with rain and pre-game excitement. 

You spend the day in a fog, going through the motions—classes, lunch with Eddie at your usual table, more classes. Eddie finds you after seventh period with that nervous energy he gets before performances, talking too fast about setlists and amp settings and whether they should open with Zeppelin or Sabbath, or something else entirely.

You let his words wash over you, anchoring yourself to his familiar presence.

“You’re still coming, right?” he asks as you’re walking to the parking lot.

Your elbow meets his ribs gently. “I said I would.”

“I know, but you’ve been weird all week. I just wanted to make sure—”

“I’ll be there, Ed.” You soften your voice, force a smile on your face. “I promise.”

He relaxes instantly, shoulders slumping. “Okay. Good. Game starts at seven, but we go on at seven-thirty. Meet me by the bleachers?”

“Sure. I’ll see you there. Don’t suck or I’m disowning you.”

He flips you off with both hands, but he’s grinning now. Happy, a soft part of you notices, and you watch him climb into his van, watch him drive away with one hand out the window in a wave.

Then you go home, shower off the day’s grease and anxiety, and try to figure out what you’re going to wear to a basketball game you don’t want to attend. You settle on jeans and a sweater—nothing special, nothing that says you tried. This isn’t a performance. You’re just showing up for Eddie.

That’s all this is.

. . .

The gymnasium buzzes with noise.

You forgot how much this town cares about high school basketball. How it’s the only thing that matters from November to March, how everyone shows up to cheer for boys who’ll peak at eighteen and spend the rest of their lives talking about glory days that never were.

The air smells like popcorn and sweat as you push your way through the crowd, the air humid with so many bodies packed together. The bleachers are full already, the band is setting up at one end, and on the court, the team is warming up—running drills, taking practice shots, bodies moving with coordinated precision.

And there, in the centre of it all, is Billy Hargrove.

He’s in his uniform—number 8, white tank top with green and orange trim—and even from here you can see the way his body moves. Fluid and controlled. Every motion is calculated for maximum efficiency. He takes a shot from the three-point line. Swish. Nothing but net. 

The crowd roars.

It’s hard not to admire him, the predatory grace of his body, the subtle, coiled aggression in each gesture. You knew he would be here, of course. He’s the new star of the team, but you’ve never seen him in an actual game, and the last thing you want is for him to spot you. You’ve lost enough hours thinking about what transpired between you and Jess.

No one knows me. 

You find Eddie near the bleachers like you promised. He’s tuning his guitar, fingers moving across the frets with practised ease.

“You made it!” He’s grinning, nervous and excited. “We're on in twenty. You gonna stay for the whole game?”

“Maybe. Depends on how much I can take.”

He glances at the court, and something in his expression tightens. “Well, Hargrove’s been on fire during warm-ups. Coach is probably creaming himself.”

Your mouth refuses to work, so you say nothing, but you make the mistake of looking the same way and freeze. 

Because Billy is looking at you now, across the gymnasium, through the crowd and the chaos, his eyes find yours with that same unerring precision. He’s holding the ball in one hand, subtle tension in the tendons of his hand. Sweat glistens on his tanned skin, his curls pulled back, but there’s something feral in his expression.

Then someone shouts something at him, and the moment breaks.

“Come on,” Eddie urges, pulling you toward one of the last available spots. “Let’s get you a seat before it’s standing room only."

You follow him up, find a spot in the middle section where you can see the court and the band. Eddie lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I gotta go, but I’ll find you after?”

You try to smile, tap the metal bolt resting against his chest. “For luck,” you remind him, everything you need to say packed into those small words. “Break a leg.”

Eddie’s face softens, but he still rolls his eyes dramatically. “That’s theatre, sweetheart. For musicians, it’s—actually, I don’t know what it is for musicians. Don’t die?”

Despite everything, you laugh. “Don’t die then.”

He bounds down the bleachers, all nervous energy and long limbs, and you’re left alone in a sea of people who all seem to know each other.

The opposing team comes out. West Lafayette. Bigger school, better funding, players who look like they’ve been recruited since middle school. But when the whistle blows, and the game starts, none of that matters.

Because Billy Hargrove plays basketball like he’s trying to kill something.

. . .

He’s vicious.

That’s the only word for it.

He moves across the court with controlled violence, driving to the basket with his shoulder down, taking hits that would flatten other players and bouncing back like they’re nothing. When someone tries to block him, he doesn’t go around—he goes through, all elbows and aggression and the particular kind of rage that can’t be contained.

By the end of the first quarter, he’s scored twelve points and picked up two fouls.

The crowd is going insane.

You watch him intently, and something in your chest clenches tight. Because this isn’t about basketball, maybe it is to everyone else, but you know better. This isn’t about winning or glory or proving he’s better than West Lafayette.

This is about punishment.

Every drive to the basket, every hit he takes, every time he goes down hard on the court and gets back up—he’s hurting himself. Deliberately. Pushing his body past limits because pain is familiar, pain is controllable, pain is the only thing that makes sense.

You’re destroying yourself, you think, and something like anger and grief collect at the back of your throat until you want to push into the middle of the court and shake him.

The buzzer sounds for halftime. The teams head to the locker rooms, heads bowed in discussion. The crowd shifts now that there’s nothing to watch, talking, laughing, heading for concessions.

And Eddie’s band takes the floor.

You watch them set up, watch Eddie adjust his mic stand and make some joke that gets a smattering of laughs. They launch into their set. Covers, mostly, safe choices that won’t offend the parents in attendance, something you know Eddie abhors, but is better than not playing at all.

Despite that, Eddie transforms when he plays. You’ve seen it many times, but it never gets old—the way he becomes larger, more confident, more himself. His voice fills the gymnasium, rough and powerful, and for a moment, you forget about Billy Hargrove and scholarship applications and the crushing weight of wanting things you can’t have.

You simply watch your best friend play, and let yourself feel proud.

The set ends to genuine applause. Eddie catches your eye in the crowd and grins widely. You offer him a thumbs-up with a crooked smile.

Then the team comes back out, and the game resumes.

The second half is worse.

Billy is playing harder now, more recklessly. He takes a hit that sends him sprawling across the court, and he comes up with blood on his lip and fury blazing in his eyes. The ref calls a foul. Billy doesn’t acknowledge it; he just wipes his mouth and gets back into position.

West Lafayette is starting to get scared. You can see it in the way they hesitate, the way they give him space, the way they track him like he’s something dangerous.

They’re not wrong.

With three minutes left in the fourth quarter, Billy drives the lane. A defender tries to block him and gets an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. The defender goes down hard. Billy scores.

The whistle blows shrilly. Another foul. But Hawkins is up by fifteen, and Billy got twenty-eight points to his name.

The crowd is chanting his name like it’s a church hymn.

You feel sick to your stomach.

The final buzzer sounds. Hawkins wins, 78-60. The team swarms Billy, slapping his back, shouting his name, celebrating in a hooting, brash way guys often do. He accepts it with that sharp, empty smile, all cockiness and ease, letting the praise soak into his ego. 

Then, for just a second, his eyes find yours in the crowd.

And you see it. The exhaustion. The particular kind of emptiness that comes from pushing yourself past breaking and finding nothing on the other side. You stand before you consciously decide to. Start making your way down the bleachers, moving against the tide of people heading for the exits.

Eddie catches you at the bottom. “Hey, where are you—”

“I'll call you later,” you say, and keep moving.

“Wait—”

But you're already gone, pushing through the crowd, heading for the exit that leads to the back parking lot.

. . .

The back parking lot is nearly empty. Most people are still inside, celebrating or commiserating. The air is cold in a stinging way, making your breath visible in the lights that buzz overhead like dying insects. October in Indiana means the temperature drops deceptively fast after the sun goes down, and you can feel it now—the bite of it against your cheeks, the way it makes your lungs work harder.

Your truck sits parked at the far edge of the lot, under a broken light that keeps flickering on and off. You’re fishing for your keys when you feel it—that particular weight of his attention. 

You turn slowly.

Billy leans against the side of the building, half-hidden in shadow. Still in his uniform—number 8, white tank top dark with sweat, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is damp, curls falling across his forehead, and there’s a bruise forming on his jaw from where someone caught him with an elbow in the third quarter.

He looks exhausted. Hollowed out. Like he’s been running on fumes for so long, he’s forgotten what it feels like to have anything in the tank. In the intermittent darkness, his eyes look more black than blue.

“You waiting for someone, mechanic?” His voice cuts across the space between you, sharp, edged with something mean.

Your hand tightens on your keys. “Good game.”

“That’s why you’re out here?” He pushes off the wall and starts moving toward you. Slow and deliberate. “To tell me I played well? Give me a little gold star on my homework?”

“No.” You force yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screams at you to get in the car. So much has been said between you, most of it intended to harm, and right now, the weight of those words is like a third person between you. “I’m out here because you’re destroying yourself and somebody should probably say something about it.”

Billy laughs; short, cold, utterly devoid of humour. “And you think you’re that somebody? After what you said last week? After the shit you said to Jess? I’m supposed to believe you give a shit?”

The words hit exactly where they’re supposed to. Your chest tightens, shame and regret twisting together. A week of chewing over your words and their impact, and you try, once again, to find the words that are foreign to you. 

“About that—”

“Save it.” He’s closer now, maybe ten feet away, and you can see the exhaustion written in every line of his body. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need your concern. Or for you to try and figure me out through a basketball game.”

A thousand insults and observations burn on your tongue. Yet you think of Will asking you if you feel bad, about the bruises on Billy’s skin, about Jess and the relief of apologising. About that soft, gentle part of yourself you’ve hidden away to keep yourself safe. A side of you very few ever see, and only because they deserve it: Eddie, your mom, the boys, Frank, and, more recently, Max.

Right now, the fire ebbs from you, and instead, you hear yourself say, “I’m sorry.”

Billy goes completely still. “What?”

“For what I said.” The words come out rough, reluctant, but honest. “About your father. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t have the right to use that against you. It wasn’t right.”

He’s staring at you like you just spoke a foreign language. A foreign emotion spasms his face, there and gone in an instant. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump in that trademark way you’re beginning to associate with him.

“But,” you continue, and your voice hardens, “I meant what I said about Eddie. He’s off limits. Whatever you think is happening between us, whatever this is, Eddie doesn’t get pulled into it. Do you understand?"

Something passes over Billy’s face, dark and primal, as he pushes towards you, the distance shrinking.

“So you do think something is happening between us.”

“I—” You falter. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Yeah, it is.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that you can smell him; sweat and something else, copper maybe, from his split lip. “You felt it.” 

The light flickers. In the darkness, Billy’s face is all sharp angles and shadows. He chuckles suddenly, looking away, then back at you, a rough, pleasant sound. Real, in a way his performative, arrogant displays of amusement never are. 

“I was pissed at you,” he says quietly, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now. “After last week. After you threw my father in my face like you had any fucking right—”

“I said I was sorry—”

“I’m not finished.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I was pissed. I wanted to make you feel it too. Wanted to make you as angry as I was.”

His tongue drags over his lip again, his stare searing. When he speaks next, Billy’s words tumble out raw, rough in a way that makes your spine tingle. “I wanted you to think I’d hit you, wanted you to believe I would.”

The parking lot light buzzes. Flickers. You can hear your own heart, thudding like a drum inside your chest. His head angles away from you, half-turned away. 

“But I wouldn’t have.” 

“I know.” 

The words are barely a whisper, but they land like a grenade between you.

Billy’s head snaps back toward you. “What did you say?”

“I know.” You’re surprised by how certain you sound, how serene, how true it feels even as you repeat it. “You wouldn’t have hit me.”

“How?” The word comes out surprisingly strangled, a crack you’ve never heard in his voice. “How the fuck do you know that?”

Because you’ve grown up around violent men, you’ve tasted their cruelty. You know how easy it is for them to commit to it. If he truly, deep down, wanted to hurt you, he could have. Would have—many, many times. Despite the cruelty and ego, despite his temper and threats, he hasn’t done anything you could truly hate him for because you’ve returned his fire with fire of your own. 

Because underneath all the rage and posturing and desperate need for control, there’s a line Billy Hargrove won’t cross.

At least not with you.

“I just do,” you say simply.

Billy breathes hard, his fists clenched at his sides. You’re intimately aware of how you’re the only ones here, your truck cold against your back, with him a stride away. You wonder if there will ever be a time when there’s not this torturous electricity between you, capable of destruction and—

“You think I don’t like it?” he asks abruptly. “The way you talk to me. The way you look at me like you see all the shit I’m trying to hide and don’t back away.”

“You act as if you hate it,” you point out, frowning.

“Maybe I do,” he counters with a breathless, dangerous little laugh. “Maybe I hate that I like it.”

You could kiss him. You could shove him. You could do both, one after the other.

“I should go,” you say instead, something breathless in your voice because you want. So much it’s making you dizzy, unbalanced, and wanting is a dangerous thing for a girl like you. 

“You sure?” he asks, low and throaty. Not mocking, not challenging. 

You swallow thickly. This is different, a new shade between you, something you’re not sure is safe to explore, something you doubted you were even capable of. No teeth or snarling, just… this. A prickling heat, simmering steadily between you. 

“No,” you admit despite your better judgment. 

Something like satisfaction licks across his face.

“You’re not good for me,” you say absently.

“I’m not good for anyone,” he says without missing a beat.

You believe that, too.

“Let go,” you repeat.

This time, he edges back slowly half a step, still drilling holes into you. He searches your face one last time, like he’s memorising it, seeking something. Like neither of you is entirely certain how to proceed now. 

“Go home, princess,” he calls out after what could be minutes or hours of watching each other. “Fill out your forms. Dream your big dreams. Pretend this is all temporary.”

“And you?” you can’t help but ask. “What do you do?”

Billy smiles; a small and sharp thing. “I play the game,” he replies lazily, mockingly. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

His gaze sweeps over you, a flicker of something there, and you would give anything to know what he’s thinking about right now, as he examines you.

“Night night, mechanic.”

“Night, Hargrove.”

Smirking, he turns, ambling back towards the noise and the lights, the shape of him familiar and magnetic. Sad. Something about him walking away fills you with sorrow you can’t quite explain. You watch him go, hands trembling slightly where they hang at your sides.

You don’t know if he hates this or loves it. You don’t know if you do, either.

You just know that you’ve stepped too close to something with teeth, and part of you is already leaning in for another bite.