Nancy hadn't been herself, not since Barb disappeared, and her mood had only been getting worse every day. Steve could feel her retreating into herself, hiding from the world and from herself and from him. He could feel Tommy and Carol getting progressively more frustrated with her (and with him for putting up with it) with every passing day.

And it's not like Steve blamed Nancy. Her best friend had gone missing while Nancy hung out with people Barb wasn't the biggest fan of. And, to rub salt in an open wound, Nancy had been having sex with Steve while Barb disappeared.

Steve felt a little guilty, to say the least. He'd had the thought of If I hadn't wanted to sleep with Nancy so bad, she would have gone home with Barb and they'd both be safe. But after a while, he wasn't so sure about that. The longer he thought about it, the more he became convinced that if Nancy had gone with Barb, they both would have gone missing.

Whether it was through his own guilt or because he wanted to make Nancy feel better, he wasn't quite sure, Steve found himself driving to the record store just off Main Street after school got out. He'd blocked out the noise of Tommy and Carol bickering, Tommy in the passenger seat and Carol leaning forward from the back seat, too busy trying to remember which bands had played from the radio the night he was studying at Nancy's house, and whether or not Nancy had actually liked them. He didn't want to screw up his little surprise by getting her music she wouldn't listen to—or a vinyl she already owned. Maybe he should have discreetly snooped through her pile of records before he'd made up his mind to do this...

Tommy sharply elbowed Steve in the ribs. Before Steve could snap at him, he said, "You're overthinking this, man. She's either gonna pretend to love it and not actually care, or she's just gonna not care."

Behind them, Carol giggled. It sounded far more sinister than it should have.

Steve glared at him for a second before he made the turn into the store's parking lot. "You're no help, you realize that?" He parked the car and turned to the two of them. "You're gonna stay here and wait, got it? And don't do anything stupid, I'll make you clean the back seat this time."

Carol grinned. "What if it's the passenger seat?"

"Or the driver's," Tommy added, leaning back to kiss Carol, before Steve could snap that the passenger's seat was Nancy's seat. Steve felt his throat constrict.

"Do not get it on in my fucking car," he warned, "or I'm never driving you anywhere ever again."

He got out, slamming the door behind him, and sent a warning glare back over his shoulder. Tommy flipped him off through the windshield. Beside Steve, an elderly woman gasped in offense and Steve winced.

"Sorry about him," he muttered, but the woman was already scurrying off into her own vehicle. Steve sighed and pushed open the front door to the record shop.

A little bell above the door chimed once as he swung the door open, and then again as it closed behind him. Steve had only been in the store a handful of times, but he loved it more and more with every visit. The walls were plastered in old vinyls, displayed so that the name of each band was readable. No vinyl was the same color, some of them blue, some red, some multicolor, but all of them were different. A small gold plaque designated the oldest vinyl the store had on the walls, which was a reddish Vocalion from 1922 and was positioned directly above the door.

Rows and rows of alphabetized vinyls spread throughout the store, which was bigger than it looked from the storefront. In the lefthand corner nearest the door, a cashier's desk was set up, though there was no employee behind it. A plastic sign read I'm in the back! I'll be back soon!

Steve headed for the aisles of vinyls, then recognized what was playing over the speakers—Bob Seger's Night Moves.

Humming as he flipped through the stacks, Steve didn't notice the door to the back open, or you walk out of it and back to your desk.

"Mmm, sweet summertime, summertime," Steve sang, keeping his voice low, still embarrassed by his voice, an instinct his father made sure he would never shake.

But you heard it, even with the volume of the radio. You looked up from the desk, gaze scanning the rows. You spotted the back of Steve's head and recognized him immediately. That hair was unmistakable.

Heat burned in your belly. Suddenly, you really wished your coworker hadn't gone home just ten minutes earlier, complaining of nausea. If she'd just stuck around a few more minutes...you wouldn't have to face your long-time crush who was absolutely not available, happily dating Nancy Wheeler and unlikely to leave her any time soon.

You resisted the urge to hide your face in your hands. Sure, you'd liked him since middle school, long before he'd become part of the popular crowd and back when his hair was still a mess that hid his eyes from the world, and yes, you had two classes with him, but it's not like he'd know who you were, right? You'd keep relative anonymity and he would remain none the wiser of your long-standing admiration of him.

But then the song changed to The Fire Down Below and Steve was shimmying where he stood, singing the line "Here comes hot Nancy, she's steppin' right on time" with the hugest grin on his face.

You sighed. The school, your best friends, the entire senior year was right—Steve Harrington was down bad for Nancy Wheeler.

The tiniest bit of hope that he might one day notice you was dashed every time you heard that loving croon of his voice every time he sang Nancy's name.

This is why we don't get our hopes up, you told yourself, echoing a sentiment your best friend had drilled into you ever since Steve became the ladies' man that made him so popular in high school. Not that it erased the previous middle school years of drooling over Steve, back before anyone else had really considered him attractive.

You watched as Steve meticulously went through every record in the store, clearly searching for something specific. You normally would have gotten up and approached a customer taking this long, but it was Steve. You knew the instant you got up from your stool, your legs would give out underneath you. And if that didn't happen, you'd walk into a shelf on your way over to him. And if that didn't happen either, you'd start stuttering the moment you tried to talk to him. And if that didn't happen, you'd turn bright red and combust on the spot when he either asked for your help or turned you away.

Too stuck in your head, you didn't even realize the record had stopped playing until you heard Steve's singing stop. A pang went through you at the sound of silence—Steve's voice was almost more soothing than the music itself.

You turned around and dug through your pile of vinyls the store let you play until you found another Bob Seger—the album he'd released last year. Steve had been singing Bob Seger, and you desperately wanted him to keep singing.

You cleaned off the record before placing the needle down. A few bars into Even Now, you turned back around and squeaked, jumping in surprise.

Steve was standing at your desk, a pleasant but awkward smile on his face.

"Uh...hi," he said. "Sorry if I scared you."

You blinked at him and cleared your throat, hoping your voice didn't come out squeaky. "It's...it's fine. Can I help you with something?"

"Uh, please, I'm looking for—" He snapped his fingers. "You're in my chemistry class, aren't you?" You nodded, meekly adding that you were also in English together, and he beamed. "I knew I recognized you from somewhere!"

"Yeah, uh... Hi, Steve," you said. "You said you were looking for...?"

Steve shook himself out. "Oh, yeah, um... I'm trying to find a record for Nancy, my girlfriend, because I want to cheer her up after...everything. I'm sure you've heard about it."

The tiredness in his voice surprised you. But you nodded without bringing it up. "I have. How's she holding up?"

Steve sighed. "Not...fantastically. That's why I'm doing this, I want to get her something to take her mind off things."

You raised your brows. "So you decided on a record?"

Steve shrugged, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. "I thought it would be something we could dance to, and that that might make her feel better."

Your heart squeezed. How are you so sweet? "Alright, makes sense. What does she like to listen to usually?"

Steve shut his eyes as if thinking for a moment, then said, "She likes ABBA and Michael Jackson, she has a Fleetwood Mac tape but only ever listens to Rhiannon, but she sings under her breath every time Journey comes on the radio, doesn't matter what song it is. She's got Madonna, Bowie, Blondie, and The Beatles already as tapes and vinyls, so I don't want to get her those."

You blinked at him. "You really do pay attention to everything, don't you?"

Steve smiled shyly. "I...I guess so, when it comes to Nancy."

You left the back of the desk, hoping you weren't visibly shaking too much. "Let's go find you a Journey vinyl, okay? They just released a new album a few months ago, I'm pretty sure we've got it on vinyl..."

Steve followed you to the J section and the two of you started flipping through, both of you softly singing along to Love's The Last To Know as you did.

Halfway through the song and completely through the Js section, you interrupted the song with a gasp.

"I know where it is! Wait here," you told him, and hurried into the back room. You dug through the most recently delivered box of records until you saw the familiar blue album cover of Frontiers, letting out a victory cry as you grabbed it.

Steve was leaning on the shelf, still singing "We lost our way and our love's the last to know" so mournfully you wondered what heartbreak he'd been through before.

"I got it!" you said, grinning and holding the record aloft.

Steve beamed. "Thanks! I really appreciate it. I know I was kind of...out of my depth for a bit there."

You shrugged. "Eh, that's nothing. I've had people come in here demanding records we don't carry from bands that only just released music." You rolled your eyes. "'No, sir, we don't carry Metallica, and even if we did, the album came out last week, so we wouldn't have it yet anyway!'"

Steve snorted with laughter, handing you cash to pay for the vinyl. "Let me guess, it was the Munson kid."

"The Munson kid," you confirmed.

"Thanks again," Steve said, though he didn't seem inclined to head out the door.

"Any time," you said, instantly regretting the words because if you saw Steve at your workplace more than this, you were going to have a heart attack, but you paired the words with a kind smile anyway.

"See you in class tomorrow," he said, stepping out the door and waving goodbye. You watched him go, putting the record in the back seat, snapping at Tommy and Carol in his car, and pulling out of the parking lot.

You let go a tense, nervous breath. The pain in your chest eased. Well, at least Steve knew of you now. And even if his dedication to Nancy was unfailing, at least you might get to talk to him now, even if it only worsened the ache in your heart.

~❊~

Steve skipped third block.

The entire school seemed to be talking about why—or at least, his entire gym class, who had told a story about Billy Hargrove getting in his face the entire basketball game, and then Nancy dragging him out of the class to "talk" about something. At first, everyone had assumed they were banging in the locker rooms, until somebody reminded them Nancy hadn't been in first block, and she never skipped, and that Steve usually drove her to school—but he hadn't missed first block. Then when he'd come back, upset and angry, from his talk with Nancy, people started to put a story together.

You weren't sure you wanted to believe the story, or the many versions of the story, that were floating around you chemistry class. It didn't line up with what you knew of Steve, or what you knew of his relationship with Nancy, most of which you heard straight from him.

But then again...

You shook yourself out of your head, your gaze straying back toward Steve's empty seat. You sighed, pulling your notebook toward you and copying down the notes on the board as neat as you could—undoubtedly you'd need to give them to Steve when he decided to come back to class.

But when your best friend came into the class, handing your teacher a doctor's note, her wide eyes already told you Steve wasn't coming back today.

She sat down beside you, hissing your name. You looked at her. "What? What's wrong?"

"Is there a reason I just saw Steve Harrington crying in his car?" she whispered to you.

Your eyes went huge. Whatever had happened between him and Nancy, it wasn't good. "Keep your voice down and don't tell anyone else about that," you said.

She flipped her notebook to a blank page and started writing. "You better fill me in on everything I missed today," she said.

"Obviously, but only once I know exactly what happened," you said. "Which means only once Steve tells me what happened. However long that takes."

~❊~

It became painfully clear that Steve didn't want to talk—to anyone. He snapped at anyone who tried to bring it up with him, and his mood was waspish. The situation was made worse by the rumors spread by Tommy and Carol—that Nancy had only been with Steve for his money and the sex; that she left because Steve wasn't good enough for her; that she was cheating on him with Jonathan.

You knew that the jibes about Jonathan hit Steve a little too close to home. The same rumor had circulated last year when Will and Barb went missing, but this time, you were almost positive they were true.

Nancy was entirely unbothered by the whole thing. Seeing her prance around with Jonathan, not caring that doing so was hurting Steve more than anything, made your blood boil.

On your way to the record store for another one of your slow closing shifts, a week after Steve skipped chem class, you saw the two of them walking together along the sidewalk. You rolled your eyes at them. You had once thought Nancy to be the luckiest girl in the world: smart, pretty, and dating the hottest man Hawkins had to offer. Now you were certain she was the most careless, throwing it all away for a mediocre man.

Steve's car was in the store's parking lot when you arrived. You parked next to him, looking over to find him in the driver's seat, staring into his lap.

You got out and knocked on his window. "Steve? You okay?" He looked up, sporting red-rimmed eyes. You could hear Bob Seger's Comin' Home playing quietly on his radio. "Oh, Steve..."

Steve got out of his car. Voice quiet and rough, he asked, "Can I hang out for a while?"

"Yeah," you said. "Whatever you need."

His lip trembled. "A...a hug?" His voice as meek and barely there. But you heard it and the request made your heart break. You enveloped him in a tight hug, letting him soften into your hold. You remained that way until Steve decided he was done, not caring how many of your classmates walked by, staring in wonder at Steve clinging to you, new gossip already burning on their tongues.

~❊~

A good day meant boppier music at the record store as soon as you started your shift and shoved your coworker from the mid-afternoon shift out the door. So you swapped out all the mellow music in the stack of records beside your record player with music with a good beat that you could dance to while you restocked and reshelved.

Not even half an hour into your shift, the Naked Eyes record spun into Always Something There To Remind Me. You turned up the volume as high as you could without destroying the speakers and being chewed out by your managers, singing along and dancing by yourself while you worked.

"Well, how can I forget you, girl? When there is always something there to remind me!" You finished stacking your records in the aisle and turned back for a new pile. "Always something there to remind me. I was born to love her, and I'll never be free, you'll always be a part of— Steve!" You careened into his chest, grateful you weren't holding anything, because it all would have dropped to the floor. Steve's arms looped around you, stopping you from falling. "Don't sneak up on me, you scared me!"

"The doorbell rung!"

"Well, I didn't hear it!" You finally looked up at him, heart beating wildly out of your chest at the feeling of his chest against yours, his arms around your waist. You realized he looked downright miserable. "What happened?"

He sighed. "Remember how I said I was gonna try and patch things up with Nance?"

"Yeah..."

Steve's lower lip started to tremble. "It...it didn't go well."

Your heart dropped to your feet. "Oh, Steve, I'm...I'm so sorry."

He sniffled. "It's, uh, it's over. She...she doesn't love me, has never loved me, I'm still bullshit, and she's been sleeping with Jonathan. So..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "It's over. Completely, totally, officially over."

"Steve," you whispered. "I'm so sorry, honey. Is there anything I can do?"

He smiled, lips trembling and eyes watering. "Change the song?" The words came out with a little hiccup and a laugh.

You realized what the song was about. "Oh! Yeah, sure, right—sorry. It's such an upbeat song in the actual music, I didn't even think about the words!" You untangled yourself from his arms to change the record. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Nothing romantic, please," he said, sitting down on your stool. "And, after you're done..."

You looked at him, sensing his hesitation. "Yeah?"

"Can I have another hug?"

You smiled at him, looping your arms around his back where he sat. He fell into you, burying his head in your shirt. "Of course, Steve."

You held onto Steve as tightly as he held onto you, praying he wouldn't notice the fast beat of your heart while he wallowed in his grief. It was a strange feeling, for Steve to be hiding from the world, form Nancy, from his broken heart in your arms, all while you harbored a horribly deep crush on him and a secret, guilty delight that it was over with Nancy.

"I just..." Steve huffed, clearly trying his best not to sob into your shirt. "I don't know where I went wrong. I don't know why I wasn't good enough."

Without really meaning to, you put your hand in Steve's hair. "Does there need to be a reason? Some people just aren't meant for each other, Steve."

Steve looked up at you with his red rimmed eyes, tears on his lash line. He hesitated a moment and then said, "If I tell you something...promise me you won't just...laugh at me."

Your heart broke for him. How many times had he told Tommy or Carol or, what the hell, even Nancy something, only to be laughed at, for him to ask that of you? "Of course I won't laugh at you, Steve." You squeezed his shoulder. "Why would I laugh at you?"

He didn't answer your question. "I know it sounds...ridiculous, but...I just—" He sighed. "I thought Nancy was the one. I've never been happier with a girl before, and she was honest, she was smart, she was determined, she had goals, she was nothing like the girls I was with before, and she made me feel alive! I thought for sure that I was... That I was maybe gonna spend the rest of my life with her."

You bit your lip. "There was no maybe about it, was there, Steve?"

He sighed, letting his head fall back into you. You muffled your grunt as he hid his face in your stomach, his arms sliding up your back and hold you closer to him. "No," he mumbled into the fabric of your shirt.

You smoothed your hand through his perfect hair and kissed the top of his head. You froze, hearing his tiny intake of breath. "Oh, I'm...I'm sorry, that was kind of...automatic, I guess?"

Steve peeked up at you and tugged you closer to his body until your feet hit the legs of your stool he was perched on. "It's okay. Um... Can you...keep doing that? With my hair?" Pink tinged his skin. "If you don't mind."

"I don't mind," you whispered, rubbing your fingers across his scalp. He sighed, pushing into your touch. Heat bloomed across your body.

"Sorry," he whispered. "I know this is...weird. But, um, Nancy never... Never really touched me or— Or held me or anything, so..."

"You don't have to explain yourself," you whispered. "Not to me, not to anyone. Okay?"

"Okay," he agreed, slowly relaxing in your arms.

"I've got you, Steve," you assured him. "I've got you."

~❊~

Before he'd even pulled into the parking lot, Steve was mentally apologizing to you. You'd told him time and time again when he visited you while you were working that you enjoyed your slow closing shifts. It meant there was no one to bother you while you were in the middle of a restock, making you forget where you were; it meant there was no one to complain about the music you played, so you could listen to whatever you wanted; it meant your final hour was spent just closing up shop instead of shooing customers out the door—except for Steve, who had become a regular and always stayed until you left, sometimes to give you a ride home and other times just to have a friend around.

But today, he wasn't coming alone. His car was full to bursting with young children: Dustin, Max, Lucas, Mike, and Will, all of whom he'd been tasked with picking up from their after school activities for the day. He had tried to get them to go home quickly, but his attempts to rush them out of his car had led them to discover that he was seeing a girl, which they all took the wrong way, of course.

Sort of.

Now that Steve was prowling the world alone again, he'd realized his initial estimation of you—pretty, smiley, shy with new people but confident with your friends—was right, but it was a muted reality compared to how you really were. It was like he'd been looking at you with sunglasses covering his eyes this whole time. Now that those glasses were gone, the record shop girl had become more than just his best friend.

And he was really hoping the kids were not about to point that out.

As per usual, you were playing Bob Seger when Steve pushed the door open. He'd yet to figure out if you played Bob Seger so much when he came to visit because you loved Bob Seger, or if you had (correctly) pinned Steve as a fan.

(Not that Steve had ever told anyone he was a fan; he let them think the only reason he even knew about his music was because of Carol's obsession with Risky Business.)

You weren't at your desk like Steve had expected; you were carrying a huge stack of records in your arms, shelving them as you walked along the rows, singing along to Sunspot Baby without a care in the world.

"Sunspot baby," you sang. "She sure had a real good time."

"I looked in Miami, I looked in Negril," Steve joined in. You turned with a grin, heading back to your desk. "The closest I came was a month old bill."

You noticed the kids as you put down your stack. "You brought company today, I see."

Steve gave you a look while the kids were still behind him. You stifled a giggle. "Uh, yeah, these are the kids. Dustin Henderson, Lucas Sinclair, Max Mayfield, Will Byers, and Mike Wheeler."

Dustin walked straight up to your desk. "So you're the girl Steve talks about all the time?"

"All the time, huh?" you said, smiling in a way that suggested you were sure Dustin was exaggerating.

"Every time we see him," Mike groaned. You stared at the younger Wheeler in surprise.

"Oh, really? Is that so, Steve?" you teased.

He rolled his eyes, unable to stop his blush. "Sorry to interrupt your quiet shift. They wanted to stop in and grab some records."

"No we didn't—we just wanted to meet you," Lucas said. Steve's calm expression became painfully forced.

The young redhead snorted. "Speak for yourself." She looked up at you expectantly. "Do you have any David Bowie?"

You grinned. "I like you, you have good taste. Back side of the first row."

Max grinned and dragged Lucas with her.

You looked back at Steve. "Do you have enough room in your car for one more?"

"Need a ride when you leave?"

You nodded.

"Yeah, I've got room. I'll just make the kids rearrange."

You laughed. "You don't have to do that," you insisted.

Steve leaned across the counter. "Don't worry about it—I want to. I'd feel terrible if I left you to get home on your own."

You smiled at him, noticing Dustin nudging Mike and Will and pointing in your direction out of the corner of your eye.

~❊~

Somehow, the kids' presence lightened up the rest of your shift. Time passed quickly with them there, adventuring through the store and asking you question after question about the vinyls lining the walls.

You waved off Steve as he tried to get the kids to leave you alone. "They're fine, Steve. It's okay. You wanna help me get everything packed up? I've gotta lock up soon."

"Oh, yeah, sure." Steve took the vinyl off the record player and slipped it back into its case. He glanced over his shoulder and called to the kids, "Hey, guys! We're gonna head out soon."

You ran through your closing tasks as quickly as you could, anxious to head home for the night.

"Alright, everybody out. Got everything?" you asked, ushering the kids to the door and taking out the key. You set the alarm system for the building and locked the door behind you.

Steve put a hand on your back. Warmth bloomed through you from where he touched you. "You're all ready to go?"

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

The kids opened the doors of Steve's car, jumping in quickly. Dustin made his way to the passenger's seat. Steve stopped him, gently shoving him toward the back seat with everyone else.

"Hey—move it, Henderson, she's got the passenger's seat."

You stared at Steve. "No, no, it's okay, he can—"

Steve shook his head, holding open the door for you. "Come on, it's fine, just..." He gestured into the car. The kids whispered and giggled at him. He sent them a glare and Dustin's annoyed face shifted into a gleeful smirk.

You got in the front seat, unaware of the glances being exchanged in the back or the glare Steve was giving them.

"Seat belts!" Steve said as he got into the driver's seat. You giggled at him as the kids groaned. You caught the way his face lit up when he looked at you, and butterflies tickled your insides.

Once the kids had listened and all were buckled, Steve pulled out of the parking lot and started his way through Hawkins, dropping them off one-by-one: Will first, on the outskirts of town, his mother waiting at the door; Max, who was relieved the Camaro wasn't in the driveway; Dustin next, his new cat sitting on the front step; Lucas, who was immediately met with his snarky young sister; Mike last, Nancy already at the door—saying goodbye to Jonathan.

You glanced at Steve. "You alright?"

Steve looked at you, releasing a deep sigh. "I'm okay," he said. "I...I'm doing better now."

"Good," you said. "You deserve it."

Steve gave you a curious look before he said, "Let's get you home, right?"

"Right."

And if Steve drove slower the whole way back to yours compared to driving the kids home, you weren't going to say anything.

When he got back to your house, Steve pulled into the driveway and sighed. "Well. Home sweet home," he said.

You looked at Steve with a smile. "Thanks for the ride home." You picked up the bag you had put on the ground. You got out, then stopped yourself before you could close the door. You crouched to look at him in the car. "Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?" Was it just your imagination, or did he sound nervous?

You took a deep breath. Now or never.

"I talk about you all the time, too."

For a moment, Steve processed your words. Then his eyes went wide. Hope bloomed on his slack-jawed face. "You..." He bit his lip, holding back a smile. "You mean that you..."

"Yes, Steve," you said, voice quiet. "Always have. Just ask my friends—they'll give away my secrets just as quickly as Dustin gave away yours." You drummed your fingers against the roof of his car. "Do with that what you will. It's up to you if...you want to even acknowledge it or not." You closed his door and started for your front door.

A door squeaked and then slammed shut moments later; running steps approached you.

"Wait!"

You turned as Steve's hand fell on your shoulder, pulling you close to him. He yanked your body close to his, his arms sliding around you, his hands gripping your shoulder blades. For a split second, you reveled in his hug, noticing the difference in it, relishing in the love in his arms instead of the misery.

Those few seconds became nothing as Steve pulled back. You gave a sound of protest, quickly squashed by Steve's lips.

Your heart had stopped beating, but was simultaneously pounding. You moved on instinct, looping your arms around his shoulders, yanking him down to you. Never once did your lips part from his as the two of you grappled to hold each other in the best way possible.

Thunder boomed overhead. You gasped, pulling apart.

"Was it supposed to storm?" you asked.

"I didn't think so," Steve said.

You kissed him again. Steve smiled into the kiss.

"You should get home before it pours," you whispered against his lips. But neither of you made any move to let go of each other.

Steve adjusted so that his head was against yours, his mouth at your temple. "See you tomorrow in class, then?"

You hummed. "Yeah. Tomorrow."

Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I don't wanna leave."

You looked up at the sky, watching the already-grey skies grow darker as storm clouds rolled in. "We're going to get soaked if we stay out here, Steve."

Steve squeezed you tightly. "Tomorrow, then." He kissed your forehead again. "I'll see you tomorrow...sweetheart."

You beamed at the nickname while Steve blushed while he gave you the moniker.

"And to think," you whispered. "You'd known me all this time, but this? This happened all because you stopped in my store one day."

Steve hugged you tight to his chest. "I wish I'd noticed you before, sweetheart, really I do."

You kissed him. "Well, you've noticed me now." Light rain started, dusting Steve's hair until it sparkled. "Now go, before that pretty hair of yours gets ruined."

He grinned, brushing his hand through it. "I knew you liked my hair."

"Always have." You pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "Always will."

☞ ❊ ☜

Stranger Things // Steve Harrington

part 2? lmk!

He makes the attempt at quarter-speed, and manages to get up out of bed.  When he passed out last night (that might be generous, it might’ve just been a few hours ago), he was still in his Warzone gear, and now it feels heavy as lead.  He starts shucking it off,  slowly for the sake of his screaming shoulders.  His jacket comes off in a shower of soot, and when he peels off his t-shirt, it takes half the scabs freshly formed on his back with it.  He clenches his jaw again.

He takes off the whole kit and tosses it onto his bedspread, which is equally covered in filth.  Before he balls the whole mess up and trudges it, bare-assed, down the hall to the washing machine, he takes off his bandage.  Unwraps it with the care he wishes he’d taken with his shirt.  The care with which it was wrapped.  The bites are fuckin’ ugly, but at least they’re not bleeding.  He takes another W, and adds the scrap of cloth to the laundry pile.  As if she’s gonna want it back.

When he’s got the washer running, he pads over to the kitchen.  He eyes the coffee maker before settling on the fridge, and lets the cold air soothe his fire-kissed skin as he stands and drains the orange juice from the carton.  He puts it back empty and closes the fridge, then flips on the radio sitting on top.   “This is not a test.  This is a message from the Emergency Broadcast System.  The town of Hawkins in Roane County, Indiana, has experienced several simultaneous record-breaking earthqua-”  He flips off the radio, in both senses of the term.

He turns on the shower, as warm as he thinks he can stand, and steps inside.  The water hits his raw back like a flogger and he clenches again, braces himself with his hands on the tile.   He squeezes his eyes shut to wait out the wave, and sees sickly red lightning flashing in the darkness.  Sees writhing vines and inferno.  Sees Dustin crouched and wailing over what little the bats left of Munson.  Sees himself dragging the kid, bodily, back out into a town he accomplished exactly jack and shit to help, in the end.  He stays there until the water turns cold.

Even so, cleanliness is next to godliness, et cetera, and he does feel better when he steps out of the shower.  He digs out his first aid kit and tapes on some fresh gauze, then swallows a small handful of painkillers.  After he brushes the taste of stale blood and ashes off his teeth, he begins to feel like a person again.  Just as he’s digging in his drawers for something soft enough to tolerate, the phone rings.  He grabs a sweatshirt and his most wash-worn jeans, and picks up the receiver.  “Hello?”

“Are we dead? Is this the afterlife?” Robin croaks from the other end of the line, and he can’t help smiling just a little.

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” he replies.  He rests the phone against his shoulder, and starts getting dressed.  “Still gotta get up and do things.”

“But we did so many things already,” she whines.  “I’m so tired.”

He pulls on the sweatshirt, and it doesn’t feel great, but he can bear it.  “Did you sleep at all?” he asks.

“Not really, no.  You?”

“A little,” he says.  Then, “I’m gonna go make the rounds, want me to pick you up? Find someplace open for coffee?”

She sighs.  “Would I be a terrible person if I just stayed in bed today?”

“Of course not,” he assures her. “Everyone will understand.”

“I’ll be a human being tomorrow, I promise,” she says.  “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”  

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he says, though the word loses meaning every time he repeats it.  “Call me if you want some company later.”

“Ditto,” she says.  “Give my love to Nancy.”

“I’m not-” he starts, and she cuts him off.

“I’m way too tired to pretend to believe your bullshit right now, Steve.  I’m just trying to wish you good luck.”

“Thanks,” he accepts.  “Talk to you later.”

“Bye,” she says, and they hang up.

**

It’s pandemonium out there, and a ten-minute trip to the grocery store takes sixty, between the traffic and the parking and the lineups.  The harried clerk looks like she’s suffering at least as much as he is, and he thanks her profusely before gratefully escaping with his purchases and his life.  Thirty minutes later on a five-minute drive, he pulls into the hospital parking lot, and snags a space back in the nosebleeds.  He takes something out of his grocery bag, and heads inside.  It’s pandemonium in here, too.

He tries not to see, just puts one foot in front of the other, as he makes his way through the halls.  He passes door after door cracked open on somebody moaning, or weeping, or waiting scared and sleepless.  Then he finds the door he’s looking for, and finds the scared and sleepless there, too.  He knocks softly, pokes his head in.  “Hey, it’s me.  Can I come in?”

Lucas wobbles up from his chair, and it’s clear he hasn’t been home yet.  “Of course,” he says quietly, and pulls the door wide.  “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Steve says, and gives him a quick, back-clapping hug.  “Have you slept?”  Lucas shakes his head, and nods over to where Erica’s dozing upright next to Max’s bed.   

“I gave her first shift,” he says.

Steve nods.  “Any news?”

Lucas shrugs.  “They say she’s stable, and that she can’t feel any pain,” he says.  “But other than that . . .” he trails off, shakes his head helplessly.

Steve rests a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry, man,” he says, meaninglessly.

Lucas, just as meaninglessly, replies, “It’s okay.”

“What the hell is that?” Erica says, popping up from her chair.  “A teddy bear?  Do you think Max is a child?”

“No,” Steve says, reaching out to place a hand on top of her head, by way of greeting.  “But I couldn’t show up empty-handed, and this is all I could find at the store.”

She eyeballs him.  “Well, where’s our teddy bears, Steve?  We could have been killed, too.”

“I know,” he says.  “Glad you weren’t.”  She comes in for a hug after a moment’s hesitation, and he squeezes her as hard as his injuries allow.  He looks over at Max, and even across the room, he can see she’s not just sleeping.  “Can she hear anything?” he asks, when Erica lets go.  

Lucas tosses his hands up.   “I’ve been talking to her anyway.”

Steve nods.  “Mind if I talk to her?”

“Erica, let’s go get some of those Jell-o cups from the cafeteria,” Lucas says.

“I want the chocolate pudding with whipped cream on top.”

“Whatever,” he says.  “Let’s just go.”

The Sinclair clan clears out, and Steve’s left alone with Max and her many machines.  He sticks the stupid bear on the bedside table, and takes Erica’s freshly vacated seat.  He looks Max in the pale, blank face, and it hurts him.  He keeps looking.  “Hey, Max?” he says uncertainly.  “It’s Steve.”  He shifts, wipes his palms on his jeans.  The air in the room is stale and sterile, and suddenly, his throat’s dry.  He clears it.  “It’s just us right now,” he says.  “Lucas is coming right back.  He’s gonna be here for you.  I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

He gets up from the chair, ignores the twin twinges in his sides as he unbends.  He doesn’t realize he’s pacing, but he is.  “I’m not gonna say I’m sorry because you practically put a gun to my head.  This was your decision, one hundred per cent, and we tried to talk you out of it, and -”  His voice catches, and he clears his throat again.  “Actually, since you can’t talk back right now,  I am sorry.  And when you wake up, I’m never letting you pull insane shit like this again. Okay?” She keeps lying there, immovably not-sleeping.  “And I’m not gonna read it,” he says, “So you’re just gonna have to tell me whatever you wanted to say yourself.”  He sits again, further away, to wait for Lucas to come back.  “We’re all right here,” he adds, and lapses into silence.

**

He might have been 0 for 2 on Mayfield folk, but he still has it in his power to help the Sinclairs.  He does so by insisting they not perish on the spot from hunger or exhaustion, and punctuates the point with a complimentary taxi.   By the time he pulls up to his next destination, the day’s half done already.  He sits and digs through his grocery bag, half-searching, half-procrastinating.   He finds what he’s looking for and tosses it in the glovebox, then grabs the bag with the rest.  He takes a deep, grounding, lung-burning breath, and starts up the Hendersons’ driveway.  One foot in front of the other. 

He’s most of the way there when the little Siamese darts out and tries to army-crawl its way past him, and first he jumps, but then he laughs.  He scoops it up in his arms, to minimal, if pointy, objection, and knocks on the front door.  “You found Tews!”  Mrs. Henderson exclaims when she opens it.  “Steven, you are a godsend.”  He aww-shucks chuckles and hands over the wriggly beast, and swears the thing gives him a dirty look as its head is covered in kisses.  

“Right place, right time, Mrs. Henderson.”

She tuts.  “You brought my babies home,” she says, scritching Tews behind the ears.  “Please, call me Claudia.”

“Claudia, it is,” he agrees, though the informality tastes funny on his tongue.  “Everything all right over here?  How’s Dustin?”

She frowns, mirroring the ache that’s stuck deep in his gut.  “I finally got him to sleep a couple hours ago.  But I could wake him if you wanted to come in? You look like you could use some lunch, and I know he’d be happy to see you.”

His stomach growls at the mention of lunch, but if the kid’s actually resting and he doesn’t have to hear him cry again, he calls that a win-win.  “Nah, let him sleep,” he says.  “I’ll call later.”  He thrusts the grocery bag towards her free hand.  “It’s mostly comic books and Pixy Stix,” he explains, apologetically.

“He’ll like that,” she says, accepting it.  Steve sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets, makes to turn back to the car.  “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” he says.  “I have more stops to make.  I just wanted to make sure he’s okay.”

“Are you okay, son?” she asks, and a tiny leak springs in the buckling dam inside him.  He plugs it up with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.  He starts to go.  “Take care, Mrs. Henderson.”

“Claudia!” She calls after him.

“Claudia!” he confirms, and gets back in the car.  He sits for a minute, and breathes, and pops himself open a Coke.  The caffeine/sugar combo hits his bloodstream fast, and it’s enough to keep him going.  He turns the key in the ignition, shifts her out of park, and pulls out onto the road towards the Wheelers’.

**

When he looks up from the glovebox, she’s already standing outside her front door, watching him.  She’s got that look on her face again, the sad one that somehow says she’s happy to see him.  His gut lurches, and he smiles at her.  He gets out of the car.  “Hey, Nance,” he says.

“Hey,” she replies.  He starts towards her, and she starts towards him, and they meet at arm’s length in the middle of her front walk.  “Steve,” she starts, all fraught and furrowed-browed, and it’s already too much for his heart to take.

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” he interrupts.  “I only said all that stuff because I thought we were gonna die.”  That surprises her, and she laughs, and then the laughter disintegrates into tears.  He opens his arms and she falls into them, clings to him in a way that hurts his bones but buoys his soul, and she cries.  He rests his chin on the top of her shampoo-damp head, clenches his jaw, and takes it.  

The waterworks are winding down when she moves one of her arms, hits him square in the bat-bite, and he hisses in pain.  “Shit, sorry!” she exclaims, jumping back, tears forgotten.  

“It’s okay,” he says through gritted teeth.  “It’s not that bad.”

She’s not convinced.  “Don’t you think you should go have them looked at?”

He shakes his head.  “I’ve already been to the hospital today.  I think they’ve got their hands full.  Besides,” he says, “I didn’t come here so you could feel sorry for me.  I came to give you this.”  He reaches into his back pocket, and triumphantly retrieves the candy bar stashed there. “The last remaining Whatchamacallit bar in Hawkins,” he announces, and presents it to her.  “Sorry if it’s a little melted, it’s been sitting in my car.”

She smiles genuinely as she accepts it, and that almost makes the whole disaster worth it, right there.  “My favourite,” she says, and he nods cockily.

“I’m more than just a pretty face,” he teases. “I know things.”

She tucks the candy bar into her pocket, and tucks a curl behind her ear.  “I know you do,” she says, and they fall briefly into an uncomfortable silence. 

He fills it with the burning questions of the day.  “Did you get any sleep?” She nods despite the little dark crescents under her puffy eyes.  “Did you eat?”  

She nods again.  “My mom’s turned the whole kitchen into a casserole assembly line.  We’ve got tuna noodle for days.”

His stomach growls again.  “I like your mom’s tuna noodle casserole.”

“Do you want some?” she offers. “I don’t think anybody will miss them.”

He shakes his head.  “I’m sure someone else needs it more than I do,” he says.  Then, unenthusiastically, “And I’m supposed to go have dinner with my folks.”

Her lip curls in gratifying distaste, and she says, “Okay.”

“So everyone’s all right here?” he asks.  “You hear from your brother?”  

She nods, and this time the lightness drops from her face.  “He’s on his way here,” she says.  Adds, softly, “With Jonathan.”

He flinches, and is vividly reminded that the line inside him between decent guy and asshole is razor fuckin’ thin sometimes, but it holds.  “That’s good,” he says, and it tastes like black bile.  “He should be here for you.”

“You’re here for me,” she pouts, and he can’t stay sore at that face.  For one wild, sleep-deprived second, he thinks he’s gonna kiss her.  He doesn’t.  The line holds.

“That’s true, regardless,” he assures her, and she smiles in grateful relief.

“So, what?” she asks. “We’re friends?”

He nods. “It’s a start.”  He gives her another hug, and this time it's a quick, one-armed affair.  When she steps back, she gives him a long, considering look.

“You know, you don’t always have to be the strong one,” she says.

He scoffs.  “Sure, I do.  God knows I can’t handle the alternative.”  He turns to go.

“Can I call you?” she asks, when he’s a few paces away.

“Nancy,” he replies, “you can do anything you want to me.”

He gets in the car, and doesn’t look back.  Doesn’t watch to see if she’s watching or if she’s already vanished into the house.  He just clenches his jaw, and rides out the wave.  He’s had worse.  He polishes off the can of warm soda in his cup holder, and starts the car.  

It’s not so bad, actually.  He’s still breathing.  Nancy’s still breathing.  It’s a start.

Steve looks dumbfounded, pinching at the lint of his sweatpants. They had just been talking about highschool, academics, Steve thought it was a funny story, and yeah when he remembered Katie he remembered good times. She had been funny, and sweet, a touch sardonic with a slightly crooked smile. She had been his first, actually, with gentle nails scraping through his hair as he fumbled to please her. He had barely been King Steve yet.

Maybe he had kind of been in love with her. Just a bit. Not at much as he loved Nancy, but he had definitely been attached to Katie until she dropped him for an older boy.

“I…I’m not though?” Steve didn’t want to make it seem like a question, but this conversation felt perplexing to begin with.

“But you talk about them like you are.” There’s a slight whine to her words, but before anything he can pick up the hurt, the anger. He had never liked making her upset, never liked having loved ones angry at him. He quickly stood to take her hands but she pulled them back and crossed them across her chest, hands hidden in the crooked of her arms like she didn’t even want him to think about holding them.

“Nancy, I love you.” And he did. He had for years, had loved her fiercely and loved her softly, had ached with it and soared with it. He had loved her even when she wasn’t his, had been certain of that fact every time he thought of her, even when the thoughts became less frequent, like they were going dormant only to resurface and spark brighter when he spoke to her again. “You don’t need to worry about my exes.”

“I don’t think you’d cheat on me, Steve,” And Nancy meant it, Steve loved with his entire being, devoted to her, he never once strayed, not even when they were fighting or she ignored him to dwell in her anger. He only looked at her because Steve loved her, and she knew that was true, but… “But it hurts to hear you talk about people you used to love like you still love them. It’s like you can’t let go and move on.”

“I am moved on.” Steve furrowed his brows. “Nancy, I’m with you, I’m not— Yeah, I loved those people, and I can remember why, but I don’t…I’m not gonna leave you for them.”

“You do it with everyone, Steve.” Nancy huffed out of her nose, blue eyes looking up at him and bottom lip jutted just the tiniest bit. “I want you to only think of me like that. It doesn’t feel like you do. Even when you talk about Carol or Tommy, if you talk about them like you still love them.”

“In some ways I do!” Steve pursed his lips at the outburst. “I’m allowed to remember the good parts of people, Nance.”

“It’s not good parts though, Steve! You talk about them like you love them. Like how you talk about me. It’s frustrating to be on the same level as people you don’t even talk to anymore.”

“I don’t talk to them because you don’t like it!” Steve snapped and quickly withdrew, taking a step back. But the words had hit and Nancy looked shocked before quiet fury etched into the furrow of her brows.

“When did I ever stop you from talking to anyone? You can’t make your own decisions on who you talk to, Steve, is that it?”

“I could talk them.” Steve clenched his jaw. “I could find them in the phone book. But I didn’t because the one time I bumped into Jessica from sophomore year, you nearly chewed my head off.”

“You were smiling at her like she hung the fucking moon, Steve!” Nancy’s voice was rising and Steve’s own rose in his defence.

“Jess has a very nice personality and she helps her grandma still in the nursing home! Of course I was talking to her like I used to because she’s still a good person and I did love that about her! I still do!”

“Then maybe you should be with Jessica!”

“Jessica is married!”

“That’s your only excuse?” Nancy scoffed in disbelief. “You’re just like your fucking dad.”

That shut him up, his retort vanishing with a snap of his jaw. There wasn’t enough time to feel good about it, Steve’s brows pinched and brown eyes shiny and wide. Sad. Hazily, she wondered if this was the expression he made when she called him bullshit years ago at that party. She couldn’t remember.

“I can’t help that I love people, Nance.” Steve spoke softly, words strained as he blinked and looked away, eyes wet. “I love you. I have for years. But I also loved other people before you, and after you. But I have always been loyal to you when we’re together. Even when I thought some days that you hated me, or regretted being with me, and not someone else.”

“Steve…” Guilt gnawed at her insides as she stepped closer, reaching out for him, but he shied away even as her hands rested upon his arms.

“I never move on, not really. I can’t seem to, Nance. Because I think about how good it felt to be with someone I loved.” His breath hitched and she wondered if he’d actually cry. Steve had never cried much, not in front of others, even her. That was something she had to get used to after dating Jonathan, who seemed to catch other peoples tears like a contagious yawn.

“I just— I want to hold on to the feeling of loving someone. And being loved back.” Steve’s voice was wobbly but after a deep breath in, it managed to smooth it out just a bit. “I will always love my exes, my old friends. Not loved, but love. And it hurts sometimes, but I remember the good parts of them and it’s like being with you, Nance. I get butterflies and my heart races and I just feel so elated.” He licked his lips and fumbled even as a small smile made its way onto his lips at just the memories of those loves, fleeting but intense and still lingering in his very being because that’s all he seemed to be made up of. Every atom, every cell, was simply brimming with love and the need to be loved.

“But I’d never take them back. Something went wrong, whether it was me or them, but we wouldn’t work. Even if I wanted it to. And I love you so much, Nance. I couldn’t fathom cheating on you. So, no,” His voice grew firmer. “I’m not like my dad, and you don’t get to say that just because you wanna hurt me back.”

Nancy looked down, unable to form the apology in her throat into words. All she could think about was the way he described it. She couldn’t understand. How could he love them all still, actively love them every time he thought of them, when he hadn’t spoken to most of them in years. Nancy had had past crushes and boyfriend and she could care less about them now. She cared for Jonathan, but that was different. Deep and more profound. They were bonded by trauma and understood each others hearts. When she ended things with him, it had been sad but mutual (she tried not to think about how Jonathan liked to lie, especially about his feelings, to make others feel better). She had been certain she loved Steve.

She still did, she thinks. Maybe that’s why her next words hurt so much.

“I can’t be with you if you don’t only love me, Steve.” She’s always been independent at heart, and she never let herself have less than what she thought she deserved. She wanted Steve to only love her, but if that wasn’t possible, maybe she needed to find that with someone else so she wouldn’t constantly be burning with jealousy inside every time she saw him talk to someone with that same smile he gave her.

It felt like emotional infidelity, if anything.

“I—“ It’s that look again, like she’s taken his heart out and stomped on it with her designer heeled boots. “I do love you, Nance. I always have.”

“But it’s not just me, Steve.” Nancy’s lips thinned, eyes burning. “I deserve to be loved without feeling like your love is so easily shared. I— I want to be the only one who has your heart.”

“You do.” He insisted, reaching for her this time, but she stepped back with a hand out like a mother withholding a hug from her weeping, recently scolded child. It was an scenario Steve was too familiar with. “Nance.” His voice broke around her name, but still, tears did not fall.

“I think— I think I should go.” Nancy said softly, stepping around him as he stood there, unable to figure out how a funny story about Katie Anderson had led to this. “And I think…We should stop seeing each other, Steve. For both our sakes.” She picked up her coat from the rack and Steve turned to look at her, eyes wide and hurt.

“Nancy…Nance, please don’t go.” He made his way towards her, his pleading voice soft, only heard because of how silent the room was. Nancy pursed her lips and closed her eyes as she turned away from him, wiping her tears quickly as he crowded her side. He took her elbow and curled himself around her like he could protect her from her own hurt. Steve was always like that. Looking out for other people. He had a big heart.

Nancy’s heart was so much smaller, and it had fit in that space, as large as his parents home but so much warmer. She thought a part of her heart may forever nestle in one of the valves, that every breath Steve took might rattle it and keep him loving her too, and it was selfish.

Because really, she was taking her whole heart with her and planning on giving it to someone else. Leaving that space she had filled cold and empty. Like a childhood bedroom that had been cleared out, ready to move out and on.

She wondered if Steve would ever fill the space in his chest entirely, or if he would be continue to fill it with smaller hearts, fragments and tears of what used to be homed there. Like peeling paint from posters that had once been taped to the walls but were striped away, leaving the space bare but imprinted with the knowledge that something had been there once. Maybe, he never let them leave. Locked them up in that giant space in an attempt to fill it, to keep them beating with every thud of his own heart.

Nancy’s lip trembled.

“Goodbye, Steve.” She pulled away and didn’t look back as she opened the door.

“Nancy, please-!”

It shut behind her and Steve stifled a sob, biting his lip so hard it might bleed.

Steve did love her. Truly and entirely, but maybe she was right to some extent. He couldn’t love just one person, would always love more than his fair share.

“Sorry,” he says, endearingly penitent in his spiffed-up suspenders.  Steve slaps down a tenner and waves away her attempt to give him change.

“Go find your friends, Don Juan,” he says, waving Dustin away as well.  Then, when he’s gone, “The little turd stole my thunder.  I was gonna say you look smoking hot this evening.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from all-out cheesing, with limited success.  “I didn’t say, you may.”

“Ask forgiveness, not permission,” he says, with a wiggle of his eyebrows.  

“Steve,” she warns, as a fresh wave of teens drifts into the hall behind him.

“Forgive me,” he says, flashing her a grin and following his ward into the dance hall.  She tries to shake off the warm fuzzy butterfly feeling in her chest.  It won’t shake, and she’s all fumble-fingered flustered until the next volunteer comes to relieve her.  

“Pull yourself together,” she mutters, heading for the punch bowl.  She spoons herself a cup of the pineapple/Kool-Aid/7-Up monstrosity, and scans the room.  Steve’s gaze draws hers like a magnet, and he waves from across the room.  He’s two-chair lounging at a table alone.  She spoons another punch and heads over.

She plunks the cup in front of him and pulls up a chair beside.  He picks it up and eyes it dubiously.  “What’s in this?” he asks.

She shrugs.  “Sugar, chemicals, I think it might have touched a fruit cocktail at one point.”

“Well, you wouldn’t poison me, right?” he says, and tosses it back.  “Sweet,” he grimaces.  “Don’t know what I expected.”  She takes a sip, and it really is so sugary it loops back around to mouth-puckering again.  She sets the cup down at arm’s length away.  “Sorry if I was an ass,” he says.

She blinks innocently.  “Hmm?”

“At the door,” he clarifies.  “I should be a better gentleman.”

She snorts.  “Well, don’t strain yourself or anything.”

He laughs.  “What’s that supposed to mean?  You don’t think I can be a gentleman?”  She looks at his feet propped up on his second chair, then eyes him dubiously.  He deliberately plants them back on the floor.  “Starting now,” he says.  “You look lovely this evening. Respectfully.”

She feels the fuzzy butterflies again, firmly swats them away.  “Thanks.”  She averts her eyes.  “How have you been?  We haven’t talked in a while.”

“Oh, you know,” he says, with an exaggerated nod.  “Uh, I’d say pretty bad, overall.”  He chuckles, and she laughs with him.  “Don’t love living in the end of days.  But other than that?  Yeah, good.  On the right side of the ground, like my dad used to say.”

“What a philosopher,” she remarks.  

“I’m sure he thinks so,” he agrees.  Overhead, the poppy dance track fades out on the speaker, and the lights fade out into disco-ball glitter.  Time After Time starts to play, and he hops to his feet.  He extends a chivalrous hand towards her.  “May I have this dance?”  She sighs, come-on pleads no with her eyes.  “It’s Cyndi Lauper,” he cajoles her.  “Don’t you just wanna have fun?”  She puts on a put-upon frown, and takes his hand.  

He helps her up from her chair, and doesn’t let go.  He keeps his fingers curled tightly around hers, and pulls her along to a space on the dance floor.  Then he holds the hollows of her waist in the palms of his hands, feels warm and strong through the filmy fabric of her dress.  She clasps her hands at the back of his neck, pretends she doesn’t notice the way the soft baby hairs there tickle her fingers.  They begin to sway.  “Just like being back in high school,” he says.

“Such a long time ago,” she teases.

“Feels like it,” he says.  “I feel about a thousand years old.”

“Well, you don’t look it.”

“A compliment,” he jokes.  “I’m unworthy.”

“Shut up,” she says,  and he grins.

“It’s good to see you, Nance,” he says, and pulls her in close up against him.  She tucks her chin into his shoulder, and he rests his jaw against her head.  Between them, a heartbeat slams, and she’s hard pressed to say who it belongs to.  They spin until she starts to feel dizzy.  

“You’re still wearing the same perfume,” he murmurs, and the viscosity in his voice sets her on edge.

“I like it,” she says carefully.  He moves his hands on her back, slips one fingertip just barely beneath one of the straps of her dress.

“I like it, too,” he whispers.  “I miss it.”

“Steve,” she says, stopping him, doing the last thing she wants to do right now.

“Sorry,” he mutters.  His hands squeeze a little where they’re resting on her skin.  He turns his head, nuzzles into her face until they’re forehead to forehead.  “This is harder than I thought.”

“What?” she breathes, softly, all jackrabbit panic underneath.  

He doesn’t move from where he’s pressed to her, hovers just within striking distance.  “Being a gentleman.”

“Well, don’t strai-” she starts, and the song ends, and the lights start flashing neon.  He lets her go.

“Thanks for the dance,” he says, with a wavering smile, and he walks - retreats - away.  She stands dazed for the first few bars of the next synthy pop tune, then makes a break for the fire exit.  She hurries out into the night, and the fresh air doesn’t quite refresh as it used to, but there’s still more to breathe than in the room she left behind.  She takes a big lungful and looks up at the sky, twinkling with scarlet-hued stars.  She exhales slowly.  Takes another breath.  Has the next one knocked out of her.

He appears from a shadow out of the thin air, grabs her hand and pulls her into the darkness with him.  He presses her back to the brick wall and pins her there, lays his hands on either side of her face, and kisses her.  Her jaw drops, stunned supple, and he slips his tongue in her mouth.  Kisses her deep enough that she tastes pineapple on the back of his tongue.  She doesn’t stop him, just stands there and spins.

“Sorry,” he pants, releasing her.  He steps back, looks at her with a blend of frustration and regret and abashedness and lust.

“I thought we said friends, Steve,” she says, finding her own breath a bit tough to catch.

“I’m feelin’ friendly! Aren’t you?” he says sharply, as frustration appears to win out.

“Steve.”

He steps away and wide-arm shrugs.  “I can’t help it, Nancy.  You look hot.  I’m only flesh and blood, here.”  She knows the feeling.  “Respectfully,” he adds pointedly, and walks away.