#str

I open my mouth.

“And,” he adds, pointing between us, “you literally live like a block away from Mike.”

I blink. “I do?”

Dustin’s already decided. “Yes so, Mike can take you.”

Mike stiffens. “What?”

“You have a bike,” Dustin says like this is airtight logic. “She doesn’t. She’s a girl. And new. And you’re basically neighbors.”

“I—” Mike starts.

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, holding up a hand. “Really. I don’t want to—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dustin insists. “Right, Mike?”

Mike looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Then he exhales. “It’s not a big deal.”

Outside, the night air is cool, quiet. Crickets hum somewhere nearby. Mike wheels his bike out onto the driveway, movements careful, like he’s hyper-aware of me standing there.

Dustin straps his radio project onto his own bike again, already halfway gone. “See you guys tomorrow,” he says, grinning. “Don’t die.”

“Encouraging,” Mike mutters.

Dustin pedals off, leaving us alone under the streetlight.

Mike holds the bike steady. “Same deal as before,” he says. “Just—hold on.”

I step closer. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him again, familiar now.

As I reach for the back of the seat—

That’s where it stops.

The bike is steady beneath his hands.

I’m just about to climb on when I stop myself.

“Mike,” I say softly.

He turns around.

And—oh.

The streetlight above us washes him in this warm, amber glow that feels unfair. The sharp angles of his face soften, shadows cutting just enough to make his eyes look darker, deeper. His hair’s a mess, curls falling into his forehead, and finally he isn’t scowling.

He just looks… good.

Really good.

“Yeah?” he asks.

I swallow. “Are you, like… super busy right now?”

His eyes flick over me before he can stop himself. Not rude. Not obvious. Just a quick, quiet assessment—like he’s clocking that I’m standing closer than before, that the night feels different than it did five minutes ago.

“Not really,” he says. “Why?”

I hesitate for half a second—then go for it.

“Could you… maybe give me a quick tour?” I ask. “Of the town. Just for a little bit. While no one’s around.”

His brows knit together. He should say no. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he shifts his weight like he’s trying to talk himself out of it.

But then I look at him.

Really look at him.

And something about the way his shoulders drop tells me he’s already lost.

“…Yeah,” he says finally. “Fine.”

I smile, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, quieter this time.

I climb onto the back of the bike again, settling in. He starts pedaling, the tires crunching softly against the pavement as we roll down the street.

We don’t get far.

Suddenly, he slows—and then stops.

“What—?”

Before I can finish, he reaches back and grabs my wrist gently, fingers warm against my skin. He guides my hand forward, pressing it against his jacket, closer to his waist.

“You’re gonna need to hold on more,” he says. “I’m gonna go faster this time.”

I freeze.

“I—”

He glances back at me, mouth tilting into the faintest smile. Not smug. Just teasing. Almost shy.

“What?” he says. “I’m not gonna bite you.”

I hesitate.

Then I slide my other hand forward too, fingers curling into his jacket properly this time. My chest presses lightly against his back, close enough that I can feel his breath hitch.

“Better?” I ask.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

The bike lurches forward, faster now, the wind rushing past us as Hawkins blurs into streaks of light and shadow. His body leans into turns with easy confidence, and I move with him instinctively, holding tighter when he accelerates.

And for a moment, as we disappear down the street together, it feels like the town is ours.

Just us.

Just the night.

And the way Mike somehow, inexplicably, can’t say no to me.

The bike moves faster this time.

Not reckless—just enough to make the wind bite and my fingers tighten in his jacket. Hawkins slips past in pieces: dark houses, porch lights, quiet streets that feel abandoned in the way only small towns can at night.

Mike keeps glancing back at me as he rides. Not fully turning—just those quick looks over his shoulder, checking if I’m still there.

“So,” he says, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the wind, “that over there is the middle school. Where Dustin set a trash can on fire in seventh grade.”

I laugh. 

“And that,” he adds, nodding toward a darkened storefront, “used to be a RadioShack. It closed. Obviously.”

“Wow,” I say dryly. “You really know how to sell this place.”

He huffs. “I never said it was impressive.”

We slow at a stop sign, and he plants one foot on the ground. The streetlight above us flickers, bathing him in that same warm glow again. He looks stupidly good like this—hair wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes brighter than they were earlier in the day.

“You cold?” he asks.

“A little.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He shrugs out of his jacket and hands it back to me like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t leave him in just a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, veins faintly visible along his forearms.

I slide it on.

It smells like him.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes flicking away a little too quickly.

We keep riding.

The banter comes easy now—snide comments about Hawkins, jokes about teachers, quiet laughs when our knees bump at stoplights. Every once in a while, I catch him looking at me in reflections—store windows, dark car doors. Every time I do, he looks away like he got caught doing something illegal.

Eventually, the streets change.

Trailers replace houses. Gravel crunches under the tires. The air feels heavier out here, like the town forgot this part existed.

Mike slows.

“This is the trailer park,” he says. “Eddie lives here.”

“Eddie from Hellfire?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

We stop just as a trailer door opens.

Two figures step out.

I recognize Eddie immediately—messy hair, leather jacket, animated even when he’s just walking. The girl beside him makes my stomach drop a little.

Perfect hair. Cheerleader jacket. Pretty in a way Hawkins worships.

Mike stiffens beside me.

“What the fuck,” he mutters.

“What?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

He stares as Eddie holds the door open for her, laughing, letting her walk inside first.

“That’s Chrissy Cunningham,” he says slowly. “She’s dating Jason Carver.”

I blink. “The basketball captain?”

“Yeah,” he says, disbelief sharp in his voice. “And Eddie is—”

“A loser?” I finish quietly.

He exhales. “Yeah.”

We watch the door close behind them.

The trailer goes dark.

Something uneasy settles in my chest, like we just witnessed something we weren’t meant to see.

“Huh,” I murmur. “Guess people aren’t always what Hawkins thinks they are.”

Mike glances at me. Really looks at me this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess not.”

The silence between us stretches—not awkward. Charged.

He clears his throat. “We should probably… keep going. I still owe you the rest of the tour.”

I smile, tightening my grip on him again. “Lead the way, Wheeler.”

We ride away from the trailer park like nothing just shifted in the universe—even though it definitely did.

The road smooths out again, quieter now. Mike relaxes, shoulders loosening as he starts pointing things out again like he didn’t just short-circuit five minutes ago.

“That’s the park,” he says, nodding to a dark stretch of swings. “We used to camp out there all summer.”

“I’m sensing a pattern,” I say. “You guys did everything everywhere.”

He scoffs. “There’s literally nothing else to do here.”

I laugh, leaning in closer so he can hear me. Somewhere along the way, my hands slide lower—less jacket, more him. My fingers hook casually into one of his belt loops, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He stiffens immediately.

“Uh—” he starts, then clears his throat. “You good back there?”

“Yeah,” I say innocently. “Why?”

His ears turn pink. Actually pink.

“N-no reason.”

The bike wobbles just a little.

I grin to myself.

We keep talking—about music, about how much Hawkins sucks, about how Dustin never shuts up. Mike’s wit sharpens when he’s relaxed, dry and quick, and I find myself smiling more than I mean to. Every once in a while, he laughs fully, head tipping back just a bit, and it does something unfair to my chest.

By the time we turn onto my street, it feels too soon.

He slows in front of my house, rolling to a stop under another streetlight. He hops off first, steadying the bike.

“Here,” he says, offering a hand to help me down.

I take it.

His grip is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid to do the wrong thing.

I land, still close, his jacket hanging off my shoulders. For a second, neither of us moves.

“Thanks for the tour,” I say softly.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Anytime.”

I take a step back. Then another.

“Hey,” he says suddenly.

I turn.

“I think you’re forgetting something.”

I hesitate for exactly half a second—then walk back to him, heart pounding. I reach up, fingers curling lightly into his hoodie, and kiss him.

It’s soft. Quick. Just enough.

When I pull back, he’s frozen—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned in the most endearing way. Like a puppy that just got surprised with affection.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

Then he blinks. “I—I meant my jacket.”

I laugh.

“But,” he adds quickly, stepping closer, hands finding my waist like he finally decided to stop overthinking it, “that works too.”

He kisses me again—longer this time, surer, like he’s figured something out mid-motion.

When we part, he’s still flustered, still pink, still looking at me like he can’t quite believe this is real.

I pull back just enough to breathe.

Mike barely lets me—his hands still warm at my waist, forehead resting against mine, lips chasing like he hasn’t caught up yet.

“Mike,” I murmur.

He opens his eyes.

Up close like this, he looks wrecked—in the best way. Hair mussed, mouth pink and swollen, pupils blown like he forgot the rest of the world exists.

“Yeah?” he says, breathless.

I glance toward my front door, then back at him. “Do you want to come inside?”

His breath stutters.

“…Inside?” he repeats, like the word needs a second to load. He doesn’t look away from me when he asks, quietly, “What about your parents?”

“It’s fine,” I say easily, fingers sliding up into his hair. “My dad’s not home yet. Bar night. My mom’s not… around.”

That’s all it takes.

He swallows.

I don’t wait for him to overthink it.

“C’mon,” I whisper, already stepping back and tugging him with me.

He follows.

The door barely clicks shut behind us before he’s kissing me again—harder this time, like the permission flipped a switch. His hands find my waist, my back, pulling me flush against him as we stumble down the hallway.

We bump into the wall. I laugh against his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.

I grab his collar and pull him with me, kissing him as I walk us backward, toward my room. He makes this quiet sound—half laugh, half breath—that sends heat straight through me.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You’re—”

“Mike,” I warn softly, smiling.

He shuts up immediately. Kisses me deeper instead.

By the time we reach my room, we’re both a mess—hands everywhere but never crossing a line, tension coiled so tight it’s almost dizzying. He backs me toward the bed, then stops himself, forehead dropping to my shoulder like he’s grounding himself.

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I’m trying really hard to be cool.”

I smile, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “You’re doing great.”

He looks at me like that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him.

We kiss again—slower now, deliberate, like neither of us wants to rush what we’re building. His hands settle at my hips, steady, protective, and I realize how rare it is to feel this wanted and this safe at the same time.

Outside, Hawkins stays quiet.

Inside, everything feels like it’s just getting started.

The door clicks shut behind us, sealing the world out.

Mike’s hands stay on my waist like his body hasn’t caught up to the fact that we’ve stopped moving. He’s breathing hard, forehead resting against mine, a crooked smile tugging at his lips like he can’t believe any of this is happening.

“This is—” he exhales, chest rising against mine. “Definitely not how I thought tonight was gonna go.”

“Disappointed?” I tease, brushing my mouth over his again.

His laugh is low, a little wrecked. “Not even close.”

We stumble back together, kissing. His hoodie bunches in my fists as I drag him closer, his fingers skimming up my sides, slow and intentional, like he’s memorizing every reaction I give him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against my jaw, lips trailing heat down the side of my throat.

I moan, tugging him by his belt loop again—slow this time, deliberate.

He freezes for half a second. A sharp inhale. His hand tightens on my hip.

“You keep doing that,” he says, voice deeper than before, “like you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly.” My thumb hooks under the denim again, pulling him closer, watching the way his breath stutters. “What I’m asking for, Mike.”

His self-control cracks right there.

He kisses me harder, pushing me back onto the bed, the two of us landing in a messy tangle of limbs and laughter that dissolves instantly into heat. His mouth finds mine again—hungrier now, focused. His hands slide under my shirt, warm and sure, and the sound he makes when I arch into him goes straight through me.

“Damn,” he whispers against my skin, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

I tug at the hem of his hoodie, and he sits up just long enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside. His hair is even more ruined now, cheeks flushed, eyes dark and fixed on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“Come here,” I murmur.

He does—immediately, like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

The weight of him settles over me, careful but wanting. His hands slide down my thighs, slow, teasing, as he kisses me again, deeper this time. Every brush of his mouth feels like a question he already knows the answer to.

“You sure?” he asks quietly, breath warm against my lips. “Because I’m not stopping once you say yes.”

I cup his face, pull him back down, and kiss him like I mean it.

“There’s your answer.”

He groans—soft, relieved, almost disbelieving—before his lips crash into mine again. His hands explore with intent now, bolder, slipping beneath clothes with purpose. I feel his breath hitch when I pull him closer, our bodies aligning perfectly.

The room gets smaller, warmer, quieter except for the sound of our breathing and the soft hum of the mattress under us. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, everywhere I react, and he smiles against my skin each time I do.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers, voice low, honest.

“Good.”

He laughs, short and breathless, before rolling his hips against mine, slow but unmistakable. The tension snaps like a live wire. His forehead drops to my shoulder as he exhales a shaky sound he tries and fails to hide.

“Okay,” he mutters, smiling into my skin. “Yeah. I need you.”

His hands guide mine to his waistband, helping, inviting, giving me control even as he trembles with how badly he wants this.

His hands guide mine the rest of the way, fingers brushing my knuckles like he’s grounding himself through the contact. The click of his belt opening feels louder than it should in the quiet room. He exhales, slow and shaky, watching my face the entire time—checking, reading, trusting.

“You don’t rush anything, do you?” I murmur.

He huffs a breath of laughter. “Not this.”

He closes his eyes briefly when my palms slide over his chest, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re killing me.”

My turn comes next, and he’s reverent about it—slower than I expect. His fingers hook under the hem of my top, lifting it carefully, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. When it comes away, he pauses, just looking at me, eyes dark and steady.

He leans in again, kissing me deep and unhurried, hands warm and confident as they trace curves like he’s committing them to memory. Clothes start to disappear without ceremony—dropped, kicked aside, forgotten—until there’s nothing left between us but heat and breath and the soft press of skin against skin.

He nudges me back onto the bed again, following immediately, bracing himself over me without smothering. His mouth moves slow and purposeful, like he’s savoring every reaction, every sound I don’t quite manage to hold back.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine. “You’re unreal.”

Mike’s mouth finds mine again, but this time there’s no hesitation in it—just heat and purpose. His hands settle on my bare hips, firm, guiding, pinning me beneath him without using any real weight. He doesn’t have to. The intention alone sends a rush through me.

He shifts, settling between my legs, and the press of his naked body against mine is slow, deliberate, undeniable. His breath drags against my neck as he moves, and the quiet sound he makes when my hands grip his shoulders is low and satisfied.

“Stay right here,” he murmurs, voice rough for the first time.

He lowers himself, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding my thigh up around his waist. The shift pulls our bodies flush, and he exhales sharply against my cheek as he settles into me, slow and controlled.

His hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips to meet him as he runs the tip between my folds. When he finally puts it in, the sound that slips out of him when our bodies align sends heat straight through me. He buries his face at my neck, breath warm as he sets a steady, deliberate pace—each movement rolling through both of us with building intensity.

His fingers lace with mine briefly before he presses my wrist into the mattress beside my head, not forcing—just holding, guiding, anchoring me there as his other hand stays firm on my hip, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

“God,” he murmurs against my jaw, more to himself than to me, like he’s adjusting us into perfect sync.

Every shift of his hips is stronger now, more certain, his breath hitching each time my body responds to the force and angle he uses. His control is unmistakable—tight, consistent, the kind that leaves no space for second-guessing.

He moves with intention, with weight, with purpose—his forehead dropping to mine for a moment as the pace deepens, steadier, more consuming. The bed creaks softly beneath us; his hand tightens on my hip to keep me grounded; his breath grows heavier against my skin.

The room feels smaller with the way he’s moving, the way he holds my body under his, the way he doesn’t break rhythm even when the tension builds sharply between us.

His grip adjusts, fingers spreading wider over my hip as if to lock the angle in place, and every movement after that lands deeper, surer. The rhythm he sets is unbroken, each roll of his body controlled and deliberate, like he’s counting it out in his head. The mattress dips beneath the strength of his movement, the soft creak underscoring how firmly he’s got me.

His mouth drags from my jaw to my collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing just enough to make my breath stutter. One hand stays planted beside my head, keeping me right where he wants me, while the other slides along my thigh again, thumb pressing in, steadying me as he drives the pace forward.

The heat between us builds fast now—slick skin, shallow breaths, the sound of him exhaling hard through his nose each time his hips pull back and push forward again. He doesn’t break contact, doesn’t pull away to look—he stays close, chest to chest, the tension living in the way his muscles tighten and release with every movement.

His lips brush my ear.

“Just like that,” he mutters, voice thick, almost breathless.

The grip on my wrist tightens—not painful—just enough pressure to remind me he’s there, anchoring me, keeping me open to the rhythm he’s chosen. His other hand slides beneath me again, lifting my hips higher, changing the angle until the response from my body is immediate and unmistakable.

His breathing turns uneven, heavier now, the control still there but strained at the edges as the intensity climbs. His forehead presses to mine again, jaw clenched, movement stronger, deeper, still measured but relentless.

The room fades down to sensation—heat, pressure, the steady sound of skin meeting skin. He keeps the pace exactly where it is, refusing to let it slip or falter, holding you there with him as everything tightens and builds.

Mike stays over me the entire time until the tension peaks sharp and consuming, both our bodies finally giving into it with a low sound against my throat as he holds me still through it.

Only then does he slow.

Not all at once—just enough to keep me there with him, breath to breath, bodies still pressed close, his hand lingering on my hip like he hasn’t forgotten for a second exactly where I was.

Morning comes too fast.

I wake up tangled in warmth—sheets twisted, sunlight leaking in through the blinds in thin gold stripes. For half a second I forget where I am.

Then I feel him shift beside me.

Mike.

He’s on his stomach, arm loose around my waist like it belongs there, hair completely wrecked, expression soft.

There’s a bang on the front door.

Then another.

“Y/N—HELLO—OPEN UP—”

I jolt upright. “Oh my god.”

Mike groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Is that—”

“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s Dustin.”

The knocking gets louder.

“I’ll get it,” I say quickly, already reaching for clothes. I yank on a shirt, shove my feet into shorts, and point at Mike. “You—put something on.”

He fumbles for his sweater from last night, tugging it over his head, then steps into his jeans like he’s still half asleep. He looks unfairly good like this—rumpled, flushed, very obviously just woken up somewhere he didn’t plan on waking up.

I rush down the hall and open the door.

Dustin Henderson stands on my porch, pale and panicked, mid-breath.

“Thank god,” he blurts—then freezes.

His eyes flick past me.

To Mike.

Standing behind me. In yesterday’s clothes.

Silence.

“…What,” Dustin says slowly, “is this.”

My stomach drops.

Mike reacts instantly. “Nothing.- She asked for a town tour,” Mike continues, talking quickly now, hands shoved in his pockets. “And by the time I got back here it was really late so I just—crashed. That’s all.”

Dustin looks between us.

Then at me.

Then back at Mike.

His mouth twists like he absolutely does not buy it—but whatever’s on his mind is bigger than that.

“Okay,” he says stiffly. “Sure.”

The pause hangs there, heavy and weird.

Then Dustin exhales sharply. “Anyway—this is bad. Like, really bad.”

Mike straightens immediately. “What happened?”

Dustin swallows. “Chrissy’s dead.”

The words hit like a slap.

“What?” I breathe.

“They found her this morning,” he says, voice shaking now. “In Eddie’s trailer. And no one knows where Eddie is.”

Mike goes still.

“Dead how?” he asks.

Dustin shakes his head. “I don’t know. No one does. They’re saying it’s… it’s messed up. Like nothing I’ve ever heard.”

The porch feels too small. The morning was suddenly too quiet.

“They’re already blaming Eddie,” Dustin adds. “Jason’s losing his mind. The cops are everywhere.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, eyes dark, brain clearly racing. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” Dustin says. “That’s why I came here. We need to figure out what actually happened.”

I glance at Mike.

He looks back at me—something unspoken passing between us, something that didn’t exist yesterday morning.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. We will.”

Dustin nods, then hesitates, glancing between us again. “You guys… good?”

“Yeah,” Mike says immediately.

The silence after Dustin’s words feels wrong—too heavy for a sunny morning.

I turn slowly toward Mike.

“…We saw them,” I say.

Both of them look at me.

“Last night,” I continue. “At the trailer park. Eddie and Chrissy. Together.”

Mike nods immediately. “Yeah.”

Dustin’s head snaps between us. “You what?”

“We were on Mike’s bike,” I explain. “We watched them walk into Eddie’s trailer.”

Dustin pales. “Okay. Okay—then we definitely can’t tell the cops.”

“What?” I snap.

Mike shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t know if we should—”

I stare at him. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

My voice rises despite myself. “Mike, a girl is dead. We’re witnesses. That’s not optional.”

Dustin steps forward quickly. “No—no, listen to me. You don’t get it yet.”

“Get what?” I shoot back. “From where I’m standing, your freak-show friend probably killed his secret girlfriend and ran.”

“That’s not funny,” Dustin says sharply. “And it’s not true.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Because it looks pretty bad.”

Dustin’s voice breaks just a little. “I know Eddie. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not—he’s not like that.”

“You don’t know that,” I argue. “You just like him.”

“I do know that,” Dustin insists. “He’s weird and loud and everyone hates him, but he’s not a murderer.”

I turn to Mike, expecting backup.

He doesn’t give it.

Instead, he looks torn—hands flexing at his sides, eyes darting between Dustin and me. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

My chest tightens. “So you’re just… what? Protecting him?”

“I’m protecting the truth,” Dustin says. “And you can’t tell anyone. Not the cops. Not your friends. No one.”

“That’s insane,” I say. “This isn’t a game.”

Mike finally looks at me fully.

And his expression—

It kills my momentum instantly.

No anger. No defensiveness.

Just that soft, worried look. Brows pulled together, eyes dark and earnest, like he’s silently begging me not to push him away right now. Like he’s already scared of losing something he just found.

“Please,” he says quietly. “Just… trust us. For now.”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “I know how it sounds. I know it’s messed up. But if we’re wrong—and we tell the cops—Eddie’s done. Forever.”

Dustin nods desperately. “They already hate him. They’re looking for a monster, and he fits what they want.”

I look between them.

Logic tells me this is stupid. 

But Mike’s eyes don’t leave mine—and there’s something in them that wasn’t there yesterday. Something fragile. Something asking me to choose him.

“…For now,” I say slowly.

Both of them exhale at the same time.

“But,” I add sharply, pointing between them, “if I find out you’re wrong—if you’re hiding something from me—I’m going straight to the police. No warning.”

Dustin nods quickly. “Fair.”

Mike swallows. “Yeah. Fair.”

The moment hangs there—uneasy, electric.

And I hate that part of me already knows:

“You said you would call. Look at you! You’re soaked through.” His large hands flew to your coat, heavier due to the rain, peeling it off your body like it was tissue paper. 

“I was fine—“ You began to say, only to be cut off by his excessive fussing. 

“You’re clearly not,” he shook his head as he hung up your jacket, a small puddle already forming underneath that he would have to deal with later. “I can hear your shoes from here, sweetheart. And your hair—“ he brushed a wet lock out of your face and behind your ear, his concerned expression making you giggle. “You’re shaking, honey. Gonna get sick like this.” 

You just smiled at him through your waterlogged lashes, his over-the-top worrying making you laugh more are you batted his hands away. “I’m fine, Steve. Really. It’s just rain, it happens all the time.”

“Nope. No way,” he said, not letting you respond as he was already halfway to the bathroom. “You’re gonna catch a cold and I’m not gonna let that happen.”

His voice was playful but still firm, the sound of running water became audible as he returned to your side. 

“Bathtime,” he said teasingly and you knew there would be no point in arguing, not when he was in full-blown protective mode. God, he could be so stubborn sometimes. 

The brunette boy led you into the bathroom, muttering under his breath about how you should have just phoned him as you trailed behind, wet clothes dripping onto the floor. You stood patiently in the doorway as he rummaged in underneath the sink, his furrowed brows relaxing as he found what he was searching for. He straightened up with a playful grin and held two bottles, bubble bath from one of those birthday sets you got ages ago and forgot about, finally being put to good use. 

“Alright, angel, we got options here,” he said as he inspected the labels on both. “Lavender or…this one’s called ‘Sunset Bliss’. I guess they are bottling sunsets now.”

You roll your eyes before tapping your finger against the small orange bottle, trying to hold back a smile. “Sunset Bliss, obviously.”

“Good choice,” he said whilst nodding as if you passed some sort of test, opening the cap and pouring it into the tub. “Gotta get some sunshine back into today, right?” His voice was light as he leaned over the bath, holding his hand underneath the faucet to check the temperature, adjusting it just how you like it. Just shy of scalding.

He stood back up and hesitated as he looked down at you. “Do you want me to stay with you, or should I wait outside?” His tone was gentle, so as to not pressure you. Just that lovesick gaze that was laced with a hint of concern. 

You shrug your shoulders at his question, still shivering slightly as you respond. “You can stay. I still have to tell you what Robin and I got up to.”

Steve’s eyes softened as he nodded, stepping towards you with a tender smile. His fingers were gentle as they brushed against your skin, treating you with care as he helped you out of your rain-soaked clothes. He was so sweet as he worked, treating you as if you were the most precious thing to him. To which he would probably agree. 

There was nothing suggestive in his movements, no expectation—just the quiet intimacy you had come to associate him with. He adored being close to you in this way. 

Once you were free of the drenched clothes, he held onto your arm as you lowered yourself into the water, feeling a sense of pride as you sighed in relief. The water was soothing to your freezing skin, helping thaw out your numb fingers and toes. He took a seat on the bathmat next to you, resting his chin on the edge of the tub as he gazed at you expectantly. He always had a soft spot for your ramblings. 

“So,” he began as he drew out the word, an amused look on his face. “What did you and Robin get up to while I was slaving away at work? Any trouble?”

You splash a bit of water on his face at his teasing before sinking deeper beneath the bubbles, beginning to babble about your day, not leaving anything out as he loved hearing all the small details. No matter how mundane. He listened, amber eyes focused as he nodded along, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment and then laughing at his own joke. God, he was a dork. 

Steve reached out and traced small patterns on your arm with his fingers, his touch light. “Do you want me to wash your hair, sweetheart?” He asked you with eager eyes—he always wanted to do things for you. Things you really didn’t need help with. He was constantly coming up with excuses, helping you made him feel good. He liked to feel needed. 

You shook your head with a chuckle. “You don’t have to.”

He scoffed and you knew he would not take no for an answer, already reaching out for the shampoo bottle on the side of the tub. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” He said with finality, popping open the cap and allowing the scent of citrus to fill the steamy air. “Besides, I’ve got hair down to a science,” he said with a wink as he moved behind you. 

You tilted your head back to look up at him and he placed a soft kiss against your lips, gently moving you to face forwards, careful not to get any water in your eyes. His fingers were firm as they massaged your scalp, blunt nails moving perfectly as you shut your eyes, leaning closer to where he knelt. 

“You do have great hair,” you tease, eyes still shut, focusing on the motion of his hands. 

“Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington was my nickname in high school,” he smirked, you don’t see how proud he looked of the title at that moment. 

“Part of your charm huh?” You poked at him. 

“Oh, absolutely,” he agreed as he carried on with his movements. “Speaking of charm,” he continued, “any updates on Robin and Vicky? Has she finally made anything resembling moves?”

You groaned as you recalled the previous conversation you had earlier that day, the hour spent listening to Robin pining. “She is still being awkward about it. I swear she panics every time she talks to her, and you know how she talks too much when she’s nervous.” 

Steve snickered, a sound so boyish you couldn’t help but join in. “Robin? No way.” His sarcasm earned him another splash to the face, making him laugh even harder. 

“Hey! I’m just stating the facts!” He said. “But seriously, she needs to just ask her out already. Vicky is clearly into her.”

“I know right? They would be adorable together,” you agreed with him, enjoying the playful sass he was giving. If there was one thing Steve secretly loved, it would be gossip. He ate it up just like he did back in school, he always knew the drama from listening to people talk in the hallways. Plus he could never keep a secret, that’s what he had you for. You pretty much knew what every citizen of Hawkins was going through based on their movie choices at Family Video, he always kept you up to date on those. 

“She better not mess it up,” Steve added, rubbing conditioner through your hair, making sure to focus extra on the ends. “Might have to step in. Play matchmaker.”

You scoffed at the statement. “Like you’d do any better?”

He shoved your head playfully. “Honey, I have excellent matchmaking skills. You’re looking at the guy who got Nancy and Jonathan together—but maybe that’s not the best example.” He paused, thinking for a second, before the both of you burst into laughter.

You felt his hands slow as he finished working product through your hair, you turned your head to find him looking at you warmly. “I’m not worried about Robin and Vicky. If they’re meant to be, they’ll figure it out. Just like we did.”

Your heart clenched at the look on his face, all soft eyes and adoring smiles. The expression that was reserved for you and you alone. 

“Yeah,” you whispered as you turned back around, allowing him to carefully rinse your hair for the final time. “Just like we did.”

He finished up and shifted to your side once more, fully facing you. “All done, angel. Feeling better?” His voice was low and sweet, like syrup. Sticky and saccharine. 

“Thank you,” you tell him honestly, as you move to get up. He rose as you did, hands outstretched to help you climb over the ledge of the bath, making sure you were steady on the bathmat before reaching for a towel. Wrapping you up with exaggerated care.

“Alright, sweetheart, wait here. No running off,” he said as he finished tucking the towel around you. 

You giggled, watching him scoop up your pile of wet clothes from the bathroom floor. “And where exactly would I go?”

He walked to the door and held a finger up, pointing at you. “Knowing you, you’d probably find some trouble to get into. Plus, I don’t want to mop up any more water from the living room, so stay put.”

He disappeared into the hallway and you could hear the familiar beep from the dryer, along with him talking to himself about what buttons to push. He always complained about how many setting the damn thing had. 

Not wanting to keep you waiting for long, he reappeared, holding a pair of your pyjama bottoms and—of course—one of his old school jumpers. 

He handed them both to you with a small smile. “Vintage Hawkins, what do you think?”

You raised an eyebrow as you inspected the item. “Didn’t think you’d want me wearing something that is so… ‘King Steve’”

Barking out a laugh as he helped you into the soft material. You had spoken a bit about his past, he openly disclosed that he may not have been the best person then. You withheld using the nickname, usually reserving it for when you wanted to rile him up. 

“I don’t mind,” he said with a shrug. “You would’ve been way too good for me back then. No way we’d be friends in high school. I was kind of a dick.”

You hummed as you wriggled into the dry clothes. “Kind of?”

Steve held a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Wow, okay! That hurts, honey. I’m nicer now aren’t I?”

He helped you tug up your pyjama bottoms, taking a step back to admire you, as if you were dolled up for a date. He loved you like this. Warm and comfy, wearing his clothes. “You are very nice. Maybe too nice.”

He flashed that beautiful, boyish grin once again. “Too nice? No such thing.” He pulled you closer to him. “I had to change my tactics to win you over. I’m whipped for you, just ask Robin.”

Leading you to the couch and pulling you down next to him, he grabbed a blanket and draped it over you both, looking over your shoulder to make sure your feet were covered too. 

“You know, I don’t think I would have liked you much back then,” you teased, poking his side and earning a surprised yelp from the boy beneath you. “Mr. ‘I’m too cool for everyone.’”

Steve ruffled your drying hair playfully before continuing. “Yeah, I was pretty insufferable,” you can hear the cringe in his voice as he looks away, cheeks heating slightly at the embarrassing memories. “But look at me now, completely reformed and with a gorgeous girl looking all pretty in my lap.”

It was your turn to blush as you hid your face in his chest, TV playing softly in the background as you let yourself melt into his embrace. He always made it easy for you to unwind around him. Completely relax. It was simple with Steve, it always was.

“I’m glad I’m not that guy anymore,” he said, his quiet voice laced with sincerity, fingers running through your hair. “Because now, I get to be here with you.”

You tilted your head upwards, eyelids beginning to droop, surrounded by his warmth. “I’m glad too,” you tell him as you feel your body getting heavier.

The white noise from the TV and Steve’s embrace lulled you into a gentle sleep. He smiled down at you, seeing you completely at peace on his chest. He placed a soft kiss on your temple, inhaling the smell of you mixed with the citrus shampoo he had used earlier. He felt content, full.