#stranger things fandom

you've been so careful. no literally, you've went as far as to avoid steve's touches, pulling away from his hugs with excuses about headaches or work for the past crawls. he has not noticed that something is wrong with you yet, since you only act that way once his hands reach down to your waist.

the world is falling apart again with vecna, and here you are, selfishly bringing a new life into this mess. yes, you know it took two to tango with steve, but guilt swallows you whole before you go to bed every night, since you are so scared about the future.

nancy sits beside you, her posture is straight and composed as always, though her eyes betray the worry that is deep within her features. mike paces nearby, his lanky frame casting long shadows on the linoleum floor, while lucas slumps in a chair across from you, his face drawn with exhaustion.

you're all here because of holly... sweet, innocent holly, snatched away by vecna's dark monsters... and karen, who's upstairs in a room, is recovering from surgery and bandaged from whatever horror unfolded at the wheeler house. the air smells of antiseptic and fear.

that is a cocktail that makes your stomach churn which is not good for your baby. you've been throwing up a lot lately, but you blame it on nerves whenever someone asks.

inside of the hospital, you can feel flutters inside of you, a remembrance to the fetus that you are growing into a baby. you're due in may of 1988, but that feels so far away knowing what is going on in hawkins currently.

as mike starts sighing, thinking of a plan to get holly back, a nurse approaches with her white scrubs crisp and her smile too bright for this grim place during the middle of the night.

she scans the room, and her eyes light up when they land on you.

"oh, hi there! y/n, right?"

you smile, forgetting about the reason why this nurse knows of you so well, "yes! hi, nurse kelly! how are you?" you ask. nancy, lucas, and mike listen and watch this interaction, silently wondering if this nurse could be another plan to reach karen in the back of the hospital.

"oh I'm doing fine for someone on the overnight shift! but enough about me... how's the baby doing? everything okay with your check-ups?" the nurse asks in concern, due to your presence in the hospital waiting room during the nighttime.

however, her words hit you like a punch to the gut. your blood runs cold, and you freeze with every muscle in your body locking up.

the baby.

your baby!!!

nurse kelly said it out loud, right here, in front of the very people in your friend group that are super quick to connect dots. panic surges through you, making your vision blur at the edges even though you try to keep a normal face.

you force a laugh, shaky and unconvincing, shaking your head vigorously, "what? i... i think you have the wrong person. i don't know what you're talking about."

the nurse frowns, tilting her head as she looks down at her clipboard, which had a blank paper on it, before she looked back up at you with curiosity, "huh- well aren't you the one who came in for the prenatal visit last month? you were eleven weeks along at the time? i remember because you because you seemed so nervous and alone, but everything looked great."

your throat closes up, as nancy's head snaps toward you, her eyes wide with surprise. mike stops pacing, staring openly, and lucas leans forward, his brow furrowed. the nurse, sensing the tension, mumbles an apology and hurries away down the hall, leaving you exposed like a nerve ending laid bare.

silence stretches, and you nearly want to cry since your biggest secret, your child, is now known to someone else that was not you.

a minute passes with the boys looking at you in shock, while your closest friend tries to find some words to say.

once she finds them, nancy stands, gesturing softly to the hallway, "y/n, can we talk? just for a minute?"

you nod numbly, your legs feeling like lead as you follow her out. the hallway is quieter outside of the waiting room with the beeps of machines and other distant echoes.

once you stop walking, you nearly wanted to cry as nancy turns to you, her expression a mix of concern and gentleness, the kind that makes your chest ache. she's always been strong, but has a softness that sneaks up on everyone.

you remember the days when you both navigated the tangled web of high school mess. before 1984, you were pining after jonathan... and her after steve, only to switch in that fateful year of 1984.

now, three years into your relationship with steve, and here you are, hiding the biggest secret of your life from him.

"what was that about?" nancy asks, her voice low and careful, like she's handling fragile glass, "the nurse… she mentioned a baby. your... um... baby."

tears prick at your eyes, and. you wrap your arms around yourself, pulling the sweater tighter, as if it could shield you from this confrontation, "it's nothing, nancy. she must have mistaken me for someone else."

nancy doesn't buy it, of course she does not. you've looked... different, lately. nothing too noticeable, but it is clear that you've been much more tired.

she steps closer, her hand hovering near your arm before she touches it lightly, "y/n, please. we've been through too much together for lies. if something's going on, you can tell me."

the dam breaks a little, emotions flooding out in a whisper, "i… i didn't want anyone to know.... not yet.... not with vecna and everything happening."

mike and lucas have followed, lingering at the hallway's entrance, their faces a blend of curiosity and worry.

mike rubs the back of his neck, awkward as ever, "wait, is this for real? like, you're pregnant?"

you shoot him a glare, but it's laced with fear, "mike, drop it."

mike doesn't, "hold on, a month ago, i heard you throwing up at the house before the 14th crawl. i thought it was that sketchy deli food downtown, the one with the bad tuna. but… was it morning sickness or something?"

lucas nods slowly, piecing it together, "yeah, and you've been wearing those huge sweaters for a few weeks, even on days when it's not that cold."

the boys, and their smart words pile on with each one stripping away your carefully constructed facade. you feel cornered, trapped, the weight of your secret pressing down until you can't breathe.

"fine," you snap, your voice trembling almost with shame, "yes, okay? i'm pregnant. thirteen weeks. but I can't... i don't want to talk about it right now."

nancy's eyes soften further, and she reaches out, her fingers brushing yours.

"y/n, can i… with your permission, can i see?"

you hesitate, terror clawing at your throat. unfortunately, they're right... everyone will find out eventually. with a shaky nod, you let Nancy lift the hem of your navy blue woven sweater, just enough to reveal the small, rounded bump beneath.

it's not huge, but it's unmistakable now with a soft curve that speaks of the life growing inside you.

nancy gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"oh my goodness," she breathes, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and shock, "it's real. you're really… y/n, this is amazing... but.... but you have to tell steve, if you haven't."

the mention of his name sends a fresh wave of panic crashing over you since steve... your beautiful and loving boy steve, with his easy smile and protective streak, does not know about his child growing inside of you.

you've been dating for three years, but this changes everything, "i can't, nancy. not now. what if he freaks out? what if he thinks it's too dangerous with vecna around?"

she shakes her head, her grip on your arm firm but kind, "steve adores kids. you know that. he's always talking about them, how he'd be the best dad. he'd be over the moon."

lucas chimes in, his voice steady despite the chaos around you, "yeah, man. steve's like, the king of babysitting. remember how he handles the kids? he'd be the happiest guy on the planet. well, besides all this vecna crap."

you swallow hard, tears spilling over now, "but holly's missing. taken by vecna and karen's in this hospital, hurt. i can't distract from that. it's not the time."

nancy pulls you into a gentle hug all of the sudden, with her arms wrapping around you with a warmth that makes you sob quietly into her shoulder.

"holly's disappearance isn't your responsibility, y/n.... not right now. your only responsibility is this baby. the rest of us... we'll track her down, we'll fight but you need to take care of yourself and that little one."

nancy's words are meant kindly, but they stir a fear of uselessness inside of your body. you've always been in the thick of the fighting, fighting alongside steve, wielding whatever weapon you could find. now, with this bump, this life depending on you, you feel sidelined, like dead weight.

"i don't want to be useless," you whisper, pulling back to wipe your eyes, "i hate feeling like i can't help."

mike steps forward, his usual sarcasm softened, "you're not useless, y/n. come on. you're carrying a whole kid in there. that's like, the opposite of useless. that's creating life while the upside down world is trying to end it."

nancy nods, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder, "exactly. and does robin know? she's your best friend... she'd want to be there for you."

you shake your head, "no. no one knows. just me… and now you guys."

the hallway feels like it is closing in smaller. there is a tiny spark of joy buried deep under the terror, but still. nancy's presence grounds your emotions since she is supportive, and her friendly gaze reminds you of the bond you've shared through battles.

"you have to tell steve," she says again but softer this time, "he deserves to know, and you'll feel better once it's out."

the thought terrifies you since what if he resents you for keeping it secret? what if the world crumbles before this baby even has a chance?

you nod anyway while staring into nancy's bright eyes, because deep down, you know she's right.

you all head back to the waiting room, and you feel exposed even with the navy blue sweater pulled down firmly over your belly. nancy settles beside you again, her hand finding yours under the armrest, squeezing gently.

it's a small gesture, but it reminds you that you're not alone in this nightmare while carrying a child. mike and lucas exchange glances, trying to act casual, but you can see the wheels turning in their heads... the shock, the questions they are biting back from you.

"i'm almost four months," you murmur, correcting yourself slightly from the thirteen weeks, but it feels close enough, "i'm about three months along, and i found out right when things started getting weird again with vecna in the summer time. i thought… i don't know, maybe if i ignored it, this pregnancy wouldn't be real.... or maybe i could protect my child by pretending."

nancy's thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, her touch soothing, "that's a long time to carry this alone, y/n. why didn't you say anything sooner?"

tears well up again, and you blink them away furiously as you adjust your body in the chair to accommodate your back, "because the world's ending, nance. again. holly's out there somewhere, scared and alone, and karen's back behind that door fighting for her life. how could i drop this bomb? it feels so selfish... like, who am i to bring a kid into this nightmare?"

nancy leans in closer beside you, her voice a whisper meant just for you, "it's not selfish. it's human.... and that baby? it's a piece of you and steve. that is something good in all this bad."

you think back to how it all started with those cute moments with steve after the switch in '84. you and nancy got caught up in the upside down stuff and at the time... you'd crushed on jonathan hard since his quietness sparked a curiosity in you. this is while nancy was unhappy with steve. however, fates twisted and suddenly steve's eyes were on you once the both of you started working at mall together with robin.

three years later, and steve's become your heart, but this secret has built a wall between you, any happiness around you.

lucas clears his throat, trying to lighten the mood, "steve's gonna flip in a good way. remember how he was with us kids during the upside down stuff? guy's a natural dad."

mike snorts, but it's fond, "yeah, he'd probably start building a crib tomorrow if he knew."

the boy's words spark a flicker of warmth in your chest, cutting through the cold dread.

you looked to your right and took a glance toward the doors, where doctors rush by and wyou onder about holly... tiny holly, with her wide eyes and innocent questions. the guilt resurfaces, "but what about holly… we have to focus on her. i can't be the reason we get distracted."

nancy's eyes meet yours, "stop that. we're a team, y/n. we handle multiple fronts. your baby is priority one for you now. let us worry about the rest."

the woman's kindness undoes you a little more, emotions bubbling up with gratitude mixed with fear, and a love for this friend who's seen you through hell.

you squeeze her hand back, hoping to draw strength from her.

the waiting room clock ticks on, each second a reminder of the battles ahead. you feel the bump shift slightly as you move, a tiny reminder of the life within.

you could tell that the conversation was unfinished, since nancy keeps looking at you. it takes her a few moments before she pulls you into another quiet exchange.

"tell me more," she says softly, "how have you been feeling? physically, i mean."

you hesitate, "tired. so tired. and the nausea... god, it's been awful. i threw up every morning for weeks. that's what mike heard, i guess... and emotionally… i'm a mess. happy one minute, terrified the next. what if vecna comes for me? for the baby?"

nancy listens, "that's normal, y/n. pregnancy's hard enough without monsters but you're strong. you've fought demogorgons, mind flayers. you can do this."

mike interrupts while leaning in, "so, uh, is it a boy or girl? or too early?"

you shake your head, "too early... but i don't care, as long as it's healthy."

lucas grins, "steve or stevia junior, maybe."

the banter helps, and you laugh for the first time since you saw steve this morning.

speaking of steve, you wonder when you'll have the guts to tell him about his child...

part two

the eye contact in this position is devastating. your face is so close to steve's, your mouth falling open as he pounds into you. he leans down and presses hot, open mouthed kisses against your lips, capturing all the little sounds you make. your thighs are handles for him as he spears his cock nice and deep into you, making sure that his tip pushes right up against all your little sweet spots. steve grinds himself as deep as your tight walls will let him.

steve wants you stretched wide, he wants you helpless beneath him, and he wants you looking at him while he ruins you.

"mhm... jus' like that." he groans breathily while his hips smack into yours hard enough to make the mattress squeak under both of you. you're clenching around him so tightly that he has to work to keep shoving his cock inside you; your hole sucking him in each time he tries to pull back. he groans into your mouth, eyes glassy. "you're gonna be… ah gosh- gonna have all my kids, y'know that? i'm gonna make you aaaall mine."

when you try to squirm and hide your face in your arm, steve just grabs your wrist and pins it back down against the mattress so he can see every twitch of your expression while steve's fucking you open like this. his pupils are blown, his mouth half-open from how heavy he's breathing, and every time you gasp or your eyes water he groans like you're milking him on purpose, addicted to the way your cunt tightens the second you get shy under his stare.

"look at me, mama," steve pants, voice low and wrecked, forcing your thighs wider when you try to close them against his hips, "wanna see how pretty you look when i give it to you. when i fill you up." his cock presses so deep with the next snap of his hips that your stomach flips and pussy throbs. "fuck, feels so full," you echo back, and he grunts, wanting you to address him by his proper title. he slams into you, bullying your soft insides with his girth. if you're mama, that makes him... "steve! ugh, daddy, i can't, 'm gonna cum!"

he moans loud at your words, close to the edge himself. he loves when you call him dirty things while pretending to be innocent. his sweet girl is so precious. "yeah. there it is, that's my good girl." he pushes down on the tummy bulge that forms each time he bottoms out. "see here? 's what you're gonna look like, with your belly full when i knock you up."

you whimper at the words while his cock slides in and out. there's less resistance now because you're soaking his shaft, and messy squelches fill your ears with each rough thrust.

your body starts to shake and gush around him, soaking the base of his cock. steve moans like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen, like you've just proven his point. your cunt just agreed to everything he said without a word. and that's all he needs to bury himself inside you to the hilt and fill you with his thick load.

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IT SHOULD’VE BEEN EASY, YOU THINK SOMETIMES. LOVING HIM.

but it wasn’t. it never has been. because mike wheeler is… dense. painfully, spectacularly, cosmically dense. the kind of boy who could watch you bleed and ask if you tripped. who could stare at you too long, too soft, too much, and then claim he “didn’t notice.” he’s a riddle, and he makes you work for every moment of clarity like it’s something you should feel lucky to receive.

you’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. long before monsters, long before the word “upside down” meant something other than the way he lay on the couch when he was bored. before trauma rearranged both of you into people you barely recognized. back when he was just mike—awkward, loud, too earnest, too stubborn. a boy who talked with his whole body, who defended you with scraped knees and shouted arguments in parking lots, who didn’t know how to say the things he felt so he built entire fortresses out of silence instead.

and god, you tried. you tried to read him the way he reads maps in d&d, looking for patterns, for anything that could mean he cared the way you did. but mike never opens the right doors. or maybe he opens them too late. maybe he doesn’t even realize the doors are there. he’s so used to hiding, to shouldering everything alone, that letting anyone in feels like handing over a weapon.

loving someone like that—someone who keeps himself locked away—it hurts. it hurts because wanting him feels like trying to warm your hands over a fire that won’t stay lit.

you did try to let him go. you swear you did. loving mike wheeler isn’t this soft, fluttery thing people write poems about. its something you have to learn to tuck under your ribs so it doesn’t spill out every time he looks at you with those dark, startled eyes like he wasn’t expecting you to still be there. you learned early that emotions make him skittish. not just yours—everyone’s. if you get too close, too honest, too anything, he recoils. not physically, but in words. sharp ones, sarcastic ones, the kind he regrets immediately but never admits to.

you’ve seen it happen to others, so you never risked it with yourself.

so slowly, you started stepping back. not in some dramatic teenage heartbreak way, but in the soft, invisible ways that actually matter. you sat with different people at lunch, laughing at jokes that weren’t as funny as you pretended. you stopped answering him when he’d radio you. you skipped movie nights twice in a row. you let days pass without seeking him out first.

you told yourself it was self-care, not avoidance. that maybe if you built a life without him woven through every hour of it, the ache would dull. maybe the world would shift its axis just enough that he wouldn’t be the center anymore.

the problem was… hawkins is small. memories are smaller.

how do you let go of someone whose shadow sits in every corner of your childhood? he’s everywhere. in the sunburns from summers at the quarry. in the grass stains on your jeans from bike races he always cheated in. in the smell of wet pavement after storms, because those were the nights he’d sneak out and show up at your window, whispering, “c’mon, you’re not gonna let a little rain stop us.”

he’s in the basement where you learned what loyalty felt like, lights dim, dice clattering, his voice animated and alive in ways you never heard in classrooms or crowded hallways. he’s in the scream you made the first time you saw a demogorgon, and the way his hand grabbed yours so tight it left impressions. he’s in the silence afterward, when none of you slept for days, and he sat on the floor beside your bed, staring at the wall like if he looked away, the world might break again.

mike wheeler has always been a constant. even when he’s cold, even when he’s distant, even when he’s drowning in his own head and dragging everyone with him, you never doubted his heart.

you just doubted that he’d ever let you see all of it.

he has no idea. he has no idea that your voice softens when you say his name. he has no idea that you memorized every version of his smile. he has no idea that half the jokes you make are just attempts to hear him laugh. he has no idea that you still look for him in every crowd, even when you’re trying not to. you’re too scared to hand him the truth. mike doesn’t do confessions. he doesn’t do vulnerable. he doesn’t do cornered, and loving him—wanting him—would corner him more than anything else ever could.

so you learned to swallow the things that mattered. you let him go in all the ways that count.

you didn’t expect it to work.

no one tells you that letting go sometimes means someone else finds the space you cleared. his name’s ryan, one of those effortlessly likeable golden-boy types. varsity soccer, obnoxiously good hair. he laughs easily, listens well, and calls you “dude” when he’s excited. he isn’t complicated. he isn’t haunted. he likes you openly, without fear or hesitation. you liked that. you needed that.

you didn’t expect anything to happen, honestly. but he noticed you. he asked you out. he held your hand in the hallway. he tells you good morning and actually means it. he has no idea that you’ve spent years orbiting someone who never once looked directly at the sun he was pulling toward him. maybe that’s why you said yes. ryan didn’t make your heart ache, he made it rest.

which is how you ended up here, on the old carpet of mike wheeler’s basement, legs crossed, the smell of dust and old soda cans filling the room as you tell the party about your boyfriend. mike sits across from you, half-sunk into the couch, elbows on knees. he hasn’t looked at you since you started talking about him.

dustin’s sitting criss-cross beside you, leaning forward like you’re announcing a secret mission. lucas and max are sharing a beanbag chair. max looks intrigued, lucas looks two seconds from teasing you. “okay,” dustin says. “start over. his name is ryan and… what? he just asked you out? like, randomly? popular ryan?”

you shrug, trying to sound casual. “not randomly. we talked. he’s in my english class. he asked if I wanted to get ice cream after school, and then one date turned into… more dates.”

lucas raises his eyebrows. “popular popular ryan? as in captain-of-the-soccer-team, girls-write-his-name-in-the-bathroom-stall ryan?”

max snorts. “yeah, that one.”

“he’s actually really nice,” you say, and it’s true. your voice comes out softer than you expect. “he’s funny. and he’s good at listening. he remembers stuff I say.”

that last part lands weirdly in the room.

dustin beams. “dude, that’s awesome! I mean—wow. you actually have a boyfriend. and he’s, like, normal.”

max kicks dustin’s ankle. “don’t jinx it.”

lucas nudges you with his foot. “so… you like him? like him like him?”

you feel your cheeks heat a little. “yeah. I do. he makes me feel… I don’t know. good.”

you shouldn’t be looking at him, but even after all these years, your eyes always find mikes even when you don’t mean to. dustin, oblivious, keeps going. “so when do we meet him? we have to meet him! we need to make sure he’s not some jerk pretending to be cool.”

“he’s not a jerk,” you say quickly. “he’s… he treats me really well.”

lucas nods approvingly. “good.”

max smirks. “and is he cute?”

you roll your eyes. “max—”

“what?” she laughs. “I don’t date, I just judge.”

they all laugh except mike. classic mike wheeler, feelings like locked doors. his knee bounces once—sharply—then stops, like he remembered someone might notice. he’s holding a pencil, the eraser dented from where he’s been chewing on it without realizing. he looks small, almost.

you’ve known him too long not to notice when he’s shutting down, even if he thinks he’s hiding it well. mike wheeler has never been good at quiet. not real quiet. not the kind born from feeling something he doesn’t want to say. then, finally, after too long, after the others have moved on to teasing each other, he cuts in. “so…” mike clears his throat. “ryan.”

he says the name like it tastes bad.

you blink. “yeah?”

mike doesn’t look up and instead pretends to inspect a fraying edge on the couch cushion. “he’s, what, the… uh… the popular guy, right?”

lucas eyes him. “you know who ryan is, mike.”

“yeah, obviously,” mike snaps back quickly. “i’m just—clarifying.”

max’s eyebrows rise. she knows that tone. you all do. you nod carefully. “he’s on the soccer team. people like him.”

“right.” mike flicks the pencil between his fingers. “of course they do.”

there’s something biting in the way he says it. something sour. it’s weirdly déjà vu, because mike has always been like this. since you were kids. since the fourth grade incident where you told him you had a crush on someone and he spent the rest of recess kicking gravel and making fun of the guy’s haircut.

mike wheeler doesn’t know how to be happy for people. he never has.

you feel it. max feels it. lucas definitely feels it, because he gives mike that slow head-turn that always precedes a verbal slap. dustin stalls mid–orange slice chewing. you swallow. “he’s nice.”

mike snorts under his breath. it’s small, but it’s sharp enough to cut. “yeah. sure. nice.” he taps the pencil against his knee, too fast. “just—kind of weird, though.”

max narrows her eyes. “what is?”

mike shrugs, pretending nonchalance so aggressively it’s almost theatrical. “i mean… someone like him. dating someone like—” he stops, pivots, tries to disguise the slip with a shrug that’s too casual. “whatever. it’s just surprising.”

the room freezes. your stomach drops fast, like missing a step on a staircase. lucas raises his hands. “woah. dude. not cool.”

dustin’s mouth is already open. “yeah, what the hell does that mean?!”

mike’s eyebrows knit instantly, defensively. “what?! i didn’t—I’m not—god, you all jump on everything i say.”

max leans forward. “probably because you say stuff like that.”

mike scowls at the floor like it did something to him. “i just meant—look, ryan’s, you know…” he gestures vaguely, aimlessly, like the air might fill in the blanks for him. “he’s popular. he’s… the type girls are into. it’s just—unexpected. okay?”

your chest tightens, not anger, but that old familiar sting. the one he’s been accidentally carving into you since you were twelve. “unexpected how?”

mike freezes. he wasn’t expecting you to ask. he wasn’t expecting to be held accountable. he shoves his hair back, frustrated. “i don’t know! i’m just saying it’s weird. it’s weird that he—he could date anyone he wants, and he picks—” he cuts himself off again, voice faltering. “—you.”

max mutters under her breath, “jesus christ.”

lucas covers his face with both hands.

dustin gapes. “mike. why would you even say that?”

“i’m not trying to be mean!” he shoots back. “i’m being honest! sorry if honesty is suddenly illegal.”

but it’s the way he won’t look at you that gives him away. he keeps looking anywhere else, the floor, the table, the dice, the wall, because he can’t look at your face and say the things he means. he never has been able to. you breathe in slowly, trying not to let your voice shake. “it kind of sounds like you’re saying i’m not good enough for him.”

mike’s head jerks up like the words hit him physically. “that’s not—no, that’s not what i meant,” he insists, but the defensiveness in his voice makes it hard to believe. “i’m just saying—he’s… you know. he’s that guy. the guy everyone knows. the guy who—who—”

“who what?” max presses.

mike’s jaw flexes. he looks trapped. “who… belongs with someone who fits that world, okay?” he mutters at last. “someone who… matches him.”

mike wheeler doesn’t realize how cruel he sounds when he’s scared. he never has. you feel heat crawl up your neck, because this is him. this is mike. you’ve spent years reading him like an impossible book, flipping through pages where he says one thing but means another, hoping eventually the story will get easier to understand. it never has.

mike crosses his arms now, defensive, closed-off, like he’s physically holding himself together. “i just—” he stops, searching for a tone that won’t betray him. “i mean… it’s cool. it’s fine. you’re dating him. that’s… good.” he says it so unconvincingly it almost hurts to listen to.

mike can’t hide what he feels. not really. his mouth tries, but his body betrays him every time, the tight shoulders, the clipped tone, the way he won’t look at you for more than a half-second. he’s dense. he’s stubborn. he’s impossible. he’s also transparent in the worst ways.

this exact moment is the reminder of why loving him hurt. he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. and if you point it out, he’ll only push harder, like he’s cornered, like feelings are traps that snap shut on him. you exhale slowly. “okay,” you say softly, mostly for yourself. “okay.”

something inside you folds, because this is it. this is who mike wheeler has always been. for the first time, you let yourself actually feel it instead of excusing it. he’s never going to change. not the way you kept hoping he would. not the way little-kid you imagined he might if you just loved him long enough.

mike can be a dick. he always has been. you’ve spent years smoothing it over in your head—no, he didn’t mean it like that, no, he’s just stressed, no, that’s just mike—but god, hearing it now, in this basement, in this moment when you’re trying to share something good? it lands differently.

so you shift, force your shoulders to relax, force your breath to steady. you don’t look at him again. you don’t chase the apology he isn’t going to give. you don’t try to decode the tiny flashes of panic in his voice. you just move on.

max is the first to break the silence. “so,” she says, deliberately bright, “when do we get to meet him?”

dustin jumps in immediately, nodding so hard his curls bounce. “yeah! yeah—i mean, we should obviously vet him.”

lucas elbows him. “not vet. just… meet. like normal human beings.”

“i can ask him,” you say, trying to sound casual. “maybe tomorrow? lunch?”

dustin beams. “yes. perfect. bring him to our table. we’ll be normal.”

max rolls her eyes. “we’ll be as normal as we can be.”

you laugh under your breath because of course. this is why you love them. this is why you stayed. you don’t want to look at him, you really don’t. but your eyes flick over anyway—to check, to gauge, to survive. and he’s staring at you. dead-on. not even pretending to look away this time, like he was waiting for your eyes. like he needed you to look at him.

when you do—just for a second—his whole face shifts. relief, like he’d been holding his breath. you break eye contact instantly, because no. you’re not doing that again. you’re not opening the door he keeps slamming shut in your face. max asks you another question and you turn toward her, answering, letting her voice pull you back into the circle that feels safe.

mike stays quiet, but you can feel it, his stare following you like he’s trying to will you into turning back to him. he’s a dick. and he cares. and those two things have always existed in him side by side, ruining you without him even realizing it.

and you’re done paying the price for it.

the cafeteria hums around you, winter sun spilling in through those tall windows like it’s trying to make the school look less miserable than it is. you spot the table before ryan does, mike hunched over his notebook, tapping a pen in this uneven rhythm that’s basically a heartbeat made of irritation. lucas and dustin are in a quiet but intense argument, max is peeling the label off her drink with the bored precision of someone who’s seen this dynamic a thousand times.

ryan walks beside you with that loose, easy stride he always has, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a little messy from morning practice. he’s warm in this effortless way, people look at him without him ever asking for the attention. he leans toward you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “ready?” he teases, but it’s gentle. he’s actually checking in.

you nod, even though your stomach flips. “yeah. they’re right there.”

“cool. let’s go.”

when you reach the table, lucas notices first, eyebrows shooting up. “oh—hey. ryan, right?”

ryan grins back, easy as breathing. “yeah. hey, man.”

dustin straightens next, suddenly animated. “dude, i’ve seen you play. you’re, like… fast. like actually fast.”

ryan laughs. “that’s the idea. but thanks.”

max’s eyes narrow with interest. “huh. so you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

everyone starts warming up instantly—of course they are. ryan has that friendly, open posture that makes people feel like they already know him. he drops his backpack, sits beside you like he’s been doing it for months, and immediately vibes with the group. it’s mike who doesn’t move.

he doesn’t look up right away, he just flicks his eyes up for a second, scans ryan’s face, then back down to his notebook. he’s not glaring, but there’s this stillness to him, like every thought he has is being corralled behind his teeth. ryan doesn’t seem fazed. “you’re mike, right? you’re the one who runs their campaigns?”

mike finally speaks, voice flat. “sometimes.”

ryan smiles like he didn’t hear the edge. “i used to play with my cousin. i’m not, like, good-good, but i know the basics.”

dustin lights up again. “wait, seriously? what class?”

“rogue.” ryan says.

“of course.” mike mutters under his breath.

lucas shoots him a look. “dude.”

mike just shrugs, eyes on his notebook again, pretending he didn’t say anything. you feel the air shift, just slightly, but enough. enough to know that mike’s mood isn’t going to magically improve just because ryan is being… well, genuinely nice.

ryan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “i heard you guys are doing some kind of winter campaign? sounds sick.”

dustin nods vigorously. “yeah, we’re—”

mike cuts in. “so. what’s someone like you doing dating them?”

everything freezes for a second. max’s head snaps toward him so fast her ponytail swings. “mike, you can’t just say stuff like that.”

mike holds up his hands a little, like he’s pretending he’s innocent even though his tone drips. “i’m just asking. he’s… you know.” he gestures at ryan. “mr. popular. mr. soccer. mr. everyone-likes-him. just curious.”

ryan’s smile falters, not because he’s offended, but because he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether mike is joking or actually serious. you know mike. you’ve known him your whole life. this is him being serious.

you open your mouth to say something, but ryan speaks first. “i’m dating them because i like them,” he says simply. “is that… weird?”

mike’s eyebrows lift just a fraction, but he doesn’t look up. “no. just surprising.”

lucas groans. “dude.”

mike shrugs again, small, annoyed, defensive. “i’m being honest.”

max kicks him under the table. “be less honest.”

mike clicks his pen, refusing to look anyone in the eye. “whatever. it’s fine.” but it isn’t fine. not with the way his knee is bouncing, or the way he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then snapping his gaze away like it hurts to look. you’ve seen mike jealous of your friends before, but never like this. never with this intensity that feels like it’s scraping at the bottom of something deeper—fear, maybe. or that same old thing he’s never been able to hide: mike hates feeling replaced.

that awful belief that things change too fast, that people slip away without warning, that someone else can just step in and take his place before he even realizes it’s happening. he hates that feeling. he always has. lunch rolls on despite him.

ryan is… honestly perfect in that easy, unforced way that mike has always resented in other people. he answers dustin’s questions without talking down to him, laughs at lucas’s jokes, asks max about her music taste and actually listens. when he admits he skates on weekends, max pretends she isn’t impressed, but you see the tiny spark in her eyes anyway. “you skate?” she asks, leaning forward despite herself.

“yeah!”

“okay, that’s actually kind of cool.”

“only kind of?” ryan laughs.

“don’t push it.” she says, but she’s smiling.

even lucas nods, like, alright. i can see the appeal. dustin’s already halfway sold on adopting him into the friend group. “you could totally play a rogue,” dustin says, excited. “you’d fit right in.”

“i’d be down,” ryan grins. “if you guys want.”

mike’s jaw tightens. he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. he just sits there, staring at his tray, then at ryan, then at you, then back down again, like he can’t decide whether to sulk or explode. the more everyone warms to ryan, the more mike curls inward, like watching someone else be so effortlessly liked is physically painful.

finally, five minutes before the bell, ryan glances at the clock and stands. “i should go,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i told some of the guys i’d meet them before class.” he turns to you, softening. “i’ll see you later?”

you nod, and he gives you this warm smile that makes your chest feel weirdly light. “bye guys!” ryan says, cheerful as always.

“see you!” dustin replies.

“later, man.” lucas waves.

max even gives a nod. “yeah. uh. cool meeting you.”

ryan leaves. the second he’s out of sight, literally the second, mike finally lifts his eyes. they’re tight, sharp, searching for an outlet. “okay,” he says, voice low but pointed. “i don’t like him.”

everyone groans at once. dustin actually drops his fork. “what are you talking about? he’s awesome!”

lucas frowns. “yeah. he was, like… cool. what’s your problem?”

“i’m serious. didn’t anyone else get a weird vibe? like—he’s too nice. too… polished.”

“polished?” lucas repeats. “he said ‘ass’ like three times.”

“yeah!” dustin jumps in. “he’s real! he’s not fake-nice, he’s just… a cool dude! honestly, we should invite him to play with us sometime.”

mike slams his pen down. “okay, can we not act like he’s joining the party? he’s not even—he’s not—no.”

“bro,” dustin says, eyebrows raised, “why does it matter so much?”

mike has no answer. he doesn’t want ryan at the table. he doesn’t want ryan getting closer. he doesn’t want ryan winning everyone over. he doesn’t want ryan replacing him. and he definitely doesn’t want ryan taking your attention like he already has. but mike wheeler would rather bite off his own tongue than admit any of that out loud. so all he does is sit there, arms crossed tight enough to hurt, glaring at the doors ryan walked through like he wants to will him out of existence. “i’m just saying,” he mutters, voice stiff and miserable, “i don’t like him.”

every part of him feels like it’s vibrating with something ugly and hot and directionless. because he doesn’t know why he feels this way, why the sight of you and ryan walking in together made his stomach clench, why ryan’s laugh grated against something raw in him, why every tiny brush of your shoulder against ryan’s made him want to leave the room and break something.

all he knows is that it’s wrong. it feels wrong. you two feel wrong.

why him? what’s so great about him? he’s not even that funny. he’s not even that interesting. he’s just some guy. some stupid guy who smiles too much and skates and knows d&d and is apparently good at everything.

ryan is the kind of boy who wins people without trying. mike has never been that boy. mike has never been anything that easy.

watching you fall into that ease—watching you laugh at ryan’s jokes, watching ryan lean in to whisper something that makes you blush—makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. it makes his hands clench under the table. it makes his throat close. he hates it. he hates him. he hates himself for not understanding why.

what is he even jealous of? you’re his friend. his best friend since forever. that’s it. that’s all. that’s supposed to be all. when you defend ryan—when you say, “mike, come on, i promise he’s actually really nice”—it hits something sharp in him.

he snaps without even meaning to. “yeah, well, nice is easy.”

no one knows what that means. not even him.

time jumps because life doesn’t wait for mike wheeler to figure himself out. weeks pass. then more weeks. you and ryan keep dating. mike does not warm up to him. not even a little. if anything, it gets worse. mike gets snappier. sharper. more impatient. he stops pretending to be polite. he stops pretending he’s “fine.”

when ryan shows up, mike leaves the room. when ryan talks, mike rolls his eyes. when ryan laughs, mike’s fists clench so tight his knuckles go white. he keeps saying things like:

“i’m telling you, he’s weird.”

“i don’t trust him.”

“he’s acting. nobody is that nice.”

“if you guys weren’t blinded by his stupid dimples you’d see it.”

and he has this whole plan in his head, this delusional mike wheeler blueprint where he sits you down, tells you all the reasons ryan is wrong for you, and you listen. you nod. you say, “yeah, you’re right, mike,” and you break up with ryan and everything snaps back to the way it’s supposed to be.

just you and him.

like it always was.

that’s how mike sees it. that’s how it should go.

except it doesn’t.

you stay with ryan. you stay for an entire month, and mike unravels. he gets more irritable by the day. more sarcastic. more blunt. more impossible to be around. he snaps at dustin over nothing, gets into stupid arguments with lucas, ignores max’s jabs and just stews silently instead. his grades slip. he can’t sleep. he spends too long staring at the ceiling, heart racing for reasons he refuses to name.

you barely know ryan. he’s just some guy. he’s just some stupid guy you met a week ago. he’s not even part of your real world, not the world you built with him. in mike’s head, one month is nothing compared to the years he’s had with you. the sleepovers, the walkie-talkies, the bike rides, the monster-hunting, the stupid inside jokes he still remembers. the versions of you he’s seen that ryan never will.

and he cannot wrap his brain around the fact that things didn’t snap back. that he didn’t get you back. ryan is .. popular. he has friends everywhere. he can sit at any table in the cafeteria and someone will shout his name.

mike doesn’t have that. he has you. he had you.

so the fact that ryan—this boy who already has everything—gets you too? it makes something poisonous coil tight inside him.

you and mike barely hang out anymore, not really. not alone. not the way you used to. not the way where you sprawled across the floor of his basement with snacks and bad movies and mike made sarcastic comments at everything because he knew they made you laugh. now mike barely looks at you unless it’s to glare across ryan’s shoulder.

he blames it on you. he blames it on the fact that you started dating ryan—as if that alone ruined everything. as if he hasn’t been the one acting like a storm cloud stuck in human form for weeks.

but that’s the thing about mike wheeler: when something hurts, he refuses to look at the wound. he refuses to admit it’s bleeding. he’ll blame the weapon, the room, the weather—anything but the feeling.

so when he asks you to come over, just you, you think about it for a long while. because it’s been a while. too long. avoiding mike forever isn’t an option. he’s your friend. your history. your whole adolescence wrapped in one stubborn, impossible, exhausting person.

so you agree. you go.

now it’s the two of you in his basement. he doesn’t look at you right away. it’s awkward. he never used to be awkward with you.

mike sits on the far end of the couch like you’re radioactive, close enough to pretend this is normal. he twists the cord of the basement lamp around his fingers, untwists it, twists it again. he used to sprawl everywhere, limbs everywhere, taking up space because he knew you’d fill the rest. now he sits like he’s trying not to touch his own shadow. you drop onto the other cushion. “so,” you say, because someone has to. “how’s… life?”

“oh, you know,” he mutters. “same old.”

you raise a brow. “that sounds fake.”

he huffs, barely a laugh but close enough that the tension flickers. “yeah, well. i’m trying.”

“trying what?”

“to be normal,” he says, shrugging too hard. “it’s exhausting.”

you snort, and for a second it feels like the two of you used to, easy, familiar, teasing. you toss a pillow at him. he dodges, barely, and it hits the d&d shelf with a dull thump. “you still can’t catch.” you say.

“i didn’t want to catch it.”

“sure you didn’t.”

he slants you a look that’s almost a smile. “you’re annoying.”

“you missed me.” you counter without thinking.

“whatever.”

for a second it’s fine—awkward but fine. you talk about school, about how dustin accidentally set off the fire alarm in chem, about how lucas is pretending he doesn’t care basketball tryouts are getting closer. mike’s shoulders loosen; he actually laughs, runs a hand through his hair the way he does when he finally stops overthinking. you think, stupidly, maybe this can work. maybe you can fix this.

then he does what mike always does. he pushes. he leans back, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to read every expression. “so,” he says, casual in that way he only is when he’s about to be mean. “how’s… everything? you know. with you.”

“with me?” you echo. “i mean, fine. i guess.”

“yeah?” he says lightly. “i wouldn’t know.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

mike shrugs, picking at the peeling sticker on the coffee table. “just that i wouldn’t know. probably because you’ve been too busy hanging out with your new—” he makes a little face, like the word tastes foul— “boyfriend.”

the way he says it. petty. like he’s daring you to deny it. you swallow. “okay. you know what? i’m not doing this with you.”

“doing what?”

“this,” you say, standing so fast the couch groans. “the passive-aggressive comments. the attitude. the—whatever this is.” you gesture vaguely at him, at the tension, at the room that feels suddenly too small. “i came here to hang out with you, mike. not to get judged.”

“i wasn’t judging—”

“yeah, you were. and i’m not dealing with it today.”

you’re already halfway to the basement stairs. mike just stares, stunned, mouth parted like you slapped him. you don’t give him time to catch up. you climb the stairs two at a time and push open the door. karen wheeler is at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes. she looks up with that bright mom-smile, ready to say hi—until she sees your face. the smile crumples instantly. “sweetheart? everything okay?”

you force a tight smile. “yeah, mrs. wheeler. just heading out.”

you slip past her before she can ask anything else, shoes thudding lightly across the kitchen tile. ted doesn’t even look up when you pass, just turns a page of his newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a tranquilized sloth. the air outside is cold in a way that wakes every nerve. you breathe it in. you need that. clarity. space. anything that isn’t mike wheeler and his catastrophic ability to ruin the simplest moment.

why does he have to be like this?

you walk across the lawn, hands stuffed into your pockets, heart drumming a tired, frustrated rhythm. mike is maddening. painfully, historically maddening. he can’t go five minutes without pushing a button—your button—like he’s testing the limits of how much you’ll take. he does it every time. he always has. and the worst part? half the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

you know him. you’ve always known him, and that makes it so much worse, because every time he acts like this, like he’s trying to drive you away, some part of you aches like you’re losing something you never figured out how to keep. why couldn’t he just be normal today? why couldn’t he just let it be the way it used to? why does he have to spit fire the second he feels even a millimeter out of place?

you reach your bike and grip the handlebars, knuckles whitening. if you leave now, maybe you’ll cool off. maybe tomorrow will be less impossible. maybe—

the door slams behind you. the sound slices clean through your thoughts. “hold on!”

you turn, startled, breath caught in your throat. mike is barreling out of the house like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. he stumbles down the porch steps, nearly tripping over his own shoelace, hair wild, chest heaving like he sprinted a mile. his face—god, you’ve never seen him look like that. frantic. unguarded. almost scared. “don’t go yet.” he says. “just—can you… just wait a second?”

you don’t answer. you’re too stunned by him. by the way he looks at you like everything inside him is spiraling.

he swallows hard. “why do you like him so much?”

the words fall out of him, unfiltered, fast, messy, the way mike gets when something breaks inside him. “i mean—he’s just—he’s just some guy,” mike continues, throwing his hands up. “he’s not even in the party. he doesn’t even know you. like, actually know you.”

you stare at him, stunned into silence, but mike keeps going, pacing one quick desperate line in the driveway. “he bought you the wrong soda at lunch,” mike says, pointing sharply like it’s definitive evidence in a murder case. “he brought grape. grape. who the hell likes grape?”

“mike—”

“and he doesn’t know your jokes,” mike says louder. “he laughs at the wrong ones. and he thinks you like those stupid pop quizzes in english—what?! nobody likes those! you get stressed over those! i know you do! you’ve only known him, like—a month. a month. and suddenly you’re always with him and he’s at your locker and he’s at your table and he’s—” mike gestures helplessly, like the word everywhere is too big for his mouth. “and i don’t get it. i don’t understand why things can’t just—go back to how they were. with us.”

you open your mouth before you can even think. “we aren’t even—” you start, but the sentence chokes on your tongue. you stop. hard. mike’s eyes flick up, confused. you shake your head, breath slicing out. “forget it.”

but the heat is already rising in your chest, curling under your ribs. all month you’ve been swallowing it down, smoothing it out, pretending it didn’t burn. and now it just—erupts. “what has been up with you?” you snap, louder than you mean to. “seriously, mike, you’ve been such a—such a dick lately. like, constantly. do you even hear yourself?”

his eyes widen, hurt flashing fast before he smothers it under anger. “i’ve been a dick?” mike shoots back, voice sharp enough to cut. “i’ve been a dick? seriously? you disappear for a month with your—your boyfriend—” he spits the word like it tastes sour, “—and i’m the problem?”

“you are the problem!” you fire back, stepping closer because you can’t help it. “you’re rude every time he’s around! you glare, you sulk, you make everyone uncomfortable! i can’t even eat lunch without you acting like someone stole your bike!”

“maybe because they did!” mike snaps, flinging his hands out. “he’s trying to take you away from—”

“he’s not taking me!” you yell, fully incredulous. “i’m a person, mike, not a chess piece you get to guard!”

“oh my god, that’s not what i meant—”

“no? because it sure sounds like it!”

“he sucks, okay?! he just—he sucks! he acts like he knows you and he doesn’t and he—”

“he doesn’t what?” you snap. “he doesn’t treat me like I’m doing something wrong every time I breathe?” you push on, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “have you ever thought—just once—about how you’ve been acting? you keep blaming ryan for everything, but have you ever considered that maybe the reason i haven’t been around is because of you?”

his mouth opens, then closes. he looks like he’s been slapped. “because of me?” mike repeats. “that’s what you think?”

“you make it impossible to be around you. you’re angry all the time. irritated, mean, snapping at everyone. every time i try to talk to you, you push me away or pick a fight or—” you throw your hands up. “god, mike, how am i supposed to want to hang out with you when you’re like this?”

“i’m like this because he—”

“it’s not about ryan!” you cut in, louder than you intended. “it’s about you. it’s always been about you!”

“he is the problem,” mike insists. “he’s—he’s wrong for you, okay? he’s—he’s trying to take you from the party, from me—”

“he’s not!” you shout back. “why do you care so much?!”

he freezes in the middle of the driveway, breath snagging, eyes wide and almost… terrified, like he knows exactly why. like he’s known for a long time. you can see it hit him: the realization he’s been dodging, the answer he’s been choking on for weeks, the thing he’s terrified to say and even more terrified you’ll somehow already know. he forces himself to move anyway, forces himself to swallow whatever cracked open in him. he shakes his head fast, stubborn, angry in the way only someone who’s scared can be. “it is his fault,” mike snaps, stepping forward again, the space between you shrinking to nothing. “i’m not wrong about this. i’m not. you shouldn’t trust him. he—he doesn’t even notice the right things about you, he—he just—”

“mike—”

“he’s the worst,” he barrels over you, desperate, relentless. “he’s the worst, he’s—he’s not good enough for you.”

“mike—”

“i’m trying to help you,” he insists, voice cracking with how hard he’s pushing it. “i’m trying to make you see he’s bad for you, okay? he’s wrong.”

“mike.”

he shuts up instantly. the two of you are close enough now that you can feel the heat of his breath, the tremble in his shoulders, the panic trembling behind every inch of him. he looks furious and terrified and breakable all at once. you take a breath. a real one. “it doesn’t even matter,” you say. “we’re not together anymore.”

the world drops out of his face. “…what?”

“we broke up,” you repeat, more tired than angry now. “a few days ago.”

he stands there, absolutely still, like you’ve short-circuited him. like his brain is trying to reboot and failing. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “you’re not—?”

“no, mike,” you say, exasperated. “we’re not.”

something bright flickers in his eyes, it almost looks like joy. the second he realizes he’s showing it, he slams it down, forcing his expression back into something flat and neutral that fools absolutely no one. “oh,” he manages. “well. uh. good. i mean—not good. not good-good. i just—i didn’t—”

“yeah,” you cut in, arms folding. “you didn’t know.”

“of course i didn’t know,” he snaps weakly. “you didn’t tell me—”

“you didn’t notice,” you shoot back. “if you’d paid attention to anyone besides yourself, you would’ve realized he hasn’t even been around the last couple of days. i wasn’t with him. i haven’t been with him. you didn’t notice, because you never do, mike. you only see what you want to see. you only hear what you want to hear. if it’s not about you—if it’s not something that affects you—you don’t pay attention.”

you’re too wound up to stop. “i don’t even know why you care so much,” you say, breath uneven. “why does it even matter to you who i date or don’t date? why do you get to be mad about this? why do you get to act like i’ve—”

“because i like you!”

the words explode out of him, like they’ve been pressing against his teeth for days, weeks, maybe years. you stop breathing. mike’s chest rises and falls like he just sprinted across the neighborhood. his eyes are huge, terrified, already regretting everything and unable to shove any of it back inside. “i—” he hesitates. “god, i didn’t—i didn’t mean to say it like that, I just— I don’t know, okay? i don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, i don’t know why i’m acting like this, i just—” he swallows hard. “i thought i hated him. like, really, really hated him. but then you said you weren’t with him anymore and it felt like—” he grimaces, shoulders curling inward. “like something in me just let go, i guess. i don’t know.” he shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to knock the words loose. “i didn’t get it at first,” he rushes out. “i didn’t know why seeing you with him made me feel so—angry. or sick. or… whatever. i thought maybe it was just because he was popular or because he didn’t fit with us or because he kept taking you away but then—” he stops himself, hands flexing uselessly. “but then i realized it wasn’t him. it was you. it was me. it was— i don’t know.”

you’re staring at him. you can’t not stare.

“i think—” he tries again. “i think i like you. or maybe i’ve liked you for a while, and now everything’s a mess because i screwed everything up and i can’t stop screwing things up and i—” he trails off, hopeless.

your heartbeat is in your throat. you’ve loved mike wheeler for as long as you can remember—through childhood, through monsters, through eleven different kinds of heartbreak he never even knew he gave you. now, the moment you finally tried to move on—finally tried to build something that wasn’t just you waiting for mike to look at you the way you looked at him—now he says it.

“i don’t know what i’m doing, but i don’t want you with him. i don’t want things to go back to how they were either because—because that wasn’t enough anymore. for me.” he forces himself to meet your eyes. “i really think i like you,” he says again, smaller. “a lot.”

your ribs are too small for everything suddenly pressing against them. “how do you even know that? you can’t just—say things like that. you can’t drop that on me. don’t—don’t mess with me.”

his face twists. “i’m not,” he shoots back, too fast, too earnest. “i’m not messing with you, i don’t know what else you want me to say. i’m just—i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to be honest.”

“honest?” you repeat, disbelieving. “since when?”

he swallows, like that one stung. “since max yelled at me.”

“what?”

“she’s the one who helped me figure it out. told me i was acting weird. told me i got… annoying whenever you were with him.“

your stomach twists, hope and fear tangling so violently it almost hurts. because you’ve dreamed of this. of him standing here, admitting something real. yet loving mike wheeler has always been a gamble with terrible odds, and you just crawled out of something that left you bruised and confused and tired. you don’t know if you can afford to trust him with something this big. not when you’ve lost him before without ever having had him. “i don’t believe you,” you say, because it’s safer than the truth: i want to believe you so bad that it terrifies me.

“i can prove it.”

you laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “yeah? how, mike? how are you going to prove it? because words aren’t—”

you don’t even finish. he moves before you can think, before you can breathe, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll shove him away but he still steps into your space, close enough for his breath to tremble against your cheek. and then he kisses you.

it’s not smooth or practiced or anything he had time to think through. it’s desperate, uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for years and this is the first inhale that doesn’t burn. his mouth meets yours with this startled, aching hunger, but it softens almost instantly, like he realizes mid-kiss that you’re real, that this is real, that he’s actually doing this.

your brain doesn’t catch up. it’s white noise—shock slamming through you so hard you forget every reason you had to stay angry. his lips are warm, and he’s making these tiny, barely-there sounds like he’s afraid to push, afraid to lose you, but too pulled in to stop.

your hands stay frozen at your sides for a full second—two—while your heart stutters violently in your chest. then the instinct you’ve spent years burying finally claws its way out. you kiss him back.

it’s small at first, cautious, but the second you respond he shudders, like your mouth on his is something he didn’t let himself hope for. his fingers finally touch you, sliding to the sides of your face, gentle in that frantic, unsteady way of someone who’s been imagining this and still can’t believe you’re not pushing him away. it’s overwhelming, dizzying, this thing you’ve dreamt of since you were a kid but never thought you’d have.

you pull back first, lips tingling, everything inside you way too loud. “you’re such an asshole.” you whisper, because it’s the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.

“i know.”

you shake your head, overwhelmed, but his hands are still hovering near your face like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you again. then his expression breaks, soft, pleading, all the bravado gone. “come back inside.” he steps closer again, just searching your face with that startled honesty he only ever shows when he’s seconds from falling apart. “we don’t have to talk about anything. we can just—hang out. or sit. or… i don’t know.”

you’re caught between everything you’ve ever known and everything that’s happening right now. mike’s eyes are earnest, completely unguarded for the first time in what feels like forever. he looks like the whole world has narrowed to him, to the way his hands hover near your face, hesitant, like he’s daring himself to let go of his own fear long enough to just… be real.

you don’t move. you can’t, really. your stomach twists and uncoils in a way that’s half panic, half relief, half something you can’t name. he’s finally said it. he’s finally admitted it, and you want to believe him but you don’t quite know how. your heart stutters in your chest with hope, fear, longing, because that’s what mike does. he’s always been like this: impossible to pin down, impossible to read, impossible not to feel.

“unless,” he says suddenly, “you’d rather be with ryan.” the name slips out before he can stop it, and the way he says it makes it obvious. jealousy. pure, stupid, human jealousy, and somehow it makes something flutter in your chest in a way that isn’t irritation or anger—it’s… kind of cute.

mike, dense, stubborn, impossible mike wheeler, is jealous of someone he doesn’t even like but can’t stop himself from obsessing over. instead of being annoyed—like you probably should be—it strikes you as painfully human. it’s a side of him he can’t hide, a glimpse behind the walls he builds so meticulously around himself.

you try to find words, but the sentence won’t form. there’s too much, all at once. you think of every moment you’ve loved him, all the moments you’ve fantasized about him finally saying something real, and here it is, tumbling out in the middle of a driveway. he swallows, jittery and exposed, watching you like he’s afraid your reaction will break him. you can see the restraint in him, the way he’s holding back, trying to appear calm and collected, and failing. you think about how much you’ve wanted this since you were kids, how much you’ve longed for him to feel something you’ve always felt, and it hits you in a tidal wave that maybe, just maybe, this is real.

you take a shaky breath, realizing that you has always wanted this—always wanted him like this. the flutter in your chest spreads, a dangerous, thrilling kind of hope that makes you want to both laugh and cry at once. “okay,” you say softly, letting your voice carry more calm than you feel. “okay. we’ll figure this out. we’ll… start somewhere. just… don’t mess with me, mike.”

he blinks, the faintest relief flickering across his face before he tries to mask it with a shrug. “i won’t. promise.” he says, though the words are almost too small to carry the weight of everything. he steps back just enough to give you space, but not enough to break the tension, not enough to let go.

you nod, a smile threatening at the corners of your lips despite the lump in your throat, the whirl of emotions. “okay,” you whisper, because you’re tired of avoiding him, tired of holding back, tired of the endless guessing game. “okay.”

you almost laugh, a tiny, strangled sound, because it’s mike. mike wheeler. always stubborn, always dense, always impossible, and yet somehow, here he is, looking like a boy who’s realizing his own heart too late but still willing to risk it. you shake your head, grinning despite yourself, and think, god, he really is the world’s biggest asshole. but the kind of asshole you’ve loved for forever.

he clears his throat, a little embarrassed, hands shoved into his pockets, and mutters, “so… uh, you gonna… come back inside or just stare at the street all night?”

“fine, i’ll go inside. but you owe me popcorn.”

“deal.” he says, finally cracking a grin that’s just a little too victorious, like he’s survived something fierce and now gets to savor the small victory. as you walk back toward the house, the sky deepening to twilight above you, you feel light, dizzy, and like maybe, just maybe, the hardest part is over.

a/n: genuinely not happy with how this one turned out but that’s okay 🥳 been on my stranger things shit .

STARTED 12.3.2025. POSTED 12.9.2025.

⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

he wasn't sure what it was that made you so hard to stop thinking about. well, in that way.

he knew it was dustin's mouth that constantly kept you in the loop in steve's mind. you were his older sister, his idol and best friend, and there was mention of you in every conversation that he had with dustin nowadays. before now, though, steve had never thought of you romantically. for as long as he'd known you and as long as he'd known dustin, you were strictly off limits and he never looked at you as anything more than that.

you were drop dead gorgeous, of course. curls like dustin's, expressive e/c eyes, plush lips, and a commanding attitude just like your brother's. he knew a lot of pretty girls, though, so he was certain that your looks weren't what made you so attractive to steve. after all, nancy wheeler was pretty, but he only thought about her when she was right in front of him.

you had something else.

something he saw in the way that you loved and cared for your brother, always making sure he had someone that would listen to him and spend time with him. playing video games with dustin (and steve himself on occasion), taking him for car rides and stopping to get ice cream, going frog hunting with him at 11 o'clock at night because he wanted to study them for some nerd shit he was doing.

your love for dustin had no bounds. your compassion for other people had no bounds. all around, you were just an incredible woman.

"steve." dustin interrupted again, rolling his eyes. "could you stop staring at my sister and pull out of the driveway? we're gonna be late to--"

"i know, i know." steve shook his head, tearing his eyes away from where you were standing on the porch, waving dustin off. he put the car in reverse and pulled out onto the street, leaving you behind.

"you've been doing that a lot lately," dustin commented, buckling his seatbelt.

"doing what?"

"staring. at my sister. it's weird, man."

"its not weird," steve defended, a little too quickly and eagerly for dustin's liking. "i was just making sure she got inside safe."

"right. because the big bad squirrels are gonna get her between the car and the front door." dustin snorted. "you know she can handle herself. she dated a guy for six months who tried to teach her how to throw a punch."

steve's grip on the steering wheel tightened. he knew exactly who dustin was talking about. billy. the mention of that name was like a splash of cold water, killing his fantasies and instantly souring his mood. he'd seen the way billy talked to you, the possessive grip on your arm in the school hallway, the way your smile would dim sometimes when he rolled his eyes at something you said.

"yeah, well, maybe she shouldn't have to."

dustin was quiet for a moment, studying his friend's profile. "you like her."

"it's not that simple, henderson."

"it is! you stare, you sigh, you ask weird, probing questions about her weekend plans. it's textbook. even mike noticed, and he's emotionally stunted."

steve sighed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. "she's with billy."

"on and off," dustin corrected. "mostly off lately, from what i hear of it. and he's a dickmunch."

a laugh burst out of steve, unexpected and sharp. "a what?"

"a dickmunch. you know, a muncher of--"

"i get it, i get it." steve shook his head, smile fading. "he is. and she deserves..." he trailed off, because the list was endless. you deserved someone who looked at you like you'd hung the moon, not like you were a prize he'd won. you deserved someone who made you laugh until you snorted, not flinch when he raised his voice. you deserved someone who saw the brilliant, stubborn, kind hearted person you were, not just a pretty face on his arm.

you deserved better.

in steve's opinion, you deserved him. he would treasure you.

"alright, asshole. stop daydreaming about my sister and drive."

the bluntness of dustin's command, paired with the sheer, terrifying truth that had just crystallized in his own mind, snapped steve back to reality. a faint blush crawled up his neck.

"right. driving." he cleared his throat, focusing intently on the road ahead.

but the thought was out there now, fully formed and undeniable, playing on a loop in his head to the rhythm of the turning tires. and when steve got a thought in his head, it wouldn't budge until something was done about it.

she deserves better. she deserves me.

sighing, he reached and turned the radio up.

for as long as you could remember, dustin had been your best friend. it was as easy as breathing.

he was your younger brother, yes, but you were sure that the little shit was some form of soulmate for you. he understood you completely and in return, you understood him in ways that nobody else would. his nerdy habits, the way he didn't quite feel right going into high school, oddly out of place everywhere he went. you accepted him no matter what.

when he was 5 and you were 8, he started having nightmares. he'd come padding into your room, his little face pale in the moonlight, clutching his favorite blanket. without a word, you'd lift your covers and he'd scramble in, his small, cold feet pressing against your legs.

"tell me about the stars," he'd whisper, his voice trembling. even at that age, he had an interest in all of the things he couldn't yet understand.

you'd tell him. you'd teach him about constellations, making up names and stories for them. you'd talk about how they were giant balls of gas, millions of miles away, but how their light still reached all the way to hawkins, indiana, just to make the night a little less dark. you'd talk until his grip on your t-shirt loosened in sleep and his panicked breathing evened out.

you were his first call for everything. the triumphs, like the first time he successfully built a radio from scratch. the heartbreaks, like when the kids at the park wouldn't let him play because he talked about "nerd stuff." you were his defender, his cheerleader, his safe place.

tonight, dustin had a school dance. you also had a party the same night, something for older kids, one thing that dustin couldn't join you for. but you still wanted to see him off.

you stood in the doorway of his room, watching him fumble with his tie. his brow was furrowed in concentration, a perfect mirror of the expression he wore when tackling something complex. the most difficult things were easy for him, and the most simple stumped him. it was a dustin thing. steve sat at his desk, smoothing the thighs of his jeans out. mike and lucas were sprawled out on dustin's bed, crumpling his sheets and their suits. will checked his reflection in the mirror.

sensing dustin's stress, you and steve moved at the same time to help. but of course, you were quicker.

you were at his side in an instant, your fingers brushing his away. "let me."

you worked quickly, efficiently, looping and tightening the fabric into a respectable knot. the whole room had gone quiet, watching you. you could feel steve's gaze, a warm, steady pressure.

"thanks," dustin mumbled, his shoulders slumping in relief.

"anytime, dusty," you said softly, smoothing the tie against his dress shirt. you gave his shoulders a squeeze. "you look handsome."

the honk of a car horn from outside broke the moment. mrs. henderson was ready to go.

"alright, let's move it, lover boys!" steve clapped his hands together, rising from the desk chair. "your chariot, -- by chariot, i mean your mom's station wagon -- awaits."

the kids scrambled off the bed, grumbling and straightening their suits. as they filed out, you nudged dustin.

"be confident. smile. make the first move. everything will work itself out." you smiled softly at the nervous fifteen year old. dustin took a deep breath, puffing his chest out a little.

"right. confident. i can do confident."

he marched out with a new determination.

"love you! have fun!" you shouted down the hall.

a muffled "love you too!" floated back, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

silence descended upon the house, thick and sudden. the absence of the kids' chaotic energy was always a little jarring. you stood there for a moment in dustin's doorway. you really wished him good luck, but part of you was anxious about how it would go.

"he'll be okay." steve said warmly from behind you.

you turned, not realizing he'd lingered. he was leaning against the door frame, jacket slung over his shoulder and shirt stained with hair gel from his help styling dustin. he looked at ease, but his eyes were intently focused on you.

"how do you know?' you asked, the worry for your brother making your voice softer than usual.

"because he's a henderson," he shrugged, pushing off the frame to come closer. "and henderson's are stubborn, and smart, and way more charming than they have any right to be." a small, knowing smile played on his lips. "sound familiar?"

your breath hitched, but you disguised it. he was standing close enough now that you could smell his cologne, something clean and sharp, cutting through the familiar scent of dustin's model glue and comic books.

"looks like you're laying the charm on thick tonight, too, harrington." you teased, ignoring the way his easy smile gnawed at your chest.

he grinned again, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"so. you're headed to that party tonight? at tommy's?"

you nodded, shrugging.

"why not? dustin's out of the house tonight and mom's chaperoning. i might as well find something to do too," you hummed. "plus.. billy. he doesn't like going anywhere without a plus one."

the moment billy's name left your lips, you saw it. a subtle shift in steve's posture. the grin didn't vanish completely, but it tightened at the edges. the warmth in his eyes cooled into something sharper, more assessing.

"right. billy," he said, the name bitter on his tongue. he looked away, his gaze sweeping over dustin's cluttered room as if searching for something. "he's a real.. social butterfly, that one."

you heard the unspoken critique layered beneath the casual words. you'd heard it from others (mom, your friends) but coming from steve, it felt different. it didn't feel like a judgement of your choices. it felt like genuine concern.

"he can be," you conceded, your own defensiveness rising out of habit. "when he wants to be."

steve's eyes snapped back to yours, the deep intensity pinning you in place. "and what about what you want?"

the question, so direct and unexpected, stole the air from your lungs. you opened your mouth to reply with another deflection, another 'it's fine', but the words died in your throat. because standing there in the quiet of your brother's room, with steve harrington looking at you like he could see every crack in your armor, "fine" felt like the biggest lie you'd ever told.

you thought of billy's possessive grip on your waist in crowded rooms. the way he'd scoff if you suggested a movie he didn't like. the slow, steady erosion of your own voice to keep the peace.

steve took a half-step closer, his voice dropping, sincere and rough around the edges. "you know, you don't need a plus-one to be somebody, henderson. you're already somebody. all on your own."

his words landed like a physical touch, a gentle hand steadying you. he wasn't telling you what to do. he was reminding you that you had a choice. that you were whole, with or without billy hargrove on your arm.

the front door slammed again downstairs, followed by the distant sound of mrs. henderson calling, "steve? the kids are getting restless!" he was still expected to give a couple of the kids a ride. your mom only had so much room in the station wagon.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, a silent question hanging in the space between you. then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he'd said all he needed to say.

"have a good night," he said softly, and then he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.

sighing, trying to erase the feeling in your chest that had just invaded your entire being, you left dustin's room and went into your own. you opened your closet, pulling your outfit for the party out and got ready.

you were going to be with your boyfriend in an hour and a half. so why couldn't you stop thinking about steve harrington?

the party was loud. obnoxiously so.

the bass from the speakers thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and into your bones. you nursed a drink, one that billy had made (far too strong for your taste). his arm was tight around your waist and he pulled you wherever he went. you talked to all kinds of people, smiling in their faces like he wanted you to do, but not saying much. you wanted to get drunk. you wouldn't. billy would get hammered and need a ride home.

every time you tried to shift away, his grip tightened, pulling you back against his side. a silent command. stay put.

you nodded at something carol said, but you didn't hear a word. your mind was still miles away, trapped in the quiet of dustin's bedroom and scent of steve's cologne.

"you're already somebody. all on your own."

steve's voice, cutting clear through the noise in your mind, echoed in your head. you could still see the way he'd looked at you -- not with possession, not with lust, but with quiet reverence and respect. like you were a person. not a prize. and to be honest, it had rocked you through your core. truly shaken you up into a confused mess.

billy leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of beer against your ear. "smile, baby. you look like you're at a funeral."

you glanced up to meet his eyes, forcing a smile.

"sorry."

within an hour, billy was drunk. not too drunk, but not sober enough to be intelligent.

he was leaning on you, his words hot into your hair as he tried to whisper something that was probably meant to be seductive but just came out sloppy. the weight of him, the smell of cheap beer and cologne, was suffocating. this was it. this was the whole night, and every night with him, stretching out in front of you -- a life of being an anchor for a sinking ship.

your eyes scanned the hazy, crowded room, landing on the front door. freedom was twenty feet away.

"billy," you said, your voice firm as you tried to peel his hands from your waist. "i think you've had enough. let's get you some water."

"don' need water," he mumbled, his grip on you tightening. "need my girl. let's find a bathroom."

your jaw dropped.

"billy, no, we--"

"yes. let's go, sugar tits."

you glared at him, but part of you knew better than to do this. he was going to get what he wanted anyways. he always did. by being mean.

"i don't want to sleep with you."

his blue eyes went from drunk and hazy to sharp immediately.

the shift was instantaneous and terrifying. his grip on your waist went from heavy to bruising, like you were a dog trying to run away from the house again.

"what did you just say to me?" his voice was low, a dangerous whisper that cut through the party's noise.

you swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. every instinct screamed to back down, to placate him, to give him the smile and apology that would smooth things over. it was the same song and dance every time you fell back into him.

but then, your mind echoed again.

you're already somebody. all on your own.

the words weren't a gentle memory this time. they were a battle cry.

"i said," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, laced with a defiance that made billy's eyes narrow, "i don't want to sleep with you. not now. not ever again. you're an asshole."

the silence that fell between you was louder than the music. billy's face twisted, ugly with rage and wounded pride.

"you don't get to say that to me," he snarled, pulling you closer, his face inches from yours. "you better fuckin' behave before i--"

you shoved against his chest with all your might. "let go of me, billy!"

the scene had drawn attention. people were staring. all the sudden, you saw steve's face, meeting your eyes from across the room. you hadn't even known he was at the party, not thinking these things were his scene anymore.

he took in the situation in a single, sweeping glance -- your panicked expression, billy's aggressive stance, the bruising grip on your arm.

he was moving before you could even process it. he didn't shout. he didn't make a scene. he moved through the crowd like a shark through water, silent and deadly fast. in the space of a single heartbeat, he was there.

steve's hand clamped down on billy's wrist, the one that was digging into your arm. his grip wasn't just firm; it was brutal.

"hey!" billy yelped, his head whipping around, his drunken rage redirected.

"let go of her. now."

billy gritted his teeth, turning closer to steve. you knew nothing about this was going to work out well. billy never backed down, and steve had just caused him to boil over.

"steve, its okay." you cut in, wanting to make peace.

"it's not okay," steve said, his voice cutting through your plea without even taking his eyes off billy. his tone wasn't harsh with you, but it was final. this was not up for negotiation. "none of this is okay. it's not gonna fucking happen."

billy let out a low, ugly laugh. "you hear her? better listen to her. she knows her place. maybe you should learn yours." that was the final word. billy swung, a wild throw. steve, expecting it, dodged easily. but he didn't retaliate. billy was shocked, embarrassed, enraged.

"outside." he hissed, forging a burning hot path to the front door, pushing whoever was in the way to the side.

your eyes were wide and panicked as you glanced at steve. you grabbed his arm, reaching for anything you could grab to keep him from doing this. this wasn't what you wanted.

"steve. please. i'm begging you not to do this. billy is--"

once again you were cut off.

"--not going to touch you ever again."

steve's voice was quiet, but the certainty made the hair on your arms stand up. he finally looked at you, and the raw determination in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. this wasn't about pride or a stupid high school rivalry. this was about you. protecting your honor, protecting you.

he gently pried your hand from his arm, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze before letting go. then, he walked towards the front door.

biting your lip, anxiousness making you jittery, you followed him as fast as you could, swinging the door open and running out into the yard. the porch light cast a sickly yellow scene in the front yard. billy was pacing, a caged animal, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

"changed your mind? gonna hide behind my woman's skirt?" billy taunted.

steve didn't answer the taunt. he simply swung.

the punch wasn't wild or telegraphed. it was short, brutal, and connected with billy's jaw with a sickening crack. it was the answer to every sneer, every insult, every time billy'd laid an unkind hand on you.

billy staggered back, more out of shock than pain at first. he touched his jaw, his eyes wide with disbelief, before they narrowed into slits of pure venom.

"you're fucking dead, harrington."

then it was chaos.

they came together in a storm of fists and grunts. it was ugly, raw, devoid of any technique. steve got a few good shots in -- billy's nose poured blood, his eyebrow was split -- but billy was bigger, meaner, and drunk on beer and rage. he took the hits and gave them back worse. steve was gasping for air and coated in blood. billy wiped his face on his jacket, blood from his eyebrow seeping down into his vision.

finally, when it seemed steve couldn't continue and billy had lost track of how many times he'd hit the man, you screamed.

"GET OFF HIM, BILLY!"

tears ran down your face as you sniffled, your throat hurting from how loud you'd projected your voice. you were terrified, disgusted, and pissed.

"please, billy! just stop it. i'm begging you."

the raw plea in your voice did what your anger could not. it cut through the drunken haze and the rage. billy froze, his fist hovering in the air. he looked from steve, bloody and beaten on the ground, to you, your face a mess of tears and despair. for a single second, you saw something flicker in his blue eyes. not regret. comprehension. he saw your sorrow, he saw what he'd become to you. you'd gone from two teenagers in love to a man tormenting a woman who deserved more than him.

his arm dropped to his side. he took a stumbling step back, his chest heaving.

without another word, he spat blood onto the ground next to steve's body, a snide reminder to steve of who'd won. then, he spared you one last glance before disappearing from the area.

with hot tears continuing to pour down, you sprinted to steve. the wounded man used the moment to push himself up onto his elbows, coughing, spitting a glob of blood onto the grass. he didn't try to get up. he just looked at you, his one good eye full of a pained, unwavering devotion.

you fell to your knees beside him, reaching for his face, making your touch as gentle as you could.

"steve," you sniffled, your thumb wiping blood and dirt from his cheek. "i told you i didn't want this. i asked you not to and now you're--"

he caught your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. he turned his head just enough to press a kiss to your palm, leaving a faint, bloody smudge on your skin.

"don't," he rasped, his voice a raw scrape. "'s okay. i promise."

a sob caught in your throat. "but you're--"

"i'm fine," he insisted, his voice intense. "he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it." he tried to shift, to sit up more, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips. you reached around his back, holding him steady.

"worth it?" you whispered, incredulous. "you're bleeding from.. everywhere. you can't even sit up. because of me." you sniffled.

"not because of you," he gritted out, the eye that wasn't swollen locking onto yours with a ferocity that made you flinch. "for you. there's a.. a world of difference. trust me."

he groaned, using your shoulder for leverage to finally, painfully sit up all the way. his breath came in ragged pants, but he didn't look away. "just bruises and cuts. they'll go away in a while."

he reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek. his thumb stroked away a tear, his touch infinitely gentle despite the blood caked on his knuckles. you leaned into him, the last of your resistance crumbling. he was right. the fight had been horrible, but it had been a line in the sand. a bloody declaration that billy couldn't continue to run your life anymore.

"okay," you whispered, your voice finally steady. you slipped your arm all the way around him. "okay. let's get you cleaned up."

he leaned on you heavily as you helped him get to his feet and to his car. every step was a shared effort, a silent promise. as you opened the passenger door, he paused, looking at you with a mixture of exhaustion and utter devotion.

"hey," he said softly. "for the record.. you were the strongest one here."

as you drove away from the chaos, the boy who had fought for you slept fitfully in the seat beside you.

the rest of that night was long. you cleaned steve's wounds, apologizing softly when he hissed, and foraged his kitchen for something to ice his bruises. when you felt you'd successfully doctored him up, you helped him up the stairs to his bed.

his room smelled of cedar and aftershave. exactly like you'd imagined it.

helping him into bed, you tucked the blankets over him and said goodnight, racing down the stairs in disbelief that any of this had even happened.

you drove home, crawled into your own bed, and cried a little. then, you fell asleep thinking about steve harrington. not billy hargrove.

the morning came too quickly. before you were ready, you heard your brother come into your room, plopping into bed beside you. the mattress dipped, startling you from a sleep filled with fractured images of blood and unwavering brown eyes. you blinked, the morning light stinging, to find dustin staring at you, his face far too close and etched with dramatic concern.

"you're alive," he stated, as if he'd expected otherwise.

"barely," you groaned, pulling the covers over your head. the events of last night came rushing back -- the screaming, the blood, steve's broken body leaning on yours. your heart gave a painful lurch.

"i heard," dustin said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. you peeked out from under the duvet. he was fiddling with a loose thread on your comforter. "about the fight. at tommy's. the whole school's talking about it."

you sat up slowly, your body aching with a phantom sympathy for steve's injuries. "what are they saying?"

"that king steve got his ass kicked defending you from your asshole boyfriend," dustin said, a hint of awe in his voice. then his brow furrowed. "is it true? did he really tell billy to fuck off and then just... take the beating?"

the memory of steve's voice, raw and certain, echoed in your mind. he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it.

"yeah," you whispered, your throat tight. "it's true. and watch your language."

dustin was silent for a long moment, ignoring your scolding. "he likes you. like, really likes you." he said it with the grave seriousness of a scientist stating a proven fact.

a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but this time, they weren't from fear or guilt. they were from a overwhelming, terrifying sense of hope. "i know."

"good," dustin declared, nodding once. "because billy's a dickmunch and i wish i could fight him. and steve... he's got the good hair." he patted your leg through the blanket. "now, get up. we're going to family video."

you started to sniffle again, more tears falling.

dustin sighed, opening his arms.

the simple, open gesture was your undoing. a sob broke free from your chest, and you launched yourself into your brother's arms, burying your face in his shoulder. he held you tightly, his small frame surprisingly sturdy, and let you cry it all out -- the fear, the relief, the dizzying hope.

"it's okay," he mumbled, patting your back awkwardly. "he's gonna be okay. steve's tough. he fought a demogor-- i mean, he's really tough."

you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. "i know he is."

"and if billy ever shows his face again," dustin continued, his expression turning fierce, "we'll set mews on him."

a wet laugh escaped you. "mews is a cat, dustin."

"a very strategic cat," he insisted, his seriousness making you laugh harder, the sound mingling with your fading tears. he grinned, seeing he'd achieved his goal. "now, seriously. get dressed. we have a mission."

twenty minutes later, you were pulling up outside the familiar strip mall, the family video logo a beacon of normalcy. your stomach was a knot of nerves. what would you even say to him?

dustin, of course, had no such reservations. he marched right in, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully.

"harrington!" he bellowed, making both you and steve's coworker, who was behind the counter, jump.

steve emerged from the back room, and your breath caught. he looked... rough. one eye was a spectacular palette of purple and black, swollen nearly shut. a butterfly bandage held together a cut on his eyebrow, and his lip was split. but he was clean, and he was standing, and when his good eye found you, it lit up with a warmth that made your knees feel weak.

"hey, henderson," steve said, his voice a little hoarse. his gaze flickered to you. "hey."

dustin, completely oblivious to the charged silence, slapped a VHS tape on the counter. "we brought you a get-well-soon gift. the thing. it's about a shapeshifting alien that assimilates other life forms. i figured you could relate to feeling like your face is trying to kill you. and they don't have this tape here, so its new for you. and you look like shit because you got beat up for my sister. so i thought a gift was in order."

a laugh burst out of you, sharp and surprised, cutting through the last of your nerves. steve’s good eye widened in mock offense, but a real smile tugged at his split lip.

“you’re a little shit, you know that?” steve said, but there was no heat in it. he picked up the tape. “but… thanks, man. i think.”

“you’re welcome,” dustin said, beaming with pride. he then turned to you, his expression turning business-like. “okay, my work here is done. i’m going to go see if they have the new issue of dragon magazine. try not to do anything gross while I’m gone.” he scurried off toward the magazine rack.

the silence he left behind was different now -- softer, charged with a new understanding. you looked back at steve, at the brutal map of devotion painted across his face.

"he's not wrong," you said softly, your gaze tracing the purple bruise around his eye. "you do look like shit."

steve shrugged, his hand still resting on the vhs tape. "worth it."

that phrase again.

"you keep saying that." you said softly, taking a step closer to the counter.

he held your gaze, unwavering. "because its true." he came out from around the counter, walking up to you slowly. he limped a little, making you wince. the scent of his aftershave, familiar and comforting, mixed with the faint, clean smell of antiseptic from his cuts, fell over you. "seeing you walk in here, looking for me. definitely worth it."

from the back, steve's coworker cleared his throat loudly. "just so you two know, public displays of affection are against store policy. it disturbs the other customers." he gestured to the completely empty store.

steve didn't respond. he just kept looking at you, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. "wanna talk in the break room really quick?"

your heart gave a single, hard thump against your ribs. steve's gaze was an open question, full of hope and vulnerability.

"yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. "okay."

steve’s smile widened, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow him with a slight tilt of his head. He led you past his coworker, who was now very pointedly studying the label on a can of film cleaner, and through a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.

the break room was a tiny, windowless space that smelled like stale coffee and old microwave popcorn. a rickety table and two chairs were shoved against one wall. It was the least romantic place on earth, but with steve closing the door softly behind you, it felt like a sanctuary.

he turned to face you, leaning back against the door, his hands shoved in his pockets. the bravado he’d shown out front seemed to have evaporated, leaving behind a raw, nervous energy.

"look, about last night..." he started, then stopped, shaking his head. "no. not about the fight. about... before the fight." he took a deep breath, his good eye searching your face. "when i said you deserved better. i wasn't just talking about billy."

your breath hitched. "what were you talking about, steve?"

"me," he said, the word simple and stark. "i was talking about me. or... the guy i used to be. the king steve asshole who would've probably been friends with a guy like billy." he gestured vaguely to his own battered face. "i'm not that guy anymore. i haven't been for a long time. but you... you make me want to be even better. you make me want to be the guy who deserves to be the better man for you."

"you are," you whispered, closing the small distance between you. you reached up, your fingers gently tracing the line of the butterfly bandage on his brow. "you're that guy, steve. i've never been prouder to say it."

he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if a great weight had been lifted. he brought his hands up to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle.

"can i..?" he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips.

in answer, you rose up on your toes and closed the final, breathless inch between you.

the kiss was nothing like you'd imagined. it wasn't wild or desperate. it was soft. a little hesitant. a silent conversation of apology and promise, of past pain and future hope. you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood from his split lip, a stark reminder of everything he'd endured, and it made the tenderness of the kiss all the more profound.

when you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing a little raggedly.

"you're sure i'm what you want?" steve asked softly, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. you nodded, laughing breathlessly.

"no one's ever asked me that before, but yes. i've never been more sure. you are exactly what i want."

the words seemed to unlock something in him. the last vestige of tension drained from his shoulders, and the smile that spread across his face was so bright, so unguarded, it made your heart ache. it was a smile untouched by the bruises, a glimpse of the man he was underneath all the bravado and the pain.

"good," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. he leaned in and pressed another, firmer kiss to your lips, this one full of a quiet, certain joy. "because you're stuck with me now, henderson."

From the other side of the door, Dustin's voice echoed, loud and impatient. "GET OUT OF THERE! TIME'S UP, HARRINGTON, AND THERE BETTER BE NO HICKEYS!"

steve threw his head back and laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that made him wince and clutch his ribs, but he didn't stop. he was still chuckling as he pressed one last, quick kiss to your forehead.

"come on," he said, his voice warm with amusement. he kept a firm arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side as he opened the break room door. "duty calls."

you emerged back into the store to find dustin standing with his arms crossed, tapping his foot dramatically. steve's coworker, jon, was leaning on the counter, smirking.

"good." dustin announced to the empty store. "no hickeys. i'm both relieved and feeling respected."

steve rolled his good eye, but the smile never left his face. "what do you want next, henderson? a written report on the horror of premarital touching?"

"yes, actually. in triplicate." dustin pointed a finger at him. "but for now, you can start by explaining the thematic parallels between the thing and your current physical state."

as steve launched into a mock-serious, pain-filled analysis for your brother, you leaned against the counter next to jon.

he nudged you with his elbow, his voice a low whisper. "so. you and king steve. officially a thing?"

you watched steve, who was now letting dustin "examine" his black eye with a scientific intensity, patiently answering his ridiculous questions. your heart felt so full you thought it might burst.

"yeah," you said, a slow, sure smile spreading across your face. "we're a thing."