pure unadulterated degeneracy

The first time you met Steve, you almost slapped him.

His reputation preceded him. Even your freshman year at Ohio State University, fresh out of rush week, you’d heard plenty about Sigma Chi pledge Steve Harrington. They were singing his praises from day one—he was handsome, a baseball genius, the life of any party. He commanded the attention of any room he stepped into. You were a little sick of him to begin with from how your Delta Gamma sisters wouldn’t shut up about him for two seconds even before that first party.

And when you walked into the Sigma Chi house for the first time, you didn’t even need to be told which one was the Harrington. The world gravitated around him like he was the sun itself, and he seemed to glow like it, too. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His smile was blinding. He had a stupidly good head of hair, gorgeous sun-kissed skin dotted with moles like constellations, and big hazel eyes that made him look deceptively sweet.

You’d met eyes from across the room, and at the time, it had felt like something clicking into place. Two puzzle pieces who had finally found where they belonged. Your breath hitched as he left the group he was talking to and sauntered over, that brilliant smile now directed specifically at you and you alone. Your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest.

“Oh my god,” one of your sisters, Margot, had said, grabbing onto your arm. “He’s coming over here.”

He didn’t even glance at her. He only looked at you. He wore a polo with jeans that fit him just right, a red plastic cup clutched in his large hand. When he reached you, you could smell his cologne, something intoxicating that made your head spin. He really was everything everyone had promised.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Hi,” he’d said, extending a hand towards you. “I’m Steve. And you are fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassingly, you’d giggled like a total fool, given him your hand, and introduced yourself. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

He’d actually taken your hand and kissed your knuckles, like the prince he absolutely saw himself as. And then, that suave grin turned into something more like a cocky smirk, a look you’d grow to know and loathe. “You know, you look like a girl who deserves the very best,” he’d said. “And, wouldn’t you know it—by sheer coincidence, you’re looking at the best this frat has to offer.”

Okay, a little eye roll worthy, but that wasn’t abnormal for these frat guys. You’d raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what could you possibly offer me?”

His smirk had widened, and he moved in, grabbing you by the hip and pulling you against him. “Oh, things beyond your wildest dreams, baby,” he’d murmured, even as you gasped at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Why don’t we go up to my room and I can show you?”

You’d shoved him back by his chest, making him stumble, the beer in his cup sloshing over the sides and onto his light blue shirt. “You’re a fucking perv.”

Steve’s expression had immediately transformed into something harder, all traces of the charming smile from moments ago completely erased. “What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to just walk up and touch me. I don’t even know you.” You’d scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Does that actually work for you?”

“Yeah, actually,” he’d said, looking at you with pure distaste now. “With girls who aren’t an uptight cocktease.”

You’d laughed, but only in an attempt to keep yourself from punching this guy square in the jaw. “Oh, wow. Fuck you.”

“Fuck me, huh?” he’d said, that stupid smirk back in place. “You know, that’s a good idea, maybe it would help if I got that stick out of your ass and gave you something else—“

“Oh-kay, let’s go get a drink!” Margot had said, dragging you away before you could land the slap you were winding up. You heard him laughing behind you, the sound loud and infuriating.

“See you around, baby!” he’d called after you. Margot just dug her fingers into your arm, pulling you to a completely different part of the house as fast as she could.

Things with Steve did not improve after that. And, unfortunately for you, you couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere you turned. Not only the golden boy on campus—his photo was used on any and all promotions for the championship winning baseball team—but, soon, also the president of Sigma Chi. And your houses went hand in hand.

Every party you went to, Steve was there, holding court among his adoring subjects. The guys on campus thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived, and the girls were practically stepping over each other for a chance with him. You attempted to keep your distance, but Steve loved annoying you more than he loved the girls begging to go up to his bedroom.

Delta Gamma also partnered with Sigma Chi for just about everything. As the top houses, it was just a given. Every event, every fundraiser, every charity event and mixer and rager. As much as you adored everything about your sorority and had always felt like you’d made the wrong choice, Steve was the one thing that made you question it.

It was no secret, either. Everyone knew you and Steve hated each other. Steve’s frat brothers found it hilarious, while your sisters tried their best to keep you away from each other. You just couldn’t get along—being in each other’s space for too long always ended in disaster. A loud argument, heated insults, or sometimes even a thrown drink, if Steve was feeling extra mouthy that night. You were best kept far away from one another.

You’d grown close with another girl who’d pledged Delta Gamma, Nancy. Nancy was sweet and smart and although you loved all your sisters, you’d clicked with her immediately. Nancy also happened to know Steve well. They’d grown up together, even dated briefly in high school.

“Steve is an asshole,” Nancy had told you, confirming everything you already thought. “Seriously, don’t let him try to charm you. He’s full of it.”

It kind of seemed like you and Nancy were the only ones who saw it, though. Of course there were the girls he’d already scorned, but the vast majority of the Ohio State female student population were head over heels for Steve Harrington. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you saw it.

That would never be you.

Your junior year had just begun, and by the end of September, homecoming season was well underway. Sigma Chi had already partnered with Delta Gamma, a surprise to no one.

What was a surprise was that you had a chance at being crowned queen this year. Homecoming court was something you’d never given much thought to. Your attention was already divided in so many directions—between your classes and honor society, track, event planning and sorority obligations with being Social Chair, and being a TA for the first time this year, you were booked and busy. The crown was the least of your concern. Even now, you didn’t stress about it. Everyone knew your chapter president, Lindsey, would be taking the crown anyway.

The week of homecoming itself was always busy and filled with excitement—stuffed full of events and activities, a good chunk of which you had a hand in planning. But still, courting had begun, and Tommy Hagan had been going all out to catch your attention.

It started with a bouquet of flowers so huge you had to divide them up into three different vases just to display them in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. Then, it was the food. Fruit baskets, a mini cake, so much of your favorite candy and chocolate you had to beg your sisters to eat some of it. The day you walked out of the house to the entire OSU choir serenading you on the front lawn, you’d been utterly speechless.

Tommy was nice enough, you guessed. If you had to partner with someone, he wasn’t the worst choice. That would be Steve Harrington, who, by expectations alone—because Steve didn’t put much effort into anything that wasn’t baseball or getting his dick wet—was courting Lindsey. He didn’t even have to try and he knew it.

There was a new gift or grand gesture from Tommy daily, while Steve had sent a single box of milk chocolates, a half dozen and definitely the cheapest on the shelf even though everyone knew the Harringtons were absolutely loaded—and Lindsey was allergic to dairy. You could tell she was annoyed about it, but she was going to partner with Steve regardless. Every time you brought another elaborate gift into the house, the look she gave you was cold and cutting. It was…awkward.

At least for now, you could push thoughts of homecoming from your brain. It was Saturday night, and you were ready to have some fun. Or at least try to, because you were about to walk right into King Steve’s kingdom.

You’d think you would have gotten used to his presence by now, but he never got any less annoying. It’s not like you could just skip every party. Everyone knew Sigma Chi threw the best parties of any frat on campus. Were you just not supposed to go because the president was a total pain in the ass? You could kiss your social status goodbye real fast.

Sometimes you’d get lucky and wouldn’t see him at all the whole night. Maybe just a flash of his stupid hair, or the sound of his laugh from another room. A glimpse at his cocky smirk as he led some poor girl up to his room. And other nights, he seemed hell bent on annoying you as much as possible.

You really, really hoped for the former tonight. You walked into the house with Nancy and Margot, the bass already thumping, the place overrun with college students in various states of intoxication. You looked good, you knew you did. Tiny skirt that showed off your legs, a top that displayed just enough chest to have guys staring every time they walked past. Not that that was hard.

“Do you want me to get us drinks?” Nancy asked, leaning over to yell over the music right in your ear. You nodded, and she gave you a soft smile before pushing her way through to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Steve so far, which you hoped was a good omen. Your eyes scanned the room, mostly familiar faces, but a decent amount of freshmen you hadn’t gotten to know well yet were there, too.

Nancy was back quickly, walking through the crowd holding the two red cups up high in an attempt to not spill them or get anything on her white blouse. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally reached you, handing you a drink.

“It’s a total madhouse in there,” she said. “Like, more than usual.”

“How many new pledges are there this year?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer. You linked hands with Nancy and began pushing through to the living room. You eventually found a place to stand against the wall, surveying the rest of the party.

“I have no idea,” she said. Her curls were pulled back on top with a bow, and she held her drink between both delicate hands. “It’s gotta be more than last year, right?”

It certainly seemed like it. The Sigma Chi parties were always intense, but it felt like you could barely move. “With Harrington in charge this year, who knows.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “God, I know. When I heard he was president, I almost thought about dropping out.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your beer. “At least in two more years, I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Lucky you,” Nancy grumbled. “I’m sure I’ll always be seeing him at some point when I’m back in Hawkins for holidays. It’s like I can’t escape him.”

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. You looked around, looking for the source—and saw Tommy Hagan on his way over, hand held up in a wave and a bright smile on his freckled face.

“Here comes your loverboy,” Nancy mumbled into her cup, looking away like she was minding her own business.

“Hey,” Tommy said as he reached you. He wasn’t as bad as Steve, but they were best friends and looked like they could have shared a wardrobe. He wore a dark red polo and jeans, one hand now in his pocket and the other holding his own drink. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smiled politely. “Um, thanks for the flowers this morning. Blue this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile somewhat sheepish as he ran a hand through his short hair. “I was thinking, like, a different bouquet for every color of the rainbow, or something.”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “Ooh, yeah. I see the vision.”

A soft blush colored the pale skin on his cheeks. “Did you like them?”

He was being so sweet, you couldn’t help but soften. You weren’t interested in Tommy romantically, but you were happy to partner with him if that’s what he wanted. “They were beautiful. Seriously.” His eyes lit up, and at the fear of yet another bouquet to make your bedroom look even more like a greenhouse, you added, “But I am starting to run out of room to put vases.”

Tommy laughed softly, looking down at the floor. “Yeah. Maybe I should try to get creative.”

A shout came from the sliding glass back door, drawing all of your attention behind him. “Hagan! Come out here and show the new brothers how a keg stand is done!”

Tommy turned back to you. “Sorry. Duty calls, I guess,” he said, although he didn’t look all that sorry. Sigma Chi took their keg stands very seriously. “I’ll catch you around later though, yeah? You’re not planning to turn in early or anything?”

“I’ll be here,” you confirmed, drinking from your cup again. “Go show ‘em, Hagan.”

His grin only widened. “See you later, beautiful.”

You watched him go, laughing softly as he immediately switched gears from gentleman to frat bro the second he reached the back door.

“Please let him be done with the bouquets,” Nancy said as soon as he was gone, done acting like she hadn’t been paying attention the whole time. “I’ve already got half of the flowers in my room.”

The party went on, and eventually you lost Nancy to the crowd. She’d started seeing this guy a few weeks ago, Vance, a transfer student who had her totally smitten like you’d never seen before. While Nancy had always been your partner at these parties—more like your shield from Steve Harrington—she’d started wanting to spend more time with Vance, and who were you to stop her?

It wasn’t until later in the night, when you were leaning against the wall with yet another drink, that you finally saw him. Or heard him, rather, because his obnoxious loud voice and laugh usually entered a room before he did. At least he had a warning bell, you thought.

When Steve entered the living room with his friends, telling some story that was definitely not funny enough to warrant how hard they were laughing, you thought about making a run for it. But then his eyes locked with yours from across the room, and he shot you that stupid fucking smirk that made you irritated immediately. And he knew it.

He stared at you even while he kept talking to his friends, and you stared back. He liked to do these little power plays. Even the women around him weren’t drawing his attention away. And finally, much to your disappointment, he turned away long enough to excuse himself before walking straight for you.

You really regretted not making your escape while you had the chance.

Steve greeted you by your last name, something none of the other guys did, since they cared about actually impressing you. “How sweet of you to grace my house with your presence. I almost didn’t expect you to show.”

You scoffed. “Just because you’re president this year doesn’t mean you’re special—“

“Actually, it does,” he smirked. “This is my kingdom, baby.” He held his arms out, as if the opulent house crammed full of sweaty, drunk college students was supposed to impress you. “And you’re talking to the king.”

You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder if you tried. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s like everything you say comes from the official douchebag handbook.”

His smirk only widened. “Maybe it does. Maybe I even wrote it.”

“Steve, I’m not even sure you can read.” You shook your head, looking off to the side, searching for any lifeline out of this conversation with your least favorite person on earth. “Why are you over here bothering me, anyway? Don’t you have some poor girl to flatter long enough to get in her pants?”

“I’d much rather get under that skirt,” he quipped. When your head snapped back in his direction, eyes practically glowing with the fire behind them and the promise of pouring your drink all over his dark blue shirt and stupid khakis, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I came over because you looked fucking miserable. Why do you always look so bored? You’re at a party.”

“I’m not bored,” you retorted simply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning a hand against the wall next to you. “You look pissed off to even be here.”

“That’s because you’re talking to me.”

Steve laughed, which was maybe your least favorite sound in the world. “Every time I see you here, you look bored. Like you think you’re too good to even be here.”

“Well, unfortunately, Sigma Chi has the most annoying guy possible as their president, so…” you trailed off, a hand on your hip. You took a sip from your beer again, but you would need a lot more alcohol to make Steve’s presence bearable.

He hummed, as if he were considering it. “I don’t know. I think you feel like you’re above all this.” He gestured around the room. “Why would you join a sorority if you hate parties so bad?”

“I don’t hate parties,” you argued. And it was true—you didn’t. You could have plenty of fun at a party. You were Social Chair.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re bringing down the mood,” he said. He downed the rest of his own drink, sitting the empty plastic cup on the mantel, where it would surely sit until some poor pledges were tasked with cleaning the whole place tomorrow.

“I don’t think anyone cares what I’m doing,” you muttered. “Other than you, for some fucking reason.”

Steve grinned again. “I know what you need.”

“Yeah?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is it for you to leave me alone and never speak to me again? Because I could agree with that.”

“You need to get high.”

That made you pause. “What?”

His smile grew. “I think you need to loosen up. Like, a lot.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the staircase. “I could roll us a joint. I wanted to go smoke anyway.”

You just blinked at him. “You’re—“ You were genuinely stunned. “You’re inviting me to go up to your room and smoke? This isn’t, like, some weird attempt to have sex, right? Because that is never gonna happen—“

“No, Jesus,” he laughed. “I just think you need to stop being so damn uptight for once. It would help, believe me.”

“I’ve smoked before, I’m not some prude,” you mumbled, because you knew that’s exactly what Steve saw you as. “If you’re offering, why can’t you just, like…roll me one and bring it back down here?”

“I keep the good shit hidden in my room,” he shrugged. “Otherwise, these assholes would steal it all. They don’t need to know about it.”

You hesitated, because no matter how badly you wanted to accept the invitation for some free weed, it came with a worse cost—spending time one on one with Steve Harrington. He looked at you expectantly while you looked around the room, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought with yourself over it.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But we smoke, and then I’m coming right back down here and finding Nancy.”

“Deal,” he smirked. “At least you’ll be more fun. We have a reputation here, you know.”

You rolled your eyes yet again as he turned, leading the way back to the staircase. The crowd always seemed to part for Steve like he was true royalty, a deep seated respect that you personally would never understand. Your eyes darted around to every face you passed, absolutely mortified at the idea of someone seeing you following him upstairs, but no one seemed to notice.

The polished wood of the banister was smooth beneath your palm as you followed. You’d never even been up these stairs at all, the second floor a total mystery you had never been too eager to uncover. Steve’s shoes thudded against the shining hardwood floors, passing room after room occupied with couples, some of them not even bothering to close the door all the way. You scrunched your face up in disgust at one particularly shameless makeout session with the bedroom door wide open.

Steve reached a room at the end of the hall, turning to look at you over his shoulder before turning the doorknob, as if it were some grand reveal. You had to admit—only to yourself—but you were a little curious about what waited on the other side.

You trailed into the room behind him, closing the door behind you. You looked around as Steve kneeled by his bed, pulling out a shoebox. The bedroom was neat, bed made, clothes put away besides the ones piled in the laundry hamper. There was a desk with a lamp, soft light shining over a mess of papers and textbooks. His dresser was cluttered with hair products and a few bottles of expensive cologne. There were a few posters tacked to the walls, mostly sports related, a few of scantily clad women, and the year’s OSU baseball schedule. He had a bookshelf against one wall, holding his textbooks and a staggering amount of baseball trophies. A framed team photo sat on one shelf, along with one of all the Sigs taken at the beginning of the semester.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, making you jump slightly as you turned to look at him. He was sitting on his bed now, the shoebox open next to him. He was smiling at you as his fingers worked dexterously to roll the joint. “Didn’t know you could be so nosy.”

You scoffed, but your cheeks felt a little hot. “Shouldn’t have stuff sitting out if you don’t want people to look at it.”

He laughed. “You can look at whatever you want.” He licked along the seam of the joint, perfectly rolled. “Go ahead and search the whole room, if you want. The porn mags are in that drawer.” He nodded towards his nightstand.

You scrunched your face up. “Ew. You’re so gross.”

Steve laughed again as he put his baggie of weed and papers back in the box, pushing it beneath his bed again. You took a seat on the plush carpet, back leaning against his dresser. He placed a muscular arm on the end of the bed frame and lowered himself to the floor to sit across from you.

“You can do the honors if you want,” he offered, holding the joint out towards you.

There was a moment of hesitation before you reached forward, taking it from his fingers. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me,” you said, brows furrowed even as you placed the joint between your lips, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the end.

“I’m not being nice to you,” he said. He still had that same look he always had when he looked at you, like it was one of his life’s greatest joys to piss you off, to get you worked up and upset. “Like I said, you’re ruining my party. Can’t have word spreading around campus that people are here looking bored. Sigs are the party kings of campus, and that’s not changing, especially not with me in charge.”

“Oh, right,” you said, exhaling that first cloud of smoke. “The new ruler can’t appear weak, and all that.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He watched you take another hit, then leaned forward, accepting the joint back from you and taking a long pull himself.

“I don’t think anyone pays as much attention to me as you do, Steve,” you said. That warm feeling was starting to settle over you, and he was right—you were relaxing already. It was the first time you’d been in a room with him and didn’t want to scream or punch him.

His gaze was heavy on you as he hit the joint, looking at you with that intensity he always seemed to hold when you were in a room together. But now it was making you fidget, the room suddenly feeling hot.

“Who says I pay attention to you?” he finally asked. His voice was lower now, and when he leaned forward to pass the joint back to you, your fingers brushed together. It sent a jolt through your body, and you jerked your hand back quickly, bringing it to your lips to give yourself time to think before you spoke again.

“It’s kind of obvious.” Smoke billowed from your lips as you responded. The room was growing thick with it, a haze surrounding you both in and outside of your head. “Always staring at me, coming over just to annoy me…”

“It’s fun,” he admitted, laughing softly. He ran a hand through his hair, starting to lose its shape and flop into his wide hazel eyes. “Every time you get mad, you get that cute little furrow between your eyebrows, your lips get all pouty, and you roll your eyes about a million times.”

You paused—and then giggled, leaning forward to pass the joint back. “Seriously? I told you, you pay attention to me.”

Your laughter was starting to get Steve going too. He took another pull. “I mean, I notice things that are nice to look at. I’m only a man, after all.”

The laughter felt like something you could no longer control, bubbling up in your chest and filling Steve’s bedroom much like the smoke in the air. It was contagious, the two of you laughing together as you finished off the joint.

“You know you always say the cheesiest stuff possible,” you giggled, your body fully relaxed into the floor at this point. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, like every bit of tension in your muscles had faded. “It’s kind of amazing how everyone thinks you’re so cool, because you’re kind of a total dork.”

Steve laughed hard, his head tilting back. You couldn’t help but notice the strong column of his throat, the way the muscles flexed in his neck and chest. “I have to get creative,” he said, fixing his eyes back on yours once again. “I aim to keep you entertained, after all.”

“I guess you do,” you smiled. “Annoyed, yes. Bored? Never.”

He watched you for a minute, something thoughtful seeming to cross his face. Your eyes locked in that way they often did, just staring. Seeing each other. Steve always had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and it made you wonder if he felt the same about you, too.

The fact that you were enjoying Steve’s company seemed to strike you all at once. It was confusing—maybe concerning—but for now, you were too high to care. He’d been right. This was what you needed.

Steve nudged your foot with his own. “I’ve never seen you look so peaceful,” he grinned. “Who knew there was more to you than being stuck up and…snobby.”

You snorted a laugh. “Fuck you, Harrington.”

The grin on his face grew. “Oh, would that help you relax some more?” he said, looking a little too proud of himself. “Because I’d be happy to help you with that, too.”

Your eyes widened, and Steve was pretty sure you were about to tell him off again—but then you tossed your head back, laughing harder than he’d ever heard from you. “Oh my god. In your dreams.”

Steve smirked, that same look you’d grown to know as cocky and insufferable, but right now, you didn’t seem to mind it. It was endearing, almost. Handsome, maybe. “Baby, you let me fuck you, and you’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

It’s like everything he said, every stupid, corny line that would usually have you irritated, was suddenly the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “You really think you’re god’s gift to women, huh?”

“I know I am.” He tilted his head to the side, body relaxed as he leaned back against his bed frame. “Never heard a single complaint.”

“That’s because girls know how to fake it,” you mumbled. “Guys can never tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” His hands flexed where they rested on his thighs, the veins beneath his skin suddenly extremely distracting. “Some guys can’t, sure. But I know the difference between some fake pornstar moans to boost some pathetic dude’s ego, and how it really feels to make a girl fall apart.”

Your cheeks felt hot now. Your whole body did, even though your outfit didn’t cover much skin. “You’re not that good in bed.”

“How would you know?” he asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity and something like delight.

“I can just tell,” you answered quickly, looking down at the soft beige carpet beneath your bare thighs. “Guys never care about making girls feel good. Just themselves.” That’s how it had been with every guy you’d ever slept with. Not a single one had been different.

“I’m not other guys,” Steve said, voice lower now. It made your breath hitch in your throat, slowly raising your head to look at him. He was still smiling at you, but there was something different behind his eyes now, something heavy and burning.

You returned his smile, laughing softly even as you felt your heart speed up in your chest. “Yeah, well. I don’t think any guy is different in that department.”

“You wanna bet?”

That almost earned him another eye roll (playful this time, but still)—until he shifted, moving over to sit next to you. You tensed as you felt his shoulder brush against yours, feeling both electricity and heat even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Steve…”

His large hand came up slowly. Now he was looking at you in a way you’d never seen from him before. The familiar cocky smirk was gone, his soft lips parted slightly as his eyes raked over every part of you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now. Your chest rose and fell with your heavy breaths, watching his intense gaze travel slowly, taking his time. From your eyes, to your lips, down your throat. Lower, to your chest, but not in the pervy way he’d done in the past. No, it wasn’t that—it was…reverent. Like he was seeing something holy.

His hand finally moved, brushing your hair back softly. It made you draw in a sharp breath, chills spreading across the skin of your neck where he’d made contact.

“I like you like this,” he said, voice low and quiet. His eyes were locked on the side of your neck, where he’d just touched.

It took you a second to find your voice, although it came out more like a whisper. “Like…what?”

“Happy,” he said. His gaze finally moved to your eyes. “Comfortable. Real.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You know, you’re really pretty when you smile like that.”

You were pretty sure you had to be dreaming, because in no world were you sitting in Steve’s bedroom while he looked at you like that. Like he wanted to kiss you. Like he was actually moving in, leaning in slowly to close the distance as if giving you all the chance in the world to run away—

You didn’t. Your eyes fell closed and then, with the force of a meteor crashing into the earth despite how soft and gentle it was, his lips met yours. His hand rested against the side of your neck while yours moved up to grip onto his bicep. He tilted his head slightly and your lips slotted together perfectly, moving together with a practiced kind of confidence and a sense of rightness you never should have felt with Steve Harrington ever.

There was no time to think with the way he was kissing you, slow and deep but utterly consuming. It was careful at first, exploratory. It felt so good, your lips moving with his like it was second nature. Steve was a good kisser. You knew he had plenty of experience, and it’s not like you didn’t, but he was taking the lead and you were happy to let him.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you parted your lips on instinct. His tongue met yours with a soft groan that had you digging your nails into his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Steve laid you back on the soft carpet with way more care than you’d ever seen him show anything. He braced himself on a strong arm planted next to your head, never breaking the kiss for a single second. His body hovered over yours, one knee moving between your thighs where your skirt had fallen up around your waist, pressing against you through your panties. His free hand rested on your hip now, holding onto you. You let out a soft moan against his lips, delirious from every point of contact, rocking your hips down against his leg to feel that friction you craved so desperately.

He groaned, moving from your mouth to kiss across your jaw, down to your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, giving you chills. Your breaths were coming in hard and heavy now, holding onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, eyes closed as you felt every sensation he provided.

“So pretty,” he murmured against your neck, grinding his knee against you to meet every needy movement. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. You could feel his smirk against your skin when you gasped, hips bucking against him in response. It made no sense how he knew exactly what to do, like he somehow knew your body better than you did.

“Steve…” you whimpered, the only word your brain could conjure.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. His breath was hot against your skin, sucking at your neck, biting then soothing the sting with his tongue. “Let me hear you. Gonna make you feel so good.” 

The hand on your hip slowly slid up the smooth skin of your side, rucking your shirt up. You sat up long enough to help him pull it off completely, leaving you in the lacy bra you wore beneath. He wasted no time lowering his head to mouth at the top of your breasts, practically burying his face in them, kissing and sucking and biting at the exposed skin.

“Always had the best fucking tits,” he moaned, losing himself in a way you could only describe as worshipful. He reached behind you to unhook your bra easily, pulling it away and tossing it to the side. He pulled back to look down at your body, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. “Actually insane fuckin’ pair, Jesus Christ.”

You laughed, because yeah, there was the Steve you knew. That laugh turned into a gasp, then a moan, when he leaned down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands shooting up to tangle in his hair. “Oh my god—“

He swirled his tongue around the stiff peak, groaning as he sucked on it. He grabbed the other, massaging your breast in his large hand, slightly calloused from years of pitching. The friction on your sensitive, hardened nipple was maddening, back arching and pushing your tits further into his face.

He never let up with the movements against your soaked cunt, either, even as he switched back and forth between your tits. Your clit was swollen and throbbing and begging for more, and you were pretty sure your panties were utterly ruined. You could feel the pleasure building in your core with an intensity that felt like it would completely take your breath away.

You’d never had a guy make you cum in your life, and now Steve Harrington was about to do it in five minutes, fully clothed, with his fucking thigh?

Steve could sense the tension coiling in your body—and he pulled away, taking away every delicious ounce of pleasure he’d been building.

Your eyes opened, still heavy lidded and hazy. “What—?”

“My bed,” he said, and you noticed he was breathing hard, too. “Not gonna fuck you for the first time on the floor.”

You didn’t give yourself time to think about his words. He helped you up, then pulled you into another frantic kiss as you both shed clothes as fast as you could with your lips still attached, utterly desperate for each other.

Steve’s mattress creaked softly as you fell back onto it, now in nothing but your panties. You moved back towards his pillows, leaning up on your elbows as you watched him.

God, he looked good with his shirt off, you absolutely hated to admit. He had thick hair covering his chest, which was muscular and strong, but his stomach was still a little soft. His skin was sun-kissed, those moles dotting his body all over. The desire to kiss every single one of them surged suddenly within you, but you pushed the thought away. That was…intimate.

His gaze remained heavy on you as he worked his belt open without drawing away his attention once. The way he looked at you was like a starving man preparing for a feast. Your thighs were slightly parted, and he didn’t miss how damp your panties were. For him.

Finally down to his boxer briefs alone, you could see more of him than you ever had before. He was fully hard, the outline of his dick visible as it strained against the thin, snug material.

And the rumors were true.

“Jesus,” you breathed. That cocky smirk returned to his face as he watched your wide-eyed stare. Truthfully, he was used to that reaction. “You’re…”

“I know, baby,” he purred, crawling onto the bed over you. He leaned down, peppering kisses along your legs as he moved higher along your body. “It’ll fit. I’ll be careful. ‘m gonna take care of you like you deserve.”

It felt like you were melting into the soft sheets and comforter surrounding you. Steve was taking his time, placing hot, open mouthed kisses against your calf, his hand roaming up the other leg in time with his mouth. He rose higher, over your knee, up the inside of your thigh.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, kissing and nipping all along the sensitive skin of both inner thighs. Your legs trembled. The sight of him there, with his mouth all over you, was almost too overwhelming to even take in. Your head dropped against his pillows, just giving in to his every desire, your body coming alive with every touch. Trusting him.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathed in pure admiration. His nose nuzzled against your core through the thin material, and you drew in a sharp gasp. He looked up at you from between your legs, fingers moving to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. “Has anyone ever tasted you before?”

You froze as you realized what he was asking you, what he was planning to do. By the time you found your words, he’d already slipped the delicate material down and off your body. You shuddered as you felt his breath against your pussy, cool against the wetness there, for him.

“I—“ You jolted when you felt him rub his nose against your folds, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you. Your whole body was flushed and hot. “…No.”

Steve groaned. The idea of being the first to pleasure you like this had his cock throbbing between his body and the mattress. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he grumbled, drinking in the sight of you for a little longer before he finally moved in, dragging his tongue against your cunt, moaning like he’d never tasted anything better. “You have the perfect fuckin’ pussy. Tastes so sweet.”

Your hips jerked against his mouth, crying out at that first unfamiliar contact. You heard his low chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pure want. He dove in, devouring you properly.

The feeling of his tongue against you was more intense than you’d anticipated. Your fingers tangled in his perfect hair, making a mess of it, pulling just hard enough to earn a groan from his chest that vibrated against your clit. You were nearly seeing stars already, hips rocking up against his mouth as he flicked his tongue against the swollen nub, sucking gently before moving down to your hole. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was pulling you apart piece by piece until you could hardly stand it.

You’d heard of this before, of course you had. Your sorority sisters had mentioned it a few times, and you’d seen it in that trashy porno you, Nancy, and Carol had spent the night giggling at after sharing a joint and some vodka crans. But you always thought of it as a myth. No man you’d ever been with had even offered, even if you’d gone down on him first. You figured it was something guys just didn’t do, or at least something they didn’t want to do.

Not Steve, apparently, because he was worshipping you like he could have spent hours with his face buried between your legs. His skilled tongue worked against you in all the right ways, moaning against you and grinding his hips against the bed, even harder if you tugged on his hair, which you were quickly learning he liked.

“Steve—“ you gasped, body writhing and arching beneath him. “Oh my god, I—-“

“That’s it,” he praised, pulling away from you just long enough to speak, eyes glazed and lips and chin shining with your wetness, before diving in again. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. You’re so fucking hot.”

You whimpered when you felt his thick finger pressing against your entrance, moaning as he pushed inside while his mouth focused on your clit again. With how wet you were, he slid inside easily, fucking you before quickly adding a second finger. He curled them deep inside, pressing against something that nearly had you screaming his name loud enough for the whole party to hear.

“Steve!” you gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other gripped onto the pillow, feeling like you would actually float away if you didn’t hold on. The pleasure he was giving you was nearly overwhelming, your body beginning to tremble harder as that coil tightened again, faster and more intense this time. He slipped in a third, fucking you deep, stretching you around his thick fingers.

“Gotta get you ready for me,” he panted, dragging his tongue through your folds one more time just to taste you. “Fuck. You’re so good, gonna take me so well, every fuckin’ inch, I know you will. Gonna stretch so perfectly around my cock.”

A whine crawled its way from your throat, hips rocking against his fingers as he fucked you deep with them, pressing against that bundle of nerves that had you losing your mind. “Steve…Steve…oh fuck, I’m—“

He didn’t let up with his fingers for a single second. But it was when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, while his fingers thrusted in hard and deep, that made it finally snap.

Your vision went white, your body tensing and mouth dropping open in a scream that was silent at first, before you let out what were probably the most pornstar-worthy sounds you’d ever made in your life. “Steve! Oh, fuck!”

Steve groaned at the sound, lapping up every bit of you, letting you grind your pussy against his tongue and working you through every shuddering aftershock until your body went limp beneath him. When he finally pulled back, you fully expected him to look up at you with that look he almost always wore, the one that made him look so proud of himself, so punchable. But instead he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sucking his fingers clean greedily, looking down at your body with that same heated, wanting expression.

He sat up on his knees. You didn’t think it was possible before but he was even harder now, a wet spot on his boxers at the tip of his cock where he’d been absolutely dripping for you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, pushing down just enough for you to get a glimpse of the hair that disappeared below.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. “…Yeah.”

Steve smirked down at you and pushed the material down in one go. His cock sprung free—and it was even more impressive than it looked before. He was thick and long, a slight right curve, vein prominent along the underside. His tip was flushed red like he was real desperate, and glistening from the precum he’d been leaking the whole time he was taking care of you. Another drop was beading at his slit. You’d never had a man look like he wanted you this bad.

You knew you were staring, and Steve certainly saw it, too. “See something you like, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, but truthfully, you were in no position to crack a joke or even deny it. You simply watched as he shed the last bit of clothing completely, leaving you both completely bare in his bed.

He leaned over you and reached to open the bedside drawer. There really were porn mags in there, which might have made you laugh if you couldn’t feel that thick length twitching against your thigh. He grabbed a condom and shoved the drawer closed, sitting back up on his knees. He ripped the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock.

When he leaned over your body again, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other stroking his cock slowly, your heart began to pound fast. There was that brief moment of I’m really doing this, right now, with him, but you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Steve lined the head of his cock up with your entrance. You were still soaked, so he wasn’t worried, but you were. You’d heard rumors of how some girls couldn’t even take him, only getting him halfway in before giving up and jerking him off instead. You hadn’t believed them, because starting a rumor about the size of his dick was absolutely something you could see Steve doing. But now you were here in his bed, seeing firsthand that it was very true.

He traced his cock up and down through your folds, coating himself in that slick wetness, showing a surprising amount of care. He placed hot, gentle kisses along your jaw as he did, voice a soft, low rumble in your ear.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing against your skin. “You don’t like it, we don’t have to. But I’ve got you, baby. You’re so good, I think you can take it.”

You could hear the need in his voice, how badly he needed you to let him fuck you. But you also knew he was true to his word.

But, god, you wanted to take all of him. To show him you could, to feel him buried deep. To make him fall apart.

Steve kissed his way back to your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tongue massaging against yours. You felt the sting of the thick head of his cock pushing inside you, and you let out a soft whimper into the kiss. He moaned against you and pushed in just a little deeper.

“That’s it,” he whispered between kisses. He grabbed your thigh with his left hand now, spreading you wide for him. “Doin’ so good, baby, letting me in.” He rolled his hips in shallow thrusts, just that little bit inside of you, sinking in another inch with every slow, deliberate thrust, working you open.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, but he kept your attention on him, entirely on the way he was kissing you. You weren’t sure why or how but it was working, his slow, languid kiss distracting you from the sharp sting where he was stretching you around the girth of him, coaxing your body to relax.

The feeling of being filled was like nothing else. Sure, you’d had plenty of sex, but Steve made you feel absolutely stuffed full before he was even completely inside. He held your thigh up, keeping you open for him, your flexibility not lost on him. He rolled his hips in a few more slow thrusts—and then you felt his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to lean his forehead against yours. “So perfect, baby, you fuckin’—took it all, Jesus—“

You’d never heard Steve sound so utterly wrecked. He rolled his hips against you a few times, just enjoying the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your tight heat. And fuck, you were stretched around him perfectly, tight and hot. You felt like absolute heaven around his cock.

His cock throbbed inside you, so hard you could feel it. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, palms rubbing over his hot skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating it from the sheer effort of holding back from pounding into you.

“Steve,” you whimpered. Your cunt fluttered around him, and he dropped his head to your shoulder with a broken moan.

“Yeah?” he rasped. His hips rocked lightly against you, betraying his desperation.

“You can…” You gasped as the coarse hair at his base rubbed against your clit, still so sensitive but aching for him again. “…You can move.”

Steve moaned again, placing a few hot kisses against your neck as if thanking you. Finally he pulled his hips back, slowly withdrawing almost fully. Only his tip remained, and you could have cried at the loss of that perfect full feeling. But then he sank back in—slow at first, filling you to the brim again. Your desperate sounds of pleasure mixed together in the hot, charged air of his bedroom, a symphony intertwined much like your bodies.

“Shit,” he cursed. He set a careful rhythm, every thrust measured and slow and deep. “You’re taking me so fucking good. Fuuuuck. That pussy is fucking unreal.”

You could barely think straight. Your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of Steve inside of you, stretching you open perfectly. The sting was still there, but it was quickly fading into pure ecstasy with every movement of his hips. Your body was adapting to him like it was made for it.

Hands tangled in his hair again, you pulled him down into another messy kiss, all tongue and desperation, sloppy and hungry and hot. He groaned loudly into it, hips rutting into you faster.

Whines and whimpers and keening moans were spilling from your lips with little control. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, meeting him every time. His cock was deeper than you thought possible, brushing against that spot that quickly had you gasping and babbling complete nonsense.

“Feels so good Steve, oh fuck, oh god, please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop I’m gonna cum again, Steve please, oh god—!”

Every word that tumbled from your lips was like fuel to the fire of his intense need. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t worry about if he might hurt you, too lost in the feeling of your body wrapped around him. His hips rocked against yours in a frantic pace now, his breaths coming in ragged pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts. You arched your back and he leaned down to wrap his lips around a nipple again, moaning as he laved his tongue over it, eyes closed and completely pussydrunk, all because of you.

He sucked hard on your nipple one more time before letting go with a wet pop and sitting up on his knees. He held onto your waist and used your body, pulling you down onto his cock with every rough snap of his hips. His eyes were locked on the sight, watching himself disappear into your perfect cunt, seeing you stretch around him, take him whole.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. The sight of the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he took what he needed from you, watching you with such heat, made you feel utterly delirious. He looked powerful and strong, like an absolute god. “Jesus. Look how you take me, baby, fuck. Knew you’d be good, but—“ His hips stuttered, eyes rolling back for a second. “—shit, holy fuck—“

“Baby,” you gasped, grabbing onto the pillow above your head. Your cunt was tightening, throbbing around him, soaking his cock. The sound of him driving into you was loud and obscene—the slick, wet sounds, the sound of his skin slapping against yours. You might have felt a little self conscious if you could think about anything other than his cock coaxing that second orgasm from your trembling body. “I can’t—oh god, Steve, please…”

“You can do it,” he was nearly begging now, his cock beginning to twitch within your tight walls, so close to his own end but determined to get you there first. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good it feels, how much you like getting fucked by me.”

You turned your head, biting down on a pillow you held to your face in an effort to muffle the scream that ripped from your lungs. Your body arched, cunt clenching around him as wave after wave of overwhelming, perfect pleasure washed over you. Your ears were ringing, moaning and gasping and babbling his name again and again.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, hips pounding into you reckless and fast. “That’s it, god yeah, let me feel it—oh fuck—you’re so good, so fucking good baby, letting me fuck you like this, squeezing around me—shit—oh baby, gonna make me—gonna make me fuckin’ cum—“

His body pitched forward over yours, bracing himself on an arm and burying his face in your neck. His cock buried deep in you, hips snapping in a few more frantic, shallow thrusts before he tensed, his groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into the condom, repeating your name over and over, body shaking with the intensity.

Your head was spinning. You could hear your heart beating in your ears. Steve’s body was heavy on top of you, your sweat-slicked skin pressed together, as he tried to catch his breath. It was a minute of heavy silence before he finally slid his softening cock out of you, collapsing onto his back.

The loss of that glorious full feeling was disappointing, to say the least. But as Steve removed the condom from his spent cock, tying it off and tossing it into his trash can, the moment finally, properly, broke.

And you realized you were naked in Steve Harrington’s bed. That you had fucked him.

The effects of the weed seemed to have worn off, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and exposed and panicked. Even as you began to freak out more and more, Steve looked totally fine, laying back against the headboard with an arm behind his head. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, skin still shining with sweat, but he looked satisfied. Proud of himself in that way that always pissed you off, but especially now.

“So,” he said, and like so many times before, he’d ruined it all the moment he opened his mouth. “You let me fuck you after all, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up and reaching for your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t stand to be exposed like this to him for another second, holding every article of clothing you grabbed to your chest until you found it all.

Steve laughed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about being totally naked in front of you, comfortable in his own skin the way he always was. “Those panties might be ruined. They were pretty soaked. You can leave them here with me, if you want.” He grinned wider. “I’ll keep them safe. Won’t even wash ‘em.”

“You’re a pig,” you spat back at him. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. You didn’t want to put them back on, but you weren’t about to walk out of this room wearing that tiny skirt with nothing underneath.

“But was I right?”

“About what?” you asked as you hooked your bra, roughly pulling your shirt back on. The scowl on your face was a permanent fixture at this point, which was amusing to him.

“That I’m good?” he raised his eyebrows, and the grin on his face told you he knew the real answer no matter what you said in response.

“You weren’t that good,” you mumbled. You pulled your skirt back onto your hips, grabbing your shoes.

Steve laughed. “Oh, come on. That’s not what you were saying when you were practically riding my face, or when you were cumming on my dick, begging me not to stop.” His words made your face burn, unable to even say something smart in return. “You don’t have to lie to me, baby. I was there.”

Fully dressed now, you moved to his dresser mirror, trying to fix your appearance. “Don’t call me baby.”

He crossed his ankles, just watching you with that infuriating grin. He made no move to cover any part of his body, his cock laying against his thigh. It was huge even when he was soft, which you hated that you even noticed. 

“Aw, why’re you so mad now?” The condescending tone in his voice made you shiver with the effort of not losing your absolute shit. “Personally, I had fun. And I just gave you your first orgasm ever—“

“Not my first orgasm.”

“Sorry, your first orgasm that you didn’t give yourself.” He tilted his head, smirking. You could feel his eyes all over your body, shameless. “Two of them, actually. So really, you should probably be thanking me.”

You barked out a laugh as you wiped a lipstick smudge from the corner of your mouth. You turned around, noticing for the first time that some of it had transferred to his face. “I’m not thanking you for shit. This never should’ve happened.”

Steve watched you head for the door. He had no intention of stopping you. He’d never let a girl stay in his bed after sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved lazily even as he sat up and began to grab his own clothes.

“You can pretend you didn’t like it all you want, baby,” he said, not even looking at you anymore as he pulled his boxer briefs back onto his legs. “But you and I both know what happened in here tonight, and I don’t think you’ll be forgetting it any time soon.”

You held back a frustrated scream as you walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Thankfully the music was loud enough that it didn’t draw any attention. You stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, back into the chaos that now felt suffocating and overwhelming in a way it never had before.

You found Nancy in the kitchen, laughing with some of the other sisters. When she spotted you her expression turned serious, saying something to the girls before walking straight to you. 

“Where did you go?” she asked, reaching for your arm. Her hand was a little cold and every touch to your skin right now felt like a scalding burn, but you didn’t pull away. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Just got wrapped up talking to some people,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact with her. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Nancy’s brows furrowed. “Now? Already? It’s still pretty early.”

“I just don’t feel good,” you said. All you really wanted was to get back to the safety of your own bedroom and freak out about this in private. “You don’t have to leave.”

“No, don’t be silly. I’m going with you.” She drained the last of the contents of her cup and tossed it into the nearby trash can, intertwining her fingers with yours. “This party kinda sucked tonight, anyway.”

You smiled at her, genuinely grateful. Nancy was your best friend for a reason, and you loved her. But you could never tell her what happened tonight.

As you walked hand in hand to the front door, you felt a creeping feeling up your spine. Just as Nancy turned the doorknob, opening the door and letting the cool September air inside, you looked back over your shoulder.

Steve leaned against the railing upstairs, watching you. When you locked eyes, he lifted a hand in a wave, smiling down at you.

You left the house, letting the door close hard behind you.

Steve was haunting you.

Not even in the way he always had, constantly in the same places, an unavoidable physical presence. No, this was worse. He was in your head now. And for the first time ever, you felt you had actually been lucky before.

The night after that first fateful mistake, you’d gotten back to the house, told Nancy you didn’t feel good, and went straight to bed. You removed your clothes from the party, shoved that pair of panties straight in the trash. You didn’t think you could ever look at them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. You laid in bed, thinking about Steve and what you’d done without a moment’s reprieve. It was miserable, but you figured it was normal. Something terrible had just happened after all; a horrible mistake had been made, so of course you were going to think about it. It would fade. You would feel better tomorrow.

The problem was that it never stopped.

You woke up thinking about Steve. Went to class thinking about him. Every time you saw him on campus—and he always saw you first, smirking at you and giving you that douchebag nod, or a casual wave that he knew was anything but—you averted your eyes and headed quickly in the other direction.

If the fact that you’d done it at all didn’t disgust you enough, it was nothing compared to the horrible truth. That you’d liked it. Loved it. Wanted more. He really was the best you’d ever had, and you didn’t think he’d ever done a single thing that had pissed you off more than that.

Of all the guys you’d been with, guys who were plenty hot and popular and well liked, not a single one of them had ever cared about your pleasure in any way. They were only interested in getting themselves off. You were pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to find the clit if they’d even bothered to try.

But Steve? He had absolutely rocked your world exactly like he promised. The only orgasms you’d ever experienced had been by your own hands, and you figured no one ever would or could know your body better than you did. How did he know the exact right places to touch, the right things to do? Every girl was different, right? Did he have some kind of stupid fucking superpower?

He had you completely spiraling. You felt like you were losing your mind. Even Nancy and Carol and the other girls noticed there was something up with you. Nancy was the only one who asked, but you quickly made up some excuse about being stressed over classes and homecoming. Tommy was still doing everything in his power to win you over, but there was only one Sigma Chi member on your mind at all hours, day and night.

You laid in bed at night with the memory haunting you. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his stupidly huge dick that he knew exactly how to use, that he’d taken so much care with so he wouldn’t hurt you. How hard you’d cum when he went down on you, the way he made you cum again with nothing but his cock. The memories replayed through your mind nonstop until the ache between your thighs became unbearable and you couldn’t help it anymore, your hand slipping beneath your shorts and panties and burying your moans in your fist until you came moaning his name, picturing his face the way he looked staring up at you from between your legs.

That was the worst of it, the guilt and confusion and disappointment you felt when it was over. When you were laying there in the quiet dark of your bedroom, realizing that you were really, truly fucked.

You wanted Steve. You wanted him bad. And you didn’t think you could keep lying to yourself.

By the time the next party came around, you were done even trying to pretend.

You spent a little extra time getting ready in your bedroom, picking out a cute little dress after trying on nearly everything in your closet. It was form fitting, short, and a bit revealing. You knew it would catch his attention. You honestly weren’t sure why you were even trying, since you’d never had to try to get him to notice you before, even when you desperately didn’t want him to.

When you met Nancy and Carol in the front room, their eyes widened at the sight of you. “Woah. That’s the slut dress,” Carol remarked right away.

It made you laugh even as your skin flushed with embarrassment. It was true. This dress rarely ever came out, and when it did it was because you were going on a date you really wanted to end happily—hence the nickname your friends had dubbed it with.

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” Nancy asked, her brows raised. “I mean, you look great, but…who’s it for?”

The question made you freeze for a moment, even though you should’ve known they’d ask. Of course they would. But you recovered quickly, making up a lie on the spot that you prayed sounded believable. “No one in particular. Just…hoping to catch the attention of someone interesting, at least.”

That seemed good enough for Carol, who turned away and started digging through her purse to make sure she’d packed her lipstick, but Nancy watched you a little longer. She was always so analytical with everything, and as your best friend, she knew you too well for you to get away with lying to her about much. And you hated lying to Nancy, you really did, but how would you explain this?

The three of you left Delta Gamma as a unit, arms linked together. The walk to the Sigma Chi house wasn’t far, and it was a chilly evening, but nothing too bad. The bare skin of your thighs felt the sting of the cold the most, but before you knew it you were walking in the front door, the packed frat house instantly hot enough to make you grateful for the amount of skin you had showing.

For the first time, you were grateful to be separated from your girls so quickly. And, equally as unusual in this alternate dimension you’d somehow stepped into—you wanted to find Steve. Your eyes scanned each room for him, ears focused on listening for his voice. Something you couldn’t explain led you to the backyard, a place you didn’t often venture here.

The hot tub was on, and overcrowded. Some of the guys were in with a handful of girls, most sitting in someone’s lap. A larger crowd just hung out on the back deck, some even into the yard beneath the lights. You heard the sound of his laughter quickly, turning your head to the left at the exact time he looked in your direction.

And god, you hated to admit it, but he looked good. His hair was once again perfectly styled, and he wore a long sleeve dark green shirt with a pair of jeans that he wore…really, really well. They were tight, perfectly fitted, and you didn’t know how you’d never known about his size when he wore pants like that. His ass looked great, too.

Fuck.

You locked eyes with him. He held your gaze for a minute, smirk on his face even as he kept talking to his friends. Then, for the first time ever—he turned away. Going right back to his conversation as if you’d never even been there at all.

You were stunned.

Never in the history of your time at OSU had Steve seen you and not immediately approached to piss you off. He had never dismissed you like that. If the rage hadn’t already been boiling in your blood, it certainly was now.

You scoffed, turning around and walking back into the house. If he was expecting you to come to him, it wasn’t gonna happen. It had never happened that way before and wasn’t going to start now. Instead you pushed your way to the kitchen, heading straight to pour yourself a drink.

Just as you were reaching for one of the red plastic cups, another hand came around your shoulder and grabbed it before you could. You turned around, more confused than angry, to see Tommy Hagan standing right behind you, a warm smile on his freckled face.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking like he just realized how awkward of a move it was. “I just—can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a second. “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his expression becoming a little more comfortable at your acceptance. He moved around to the counter that held a keg and multiple bottles of liquor. It was surrounded by people, as it always was, but they moved for Tommy out of respect in the same way they did for Steve. “What’re you drinking?”

You scanned the selection—there was a bit of everything. Sigma Chi took pride in keeping the alcohol flowing at every party. “Tequila?”

“You got it.” Tommy grinned. He filled the red cup from the keg and passed it back to you, then reached for the bottle of tequila, pouring two shots. He handed one to you and held the other out in a toast.

You smiled softly as you gently tapped your cup against his, then brought it to your lips, downing the burning liquid with ease. Tommy laughed when you scrunched your face up in disgust for a second.

“You’d think Harrington would splurge for the good shit,” Tommy said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at you. “I guess I can’t complain about free alcohol, though.”

“True,” you smiled, even though you really didn’t want to talk or think about Steve anymore, especially right now. “Thanks. Again. For the drinks.” You held your beer up towards him before taking a sip.

“No problem,” he said, a soft blush touching his pale skin. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pour their own drinks.”

Even though you didn’t like Tommy as more than a friend, he really was sweet, and his attention made you feel good. Special. “What would I ever do without you, Tommy?”

He laughed, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “I was just thinking…if you’d maybe want to go out? Maybe…Monday?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn’t actually expected him to ask you on a date. Your lips parted, closed, then opened again, but you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.

“Nothing serious,” Tommy said quickly, noticing your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be…y’know. I just thought we could maybe get some food, talk about homecoming…” His soft smile returned. “…and, you know, I’d really like to take you out.”

It was hard not to soften around him, especially with the way he spoke to you. Every Sig was great at turning on the charm, but there was something about Tommy that felt so genuine. And would it really be so bad to go out with him? “Sure. That sounds good. My last class ends at 4?”

“Great,” he said, the words leaving him in a breath of relief. “Yeah, awesome. I can pick you up from DG? Like…6?”

“That’s perfect,” you nodded. You drank from your beer again just as another Sig walked up to Tommy—Billy Hargrove. You hadn’t spoken to him much yourself, but he was nice to look at for sure. You knew a few of your sorority sisters had been out with him, and he had a bit of a reputation for being a ladies man. He had a gorgeous smile, tan skin, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair that hung to his shoulders in soft, beautiful curls.

“Hagan,” Billy said, clapping a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then his eyes landed on you. “Well. You didn’t tell me you were busy entertaining DG’s most beautiful.”

Even though all these frat guys pulled the same cheesy lines, you still felt the heat rise to your skin. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you, showing off the dimple in his cheek. Something about it brought out the ‘smiling shyly, twirling your hair around your finger’, teenage girl-type feeling buried deep within you. Tommy’s confident smile had dropped, now shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Uh, what’s up, Hargrove?” Tommy asked, trying his best to look unbothered.

Billy glanced at him for just a second before those clear blue eyes found you again. “No rush, Hagan. What, don’t wanna share her attention?” His smile was bright and friendly, the kind that would have any girl’s heart beating fast.

“It’s not—“ Tommy sighed, leaning back against the counter.

“We were just talking,” you said, glancing between the two boys. There was an unspoken tension there, but you didn’t dwell on it. “How’s basketball?”

Billy’s smile grew. “It’s great. We’ve started conditioning. Right, Tommy?” he asked, turning around to look at his friend for only a moment, a weak attempt at acting like he had any intent to bring him into the conversation. “You should come to some of our games this season. I think I play better when there’s a pretty girl cheering for me.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy and genuine. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be just a theory, but why take the risk? Wouldn’t be very good for school spirit if we didn’t do everything possible to make sure we take home that championship, right?”

You rolled your eyes lightly as you laughed again, but it was more amusement than irritation—not like with certain people. “I guess that’s true. We should all do our part.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “And maybe I can come watch you run some time. See that record-breaking sprinter I’ve heard so much about in action.”

You weren’t sure why exactly, but it surprised you that he knew anything about your athletic achievements. It was talked about on campus—the school loved to celebrate their top athletes—but it’s not like most of the school cared about track and field the way they did about other sports. You were no Steve Harrington, star pitcher. “Yeah, that would be cool. I’d like that.”

“I’ve heard you’re good. Like, insanely fast.” He leaned against the counter next to Tommy with an instinctual swagger, exuding the confidence that came so naturally to him. “And, uh…long jump?”

“High jump,” you corrected, hiding your shy smile behind your cup as you sipped your beer again. “But, yeah. I’d love for you to come watch.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” Billy winked at you before finally acknowledging Tommy again. “Hagan. We’re waiting for you out back.” He looked back at you. “Sorry, came over here to grab him and didn’t expect to get…distracted.”

“Go do your thing,” you said, waving your hand in some kind of vague gesture. You were starting to feel a slight buzz, at least. “Have fun. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“I’ll see you around,” Billy said with one last flash of that charming smile. When he looked back at Tommy, his expression was more serious, nodding his head towards the back in a silent command that didn’t seem to have any other option.

Tommy smiled at you, but it was more forced, the comfort from before long gone. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said. “It was…good to talk to you. I hope you have fun the rest of the night.”

“Bye,” you said softly, but he was already gone. You watched him trailing after Billy towards the back door, where Steve and some of the other guys waited, a cheer erupting as soon as they walked out the door. Frat boys.

Left on your own again, you tried to enjoy yourself. Bouncing around the house, talking with people you knew from around campus, from sports, from Greek life. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought of Steve from your head. You knew what you’d come here to do, and even though you hated yourself for it, you hadn’t changed your mind. You didn’t think you could.

You saw him again a few times. Through the back door, in the living room, passing him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, where he bumped into your shoulder and turned around long enough to smirk at you before walking on like it was nothing. Every time you saw him he saw you too, but he didn’t approach you once. It had you fuming.

A few hours into the party, unfortunately, you were getting desperate.

When you walked into the kitchen for another refill, you saw him again. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his cup, talking to some girl you couldn’t name. You weren’t jealous—you were not jealous—but it just made you even angrier. Especially when he glanced at you for just a moment before turning back to her.

This was humiliating. It was demeaning. You hated it. You hated him. But you swallowed your pride, took a deep breath, and walked over to them anyway.

Steve looked at you again, and grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with an infuriating delight as he realized you were coming over. The girl by his side gave you a dirty look as soon as she noticed, but Steve’s attention was now entirely on you.

He said your name, a simple acknowledgement. “How are you enjoying the party?” He tilted his head to the side, his expression smug. He knew exactly what game he’d been playing all night, and he also knew he’d just won.

“It’s great,” you said, your deadpan voice doing nothing to hide your irritation.

“Good. I pride myself on my hospitality.” You didn’t think you’d ever seen Steve not looking proud of himself, but he certainly did right now. “Did you need something?”

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek as you refused to back down from the eye contact he was holding. The girl next to him looked between you. “I was…wondering if you had any more of that…weed.”

The grin that spread across his face was nothing short of euphoric. His hazel eyes seemed to shine with it. The girl next to him might as well have no longer existed. “Actually, you know, I might have a little more. I’d have to check.”

Your jaw clenched, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire. When he didn’t make a move, just kept looking at you, you raised your eyebrows at him expectantly. “Well?”

Steve laughed. “Now, huh?” He downed the rest of his beer and turned to the side, dropping the cup in the trash. You were momentarily stunned when he grabbed yours from your hand, too, doing the same. “Well, if it’s that urgent. Come on, we’ll go look.”

He pushed off the wall, walking in the direction of the staircase. He didn’t give the girl he’d been talking to another word or look, but she was certainly glowering at you when you glanced one last time before following after him. You felt ashamed, trailing behind exactly like he wanted you to. But worse than that was the relief.

Still, as you walked up the stairs behind Steve, you looked around to make sure no one was watching. You’d survived the first hookup without rumors starting, but you knew you had to be careful. If there was one student on this campus everyone paid attention to, it was Steve Harrington.

Even worse than some random students seeing and whispering would be Nancy or Carol. You didn’t want to have to even begin to figure out how to explain this to them. It was humiliating enough doing it, confusing even trying to justify it to yourself.

Steve led the way into his bedroom, although you’d dreamed about the same path so many times over the past week, you could have walked yourself there with your eyes closed. His room was still tidy, and the scent of the cologne he was wearing now permeated the air. All his usual hair products sat out on his dresser, and you could practically see the ghost of him there getting ready before leaving for the party downstairs, not putting it away.

He closed the door behind you, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a bomb in the silence. You turned around to face him. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead.

“So…” Steve began, walking over to you slowly. You felt like a rabbit that had run right into his trap—willingly. “Did you really want that weed? Or did you come back for something else?”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at your side. Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to relax your muscles, your entire body tense. “I…”

Steve was still smiling at you as he approached. He knew you weren’t going to say it, but he had already won. You’d come. His hand came up to rest on your cheek, and you found yourself relishing in the warmth of his palm rather than flinching away.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” he murmured, his voice low. No bravado, soft, meant only for you. His eyes were locked on yours. “I know what you need, baby.” His thumb stroked your cheek, then moved to rub slowly over your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t break the intense eye contact if you tried. “Have you been dreaming about it?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your brain was short circuiting. Your hands hung loosely by your side, eyes wide, as he looked at you with pure heat. Goosebumps covered your skin, breath coming in strained.

“I already know,” he continued when you said nothing. His words were a low purr, a sound that had you hypnotized. You didn’t even react when he pulled down slightly on your bottom lip and slipped his thumb inside, pressing down against your tongue. “You’d never been fucked like that in your life. You’ve been thinking about it. Trying to recreate it with your own hand, getting off to the memory.”

Body on autopilot, you closed your lips around his thumb. Your eyes never left each others’ as you ran your tongue over the calloused pad of his finger, sucking on it. For all he tried to act unaffected and in control, you saw the shudder that wracked through him. You didn’t have to look to know he was hard already.

When he pulled his hand away, the trance was broken. But still, you both stood there, just looking at each other. The whole room felt charged with electricity, the air around you heavy enough to feel like a physical, oppressive weight.

Your lips crashed together in a kiss both hungry and frantic. It wasn’t slow and romantic, not this time. Steve’s hands dug into your waist, pulling you close, the kiss all tongue and teeth and messy desperation. He groaned into your mouth, and when he pulled your hips into his, you could feel the hard proof of what you’d already known.

He pulled back to pull his shirt over his head, your eyes drinking in the exposed skin shamelessly. He was breathing hard, eyes glazed over with unfiltered want. Shoes were kicked off, Steve’s jeans hit the floor, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you with ease and laying you on his bed.

“You wore this little thing for me?” Steve whispered in your ear as he settled over you. His lips attacked your neck, sucking at that spot he remembered was so sensitive. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left marks, but you couldn’t think straight long enough to care.

“No.” The denial was weak, even you knew that. You had watched him all night, approached him yourself after sucking up your pride, and now you were beneath him on his bed. But, fuck, hadn’t you given him enough satisfaction tonight?

“No?” He chuckled darkly against the hot skin of your neck. He didn’t believe you for a second. He was rolling his hips against you, the straining in his boxer briefs rock hard where it pressed against your dripping core. “That’s a shame, baby. It looks so good on you.”

The little whimper that escaped when he bit down on the skin beneath your ear would have been embarrassing if you were able to even process it. You arched your back beneath him, pressing your tits against his chest. Your nipples were hard through the thin material of your dress—a bra didn’t work with it, so you’d gone without—and the feeling of friction against them had a breathy noise falling from your lips.

Steve moved down your body, pushing your dress up roughly until it was up around your waist. He lowered himself between your thighs, pressing his nose against your already soaked panties, letting out a low, primal groan. “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growled. Unable to wait any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waist of your panties and pulled them off.

“Steve—“ you said in a voice that sounded more like a squeak than anything, spreading your legs for him, breathing hard. His big hands slid up your smooth thighs, opening them wider for him. His nose brushed lightly against your folds, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured. He was looking at your cunt like he wanted this as badly as you did—maybe more. “What do you want?”

“Just do it,” you whined, your body writhing against his sheets with the overwhelming need. “Please, just…”

“What do you want me to do?” He was looking up at you now, smirking, even as his mouth was hovering an inch from where you needed him more than anything. “You’ve gotta tell me, sweetheart. I can’t read your mind.”

You groaned, eyes opening as you looked down at him. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

His big eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What?” You could feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, so wet for him, and it had you trembling. You couldn’t take much more of this and he knew it.

“Stop trying to make me say it,” you grumbled. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“Not trying to make you do anything,” he hummed. He moved his head, nose brushing against your clit and making your breath catch. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to know what you want me to do if you don’t tell me, and, y’know, I’d never want to do anything you didn’t want—“

“Oh my god, Steve,” you huffed, hands running through your hair where you laid against his mattress. “Are you gonna keep running your mouth all night or put it to good use again?”

Steve laughed genuinely, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re so feisty. I always liked that about you.”

Before you could complain anymore, he buried his face against your pussy, diving in like it had been killing him to hold himself back, too. You cried out, loud, a hand moving to slap over your mouth a second too late. You could feel his lips curling in a smile against you.

He was good, so good, you didn’t have to have any prior experience to know that. It was no wonder he had girls lining up to get in his bed. You couldn’t keep yourself quiet, his tongue fucking inside of you, drinking in all the sweetness you dripped for him, rolling his tongue over your clit. It felt like he was everywhere at once.

“Steve, fuck!” you cried, gasping and clutching onto the pillows behind your head. “Oh my god, fuck, how are you—oh fuck—“

He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations going straight through your clit and to every nerve ending in your body. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he sunk two fingers into your fluttering hole.

“God!” you choked. Your thighs were trembling around his head already. Your hand moved down to card through his hair before gripping onto the soft strands for dear life, pulling another moan from him when your fingers tightened in them.

Steve’s fingers fucked into you, nice and slow at first, slipping in a third finger before curling deep to hit that perfect spot. He was getting you ready for his cock again, your heart beating out of your chest at the thought alone. You could see it when you closed your eyes, just as you had for the past week, and it had you growing even wetter for him.

“Steve…” you whined, your hips starting to grind against his face. He let you, moaning and working you even harder, begging for it without any words. “I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he rasped, pulling away just long enough to say the words before his mouth was right back against you, delving his tongue between your folds and focusing on your clit while his fingers worked you open.

Stars exploded behind your vision. Unable to hold it back, you cried out, mindlessly babbling combinations of his name and curses and desperate pleas of don’t stop don’t stop oh please fuck god don’t stop—

Steve worked you through every last aftershock, playing your body like an instrument he knew wholly, intimately. Your body was still shaking when he pulled away. The sight of him looking down at you like that, with his lips and chin glistening with your release, made you whimper. God, why did he have to look like that?

“So fucking good,” he said, eyes dark and awed. His cock strained hard against his boxers. You could see it twitching through the material, throbbing visibly.

His hands slid up your body, looking at you with a deep reverence as he slid the dress up until it was over your head, tossing it to his floor. His eyes raked over your naked body, every inch of it, the smooth skin and the way your chest rose and fell, how wide your eyes were looking up at him, your pretty lips parted.

“I thought about you, too,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek, back to your ear. “Thought about how you tasted. How tight you felt around me. The way you said my name. The noises you made…god, I came so fucking hard playing those noises over and over in my head.”

You gasped, the throbbing between your legs starting up again at his words. You’d had no idea. Why would he be thinking of you when he could have any girl at this whole school? He wasn’t just saying it. The unfiltered heat in his voice made that clear.

Steve lifted off of you slowly, eyes staying on you until he turned away to open his bedside drawer and grab one of those foil packets he seemed to have an endless supply of. He pushed his boxers down, flushed cock springing free, and kicked the last bit of clothing off the bed with the rest.

You watched him rip the foil open and roll it onto his (impressive, huge, perfect, achingly hard) cock, your pussy clenching around nothing, your body itself begging for him. He settled between your legs, wrapping his big hands around your thighs, opening you wide.

“Dreamed about this pussy,” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around his shaft and dragging his tip through your soaked folds. He pressed the thick head against your hole, pressing forward just slightly, just feeling you. You whined, rocking your hips down, begging for him inside. He smirked as he noticed, but didn’t push in yet. His expression was almost dreamy, pupils blown. “Best pussy I ever had. Fuck. Never came so fucking hard as I did inside you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, the word itself a plea.

“Tell me,” he breathed. It wasn’t a tease anymore. The need in his voice was staggering. He was begging. “Please, baby. Need to hear you say it.”

The sight of Steve, utterly wrecked like this, was almost too much to bear. You didn’t have it in you to refuse, not anymore. “Please,” you keened. “God, Steve, please fuck me.”

His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a ragged groan, even before he finally rolled his hips forward, piercing you with that perfect, thick cock. You nearly sobbed in pleasure as you felt it, that overwhelming fullness as he sank into you inch by inch. It was easier this time but still a stretch, still that distant sting until his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ—“ Steve choked, falling forward on his hands, planting them on either side of your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You rocked your hips up against him, telling him it was okay to move. Begging him to move. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Your walls throbbed around him, which was undoing him way faster than he’d care to admit.

He pulled his hips back before sinking back in. Starting slow, as if he were still trying to be careful with his last shred of restraint. It didn’t last long. The perfect clench of your heat around him was driving him mad, his thrusts quickly working up into a punishing rhythm.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. The sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, your cunt so slick and wet around him you could hear it every time he drove in. He fucked you harder than he had last time, something you didn’t even know you’d craved until you had it.

“So fucking—god—you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his body slick with sweat where it was pressed against yours. You hooked a leg around his waist as he reached down with one hand to grab your thigh and press it up against your chest.

The angle was devastating, his cock hitting deeper inside of you than you thought possible. Your eyes rolled back as he punched soft, mindless little “ah ah ah”s from your lungs with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of how hard he fucked you. The headboard knocked against the wall, chipping the paint from the force of it, the sound unmistakable for anyone who happened to walk by. “Gonna make me cum so fucking hard again. Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect, so goddamn—oh shit—“

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on it the way you now knew he liked. The desperate groan he let out was muffled as you pulled him down to your lips, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth. The kiss was utterly filthy, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth—yours, his, both.

The whines he was letting out were growing higher, needier. All signs of that cocky, insufferable personality were gone, nothing but pleasure and desire coursing through him. His fingers dug bruises into your thigh as he snapped his hips forward harder, and oh fuck, he was hitting that spot again—

“Steve!” you gasped, head tossing back against the pillows. Steve’s lips moved down the exposed column of your throat, placing hot, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna fucking cum—“

“Please,” he begged, his voice a ragged growl against your throat. “Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock, milk me fuckin’ dry, please.”

That coil snapped again, hard, the moan it forced from you more like a scream. It was loud, you knew it was loud, but you couldn’t help it, completely delirious with the intensity of the pleasure. Your back arched beneath him, moaning and crying out and calling his name again and again.

Steve let out a choked noise at the feeling of you tightening around him, clenching and throbbing hard. His hips rutted into you with a desperate, frantic intensity, rhythm completely gone as he chased his own orgasm. He was right behind you, only a couple more shallow thrusts until he was stilling as deep inside you as possible. He groaned roughly, his head dropping to bury his face right between your tits as his body shuddered with release. You could feel him pulsing inside you even through the condom.

The room calmed, your heavy breathing the only sounds remaining. His weight was heavy over you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t exactly want him to move, at least not yet. In the quiet aftermath, you relished in the feeling of him, his cock still throbbing inside as he slowly softened.

When he finally mustered up the energy to move he lifted off of you, pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it in the trash. You couldn’t bring yourself to look and see if there was proof of him having any other girls in here since you’d been with him. You didn’t know why you cared.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees. He was still catching his breath as you sat up, reality beginning to creep back in like unforgiving daylight after the safety of the night.

He turned his head to look at you, lips curling into a smile again. His skin still glistened with sweat. “Was it as good as the first time?” He asked, once again breaking the spell with his big mouth. “What you were hoping for when you showed up here tonight, dressed like that?”

You scoffed, sliding off the bed to collect your clothes again. Now that you’d gotten what you’d been craving, the desperation that had been clouding your brain was gone. That familiar shame was crawling over you again.

“What?” he laughed. “You can say it, y’know. Doesn’t mean you have to like me just because you like fucking me.”

You hesitated for a moment, then moved again, pulling your panties back over your legs. “Don’t.”

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, leaning back on the bed. He watched you, propped up on one arm, once again unbothered by being completely exposed to you. “Would it really be so bad to admit it?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes staring at your ass as you pulled your panties back on. “Fine,” you finally huffed, turning around. You clutched your dress in your hands, nearly throwing it at him when he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped down to your tits. “You’re good. It was amazing. Is that what you want to hear?”

He grinned. “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He shrugged playfully. “I mean, I already knew, just wanted to hear you admit it. Not for me, but for yourself.”

“Aren’t you altruistic,” you muttered, pulling the dress back over your head. The way his brow furrowed for a moment showed he didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t press.

Finally he sat up, beginning to replace his own clothes. “It’s okay that you can’t stay away. I get it. It’s good sex.”

“I can stay away—“

“Sure,” he interrupted, lifting his hips to get his boxers back on. “But you don’t want to, right?”

You paused. You hadn’t let yourself think about that. If it was okay to let yourself want this. Just because you hated Steve so bad, because you didn’t want anyone to know this was happening. But did that make it bad? Did it make you wrong? Weak, like you’d felt all week, and especially tonight?

Maybe he was right. It was good sex.

After buttoning his jeans, Steve stood to face you. He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the mirror behind you for just a second before focusing back on you. “Look,” he started, but it was hard to pay attention when he was standing there shirtless like that. “I think we could help each other.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face, the smirk sitting there evidence that he’d seen you staring. “Help each other?”

He walked over to you, hands resting on your hips again. You didn’t push him away, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Help each other. I told you I liked it too, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You’d heard him say it, when he was buried inside you, moaning your name, but you figured it was just…talk. Heat of the moment. Nothing real. Nothing you said or felt when you were fucking was real.

Your lack of a response didn’t deter him. His fingers flexed on your hips, but he didn’t pull you closer. “We could make this a casual thing,” he offered, finally putting the words out there. “You like it, I like it. Why not keep having fun together?”

You turned his words over and over in your head. It felt like far more than the seconds it actually took as you thought over his proposition. What it meant, what it changed, how it felt.

But the memory of the past week played through your mind on repeat. How miserable you’d been, the way you couldn’t get him out of your head. That he was right, the sex had been so good you’d craved it day and night, and the second time had been just as good, if not better.

Steve waited patiently, but he knew your answer before you finally forced it out. “…Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned, squeezing your hips one more time before moving back. “Okay then. Good.”

“But we keep this between us,” you added quickly. “I’m serious. Just us. You don’t tell your friends and I won’t tell mine.”

He looked amused, but he didn’t argue. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You stared at him. “Steve.”

“Okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt back on. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

You let out a sigh, both relief and anxiety at once. Turning to his mirror, you fixed your hair, cleaning up your smudged makeup. “It means nothing, and no one knows.”

The heat of his body suddenly behind you made you jump. But he just stood next to you, fixing his own appearance.

“It means nothing,” he repeated. “And no one knows.”

part two soooooon

as always, comments and reblogs are so appreciated!

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The polaroid was meant to go to Jacob Weir, a boy you were seeing occasionally. It wasn’t a nude, per say. But it was you on all fours at the edge of Lisa's pool, laughing at something off-frame, your bikini top doing an absolutely terrible job of containing anything, the way the wet fabric clung and the angle of the shot made the whole thing look approximately one thousand times more provocative than it had felt in the moment. Your tits practically the star of the picture. Your back arched. The late July sun catching the water on your skin.

Lisa had called it a good photo.

Lisa had been right, which was the problem.

You'd stood there doing the math for approximately four seconds before the parking lot after practice, and Steve Harrington leaning against the hood of your car with his arms crossed and his hair doing that thing and the polaroid held up between two fingers like a tiny, devastating flag.

You'd reached for it. He'd lifted it higher, eyebrows raised, mouth pulling into a smirk that you would like to formally describe as insufferable.

"Nuh-uh." His eyes had moved over you with an ease that made your back teeth press together. "Why don't we have a chat in your car."

It wasn't a question.

And now it's been a month, and you're arriving at Tina’s party as Steve Harrington's girlfriend, in a pink blouse and a baby blue skirt and a white belt you'd picked because the note he'd slipped in your locker said wear something cute and you'd decided immediately that you were going to do the opposite and then stood in front of your mirror for twenty minutes and put on the outfit anyway, which you are choosing not to examine.

The deal is simple. You play the part until Nancy Wheeler is convinced Steve can handle something real. He gives back the polaroid. You never speak of it again.

Simple.

.-.-.-.

Carol has her hands up Tommy's sleeves before you've cleared the driveway.

You watch her press a kiss to his cheek from the backseat, then another to the corner of his jaw, and you look out the window at the dark passing streets and remind yourself that you are here for the polaroid and the polaroid only.

Steve hasn't said a word since he picked you up.

You'd come outside and he'd looked at you— a long, sweeping once-over that started at your heels and ended at your face— and something had moved through his expression that you couldn't name before he looked away and told you to get in. His jaw has been set the entire ride. You can see it in the rearview mirror when you let yourself look, which you do, occasionally, because the alternative is watching Carol perform open-mouth kisses on Tommy's earlobe and you have your limits.

His eyes find yours in the mirror once.

You look away first. You don't think about the color of them.

The party is loud. Wall to wall bodies, something with too much bass shaking the floorboards, Beer. Cologne. Weed. You've been here enough times to know where the good drinks are, which rooms to avoid, and how long it takes before the ratio of drunk to sober tips past the point of no return.

Steve's hand finds your waist the moment you're through the door.

This is normal. This is part of it. You know the weight of his hand by now— the span of his palm, the way his fingers settle into the curve like they're finding something familiar— and you have told yourself on numerous occasions that your body's response to it is purely physiological and entirely involuntary and completely meaningless.

You are three drinks in and he still hasn't left your side.

This is not normal. This is not part of it.

Normally by now he's done a loop of the room looking for Nancy, and you've found someone adequately charming to lean against a wall with, and you reconvene by the door at the end of the night looking suitably couple-ish for anyone who might report back. That's the arrangement. That's what works.

Instead Steve Harrington is standing beside you with his jaw clenched and his cup gripped tight and his hand on your waist like it was bolted there, and every time someone comes too close his fingers tighten incrementally, and you have been watching this happen for forty minutes with the growing and uncomfortable suspicion that Nancy Wheeler has nothing to do with it.

You slip away when he gets cornered by someone from the basketball team.

.-.-.-.

There’s a bathroom upstairs, down a hall you've never been down before, past a door you're fairly certain is Tina’s parents' room and therefore firmly off limits. You slip inside anyway and turn the lock and stand over the sink with your hands braced on the porcelain and breathe.

The past two weeks have been strange.

Strange at school, strange at his games, strange at every party you've stood beside him at with his hand on your waist and his jaw set tight. He's been grouchier— shorter with Tommy, quieter in general, a low-grade irritability— but at the same time he's been closer. Always at your locker before you get there. Always finding you in a crowd before you've had the chance to find him. He'll pull you in and kiss you deep, the kind of kiss that takes a second to recover from, and then walk away with his brow furrowed like he's annoyed at himself for something.

You've told yourself it's Nancy. That she wasn't at the last party he invited her to. That the plan isn't working and he's frustrated and taking it out on the nearest available person, which happens to be you.

You've told yourself this enough times that you almost believe it.

Almost, except for the part where you don't know why it bothers you— the Nancy thing. The way his eyes move across a room sometimes, still searching. You notice it and something tightens in your chest and you look away and you don't examine it because there is nothing there worth examining.

Because here is the thing you have been carefully not saying out loud: you like it.

You like his hand on your waist even when no one is watching. You like catching him looking at your chest a beat too long, his eyes flicking up to yours, his jaw tightening like he's irritated with himself. You like the parties where he pulls you close and kisses you for an audience— pretending, completely pretending, putting on a show— his tongue licking into your mouth, his hand sliding from your waist up your ribs, his thumb brushing your tit before his whole hand closes over it like he forgot he was supposed to stop.

You have no idea how any of this is convincing Nancy Wheeler of anything.

You stopped trying to work out the logistics, because the truth is the perks of this arrangement have stopped feeling like perks and started feeling like something you'd miss. Like last Tuesday in the lunch line when he squeezed your ass and looked away immediately, pretending he hadn't. Like the note waiting in your locker at the end of that same day, his handwriting loose and unbothered across the paper:

nice jeans.

You'd stood at your locker holding it for longer than you'd like to admit.

You run cold water over your wrists and look at yourself in the mirror and give yourself a brief, stern talk about the nature of fake relationships and the importance of not reading into things, and you feel considerably better by the time you turn the tap off.

You open the door.

Steve is leaning against the wall across the hall, head tipped back, looking at the ceiling.

He hears the door and his eyes drop to you immediately. You watch them move— your shoes, your legs, the skirt, the blouse, back up to your face— and something in them shifts in the low light, darkens, the way his eyes have been doing for the past two weeks and that you have been studiously not thinking about.

He pushes off the wall.

He doesn't crowd you exactly. He moves into the hallway with the calm ease of someone who isn't worried about the outcome, and you take a step back, and then another, and then your back finds the wall and Steve Harrington is standing close enough that you can smell him— beer and cigarettes underneath his cologne, something warm and musky underneath that.

His lip twitches at the corner.

"Nancy show up yet," you ask. Your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

He licks his lips. Drags the bottom one inward, slow. Shakes his head. "Dunno." A beat. "Came to find you."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer that. His eyes drop to your blouse, back up. "I like your shirt," he says. "It's cute."

"Uh. Thanks—"

"Your skirt too." He reaches out and takes a small bit of the fabric between his fingers, rubbing it. "Super pretty."

"Steve."

The heat that crawls up your neck has no business being there. The warmth pooling low in your stomach has even less business being there. You think, with some desperation, fucking hell.

He puts one hand flat against the wall beside your head, tilting down until he's level with you, until you can see the faint thread of green in his irises that you have never been close enough to notice before, until his breath ghosts warm against your lips.

"I bet everything you're wearing is cute." His voice has gone low, a murmur, almost conversational, like he's observing the weather. "Hm?"

His free hand finds the hem of your skirt.

He moves slowly, watching your face the whole time, his eyes wide and searching, asking a question he won't say out loud. His brow is slightly furrowed. There's something almost careful in the way he does it— for all his swagger, for all the smirk he wears like a second jacket— and when you don't stop him, when you stay exactly where you are and say nothing, he lifts the skirt.

He tilts his head sideways. Leans to look.

The smirk that spreads across his face is slow and deeply, personally offensive.

"Would you look at that." He sounds genuinely pleased with himself. "I was right."

He hooks one finger into the waistband of your baby blue satin thong with a lace trim–– and snaps it back against your hip, light, and your breath catches on the way in and you hope very much that he doesn't notice. He puts your skirt back down. His hand finds your hip and he steps closer, hooking one finger at the front of your blouse, tugging it forward, his eyes dropping to take a long unhurried look at your tits.

"Damn." His tongue touches his upper lip. "Better than your little polaroid, honey."

What a pervert. The thought arrives sharp and immediate and accompanied by a heat in your face that makes a complete mockery of it. Who does he think he is. This isn't part of the deal. You have no right, Harrington, none. 

“You are so sick, Harrington. Bet you get off looking at my polaroid, too.”

He laughs. Soft, low, like he can hear all of the other thoughts. His nose nudges yours, then the corner of your lips, then your cheek— not quite a kiss, something more patient than that, something that knows it doesn't have to rush— and you feel his eyelashes brush your temple.

"And what about it?"

Up close his eyes are downturned at the corners. Soft in a way that the smirk tries to hide. He looks a little drunk, maybe, but his gaze is steady on yours and there is something swimming in it that makes your heart do something inconvenient and embarrassing, the specific ache of what if he means it, what if it's you, what if it's been you rising uninvited through your chest.

His lips graze yours.

You close the distance.

The kiss goes molten immediately.

His hand leaves your blouse and finds your jaw instead, tilting you up, and yours grab the front of his shirt and pull, and the careful patience evaporates all at once into something urgent and graceless and honest. His mouth is hot and tastes like beer and he kisses the way you'd spent a month pretending you weren't thinking about— thorough and consuming, his tongue licking into your mouth slow at first and then deeper, a soft groan vibrating in his chest that you feel through your palms.

You make a sound against him. He swallows it.

His hands move— your waist, your hips, the backs of your thighs— and he hoists you up against the wall in one smooth motion, his hands gripping full and certain into the flesh of your ass, your legs finding his hips on instinct. The kiss goes sloppy and wetter, his mouth pulling at your bottom lip, releasing it with a sound, your fingers digging into his shoulders and then into his hair and pulling, a gasp torn out of him that he presses back into your mouth.

You feel him hard against you.

Your hips roll forward before you make a decision about it, grinding down, and his whole body tightens, a sharp inhale through his nose, his grip tightening on your ass.

His fingers find the waistband of your panties with both hands. He finds the weak point in the lace— a moment of searching— and pulls, the fabric giving with a snap, and he drops it somewhere on the hallway floor like it's nothing.

You pull back enough to get a hand on his jaw. Make him look at you. Your brows draw together. "Hey." Breathless. "That was my favorite thong."

Steve rolls his hips into you, slow, watching your face when he does it. His hand comes up to your throat— warm, loose, his palm broad against your pulse— and he tilts his head.

"Yeah?" His thumb strokes once across your jaw. "I'll buy you a new one. It's okay."

"What if it isn't?"

The words come out lower than you mean them to, your voice catching on the involuntary moan that rides underneath them as he rolls his hips again.

His fingers tighten at your throat, gentle. He can feel you swallow. "It will be," he says, "because I said so."

He kisses you again, slow and deep, his tongue moving against yours, his thumb stroking idle circles against your hip. Your hands are in his hair. His hands are everywhere, your thigh, your waist, pulling your blouse down at the neckline until your tits are spilling over the edge of your bra and his mouth leaves yours to press hot and open against them, his tongue tracing the lace, his lips closing around the skin there, and you grind against his cock in a slow rolling rhythm while his fingers finally slide between your bodies and find your clit.

"Steve—"

He looks up at you from your chest with dark eyes and says nothing and goes back to what he was doing.

The pressure builds in slow tightening waves, his fingers moving in patient unhurried circles while his mouth works across your chest, your throat, back to your jaw, and you are grinding against his hand and trying very hard not to say anything that you can't take back.

He lowers himself.

One knee, then both, his hands sliding down your thighs as he goes, guiding your legs over his shoulders with the ease of someone who has thought about how this would work. The skirt falls around his head. His hands grip the backs of your thighs to hold you up, and his mouth finds you and the sound you make would absolutely carry downstairs if you didn't get your hand to your mouth fast enough.

You bite down on your knuckles.

Your other hand fists in his hair through the fabric of your skirt.

He takes his time. That's the thing— the devastating, completely unfair thing— he takes his time with it, like he has nowhere else to be, like there isn't a party thirty feet below you, like your legs aren't already shaking around his shoulders. His mouth is warm and thorough and he makes sounds against you that transmit directly through your nervous system, and you feel the tension winding tighter and tighter, your knuckles white against your mouth, until it builds and snaps in a long rolling wave that you breathe through as quietly as you've ever done anything in your life.

He presses a soft kiss to your cunt afterward. Another to the inside of your thigh, gentle.

He sets you down.

You both stand in the hallway breathing. His hair is a disaster. Your blouse is crooked. You look at each other in the low light and the flush on his cheeks is high and dark and his lips are swollen and his eyes, when they find yours, are soft in the way you've been trying not to look at all night.

Your gaze drops.

The wet spot on the front of his jeans is visible even in the dim light of the hallway. Wet from you, or him, or both. You reach out and press your palm against it, slow, and watch his eyes fall shut, his hips bucking forward into your hand on instinct, a small oversensitive whimper escaping his mouth that he clearly did not plan to make.

You let the corner of your mouth pull up.

"I think," you say quietly, "you should tell Tommy and Carol to find a ride home."

He opens his eyes. And there he is— the other Steve, the one underneath the smirk and the swagger— looking at you with wide, dopey, wondering eyes like he can't quite believe you're standing in front of him.

"Why?"

You lean up until your lips are at the corner of his mouth.

"Because I said so."

You squeeze your hand.

His breath punches out of him. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

The ad had a cheerful, slightly crooked quality to it, like whoever made it had done it themselves on a budget. You liked that. You called.

It rang twice.

“Harrington Handyman, this is Steve.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again.

The voice was - well. It was a whole lot of voice. Low and easy, the kind that came with its own weight, like he had all the time in the world and was choosing to spend it on you. A little rough at the edges in a way that suggested it was probably even better first thing in the morning.

You swallowed, hard.

“Hello?” he said, and somehow that was worse.

“Hi,” you managed. “I have a - I need a - my faucet is dripping.”

You heard, rather than saw, the widening of Max’s eyes.

“Okay,” he said. Just that. Just okay, warm and understanding like you’d told him something genuinely interesting. “How long’s it been going?”

“Two days.”

A low whistle, almost sympathetic. “Yeah, that’ll drive you crazy. What’s the manufacturer, do you know? On the fixture.”

“I… no. It’s, um. Chrome. And round. Think it’s the original install.”

There was a pause that somehow did not feel like judgment. “That’s alright, I’ll figure it out when I get there. Are you in Hawkins?”

“Yes. On Maple. Number forty-two.”

“Perfect. I’ve got a job this morning but I can be there by two, two-thirty? Does that work?”

Two-thirty. You looked at your bathroom door. Forty-eight hours of dripping and the prospect of a couple more suddenly felt very manageable.

“That works,” you smiled. “That works great.”

“Great,” he said, and you could have sworn there was a smile in it. “See you then.”

He hung up.

You stood in your hallway holding the phone for probably fifteen seconds longer than was strictly necessary.

“Why didn’t you warn me about the voice?” You left the phone on the wall and stood in the living room doorway.

”What voice?” Max blinked up at you from the magazine she was busy pretending to read.

“Max. Come on.”

She bit her lip, trying and failing to hide the grin that threatened to explode across her face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maxine.”

“He’s just a person. With a voice. Like most people.”

“It’s not a normal voice and you know it. I genuinely wasn’t sure if I’d called the right number.”

“What other number would you have… oh my god, did you think you’d called a sex line?!”

“I didn’t think anything. I just. It was unexpected. He sounds like…” You stopped, because there was no good way to finish that sentence that didn’t commit you to something embarrassing. “He sounds like a voice.”

“God, it’s just Steve. Jesus.”

“Steve the handyman. Coming to service my faucet.”

“Uh huh. That’s what we’re calling it.” Max was quiet for a moment. You could hear her trying not to laugh. “What time is he coming over?”

“Two-thirty.”

“Cool. I’ll wait.”

“You will not.”

She planted herself on your couch with no intention to move, and you knew you were stuck with her until Steve the handyman’s arrival.

****************

She was still on your couch with another magazine and a look of elaborate innocence by the time the knock came at the door. You pointed at her and told her to stay quiet. She mimed locking her mouth and winked over the top of the magazine.

You opened the door.

And.

Well.

The voice, it turned out, had come attached to a person who had clearly been assembled with more than his fair share of the best parts in the man factory. He was tall, broad shouldered, and toned without being overly muscular. He was holding a red toolbox in one hand and had the other tucked in the pocket of his too-tight jeans, and he was looking at you with dark hazel eyes and a slight squint like the afternoon sun was in them. He had the kind of hair that looked like it had started the day with some intention and then given up, and he was - he was just standing there on your door step, like this was a normal thing, like people looked like this while holding toolboxes in Hawkins, Indiana on a random Thursday afternoon.

“Hey,” he said. The voice, in person. “You called about a dripping faucet?”

Behind you, you heard the extremely unsubtle sound of Max laughing into a cushion.

“Yes, yeah, hi,” you said, more flustered than you’d like. “Come in.”

He came in. He saw Max and his whole face shifted into something warmer and more familiar. “Mayfield. What are you doing here?”

“Moral support,” she grinned back at him.

“For the faucet?”

“No. Her.”

He looked at you, then back at Max, visibly uncertain whether he’d missed something. “Okay,” he said, and accepted this, and looked at you again. “Bathroom?”

“Down the hall,” you said.

He followed you. Max did not follow, but you felt her watching, and you knew for certain that she was grinning.

****************

He crouched in front of the sink, set his toolbox down, and got to work with the immediate, focused competence of someone who had done this several hundred times. His hands were big, but they worked delicately. He turned the faucet, listened to it, turned it back.

“Washer,” he said over his shoulder. “Easy fix.” He glanced up at you. “Ten minutes, maybe.”

You were leaning against the doorframe. You were doing this casually, you felt, with a completely normal amount of leaning. “Great.”

He opened the toolbox and started raking through the insides. “Have you lived here long? On Maple?”

You were staring at his hands as they searched through the tools. “Almost two years.”

“Maple’s a nice street.” He found what he was looking for, and turned back to the sink. “I grew up a few blocks over. Loch Nora.”

“Oh.” You knew leafy Loch Nora. Everyone did, at least by reputation; big houses set back from the road, the kind with circular driveways and sprinkler systems on timers. “Real nice over there.”

“Eh, it was alright.” He said it without weight, just factual, like he’d made his peace with it some time ago. He’d unscrewed something and was peering into the fixture now, and you watched his hands work without meaning to. They were careful hands, despite their size. He had a small scar across the back of his right one that you found yourself wondering about before you caught yourself doing it.

“Do you work in town?”

“Yeah, at the library. I used to commute in from Hartford City, before I found this place.”

He looked up at that. Not the quick, polite glance he’d been giving you, but an actual look, like you’d said something that caught him off guard in a way he didn’t mind. “No kidding. You’ve been in the library this whole time.”

“Yeah, for a little while now. Good way to get to know a town.” You leaned a little further into the doorframe, and shifted your weight. “I haven’t seen you in there, though.”

He made a small sound, somewhere between a laugh and an acknowledgment, then turned back to the sink. “I’ve been working through the same novel since nineteen ninety-one.”

“From the library?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Technically…”

You did the math. “Two years of late fees. That’s going to be… wow.”

“Oh, for sure, probably why I haven’t brought it back in.” He didn’t sound especially worried about it. He was doing something to the fixture with a focus that should not have been as interesting to watch as it was.

“Put in a good word for me?” he said, after a moment. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, and there was something in it - not quite a smile, just the suggestion of one, easy and familiar the same way everything about him seemed to be.

You considered the faucet. The two days. The dripping.

“Get that thing to stop,” you said, “and I’ll wipe your record completely.”

The suggestion of a smile became an actual one. He turned back to the sink.

“Deal,” he said, and went back to work.

It was unfair, you thought, watching his hands move. It was genuinely unfair that he could just… exist, like this. Crouched on your bathroom floor fixing a faucet and making easy conversation and looking like that, apparently completely unaware of any of it. Just a man with a set of skills doing a job. It was making you feel slightly insane.

He replaced the washer. He reassembled the faucet. He turned the water back on, watched it run, and watched it not drip once he’d turned it off again.

“There you go,” he said, and stood up, and he was tall and perfect-haired again, right there in your small bathroom, and he was close enough that you got the full effect of him - warm and solid and smelling faintly like sawdust and something else underneath that, something that had no business being in a handyman context.

It made your mouth water.

“Thank you,” you said. You sounded normal. You were fairly sure you sounded normal.

“No problem.” He picked up the toolbox. “Should hold fine now. If it starts again within the month, call me back and I won’t charge you.”

“That’s a good policy.”

“I’ve had it come back and bite me before.” He said it ruefully, the ghost of some earlier, more harried version of himself in the words. “Better to just -” He shrugged. “Do it right.”

****************

He followed you back down the hall. Max was still on the couch, concentrating hard on the magazine and definitely not watching the two of you at all.

At the door, you paid him - cash, he’d said on the phone, or check - and he folded the bills into his back pocket with the ease of someone who did this every day.

“Thanks for calling,” he smiled at you from the door step.

“Thanks for coming,” you said.

He was already half-turned when something made him stop. He looked back at you, and there was something different in it now, something that hadn’t quite been there before, or had been there and you’d misread it.

“You free on Saturday?” he asked, squinting into the sun again.

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“There’s a diner on the road near Marion that just opened. It’s supposed to be good.” He said it steadily, like he’d been thinking about it for slightly longer than the last five seconds. “I figured I’d ask, maybe you’d want to come?”

Behind you, noisily, Max turned a page.

You looked at Steve Harrington, standing in your doorway with his toolbox and his voice and his complete, total obliviousness to the minor lust-fuelled crisis he’d caused in your bathroom for the last twenty minutes.

“Y-yeah,” you croaked through your suddenly dry throat. “I’m free. On Saturday.”

The smile came back, different this time, a little less easy. More like it meant something.

“Great. I’ll call you,” he said.

“You’ve got my number?”

“Caller ID on the business line. It helps.”

“It helps with business, or with dates?”

His grin was infectious. “Both, now.”

He went down the path to his truck, and waved once he got there. You closed the door before you could say anything else.

“You knew,” you said, a finger pointed in Max’s direction.

She was lazing sideways on your couch with her legs over the armrest, the picture of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide. The grin she was failing to suppress suggested otherwise. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The voice, Max. You knew about the voice. You knew how I’d… react.”

“God, he’s just Steve.”

“Max -”

“He literally is. That’s the whole thing about him. He’s just Steve.” She said it like this settled the matter, like just Steve was a reasonable descriptor for whatever had just happened in your house that afternoon.

You stared at her. She inspected her thumbnail.

“How have you two never met, actually?” she said, after a moment, tilting her head. “You’ve been in Hawkins for two years? He grew up here. How is that even possible? How can you live in Hawkins and not know Steve? It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know, it just -”

“Are you sure? You’re absolutely sure you never crossed paths, not even once?”

“Believe me, I’d remember if I’d seen that ass before.”

Max pointed at you. “Don’t be gross. He’s like my pseudo big brother or something.”

“I’m not being gross, I’m being honest.”

“There’s overlap.” She swung her legs off the couch and sat up properly, and now she was grinning properly too, not even trying to hide it anymore. “So. Saturday. You have a date.”

You put your face in your hands.

****************

On Saturday morning, he called you at ten.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s Steve.”

“I know,” you said, which was true and also slightly more than you’d meant to give away. “Hi, Steve.”

The silence stretched, just a little. Not awkward. Just enough to mean something.

When he spoke again the smile was back in his voice, and this time you knew exactly what it looked like. “Can I pick you up at seven?”

You had been standing in your kitchen in your pyjamas eating toast. You were now somehow very aware of that fact, like he could see you through the phone line, like the voice alone was enough to make you feel slightly caught out.

“Seven works,” you said, voice squeaking slightly.

“Good - great, I mean. See you tonight.”

“See you tonight.”

The line clicked. You stood there a moment with the handset against your collarbone, looking at nothing in particular, and thought about the fact that you had eight hours to do something about your hair.

Then you called Max.

****************

The diner on Route 15 was small and warm and smelled like coffee and pie. Steve held the door. He asked what you liked to eat and really listened when you told him. He told you about the job he’d gone to after yours on Thursday - a furnace situation on the east side that turned out to be something much simpler than anyone expected - and he told it with a dry, almost self-deprecating sense of humour that made you laugh twice before the food even came.

He was, you realised - somewhere between the cheese sticks you’d shared and the burgers the waitress had brought out after - surprisingly easy to be with. The voice made more sense in person, made sense as part of someone who’d learned not to rush things, who’d maybe had a chapter or two before this one that had taught him the value of slowing down. There were edges to him you could sense without being able to see, things you didn’t know yet. None of them made you want to pull back.

He walked you to your door a little before eleven.

He stood close, closer than strictly necessary, and he was looking at you the way he’d looked at the faucet - careful and attentive, like he’d figured something out and was deciding what to do with the information.

“You good?” he asked. You caught the way the tip of his tongue flicked over his bottom lip.

“Very,” you answered.

He kissed you, and it was nothing like the easy, laid back manner he’d had all evening - or maybe it was exactly that, just turned toward something different. His hand found the side of your face, tilted it up, and he took his time with it the way he seemed to take his time with everything, slow and thorough, like he was fixing something and wanted to do it right.

And, did he ever kiss you right.

When he finally pulled back you were holding the lapels of his denim jacket without entirely remembering deciding to do that.

“D’you want to come in?” you asked.

He looked at you for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

****************

He was, it turned out, exactly as competent at everything else as he was at fixing faucets.

He took his time with the jackets first, yours and then his, like there was no reason to rush any of it, like the night was long and he’d already decided how he wanted to spend it. It should have felt presumptuous, but with him it didn’t. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, the way everything with him seemed to.

His hands were the same as they’d been in the bathroom - certain, delicate - except now they were at your waist, your shoulders, the small of your back, exploring over your clothes with a quiet, focused attention that made your brain go briefly and completely blank.

“You’re staring,” he grinned, before leaning in to press his mouth to your collarbone.

“You’re right here, looking like…” you tried, gesturing over his body with your hands. “What else am I supposed to do?”

That earned you the smile. Not the easy one, not the professional one. The other one, the one that had appeared at your doorstep when you’d said yes to Saturday, except closer now and considerably more dangerous at this range.

He kissed your lips again, slower this time, one hand cradling the back of your head, fingers lost in your hair, and you stopped being clever about anything for a while after that.

You led him upstairs to your bedroom, and he was thorough about it. About all of it. You divested him of his clothes and guided him to lay back on your bed and he settled himself in the middle like he’d been there before. You undressed for him, took your time with it, slipped the light cotton dress you’d agonised over at your wardrobe that afternoon off your shoulders and down until it fell, pooling at your feet. He watched your every move, lower lip caught between his teeth when your bra joined your dress on the floor and your hands cupped your breasts, pressing them together, pinching your nipples between your fingers.

You watched him palm himself through his boxers as your thumbs hooked into the elastic of your underwear, pushing the scrap of lace over your hips and down to your thighs before it fell to your feet.

“Jesus, honey…”, he almost whined as you crawled up his legs, settling on his thighs and resting your hand over his, squeezing around his fingers to feel the thick ridge of his cock hidden beneath the blue cotton boxers.

“Patience,” you murmured, stroking your hand over him, pressing your fingertips into the damp spot forming.

He looked up at you through his lashes. “Easy for you to say.”

You smiled at him, and watched something shift in his expression - that careful attentiveness tipping into something with considerably more heat behind it. His hands found your hips, steadying, not pushing, just holding you there like you were something worth keeping still for a moment.

You leaned down and kissed him, and he made a low groan against your mouth that you felt in your core.

He rolled you over with an easy certainty, got an arm under you, settled his weight and then just… looked at you. Taking his time about it. You were beginning to think it was the thing he was best at, this easygoing quality, this absolute refusal to be rushed, and under the circumstances it was making you feel slightly desperate.

“Steve,” you whispered, pawing at his chest, drawing one leg up beside him.

“Yeah,” he said, like he already knew.

He hooked a hand under your knee and pulled it higher, opening you to him, and ground himself against you. Even through the fabric of his boxers you could feel the heat of him, the thick press of him that left you gasping.

“What do you need? C’mon, you can tell me…”. He drew back, just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your thigh.

You slid a hand between your bodies, your fingertips brushing the elastic at his waist. “I need these to go.”

He grinned down at you, and shook his head gently. “What was it you said… ‘patience’, right?”

“That was… that was different,” you said.

“Was it?” He pressed his mouth to your jaw, your throat, and down, slow and teasing, like he had all the time in the world and your lack of patience was not his problem. You felt him smile against your skin. “Seems pretty similar from where I’m standing.”

“You’re not standing.”

“Figure of speech.”

You made a sound that was not entirely dignified. His mouth had found your nipple and was doing something that made it very difficult to form a counterargument. He sucked it into hardness, brushed his lips over the peak, and laved his tongue against it, peppering kisses around the swell of your breast before returning to suck and kiss at your nipple.

“Steve…”

“Mm?”

“I will never call you for a plumbing emergency again.”

He pulled back from your breast, reluctantly, and laughed. Then he pushed himself up on one hand and looked down at you, and the laugh faded into something quieter. He brushed your hair back from your face with his free hand, just once, just gently, and the tenderness of it caught you off guard after everything else.

“Yeah, you will.”

He kissed you once more, soft, and then he sat back on his heels and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and took care of that particular problem, holding your gaze while he did it like he wanted to see your face. You swallowed.

He was - well. The voice had been a reasonable preview of the rest of him, as it turned out. All of him, long and deliciously thick, the head flushed a rosy pink, the slit glistening already.

He settled back over you, relaxed as ever, and whatever clever thing you’d been about to say next went completely out of your head.

He took his time, even then, adjusting your legs until you were spread open beneath him and he looked, his gaze lingering like he was drinking in the sight of you. His fingertips grazed over your inner thigh, teasing until he pressed the flat of his hand against your pussy. He held it there for a moment, feeling the warmth of you, before his thumb moved through your folds, gathering your arousal from your hole then moving up to circle it around your clit before he brought his thumb to his mouth and sucked it clean.

He shut his eyes and moaned.

“Okay… okay, gonna need a little more…”, was the only warning you got before he moved, arms slipping under your thighs and his face diving into your cunt. He lapped at you, dragging the tip of his tongue through your folds just like he’d done with his thumb, flicking over and over your clit until you gasped and arched against him. He pulled you tighter to him, his hands at your hips, one reaching around to press against your stomach, holding you in place. He flattened his tongue and dragged it over you, lapping up your slick arousal before it had a chance to leave your body, moaning into you as you bucked against his face. He took your lips between his, sucking on each one gently, before his tongue delved inside for more. His thumb returned, circling and pressing and flicking, finding the rhythm that made you press yourself into him.

He took his time, and then some.

”Steve… Steve…”, you keened, your climax rushing and rapid, ready to consume you.

He lifted his glistening face and replaced his tongue with two fingers, then three, plunging and pressing into you, the noise slick and sloppy while his thumb teased the hood of your clit, drawing it back before he quickened his thumb over it, making you cry out.

You were close, right on the edge, clenching around his fingers as he pressed deep inside.

“Come on, beautiful, you’re so close I can feel it…”. He lifted his gaze from his working hands to your flushed face and flashed a bright, enraptured smile. “Wanna feel you.”

That was all you needed. You felt every muscle contract and release as your pleasure crested, your head tipped back into the pillows while Steve worked you through your orgasm. You caught the tone of his voice, but not the words he was saying, just the sound of him enough to leave you reeling. You clenched your legs around his hands as you came down, holding him in place but effectively ceasing his movements, the overstimulation of it almost too much to bear. Slowly, he leaned back and withdrew his hands from you, and once again licked his fingers clean.

“God, you’re too much…”, you whispered, wrecked, reaching for him.

“Need me to stop? We can stop.” He looked so serious suddenly, even as you pulled on his wrist to draw him down to you.

You shook your head, and laced your fingers with his. “Don’t you dare.”

You reached over to your nightstand, pulling open the drawer, and grasped until you found one of the small foil packets from the box you’d bought on a whim the month before. You were careful, opening it slowly, pinching the tip and rolling it onto him, letting him adjust the condom until it was comfortable. He kissed you again, warm and eager, bracing himself on his forearm as he held himself against you.

“C’mon, Steve. I’m done being patient,” you whispered.

A smile illuminated his face. “God, I’m so glad you said that.”

The patience and restraint he’d demonstrated all evening fell away in a flash. He surged forward, pressing himself into you until his hips were flush with yours, until there was no further he could go. It burned, bright and hot and delicious, and you both sighed as your bodies adjusted to each other. He held himself in place for a moment, giving you the grace to adjust to his more than sizable intrusion, before he drew his cock back again. He snapped his hips forward, again, and back, again, finding a brisk deep rhythm that left you clinging to his broad shoulders.

He was everywhere.

Inside you, above you, his breath against your skin and beads of sweat falling from his brow to yours. He sighed your name as you tightened your legs around his waist and tilted your hips, dragged your nails down the muscular expanse of his back. He kept moving until a whim took him and he rolled onto his back, taking you with him, stretching his body out below you as you rode him, more than matching the pace he’d set. His thumb found your sensitive clit again and you gasped out his name, his other hand reaching up to tease a nipple.

“Gonna come for me again, huh?” he grunted, brow furrowing as he snapped his hips up to meet yours.

You nodded, it was all you could do, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, your throat tight, the pleasure overwhelming you.

“Wanna… wanna feel you, Steve, wanna feel you come too…”

He hissed out a jesus, fuck as you rolled your hips against him and arched your back. You lifted yourself up and he grasped your hips, holding you in place as he looked down at you, the tip of his cock still inside. “Christ, you’re making a mess of me, I love it…”.

You chanced a glance down and caught the ring of white at the base of his cock, soaking into the thick thatch of hair there, and you whimpered, more turned on than you’d ever felt. He pulled you back down onto him and rolled you both onto your sides and the change in angle, in depth, in pace, made the breath catch in your throat. He hoisted your leg high against his side, his weight resting on his forearm as he leaned up, guiding himself deeper and deeper into you, slower now. He rocked into you over and over, barely pulling out, then rolled you onto your back again.

“I’m… m’not gonna last long”, he sighed, forehead against yours.

“That’s okay… that’s okay, wanna feel you…”

“Yeah?”

You nodded against him, and hummed in approval as you caught his lips with yours.

He settled down on his forearms, his hands at your face, thumbs grazing over your cheekbones as he quickened his pace again. He was relentless, snapping his hips hard and fast, your headboard hitting the wall with each rough thrust in. Your second orgasm snuck up on you in a sudden explosion, colours bursting behind your eyes as you squeezed them shut, gasping and arching up into him as wave upon wave of pleasure tore through you. You turned your head, just enough to kiss his wrist, and his thumb hooked in between your lips. You sucked, nipping your teeth against him, and that was enough to send him over the edge. He cried out your name with a rough, ragged moan, pushing his hips as hard as he could into yours, his whole body pulled tight as his cock twitched and pulsed inside you, spilling his release into the condom.

“Fuck… fuck… holy…”. The words spilled from his lips, the breath held in his chest, and only with his eventual exhale did he relax against you. He adjusted himself enough to lay his head on your chest, and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him in place. His scattered kisses over your breasts, teasing each nipple in turn until you squirmed beneath him, giggling at the sensation.

He said your name once, later, low and a little rough, like something he’d been holding onto since before he’d had reason to. You felt it more than heard it. Thought, somewhere in the back of your mind that was still capable of thought, that you owed Max a very serious apology for every time you’d rolled your eyes when she’d called him just Steve.

There was nothing just about any of this.

“Hey,” he murmured, eventually, lifting his heavy head enough to meet your eyes.

“Hey,” you said, offering him a shy smile.

His hand found yours, and held on, like there was nowhere else it needed to be.

“Can I ask you something?” you whispered, stroking your thumb over the back of his hand, following the scar you’d spotted on Thursday.

“Mm.”

“How long have you known Max?”

“Since high school. Why?”

“Did she call you before I did?”

He grinned, and dropped his forehead to your chest.

“She might have mentioned someone on Maple had a dripping faucet,” he said, carefully.

You lifted your head and looked down at him, tugging his hair until he looked up at you. He had the expression of a man who had just realised he’d said slightly more than he intended to.

“She set us up,” you stated, plainly.

“She… I mean, she said you might need help with something. I was in the area.” He seemed to be choosing his words. “I didn’t know it was going to - I wasn’t expecting anything like this. This isn’t what we do, just to be clear. I don’t ask her to scout out potential… dates, for me.” He looked at you, and the careful expression gave way to something more honest. “You opened the door and I thought, okay, Max was right.”

“Right about what?”

He smiled, slow and a little rueful. “That I should ask you out.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you let go of his hair, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders again, and held him close.

Downstairs, the faucet was silent. Fixed right, just like he’d promised. You watched him get up to dispose of the condom, then he came back to bed, and his head found your chest once more.

“Is this okay?”, he half-whispered, voice suddenly heavy with fatigue.

“This is very okay, Steve.” You scratched your nails against his scalp and felt him press into your touch in response.

You were going to have to do something very nice for Max. Or possibly something very annoying, depending on how you decided to play it.

“Thank you,” you say with a big smile, tracing your hand down the guy’s polo. “You look pretty nice yourself.”

He grins like you just said the funniest thing. “Yeah?”

“I mean, this color looks great on you,” you say, nodding emphatically. Tracing your palm down to his bicep, you add, “And, like, hugs you in all the right places.”

“Yeah, well,” the guy says, his hand on your waist coming up to just under your tit. “Can’t say that this top isn’t doing anything for me either.”

You hum appreciatively, casting your gaze across the crowd to see if Steve or Robin are paying attention. Because as much fun as it is flirting, you don’t actually want the guy’s hand cupping your tit through your shirt — not when Steve’s been tweaking your nipples all evening, even going so far as to pull you into a room for a minute to mouth at your breasts before sending you back out with the top clinging to your spit soaked chest. Not when there’s two people here who you’d much rather have playing with you.

But—

You don’t see them.

Steve’s not in the corner he was in just minutes prior, and Robin — well, you haven’t seen her in nearly an hour, anyway, but you’ve gone to enough of these parties to know that one of them is always keeping an eye on you.

(And not because they don’t trust you, but they’re not exactly stupid about the reality of sending you into a crowd wearing next to nothing.)

Your head swivels, the guy in front of you completely forgotten as you search for your friends, panic beginning to bubble in your alcohol soaked stomach, because you actually don’t want this guy to be flirting with you, not if you have the option for something better, not if—

“Hey, babe!”

You sag with relief when the sound of Robin’s voice precedes her lithe hand smoothing across your back, her fingers digging into your waist as she not-so-subtly pulls you from the guy.

“I was going to head to the bathroom real quick — walk with me?”

You glance up at Robin through your lashes and nod, not sparing the guy a backwards glance as she drags you through the party, parting the crowd like the Red Sea and manhandling you up the stairs. 

A shiver runs up your spine when she leans in real close and whispers, “That was really stupid of you, babe.”

You stumble, barely catching yourself on the rail, and look back to see a heated expression in her eyes. “What was stupid?” you ask innocently.

Her fingers tightening on your waist is the only response you get.

She throws open a door to your left and shoves you in, and you’re entirely unsurprised to find Steve leaning against the wall of a bathroom with his arms crossed and a stern furrow to his brows, but you don’t even have time to pout (or worse, beg for forgiveness) before the door is slammed shut and Robin’s spinning you around, pushing you up onto the counter next to the sink as her lips press into yours.

You think into the kiss immediately, intoxicated by the taste of her vanilla chapstick as you bring your hands up to her face, desperate to keep her there as long as possible. But because it’s Robin, she clearly has other plans, which are only made all the more evident when your legs are parted and the little skirt she’d pressed into your hands just hours prior get flipped up.

Steve makes a discontented sound when the cool air hits your bare pussy.

Robin pulls back, glancing down as she gathers your wetness on the tip of her fingers, letting out a harsh noise as she asks, “Can’t stop yourself from being a little slut, huh? Get some drinks in you and you’ll throw yourself at anything that gives you attention? Flirting with that asshole knowing that you didn’t have any panties on… and it made you so wet, huh, baby? Did it make you wet knowing that you were being a bad girl?”

You nod dumbly, suddenly dizzy with need when she circles your aching clit, and Steve winds his hand through your hair, tilting your head back to look at him when he demands, “Did we or did we not tell you to stop letting your dumb little pussy do the thinking for you?”

“You did,” you breathe out with a sigh, Robin’s fingers slipping inside your entrance.

“And did you listen?” Steve continues.

You shake your head, and his grip tightens — a warning, because you know he needs a verbal response — and you force out, “No, Steve. I didn’t listen.”

A nip on your thigh draws your attention down as Robin hovers close to your weeping pussy.

“Looks like you need another lesson,” she says, twisting her fingers until your hips are jerking off the counter, a whine spilling from your lips. “Since it didn’t stick the first time.”

You don’t have time to process her lowering her mouth to your clit before Steve’s yanking your stop down, letting your tits pour out into the cold air. His lips descend to one nipple — cruelly as his teeth scrape against the sensitive bud — as he pinches your other one between two big fingers, teasing and rolling and tugging like they aren’t already sore from his earlier ministrations. A choked moan is forced from your chest when he sucks your breast further into his mouth, pulling back and releasing it with a wet pop before doing the same to your other breast.

And Robin, clearly, isn’t happy that he’s distracting you from her when she flicks her tongue over your clit, and Steve has the foresight to slap a hand over your mouth before you’re too loud as a pathetic whine is pulled from your lungs. She sighs into your pussy, pressing down until her nose is nudging your clit, her tongue dipping inside and gathering the wetness there before pulling back, making a show of how much you’re gushing around her before diving back in with reckless abandon, not bothering to be quiet as she tongue fucks your sensitive pussy, rubbing your clit with a rough thumb in a way that you protest even if all three of you know that you love it when they’re mean to you.

Between that, and Robin’s mouth, and Steve sucking bruises into the sensitive skin of your breasts, it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to overwhelm you, coming out in muffled, choked cries as you shake and shake and shake against their combined hold, burying your face into Steve’s neck as Robin holds your core even tighter to your face, lapping up every last drop until your whines finally quiet.

With one last kiss given to your clit, she releases your pussy, her fingers coming up to spread your wetness across your cheek as she pulls you from Steve, standing up to hungrily press her mouth to yours, her tongue entering as you gasp. The taste of yourself on her lips is intoxicating and she’s not shy about making sure you get the full experience, teasing her tongue against yours until you’ve swallowed every last drop, tears springing in the corner of your eyes when she pulls away.

You whine, chasing her lips, greedy with the need for more, but she only delivers one, quick, harsh slap to your pussy — smiling when you jolt — before stepping away, asking, “Did you think I was going to be the only one punishing you?”

“What?” you ask, dizzy and dumb from your orgasm.

She doesn’t answer, though, and the next thing you know, Steve’s strong hands are pulling you from the counter and spinning you around, smoothing up your spine until you’re bent over. Your mouth drops open in a silent oh as he pushes your skirt up, and your legs clench together at the sound of his belt coming undone.

“Steve,” you whine, blinking your wet lashes up at him through the mirror. “Please.”

“Please what, baby?” he coos, nudging your ankles further apart.“What do you want?”

“Sensitive,” you say, shuddering when he drags the fat tip of his cock through your folds. “’s too much.”

The two of you know that’s a lie, and Robin snickers from her place against the wall. 

“It’s too much?” he repeats, mocking. His blunt head breaches your opening and you let out a loud moan. “Well, it wouldn’t be a punishment if it weren’t too much, baby. Now be a good girl and let me use your tight pussy.”

He slams all the way in with one, quick thrust, and you let out a loud sob as the pleasure begins to build, feeling so, sofucked out already, every coherent thought slipping from your head as you grip the counter at the brutal pace he sets. 

You press your forehead against the cold formica, spit dribbling from your mouth as quiet, oh, oh, oh’s leave your lips, but Steve clearly isn’t pleased with this outcome. He fists your hair and pulls you up until your chest is pushed out, wrapping a thick arm around your neck to keep you in place as he grunts out, “Look at how wrecked you are already, baby. Look at how well you’re taking my cock, how your pussy was made for me. Watch how I punish my dirty little slut.”

“Please,” you moan, fucked out and incoherent as he continues to thrust up into you, his hips slapping against your ass.

“You like that?” he gasps, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You like it when I use you like this?”

You nod, and his arm tightens on your neck. 

“Words,” he reminds you.

“Love it,” you gasp out. “Don’t stop, please.”

He huffs out a laugh, and you completely lose yourself in the rhythm of his thrusts, pleasure washing you away as he bullies his cock in and out of you. At one point, his other hand drops down to your core, two fingers running tight circles over your clit and you squeal, jerking in his grasp but he only holds you tighter, practically lifting you from the ground to keep his pace.

“You gonna take it?” he grunts, hooking a hand under your knee and pulling it up. “You gonna let me come in your pussy? Feel me dripping out on our way home?”

A choked whine leaves you as you nod, crying, “Please, please. Need it, Steve.”

“Need what?”

“Need your cum,” you moan, head tilting back onto his shoulder. “Need you to cum in me.”

He grins at you in the mirror and pulls you into a rough kiss, his hips stuttering, warmth spilling inside as he cums, and he gives a few, weak thrusts before he pulls out entirely. You can already feel him dripping out as you sag against his hold, fucked and worn out but feeling so, so good.

Robin’s the first one to move, coming around to your front and righting your shirt with gentle hands, stroking her hand across your face when she asks, “You alright?”

You nod, humming, your eyes slipping closed.

Steve’s chest rumbles with silent laughter.

Together, the two of them fix your clothes and smooth down your hair, Steve throwing his jacket over your shoulders and zipping it up, Robin’s hand soft in yours as she guides you down the stairs, your thighs wet from Steve’s release as they usher you into the backseat of the Beamer.

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

The air in Boston turns sharp and specific with winter's arrival, carrying the sweet, insistent promise of hot chocolate from a corner cart, a scent woven through with the dust of nutmeg and the warm curl of cinnamon. It cuts through the crisp chill alongside the clean, resiny perfume of fresh-cut evergreens, a fragrance that seems to rise from the wreaths hung on every lamppost. And beneath it all, softening the edges of the brick and pavement, lies the silent, clean scent of falling snow, turning the city’s hard angles into a monochrome dream.

The brittle December sun did little to warm the stones of Boston, but the city itself seemed to vibrate with a frantic, festive energy that was utterly alien to the frozen silence of Barton. You, Angus, and Mr. Hunham moved through it like a small, discordant island. You’d somehow—miraculously—convinced him. It had been a perfect storm of your pleading, Angus’s surprisingly strategic muttering about “wanting a real Christmas, and ice skating,” and, you were sure, a quiet word from Mary about the cosmic sadness of two teenagers eating canned gravy in an empty mansion over Christmas. Hunham had finally relented, his face a mask of put-upon agony, citing something about “an accredited, if lamentably spontaneous, field trip.”

You and Angus hadn’t waited for a second invitation. You’d bolted for your rooms like startled deer, the frantic thump of your feet on the wooden stairs, a drumroll of rebellion. Now, walking behind Hunham’s stubborn, wool-clad form, you felt that giddy excitement settle into a nervous buzz. Angus was in his element, but in a new way. At Barton, his sharpness was a defensive hunch, a coiled thing. Here, he was all pointed curiosity, his head swiveling, cataloging everything.

“You’re in a festive mood,” You said, bumping his shoulder with yours.

“I’m in a freezing mood. And a historically accurate one.” But the corner of his mouth twitched. This was his version of giddiness—this sharp, observational cynicism. He was free, or as free as one could be with Paul Hunham as a chaperone.

You three turned into a corner, and the city was alive. Nestled between the tall buildings and shops, was a little bookshop, Brattle’s Bookstore. Its famous outdoor stalls, sheltered under bright blue awnings, stood bravely in the cold, rows upon rows of spines facing the world like a defiant, intellectual army.

You saw it first. Your elbow found Angus’s ribs in a sharp, silent nudge.

He flinched, his expression morphing from glum introspection to affronted dignity. “What? My spleen is not a door knocker.”

“Tully,” you breathed out, the word a puff of frost in the air. You didn’t even point, just shifted your gaze.

He followed it. And his entire being changed. The perpetual slump of his shoulders straightened. The guarded, weary light in his eyes ignited into a pure, unadulterated flame of avarice and wonder. It was the look of a pilgrim spotting the shrine.

“Mr. Hunham!” The call wasn't a request; it was a declaration, sharp and full of a sudden, desperate urgency. He was already drifting toward the shelves as if pulled by a magnetic force.

Your own face mirrored his brightness, the shared, secret thrill of discovery cutting through the cold. Hunham, who had been expounding on the granite qualities of New England resilience, stopped mid-sentence.

He glanced at the shop, then at the two of you—Angus, already pulling a first edition of something from a bin with reverent hands, and you, hovering at the edge of the stalls with a grin you couldn’t suppress. He let out a long-suffering sigh that condensed in the air, a sound of profound resignation. “I see no problem with books,” And in no time, you were scouring through the shelves.

You finally reached Brattle's, its old brick facade promising sanctuary. Inside was a warren of towering shelves, a sacred, dusty hush broken only by the soft rustle of pages. But the true magic, you quickly discovered, was out back. It wasn't just an alley; it was an open-air annex, a secret courtyard of stories. 

The high walls of the adjacent buildings rose up like the sides of a canyon, lined with floor-to-roof bookshelves braving the elements. Freestanding racks, their metal painted a fading industrial green, formed narrow, canyonesque aisles right there under the grey Boston sky. It felt like stumbling upon a library that had burst through its walls, its collection spilling gratefully into the crisp, open air.

You drifted into your own world almost immediately. The quiet chaos of the outdoor shelves was a siren song. While Angus likely launched a tactical assault on the philosophy section and Mr. Hunham emitted a low, appreciative hum near the history stacks, whilst smoking a pipe, you fell into a different rhythm. 

Your fingers trailed over spines, leather-worn and cloth-faded, absorbing the titles through touch as much as sight. The cold air was cut with the perfume of old paper—a scent like dry leaves, attic dust, and vanished afternoons. It was quieter here than inside, the city sounds muffled by the book canyon walls. You’d pull a volume out, flip it open to a random page, and for a moment, you were nowhere and everywhere, lost in a 1947 garden manual’s advice on rose pruning, or a travelogue’s description of a Venetian canal.

A mental list began compiling in the back of your mind, separate from the winter and the trip and the boys: that Woolf essay collection, the geology text with the marbled edges, the novel with the passionate marginalia in faded blue ink. It was a private, peaceful avarice, a promise to future, quieter selves. Here, you were just a reader in the cold, pleasantly adrift in centuries of other people’s thoughts.

You hadn’t even noticed it’d begun to snow until a boy, seemingly your age, reached for the same weathered copy of “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” you’d just let your fingers brush. “Oh, sorry,” he said, his voice friendly, his smile easy. 

He was dressed like a local college kid; thick, practical coat, a scarf that looked hand-knit, cheeks pink from the cold. He didn’t look like anyone from Barton. He looked… normal. Maybe a few ages above from you, fairly.. good looking? But not someone that would strike your eye.

“It’s okay,” you said, pulling your hand back. “It’s a good one.”

 “Right? A mind-bender.” He held the book but didn’t move away, his gaze curious. 

“You go to school around here?” It was an innocent question. A simple, human attempt at connection in a city full of strangers. You opened your mouth to answer, to explain the strange, temporary truth of being a holdover on a field trip.

From his vantage point two aisles over, partially hidden by a shelf of mid-century gardening guides, Angus watched. He’d been tracking you, a silent, brooding satellite. He saw the easy way the stranger smiled. Saw how you didn’t immediately deploy your own defensive sarcasm. His grip on his own book tightened, the cheap paperback cover protesting with a faint crackle. 

“Just visiting,” you said, a small, polite smile on your own lips. A smile Angus recognized—it was the one you used with Mary, or with a librarian. It was kind. He hated it. “Cool, cool. Well, if you’re around for a bit, there’s a killer coffee shop a block over. Best chai in the city.”

The boy leaned a shoulder against the shelf, settling in. Angus’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t a passing interaction. This was a conversation. He took a step forward, the snow-dusted concrete gritting under his shoe, ready to intercept, to dismantle the moment with his particular brand of acidic charm. But he froze. Something in him, something wretched and curious, wanted to see it. Wanted to witness the full, terrible proof of how you acted when he wasn’t the only variable in the equation.

 So he watched, a statue of simmering resentment, as you laughed at something the guy said about the book’s title. The sound was light, unburdened. It carved something hollow out beneath Angus’s ribs. 

“I’m Alex, by the way,” the boy said. You gave your name. Angus felt an irrational spike of betrayal at the simple exchange.

“Well, if you get bored of the tourist stuff,” Alex said, digging in his pocket. He pulled out a pen, plucked the receipt from his own book, and scribbled on the back. “My number. In case you want that chai. Or, you know, a tour guide who doesn’t charge.”

He handed it to you. You took it, the small slip of paper white against your glove. 

That was the moment Angus decided the experiment was over. The data was conclusive, and it was catastrophic. He moved then, not with his usual slouch, but with a stiff, purposeful stride that ate up the distance between the aisles. Snowflakes caught in his eyelashes, but his eyes were fixed on you, burning with a cold fire.

You looked up, your eyes widening slightly at his approach, at the intensity of his expression. 

Alex followed your gaze. “Friend of yours?” he asked, his tone still congenial, but his posture shifting slightly at the sight of Angus’s storm-cloud face.

Angus didn’t even acknowledge him. He stopped directly in front of you, his presence forcing Alex to take a half-step back. He looked from your face to the receipt still held in your fingers. His voice, when it came, was low, taut, and dripped with a venom so precise it could only be born of jealousy.

“Fascinating,” he said, the word a scalpel. “Collecting autographs now, are we?” His eyes were locked on the receipt in your hand. “Hunham’s waiting. He’s had an epiphany about the erosion of public decorum and is currently composing a lecture on it. He’s using words like ‘raffish’ and ‘indolent.’” His gaze cut to Alex, a look of pure, unvarnished dismissal. “I’d advise you not to be his prime example.” He turned on his heel, expecting you to follow. The command was absolute, leaving the snow, the book, and the boy with his phone number hanging in the frozen, ruined air between you.

“O-oh,” you muttered, the syllable knocked loose by the sheer force of his exit. You fumbled for a second, the receipt still pinched between your fingers, before letting yourself get pulled into his wake.

You managed a harried glance over your shoulder as Angus marched you away. “Well, it was nice knowing you, Alex!” The call was swallowed by the soft hush of the snow and the growing distance. Alex just gave a small, bemused wave, already receding into the landscape of the bookshop like a minor, forgotten character. Angus didn’t slow down. He didn’t look back. His grip on your arm was firm, not quite painful, but proprietary. He steered you through the maze of outdoor shelves, his jaw a hard line. “Nice knowing him?” he parroted, his voice a low, seething thing meant only for your ear.  “You knew him for approximately ninety seconds. You can’t ‘know’ someone at that time. You can barely ascertain their literary taste, which, based on that selection, is dubious at best.”

“Did Mr. Hunham really have an epiphany, or did you just have one?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady in the narrow alley between the walls. 

He finally turned to look at you, the movement sharp. The cold had painted his cheeks and the tip of his nose a faint red, but his eyes were all dark, volatile heat. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means you dragged me out of there like you were putting out a fire.” You held up the crumpled receipt slightly. “Because of this.” 

“Don’t be absurd,” he snapped, but the denial was brittle, too quick. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, a defensive hunch settling into his shoulders. “I was preventing you from becoming a case study in Hunham’s inevitable treatise on modern indecency. That… person was clearly loitering with intent.”

“Intent to what? Recommend a book?” You took a small step closer. The snow was beginning to dust his hair, catching on the wool of his scarf. “You were jealous.” You tease, pushing his buttons.

The word hit its mark. He flinched as if you’d physically struck him, the cocky, intellectual armor he wore so carefully cracking straight down the middle. 

“Jealous?” His voice climbed, tight and thin, before he wrestled it back down to a furious whisper. “Of that? Don’t be ridiculous. I was acting out of… of basic social hygiene. He was a stranger. He was common. The whole interaction was dripping with a banal predictability that was practically offensive.” 

He was pacing now, a short, frustrated path in the slush, his gestures sharp and agitated. “He probably listens to… to The Carpenters and thinks a well-argued point is being ‘aggressive.’ He’s the human equivalent of beige wallpaper.”

You just watched him, the ghost of a smile playing on your lips. His rant was too loud, too specific. It was a confession screamed through a megaphone of insults. “You’re describing him in a lot of detail for someone who found him so forgettable,” you said mildly, leaning back against the cold brick. He stopped pacing. Swallowed hard. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once, leaving behind a boy who was just cold, and tired, and painfully, obviously caught.

“Just… throw it away,” he muttered, not looking at you, his eyes fixed on a frozen crack in the pavement. The demand was quiet, stripped bare of its earlier pretense. It wasn’t an order from a peer. It was a plea.

“Don’t worry, darling,” You taunt, “He wasn’t worth my precious time anyway,” You smirk, winking at him as you walk where Mr. Hunham was. Where he was skimming through books, smoking a pipe. Angus follows, flustered and red. He excused it because of the cold weather, but his racing heart tells him otherwise.

You browsed with a new, distracted focus. And then you saw it: a worn, olive-green copy of The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut. It wasn’t philosophy. It wasn’t history. It was the perfect, weird, humanist antidote to everything Angus pretended to be; cynical, yes, but with a bruised and beating heart at its center. A small, private smile touched your lips. You’d come back for it. Later. When he wasn’t looking. You carefully slotted it back between its neighbors, marking its location in your mind.

Just one shelf over, Mr. Hunham’s back was turned, a monument of scholarly absorption as he examined a set of vintage books. The scrape of a boot on grit announced Angus’s approach. He came to stand beside you, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold—or perhaps against the vulnerability still humming in the air. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, a silent, prickly presence, pretending to scan a row of titles he wasn’t really seeing. The proximity was its own kind of conversation.

A voice, syrup-thick and cutting through the cold, shattered the tense silence between you.

“Hey there, handsome. Got a cigarette?”

Both you and Angus froze, a united front of unwillingness to turn and see who the voice was addressing. You exchanged a single, brief glance, a silent pact to ignore it, to let the moment dissolve.

“No, sorry. I smoke a pipe.”

Well, so much for that. At the sound of Mr. Hunham’s tone, you both turned in slow, unison motion.

A woman with a riot of red hair spilling from a messy bun stood there, wrapped in a coat that looked like a diseased lemon and a fraying fur stole. She appraised Hunham with a weary, professional air.

“How about a date, then?” she tried again, undeterred. “You wanna get a date?”

“No, thank you,” Hunham said, removing his pipe with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady, offering a tight, nervous smile.

“Aw, come on. Let’s go somewhere warm.”

From beside you, Angus found his voice, low and laced with sudden, mischievous glee. “Go ahead,” he called over, a wicked smirk spreading across his face. “We can wait here. We’ll be fine.”

You choked back a startled snort of laughter.

The woman’s eyes lit up. “See?” she said to a mortified Hunham, jamming her hands into her pockets. “The kids can wait. Read some books. They don’t mind if daddy gets a little… candy cane.”

“Thank you, but I’ve never much cared for candy canes,” Hunham said, his voice climbing an octave as he snatched a random book from the shelf and stared at it with desperate intensity. “Also, I’m prediabetic.”

With a disgusted scowl, the woman turned and clacked away into the falling snow. The second she was gone, Angus leaned over the low shelf separating you from your teacher, his earlier jealousy apparently forgotten in the wake of this new, glorious humiliation.

“You know,” he said, his voice a stage whisper dripping with false sympathy. “If you did want a little candy cane, your secret’s safe with me. No judgment here.”

You snorted, the sound escaping before you could stop it. “Come on, Mr. Hunham,” you chimed in, unable to resist the opening. “Live a little. Embrace the spirit of the season.”

Hunham’s head swiveled from Angus to you, his expression shifting from flustered to profoundly, academically disappointed. He pointed the stem of his pipe at Angus first.

“Mister Tully,” he began, his voice dropping into the cadence of a dire classroom pronouncement. “And by extension, you,” he added, cutting his eyes to you.  “For most people, sex is ninety-nine percent friction and one percent good-will. Call me old fashioned, but I place value on physical intimacy, and so should you two.” 

“You’ve never had sex, have you?” Angus asked, his tone more one of blunt clinical curiosity than mockery.

To your shock, Mr. Hunham let out a single, sharp bark of laughter, a dry, rustling sound you’d heard maybe twice before.

“Believe it or not, Mister Tully,” he said, a strange, almost wistful glint in his eye as he gazed at the snow-dusted books, “there was a time when the fire in my loins burned white hot.”

You physically recoiled, scrunching your nose in visceral horror. “Okay, can we not? Please?”

Angus, however, was undeterred, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “You’re full of shit.” 

“I assure you, I am not,” Hunham replied, unoffended, his voice taking on a low, conspiratorial note. “The details, in fact, would curl your toes.”

Angus smirks, “Okay, we’re finally getting to the good stuff, let’s hear.”

“Maybe when you’re 18.” He blew the smoke from his pipe, “Curl your toes!”

Thankfully, the subject of Mr. Hunham’s romantic history was allowed to expire, buried under a mutual, silent agreement to never speak of it again. After another ten minutes of browsing in the gently falling snow, he announced it was time to reconvene—but not before a “call of nature” required a visit to the bookstore’s facilities. This left you and Angus alone for the first time since the tense standoff with the receipt.

The quiet felt different now, charged but softer.

“You’re horrible,” you said, nudging the toe of your boot against his.

“Unprovoked assault!” he yelped, feigning injury. “I’m reporting you to Hunham. This is exactly the kind of friction he warned us about.”

“You deserved it,” you shot back, shaking your head. “For pimping out Mr. Hunham to bootleg Mrs. Claus over there.”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, a faint, almost shy smile touched his lips, and he reached into the deep pocket of his coat. His hand emerged holding a small, slightly worn paperback. He held it out to you, his earlier bravado replaced with a tentative sort of earnestness.

It was a copy of The Once and Future King, the cover softened at the edges.

The cold seemed to solidify around you, rooting you to the spot. You could only stare at the book in his outstretched hand. “What’s this?” you finally managed, your voice barely a whisper.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, the words simple and direct, yet they seemed to hang in the air, fragile as the snowflakes.

You looked up at him, your lips slightly parted. The surprise was a warm, expanding feeling in your chest, crowding out everything else, the chill, the memory of the other boy, the lingering awkwardness. Words failed you completely.

Seeing your speechlessness, Angus shifted on his feet, the confidence of his gesture giving way to a rush of explanation. “I bought it. Well, I procured it. It was inside, on a shelf near the history section. It just… it seemed like something you’d argue with. In a productive way. And I had Hunham front me the cash, obviously, because my mother’s idea of a Christmas allowance is a sternly worded note about fiscal responsibility, so technically it’s from him, but the thought— the selection— that’s mine. The debt is also mine, which is a less charming gift, but there you have it.” He rambled to a stop, his eyes searching yours, looking for a verdict. The offering, and the vulnerability behind it, lay plainly between you.

For a moment, you just stared at the book, then at him, the careful lines he’d drawn between you all afternoon blurring into nothing. Without a word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in the rough wool of his coat. It was a hug so tight and sudden, a passerby might have mistaken it for a desperate attempt to share body heat.

Angus went completely rigid, a statue caught in an avalanche. Then, all at once, the tension melted. One arm came up slowly, cautiously, to circle your back, his hand splaying against your shoulder blade. His chin came to rest lightly on the top of your head with a shaky exhale that fogged the air above you.

“Holy shit,” you mumbled into his scarf, your voice thick with a giddy, disbelieving laugh. “You’re such a secret softie.”

You felt him huff, the sound vibrating through his chest. “It’s a book, not a declaration of fealty,” he muttered, but he didn’t let go. His hand gave a small, almost imperceptible rub against your back.

You finally pulled back just enough to look up at him, still clutching the paperback to your chest. His cheeks were flushed, and he quickly looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“So,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. “Is it… acceptable?”

A wide, unstoppable smile broke across your face. “I love it, you absolute idiot.”

You flipped the book open, the old pages releasing a familiar, comforting scent. Angus watched you, his hands shoved back in his pockets, trying and failing to look indifferent. The silence between you now was warm, full of the unspoken things his gift had dragged to the surface.

A thought, sharp and clear, cut through the haze of your happiness. The mental list you’d made in the stacks. That worn, olive-green copy of ‘The Sirens of Titan’ by Kurt Vonnegut. You’d seen it nestled between two larger novels, its spine cracked with love. You’d noted it, promised it to yourself for later. But looking at Angus now, his guard down, the bitter edge in his eyes softened into something hopeful and terribly young, a new plan began to form.

You wouldn’t give it to him now. This moment, this perfect, fragile truce built on a single paperback, was his. To produce a gift in return would feel like an exchange, a transaction, and it would spook him. He’d retreat behind a wall of analysis, picking apart the motives.

No. You’d save it. You’d tuck the Vonnegut away in your bag, a secret for the journey home, or perhaps for the long, dark evening back at Barton when the silence of the empty school threatened to swallow you both again. It would be a follow-up, a continuation of this conversation when words might once again fail. A way to say, I see you, too.

“It’s perfect,” you said again, closing the cover and holding it close. Your smile was softer now, knowing. “Thank you, Angus.”

He gave a single, stiff nod, the ghost of his own smile still touching his lips. “Don’t sentimentalize it. It’s just a book.”

But you’d seen the way he’d held onto you. You knew better.

The crunch of snow announced Mr. Hunham’s return, his pipe clenched between his teeth, looking relieved to find you both where he’d left you and, miraculously, not at each other’s throats. “The municipal parking meter is a far greater tyranny than any monarch,” he announced by way of greeting. “We depart.”