nika ☕︎

But then high school happened. High school—where Steve had slipped into the popular crowd with ease while you remained in the shadows. Where Steve went to parties while you stayed home to do extra credit.

You slowly felt him slipping away from you. He stopped sneaking in through your bedroom window to watch R rated horror movies that he had stolen from his parents VHS collection, he stopped knocking on your door in the morning to take you to school and he didn’t come to the annual trip to the lake house the summer after freshman year, opting to stay home and throw a massive party instead.

You told yourself it was fine—that you were just growing apart but you’d eventually find your way back to each other.

But then in your sophomore year, he invited you to one of his parties and your friendship came crashing down over a game of truth or dare.

You had never seen the Harrington house look so messy.

The front yard was littered with beer bottles and red solo cups, there were several smashed glasses in the kitchen and you swore you even saw a couple rolls of toilet paper hanging from the chandelier in the foyer. 

All you could think as you sat on the couch in the basement, squeezed between Steve and a very intoxicated Carol was that you hoped for Steve’s sake that Elizabeth and Danny Harrington never saw their house in this state. You were pretty sure Steve would be grounded for life if they did.

You felt Steve shift beside you as he leaned back to take a long swig from his beer, eyes flickering over to you briefly before he looked away.

You weren’t entirely sure why Steve had invited you to his party, he had hardly said a word to you all evening and you felt like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for him to come back to you. You had a feeling that he had only invited you to alleviate some of the guilt he may have felt for ditching you last week to hang out with Tommy but you were beginning to wish that he hadn’t asked you at all. Parities were not at all your thing but you had wanted to try because it was Steve and your feelings for him made you do things you didn’t want to do sometimes. Especially when he looked so stupidly handsome in that green shirt of his.

“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?” Steve asks you with a gentle nudge of your arm. The subtle contact sends a jolt through you and you have to force yourself to act natural as you turn to look at him.

“No, thank you, I’m—”

“—of course she doesn’t want a drink,” Carol slurs from beside you, leaning over you to talk to Steve. You shrink backwards against the couch, mostly to put a little distance between you and Carol and the smell of vodka coming from her that was almost overwhelming. “She hasn’t—” she hiccuped. “She hasn’t drank all—” she hiccuped again. “All night. She’s such a square.”

You don’t say anything but you feel your face grow hot in embarrassment as Carol talks about you like you weren’t sitting right next to her. The worst part was that Steve didn’t even stick up for you. You hate the fact you weren’t surprised by that. 

Your leg begins to bounce, you were trying to quickly think of an excuse to leave. Not that you really needed one, Steve didn’t seem particularly bothered by your presence.

“Steve, I need to—”

The sound of jeering cuts you off and the words quickly die on tongue as Tommy and a few more of Steve’s friends stumble down the basement stairs.

All you wanted to do was leave but Tommy was already squeezing himself between you and Carol and you had no choice but to move closer to Steve, your thigh pressed against his and his arm flush against yours.

The uncomfortableness you felt was churning horribly in your gut, your leg was still bouncing nervously and yet, Steve didn’t say anything. He didn’t even ask if you were okay, despite his legs lingering on your knee as it bounced anxiously.

“Who’s up for a game of truth or dare?” Tommy asks, one arm slung around Carol while the other nudges you with a gleeful smile. “Maybe it’ll get Little Miss Goody Two Shoes over here to loosen up a little.”

“Tommy, let’s not—” Steve begins but the laughter around the room cuts him off. He glances at you, as though he was trying to reassure himself that you were fine—that this was fine.

You watched as Steve’s friends dared each other to take a shot of hot sauce, to strip off their clothes and jump naked into Steve’s pool. Your stomach turned as you heard them ask each other the most intrusive questions about each other's sex life and at parts, even Steve laughed.

And then, it was your turn.

You shifted uncomfortably, Tommy’s elbow digging into your ribs as you looked to Steve for help. But he was too busy smiling over at one of the cheerleaders to even register your discomfort.

“Truth,” you say finally, figuring that it was the safest option. At least then they couldn’t dare you to skinny dip in the pool.

“Are you a virgin?” Carol asks you bluntly.

Your face warms, the answer is written on your face and all you wanted was for Steve to notice your discomfort, for him to help—

“I take that as a yes,” Carol mutters audibly as some of Steve’s friends laugh, making your face feel as though it was burning from shame. “Not surprised by that—”

“—Carol,” Steve says in a half arsed attempt to rein his friend in as you shift in your seat once again, your eyes flickering down to your lap as you avoid eye contact with everyone in the room.

“What?” Carol asks Steve as Tommy struggles to keep in his laughter beside you. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“—could you just—”

“—oh c’mon, Steve. We just wanna get to know her. S’only fair. You lost your v card last month so we were just curious about hers.”

Your entire body turns cold. Everything around you blurs, you feel a strange mix of feeling both too hot and too cold as you turn to look at Steve—who you find was already looking at you. Of course you were jealous, of course you were upset about Steve losing his virginity to someone who wasn’t you and of course it felt as though someone had twisted a knife in your gut at the mere thought of it. But it wasn’t just that—it was also the fact he hadn’t told you about it. It made that distance you had felt between you and Steve feel too loud to ignore. 

“Oh, are you jealous?” Tommy asks, nudging you as he takes note of the look on your face with glee. “You see that, Stevie? She’s jealous she didn’t get there first—”

“—dude,” Steve interrupts, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks away from you. “Don’t be a dick.”

Despite the fact that Steve had finally stood up for you, you couldn’t help but feel it was half hearted. Almost as though Steve’s heart wasn’t really in it, as though he was more concerned about what his friends would think of him than whether or not they were making you uncomfortable.

Tommy shrugs, the slight smirk tugging on his lips that told you he was absolutely not done being a dick.

“Fine. Whatever,” Tommy mutters with a quick glance your way that Steve doesn’t catch. “Your turn then, Steve.”

There was a brief pause where Steve didn’t say anything. You could feel his eyes on you and for a moment, you wondered if he was about to ask you if you wanted to leave, if he was finally going to put you before his stupid friends. But then Steve shifted beside and you knew that he had looked away.

“Dare,” he says.

You knew almost instantly that Tommy or Carol was going to give him a dare that would somehow upset you. Perhaps he’d dare Steve to make a move on that cheerleader right in front of you, maybe they’d even go upstairs and—

“I dare you to kiss the person sitting to your right,” Tommy says, a cruel smile tugging at his lips as he watches Steve’s expression shift. Because the person sitting to Steve’s right—was you.

The first thing that you registered in response to Tommy’s dare was the laughter from his and Steve’s friends, it was Carol’s small glance towards you and the way Steve had gone completely still beside you.

“No,” Steve says simply without even so much as a glance towards you. “Not her. No way.”

The way he said, the finality in his voice made something stir in your gut. Shame, embarrassment, humiliation—you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was a sick connotation of all three that was stirring in your stomach.

Not her, he had said. Like you were the very last person he would ever want to kiss, as though kissing you was in some way repulsive, even. The laughing didn’t help, Steve’s friends muttering to each other about your inexperience made it worse and all the while—Steve Harrington, your best friend since you were five years old, didn't say a damn thing.

And that was your breaking point.

You stand up from the couch, your legs feeling wobbly despite the fact you had only drank lemonade all evening. Your entire body felt hot from embarrassment but now also from the anger that was beginning to rear its ugly head. The anger you had felt towards Steve that you had quietly buried after months of him letting you down, months of cancelled plans, months of him putting his desire to be liked over his friendship with you. You suddenly felt so angry that your hands shook slightly and you knew you had to leave because you were seconds away from bursting into tears.

“Oh, look how upset she is Steve,” Carol cooes cruelly, gleefully watching you as Tommy tries (and fails) not to laugh. “She looks like she’s going to—”

“—fuck you, Carol,” you spat, white hot anger burning through you now as you turn to look at Steve a final time. You see the panic settle in his eyes as he half rises to his feet—before you walk away from him—walk away from him and his stupid friends, his stupid hair and his stupid handsome face.

You push through the sea of bodies that had congregated in Steve’s living room, not caring that someone had smashed one of Elizabeth’s priceless vases or the fact that there was a large stain in one of the rugs. All you cared about was getting out of Steve’s house and as far away from him as possible. 

You were almost successful. You were halfway down his driveway when the sound of Steve calling out your name as he stumbled after you reached your ears.

“Wait—” he calls out, almost frantic as he manages to catch up with you, his fingers slipping around your wrist in an effort to stop you from leaving. “Let me just—”

“—just what, Steve?” You snap, unable to keep the anger and hurt out of your voice as you turn to face him fully. You almost wish you hadn’t because the look on his face was so desperate that the thought of pulling away from him almost hurt.

“I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve says quickly, his chest heaving as he looks back at you. In all the years he had known you, of all the years of friendship he had only seen you angry once before. That time you had spent all day making cupcakes for a bake sale just for Steve to accidentally drop an entire batch of the perfectly iced cakes. You had been so annoyed at him you didn’t talk to him for almost two days.

But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the look on your face as you stare at Steve and wait for him to explain himself.

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, I just—”

“—oh my god, do you seriously think I’m pissed off about the dare?” You ask, unable to keep the anger out of your voice as you wrench your arm away from him.

Steve looks slightly hurt at the loss of contact and opens his mouth to respond but you’re quick to cut him off. “I don’t give a fuck about the dare, Steve. If the thought of kissing me grosses you out then it—it’s whatever.”

“But I—”

“—I’m pissed because—because you let your ‘friends’ treat me like shit and you didn’t say a damn thing about it!”

Steve looks stunned and that only makes the anger coursing through you grow hotter.

“I tried but they—”

“—well, you didn’t fucking try hard enough!” you exclaim angrily, your voice breaking as the first of your tears started to fall. You felt pathetic, humiliated as tears spilled down your cheeks but most of all—you were heartbroken that your best friend and the guy you were head over heels in love had become a stranger to you.

Something in Steve’s expression shifts at the sight of your tears. His face softens as he says your name and takes a tentative step closer but you step back. The dejected look on his face when he realises you had stepped away from him seemed to break something in you.

“I wasn’t thinking,” he tried to explain and you could almost feel his panic—the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers twitched as though he wanted to reach for you. “I didn’t think they’d go that far—”

“—but they did and you didn’t s-stop them,” you say, your bottom lip quivering slightly as you harshly wipe away your tears with the sleeve of your cardigan. 

“I’m so—”

You knew he was about to say sorry—you knew it by the look on his face and you knew that if he did, that you would want to forgive him. The way you had forgiven him for every other transgression over the past few months because he was your best friend and you loved him. 

And so, you had to stop him before you forgave him once more.

“—you’re a coward, Steve,” you say in a voice laced with anger, hurt and every emotion you had been bottling for the past few months while Steve Harrington quietly forgot about you. “You’re a coward and I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

The silence that greeted your words was one of the loudest you had ever heard.

You weren’t even sure if you meant it but you couldn’t take it back now.

Steve looked as though his entire world had come crumbling down around him, as though your words had been a dagger that you had driven directly through his chest. You knew it would hurt him, you knew it would upset him and perhaps that was exactly why you had said it.

“Oh,” Steve says thickly, swallowing a lump that had risen in his throat as he looked back at you, his big, puppy dog-like eyes almost pleading with you to take back the words that had just left your lips. “I—I see.”

I see. That was all he had to say. After well over a decade of friendship, after years and years of always having your back, years of ‘I’ll always be here’ and seeing each other's worst and best days—it would all end over two little words.

You waited. You waited for Steve to argue with you, for him to beg for your forgiveness like he had the last time you were mad at him. But he didn’t say a damn thing. 

“See you around, Harrington,” you mutter, his surname feeling foreign on your tongue as turn around and walk away from him before you could burst into tears.

And the days that followed, Steve didn’t even try to talk to you.

And so, from a distance you watched as Steve Harrington morphed into King Steve. You watched him be a completely different person, watched as he continued to surround himself with people like Tommy and Carol. You heard the parties he threw next door when his parents were out of town that carried on until the early hours or had to be shut down by cops, you heard the way girls he slept with spoke about him and eventually you heard all about him and Nancy Wheeler.

You couldn’t deny that hearing about Steve’s life through rumours hurt. Nor could you deny that the ending of your friendship had devastated you in a way that you hadn’t been expecting and that watching Steve carry on as normal, seemingly completely unaffected by the end of a decade-long friendship, hurt just as much.

You had almost knocked on his door on his birthday but had stopped yourself. You told yourself not to dwell on the past, told yourself that things changed despite the fact your feelings for Steve never seemed to waver and the fact that you still loved him despite everything.

But that all changed one night in your senior year.

You were drifting in and out of sleep, the rain hammering down outside, smacking loud against your window kept rousing you. But it wasn’t until a particularly loud smack against the glass that you finally jolted awake.

You blink, rubbing your eyes sleepily as you glance towards the window to see if it was hailing.

But you nearly scream at the sight of a shadowy figure standing on the garage roof just outside your window.

You open your mouth to yell for your mom but when you realise it was Steve Harrington—drenched to the bone, rapping his knuckles harshly against the glass—all thoughts of yelling out leave you.

Instead, you don’t move. You barely even breathe. You were in some sort of state of shock at the sight of him at your bedroom window after all these years.

You manage to stand on legs that feel wobbly and unsure of themselves, walking cautiously over your carpet and towards the window.

And when you finally see his face clearly through the window pane—at the dark bruise covering his eye, the blood spatter over his face and look of quiet desperation in his eyes, you unlock your bedroom window without much thought.

Steve stumbles into your room, water dripping down from his hair and his clothes onto your carpet. But you’re too busy gasping at the state of his face to worry about that right now.

“H-hi,” he stammers out, his teeth chattering and his cheeks slightly pink from the cold.

Hi? Was that all he had to say after years of silence? After forgetting about you like it was easy? After he didn’t fight for you?

You had the urge to yell, to scream at him but the sight of his beaten face stops you.

“Steve, your face—”

“—that bad, huh?” Steve asks, trying to smile but instead wincing in pain.

“Sit down,” you tell him, watching as Steve’s eyes flicker around your room, taking in everything that had changed over the past almost two years—the colour of your walls, the posters you had hung up, the polaroids of you and Steve you had taken down. “I um, I’ll get something for your face.”

Steve nods, wincing again as he sits down carefully on the edge of your bed, trying not to completely soak your sheets with rain water as he does so.

You take a deep breath before you turn and leave your bedroom to grab the first aid kit from your family bathroom. You’re careful to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake your parents who would certainly have a few questions about why your former best friend is sitting on your bed with a bruised and battered face.

You walk quietly back into your bedroom with the first aid kit in your hand to find Steve hadn’t moved from the edge of your bed. But he was holding your stuffed teddy bear in his hands—the one he had won for you at Hawkins Fair when you were twelve years old, the one he had called ‘Little Stevie’ before handing it to you with a bright smile on his face. 

You close the door softly behind you and Steve glances up, carefully placing Little Stevie back down onto your bed.

“You still have him,” Steve murmurs quietly as you sink down onto the bed beside him.

Your face warms and you hope it isn’t noticeable as you open up the first aid kit.

Truthfully, you hadn’t thrown out anything that was connected to Steve Harrington. The polaroids were tucked away safely in your jewellery box and even that shell necklace he had made you when he was seven was in a memory box in your closet. You just couldn’t bring yourself to throw anything away after the end of your friendship but you also couldn’t look at them anymore without something inside of you breaking every time you looked around your room. Little Stevie was the only thing you hadn’t put away—because truthfully, you couldn’t sleep without it.

But you don’t tell Steve that. 

Instead, you let the silence surround the two of you as you pull out several small gauze pads and antiseptic. Steve lets you work silently as outside, the rain continues to fall, the wind howls and there’s a distant rumble of thunder.

You start first by pouring a small amount of antiseptic onto a gauze pad before you gently dab it over the small gash on his cheek. He winces and hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull away.

“What happened?” You ask him quietly a few minutes later, the cuts and blood wiped from his face as you carefully inspect the bruise around his eye.

The sight makes something tighten in your chest. Though you hadn’t talked to Steve in two years, of course you heard the arguments that happened next door. Usually after one of Steve’s parties had left the Harrington home in a state. Steve had never had the best relationship with his father as Danny Harrington expected only the best from his son and Steve had never been able to live up to that, even from a young age. But though they argued, you had never thought it would escalate to something physical.

“It—it wasn’t your dad, was it?”

“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly which makes you look at him carefully, wondering whether or not he was lying for your sake. “Really. It wasn’t my dad. I swear. It—it was Billy Hargrove."

You blink. You hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, ever since Billy Hagrove had strolled into Hawkins High like had already owned the place he and Steve had sort of rivalry going on but you weren’t aware it was bad enough for Billy to do something like this. 

“But why—”

“—it’s a long story,” Steve says, jaw tight and looking away from you briefly. 

“That’s it?” You ask him, pulling away from him as you look from his face to the bloody gauzes that sat in your lap. “You come into my room after two years of ignoring me—”

Steve’s expression falters and he says your name but you shake your head, getting to your feet and causing the first aid kit to fall to the floor at your feet.

“—no Steve, it—it’s bullshit! Okay? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to watch you slowly decide to just not give a shit about me anymore?”

Steve swallows at the sound of anger in your voice. He knew it had been coming and he knew he deserved it but he didn’t know what to say. Because there was no excuse, he knew that he had hurt you in immeasurable ways and he knew he most likely did not deserve your forgiveness. But he wanted—needed—to try anyway.

“I know I—”

“—and now you show up years later with a busted face and expect me to—”

“—I thought Billy was going to kill me tonight.”

That shuts you up. Your eyes widen and you look at Steve with a horrified expression and in your stunned silence, Steve decides to keep talking.

“I had a moment where he was landing hit after hit after hit I thought—I thought ‘this is it’ and all I could—all I could think about was—it was you.”

You’re completely taken aback, you were so stunned that you almost forgot to be angry. Almost.

“All I could think about was how—how I never got to make things right with you and how much time I wasted caring about stupid shit like being popular. Caring too much about what other people thought of me when it really didn’t matter. When I already had someone who liked me for me. And instead I—I treated you terribly, I strung you along and I should never have done that. Not to you. You didn’t deserve it.”

Your eyes stung and you had to look away, not wanting Steve to see how close to tears you were. Because the truth was that you missed him. You missed so much that it was almost a physical ache in your chest. You missed the way Steve could make you laugh even when you really didn’t want to, the way he used to sometimes snort a little when he laughed really hard and the way you could be completely yourself around him.

Steve says your name again but you don’t look at him, instead you sniffle and look down at the first aid kit you had dropped, at the various medical supplies that were now scattered over your floor.

But before you could even think about picking them up, Steve is already doing it for you. You swallow, taking the opportunity to wipe your eyes as Steve bends down, carefully putting the gauze, the bandages and antiseptic bottle back into the box.

He snaps it shut, placing the kit onto bed beside him before he finally looks back at you.

“I’m really fucking sorry,” he tells you, the sincerity in his face making your throat tighten. “For everything. For being an idiot, for trying to be someone I’m not. For letting you down, for making you feel like I didn’t give a shit about you. I’m sorry for not standing up for you that night. I’m sorry I didn’t try and fix things after and I—I’m sorry for not saying all this sooner.”

You nod, your bottom lip trembling slightly as you look back at him, slowly sinking back down onto the bed beside him. “You really hurt me, Steve.”

Steve swallows at that, his eyes turning glassy as he looks back at you. “I know. I was—a colossal idiot. There’s no excuse for it. I hurt you and I wish I could take it all back but I can’t. All I’ve wanted to do these past few years is make things right with you but—but you were right, I was a coward. I was scared—terrifed—that you hated me or—”

“—I could never hate you,” you tell him.

Steve’s eyes soften and he looks back at you with a hopeful expression.

“Really?”

You nod, flexing your fingers against your bedsheet nervously as you look at him. “Really. I was hurt, upset and I was angry but I never hated you. I don’t think I could ever hate you. Not even for a second. I just—I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to become like Tommy or whoever else you were hanging out with because I know that’s not really you.”

“I was still an asshole,” Steve says thickly, the shame evident on his face as he looks down at his lap. “I still did things and said things that hurt people and I can’t take any of it back.”

“No,” you agree quietly. “You can’t.”

It’s quiet then between the two of you—the only sound is that of the thunder rumbling outside. There’s a flash of lightning outside your window but still, neither of you say anything.

“I’m sorry too,” you tell him quietly as you look down at your lap. “For saying I didn’t want to be your friend anymore. That—that wasn’t true I just—I knew I would forgive you straight away if I didn’t.”

Steve shakes his head, corners of his mouth twitching as he hesitantly lifts a hand to rest on your shoulder. His touch alone sends something hot and electric coursing through your body. “Please don’t be sorry,” he tells you. “I should have grovelled for forgiveness and I didn’t. I was—fuck—I was such an idiot that night. I didn’t have your back the way I should have done and I’ll never forgive myself for that. For upsetting you, for making you cry, for letting people talk about you like that.”

“You have no idea how much I think about that night and hate myself for what I did and what I didn’t do. How fucking stupid I feel for letting the best thing that has ever happened to me walk away without a fight.”

You turn to look at him, your expression softening slightly. “Steve—”

“—no, I mean it,” Steve insists, turning to face you fully now as he grabs one of your hands and squeezes it gently. Water drips down from his hair and onto your skin but you couldn’t care less as his touch warms something in you. “You are and I’m sorry it took me losing you and almost dying to realise that. I was just—I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was stupid. So stupid. And I think—I think I was scared to be honest with myself.”

Your brows furrow at that while your heart pounds against your chest. “Honest about what?” You ask him quietly.

Steve looks at you for a long moment before he reaches for your other hand. You let him take it as the look in his eyes keeps you rooted to the spot. 

“That I was starting to fall in love with you and I got scared.”

All the air leaves your lungs at that admission. Out of all the things you had expected Steve to say when he climbed in through your bedroom window, you had never in your wildest dreams expected him to say that.

“I was—shit—it’s so fucking stupid now that I think about it but I just—those feelings scared the shit out of me. I mean—you were my best friend and yet, I was always fucking thinking about you. And so, I did all stupid shit to try and forget about you and it never worked. I partied, I listened to Tommy when I fucking shouldn’t have, I messed around because I thought I’d get over you.”

“I even lost my fucking virginity while wishing it was you beneath me the entire time. Nothing worked—nothing ever worked and so I—I thought distance would help but it didn’t and I let you down. I made promises and didn’t keep them. I made you think you were unimportant to me when you were the most important person in my life.”

“Steve—”

“—and that night—the night when Tommy gave me that dare—I didn’t kiss you because I was grossed out by you. God no, far from it—of course I wanted to kiss you. But I didn’t wanna do it if it was just a dare.”

“Steve—”

“—I just—I wanted it to be real and not at a party, not in front of Tommy and Carol or any one of those other assholes and—”

“Steve!”

Steve shuts up almost instantly. His eyes were wide and his hands were still holding yours tightly as though he was trying to ground himself.

You look back at him—at the guy you had loved for longer than you could remember—and you couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore.

“You know—I never threw anything away,” you tell him quietly. “I just—I couldn’t bear to look at things that reminded me of you because it hurt too much. Because missing you was like—it was like a constant physical pain. Something I couldn’t get rid.”

“Really?” Steve asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say. “I even kept the shell necklace.”

Steve blinks once, twice before he laughs and the sound brings you the sort of warmth that even fire couldn’t ever bring you. You felt it in every pore, every nerve, every cell in your body. It made you feel lighter, made the storm outside feel insignificant.

“Why would you keep that?” Steve asks, still laughing quietly to himself. “It was so heavy and—”

“—because you made it for me,” you say simply with a small smile. “And that—that meant it was important to me.”

Steve blinks. He looks back at you with an unreadable expression as his thumb drags itself across the skin of your hand and seems to steal the air from your lungs.

“I made you it because the shells reminded me of you,” Steve murmurs fondly, eyes seeming to shine as he looks back at you. “I thought the shells were pretty and—I thought you were pretty too. Prettier than the shells, obviously.”

Your face feels hot and it was near impossible to fight back the smile on your face now.

“You told me you were practising for art class,” you say quietly, head tilting to the side as you look back at him. 

Steve smiles a little before shaking his head. “I lied. I was trying really hard to impress you but seven year old me had no game.”

You laugh then and you see the way Steve’s eyes light up, the way he can’t help but smile when he hears your laugh, when he was finally the reason behind it again.

“You didn’t have to do anything to impress me Steve,” you tell him after a moment with a soft smile. “You already did.”

There was silence again and then—

“Do you mean—”

“—yeah,” you breathe out, unable to look away from him as you squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I—I’ve been in love with you for a really long fucking time, Steve.”

The moment that follows felt as though it lasted for a lifetime. Steve was looking at you, seeming to forget how to breathe and you begin to wonder if you had been too forward when one of Steve’s hands slips out of yours to gently cup your face.

“The feeling’s pretty fucking mututal,” he murmurs before his lips seal over yours in a kiss that took your breath away.

Everything seems to slow down around you. You were vaguely aware of the first aid kit clattering to the floor as you kiss him back with no hesitation. your fingers sliding into his still damp hair while his hands gently cradle the back of your head.

You’re already breathless, unable to think of the world that existed out of Steve Harrington’s lips against yours—no thoughts about the rain splattering against the window or of the lightning that flashed across the sky outside. Because everything seems so dull in comparison to Steve’s lips moving against yours, against his hands that you were holding you like you were something sacred. 

He was the first to pull away—catching his breath as his eyes couldn’t help but flicker down to your lips that were wet, swollen and so inviting that he already wanted to dive back in again.

But he also knew he had to earn your forgiveness first and that wouldn’t involve being twisted in the sheets together.

“Let me take you out tomorrow night,” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently wiping away a smear of his saliva from your lips and trying not to give in. “Make up for lost time, yeah?”

You smile a little as you consider his offer, your eyes flickering over the bruise on his face. “Let’s wait until the bruise fades first, yeah?”

“Oh,” Steve says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face as he looks back at you. “Yeah um, totally I—”

“—but I wouldn’t be opposed to a movie night,” you say with a small smile. “If you were to come up to my bedroom window again with a few movies I probably wouldn’t say no.”

Steve blinks but then—he smiles and he looked so devastatingly handsome that it was difficult to not pull him in for another kiss.

“It’s a date,” he tells you, leaning in to press a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. “Little Stevie can join us too.”

You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you—thanking his lucky stars that you had opened your window for him.

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the first thing you noticed about hawkins was how small it felt.

small in that strange, suffocating kind of way. like everybody knew everybody, like secrets didn’t stay secrets for very long, like if you tripped in the hallway at school on monday morning, somehow the woman working the register at the grocery store would be asking if your knee was alright by tuesday afternoon.

it was nothing like home.

not that home had ever really felt like home, either.

your father’s work had always kept the three of you moving. city to city, house to house, one unfamiliar bedroom after another, boxes that were never fully unpacked because, eventually, there’d always be another move waiting around the corner. you’d learned early not to get attached to walls, to streets, to people. learned how to fold your life into cardboard and tape it shut.

hawkins was just another stop.

except this one had been harder.

maybe because you were older now. maybe because you were tired. maybe because for once, just once, you’d begged your parents not to uproot everything again, and for once they’d smiled those apologetic smiles parents wore when they’d already made up their minds weeks ago.

“it’ll be good for us” your mother had said brightly, stirring sugar into her coffee like she wasn’t rearranging your whole life with a sentence.

“it’s an incredible opportunity” your father had added without looking up from his papers.

as if that made it easier.

as if it meant anything at all.

so, on your first day at hawkins high, you walked through the doors alone, shoulders draped in a dark velvet shawl despite the mild weather, silver rings decorating nearly every finger, long skirts brushing your boots as you moved. moonstone hanging at your throat. bangles softly clinking at your wrist. your hair loose and wild in a way your mother called untidy and you secretly loved.

heads turned.

you didn’t notice.

or maybe you did. maybe you were simply used to it by now, used to being looked at like something odd and curious, like a painting hung crooked on an otherwise perfect wall. you’d long since stopped caring.

you were too busy trying to read the map of the school folded in your hand. too busy trying to find your locker. too busy trying not to feel like the new girl.

and that was exactly why you didn’t see steve harrington stop dead in the middle of the hallway.

one second he was laughing at something tommy hagan had said, shoulder bumped against carol’s locker, basking in the easy warmth of attention like he always did. king steve, crowned by hawkins high itself. perfect hair, perfect smile, effortless charm, the kind of boy girls watched when he walked by and boys either wanted to be or wanted to punch.

the next second, he forgot how to breathe.

it was ridiculous, honestly, he knew it was ridiculous.

but there was something about you.

something soft and untouchable and strange. like moonlight made human, like you belonged barefoot in a forest somewhere instead of walking the polished floors of hawkins high.

you moved like you heard music nobody else could.

steve stared.

actually stared.

tommy followed his line of sight, then barked out a laugh.

“you okay, dude?”

steve blinked.

“what?”

tommy smirked. “you were lookin’ at her like she descended from heaven or something.”

carol rolled her eyes. “please. harrington’s just found his next conquest.”

normally, steve would’ve laughed. thrown out some easy line. leaned into the version of himself everybody expected.

instead, he kept looking.

“who is she?”

tommy snorted. “new girl. moved here last week, apparently.”

steve barely heard him.

because you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear while squinting at your locker combination, brow pinched in quiet concentration, and for some completely insane reason, steve thought it might be the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

and that, that was a problem.

because girls usually chased him, not the other way around.

still, for the rest of the day, he found himself looking for glimpses of you.

across the cafeteria. through classroom windows. walking the halls.

always drifting somewhere just out of reach.

and then, by pure dumb luck, or fate, if steve were feeling dramatic, last period hit. and there you were. three rows over, near the window.

sunlight spilled over your desk, catching in the silver jewelry at your wrists, making you glow faintly. while everyone else half-listened, half-dozed through class, you actually paid attention. scribbling notes in messy looping handwriting, doodling stars and vines in the margins of your notebook.

steve spent more time watching you than the board.

when the bell rang, his heart did something embarrassingly weird.

because suddenly he had a choice.

walk away or do something.

and steve harrington had never exactly been known for walking away.

so he caught up to you in the hallway.

“hey-”

you turned, blinking slightly, eyes curious but cautious.

up close, somehow, you were even prettier. not in the polished, glossy way hawkins girls were pretty, not in the neat, expected way. you were wild pretty. haunting pretty.

for a second, a very stupid second, steve forgot every line he’d ever used.

“…you’re new.”

genius.

absolute genius.

your mouth twitched.

“observant.”

he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “right. yeah. i’m steve.”

“i know.”

that threw him.

it wasn’t smug when you said it, just factual. simple. of course you knew who he was. everyone knew who he was.

“right,” he said again, because apparently that was the only word left in his vocabulary. “so, uh… hawkins. how’s that treating you?”

you tilted your head, considering.

“it’s… small.”

he grinned. “yeah. that’s fair.”

a beat passed.

then he did what came naturally.

“there’s a party friday. at my place. you should come.”

usually that worked like magic. usually girls lit up. usually they said yes before he even finished asking.

but you just looked at him for a moment like you were seeing something beneath the polished exterior everyone else bought into.

and then you laughed softly.

not mean.

not mocking.

just warm, amused.

“are you flirting with me?”

steve’s face heated instantly.

“what? no- i mean- kinda-”

your smile widened.

it made something in his chest turn over.

“that’s sweet,” you said gently, adjusting the books in your arms. “but i think i’ll pass.”

and then, just like that you walked away.

leaving steve harrington standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, thoroughly, spectacularly rejected.

tommy would’ve had a field day.

carol might’ve actually fainted.

because that never happened. ever.

but steve didn’t feel embarrassed. didn’t feel angry. if anything, he was more interested now.

watching you disappear around the corner, he smiled to himself.

a challenge. great. he liked challenges.

meanwhile, you walked home thinking very little of it.

steve harrington was charming in a rehearsed sort of way, but there’d been something almost clumsy underneath it. something earnest he clearly tried to hide behind that perfect smile and practiced confidence.

you’d heard whispers already.

king steve. popular, pretty, slightly cruel company. a little too aware of how adored he was.

but when he’d stood in front of you tripping over his own words, cheeks faintly pink, well.

he hadn’t seemed cruel.

just strangely boyish, almost soft. still, it wasn’t something you lingered on.

you had bigger things to think about.

like home.

or what passed for it.

the second you stepped through the front door, your mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen.

“how was school?”

followed quickly by-

“did you meet anyone?”

and from the dining room, without lifting his eyes from paperwork-

“make any friends?”

you sighed quietly, dropping your bag by the stairs.

“it was fine.”

“fine?” your mother appeared, already immaculate despite the late hour, dressed for some club meeting or dinner or tennis thing. “just fine?”

“yes.”

“and friends?”

“no.”

her expression fell like this was tragic news.

“sweetheart, you have to put yourself out there.”

your father nodded absently. “connections matter.”

you nearly laughed.

connections matter.

funny, coming from a man never home long enough to know you.

“i’m okay on my own” you said simply.

your mother exchanged a look with your father, one of those quiet parental looks full of concern you never asked for.

the weird girl, their eyes seemed to say.

always alone.

always elsewhere.

but solitude had never frightened you. you’d built a whole life inside yourself years ago. music playing softly in your room, candles lit, books stacked by your bed, journals full of thoughts nobody would ever read. your own little world, untouched by anybody else’s expectations.

that night, curled near your bedroom window with fleetwood mac humming low from your record player, you barely spared steve harrington another thought.

but across town, sprawled across his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling steve thought of little else.

the sound of your laugh. the silver at your wrists. the way you looked at him like he was just another person.

not king steve, not hawkins royalty, just steve.

somehow that mattered more than he understood. he smiled helplessly into the dark, he’d see you tomorrow.

and next time, he’d do better.

-

steve, to his own surprise, did not give up.

if anything, being turned down had only made whatever strange thing had lodged itself in his chest grow stronger.

normally, steve liked easy.

easy smiles, easy girls, easy conversations he could glide through half-paying attention because he already knew exactly what to say and exactly what version of himself they wanted. he knew how to be charming. knew how to tilt his head just right, flash that grin, lean casually against lockers like he belonged there, because he did. hawkins high had made a throne for him long ago, and steve had slipped into it like it was custom made.

but you, you were impossible to read. and that made him want to keep trying.

so he did.

it started small.

a casual hello in the hallway.

then a stupid comment muttered under his breath in class that made you bite back a smile despite yourself.

then purposely “forgetting” his pencil so he could lean over and ask for one of yours.

you’d stared at him flatly.

“you have one tucked behind your ear.”

steve had reached up, touched the pencil, then grinned.

“right. forgot about that.”

your eyes had rolled so dramatically he thought they might get stuck but there’d been that little twitch in your mouth after.

that tiny almost-smile.

and steve, embarrassingly, had carried that moment around with him for the rest of the day.

then, one monday afternoon, he walked into science class and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you looked up from your notebook slowly.

stared at him.

then rolled your eyes.

“you have assigned seats.”

“mr. clark likes me.”

“he absolutely does not.”

“that kinda hurt my feelings.”

you sighed and turned back to your notes, but you didn’t tell him to leave.

that was enough.

after that, sitting beside you simply became a thing.

and god, steve never thought he’d say this in his life, but science class became the best part of his day.

not because of science, he still hated science, but because of you.

because somehow every conversation with you wandered into places he’d never expected.

you made sarcastic little comments under your breath that caught him so off guard he’d laugh loud enough for people to turn around and stare.

real laughs, too. the kind that bent him forward slightly, hand over his mouth, eyes watering.

not his usual practiced chuckle. not his social laugh. real ones.

and that was new.

you found yourself letting him stay.

which was new for you, too.

at first, you tolerated him. then you entertained him. then, somewhere along the way, you started waiting for him.

just a little.

it wasn’t even because he was steve harrington. if anything, that mattered less and less the more you knew him. it was because underneath all that polished confidence and occasional unbearable ego was something unexpectedly earnest.

he was curious about everything.

that was what caught you off guard.

you’d mention some old record you liked, fleetwood mac, joni mitchell, david bowie, and next day he’d come in asking questions.

“okay, so what’s rumours about?”

“everything.”

“that’s not helpful.”

“heartbreak. cocaine. cheating. being impossibly cool.”

“sounds intense.”

“it is.”

then next week he’d casually mention listening to it.

and have opinions. bad opinions, mostly. but opinions.

or he’d ask where you grew up, what your favorite place was, what made you hate hawkins less on certain days and more on others.

he listened when you answered.

and when he talked, really talked, not that polished king steve nonsense, you found yourself listening too.

because steve was smarter than people gave him credit for. much smarter.

he noticed things, understood things, sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it would catch you completely off guard.

it made you remember that high school labels were lazy things. too neat, too simple.

popular. loner.

golden boy. strange girl with too many rings and her head in the clouds.

none of it was the whole truth.

one afternoon, walking between classes with steve trailing beside you, talking animatedly about something ridiculous, tommy appeared, smirking like he always did.

his eyes swept over you.

“serious question,” he said. “are you, like… a witch?”

carol snorted.

you stopped walking, slowly turned your head, looked him dead in the eye, then rolled your eyes and kept moving.

not worth it.

but what stayed with you, what lodged under your skin, was that steve said nothing.

didn’t laugh, didn’t defend you, just stood there awkwardly. caught between worlds he apparently still didn’t know how to separate.

that disappointment sat bitter in your chest the rest of the day.

so when science came, you ignored him.

completely.

steve sat down beside you, smiling like usual.

nothing.

“hey.”

silence.

“you mad?”

nothing.

“okay, definitely mad.”

you kept writing.

“c’mon.”

nothing.

“this is brutal.”

still nothing.

finally, you glanced at him.

“your friends are assholes.”

the words were quiet but sharp.

steve blinked.

“yeah” he admitted softly.

“and you just stood there.”

that hit harder because you were right.

he rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“i know.”

you looked away.

“not exactly king behavior.”

he laughed quietly at that, because there was that sharp tongue of yours, but there was guilt sitting underneath it.

“you’re right,” he said. “i should’ve said something.”

you didn’t answer.

a beat passed.

then,

“i’m sorry.”

that made you look at him.

because steve harrington, from what little you knew, didn’t seem like someone who apologised easily.

but he looked sincere and annoyingly, your anger softened.

“fine” you muttered.

his grin broke instantly.

“fine?”

“don’t push it.”

he held up his hands.

“noted.”

truthfully steve loved moments like that. loved that you didn’t just melt because he smiled at you.

loved that you challenged him, called him out, expected better. everyone else in his life seemed content with whatever version of steve was easiest to have around.

but you made him want to be better and that terrified him slightly. because it mattered. you mattered, more than he understood.

over time, your conversations got softer.

deeper.

you told him about moving constantly as a kid, about never bothering to plant roots because life always yanked them up anyway.

he told you about big empty houses, parents who were physically there just enough to criticize but never enough to actually know him.

“my dad only talks to me if i screw something up” steve admitted one day, voice oddly flat.

you looked at him.

“my father only talks to me when he wants me to become something i’m not.”

steve stared at the desk.

“that sucks.”

“yeah.”

“for what it’s worth…” he glanced at you. “i think whoever you are is probably better.”

your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“that was almost profound, harrington.”

“almost?”

“don’t let it get to your head.”

he smiled and smiled wider when you did too.

the strange thing was, deep down, you were beginning to realise you and steve weren’t all that different beneath the surface.

lonely in different ways, misunderstood in different ways, performing different versions of yourselves for the world.

on paper, it made no sense.

hawkins’ golden boy and the weird girl who wore moonstones and velvet and looked like she belonged dancing barefoot under moonlight.

but sitting beside him one late afternoon, listening to him animatedly tell you about the time a stray dog somehow fell into his swimming pool while he was home alone-

“and i panicked,” steve said, laughing at himself, “so i made it bacon.”

you blinked.

“you cooked bacon for a random dog?”

“it looked stressed.”

you stared.

then laughed, full and bright and real, head tipping back slightly.

steve immediately forgot what he’d been saying. because he’d made you laugh like that and suddenly nothing else in the room mattered.

not labels, not hawkins, not what people expected. just you, smiling at him like he was worth smiling at.

-

over the months, something quiet and strange settled between you and steve.

something neither of you named, something that, somehow, became yours.

it stayed within the walls of school, mostly.

shared classes. hallway conversations. stolen moments by lockers that turned from five-minute chats into nearly making each other late for class. lunches where steve would ditch whatever crowd he was meant to be sitting with just to lean against your table and complain dramatically about whatever minor inconvenience had ruined his day.

usually tommy.

often carol.

sometimes his hair.

“humidity” he’d say grimly, running a hand through it like it had personally betrayed him.

you’d deadpan, “thoughts and prayers.”

and he’d laugh, that real laugh, easy and warm and slightly too loud.

you got used to him, dangerously used to him.

used to the sight of him grinning when he spotted you in the halls. used to him dropping into the seat beside you in science like it belonged to him now. used to his shoulder brushing yours accidentally-on-purpose.

used to the way he always, somehow, seemed genuinely interested in whatever odd little thing was on your mind.

and steve got used to you, too.

used to your sharp tongue. your dry humor. the strange dreamy way you talked about music like it was religion. the way your fingers were always adorned with silver rings that caught the light when you spoke. the way you seemed detached from the world one second, then deeply present the next.

he liked learning you.

every piece.

even the quiet ones.

and for the first time since moving to hawkins you started liking it there.

not because of school. not because of people. but because one afternoon, wandering behind your house with nowhere better to be, you found a narrow dirt trail weaving through trees and tall grass.

you followed it, and followed it, until it opened up onto a hill.

just rolling fields stretching endlessly beneath a sky that somehow always seemed bigger in hawkins than anywhere else you’d lived.

wildflowers scattered in patches, wind soft through long grass, quiet. real quiet.

not lonely quiet, peaceful quiet.

you found yourself going there often.

sometimes with a book. sometimes with music humming softly through headphones. sometimes with nothing but your thoughts.

it became yours.

your place.

then one evening, your parents gone, your father buried in work somewhere, your mother at some dinner party or whatever social thing filled her endless schedule, you were alone, curled on the couch in gray sweats and an old oversized hoodie, record player spinning softly in the corner.

a knock sounded at the door.

you frowned.

late enough to be strange.

you padded over, opening it, and blinked.

“…steve?”

there he was on your porch, hair slightly windswept, chest rising a little too fast like he’d been rushing around town.

and weirdly he looked upset.

not visibly crying upset, just off.

his smile when he saw you was mostly relief.

“oh, thank god.”

you frowned deeper.

“what?”

he rubbed the back of his neck.

“i knocked on, like… five of your neighbors’ doors before i found your house.”

“…why?”

“because i knew you lived around here and-”

he stopped himself.

looked suddenly embarrassed, looked down, then back up, and beneath his usual charm there was something vulnerable there that caught you off guard.

“are you okay?”

he nodded immediately.

too quickly.

which told you enough.

“yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “yeah, i just…”

he exhaled.

“can we- i don’t know, do something? sorry, that’s weird. it was probably weird coming here, i just needed to get out and-”

you sighed softly, already slipping your shoes on by the door.

he stopped talking.

watched you.

you straightened and nodded toward the path.

“come on.”

his eyebrows lifted.

“that’s it?”

“you don’t need to explain.”

that made him go still for a second.

then smile. a real one. small at first, then bigger.

“okay.”

he stepped back so you could shut the door behind you, falling into step beside you as you walked.

after a moment, he glanced over.

then down.

then back at you.

“it’s weird not seeing you in one of your big old skirts.”

you looked down at your gray sweats.

snorted softly.

“yeah, well. witches have time off too.”

steve laughed but then his smile faded a little.

he looked at the ground.

quietly-

“i am sorry they said that.”

you glanced at him, really glanced at him, the sincerity there, the guilt he’d apparently carried longer than you realised.

you shrugged lightly.

“honestly?”

he looked up.

you smiled faintly.

“i kinda like it.”

that made him grin, really grin, and before you could think better of it, you reached for his hand and pulled him down the side path behind your house.

only for a second.

just enough to drag him forward.

then you let go.

but steve still felt the warmth of your hand long after.

“where are you taking me?” he asked.

“you’ll see.”

“your witch lair?”

he muttered it mostly to himself, squinting suspiciously at the dark trail ahead.

it made you laugh unexpectedly.

“maybe.”

“i knew it.”

by the time you reached the hill, twilight had bled into night, stars faintly peeking through the dark blue sky.

hawkins stretched dimly below, quiet little lights flickering in the distance.

wind brushing softly over the grass.

steve stopped beside you.

“…whoa.”

you smiled to yourself.

“yeah.”

the two of you sat and talked.

about nothing, about everything.

you kept the conversation light because whatever had sent him to your porch tonight was clearly heavy, and instinctively, you knew he didn’t want to carry it for a while.

so you distracted him.

talked about weird dreams. bad songs on the radio. how strange raccoons looked when they used their little hands.

whether aliens were real. whether fleetwood mac was better than the beatles.

“that’s insane” steve said.

“it’s correct.”

“deeply wrong.”

“deeply right.”

he laughed again. and again. and slowly, whatever sadness had sat on his shoulders when he arrived seemed lighter.

steve noticed what you were doing, of course.

noticed you never asked. never pushed. just gave him space to breathe.

and it made something in his chest ache softly.

because no one had ever really done that for him before.

hours later, when he walked you back to your front porch, both of you lingering awkwardly in that 'i guess this is goodnight' way, he shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at you softly and said “thanks for this.”

you shrugged.

“no problem, king.”

he scoffed immediately.

“absolutely not.”

you smiled.

he looked past you at your dark house then back at you.

“…you home alone too?”

you chuckled softly and nodded.

“yeah.”

he nodded slowly.

“same.”

and there it was again, that quiet understanding between you, that shared loneliness.

different houses, same emptiness.

you leaned against the porch railing.

“if you’re ever too lonely…”

his eyes lifted.

you gave him a small smile.

“you know where to call.”

steve immediately lifted his hand and made a dramatic little phone sign with his thumb and pinky.

“already am.”

you rolled your eyes then he paused, lowered his hand, and suddenly looked almost nervous.

“…can i actually have your number, though?”

you squinted.

“smooth.”

he flashed you that grin.

the grin.

“worth a shot.”

you laughed quietly.

then noticed the pen tucked in his jacket pocket.

without asking, you plucked it free, grabbed his wrist, and wrote your number across the inside of his forearm in messy looping ink.

steve stared at it like it was sacred text.

you capped the pen.

handed it back.

“don’t lose your arm.”

he looked up, smiling so wide it almost made your chest tight.

“no promises.”

that night, steve drove home with your number written on his skin and a feeling in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

and from that point on the strange, wonderful little thing growing between you bloomed into something deeper.

still friendship, still undefined, still oddly yours, but no longer confined to school walls.

now it stretched beyond them.

phone calls late at night. unexpected visits. inside jokes nobody else understood. small moments that quietly became important.

and somewhere in all that without either of you noticing you were becoming each other’s favorite person.

-

there were some things you learned quickly about being friends with steve harrington.

first, he was loyal in ways that surprised you. second, he was far softer than he let most people see. third, he still belonged to a world you didn’t.

and sometimes, that stung more than you cared to admit.

because while your friendship with steve grew into something strangely precious, late-night calls, random drives, walks to your hill, him showing up at your house whenever his own felt too empty, you calling him whenever the silence in yours got too loud, he still had his people.

tommy.

carol.

the crowd that orbited him like moons around a planet.

his main people.

and they hated you.

or maybe hate was dramatic.

they just didn’t understand you, and people often mocked what they didn’t understand.

it was little comments at first.

witch girl. freak. moon child.

asked if you read tarot cards in the girls bathroom. asked if you cursed people for fun. once, carol asked if your skirt was made out of curtains.

you’d looked down at it and said-

“thank you but no, vintage velvet.”

which had annoyed her more.

you usually brushed it off.

mostly because you’d spent your whole life being seen as odd. mostly because you refused to give cruel people the satisfaction.

but if you were honest it bothered you a little.

not because of them, because of steve. because he never said anything.

he’d laugh awkwardly, go quiet, look uncomfortable, but he never stopped it. and who were you to tell him how to handle his friends?

who were you to make him choose?

so you swallowed it and smiled and carried on.

then one lunchtime, it all snapped.

you were sitting alone in the cafeteria, legs tucked beneath your chair slightly, book open in your lap while absentmindedly picking at fries gone cold.

quiet. peaceful. until shadows fell over your table.

you looked up.

tommy.

carol.

two others from steve’s crowd lingering behind them.

tommy leaned forward slightly.

“where’s harrington?”

you blinked.

shrugged.

“don’t know.”

carol crossed her arms.

“really?”

“really.”

tommy laughed dryly then leaned closer.

“you should probably drop whatever weird spell you’ve got on him.”

your brow furrowed.

“…what?”

“he’s been so lame since you weaseled your way into his life.”

that made you chuckle softly.

“sounds serious.”

tommy’s face darkened.

you heard the drink before you fully registered what was happening, felt it the second later.

ice cold soda dumped straight over your head.

you gasped sharply, whole body jolting at the shock of freezing liquid soaking through your hair, dripping down your face, your shirt, your book.

the cafeteria went dead silent.

tommy tossed the empty cup aside.

“don’t be such a bitch next time.”

your breathing hitched, humiliation burned hot in your chest.

you looked up and beyond them stood steve.

frozen.

watching.

his face looked like something had cracked open inside him.

shock. then anger, real anger. his jaw tight. eyes dark.

you didn’t stay long enough to understand it, you shoved back from the table and ran. past the staring faces. past whispers. past the burning shame in your throat. straight to the girls bathroom.

you locked yourself in a stall and sat there breathing hard.

god.

you hated his friends. you hated hawkins. you hated feeling small.

after cleaning yourself up as best you could, damp hair, sticky skin, borrowed sweatshirt from lost and found because your shirt was ruined, you made one decision:

you were going home.

you weren’t staying another second.

you made it halfway down the road before you heard-

“hey!”

steve’s voice calling your name.

you kept walking. faster.

then footsteps behind you.

a hand gently caught your shoulder, turned you.

his face was flushed, breathing uneven, eyes full of worry.

“are you okay?”

you shrugged his hand off.

“i’m fine. i’m just gonna go home.”

he grabbed your wrist lightly.

“don’t give me that shit.”

your eyes snapped to his.

his voice was sharp, but only because he sounded scared.

“are you okay?”

you looked down and noticed his knuckles. bloody. raw.

then his split lip.

your eyes widened.

“…what happened to you?”

he immediately looked away.

“nothing.”

you squinted.

“steve-”

he rolled his eyes.

“answer me first.”

you folded your arms.

“…i’m good. just wet.”

his mouth twitched.

“wet?”

you smacked his arm with your free hand.

he laughed softly despite the cut on his lip.

then quieter-

“i’m fine too.”

you stared.

he added “just… sorted something out.”

your eyes narrowed, he said nothing more, just kept hold of your hand and started walking.

you stumbled slightly.

“where are we going?”

“walking you home.”

“you have a car.”

“i know.”

“why are you walking?”

he shrugged.

“you like walking.”

you blinked at him.

“you’re willingly leaving your car?”

“yeah?”

you stared harder.

“that thing is your baby.”

“shut up.”

you laughed softly despite everything.

and somehow the image of it was ridiculous enough to make your chest lighter,

you, damp and smelling faintly of cola, him bruised and bloody, walking side by side down a quiet hawkins road like it was normal.

when you got home, you invited him in.

told him to sit. changed into dry clothes. then returned with a damp towel, cotton pads, and antiseptic.

he looked deeply offended.

“i can clean myself up.”

you sat in front of him.

“you absolutely cannot.”

“rude.”

“true.”

he sighed dramatically and let you dab carefully at his split lip.

your fingers were gentle. soft.

steve watched your face the whole time.

the concentration in your eyes, the little furrow in your brow.

beautiful, god, beautiful.

finally, quietly, you asked “what happened?”

he leaned back.

“something that should’ve happened a long time ago.”

you frowned.

he rolled his eyes.

“tommy.”

your hands stopped.

your eyes widened.

“…this was because of me?”

“yeah.”

guilt immediately hit your chest.

“steve, i’m sorry-”

“don’t.”

his voice was firm.

you looked up.

his eyes were serious.

“don’t apologise for that.”

he shook his head.

“i should’ve stuck up for you the first time his big mouth said something.”

your mouth twitched.

“yeah… maybe.”

he laughed, soft and breathy.

“fair.”

later, you sat together on your back porch, night settling around you, quiet stretching comfortably between you.

then steve spoke again.

“i’m sorry.”

you looked over.

“it’s not like you did it.”

his jaw tightened.

“i let it happen.”

you were quiet.

“it’s fine.”

he shook his head.

“it’s not.”

then he looked at you. really looked at you.

hair still slightly damp, wrapped in a big sweater, silver moonstone resting at your throat, eyes soft in porchlight.

beautiful in a way that hurt.

and suddenly steve couldn’t help himself.

he leaned in and kissed you.

soft. warm. hesitant for half a second until you kissed him back.

you immediately felt him smile against your mouth. a real smile. happy, almost relieved.

when you finally pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. close enough to feel each other smiling.

after a quiet moment, you whispered “why haven’t you been going to parties recently?”

his hands stayed loosely around yours.

his answer came easy.

“got better things to do.”

your smile widened in the dark.

and somewhere inside you something quietly, finally, fell for him too.

-

he months that followed were, quite simply, golden.

not perfect, because nothing ever really is, but golden in the way memory softens around the edges and leaves only warmth behind. golden in the way summer evenings feel endless when you’re young enough to believe maybe they actually are. golden in the way two lonely people, having found one another, suddenly stop feeling quite so lonely.

somewhere along the line, it just became you and steve. a unit, a certainty.

school became the two of you orbiting each other like it was instinct. every hallway somehow led him back to you. every lunch somehow ended with his legs tangled with yours beneath cafeteria tables, stealing bites off your tray because apparently his food was never as good as yours, despite it usually being exactly the same thing. every class you shared became half-learning, half-passing notes, half-whispered conversations that made teachers glare and you both grin like idiots.

and after school, after school was yours.

always.

sometimes it was quiet nights sprawled across his bedroom floor, records spinning low while homework sat mostly ignored between the two of you.

you’d be scribbling equations in the margins of his notebook because, despite the act he liked to put on, steve was actually smart, he just lacked patience and confidence and had spent years pretending he didn’t care enough to try.

“you’re making me look stupid” he’d complain, chin in his hand, watching you write.

without looking up, you’d reply, “no, you do that yourself.”

“mean.”

“true.”

“beautiful, but cruel.”

that would make you laugh softly, and steve, every single time, would forget what he was meant to be learning because he was too busy staring at your smile like it held every answer he’d ever needed.

other nights, he’d drag you out somewhere.

always somewhere strange.

always somewhere secret.

one warm summer night he took you to the outdoor basketball court by the edge of town, the asphalt still warm from the heat of the day, cicadas humming loudly in the trees.

he bounced a ball toward you.

“tonight, i teach you greatness.”

you looked at the ball.

then at him.

“this feels deeply unlikely.”

“have faith.”

“i have none.”

you were terrible, genuinely awful.

your shots missed spectacularly. your dribbling lasted roughly three seconds before the ball rolled away from you. you once somehow threw it directly into steve’s chest.

hard.

he dramatically dropped to the ground clutching his heart.

“you’ve killed me.”

you stood over him.

“weak bloodline.”

he laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

then reached up, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down beside him on the warm concrete.

the two of you laid there shoulder-to-shoulder, staring up at the stars, sweaty and breathless and smiling stupidly.

“you know,” he said eventually, “you’re the worst basketball player i’ve ever seen.”

you turned your head.

“and yet you’re in love with me.”

steve smiled at the sky.

completely helplessly.

“yeah,” he said softly. “that’s the weird part.”

truthfully he loved everything about you.

not just the obvious things.

not just how beautiful you were, though he thought that every day with startling force, beautiful in ways he couldn’t even explain properly, but everything else, too.

the little things.

the way you hummed absentmindedly when you read. the way your rings clicked softly together when you gestured while talking. the strange little words you used for ordinary things. the way you’d stop mid-walk to admire a particularly nice leaf. the way you smelled faintly of incense and old books and lavender.

the way you made everything feel softer.

safer.

magic, almost.

steve joked often that maybe tommy had been right.

“think you did put me under a spell.”

you’d look up from your book.

“what makes you say that?”

he’d grin lazily from where his head rested in your lap.

“because i think if you asked me to rob a bank, i’d probably do it.”

“good to know.”

“only if you wore one of those big witch skirts while we did it.”

you’d laugh.

he’d smile.

and that was enough.

you became so stitched into his life that even his house changed.

his empty big house stopped feeling so empty because you were everywhere.

your books piled on his bedside table. your sweaters draped over chairs. silver jewelry forgotten by sinks. records stacked beside his stereo. candles in his room because you hated the cold sterility of it. little pressed flowers tucked into mirrors.

pieces of you everywhere.

you practically lived there now.

and because both your parents and his were so spectacularly absent, no one really noticed.

or if they did they didn’t care enough to say anything.

which was fine by both of you because it became the two of you against the world.

and strangely, that felt enough.

you learned one another completely.

not surface-level knowing, not favorite color and favorite song knowing, real knowing.

you knew steve got quiet when he was upset. that he scratched behind his ear when he was nervous. that he secretly loved praise because he’d spent most of his life starved of it.

you knew a simple “well done” after one of his basketball wins would have him smiling for days.

not because he needed approval but because it meant something coming from you.

because you saw him, really saw him, and loved what you saw.

that changed him.

he stopped chasing praise from everyone else, stopped aching for approval that never filled the emptiness anyway.

because yours did.

so simply, so honestly.

and steve, for perhaps the first time in his life, stopped feeling lonely.

he stopped feeling like he had to perform. around you, he was just steve.

messy-haired, loud-laughing, soft-hearted.

sometimes stupid. always trying. and deeply loved.

one afternoon, you noticed a silver ring on his hand.

your ring.

you blinked.

“…did you steal that?”

he looked down.

shrugged.

“borrowed.”

“steve.”

“it reminded me of you.”

you stared.

then snorted softly.

“you just think it looks cool.”

he grinned.

“that too.”

but later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you saw him absentmindedly turning it around his finger while smiling softly to himself.

and your heart nearly burst.

he kept a crystal in his pocket too, one you’d handed him jokingly, telling him it brought good luck.

he carried it everywhere.

when you teased him for it, he shrugged.

“you’re already my good luck charm. don’t really need it.”

then quieter “but it reminds me of you.”

everything reminded him of you.

songs. sunsets. flowers. silver jewelry in shop windows. lace curtains blowing in open windows.

everything soft and beautiful and strange somehow led back to you.

and hidden in notebooks, tucked between pages, slipped into jacket pockets, little notes.

his awful messy handwriting.

love ya :p

miss your face already and it’s been twelve minutes

you kept every one.

every stupid, sweet thing.

because steve loved loudly when he loved. wholeheartedly without reservation.

utterly.

truly.

and he was utterly, truly enamored by you.

sometimes he’d simply look at you and smile like he couldn’t believe you were real. like somehow, impossibly, he’d stumbled upon magic.

and maybe he had.

because on warm nights, lying together under hawkins skies, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily playing with your rings steve would think, quietly and honestly:

before you, he was lonely. before you, he was hollow in places he didn’t know could be filled. before you, he was pretending.

and now, now he was full of something warm and bright and certain.

love.

simple as that, complete as that. the kind that settles deep in your bones. the kind that feels like home.

and for two people who had spent most of their lives searching for somewhere, or someone, to belong to-

you found it in each other.

----

Your leg bounced nervously as you waited in your usual spot in the library for Steve, a dark corner that was tucked away from prying eyes.

Those dark corners you hid in together had once felt romantic and exciting and now—they made you feel like a dirty secret.

You hear him approaching. You always knew it was Steve because he always hummed under his breath. Always the same The Police song. Always tapped his fingers along the bookshelves as he passed by.

"Hey baby," Steve greets you, ducking his head down to press a kiss your cheek in greeting.

You smile but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

And Steve notices.

Because he always notices.

"What's wrong?" He asks gently, his hands finding yours and squeezing. "Was it your Spanish test today? Was it bad? You said you were really nervous for it—"

"No," you say quickly with a small shake of your head. "It wasn't my Spanish test."

Steve blinks, a little confused. He looks a little like a lost puppy with his head titled a little as he looks back at you.

"Then what's—"

"I c—can't do this anymore, Steve," you tell him quietly.

Steve looks back at you and you can see the sheer panic in his eyes.

If Steve was honest with himself, he knew this was coming. He knew deep down that one day you would grow tired of sneaking around. He knew you deserved better than that. But Steve was scared of how people would treat you. And, though he hated himself for it, he was also worried about what people would think of him. If Tommy would laugh at him. If Carol would be cruel to you.

"This as in us or this as in—"

"As in being your dirty secret," you say quietly, not looking at him.

He says your name softly and you swallow thickly before you turn to look at him. He sees the tears in your threatening to fall. His hands are still holding yours and all you want to do is sink into his arms and never leave. But you don't.

"You're not a dirty secret," Steve tells you, hating the mere sight of your tears. Hating himself for being the cause of them. "You never have been—"

"—but I feel like one, Steve."

The reality hits him and Steve knows there's only one option he has if he wants to keep you.

"You're not," Steve insists, his hands dropping yours so he could cup your face between his large hands, thumb wiping away a tear. "You are not a dirty secret. You—you're my girl. And I—shit—I love you, okay? And I'm sorry that I've made you feel like you were something I was ashamed because I'm not. I'm not ashamed. Not at all. I'll—I’ll scream it from the rooftops. I'll get a megaphone and tell the whole prep rally. I'll tattoo your name on my forehead. I'll—"

"—okay, okay," you interrupt him, laughing at his truly ridiculous suggestions. "I get it, I—wait—you love me?"

Steve looks at you and for a beat—he truly doesn't remember saying it. It had slipped out and part of him wants to deny it. Wants to tell you no, you must have misheard him but—

"Yes," he says firmly because he had never been so sure of anything. “I do. I love you. So much. So fucking much in fact that I—I'll do it. I'll tell people. Tell everyone. We'll stop hiding. We'll walk out this library hand in hand and I'll kiss you stupid in the hallways. And I swear, baby—I swear to fucking god that I'll sock anyone who even looks at you funny. Because I'm not—I'm losing you. Absolutely not."

Your face feels hot and you can't stop yourself from smiling at Steve's declaration. Because you knew he meant every word of it.

"You don't have to sock anyone—"

"—too late. I'm going make a list."

You snort with laughter and Steve smiles gently before he leans in to kiss you. And you melt into him. Your fingers twist through his hair and his hands pull you closer by your waist. His mouth was warm and insistent and you could have stayed there with him forever. But you had History and Steve had basketball practice.

You're the one to pull away and Steve tries to chase your lips but you stop him by pressing a finger to his mouth and smiling.

"For the record, I love you too, Steve," you tell him quietly.

Something in his expression shifts—his heart hammering in his chest. Because you love him. You love him for him. Not because he was King Steve but because he was your Steve.

"Good," Steve murmurs, unable to resist a final, lasting kiss to your lips before forcing himself to pull away. "Because I need to find a megaphone—"

"—Steve—"

"—I'm kidding," Steve mutters, winking at you before he grabs your hand. "Mostly. The tattoo on the forehead though is still a reasonable option."

You laugh at his ridiculousness.

You know people were going to talk. You knew what they would say. But that didn't matter. Not when Steve Harrington loved you.

dividers by @pepsipoet

🤍 king steve you will always be famous here

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steve harrington had once been the kind of boy everyone looked at.

not because he was kind, not because he was thoughtful, not because there was anything particularly deep about him back then, but because he was easy to notice. loud in all the ways that mattered in high school. charming when he wanted something. careless with people’s feelings when he thought he could be. the kind of boy that walked through the halls like the whole place belonged to him.

and then, somewhere along the way, he changed.

you never really asked him exactly when it happened, because in your mind, steve had always just been steve. the version of him that showed up at your side one rainy afternoon senior year with a split lip, tired eyes, and a softness to him that hadn’t been there before. quieter. humbler. still funny, still stupidly handsome, still capable of flashing that crooked grin that made your stomach flip in the most embarrassing way, but gentler. like life had knocked something loose inside him and replaced it with something better.

he always said that meeting you was what finished the job.

“you made me better” he’d told you once, half asleep, head resting in your lap while you played absently with his hair. his voice had been heavy with sleep, soft enough that you almost thought you imagined it. “seriously. i was kind of a dick before you.”

you laughed, because steve always said things so honestly that it caught you off guard.

“kind of?”

he’d opened one eye, smiling lazily.

“okay. huge dick. but now i hold doors open and care about people’s feelings, so.”

you smiled at the memory even now, because that was what loving steve had been for so long. easy. warm. full of little moments that tucked themselves into your chest and stayed there.

he loved hard, steve did.

he was soft with you in ways no one else got to see. he remembered small things. how you liked the corners of brownies more than the middle pieces, how cold your hands always got, how you couldn’t sleep unless there was some kind of noise in the room. he’d drive across town at midnight just because you casually mentioned craving fries. he kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. he held your hand like he meant it.

when it was just the two of you, everything felt simple.

which was why this hurt so much.

because somewhere along the line, you started feeling like you were sharing him with something you couldn’t see.

at first, it was easy enough to ignore.

steve would disappear for a few hours, sometimes a whole day, with some vague excuse that never really made sense when you thought about it later. helping a friend. car trouble. work stuff. family thing.

always something.

and then he’d come back.

sometimes exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.

sometimes bruised.

once with a cut split across his ribs, wrapped poorly beneath his shirt, his face twisting when you touched him by accident.

“basketball thing” he’d said quickly, not meeting your eyes.

you stared at him.

“steve, you don’t play basketball.”

a beat of silence.

then,

“right. yeah. uh… helping dustin practice?”

the lie had been so bad it almost made you laugh.

almost.

but you didn’t.

because underneath the ridiculous excuse was something worse, fear. real fear, buried deep in his eyes, covered over quickly with that familiar easygoing smile he wore whenever he wanted you to stop asking questions.

and because you loved him, you let it go.

or at least, you pretended to.

the truth was, every time he left, your mind tortured you with possibilities.

every phone call after midnight made your stomach drop.

every siren in town made your chest tighten.

every time he came home bruised but smiling, acting like it was nothing, you smiled back and then laid awake for hours beside him, staring at the ceiling while your thoughts spiraled into places so dark they made you sick.

what if next time he doesn’t come back? what if next time it’s worse than bruises? what if next time someone calls me instead?

it ate at you quietly.

slowly.

and sometimes not so quietly.

there were fights, god, there were fights.

small ones, where irritation simmered just beneath the surface.

bigger ones, where voices got raised and tears got involved and steve stood there looking torn apart by things he refused to explain.

“just trust me,” he’d say, frustrated in that way that made his voice rough around the edges. “please. i just- i can’t tell you.”

“why not?” you’d snap back, tears burning hot in your eyes. “i’m your girlfriend, steve. i’m the one sitting here wondering if you’re alive every time you disappear.”

his whole face would crumble at that because he hated hurting you. you knew that much.

he’d pull you close afterward, forehead resting against yours, arms tight around your waist like he was scared you’d slip away if he loosened his grip even a little.

“i love you,” he’d whisper, voice cracked and exhausted. “you know that, right?” and every single time, your heart betrayed you.

because it was always him.

it would always be him.

so you stayed. you stopped prying. you became what he seemed to need. steady, patient, there.

even when it hurt.

even when loneliness started settling into the corners of your relationship, quiet and cold and impossible to ignore.

and then hawkins changed.

the so-called earthquakes hit, ripping fear through the town like wildfire, leaving everyone uneasy, suspicious, grieving things no one could fully explain.

and steve got worse.

gone more often.

harder to reach.

more distracted when he was with you, like half of him was always somewhere else.

you’d be talking and catch him staring off. not bored, not uninterested, just distant. tense. like his body sat beside you, but his mind was trapped somewhere darker.

somewhere you couldn’t follow.

and loneliness turned sharp. ugly. selfish thoughts started creeping in, thoughts you hated yourself for having but couldn’t stop.

nancy.

his ex, his first love.

she was there, woven into that strange little group of his he kept so fiercely protected. always somewhere in the background whenever he disappeared. always somehow involved.

you didn’t even know how the thought rooted itself so deep in your chest, only that once it was there, it poisoned everything.

first loves mattered, didn’t they?

people always said that.

first loves stayed with you.

what if that was where his heart went when he looked so far away?

what if the distance between you wasn’t because of secrets but because part of him was finding his way back to her?

you hated yourself for thinking it. hated the jealousy. hated the bitterness. hated how small it made you feel.

but late at night, alone in your bed while steve was somewhere you weren’t allowed to know about, your mind whispered cruel things into the silence.

he used to look at you like you were everything.

when was the last time he really looked at you at all?

and for the first time since loving steve harrington had become as natural as breathing, you found yourself wondering how much longer love alone could hold something together when everything else was quietly falling apart.

-

you didn’t bring it up that morning.

there had been a time when anniversaries meant something big to steve, not in some over-the-top, flowers-and-grand-gestures kind of way, but in the way that mattered. he remembered dates. remembered little details. remembered things you’d mentioned once in passing months ago and somehow tucked away in that head of his for later.

he remembered you.

so when you woke up that morning and he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before rushing out, distracted and halfway somewhere else already, you told yourself it was fine.

he was busy, his mind was crowded, the day was long.

he’d remember.

of course he’d remember.

and truthfully, you weren’t asking for much.

you weren’t expecting some fancy dinner, or gifts wrapped in ribbons, or anything worthy of a movie scene. that had never really been the two of you anyway. your favorite moments with steve had always been the quiet ones. the ordinary ones that somehow felt extraordinary simply because they were yours.

takeout spread across the coffee table. his socked feet kicked up on the couch until you told him off. stupid conversations that somehow turned deep at two in the morning. talking about everything and absolutely nothing until one of you fell asleep against the other.

that was what you wanted.

just him.

fully, completely there for one night.

so you waited.

you ordered food later than usual so it would still be warm when he got home. set out plates. lit the candle on the table, the one that smelled like vanilla and cedarwood because steve once offhandedly said the place always smelled nice when you burned it. you changed into one of his old sweaters, soft from years of wear and faintly carrying that familiar scent that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t like thinking about.

and you waited.

six o’clock passed.

then seven.

your food got cold.

by eight, you’d finally put it in the fridge. by nine, you stopped checking the window every time headlights passed. and by the time he was three hours late, something quiet inside you had started to crack.

not loudly just a soft little fracture in the place that kept believing he’ll come through. he always comes through.

because lately, he didn’t.

you stood by the front window for a long moment, staring out at the dark street, arms wrapped around yourself against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

then, almost automatically, you flicked on the porch light, because steve hated coming home to a dark house.

said it made him feel strange. too quiet, too empty, like nobody was waiting for him.

the irony of that made something bitter settle in your throat.

still, you left it on.

because no matter how hurt you were, some part of you would always leave the light on for him.

you got into bed with a book, curling beneath the blankets with only your bedside lamp on. reading had always been your escape, an easy way to disappear into somebody else’s story when your own thoughts got too loud.

even if it only worked for a chapter at a time.

you were halfway through rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time when you finally heard the front door open downstairs.

your whole body went still.

then footsteps making their way up the stairs.

steve. home. late.

you set your book down in your lap and stared at the doorway, heart beating for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.

when he stepped into the room and saw you awake, his whole face softened instantly.

a smile spread across his mouth. that warm, crooked smile that had once made every bad thing disappear.

“hey, honey” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion. “you’re still up?”

like nothing was wrong. like tonight was just another night. like he hadn’t forgotten.

and in that awful, sharp little moment, you knew.

there was no excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue. no frantic apology already forming. no sheepish shit, baby, work ran late or i got caught up helping someone.

nothing.

because he simply hadn’t remembered.

he forgot.

forgot your anniversary.

forgot you sitting here waiting.

forgot the plans that were never really plans at all. just time together, which somehow hurt worse, because it was so simple. so easy. all he had to do was come home.

your chest tightened painfully.

it wasn’t anger that hit first it was heartbreak.

that quiet, sinking kind.

the kind that settles heavy in your ribs and makes you wonder if maybe one day, without meaning to, someone can slowly stop choosing you.

before he could notice the tears threatening behind your eyes, before he could ask what was wrong, you pulled the blankets tighter around yourself, offered him a small, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and said softly,

“happy anniversary, steve.”

it was like watching a building collapse in real time.

his smile vanished instantly.

all color drained from his face.

his expression crumpled into something horrified, completely, utterly devastated.

“oh, fuck.”

barely louder than a whisper.

then,

“baby-”

he was moving before you could blink, crossing the room in a rush and dropping onto the bed beside you hard enough to shake the mattress.

“oh my god, i’m a fucking idiot” he breathed, hands immediately reaching for yours, clutching them tight like you might disappear. “shit- shit, i’m so sorry. i’m so, so sorry.”

the apologies came spilling out of him in a frantic mess.

he kept shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself.

“i forgot- jesus christ, i forgot- and there’s no excuse for that, there’s no fucking excuse-”

his voice cracked.

his eyes looked glassy in the dim light.

“you deserve so much better than this. than me acting like this.” he swallowed hard, squeezing your hands tighter. “i love you. you know i love you, right? more than anything. i would never- i never meant to make you feel forgotten.”

and that was what made your heart ache most because steve looked genuinely shattered.

because he’d never forgotten before. not once.

which only confirmed what you’d quietly feared for months now, something serious was happening.

something bigger than the lies, bigger than the bruises, bigger than your fights.

and for the first time, it seemed like steve was finally seeing it too. seeing how whatever held him so tightly was slowly pulling him away from you.

how it was slipping between the cracks of your relationship and making a home there.

he pulled you into him, arms wrapping around you tightly, his face buried in your hair while he whispered apology after apology against your skin. soft kisses pressed to your temple, your cheek, your forehead.

desperate little things.

like if he loved you hard enough in that moment, it might undo the hurt.

eventually, quietly, you let it go.

because what was the point in fighting?

another argument was just another brick in the wall growing between you. another step closer to losing him.

and losing steve-

you weren’t sure you could survive that yet.

he was your first love. your only love.

you didn’t have a nancy tucked somewhere in your past. a first love to fall back on, or compare him to, or use as proof that life kept moving after heartbreak.

for you, there was only steve.

always steve.

and sometimes, on your loneliest nights, you thought awful things.

like wishing there was somebody else.

just to see if it would make him nervous. just to see if he’d know what it felt like, this constant quiet ache, this gnawing insecurity, this fear that someone else had pieces of him you never would.

to wonder if he was drifting. to wonder if you were being left behind.

it made you feel cruel.

but loneliness could make ugly thoughts bloom where love used to sit untouched. or maybe that was just what your loneliness did.

so it became another night of whispered promises into the dark.

another night of steve murmuring i’m gonna make it up to you, i swear. i’ll fix this. i promise, baby.

another night of his arm draped over your waist as sleep took him quickly, too quickly, while you lay awake staring at the ceiling.

wondering what your life would look like in five years. wondering if steve would still be beside you for it. wondering if loving someone was enough to keep them.

and despite everything, despite the hurt, the distance, the fear, you still found yourself holding onto one quiet hope like it was something sacred.

you hoped he’d be there.

-

to his credit, steve did make it up to you.

or at least, he tried.

the next morning, he stayed.

no rushed kiss goodbye while his mind sat somewhere far away. no muttered excuse about needing to be somewhere. no distracted glances toward the clock like he was counting down the minutes until he had to leave again.

he stayed.

and somehow, with steve, that simple thing felt monumental.

it felt like breathing again after being underwater too long.

the two of you spent the day tangled up in each other’s company like nothing had changed. lazy, soft hours stretched out in that beautiful kind of ordinary that had once been the foundation of your relationship. he made breakfast, burnt toast and eggs that were somehow both runny and overcooked, and acted offended when you laughed at him for it. you stole bites off his plate anyway.

he complained dramatically, then kissed you with a smile still on his mouth.

you watched movies neither of you paid attention to, more focused on talking over them than whatever was happening onscreen. he laid with his head in your lap while you played with his hair, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his face looked relaxed.

really relaxed.

no tension in his jaw. no haunted distance in his eyes. just steve.

your steve.

the boy you fell in love with.

at one point, he looked up at you, sunlight spilling over his face, warming his skin gold, and gave you that crooked little smile that still made your stomach flip after all this time.

“missed this” he said quietly.

your fingers paused in his hair.

“me too.”

his eyes softened in that way that always made your chest ache.

“missed you.”

and god, that was the problem, wasn’t it?

one soft sentence from him and suddenly every wall you’d spent months carefully building around your heart crumbled like they were never there to begin with.

because loving steve had always been easy, it was waiting for him that hurt.

that day felt like being seventeen again.

like you were back at the beginning, when the world was small and simple and it was just the two of you against everything else. when loving him felt certain.

for a little while, you let yourself sink into it. let yourself believe maybe this was him coming back to you. maybe whatever had him slipping through your fingers was loosening its grip.

maybe things were finally going to be okay.

but you’d learned by now that good things in hawkins rarely lasted long.

the next morning, he was gone before you woke.

the space beside you was cold and somehow that felt worse than watching him leave.

there wasn’t even a note.

just silence.

you stared at the dent his body left in the mattress for a long time before finally dragging yourself out of bed.

and that night, because of course he came home late, if he came home at all, he returned with another cut splitting the skin high on his cheekbone, bruising already blooming purple beneath it.

you touched it gently, heart sinking.

“what happened?”

his answer came too quickly.

“walked into a shelf at work.”

you looked at him.

he looked away.

another lie. another bruise. another piece of him you couldn’t reach.

still, you waited for him. still left the porch light on. still made sure there was something in the fridge he liked. still checked the locks before bed because he always forgot.

still slept on your side, leaving room for him on the other half of the mattress even on nights he never came home.

because at least you still had him in some form.

that was what you told yourself.

some steve was better than no steve wasn’t it?

loneliness settled into routine, heartbreak made a home inside your daily life.

you stopped expecting him for dinner. stopped asking when he’d be back. stopped texting after midnight when worry started chewing holes through your chest.

you simply left the porch light on for him to switch off when he got home.

proof he’d been there. proof he came back. proof he was alive.

until one morning, you walked downstairs and found it still glowing. bright against the pale morning light filtering through the windows.

he hadn’t turned it off, he hadn’t come home.

your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.

but then you told yourself not to panic.

maybe he got held up, maybe he stayed with a friend.

the next morning, it was still on again. and the morning after that.

you started dreading sunrise, because every trip downstairs became another quiet confirmation that your boyfriend wasn’t coming home.

and recently, you’d discovered there was almost no feeling worse than standing barefoot in your cold kitchen at seven in the morning, reaching over to switch off the porch light he should’ve turned off hours ago.

that had become your new least favorite thing.

worse than the lies. worse than the bruises. worse than the fights.

because this felt like absence.

real, tangible absence.

it got bad enough that you started calling the radio station just to make sure he was alive.

which was humiliating, heartbreaking, and somehow still not enough to stop you.

robin would answer sometimes, voice distracted and rushed, but kind enough.

“yeah, he’s here” she’d say.

or-

“he was here, ran out for something.”

or-

“he’s okay.”

always okay. always alive.

but frantic, always frantic.

and that word lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.

frantic.

what kind of life was he living that frantic became a constant state?

when you did see him, it was brief.

passing kisses. half-finished conversations. a quick touch at your waist as he moved past you. sleep-heavy apologies whispered into your hair before he disappeared again.

ghosts of intimacy.

echoes of what you used to have.

sometimes he felt more like a memory than your boyfriend.

and eventually you started doing what felt necessary to survive it. you started trying to disconnect.

little things at first.

not waiting up. not checking the window. not letting your heart leap at every passing set of headlights.

trying not to build your whole day around whether or not steve harrington would come home.

trying to loosen your grip before life ripped him away from you entirely.

it hadn’t worked, not even slightly.

if anything, trying made you realise just how deeply rooted he was in every part of you.

every habit. every hope. every plan for the future.

the thought of untangling yourself from him felt like trying to tear skin from bone.

impossible.

and the fact you’d even thought about it even for a second hurt more than anything else. because you never thought it would come to this.

never once.

not when you were seventeen and kissing him in empty parking lots. not when he first whispered i love you against your lips. not when you pictured forever and every version of it had steve standing beside you.

never.

but now, lying awake in an empty bed more nights than not, staring at a ceiling that had become far too familiar you found yourself wondering something that made tears quietly slip into your hairline.

when does loving someone stop being enough?

-

one morning, it all just hit you at once.

there was no big moment, no fresh lie that finally snapped whatever thread had been keeping you tied together.

it was quieter than that.

almost cruel in how ordinary it felt.

you were standing in the kitchen, still half asleep, staring absently at the coffee pot while it brewed, when this heavy sort of clarity settled over you all at once.

you couldn’t keep doing this.

your chest tightened immediately, like even thinking it was some kind of betrayal.

but the thought stayed.

you couldn’t keep living in limbo, loving someone who felt like they were constantly halfway out the door. you couldn’t keep waking up with dread already curled in your stomach. couldn’t keep wondering every night if he was alive, if he was hurt, if he was with her, if he was simply somewhere he’d rather be.

you couldn’t keep leaving the porch light on like some sad little ritual of devotion while your own heart slowly wore itself thin.

it was too much now and admitting that to yourself made bile rise hot in your throat.

because if it was too much, what came next?

the end.

the thought was so awful you almost laughed.

the end? with steve?

ridiculous.

there had never been an ending in your mind, only steve, in every version of your future, woven so deeply into it that imagining life without him felt blank and shapeless.

but reality had started looking very different from what you imagined at seventeen.

so, quietly, you made a plan.

one final little bargain with yourself.

you’d wait, really wait. one last time.

you’d stay up as late as you could, and if he came home, if he walked through that front door at all, you’d stay. you’d hold on a little longer. keep trying. keep loving him through whatever this was.

but if he didn’t, that was it. or at least, it had to be something.

the thought made you feel sick.

still, you committed to it.

you stayed downstairs until midnight, curled up on the couch with the television humming quietly in the background, though you couldn’t have told anyone what was playing. every pair of headlights outside made your heart leap stupidly into your throat before sinking again.

twelve-thirty.

one.

one-fifteen.

by one-thirty, exhaustion finally settled heavy into your bones.

you stood, rubbed your tired eyes, and switched on the porch light.

the warm yellow glow spilled over the front garden like hope you weren’t ready to let go of.

then you went upstairs.

waited in bed.

told yourself you’d stay awake just for a little while longer.

somewhere between one thought and the next, sleep dragged you under without permission.

and when you woke the other side of the bed was untouched.

your heart sank before your feet even hit the floor.

still, some desperate little part of you rushed downstairs hoping, hoping for anything.

a jacket tossed over a chair. his boots by the door. proof he’d been there.

instead, the porch light still burned brightly in the pale morning sun.

waiting for someone who never came home.

you stood there for a long moment, staring at it then quietly switched it off. the click sounded louder than it should have.

something final about it.

you made coffee on autopilot, standing in your kitchen wrapped in silence, mug warming your hands while your mind replayed every moment from the last few months over and over again.

trying to find something hopeful buried in it.

some sign that this was temporary.

some proof that what you had was still there, untouched beneath all the distance and secrets.

some light in the situation, something that wasn’t just the damn porch light you kept leaving on for him.

but when you really looked at it, honestly looked, all you saw was yourself waiting.

waiting for explanations. waiting for him to come home. waiting for him to choose you. waiting for things to go back to how they were.

your whole life had quietly become waiting.

and that realisation hurt almost more than anything else.

so you came to a compromise. something gentler than ending it. something that still left a thread between you.

a break.

not breaking up.

god, no. even thinking those words made your stomach twist painfully.

just space.

a pause, time to breathe. time to think. time to stop waiting every second of every day for someone who wasn’t there.

it still made you feel sick.

but it felt survivable. barely.

at five that evening, you called the radio station. your hands shook the whole time. when steve answered, his voice was breathless and rushed, noise humming loudly in the background.

“family vide- uh- sorry, wsqk, steve speaking-”

“steve.”

he went quiet instantly.

the panic in his voice softened into concern.

“baby? you okay?”

your throat tightened painfully at the name.

“can you come home for a second?” you asked quietly. “it’s important. i… i need you here.”

something in your voice must have reached him, because there was no excuse.

no i’m busy. no later.

just “yeah. okay. i’m coming now.”

then silence. and waiting.

though somehow this waiting felt different.

heavier.

when steve finally got there, he looked like hell.

tired eyes. messy hair. fresh bruising dark against his jaw.

his shirt wrinkled like he’d thrown it on without thinking.

and underneath it all, that familiar frantic energy buzzing under his skin.

he looked nervous the second he saw your face. terrified, almost.

you sat him down on the couch, and before he could speak, before he could ask everything alright, baby? in that soft voice that would make your resolve crumble, you forced yourself to talk.

and once you started, it all came pouring out.

how strange it was that he disappeared constantly. how every lie felt worse than the last. how lonely you’d become while still technically being in a relationship.

how it felt like loving a ghost sometimes.

how you still loved him so much it physically hurt, but you didn’t know how much more of this version of loving him you could survive.

tears came somewhere in the middle.

then more.

quiet ones at first, then heavier.

steve looked completely shattered.

panic overtook his whole face.

“no- no, baby, please-”

his voice cracked hard.

you’d never seen him look so scared.

because for all the monsters he fought in secret losing you was what terrified him most.

he reached for your hands desperately, tears gathering in his own eyes.

“i can fix this,” he said quickly, voice breaking. “i swear to god, i can fix it. just give me time- please. i love you. you’re the best thing in my life, you know that- you know that-”

and god, he meant it.

every word.

that was the tragedy of it.

he loved you, you never doubted that. but love was starting to feel hollow when everything else around it kept breaking.

you listened. you really did.

but every promise felt empty, not because he was lying, but because he’d made them before and nothing changed.

so, through tears on both sides, shaking voices and broken hearts you settled on space. somewhat of a break. a thin, fragile line drawn where there had once only ever been certainty.

steve cried.

actually cried.

face buried against your shoulder while he held you like someone was tearing the ground out from under him.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he whispered desperately into your skin. “soon. i promise. i’ll fix this. please believe me.”

you held him.

kissed his cheek.

pretended you believed him.

maybe this was for the best.

maybe loving each other wasn’t enough right now.

maybe time apart would either save what you had or prove it was already gone.

and after that you didn’t see him.

which should have felt normal by now. but the unusual thing was, this time, you weren’t waiting for him to come back.

-

a few weeks passed in quiet.

not peaceful quiet, not healing quiet, just silence.

the kind that settled heavy over everything and made the house feel bigger than it was. emptier. colder somehow, even with summer pressing warm hands against the windows.

you kept yourself busy where you could. read more books than you could keep track of, spent evenings out when friends dragged you along, started leaving dishes in the sink overnight just because nobody was there to teasingly complain about it.

little rebellions against the life you’d built around waiting.

and still, somehow, steve was everywhere.

in the old sweatshirt hanging over the back of your bedroom chair. in the stupid mug he always used because he claimed coffee tasted better in it. in the porch light switch by the front door, the one you now passed every night without touching.

that part hurt most.

leaving it off.

because as sad as waiting had been, not waiting somehow felt worse.

like mourning something that wasn’t fully dead yet.

-

that night, when the knock came at your door, it was so late your brain barely registered it at first.

groggy and half asleep, you dragged yourself out of bed, rubbing at your eyes as you made your way downstairs. your house was dark except for moonlight spilling through the windows, silver and soft over the floorboards.

another knock, more frantic this time.

your stomach dropped.

you hurried to the door.

and when you opened it every sleepy thought vanished instantly.

steve stood there looking wrecked. absolutely wrecked.

dirty like he’d been dragged through mud and ash and hell itself. bruises blooming dark and ugly across his face, split skin high on his brow, dried blood smeared down the side of his neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. his clothes were torn. his hands were scraped raw.

and his eyes, god. his eyes were already spilling over with tears.

the second he saw you properly, he broke.

completely.

“baby-”

his voice cracked so hard it barely sounded like him.

then he was in your arms.

literally fell into them, wrapping himself around you like he’d collapse without something to hold onto.

“oh, baby,” he kept saying, voice broken and wet with tears. “my baby, i missed you. missed you so much. so fucking much.”

his whole body shook against yours you could feel it.

feel how exhausted he was. feel how terrified. feel something deep inside him unraveling now that he was here.

“i missed you,” he whispered again, clutching at your shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. “god, i missed you. i love you so much. so much.”

and despite everything, despite the hurt, the loneliness, the weeks of trying to pull yourself away, your heart cracked wide open for him all over again.

because this wasn’t the steve who’d been distant. this wasn’t the steve who forgot anniversaries or disappeared for nights.

this was your steve.

raw and hurting and standing at your door like coming here was the only thing keeping him upright.

eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back just enough to look at you.

his face was blotchy from crying.

eyes red. lip trembling.

he looked devastated.

then he gently guided you back inside, shut the door behind him, and all but pulled you onto the couch with him, like if he let too much space exist between you, he might lose his nerve.

his hands never left you.

one on your waist.

the other gripping your hand so tightly it almost hurt.

“i need you,” he said immediately, voice shaking. “i need you so much. every part of me needs you. every fucking part.”

you stared at him, overwhelmed.

he laughed once, small, broken, humourless.

“i got here tonight and the porch light was off.”

his voice cracked again.

“and it was the worst thing i’ve ever seen.”

your chest tightened painfully.

“steve-”

“no, let me say this- please,” he whispered desperately. “please.”

you nodded.

he swallowed hard, tears falling fresh down bruised cheeks.

“i know i hurt you. i know i left you alone. i know i made you wait and wonder and feel like shit, and i swear to god if i could take every second of that back, i would. i would in a heartbeat.”

his thumb stroked frantically over your knuckles.

“but it’s over now.”

you blinked.

“what?”

he looked you dead in the eyes.

and then he told you everything.

everything.

the upside down. eleven. demogorgons. mind flayers. vecna. the gates. dimension x.

every strange bruise. every missing night. every frantic phone call. every lie. every single thing he’d spent years carrying alone.

by the time he finished, your head was spinning so violently you genuinely thought you might pass out.

you just stared at him, mouth slightly open.

completely speechless.

because-

what. the. fuck.

there was silence for a long moment.

then the first thing that came out of your mouth was-

“…so i was sitting here being selfish because i wanted my boyfriend around while he was out fighting monsters from another dimension?”

steve’s face immediately crumpled.

“no- no, baby, no.”

he grabbed your face gently, forcing your eyes to his.

“don’t do that. don’t blame yourself. please don’t blame yourself.”

his voice broke again.

“i should’ve told you. i should’ve trusted you. i can’t even imagine how awful this must’ve looked. I disappeared, i lied, i came home bleeding half the time- jesus christ.” he shut his eyes hard. “i just… i couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me.”

you let out a long breath.

your whole world had just tilted sideways.

and suddenly every fear, every insecurity, every awful thought you’d had over the last few months-

cheating, falling out of love, not caring, felt ridiculous.

steve broke down again, burying his face into your shoulder.

“i kept going because of you,” he admitted quietly. “even when i barely got to see you… you were still it for me. the only good thing. the only light i had in all that darkness was knowing i had you to come back to.”

your eyes stung. hard. and honestly you felt a little like an ass.

so, in an attempt to lighten the crushing heaviness in the room, you muttered softly-

“well… i thought you fell out of love with me.”

steve pulled back so fast it was almost comical.

he looked genuinely offended, like you’d slapped him across the face.

“that,” he said firmly, tearfully, pointing at you, “is the dumbest, worst, most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

you blinked.

he shook his head in disbelief.

“you are so stupid for thinking that for even one second.”

then immediately threw himself back into your arms like he physically couldn’t stay away.

“i’m obsessed with you,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “completely. stupidly. disgustingly in love with you.”

despite everything, you laughed. a real laugh. the first in a while.

the two of you talked for hours after that.

about everything. about how knowing the truth didn’t magically fix the hurt that had already happened. how trust had to be rebuilt. how space had carved wounds in both of you.

how love was there, stronger than ever, somehow, but love alone didn’t erase damage overnight.

steve listened, really listened. and for once, there were no secrets sitting between you. just truth. messy, terrifying truth.

at some point, wrinkling your nose against his shoulder, you muttered—

“you stink, by the way.”

steve actually laughed.

full and warm and surprised.

“yeah,” he sniffed at himself. “fair.”

you smiled softly.

“you smell like smoke, blood, and wet dog.”

he grinned tiredly.

“hot.”

and later, you showered together, not for anything other than closeness.

steve stood beneath the warm water with his forehead resting against yours, arms around your waist the whole time like he physically couldn’t bear distance right now.

every few minutes he’d kiss your cheek. your temple. your shoulder.

just little reminders.

i’m here. i’m here. i’m here.

that night, wrapped around you in bed, his breathing finally evening out for the first time in god knows how long, steve pressed a kiss into your hair and whispered into the dark-

“i’ll fix this.”

his arms tightened around you.

“i swear to god, i’ll fix everything.”

another kiss.

soft. reverent.

“i’ll do anything to still be able to come home to you.”

his voice cracked on the last words.

“absolutely fucking anything.”

-

The nickname seems to make him melt a little but he continues, “Nah, it’s not like— okay, it ain’t my fault. It’s them algorithms, pushing you to watch weird shit because you been scrolling too damn long and really, it’s mostly out of boredom and you ain’t even that horny anymore. But that’s how they reel you back in. Boom, crazy shit. Gets you curious and so you click and down the fucking rabbit hole you go.”

“I can’t say I’ve had that experience,” you hum but encourage him to go on, “but that’s okay. Tell me what you were looking at.”

He gets real shy then, “I’m not like, a pervert or anything, ‘kay? I don’t make it a habit of looking at fucked up shit, alright.”

“I believe you,” you say and you mean it. The sex you two have is great, wonderful and the best you’ve had but it isn’t exactly pushing boundaries or tiptoeing the line of kink. Maybe this conversation can lead it that way, however.

“It’s like, alright, shit, okay, it’s technically piss stuff but not like that golden showers, in the mouth weird stuff,” he blurts out, eyes getting wide.

“Wow,” you breathe because that is shocking, definitely not something you’ve ever even thought of. “What kind is it then?”

Teacake sighs, shakes his head a bit like he’s attempting to think before he speaks but really, he isn’t good at that, “Like bladder control stuff. Girls holding it in and squirming around and…” he swallows hard, “making these sounds and shit.”

That’s intriguing, but you have a ton of questions. You purse your lips as you think but he doesn’t wait, can’t have the air empty like that.

“It was weird at first, like, I wasn’t immediately like oh fuck yeah, super into this,” he rants, “I was like yo, what the fuck is this and it has this Japanese name for it but I didn’t even find that out ‘til later. Anyways, I was like what the fuck but I watched a little longer and it got more appealing and my dick got like, really fucking hard.”

You have to stop him so you can ask some questions, so you put your finger to his lips. Make those eyes you make at him when he just won’t shut up and he takes the hint. Nods softly at you as he waits.

“What do you mean by control?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

“Like the girl drinks a ton of water and holds in her pee,” he explains, “which believe me, I know this shit sounds nuts but I just, I don’t know, man, I liked it.”

You hum, happy that he doesn’t continue rambling so that you can inquire further. “And what, the videos are just like the girl alone trying not to pee?”

“Yeah, some of them, a lot of them end up pissing themselves but there’s like other ones where the girls are getting fucked and they have to pee so bad so they’re like squirming and whimpering and shit and…”

You can feel him getting aroused under your calf which makes you laugh, you don’t mean to and it’s not in a cruel way but him just recalling this stuff has him sporting a semi.

“Don’t laugh, jeez!” he groans, tilting his head back.

“I’m not judging you! I promise,” you assure him, “It’s just cute is all. We can explore it, some other time. I’m just really tired today and I don’t have to pee.”

“We can?” he asks, smile returning to his face all bright and wide.

“Sure, Travie,” you lean over to kiss the corner of his lips, “I’ll try anything once for ya. Well… not anything, but lots.”

It gets forgotten for a while. You for sure thought about it for the days following the conversation but Travis didn’t bring it up again and eventually, you did forget about it.

That is until one day.

You woke up and as you were filling your water bottle, he made a comment about making sure you drink all of that. To which you responded that you always do. You’ve been making sure you stayed hydrated, unrelated to his confession.

You did drink it all while you were at work, but when Travis got home, he refilled it for you and brought it to you. Said again, “Make sure you drink all that, sugar.”

“What is up with you today?” you ask, totally oblivious to his true intentions.

“What’cha talking about? Ain’t nothing up with me,” he feigns innocence with his hands up, “just making sure you’re drinking enough.”

You narrow your eyes at him, wondering what he’s up to. But again it gets forgotten as the pair of you cook dinner, yet he’s insistent you keep drinking from the bottle. You feel like you’ve definitely gotten close to finishing it but every time you pick it up, there’s more water. But Teacake is real good at distracting you with his ranting and rambling.

Tells you all about his day and maybe every thought he had while you plate up for dinner. Continues through it and doing the dishes. It’s then you realize you’ve had a lot of water, because the running faucet has you wiggling a little in discomfort. So you say, “Excuse me, gotta pee. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait!” he calls, hand wrapped around your wrist as he looks at you with those big hazel eyes. His blonde hair bobs with the quick movement of him turning to catch you. “Can you hold it for me?”

“Why the fuck do you want me to hold my—“ it hits you then. The realization that Travis has been giving you water all day for this purpose sets in and you giggle as the memory of that conversation floods in. “Oh… that’s why… alright. I’ll uh, try.”

This is going to be harder than you thought. Your bladder is absolutely full, not to a point of pain but slight discomfort. You have to wiggle your leg to find a bit of relief. “I’ll uh, finish up the dishes then.”

Travis groans lowly, puts his hands on your waist as he crowds you from behind. He presses his hips against your ass and kisses against the shell of your ear, “You gotta go real bad, huh? I bet it’s buggin’ you so bad, with the water running, just making you think about how bad you gotta go.”

“Mhm,” you manage out, pressing your thighs together as you struggle to scrub the pots and pans. You were so close to being done with the dishes. You could do it, but you were really wondering how you were going to manage holding it in. And wetting yourself was just not an option, not while you were in the kitchen. “It’s so bad, Travis. Like, genuinely, I don’t know if I can hold it.”

“Baby, babygirl, you can,” he growls against your ear, “I know you can do it for me.”

And you really want to, but it’s proving difficult. He seems to have done his research, his hand dips into the waistband of your pants and his middle finger finds your clit, with some adjustment. But he finds it, kisses against your ear as he rubs slowly against your clit before asking, “That helping at all? Reading about it, some say it helps but some of them say it can make it worse. If it’s making it worse, I’ll stop.”

The thought of him being so into this that he’s online reading about it makes your stomach flip. You love your boyfriend, you want to be able to fulfill any fantasy he has and you might be into this one. You’ll just have to wait and see.

“It’s helping,” you gasp out, squirming between his strong body and the counter. “Fuck, okay… yeah, that helps a lot.”

Travis exhales against you, you can hear the smile in it and even better, you can feel his growing erection against your ass. Which really, makes all of this so worth it.

“Good god, that’s fucking hot,” he mumbles out, “feeling you squirm like that, fuck.”

His voice sends shivers down your spine, always does but this context is a little different. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so desperate, so needy and it’s doing something to you. Makes you squeeze your thighs together for a whole different reason. You trap his hand between your legs and drop the sponge. “Bedroom, Travis, now.”

“Shit, fuck, yes! Okay,” he pulls his hand out from your waistband and rushes towards the bedroom.

You shake your head, waddling your way towards the bedroom and when you get there, Teacake is pulling his shirt over his head and making quick work of his pants. And god, does he look excited. So you let it slide that he practically abandoned you in the kitchen.

“Okay, how do you like want me? I feel like anything but on my back, I’m gonna immediately pee on you and I don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for or—“

“On your back is good, sugar. Want you to hold it ‘til you can’t no more,” he says, rushed, as he begins undressing you. He’s quick to undress you, throwing your clothes on the floor before spinning you and laying you back on the bed. You’re nervous to spread your legs, but he’s pushing the open and getting himself between them. Slaps the head of his cock against your swollen lips like he always does.

You inhale sharply, “Travis, I don’t wanna make a mess on the bed. That’s—“

“Shh, we’ll worry about that later, I gotta be in you like right fucking now, dear god. My dick is so fucking hard, baby. This is so fucking hot,” he rasps out, pushing the tip of his cock through your folds.

Your back arches from the sensation, the uncomfortable feeling in your bladder starts to dissipate momentarily. Travis circles the head of his cock around your entrance, inhaling sharply as he sees proof of how much this is actually turning you on. As he slips into you, the pressure on your bladder makes itself known again and you squeal, squirming a bit as he gets about half way inside.

“What?! What? Not good? Am I hurt in’ ya? I don’t wanna hurt ya, nobody said anything about that part hurting. I guess it makes sense,” he starts, so concerned as he looks down at you with those eyes.

You shake your head, rubbing at his side, “No, didn't hurt. Just hard to hold it.”

He likes that. He must, because he leans down and connects your lips in a feverish kiss. Then he smoothes his hands down your sides, sliding the rest of the way in. He huffs, “Fuck, you feel so good, sugar. That’s so fucking hot, tell me how you feel, wanna know what it’s like. Please.”

That manages to pull a giggle from you, “It’s… different. Uncomfortable but not that bad, kinda makes… well.” It’s your turn to get embarrassed.

“Well, what? Tell me, sugar.”

“It’s almost like, how it feels before I cum. Like the pressure is so intense,” you offer.

“That’s so good, fucking hell. Oh, yeah,” he moans out, working his hips in a slow but steady rhythm. And that does a lot to quell the pressure in your bladder, or maybe it’s just masked as a pressure you’re used to during sex.

Then Travis puts his hand over your bladder, pushes down on it as he fucks you slowly. Your eyes snap shut as you wiggle beneath him, whimpering from the feeling. It’s not pain, not really at all. It’s pretty euphoric even though it’s tortuous. Though, it’s sure taking a lot to not empty your bladder.

“S’that good, baby? Feel good?” he asks, voice in a tone that’s somewhat familiar but way more wrecked than you’re used to. You sure as hell would like to hear it some more.

You squirm some more, which makes Travis speed up his strokes, thrusts even harder.

You’re at a loss for words so you don’t answer him, not verbally. You try to nod but it goes unnoticed because you’re squirming so much. He keeps pressing on your bladder, watching you intensely with his lips parted as you whine, whimper and thrash beneath him. You have to focus, though. You can’t cut his fantasy short. So you look at him, distract yourself as you admire everything physically you love about Teacake.

First, his eyes. Big and round, full of expression at any given moment. Next up, his strong brows, furrowed in pleasure. Your eyes jump up to the grown out roots of his wild, bleached hair. Then down to his neck, where HOWDY is tattooed in likely, ballpoint pen ink. You swipe your finger down it, before resting your hands on his broad shoulders. Feeling them flex as he thrusts in and out. He opens his mouth to speak, and you don’t quite hear it but your eyes follow. Watching them move around the words. That gorgeous mouth, straight square teeth under those pink, plump lips that never stop running. His nostrils flare and that’s where you’re eyes come to next, skating that sharp slope. God, he’s really something else, you think. And it’s worked, you’re thoroughly distracted from the urge to pee.

Until Travis squeezes your side, where your bladder is at while his hips work relentlessly against your core. Reality hits you hard, the sound of your skin meeting fills your ears, along with Teacake’s horny rambling.

“Fuck, you’re squirming so much, shit— that’s, fuck that’s hot, oh God. You’re so good, just holding it in for me, fuck, god, shit, oh my god,” he rambles, voice wavering with how absolutely turned on he is.

And you can’t hold it much longer, really, you try to tell him so but he licks his fingers before pressing them to your clit and works them in circles, exactly how he knows you like. His other hand presses down on your bladder and you’re squealing, head thrown back as your spine arches. It happens, then. You actually piss on him. While he’s fucking you. And it’s timed so perfectly that you reach your climax at the same time. Perhaps from the relief. But it rushes through you like a giant wave crashing against the shore. Your hands find Teacake’s blonde hair, tugging on the tendrils as you seize beneath him.

“Oh, fuuuuck, oh, shit!” you hear him moan out, working you through your orgasm but he quickly moves his hands to grab onto your hips. Works quickly, pumping his cock in and out of you. Chasing an orgasm you’re sure isn’t too far behind.

Teacake pulls out, jerks over your stomach twice before he’s spilling out over it. Cums a lot. You watch in awe, chest heaving from how intense the orgasm you had was. And you’re happy you explored this with him.

He leans down to kiss you, deep and appreciative. You kiss back, though quickly you start to feel very gross and wet. So you push him back a little.

“How’s about we throw these sheets in the wash and hop in the shower?”

“That uncomfortable, huh?” he asks with an exhausted smile.

You laugh and shake your head, “That was amazing, but yeah, starting to feel gross. Hurry up, if you're lucky, I’ll tell you all about the fantasies I’ve been hiding.”

Aside from that news, your days didn’t change much. You still followed the same routine you had built for yourself since the accident.

You waited.

You sat by his bed, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, listened to the steady rhythm of the machines. You spoke to him, quietly, filling the silence when it became too much. Other times, you just stayed there, your hand wrapped around his. 

Somewhere along the way, everything had started to feel… suspended. Like time had paused, caught between what had been and what was supposed to happen next. The separation, your argument, the diagnosis — it all felt distant, almost unreal. There were moments when it barely seemed like it had happened at all.

And something almost ironic about it — cruelly so.

Just two weeks before, you had left him, walked out of your home and spent an entire week avoiding him, refusing to see him, to hear him out.

And now…

Now you spent every single day at his bedside, watching him breathe, sitting beside him for hours just to be close to him, taking care of him like nothing had ever happened. Like you had never left.

You had slipped back into your place so naturally it almost felt strange.

You were his wife again.

In a strange, unsettling way, the accident had restored something that had broken between you, forcing everything back into place. 

But none of that was real. You knew it wasn’t. Because the moment Steve opened his eyes, reality would come rushing back in and everything you had been avoiding would still be there, waiting for you. 

And that scared you. 

The moment he woke up, there would be no more hiding from what came next.

It was a kind of contradiction. You couldn’t wait for Steve to regain consciousness but at the same time, a quiet fear lingered beneath it all — tight, persistent, suffocating.

At some point, you decided it was finally time to prepare a bag for him — clothes, basic things he would need when he woke up. Which meant going home. Your home. The same one you had left almost two weeks ago. The thought alone made your chest tighten. 

When you parked in front of the house, your hands stayed on the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. Your eyes lifted slowly to the front door.

The memory came back so vividly it almost felt real. Steve standing just a few steps away from the car the day you had left, His chest rising and falling too fast, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. You could still see the confusion in his eyes and hear the pain in his voice as he begged you not to go. To stay. 

You swallowed hard and blinked, forcing the image away. Then you exhaled, steadying yourself, and stepped out of the car. You unlocked the door and stepped inside. For a split second, you expected to hear Steve’s voice calling your name from another room. The faint sound of movement upstairs. Or to feel his arms wrapping around you, welcoming you home after a long day. 

Instead, there was nothing. 

Just silence, settling around you immediately, heavy in a way that felt unfamiliar in a place that had never been quiet before. 

You took a few steps forward, your gaze moving slowly around the living room. Everything looked exactly as you had left it.

Almost.

Your eyes caught on the coffee table — on the empty beer bottles scattered across it, a few more near the edge like they had been set down carelessly and forgotten.

Your chest tightened.

Steve wasn’t like that. He drank, sure, but occasionally. Never too much. Never like this. 

It was the only real sign he had been there at all. Otherwise, the house felt untouched. As if he had simply been passing through it, existing in it without really living in it.

Your throat tightened slightly.

That place didn’t feel like home.

Not without him.

Because it had never really been about the walls.

It had always been him.

Now you felt out of place in it. Like an intruder. 

You swallowed the thought down before it could settle too deeply and turned toward the stairs, taking them quickly, almost on instinct, until you reached the bedroom.

The door was still slightly open as if someone had left in a hurry, without bothering to close it first. You pushed it wider and stepped in, stopping almost immediately on the doorway. 

Steve’s side of the bed was still unmade, the sheets wrinkled and half-pulled loose like they had been left in the middle of something. The books he had found were still scattered across the floor. On his nightstand, Eddie’s stash and a lighter sat exactly where he had left them. Your side of the room was untouched. Your things — the one you hadn’t taken with you — were still there just as you had left it. Your chest tightened as the realization settled in. Steve hadn’t moved or packed anything away. He had left it all there. Like everything had been waiting for you to come back and press play again.

You swallowed and forced yourself to move. You bent down, picking up the books from the floor, stacking them one by one. You smoothed the sheets absentmindedly, straightening the bed just enough to make it look less abandoned. When you finished, you walked to the closet and pulled out one of Steve’s duffel bags, setting it on the bed. 

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at it. Then you started packing — a few changes of clothes, toiletries. You folded each piece of clothing with care, placing it inside one by one, slowly. Your mind pulled you back to two weeks earlier. When you had done the same thing — only faster, messier. Throwing your things into a suitcase, without stopping, too focused on leaving before he came back. Before he could stop you. Your hand stopped for a second, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric you were holding. 

Coward, a little voice whispered into your mind.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, sore.  

It was true. You had chosen the easy way out by not giving him a chance to speak and decide.

Your grip softened.

And in doing so, you had hurt him anyway. Maybe more.

You brought the shirt to your chest, holding it there for a moment, your eyes closing briefly as you breathed him in. You lowered it slowly, smoothing it out before placing it in the bag with the rest.

If you had just talked to him from the beginning… Maybe things would have been different. And now maybe you wouldn't be in an empty house, silently packing a bag to take to your unconscious husband in the hospital.

You zipped the bag shut, the sound cutting through the silence of the room. You stood there for a second, your hand resting on top of it. Then you picked up the bag and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and toward the front door. Your hand lingered on the handle for just a moment before you opened it. As you stepped outside, you wondered if you would come back one day. 

Or if that was another goodbye again. 

—

The next day, the doctors stopped the last of the sedatives.

Now it was up to Steve.

They told you it could take hours. Maybe a couple of days.

The moment they said it, a silent countdown started in your mind. You found yourself checking the clock constantly, watching the minutes pass and counting the hours. It had become like a hobby by now. A boring, slow one. Every time you looked at him, you wondered if that would be the moment in which his fingers would twitch. Or  if his eyes would finally open. And as the hours passed, the anxiety that had been sitting quietly in your chest began to grow. 

You needed him to wake up. To hear his voice. To see his big, brown eyes open and look at you. You needed to be sure that he was really okay. That he was still… him. 

Even though the doctors had been reassuring, the bleeding had resolved and the fractures were healing well, they had also mentioned possible complications due to the head trauma. Cognitive ones as memory loss or speech issues. 

You didn’t know which one scared you more. 

And you hoped you would never have to find out. 

—

As hours passed and you waited for Steve to wake up, you began to prepare yourself on what to say. How to say it. Because you knew that the moment he woke up, reality would follow. And everything you had left unfinished would still be there, waiting. You had a conversation to resume. Many things to discuss. 

And Kirsten, of course.

Your jaw tightened slightly at the thought.

Despite everything, you hadn’t forgotten. You couldn’t. Even if part of you wanted to push it aside, just for a little longer. 

Your mind had shifted from imagining them together — filling in the blanks with your worst assumptions — to replaying every single word Kirsten had said to you. Over and over again. Like a broken record. Since that conversation, you had gone through it countless times in your head, picking it apart, analyzing every detail, every pause, every expression.

Trying to understand what was real.

Trying to figure out what had been left unsaid.

Robin’s words echoed faintly in your mind.

Let him explain.

You exhaled quietly. Even though you had already spoken to her and knew what had happened that night, you would listen to Steve. To his version. He was the only one who could remove all doubts and clarify everything.

What if she had lied? 

In the end, you didn’t know her and maybe that night something else had happened. Something she might not have told you. Something she might have left out. But you knew Steve. You knew him well enough to know when he was lying or not. So you would let him explain and you would listen. Really listen. All the way through. Without interruptions. Without shutting him out. Or walking away. 

You owed him that. To yourself, too. And to your marriage. 

Your gaze dropped to your joined hands, swallowing hard. 

There were things you needed to say as well. 

In the days you had spent there, sitting beside him, watching him fight through something you couldn’t see, something had shifted. You had had time to think and to replay everything. You had questioned your own choices. And some of them didn’t sit right anymore. You had things to admit. Mistakes to own. And you had made decisions — new ones— that would change everything. Again.

Your grip on his hand tightened slightly.

“Wake up, Steve,” you murmured, your voice low, almost lost in the quiet of the room.

Because no matter what waited for you on the other side of that moment, you needed him there for it.

-

By the time evening settled outside the hospital windows, the room had dimmed into that quiet, bluish half-light that made everything feel suspended. You were sitting beside Steve, a sheet of paper resting on your lap, a pencil moving slowly between your fingers as you worked on a sketch, trying to keep yourself busy.

You hadn’t left his side all day, refusing to go home. The doctors had warned you he would likely be confused, agitated and you didn't want to risk Steve waking up alone, while you weren't there. You wanted to be there for him — to soften that moment as much as possible. 

Your gaze lifted toward him again, almost automatically. It had become a reflex at this point—checking, even when you didn’t realize you were doing it.

You sighed quietly.

He was the same as he had been all day — still, quiet. No changes yet. 

Your eyes began to drop back to the paper when you saw it, freezing instantly.

His fingers had moved. Just slightly. So faint you weren’t even sure it had happened. Maybe you had imagined it, you thought. 

You blinked, your breath catching. Your eyes quickly flicked to his. 

They were closed.

Your gaze snapped back to his hand.

The fingers were still. Immobile. 

Your heart started to beat faster, your grip tightening slightly around the pencil as doubt crept in. You had imagined it, you told yourself. You had to have. After all, you were exhausted. You hadn’t slept properly in days. And it wouldn’t have been the first time your mind played tricks on you.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to look again, and waited. 

One.

Two.

Ten seconds.

Then you saw again.

A small, uncoordinated twitch of his fingers. 

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

His fingers kept moving. 

It was real. 

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you stood up too quickly, the sound barely registering. The paper and pencil slipped from your hands and fell onto the seat behind you as you moved closer to the bed, your eyes locked on him.

“Steve…” The name left your lips before you could stop it, barely more than a breath.

His eyelids fluttered. Slowly. Uncertainly. Like even that small movement required effort.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you reached for his hand, wrapping your fingers around his, tightly, holding on. “Steve,” you repeated, your voice trembling now.

His eyes opened — just a fraction at first — then closed again almost immediately, like the light was too much. His brow furrowed faintly. A second later, he tried again. This time they stayed open a little longer, unfocused. He blinked, slow and heavy, his gaze drifting across the room without really seeing it. Then his eyes widened and his breathing turned uneven, shallow, like his body was trying to catch up with something it didn’t understand yet.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice breaking despite your attempt to steady it. “It’s me. I’m here, Steve.”

Your hand tightened around his, careful not to hurt him, as your other one moved to his hair, brushing it back gently from his forehead, your touch careful, delicate. 

His eyes finally found you, tilting his head slightly toward you and the tension in his features eased, just a little. He swallowed slowly. 

You felt your chest tighten.

“You’re in the hospital,” you continued softly, forcing the words out through the emotion building in your throat. “You had an accident, but you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

You forced a small smile. 

He didn’t respond. He just kept looking at you, his gaze fixed, almost searching. Like he was holding onto the only thing in the room that made any sense. Like if he looked away, even for a second, you might disappear. You couldn't even imagine how scared and confused he must feel. 

A flicker of panic rose in your chest.

“Steve?” you said again, slower this time. “Can you hear me?”

No answer.

Your stomach dropped.

What if he didn’t recognize you?

The thought hit fast, sharp, stealing the air from your lungs as the doctors’ warnings echoed in your mind, again and again. 

Consequences. Memory loss. Speech issues. 

You swallowed hard, your grip softening unconsciously around his hand.

“I— I’m going to get someone,” you said quickly, the words rushing out, stumbling over each other as panic crept into your voice. “I’ll be right back, okay? I just need to call a doctor—”

You started to pull away but his hand tightened around yours. Not strongly. He had just woken up and was still weak, but still strong enough to stop you. Your breath caught as your eyes dropped to where your hands were joined, then snapped back to his face. 

His lips parted slightly, his throat working as he tried to speak. The sound that came out was low. Rough. Like it hurt.

“…don’t…”

The word barely made it past his lips. But it was there. Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made you dizzy.

He could speak.

You leaned closer immediately to hear better, your heart pounding.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”

He tried again, his breathing faltering, uneven.

“…go…”

Each word seemed to cost him effort.

“…please…”

Your chest tightened painfully as your eyes filled with tears, blurring your vision. 

“…don’t… leave me.”

You pulled away from him. A shaky breath left your lips, something between a sob and a laugh, relief and emotion crashing together all at once. You shook your head quickly, your fingers tightening around his as if to reassure him. 

“Hey—hey, no,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. “I’m not leaving you. I’m right here.”

You leaned closer again, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. 

“You’re okay,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You’re okay.”

The fact that he could speak and reach for you was reassuring, easing some of the fear that had been building in your chest for days. 

“I just need to tell them you’re awake, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

His grip didn’t loosen immediately. His eyes stayed on you, wide, uncertain, like he didn’t trust your words. Not completely. 

You smiled at him, forcing yourself to gently pull your hand free, slowly. Your fingers lingered for a second longer before you stepped back. “I’ll be right there,” you reassured him again.

You turned and moved quickly toward the door. “Nurse!” Your voice echoed down the hallway, sharper, urgent. “Nurse! My husband — he’s awake — I need a doctor! Can I get a doctor, please?”

Footsteps approached almost immediately. A nurse appeared at the end of the corridor, her pace quickening as you explained, words tumbling over each other. “He just woke up — he’s conscious, he’s talking—”

She nodded and turned without hesitation, hurrying off to call a doctor.

You turned back and walked quickly into the room, your eyes immediately finding him again. You crossed the space in a few quick steps and reached for his hand again, wrapping your fingers around his. His gaze returned to you instantly. 

“Hey! The doctor’s coming,” you said softly, your voice gentler now, steadier. “Everything will be okay.”

A few minutes later, the nurse returned, this time accompanied by a doctor. You instinctively stepped slightly to the side to give them space, though your hand remained wrapped around Steve’s, your fingers unwilling to let go completely.

The doctor approached calmly, offering Steve a small, reassuring smile before reaching into his coat pocket.

“Steve,” he said gently, “can you hear me?”

Steve’s eyes, heavy and slow, shifted from you to him. It took a moment, but he gave a faint nod.

“Good,” the doctor continued. He lifted a small penlight, bringing it up carefully. “I’m just going to check your eyes, okay? Follow the light for me.”

The beam moved slowly from side to side. Steve’s gaze followed, sluggish but responsive. The doctor watched closely, studying the movement, then repeated it once more before nodding to himself.

“Alright,” he said quietly, more to himself than to either of you. He lowered the light and straightened slightly. “You’re in the hospital,” he continued, voice calm and steady. “You were in an accident. You’ve been unconscious for a few days, but you’re safe now.”

Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to process the information. The doctor watched him for a second, then reached for the chart at the foot of the bed, flipping it open.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asked. “The accident?”

Steve hesitated. You felt your breath catch in your throat without realizing it, your body going still beside him. His gaze drifted briefly, unfocused, like he was searching for something in his mind and coming up empty.

Then, slowly, he shook his head.

Your chest tightened. You forced yourself to swallow, keeping your expression steady even as something uneasy settled deep inside you.

The doctor gave a small, thoughtful nod, as if the answer didn’t surprise him, and made a quick note on the chart. Then he looked up. His gaze shifted — first to you, briefly — before returning to Steve.

“And do you recognize this woman?” he asked.

The question seemed to echo in the room as every muscle in your body went rigid, your eyes locking onto Steve’s face, searching for something — anything — that could answer that question. 

Steve’s eyes found yours. His gaze lingered, quiet, intent, studying you. As if he was trying to understand something just out of reach.

You forced a small smile, encouraging, though it felt fragile, uncertain. You swallowed.

Seconds stretched as your heart pounded loudly in your ears, each beat sharper than the last.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he nodded.

Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made your knees weak. Air rushed back into your lungs as if you had been holding it the entire time.

“…my wife,” Steve managed, his voice rough, low, the words dragged out with effort. “She’s… my wife.”

Your breath left you in a quiet, unsteady exhale, something in your chest loosening all at once.

He remembered you. He knew who you were. 

He was still your Steve. 

The doctor gave a satisfied nod, jotting something down. “Good,” he said simply.

He closed the chart with a soft snap and looked back at Steve.“For today, I think that’s enough,” he continued. “We’ll run more tests tomorrow. For now, the most important thing is that you rest. Try not to tire yourself out.”

Steve gave the faintest nod, his eyelids already starting to droop again.

“You’ve been very lucky, Mr. Harrington,” the doctor added. Then he stepped back, exchanging a brief glance with you before he turned and made his way toward the door, the nurse following closely behind.

After a second, the door closed softly and the room fell quiet again.

For a moment, you didn’t move. A small part of you hesitated, suddenly aware that you were alone with him again. You weren’t sure what to do. How to act. Or what came next.

You swallowed slowly, then turned back toward him.

Steve was already looking at you.

You took a small step closer. Then another. Careful. Almost unsure.

“Hey…” you said softly, your voice quiet. “How do you feel?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on yours, steady despite the exhaustion behind them. Then they fluttered shut for a brief second — too long — before reopening abruptly, like he was checking that you were still there.

“…okay,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper, each word slow, heavy. “Just… tired.”

The effort it took him to speak was evident in the way his breathing hitched slightly afterward.

You nodded gently, your expression softening. “Yeah,” you murmured. “That makes sense. You should try to get some sleep.”

He shook his head almost immediately, though the movement was weak, unsteady. His eyes were already half-closed.

“But… Don’t… want to.” The words came out uneven, dragged between breaths.

Your hand moved instinctively, brushing lightly over his forehead, fingers threading gently through his hair. “Hey,” you said softly, almost a whisper. “It’ll help. You heard the doctor — you need to rest.”

At your touch, some of the tension in his face eased a little. His eyes opened once more, slower this time, searching for you. “Will you… be here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, fragile. He swallowed after, like even that had taken effort. “When I wake up…”

The question lingered between you.

For a second, you didn’t answer. Your chest tightened, your gaze flickering over his face — taking him in like you were trying to memorize him, or maybe reassure yourself that he was really there. Your eyes filled with tears. Then you nodded.

“Of course.”

You hesitated for just a fraction of a second before adding, softer. “I’ll be here.”

His eyes stayed on you for another moment, like he was holding onto that answer, before the weight of exhaustion finally pulled him under. His grip loosened, the eyelids drooped and his breathing evened out again, slow and steady. 

You remained where you were, your hand still resting lightly against him, your thumb absentmindedly brushing against his skin.

-

Sometime in the middle of the night, a strained sound pulled you out of sleep.

You were curled on your side on the small couch, one arm tucked under your head, the thin hospital blanket barely covering you. You frowned, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, before it came again — low, uneven. A quiet groan. Your eyes snapped open when you realized where it was coming from.

You pushed yourself up immediately, the blanket slipping off as you crossed the room in a few quick steps, barefoot against the cold floor.

“Steve?”

He was exactly in the same position you had left him but something was wrong. He was restless. His eyes were still closed but his expression was tense, brows drawn together. His jaw was clenched, and his head moved faintly from side to side against the pillow, like he was trying to shake something off.

Another strained sound left his lips.

Your stomach dropped. “Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you said softly, reaching him, your hand settling on his arm. “Are you in pain? Do you need me to call someone?”

He gave you no response. The only sound in the room was his uneven breathing. 

You leaned closer, your grip tightening slightly. “Steve?” you called again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing. 

You shook him gently, not wanting to hurt him, and then suddenly you stopped.

It wasn’t pain.

He was having a nightmare.

You moved your hand to his shoulder, about to wake him when his lips parted, a broken sound slipping out.

“…no…”

You froze.

“…wait…”

Your breath caught.

“…Kirsten…”

The name hit you like a shock. Everything in you went still. Your fingers loosened against him as you just stared, your chest tightening, your breath suddenly shallow.

For a second, you weren’t sure you had heard it right. But the name lingered in the space between you. Clear enough. Heavy.

Steve’s head shifted once more against the pillow — then stilled. His face relaxed. His breathing evened out, slow, steady, like whatever had held him had finally let go.

As if nothing had happened.

You didn’t move for a second. You swallowed, your throat dry, your chest tight as something unsettled twisted deep inside you. Then, slowly, you stepped back, your hand slipping away from him. You returned to the couch and lay down again, staring at the ceiling, your body tense, your mind completely wide awake now. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard it.

Kirsten.

Over and over again.  

You squeezed your eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

What had he been dreaming about? Why her?

Your thoughts spiraled before you could stop them.

Had he been remembering the night he had spent with her? Which part?

Had it meant something?

Your stomach twisted, almost making you want to throw up. You swallowed, trying to get rid of the nausea. You felt hurt in a way you didn’t quite know how to name.

The name echoed again.

Kirsten. 

Until, eventually, exhaustion pulled you under and you fell asleep.

-

Morning came quietly.

When you woke, it took you a moment to remember where you were. Your body felt stiff, your neck sore from the awkward angle you had slept in. The thin hospital light filtered through the curtains, pale and diffused, settling softly across the room. You blinked, still half-asleep, and turned onto your other side — the one facing Steve’s bed. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows to check on him.

He was still asleep. 

His breathing was steady, his face relaxed, peaceful. You let yourself fall back against the couch with a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds before finally forcing yourself up.

You moved slowly, careful not to make noise, and reached for your bag. From it, you pulled out a change of clothes and your small toiletry pouch. Before heading to the bathroom, you glanced at him again. Only then did you slip inside and close the door softly behind you.

The cold water helped you to wake up completely. Then you brushed your teeth and changed into a pair of jeans and a white blouse, leaving the top buttons undone. You braided your hair with quick, practiced movements, your reflection staring back at you — pale, tired, like you had aged years in just a few days. 

For a brief second, your mind betrayed you and Kirsten’s image appeared before you with her perfect hair and flawless make-up, put together in a way you didn’t feel right now. Your jaw tightened as Steve’s voice, whispering her name, echoed again in your mind. 

Your stomach dropped. 

Your gaze shifted back to your reflection. Then lower. To your body. A body that suddenly felt… wrong. Defective. While Kirsten was everything you didn’t feel like in that moment. Younger. Pretty. And probably fertile. 

The thought landed sharp and heavy, tightening your throat.

Maybe Steve had seen it too that night. He must have looked at her and found her beautiful. Maybe he had seen something easier in her. Simpler. Someone who didn’t come with defects. Unlike you.

You swallowed.

Was that why he stayed?

Before you could spiral further, you reached for your makeup and started applying it with more focus than necessary. Controlled. Precise. Like it could fix something. Or at least hide it.

When you stepped back into the room, your eyes lifted instinctively to him.

Steve was awake, propped slightly against the pillows now, his posture still weak, shoulders slouched. 

You froze for half a second. “Hey… you’re awake,” you said after a moment, a little too quickly, a hint of surprise slipping into your voice. You gave him a small smile. 

He didn’t look away. “You’re here,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure of it. Like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.

Something in your chest shifted. You set your pouch down on the couch and moved closer, your your steps first quickly, then slower, more careful as you approached his bed. 

“Yeah, of course I am. I just — I went to freshen up a bit,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. “You know… look somewhat presentable. I haven’t exactly been at my best these —”

“You look beautiful.”

The words came without hesitation.

You blinked, caught off guard. Your mouth parted slightly, whatever you had been about to say dissolving before it could take shape. For a second, you just stood there, a little stunned — then a small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips.

There was a brief pause.

“Well…” you cleared your throat lightly, your gaze briefly dropping before lifting back to him. “You don’t look that bad yourself, all things considered.”

There was a hint of amusement in your tone, an attempt — gentle, careful — to ease the tension. But inside you the anxiety was eating you up. 

You stopped beside the bed, suddenly aware of how close you were.

“How are you feeling?” you asked, softer now. “Did you sleep okay? Are you in pain?”

It felt strange standing there or talking to him after everything. Not in a bad way. Just strange as the last conversation you had shared still hovered somewhere between you, unspoken but present. Like an echo neither of you could quite shake. 

And there was the distance too. Not physical. But more like you were both trying to find your footing without knowing where the ground was. 

Steve hesitated. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he answered. “I’m… okay, I think,” he said, his voice still rough, low from disuse. “A little sore. But… I guess it could be worse.”

He shifted slightly against the pillows, the movement slow, careful. His eyes drifted briefly around the room, as if grounding himself. Then back to you.

“I—” he started, then paused, like he had to gather the energy for the question. “How long was I out?”

“A week.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. His lips parted slightly. “Oh.” 

Then, he nodded faintly, his gaze dropping for a second as he processed it, shoulders sinking just a little deeper into the pillows.

For a moment, the room fell so quiet you could hear just your own breathing, your heartbeat loud in your ears.

You sat down on the chair beside his bed, leaving a careful distance between you. 

It felt wrong. Being this close to him — in the same room, within reach — and not touching him. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap, fingers laced together as if that alone could keep you still. Because part of you wanted to move closer. To reach for him. To take his hand, feel the warmth of his skin, reassure yourself that he was real. 

But you didn’t and stayed where you were.

“Do you… remember anything?” you asked after a moment, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “About the accident, I mean.”

Steve lifted his gaze to you. For a second, he just looked at you — like he was trying to read something in your expression, something you weren’t saying. Then he shook his head.

“Not really,” he admitted. “I mean… it’s all kind of blurry. Pieces, maybe. But nothing that makes sense.”

You nodded faintly, though your mind had already moved ahead.

What else didn’t he remember?

Did he forget what had happened with Kirsten or the dream he had last night?

“I think I… had too much to drink,” he continued, slower now, as if choosing each word carefully. “The last thing I can clearly recall is being in the car and—”

He stopped. His expression shifted almost instantly. His eyes flickered, unfocused for a second, his face tightening, the color draining slightly from it as if something had just clicked into place. 

You leaned forward in your seat without thinking. “Hey—hey, what is it?” you asked quickly, the edge of panic slipping into your voice. “Are you okay? Does something hurt?” Steve blinked a few times, trying to steady himself, his breathing uneven for a moment. “No, I’m okay,” he said finally, though his voice came out rougher than before. “It’s just…Was anyone else hurt?”

The question caught you off guard.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“The accident,” he clarified, his voice tense now, more awake than before. “Was there any victim? Anyone—”

“No,” you interrupted gently but firmly, shaking your head. “There were no victims.”

He went still. For a moment, he just stared at you, searching your face — making sure. Then his shoulders dropped, a quiet breath leaving him, relieved. 

“Okay… okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, nodding faintly.

But you could see he was still tense. His gaze lowered briefly, his jaw tightening again as something else settled in.

“I just…” he started, then paused, swallowing. He dragged a hand over his face, slower this time. You could see it — the moment where he had to decide whether to say it or not. “I just remembered something,” he said finally, his voice lower now, heavier. “Something you should know.”

Your heart sank, even though you already knew what he was going to tell. Or at least, you thought you did.

Still, you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, giving him space to continue.

Steve dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, like he was trying to gather himself. Then his hand dropped, almost unconsciously, to his other one. His fingers closed around his ring finger, rubbing at the bare skin where his wedding band should have been. Back and forth.

“I…” His gaze slipped away from yours, fixing somewhere ahead of him, unfocused—like it was easier to look at nothing than at you. “I wasn’t alone.”

The words landed heavier coming from him, making everything more real. 

“There was someone else in the car with me,” he went on, his voice uneven, low. “A woman.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. Hearing it out loud from him made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Final in a way you couldn’t undo. 

You stayed still, silent and let him continue. 

Let him explain, Robin’s voice echoed clearly in your mind. 

“After… after our argument that night,” he continued, slower now, like he was piecing it together as he spoke, “I couldn’t go home. I just —” He shook his head faintly. “I didn’t want to be there. Not without you.” His eyes flickered briefly toward you, then dropped again almost immediately. “I needed to get out. To not think for a while. I was…” He exhaled sharply. “I was a mess. Angry. Tired. Everything at once. And I didn’t —” He swallowed, dragging in a breath, like even saying it out loud cost him something. “I didn’t want to be alone.” 

You lowered your eyes to your hands, your fingers curling slightly into your palms.

“So I went to the Hideout,” he continued. “Just to have a drink. But… Instead, I ended up having a few.”

A humorless breath left him.

“And that’s where I met her.”

He let his head fall forward, his hands coming up to his face as if the memory itself was too much. 

“She—” he started, then faltered. “She asked if she could sit.”

A brief silence stretched between you. 

“I… I knew what she was really asking for. What she really wanted,” he admitted, dropping his gaze. “And I know that it’s not really an excuse but… I felt so alone.” His voice edged with something close to shame. He swallowed, eyes briefly closing. “I thought a little company wouldn't hurt. So I let her sit next to me.” A small pause, like even saying it felt wrong. “We started talking. And she… started flirting.”

His fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheet, the fabric wrinkling beneath his grip. 

“I should’ve left,” he muttered. “I know that. I should’ve gotten up and walked away.” A pause. “But I didn’t. And I didn’t stop her,” he admitted, voice lower now. 

Your breath caught quietly in your chest.

“I stayed. I kept drinking and she kept—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “We kept talking. She started touching my arm, laughing at everything I said. She… she listened to me like it actually mattered.”

You stayed still while a sharp, uncomfortable heat spread through you — jealousy, immediate and instinctive. The image formed before you could stop it: her sitting next to him, leaning in, smiling, touching him like she had any right to. And this time it felt so much worse. Because it wasn’t just something your mind had made up. It was real. 

Your jaw tightened.

You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the idea of another woman sitting that close to your husband, touching him, thinking she could have him. Especially knowing he was married. It irritated you more than you wanted to admit, a quiet, persistent anger settling under your skin. Who she thought she was? But she wasn’t the first to act like that. Steve had always been the kind of guy girls noticed. The one they looked at a little longer than necessary. Even now that he was married. Women still flirted with him like it didn’t matter. Like the ring on his finger meant nothing — or worse, like it wasn’t even there. You had seen it before and every time you had brushed it off, not at all worried. You knew Steve wasn’t interested. That he didn’t care about them. But this was different. Because this time… he had stayed. He had let her flirting. 

In any other moment, you would’ve snapped and asked him why. Why he hadn’t walked away. Why he had stayed. But the questions died before they could reach your lips. Because you already knew the answer. Or at least part of it.

Your fingers pressed harder into your palms.

You had pushed him there. With your words. Your choices. The things you had said that night. You had told him to move on. To find someone else. And maybe in the end he had listened to you. 

Steve dragged a hand through the bandage covering his hair, clearly unsettled now.

“And it felt good for a minute,” he exhaled, almost bitterly, dropping his gaze. 

For a second, you forgot how to breathe. The words hit deeper than anything else. Your throat went dry, your pulse quickening as something fragile inside you shifted. You swallowed, slowly, painfully. You wanted to ask him what he meant. What kind of good. And how far it had gone. But the words wouldn’t come out. They stayed lodged in your chest, tangled with everything else you were feeling — jealousy, guilt, fear. 

How good Kirsten had made him feel? Better than you?

“Everything you said that night kept… echoing in my head,” he added more quietly. “About moving on. About finding someone else.” He let out a short, humorless breath. “And I don’t know if I was trying to prove something, or just —” He hesitated. “Or just stop thinking about you for five minutes.” Another pause. “Maybe I just wanted to see if I could do it,” he admitted, voice rough now. “If you were actually right and I could… move on as you had said.”

His gaze dropped, sighing.

“It’s stupid. I know, ” he muttered. “But I wasn’t really thinking. Not clearly, at least.”

Silence fell again, heavier than before.

“I should’ve left,” he repeated under his breath. “But I didn’t.”

He swallowed.

“And then…” His voice faltered, uncertainty creeping back in. “I — she — we —”

Frustration flickered across his face as the memory slipped out of reach again.

“Jesus… I… I don’t remember,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s all messed up in my head.”

He let out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “I — I don’t even remember her name.” A hollow laugh slipped out, but there was no real amusement in it. “I swear, I don’t,” he added quickly, almost desperately, like he needed you to believe that. As if that detail changed anything. As if it made things better. “I don’t remember.”

He sounded wrecked. Ashamed.

You couldn’t look at him. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, your focus dropping to your hands resting in your lap. For a second, you just sat there, breathing through the tightness in your chest. You squeezed your eyes, hard. 

Then, barely above a whisper. 

“Kirsten.”

Steve turned toward you, his brow furrowing. “What?”

You lifted your gaze to him, quickly brushing the tears from your cheeks with the back of your fingers. “Kirsten,” you said quietly. “The girl. That’s her name.”

A beat.

“Wait—” His confusion deepened, something sharper slipping in right after. “How… how do you know that?”

“She —” You cleared your throat and went on. “She came here. A few days ago. While you were still in a coma.” You paused, watching his reaction carefully. “She wanted to see how you were. And we… talked. She told me everything, Steve.”

Silence fell over the room.

For a second, Steve just stared at you, like he hadn’t fully understood. Then something in his expression shifted — confusion twisting into something closer to panic. He shook his head once. Then again. Faster.

“Wait—no, I— I don’t know what she told you, but I—” His voice stumbled over itself, his breathing picking up. “We didn’t— I mean—” He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair, careful around the bandage. “I swear to you, nothing happened. At least— I don’t think it did. I would remember that,” he added, almost to himself, his voice faltering.

His eyes searched yours, desperate now.

“My memories are messed up, okay? I told you, they’re not clear, but I wouldn’t—” He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. “I couldn’t. Not to you, not—” He broke off, frustrated, dragging a hand down his face. “I mean, yeah, maybe I— I might’ve flirted a little, I don’t know, I was drunk and pissed and not thinking straight, but I wouldn’t—”

He stopped, breath uneven, clearly spiraling, trying to fill in the gaps before they could turn into something worse.

You couldn’t help it.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

You tried to hide it, pressing them together, but it was there. 

He was unraveling in front of you, so visibly shaken, so desperate to explain himself, to fix something he wasn’t even sure he had broken.

When you were the one who had broken everything. 

It did something to you. 

“Steve,” you said, a little gentler now, but still firmly.

But it seemed like he didn’t hear you. 

“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t — I mean, I don’t think I did, I wouldn’t just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head again. “God, I sound like an idiot, I just— I need you to know that I would never—”

“Steve,” you repeated, louder this time. 

He stopped, meeting your eyes.

“Stop,” you added. “I know everything.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then his expression shifted — tight, uncertain, almost bracing for impact. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, like he was already preparing for whatever version of the story he thought you had heard.

You could see in his face — the fear, the guilt, the way he was already punishing himself for something he wasn’t even sure he had done. 

Your gaze dropped briefly, your fingers fidgeting restlessly in your lap. You drew in a slow breath, trying to keep the composure you had been holding onto since the beginning of this conversation. You glanced around briefly, your eyes unfocused as the memory of your conversation with Kirsten surfaced — clear, vivid, like it was happening all over again. You remembered every single word she had said, very detail. 

You let yourself fall back into it as you told Steve everything.

-

You swallowed hard. “Sorry for what, exactly?” you asked after a moment, your voice firm, cold, already bracing yourself for the worst.

Kirsten’s gaze shifted between you and Steve, lingering on him for just a second longer. There was hesitation in her eyes, like she wasn’t sure where to begin or what to say. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, unsteady.

“The accident,” she said, her words catching in her throat. “I… I’m so, so sorry.”

You blinked, your brows furrowed. 

Her composure broke almost immediately. A soft sob escaped her, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as if she could stop it. “I—I’m not very good at driving,” she went on, her voice trembling, uneven. “And it was raining… it was raining so hard. There was water everywhere. I could barely see the road and then —” She shook her head quickly, sighing, like the memory overwhelmed her. “Everything happened so fast.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue.

“I’m really sorry. Truly. It was my car. I was driving.” Her hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward Steve’s unconscious body on the bed. “This should’ve happened to me. Not to him.”

You frowned, confusion settling in, pushing past everything else. 

Her words didn’t match the story you had been building in your head.

She let out a shaky breath, noticing your expression. “If I just… If I hadn’t offered him a ride, maybe he’d be fine right now,” she added, quieter now, guilt laced through every syllable. “It’s just that —”

You interrupted her, unable to hold it in any longer. “Wait — what?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. “I… I don’t understand. A ride? To where?”

Kirsten blinked, startled by your reaction.

“To you,” she said, more cautiously now. “He wanted to come back to you.”

You stared at her, your heart skipping a beat. The confusion only deepened, your mind struggling to keep up.

“To me?” You repeated, almost under your breath. 

“We were both at the Hideout,” she continued, trying to explain, her words still uneven but clearer now. “We were talking. Drinking. And at some point he started telling me about you.”

You held her gaze, trying to keep up. She paused, studying your face as if to make sure you were following.

“He talked about a fight you had had earlier,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t say this but… he was a mess. He kept saying it wasn’t over. That you two still needed to talk. That he wasn’t going to let it end like that.” A faint, almost sad smile flickered across her lips. “He was… very determined. Drunk, yes, but determined.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“At one point, he just stood up,” she went on. “He started looking for his keys, saying he had to go. To you.”

You felt you breath catch. 

“But he wasn’t in any condition to drive,” she added quickly. “He was completely wasted. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He was so set on it.” She paused, glancing down at the floor. “And I don’t know…” She started saying. “It was kind of… romantic, in a way. Maybe a little desperate, too. But… romantic. The way he talked about you. The fact that he wanted to get back to you no matter what.” Her voice softened. “He looked so heartbroken. And I don't know… I think I felt sorry for him.” 

A quiet breath left her.

“So I offered to drive him,” she finished. “I figured… at least I could make sure he got there safely.” A faint, bitter exhale followed. “Besides,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “by then it was pretty clear I didn’t stand a chance anyway.”

Her gaze flickered back to Steve.

“And then… well.” She gestured lightly toward him, toward the hospital bed, the machines, the silence that surrounded him. “We — You know the rest.”

The room had fallen completely still after that, while your mind had been racing, trying to rearrange everything you thought you knew into something that made sense. 

There was one thought that kept surfacing, louder than the rest.

You looked back at her. “He… Steve was coming to me?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost fragile, even though you already knew the answer. But a part of you needed yet another confirmation. To be sure.

Kirsten nodded without hesitation. 

“Yes.”

That single word settled deep inside your chest, echoing in your mind. If Steve was trying to come back to you, it meant that…

He hadn’t been going somewhere else. Not to her. Not to anyone.

You dropped your gaze for a moment, your thoughts shifting, narrowing, until only one question remained. The one that had been haunting you from the very beginning.

You swallowed slowly before asking. “So… you and Steve… nothing happened?” Your voice faltered slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “At the bar. And after, in the car. It was just… a ride? That’s all?”

Kirsten nodded again, more firmly this time.

You felt like you could breathe again,  as if you had been underwater until that moment and was only now resurfacing. 

Kirsten let out a small sigh. “Look, I’ll be honest,” she said. “When I saw him sitting at the bar, alone, I thought…” She hesitated, a faint, embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “I thought I’d give it a shot,” she admitted. 

A brief pause.

“But I never really had a chance,” she added quickly.

You lifted your eyes to her again.

“Yeah, he was… polite,” she went on. “Charming. He listened to me, answered my questions. But when he started talking… he only talked about you.” She shook her head slightly. “And he wouldn’t stop.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I think I learned more about you than I did about him,” she added. “My wife this, my wife that… and always something good.”

Something in your chest tightened.

“Once we got in the car, he fell asleep almost immediately,” she added, a small, almost fond smile appearing despite everything. “Didn’t even make it five minutes.” She shook her head slightly. “But nothing else happened,” she said, more firmly now. “He didn’t even touch me. Not once.”

Her gaze held yours.

“You’re… very lucky,” she said quietly.

For a moment, you just stared at her. Then your eyes drifted to Steve, slowly. To the man lying in that hospital bed. The man who, even at his worst, even broken and drunk and hurting, had still chosen you. Even when it would have been so easy to let go, to give in, to choose something easier. Someone else. But he hadn’t. He had still tried to come back to you. 

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, followed by a soft smile. You shook your head faintly.

“No,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

You looked back at her.

“I’m the lucky one.”

-

A quiet settled in the room when you finished speaking.

Your eyes stayed fixed on Steve’s face, waiting for his reaction. You held your breath without even realizing it.

He didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted slightly, watching everywhere and nothing at the same time, as he tried to process every word, to fit it somewhere inside what he remembered. His eyes flicked to you. Then, after a moment, he spoke. “So… nothing happened?” His voice low, careful as if he wasn’t still sure. 

You shook your head slowly.

For a second, he just looked at you. Then his eyes closed, and a long breath left him — deep, shaky, like it had been trapped inside his chest for several minutes. His shoulders dropped as he sank back into the pillows, tension draining from his body, giving way to something softer. Relief. Pure, unfiltered relief. Like a weight had finally been lifted.

But it didn’t last.

His expression shifted again as his eyes opened, something heavier settling in their place, his gaze back on you.

“I’m sorry.”

You frowned immediately, blinking at him in confusion. “What? Steve, I just told you nothing happened—”

He shook his head, slower this time, certain. “Yes, it did.”

The firmness in his tone caught you off guard. There was no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty. Just quiet conviction. He swallowed, his eyes dropping to the blanket, fingers brushing absentmindedly against the fabric. 

“I still let her sit,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I knew what she wanted and I still— I didn’t stop it. I stayed. And I let her… flirt. And I…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time.

You swallowed, your eyes dropping to your hands as they twisted together in your lap. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said after a moment, your voice gentler. “Really. You don’t have to apologize.” A small pause. “I’m not even in the position… I mean… I was the one who told you to move on. To find —”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the chair.

“Yeah, but I never wanted that.” His voice cut through yours, sharper this time, tinged with frustration.

You looked up at him, surprised by his tone.

“And I don’t want it,” he added, more firmly, like he needed you to understand.

He dragged a hand through his hair, careful around the bandage, exhaling through his nose as he tried to steady himself. “I tried,” he went on after a moment, quieter now. “I tried to listen to you. To do what you said.” His gaze drifted somewhere ahead of him, unfocused. “To imagine it. Being with someone else. Seeing if I could feel something.” A small, bitter breath left him. “If it could be that simple.”

He let out a short, bitter breath.

“That’s why I talked to her,” he admitted. “At first, I thought… maybe.” He shook his head faintly. “But it wasn’t.”

Your chest tightened.

“But I couldn’t.” His gaze lifted, finding yours and holding it this time. “I was sitting there with her and all… all I could think about was you.” His voice softened, something raw slipping through. “About us. About how wrong everything felt. All of it. Being there, talking to her… even listening to her.” A small pause. “I didn’t want to be there. Not really. I wanted to be home. With you. I wanted to fix things. To talk to you. That’s all I wanted.”

The words settled between you, heavy and real.

“Being there with her…” he continued, slower now, like he was choosing each word carefully, “it just made everything clearer.”

You held his gaze, barely breathing. 

“I don’t want her,” he said. “Or anyone else.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

“I don’t need to try or imagine,” he added, his voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “Because I have you.” 

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“You’re the one I want,” he finished quietly. “No matter what.”

No matter if you could give him kids or not, you thought he wanted to say. 

You couldn’t speak, your breath catching in your throat. You remembered Nancy and Robin’s words. When they had said exactly the same thing. But hearing Steve pronounce them was different. More real. It wasn't just the words of two friends trying to comfort you anymore.

Your throat tightened, emotions rising too fast, too overwhelming to put into words. You dropped your gaze for a second, blinking rapidly as tears blurred your vision.

“Everything I said that night at Nancy’s house…” he continued, softer now, his voice rough with emotion. “I meant it. Every word.”

You swallowed hard, looking back at him.

“I meant it when I said it wasn’t over,” he added. “Not for me. And I think —”

A soft knock interrupted him.

The door opened before either of you could react, and a nurse stepped inside, pushing a breakfast cart, her presence sudden and almost jarring against the intimacy of the moment. You both turned toward her at the same time.

“Good morning,” she said with a polite smile, her voice gentle, professional. “Time to eat.”

You straightened slightly, forcing a small smile in return, but you could feel it — that lingering weight between you, the conversation left hanging mid-air. When you looked back, Steve was already looking at you again.

“We need to talk,” he said under his breath, just for you.

You nodded quickly. “I know,” you whispered. “I need to talk to you too.”

For a second, it felt instinctive to reach for him and close the distance.

But you didn’t.

You stayed where you were, your hands still, your fingers curling slightly into your palms instead.

“Later, okay?” You added after a small pause.

His gaze lingered on yours for a second longer, searching for any trace of doubt. Then he gave a faint nod, his jaw tightening just slightly before his attention shifted back to the nurse — who had just asked him something neither of you had actually heard.

-

But later never seemed to come. 

The moment you had promised each other kept slipping further away, pushed aside by one interruption after another. Right after breakfast, they had taken Steve for a series of tests. You had watched as they wheeled him out of the room, his hand slipping from yours at the last second, his eyes lingering on you like he didn’t want to let go. When he returned, the doctor followed with good news. Steve was responding well. The scans were clear and there were no signs of complications from the head trauma. He was officially out of danger. They would keep him a few more days, just to be sure, and then discharge him. You hadn’t realized how tightly you had been holding your breath until that moment. It left you all at once, a quiet, shaky exhale as relief settled deep in your chest, loosening something that had been knotted there for days.

Not long after, the room had started to fill with visits — first one person, then two, then more. Word had spread and now everyone wanted to see Steve. 

The energy in the room shifted completely. Where there had been tension and quiet before, there was Nancy’s calm voice, Robin’s unmistakable, relentless chatter and Dustin’s comments filling every corner of the space. Despite the bruises, the bandages, the lingering exhaustion, Steve seemed more like himself with every passing minute. He rolled his eyes at Dustin, muttered under his breath, pushed back weakly when the teasing got too much.

Dustin shook his head, arms crossed. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what?” Steve asked, already annoyed.

“That this is how you almost died,” Dustin said. “A car accident. Seriously, dude?”

Steve stared at him in disbelief. “I didn’t exactly plan it, Henderson.”

“Yeah, but you survived demogorgons and Vecna,” Dustin went on. “And then, boom! Seatbelt takes you out.”

“First of all, that’s not how seatbelts work! And secondly, that's not exactly how things went.”

“Still embarrassing,” Dustin muttered.

Steve let his head fall back against the pillow. “I’m not having this conversation.”

Everyone in the room burst out laughing, including you.

Anyone else, hearing words like demogorgons or Vecna, would have frowned in confusion. 

But not you.

You knew exactly what they meant. Steve had told you everything about the Upside Down, not long after you had gotten together. At first, you had thought it was some elaborate story to scare you or make you laugh. But then El had shown you what she could do and suddenly, nothing had felt impossible anymore. After that, things had started making sense — the way Steve had somehow become responsible for a group of kids, the looks they all exchanged sometimes, full of meaning you couldn’t quite grasp at the time, and their silences.

Your gaze drifted back to him. He was listening, nodding along, answering when he had to but every few seconds, his eyes found you again. Like a reflex. Like he couldn’t help it. Sometimes your gazes locked for a second too long, something unspoken passing between you before you were the one to look away, your cheeks warming despite yourself. Other times, he was the one to break it, turning back to whoever was talking to him, forcing himself back into the conversation. 

But you could tell he was waiting, watching for a moment alone with you. You had seen it more than once — him starting to say something when the room finally quieted, only for the door to open again, another voice cutting in, another interruption stealing the moment away.

Part of you was relieved for those interruptions. They gave you space and time to breathe, to think and to process everything that had already been said before adding more on top of it. Before addressing the conversation you had put on hold since before the accident. 

When the room became too full and the noise too much, you slipped out quietly, using small excuses — coffee, water, fresh air. But more than once, you found yourself standing in front of the vending machines without taking anything, staring blankly at the rows of snacks as your mind replayed his words.

I want you. No matter what.

You leaned your shoulder against the cold wall, exhaling slowly, your arms crossing loosely over your chest. 

Now that everything was clear — what had happened that night, what hadn’t — there was nothing left to question. No more misunderstandings to hide behind. No more reasons to put off the conversation you had left unfinished. The one you had been avoiding from the beginning.

You closed your eyes for a moment as the thought settled in your chest, quiet but undeniable.

The next conversation would matter. 

And it would change everything once again.

Maybe it would be even the last. 

-

The door clicked shut a few minutes past eight, and for the first time in hours, the room fell quiet.

You both exhaled almost at the same time, relieved, exhausted.

You were still sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your shoulders relaxing, when Steve’s voice broke through. “I thought they’d never leave.”

A small laugh slipped past your lips, soft, almost whispered. “What can you do? You’re basically a celebrity right now. Everyone wants to see…” You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “What was it they used to call you? King Steve?”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head against the pillow as he remembered his “glorious days” in high school. “Yeah… well, I don’t feel much like a king right now.” He hesitated. “Don’t think I ever really was.”

There was no bitterness in his voice. Just tired honesty. You pushed yourself up from the couch and walked toward the bed, slow. You stopped just short of it, leaving that small, careful distance between you.

“It’s been a long day,” you said gently, smiling. “You must be exhausted. Do you want—”

“I want to talk.”

The words cut through yours, firm but not harsh. You stilled. For a second, you just looked at him, as if to understand whether he truly meant it. 

And he did. You could see the determination in his eyes.

You took another step closer, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress, fingers pressing into the fabric as if to steady yourself.

“Now?” you asked, your voice softer, uncertain. “Are you sure? It’s late. We could —”

Steve shook his head. “No.” His voice was calm, but resolute. “I need to do this now.”

He shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing almost imperceptibly before settling again. His gaze stayed on you, steady despite the exhaustion written all over him. “I need to know that this —” his hand lifted weakly, gesturing between the two of you “— that this isn’t just… temporary.”

You swallowed.

“I need to know what happens when I get out of here,” he added, his voice dipping, rougher now, choosing each word with care. “I mean between us,” he clarified, his voice quieter. His eyes flickered over your face, studying you, trying to find an answer. “You’ve been here all day, barely leaving my side. And we —” He stopped, exhaling shakily, his gaze dropping for a second. “It feels like before. Like nothing changed. Like nothing happened.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the mattress.

“And I don’t know if it… if it is real,” he admitted. “Or if you’re acting like that just because I’m here like this.” His jaw tensed slightly, swallowing. “Because you feel like you have to.”

Your heart pulled tight in your chest. You shook your head almost immediately, a small, instinctive motion. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him it wasn’t true — that you really wanted to be there. For him. And not just because he was your husband. 

But Steve didn’t give you the time to reply and the words caught in your throat.

“I don’t want to assume anything,” he went on, his gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “I don’t want to think we’re okay if we’re not.”

There was no accusation in his voice — just careful, restrained fear.

“So I need to know,” he said, more quietly now, the words slower, “if this… if you being here… means we’re not over.” His voice faltered slightly. “Not even for you.” 

You swallowed.

“That you’re going to stay once I’m out of here,” he added, barely above a murmur. “Or if…” He swallowed, his throat working visibly. “If you’re just going to leave again.”

The words hung between you. Steve’s jaw tightened slightly, like even saying it out loud cost him something.

“Because I can’t do that again, I can’t lose you again,” he admitted, his voice stripped of everything but truth. “I need to know where we stand,” he finished, softer now. “Before I start hoping for something that isn’t there,” he added under his breath, almost more to himself than to you.

Your breath caught.

“Please,” he begged. 

The word was barely a whisper, but it hit you harder than anything else he had said. The tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill. Seeing him like that — so open, so vulnerable — broke through every last defense you had left, any resistance still intact. You swallowed hard, still feeling the weight of his words pressing against your chest. Then you nodded slowly.

“Okay… let’s talk.”

You moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down and turning slightly toward him. The distance between you was smaller now, but it felt heavier than it should have.

The room fell into silence.

You lifted your eyes to him, but dropped them almost immediately, your fingers fidgeting together in your lap as you searched for the right words. 

You cleared your throat softly. “There’s something you should know first,” you said, your voice low, hesitant. “Something I didn’t tell you this morning.”

Steve didn’t speak. He just watched you, waiting. His expression tightened slightly, like he already knew he wasn’t going to like what came next.

You lowered your gaze again, drawing in a slow breath. “After I talked to Kirsten… that day…” You hesitated, your lips pressing together for a second. Then, without softening it — “I called a lawyer.”

Steve’s eyes widened, his grip tightening around the bedsheets, the confusion visible in his hands.

Your fingers curled tighter together as you forced yourself to keep going, rushing on before he could say anything. Before he could think the worst. 

“I had already contacted him before the accident,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, a trace of embarrassment creeping in. “To start the divorce process,” you added after a brief moment of hesitation. 

You knew that confessing it wouldn't help your position. If anything, it might make things worse. But it seemed right to you that he knew. It was the least you could do, especially after he had told you the truth that morning.  

You looked up at him, almost cautiously, afraid of his reaction. 

He didn’t say anything right away but you saw the shift in his expression, the hurt in his eyes before he could hide it. His gaze drifted away from you, landing somewhere across the room, unfocused, nodding, like he was just processing what you had said. Then a breath left him — something close to a dry, humorless laugh.

“Right,” he muttered. “Thought of everything, didn’t you?”

The tone was light, but not enough to hide the hurt underneath. Enough to make your guilt grow. 

You closed your eyes briefly, shaking your head. “No… I didn’t,” you said, quickly, more firmly this time. “That’s exactly the point.”

When you opened your eyes again, you looked straight at him. “I thought I had everything figured out,” you went on, slower, more honest. “I thought I knew what I was doing. But I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I ignored many things. I ignored you. Your opinion. Your feelings. And it wasn’t right.”

Your hands shifted slightly against your knees, restless.

“That’s why I called the lawyer again,” you added, glancing away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “I told him to stop.”

Steve turned his head toward you sharply, caught off guard.

“What?” he asked, almost under his breath. “Stop?”

His grip on the sheets loosened slightly, though not completely. His eyes searched yours carefully. 

“Really?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I told him not to go through with it. Not to file anything.” 

You let out a shaky breath, your eyes dropping for a moment before lifting back to his.

“I messed up, okay?” you said, your voice unsteady. “I know that. And I’m… I’m sorry.”

The words came out before you could stop them—and once they started, they didn’t stop. “I shouldn’t have done what I did,” you went on, faster now, like you needed to get it all out before you lost the nerve. “I shouldn’t have made that decision on my own. Without talking to you first. Without even… asking you what you wanted.”

Your gaze dropped again, this time longer as shame crept in, heavy and undeniable.

“I kept telling myself that I was doing the right thing,” you admitted, a faint, bitter edge slipping into your voice. “For you. For both of us.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “But clearly…” you gestured weakly between the two of you, your throat tightening, “that’s not what happened.”

You pushed yourself up from the chair then, unable to sit still anymore. You started pacing slowly beside his bed, your arms wrapping around yourself for a moment before dropping again.

“And the worst part is…” you went on, your voice quieter now, more honest, “it wasn’t even really about you.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself, I told you that it was,” you said, turning slightly toward him. “But it wasn’t. Not completely, at least.” A pause. “I was just doing what I thought was right… for me.”

Your eyes stung, your vision blurring as you blinked quickly.

“Because I was scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. Your hands lifted, gesturing vaguely in front of you, restless. “Terrified, actually.” You started moving again, slower this time. 

“Scared that you’d stay with me… and then one day realize it was a mistake. That I was a mistake,” you said, each word heavier than the last. “And I didn’t want to be something you’d regret.”

Your arms crossed tighter over your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself together.

Steve shifted slightly on the bed. 

Your words had hurt him. 

“I could never—” he started, his voice low, tired, but you shook your head immediately, cutting him off before he could finish.

“You don’t know that, Steve,” you said gently, but firmly.

You sank back down onto the chair, your energy suddenly draining out of you all at once. 

“And it’s okay. Because none of us do,” you continued, softer at first. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow… or in a year… or five.” Your voice started to pick up again, less steady now.  "You could leave me one day,” you said, repeating Robin’s words, faster, more anxious. “You could stop loving me.” A small pause. “Or maybe I could be the one to change. To want something different.”

You let out a slow breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment before looking at him again.

“I don’t want that,” you added quickly before he could misunderstand your words. “Obviously. That’s not what I want at all.” Your lips pressed together briefly. “But it’s possible. Everything could happen.”

Silence stretched between you again, less sharp but just as heavy.

“I spent all this time…” you went on, quieter, steadier now, “focusing only on the worst possible outcome. On the idea that you’d end up unhappy. That you’d leave.” You shook your head faintly. “I never even considered the alternative,” you admitted. “That maybe you wouldn’t. That we might actually… be okay in the end.”

Your eyes softened slightly as you looked at him.

“That you might stay,” you finished.