Tis the damn season

The first thing you hear, besides the quiet hum of Duran Duran through the old speakers, is the sound of clattering cassettes to your left, where a very clumsy and very frazzled girl offers you and Steve a guilty smile.

You yell at yourself internally to move, to help her up, something.

“I can’t believe Keith said you were runner-up for employee of the month,” Steve huffs, but there's something fond in his tone. You file that information away for later – along with how much you hate it.

The girl stands up, dusting off her old jeans before offering you a small smile and turning back to face Steve.

“Well, let's face it, Stevie, Keith’s never gonna let anyone besides himself be employee of the month, so it hardly matters now, doesn’t it?” she snarks, and you push back a reluctant smile.

You gloss over her nametag briefly, Robin – it sounds vaguely familiar, maybe someone from high school you’ve tried to forget about. 

“So, who’s this?” Robin smiles, a knowing glint in her eyes as they flit between you and Steve, and it’s only now that you realize she probably saw your awkward interaction only a few moments earlier. 

Before you can say anything, Steve introduces you, giving Robin a dirty look that you must’ve seen a hundred times over by now.

The moment doesn’t last long, however, when a group of kids come rushing in, prompting Robin to go wrangle them before they can wreak havoc – at least more havoc than she has. 

Then, suddenly, like no time has passed, it’s just you and Steve again. “I uh, didn’t know if you were coming back this year,” he offers politely, but you can tell there's something else underneath it – sadness, hurt maybe. 

“Yeah, my parents asked me to since I couldn’t come back for Thanksgiving,” or spring break, or last summer. You wonder briefly if you’ve opened too much, made things a bit weirder than necessary; you were always good at that.

If Steve is shocked by your admission, then he doesn't show it, just perks up slightly like a puppy who's been thrown a bone. 

“Yeah, well, it’s been a busy year,” he offers, a small hint of laughter in his voice that makes you want to crawl out of your skin, because for once there's something going on in Steve's life that you aren't a part of. 

“I can tell,” you mutter, voice a tad more bitter than appropriate as you shove the VHS in your purse, “you been working here long?” you murmur.

“Yeah, since the mall burned down,” he offers, “It’s actually how I met Robin.” You feel your teeth grit together uncomfortably as you nod, fingers fiddling with your old car keys as you plan your escape from this conversation.

Steve, to his credit, doesn’t realize how that sounds until you're one foot out the door, having named some excuse about watching the neighbors' kids.

Something he knows isn’t true because ever since the ordeal with the Mind Flayer nearly two years ago, you haven’t had it in you to babysit anymore – the overwhelming fear of something bad happening again giving you perpetual anxiety, something Steve knows unfortunately well. 

It’s only when you’re driving away in your old sedan that Robin smacks him over the head with A Christmas Story, and they both watch as you tear around the corner.

“Dingus” is all she mutters as she retreats to the breakroom.

Yeah, he was, wasn’t he?

If I wanted to know who you were hanging with while I was gone, I would’ve asked you.

Your fingers feel cold, even through the pink woolly gloves that were softened from the years of wear. A snowball is clasped in your left palm as you creep around the side of the Byers' house, doing your best to keep the crunch of the snow silent under your feet. 

In fact, you’re sure you’re about to nail Steve in the back with it when you feel a presence behind you, causing you to lurch around and be met with four sets of wide eyes.

“Christ, you scared the crap out of me,” you whisper, looking down at Will, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas, who offer you knowing smiles, snowballs in hand. 

You immediately raise your hands, taking a cautious step back. “Wait, wait- I have an idea, don’t shoot,” you muse, and it’s Will – bless his soul – who takes pity on you.

“We’re listening,” he smiles, and you lean down to concoct perhaps your best plan as of late. 

Within the next 15 minutes, Steve Harrington is practically buried in snow as Mike and Lucas pelt him down, and you stand a few feet away, hand pressed against your mouth to stifle your laughter. 

The look of betrayal shot your way is quickly discarded with a shrug, “It was you or me, Harrington,” you offer unhelpfully.

You’re just thankful when Will and Dustin come running out, Jonathan's camera in hand as they snap pictures of the scene.

You give them 10 minutes before you help Steve escape, the snow burning your fingers as you dig him out, stifling laughter, the kids having gone inside after Nancy bribed them with hot cocoa.

“Traitor,” Steve mutters when he's finally free, but there's no real bite behind it. You’re about to respond when you feel him tug your arm, collapsing you onto the icy ground with him in a fit of screeching laughter.

“Steve- Steve, its cold,” you shout, eyes closed in laughter as you struggle against his warm hold, a stark contrast to the snow coating both of your sweaters and seeping through the thin denim of your jeans.

“Oh, really? I didn’t know,” he deadpans, leaning over you now as you’re pressed flat on your back, a gloved hand glossing over your cheek knowingly as he bites back a smile.

You feel your cheeks burn, but you’re still unsure if it’s because of the snow or the heat crawling up your face.

Steve, thankfully, offers you a small reprieve when he leans in, cold lips glossing over yours as you tug on his hair softly, leaning in as the chill of the air and snow are long forgotten. 

You only break apart when you hear the telltale sign of Lucas shouting, “Get a room!” from the kitchen window, causing you both to laugh.

You could get used to this.

There’s an ache in you put there by the ache in me

You’re glaring daggers at the VHS tape sitting on your old wooden dresser. You hadn’t even watched it yet, but you already wanted it gone – or maybe you just wanted an excuse to see Steve again.

You tear your eyes away from it, settling instead on your frosty windows, which reflect the snow falling outside in a flurry.

You feel a pull, deep and aching, to reach for the old pink phone sitting on your nightstand. The one with Steve's number programmed in. 

Your parents, despite clamoring for you to finally come home, are at a party tonight.

Not one you’d be interested in, of course. One with too strong eggnog and talks about local politics with the Wheelers, that undoubtedly, would’ve led you to be either frustrated or bored.

But still, it doesn’t ease the sting of having nothing to do on a Friday night. It’s only in moments like these, when you feel completely isolated from a place you once used to call home, that the memories start. 

Deep and raw, like something trying to crawl its way out of your chest, there is no reprieve. You don't even realize when you’re suddenly standing in front of your old bulletin board, eyes trained on the photos from a few years ago.

Even though the house is still, everything feels too loud. Blood rushing through your ears, the pounding of your heart that never seems to settle anymore, and the haunting voice of Steve Harrington like a metronome.

You and Steve cuddled up on the couch one warm summer night. You, Steve, and Dustin adorning matching ugly sweaters for his mom's holiday party. You and Nancy at one of the old photobooths at the county fair a few years back. You and Will, covered in flour after Joyce caught you two up late baking one night. Movie ticket stubs from the time Steve took you to see Star Wars: A New Hope. 

You and Steve lying in the snow outside the Byers' house, covered in ice crystals and lips locked together. 

You don’t even register your hand on the phone before it’s too late, the number pulling like muscle memory as you wait for the line to ring. You’re about to hang up, save yourself the humiliation when, on the third excruciating ring, a familiar voice picks up.

“Hello?” 

You feel your heart still, mouth moving, but nothing coming out besides shaky exhales as you search for the right words. 

“Hey,” you murmur, and it’s like you can feel the air being sucked out of the room. Your fingers tangle with the phone cable as you wait for a response. 

“Hey” Steve exhales, confusion masking his tone, but you can tell there's something else there. Maybe he realizes he’s said that already when he stumbles over himself again a few seconds later when you don’t respond.

“What- uh why are you calling?” he cringes at that, because what a ridiculous question to be asking when he’s trying not to scare you away.

You feel your fingers freeze, because the truth is, you don't know.

“Not that you need a reason, obviously, I was just-” he’s rambling now, and something in your heart warms a little. “Steve,” you cut him off.

“I just wanted to say hi. Is that- are you busy?” you’re overthinking it now.

God, who calls up their old fling when they’re back in town, this very well may be your worst idea yet – and you’ve succumbed to a lot of bad ideas in years past. 

“Busy?” Steve breathes out, and a part of you wishes you could see his face right now, feel out the situation before you dig yourself any deeper and bury yourself alive. 

Steve, on the other end of the line, is shooting daggers at Robin, who now sits on the couch in his living room holding a fresh bowl of popcorn.

“No, not at all,” he smiles, and ignores the eye roll Robin shoots him and the stray piece of popcorn that hits his back.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out. I know it’s getting late but-” “Our spot, 20 minutes?” he blurts out, not giving you a second to back out, because he knows you will if you think about it too long.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, a small smile gracing your face, “yeah, that's great.” “Great.” Steve’s smiling like an idiot when he hangs up, looking over at Robin, who is smirking at him knowingly.

“Don’t wanna hear it, we do this every week. We can miss one night,” he huffs, herding her off of the couch like a sheepdog as he scrambles around for his car keys on the coffee table. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, Steve. If it were Vicky, I’d ditch your ass too,” she huffs before snatching up the bowl of popcorn “I’m taking this, though. Consider it payment for wasting my time,” she smiles sarcastically, and Steve can’t help the way his chest tightens.

This is really happening. 

I'm staying at my parents' house, and the road not taken looks real good now

Our spot.

God, you haven’t heard that in what feels like forever. You don’t waste time getting dressed, slipping out of your worn sweatpants and into some old Levis and a familiar wool sweater. You debate on grabbing gloves too before peering out the window and deciding on a scarf instead. It was already getting dark. 

The drive to Hawkins High feels like moving through time. You pass the old diner you used to love, fingers clutching the wheel much tighter than necessary when you pass by the arcade you used to drop Will off at whenever Jonathan was busy.

You wonder if you should drop by and say hi, maybe bring some cookies to Joyce. 

You park your car haphazardly, the wind chill cutting through your confidence like a chainsaw as you lock your car and make your way over to the dark patch of grass that is the Hawkins High football field.

It feels smaller now, somehow.

You don't have time to dwell on it before you see a familiar figure standing a few feet from the bleachers. “Sorry, I didn’t really know what else was open this late.” Steve winces, jogging over in your direction

You just shake your head, stifling a small smile “This is perfect. Nostalgic” you muse, taking a seat underneath the bleachers, and everything feels too familiar now. Like nothing's changed.

Like you’re still spending every waking moment with Steve Harrington, splitting vanilla milkshakes at the diner, and rushing past flocks of people to catch the movie you two set out to see. 

It’s when you’re wringing your fingers together nervously, eyes locked on the scars that run up your exposed wrists and forearms, that you remember everything has changed.

You watched your 12-year-old neighbor get possessed by some interdimensional being, fought monsters you think could only exist in a sick person's nightmares with a baseball bat, and watched people you care for die right in front of you.

You remember the smell of death and the paralyzing fear of feeling utterly helpless while everything around you crumbles into smoke and ash. No, everything has changed.

You can feel the heat of Steve's stare as you freeze, pulling out your bag to dig around for the pack of Virginia Slims you keep in there on occasion. He doesn’t bat an eye as you light your own before offering him one, to which he politely declines. 

The smoke burns your lungs as you lean your head back slightly. “I missed you, y’know,” you offer weakly, and you’re not sure what gave you the confidence to say that, but you’re not so sure you should’ve when you see Steve's pained expression 

He doesn’t speak as he gently pulls the cigarette from between your fingers and takes a drag. He knows why you left, god, anyone who knew what happened could understand why you left. 

But, like all things, understanding doesn't make it any easier to accept. 

I parked my car right between the Methodist and the school that used to be ours

You weren’t scared to die. At least that's what you told yourself as you gripped a metal bat between your shaking palms.

The old school bus smelled like rot and metal as it creaked under your footsteps, Dustin, Lucas, and Max squished tight in the corner as you waited for Steve to lure out Dart.

This was a shit plan.

But even knowing that, you don’t hesitate when you notice the second demodog creeping up behind Steve, the bus doors flying open as you scream.

“Steve, MOVE” you shout, feet burning underneath you as you swing the bat, clattering it against the creature's face.

Well, one of the creatures, because the next thing you know, you’re surrounded on all sides, and trying to convince yourself that maybe death won't be so bad.

You feel the familiar warmth of Steve's back against yours as you both flit around the area, calculating how the hell you’re going to get out of this, if at all. 

And before you can blink, it’s a bloodbath.

There’s screaming, and growling, and you don't even know what's what before you start swinging like a mad woman.

You don't give your hands the chance to start shaking in fear before you’re beating one of them off of Steve's shoulder. The sick sound of teeth through flesh making you queasy in a way you’re wholly unused to.

Maybe that's why you don’t hear Max’s shrill scream as one of the demodogs sneaks up on you, its teeth ripping through the soft flesh on your left shoulder, dragging its way down to your wrist.

The bat, previously clutched between your hands, falls flat onto the wet grass as you scream. Tears burn your eyes as you try your hardest to kick it off of you, your left hand indisposed and your other reaching out for something, anything.

It must be a miracle, you conclude, that they all freeze before running off in some other direction. The lab.

You dont have time to think about the implications of it before Steve’s hunched over you, his own body coated in blood as he looks you over.

“Oh my god” he chokes out. The sleeve of your sweater is torn, soaked in blood, and caked in dirt as you lie there. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until you feel the excruciating pain of fabric being pressed against your wound.

“I know, honey, I’m so sorry” he whispers, using his own torn sleeve to press against your arm, soaking up the blood like a beach towel.

“Steve, where are the kids?” you choke out, vision blurred. He doesn’t say anything, wholly focused on figuring out what the fuck to do, before you're shouting.

“Steve, the kids. Where are the kids?” You’re heaving now, eyes frantically looking around before he calms you. “They’re alright. They’re still in the bus, they’re okay.” he assures softly, willing back his own tears because how the fuck can you be worrying about anyone else but yourself right now?

How could he worry about anyone else but you?

The holidays linger like bad perfume, you can run but only so far

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, eyes still trained on the scar on your wrist, which you already know without looking, leads all the way up to your shoulder like a cruel reminder

“For leaving the way I did” with no warning, you don’t say, but then again, you dont have to. 

He just shakes his head, blowing out smoke. “Don’t be. Maybe you had the right idea,” he murmurs, voice tinged with an aching mix of sadness and bitterness. Not at you, but at the entire situation because without that night, without all of what's happened, maybe he’d still have you.

You shake your head, shifting over to sit next to him now instead of in front of him, your head coming to rest itself on his warm shoulder.

“I just,” you whisper “I couldn’t bring myself to stay” you admit, wetness blurring your eyes and clinging to your lashes.

“I dont know why,” you do, everyone does, and it’s not something anyone could blame you for.

You’d gotten into the University of Chicago, far away from Hawkins, far away from everything that had happened. You could get out of here, start new. You had the option no one else did, and you took it. 

“I don’t blame you” he assures softly, because no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen Steve Harrington, he could read your mind with a single glance. I’m sorry. 

“I do.” you whisper, fingers rubbing at your eyes harshly before finishing off the cigarette. “I should’ve told you sooner,” not just two days before I left. 

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” you choke out, heaving as the familiar warmth of his arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest.

Steve doesn't flinch. Not because it doesn't hurt – it hurts worse than any wound he’s sustained in any fight – but because he knows.

He knows you’re sorry, that you never meant to hurt him or leave him behind. 

“It’s okay, I forgive you,” he shushes gently, pressing your head against his chest as you both settle quietly.

It’s the first hug you’ve had since you left all that time ago, but this time, it feels different.

I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave

In moments like these, it’s almost as if you can pretend you never left.

Steve’s bedroom is still the same as you remember, the same plaid wallpaper and car posters hung up, the same soft and worn blue bedsheets that you’ve spent so many nights tangled in.

The only difference, however, are the photos that line his walls now. There are some old ones of you that’ve held a permanent spot in his room since they’ve been pinned, and there are some new ones, too.

“Oh god, is that a sailor outfit?” you shriek in laughter, arms wrapped around yourself as you stand in nothing but his oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties.

Steve, who’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom next door, chokes on his spit before shaking his head. 

“Long story,” he mutters before you burst out laughing. “No, the long story was you telling me that you fought evil Russians and burned down the mall. The one I never even got to go to, by the way,” you grumble playfully. 

“You said you worked at an ice cream shop,” you smirk, peering your head into the bathroom.

“Yeah, well, it was called Scoops Ahoy-” you’re a fit of laughter before you can contain it, your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle the sound.

You think you may very well feel tears burning in your eyes as you hold the picture between your thumb and forefinger.

You wonder briefly if he’d notice if it went missing, maybe you could slip it in your suitcase when you leave.

“Oh my god, this is gold” you laugh before you see the familiar quirk of Steve's brows – a telltale sign he’s plotting something. You’re spinning on your heels and hightailing it back into his room before you feel his arms wrap around you.

“Oh really? is it?” he laughs, plucking the picture from your fingers and setting it on his dresser before he pushes you onto the bed playfully. He’s caging you between his arms, the familiar scent of his aftershave filling your head as you gaze up at him with bright eyes. 

You nod teasingly, eyes zoned in on him as you take in his carefree expression. He looks pretty like this. Steve, ever the observer, takes quick notice as a smirk makes its way across his face.

“Well, even in a sailor outfit, I looked great,” he doesn’t truly believe that, but it doesn’t really matter because right now, all you both can think about is how close you are.

You’re not sure who leans in first, maybe it was you. Scratch that, it was definitely you. But it doesn’t matter because it feels like home, the way Steve’s warm lips meet yours.

The way his hand trails lower to brush across your side gently makes you shiver, and the way the deep groan in the back of his throat has you clenching your thighs.

Yeah, you definitely missed this.

He’s trailing his lips down your neck now, biting gently as he pulls soft whines from your throat. Your arms are bracing his biceps, which are hard and secure and comforting in a way that’s indescribable.

His warm hands shift away from your sides and instead slide underneath your – his – shirt, swiping gently underneath your breasts. They’re warm and gentle as they splay themselves across your body, a contrast to the burning feeling of his lips on your neck.

You turn your head slightly, eyes catching the familiar photo of you and Steve from a few years ago, a Christmas tree strapped onto the top of his maroon beamer, sitting perfectly on his nightstand.

Like it belongs there, like that’s its home.

We could call it even, you could call me babe for the weekend

You definitely didn't think this through.

You’d just wanted to do something nice, and now you were standing in a Christmas tree farm with Steve – who has an old saw in hand – while you searched for the perfect tree. 

“And why couldn't we have picked one that was already cut down?” he asks incredulously, looking at you with a quirked brow. 

You huff, pulling on your wool gloves as you walk around, Steve following you like a lost puppy. “Because those ones aren’t as special. You have to pick one from the heart,” you muse.

It was five days before Christmas, so the options were slim, but you were nothing if not determined. 

“I thought you already had a tree?” “I do.” you offer unhelpfully, ignoring the way Steve trails after you when you’re lost in thought.

Steve stops in his tracks, watching as you circle a pretty six foot Douglas fir. “It’s for Joyce. I went over to drop off a casserole my mom made, and they didn’t have one.” You frown, looking over the tree for a tag.

Steve stills for a second, his eyes trained on you. If it were anyone else, maybe he’d have pushed, but he knew how much the Byers meant to you – they were like a second family. He supposes he can't really blame you, he remember show distraught you were when Will first went missing.

It wasn’t something you talked about. Ever.

“I want Will to have a nice Christmas,” you whisper, looking at him with a small smile “I think this is the one,” you hum, gesturing for Steve to get to work. And if you were anyone else, he’d undoubtedly tell you to shove it and do it yourself, but then again, you weren't anyone else, you were you. 

After sawing until his fingers burned, the tree was finally cut and tied up, ready to be transported.

It took you both 15 minutes to anchor the tree onto his car, Steve wincing only twice when the branches scraped against the paint on his precious BMW.

When you settle in the car, Steve's sure he would do anything in the world to get you to smile like this all the time. You were in a fuzzy pink sweater and some worn denim, hands ringing excitedly as you reapply some cranberry lip smacker in his rear view mirror with bright eyes.

You’re so pretty like this that Steve doesn't even mind the scratches on his car or the way mud from the field is caked onto his tires and paint.

It’s nearly dark by the time you reach the Byers, having passed your own house a few minutes ago, and he swears he’s never seen you look so happy when you take in Will’s face and Joyce's soft “Thank you”.

“Come in, have some cocoa” she offers kindly, leading you both inside the warm house as you watch Will and Mike decorate the tree together, Jonathan snapping some pictures as Joyce and Hopper sit together in the kitchen.

For the first time, Steve understands why this feels like home. 

Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

When you see Joyce for the first time since you’ve been back, you’re overjoyed because, for once in her life, she looks well and truly happy. 

She gasps when she sees you, crushing you into a hug as she leads you inside, Steve hot on your tail.

You can tell from the plethora of bikes outside that all of the kids are here, and your heart lurches for a second at the thought of seeing them again. 

They’re older now, what if they’re mad that you left – what if they don’t understand? Or worse, what if they do and think you’re selfish for it.

You’re about to drop the homemade cinnamon rolls you brought when you see Will and Dustin peek around the corner, smiles beaming once they notice you, and suddenly, the worry is forgotten.

“Be careful” she warns the boys as they run up to you, Lucas, Mike, Max, and El right behind them as Steve takes the tupperware from your hands with a soft, encouraging smile.

“Hey guys, long time no see huh?” you laugh, and it’s a cacophony of voices talking over each other.

“Its been forever-” “how’s school-” “I can’t believe you left us with steve-” “did you hear about the mall-” 

You just laugh as you sit down on the couch, taking in each of them one by one.

They don't look so little anymore, and it pains you to remember that they aren’t the same little kids you’d risked your life protecting a few years ago. 

A part of your heart aches at that; it’s been so long. But the other part soars at how grown they’ve become now.

You listen to all of their stories as you lean against Steve on the couch, and it’s like you're stricken with a sick sense of deja vu. 

It’s only a few hours later, after the kids begged for a sleepover – the boys in Will's room and Max and El back at Hopper’s newly rebuilt cabin, that you’re alone with Joyce.

Dustin had dragged Steve into the bedroom about thirty minutes ago, which meant it was finally time to answer the question Joyce had been holding in since she first saw you.

“So, what's going on with you and Steve?” she smiles, a knowing look in her eye. You’d already caught up about everything else in your lives – including a conversation about the Mind Flayer’s return that nearly sent you into a heart attack. 

“Nothing, we’ve just been hanging out since I’ve been back,” you defend, a small smile worming its way across your face.

“uh-huh, right” she smirks, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Sweetheart, you know you can always talk to me,” she offers, and you feel a piece of your heart crack because you know that. Joyce has always been motherly, a part of you wonders if it’s been programmed into her blood.

“I just,” you breathe out, “I didn’t realize how much I missed him, how much I missed home” you smile nervously, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Well, to your credit, it didn’t feel much like home for a while there. Even I considered leaving for a bit,” she offers, and you nod. “Steve told me about that. I'm sorry I didn’t call,” you murmur, voice laced with guilt, but she just waves you off.

“You dont need to apologize, honey, I was happy for you. We all were, even Steve.”

“Really?” you ask, a hint of insecurity in your voice, and she nods, a smile on her face.

“I’m scared,” you admit softly, taking a sip of the hot liquid, “I’m scared that the more time I spend here, the more time I won't want to go back,” you admit. 

You’d always known you’d go to college, it was what your parents wanted for you, and you enjoyed learning, but after everything that happened, it became less about wanting to go and more about finding the easiest escape.

Maybe if you’d thought about it longer, you would’ve picked somewhere closer.

“I know it’s hard, but you just have to trust yourself,” she smiles, her warm hand clasping over yours.

“And if you and Steve do want to continue this,” she says slowly, ignoring the way your cheeks heat in protest, “If anyone can make it work, it’d be you two.”

“He hasn’t” asked me to stay, asked me to try again “told me what he wants,” you whisper, but Joyce can see right through you. 

“He doesn’t want to influence your decision, he just wants you to be happy.” she supplies softly, and all you can do is nod as you watch the liquid swirl in your cup.

You dont even notice the tears blurring in your eyes until she wraps her arm around your shoulder “I think this is something you two should talk about. Y’know, before you leave again,” she smiles softly, and you nod, pressing your face into her shoulder.

You don’t move until Steve enters the living room again, a soft smile on his face as he whispers that the boys have finally gone to sleep.

Joyce smiles as she walks you both out, giving you a tighter hug than normal before she closes the door, like she knows you need it.

The drive back to your house is filled with comfortable silence and Steve’s warm hand on your thigh.

I won't ask you wait if you don't ask me to stay

You’re halfway through your second load of laundry when Steve, who's lounging on your bed, head resting on your giant stuffed bunny, holds up a photo that makes your breath catch.

Its a photo of you from a few months ago with some friends from school. It was Halloween, and you were dressed as Lisa from Weird Science, a red solo cup in hand, in the middle of some party.

You didn't realize you brought that, it must have fallen into your suitcase back at the dorm.

“And why have I never seen this?” he laughs, eye flitting over the photo, and for once, you don’t know how to answer the question.

“I didn't mean to bring that,” you laugh quietly, but there's something else behind it. You never talk about your college friends with Steve, mostly because that's exactly what they are, college friends. 

Friends you hang out with when you dont want to go to the dining hall alone, or when you want to split a taxi to a party. They weren’t like Nancy, or Barb, or even Jonathan. 

That didn’t mean you didn't like them, of course, but it felt weird to talk about them to someone who already knows you better than anyone.

It feels even weirder to know that you have to go back to them after having spent the last few weeks around people who actually did know you – around Steve. 

It’s not that the people at school didn't want to be close with you, if anything, it was your own fault. You didn't talk about home, especially when you first got there, trying your hardest to push away the horrors of your past and start anew.

A part of you thought Hawkins would be tainted forever, that you’d never be able to stay a night here without the plaguing nightmares, without the memories.

So you put all of it in a box and locked it, tucking it far away from where anyone new could open it. Because, as far as you were concerned back then, none of it mattered anymore. You weren't coming back.

Now though, only after you’ve come to the life-altering realization that the life you used to have wasn’t as gone as you’d thought, do you regret that.

Because that means you really do have to prepare to say goodbye to the little slice of heaven you’ve curated these past few weeks.

That you have to say goodbye to Steve.

So I'll go back to LA and the so-called friends who'll write books about me if I ever make it, and wonder about the only soul who can tell which smiles I'm fakin

Steve calls you the next morning. You dont answer.

And the heart I know I'm breaking is my own

The sharp knock on the front door fills you with the type of dread that chills your body to its core, festering underneath the skin like something immovable. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised, it’s a predictably unpredictable move on Steve's part, and your heart almost warms at the familiarity of it all. almost

You’re about to pretend no one’s home. The lights are all off in the house, save for the TV, your car’s parked in the garage, and the frost from the raging snowstorm outside would be enough to cover any noise.

Oh god, the snowstorm. 

You’re scurrying off the couch before you can help it, swinging the front door open to reveal a very cold, nearly frostbitten Steve Harrington.

“Oh my god, Steve” you whisper, mouth agape as you pull him inside, eyes flitting over him like a worried mother. You wonder if this is how Joyce feels.

“What are you doing here? There’s a blizzard, the weather station said to stay off of the roads until tomorrow-” “you leave tomorrow,” he points out, and you freeze.

“You leave tomorrow, and you’ve been avoiding my calls, and I needed to see you” Steve rushes out as he paces across your living room, hands raking through his hair. 

You want to say something, defend yourself, but he smells like aftershave and warm cinnamon, and it’s making your head dizzy.

“Steve, you shouldn’t have come. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” you whisper, hands rubbing themselves over your arms nervously as you stare down at your fuzzy socks.

“More dangerous than fighting evil Russians and demonic monsters?” he deadpans, and you roll your eyes, refusing to laugh.

“You know what I mean, Steve-” “No, don’t do this. Please, I dont think I can take it again,” he pleads, and it hits you like a knife twisting in your chest.

“I don’t know what to say,” what to do, you whisper, and it feels odd to admit something so vulnerable, something that a few weeks ago you never would’ve admitted to anyone.

You were supposed to know what to do, to take charge of things, to be prepared. 

He takes a step closer towards you, “Just tell me that we can talk about this, figure things out,” he murmurs, rubbing the soft skin of your arm with the cold pads of his fingers. “Steve, you’re freezing,” you whisper as you drag him towards the small kitchen, pulling out some tea bags and turning on the kettle. 

You two stand in silence, the sound of the boiling water cutting through the silence before you figure it’s probably your turn to speak up. “I’m sorry I missed your calls.”

It’s a stretch, you both know it. You were avoiding him, and you both knew why. 

“I just dont know how to do this,” you murmur, “I dont know how to say goodbye again.”

“Then dont,” he pleads, and its breathless and anxious and entirely honest in a way that wrecks you to your core.

“Please don't say that, you know I have to back.” and you also know that if he asked you to stay, you would.

“That's not what I mean,” he says carefully, “I know how much school and getting away from here means to you, I would never take that from you” he murmurs, voice raw and pleading in a way you’re not so sure you can bear.

“You aren't taking anything, Steve, I’m scared. I’m scared that I made a mistake by going.” Your chest feels tight now in a way you haven't felt in a long time – since you left – and it feels real.

He shakes his head adamantly, “You didn’t make a mistake by leaving, you made a mistake by not talking things out between us” he whispers, and it guts you so viscerally because he's right, and it’s also the same mistake you were about to make again.

“I just dont know what to do now,” you whisper weakly, the phrase coming out like repetition as you ignore the hum of the kettle and stare back at him, eyes dialed in on the way the stray bits of snow melt against his thick jacket.

“You dont have to figure it out alone, that's what you keep missing. I’m here, I want to help,” he's pleading now, and you wonder briefly how you’ve attracted someone with such undying devotion. 

You dont deserve it. Steve would disagree. 

“Steve, I think I love you,” you admit weakly, the familiar burn of nausea bubbling in your throat because this very well may be the first time you’ve actually been this honest in your entire life, and it terrifies you. 

Steve stills too, but for a different reason. Because knowing it, well and truly knowing that you love him, has filled him with something entirely new – hope.

“I love you, too, you keep missing that.” His voice is thick with emotion, but you can tell he’s trying to be playful, and you’re once again thankful for Steve Harrington's ability to break the ice.

His arms lock even tighter around you now, almost as if he's afraid you’ll suddenly disappear and take a piece of his heart with you.

“And if you think I’m letting you disappear again after you told me you loved me, then you have another thing coming,” he teases, but there's some vulnerability there, and it’s real.

“Steve,” you say, placatingly. 

“Y’know, Chicago isn’t that far, not like California or Utah,” Steve murmurs, his voice carrying a lilt that you know all too well.

He's plotting, you can tell by the way he outstretches his left hand to pour the steaming water into the two mugs you’d grabbed, dipping the teabags in with precision while still never letting you go. 

“Its still like a 3-hour drive, Steve,” you whisper unsurely, heart pounding because you don’t want him to jump into something just because you want it, no matter how selfish you want to be in the moment. You can’t do that to him again. 

“You’re worth it,” is all he murmurs offhandedly, but when you don’t respond, he furrows his brows and turns to face you.

“You’re worth it. You know that, right?” he whispers, like it physically pains him that you think you aren't worth a measly drive.

Because let's face it, Steve Harrington would drive to Alaska if it meant getting to see you. 

“It feels like every time I come into your life, I derail it somehow,” you whisper honestly, voice so thick it feels coated in molasses. “I don’t want you to agree to something you might regret.”

You feel the warmth of his fingers press gently underneath your chin, tilting your face up towards his “How could you ever think I could regret you?” he murmurs, and the honesty in his tone hits you at full speed.

“Steve, what I did- it was shitty, really shitty.” and I still haven't forgiven myself.

“You did what you had to do to protect yourself,” he clarifies, “and I’m not mad about that- I was never mad about that. I need you to know that,” he says seriously, but it just makes you want to cry even more because how could someone be so understanding.

“Did I miss you? Of course I did,” he breathes out, “but god, I always miss you. I missed you three days ago when I last saw you. I missed you two days ago when I heard from Dustin that you went for lunch with Nancy. I miss you when you’re sleeping right next to me in bed” he jests softly, but you can see the truth behind it. 

“And if you’d have told me then that you’d wanted to go to UChicago, I would’ve made it work – I would’ve called and planned visits. I still would, I still want to.”

“I know why you needed to leave, and I know ultimately that it was the right thing to do. But I also know, in my heart, right now, that you were meant to come back here and have this conversation so we can fix what happened,” he finishes, big brown eyes never once leaving yours, like he’s trying to anchor you down with just a look.

You feel your bottom lip tremble, willing the words that just won't seem to come out.

“Do you really believe that?” you whisper shakily, eyes flitting over his face, searching for any sense of fabrication – any sign that you shouldn’t get too comfortable. 

“More than anything.” he murmurs, and it carries a sense of finality to it that you’ve heard very few times.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, after a few moments of silence.

“I want to make it work, I want us to try.” you whisper finally, and the way Steve’s face lights up makes your chest ache in an entirely new way. You love it. 

You love it so much that you don't hesitate to lean in, pressing your warm lips to his like its a lifeline. Grabbing his hair gently, like you’re afraid he's going to disappear, you bring him impossibly closer, pressing your body into his before you break apart, breathless. 

“Well then, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he smiles softly, leading you towards your bedroom where your suitcases sit, half-packed, the tea on the counter long forgotten.

Steve, patient as ever, takes a seat on your warm bed, watching softly as you pack up your room once again and prepare for the long drive in the morning, but this time it’s not forever.

No, now forever is reserved for something else. 

“Not that I’m complaining, big fan of the outfit,” he adds slyly, and you can’t help the way your cheeks tinge with heat. 

You’d gotten all ready, slipping on some baby blue tights, and your old pair of cream-colored leg warmers – the ones you used to wear for ballet before you’d forced your mom to let you quit. You’d even bought a new leotard from the athletics store a few shops down the way.

Now, though, you just felt stupid.

“I just heard some girls talking about it” pretty ones, you don’t add, chewing on your lip instead as you gaze around the bland room. It had only been a few months since you and Steve started dating, a few months after he tried talking you up in the Scoops Ahoy line, and you nearly slapping him in the face because you thought he was playing a joke on you.

You weren’t ugly, or even unlikeable, by any means, but you were shy and lived the majority of your life with few friends and even fewer boyfriends. In fact, your Saturday nights throughout the years consisted mostly of watching over your neighbor's son while he played video games with his own friends. 

So god forbid you decide that maybe you should try something new – get out of your comfort zone. I mean, sure, Steve wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity these days, but he had friends. Even if they were years younger. 

It wasn’t even that you minded being alone, but it was the way you never really had much to do other than reading, listening to music, working, and occasionally sneaking your boyfriend through your bedroom window that made you wonder if maybe Steve was getting a bit tired of the lone wolf routine you were so accustomed to.

“Y’know if you wanted to get my attention, you could’ve just said so. Didn’t have to go hurting yourself,” he jests lightly, shoulder brushing yours to try and nudge the frown off of your face and soften the crease between your brows.

You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes as you lean your head back against the cold wall. “Yeah, yeah, don't get ahead of yourself, Harrington.” you tease, lifting your ankle off of the table and effectively knocking the ice pack off. 

It feels better, but the embarrassment still stings in a way something physical can’t. You should’ve just gone to the bookstore like you’d planned, picked up that new book you’d been eyeing the last time you were there. Would’ve saved yourself the humiliation and onslaught of self depreciation wiring its way through your chest.

“Hey, what's wrong?” he murmurs softly, eyes glossing over your face as his hand itches to brush across your cheek. Even after only a few months of dating, he could read you better than most people in your life.

“Nothing, I just” wish I liked more normal things so I didn’t have to resort to stumbling around like a baby deer on rollerskates, “wish I had better foot coordination” you muse, brushing off his worry with some cheap laughter as you pick at your nailbeds.

Steve, to his credit, can tell you're lying but doesn't push. Not yet.

He’d changed out of his uniform in the employee bathroom before you came in, and was now donning some worn jeans and an old t-shirt that made you feel utterly foolish that you didn’t bring a spare change of clothes.

He watches you eye him with a soft smile, reaching around to grab his Members Only jacket off of the table before wrapping it around your shoulders gently. “Lets get you home, sweet girl” he hums, offering up his hand to help you up – ever the gentleman. 

You nod, hair falling in front of your face in an attempt to cover the way your eyes soften at the nickname. You take his hand, only wincing slightly as you stand on your swollen ankle, and let him lead you out of the now nearly vacated mall. 

You’re just thankful the escalators are still running, because if you were forced to hobble down the stairs like this, you think you’d actually die. It’s only when you see the familiar maroon hue of Steve's beamer parked out in the lot that you finally feel a sense of relief. 

The warm summer air brushes across your face gently as Steve helps you into the passenger seat, taking extra care to press a soft kiss against your forehead. When the door closes, you take a deep inhale and press your back into the familiar leather interior, eyes closed.

Steve wastes no time hopping into the driver's seat and turning down the Journey song blaring from the radio before pulling out of the lot. Well, this was easy, maybe you really were in the clear-

“Wanna tell what’s really wrong?” he hums, fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel as his eyes never leave the road.

And there it is.

You hate to admit how clever it was, trapping you in an enclosed space where there's no avoiding confrontation. You felt like an emotionally stunted cat backed into an alleyway.

“It’s just been a long day,” you offer quietly, wrapping Steve’s jacket around yourself a bit tighter as you stare at the blurring trees from the passenger window.

“So then let’s talk about it,” he adds, tearing his eyes away from the road to look at you, really look at you.

God, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so beautiful, even when frowning.

You chew on your lip, wishing you had stuffed some of your peach lip smacker in your purse before you’d left the house earlier. “You have to focus on the road, Steve” you muse, deflecting slightly as you look at him.

What you don’t expect is for Steve to slam on the brakes of his precious car as he swerves onto the shoulder of the road, putting the gear in park as he turns to face you expectantly. 

You huff out a weak laugh, “Well don’t you just have all the solutions” you mumble, a reluctant smile gracing your lips as you wring your fingers together.

To Steve's credit, he doesn’t smirk or laugh, just leans in a bit further to rub gentle circles on your wrist.

“Well, that’d only be true if I figured out how to make you feel better. So, help me out here?” he murmurs, voice soft as not to spook you too much.

It feels like coaxing a cat out of a hiding spot, and much to your chagrin, it’s working.

“I just feel embarrassed,” you huff, eyeing your ankle with such venom Steve’s surprised it doesn’t wither away. “I hate jazzercise” you grumble, and Steve can’t help the small smile that breaks out onto his face.

“Then why did you go?” he laughs, a hint of incredulity in his tone, and you feel your body freeze up.

“Because it’s normal, it’s what everyone does,” you point out quietly, and suddenly all of the laughter is sucked out of the car and your seatbelt feels too tight.

“So what?” he hums softly, scooting a little closer – well, as much as the center console will allow.

“Steve,” you murmur quietly, internally begging him to stop, to pretend like this all never happened.

But then again, Steve never was one to back down.

“No. Who cares if it’s what everyone else does, that doesn’t mean you have to do it” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed in your direction. 

It’s like something in you snaps, “I notice how people look at us when we’re together, Steve. ‘Oh look, there's Steve and the weird loner chick’” you mutter, hands rubbing over your face aggressively. “I just wanted to feel like I fit in, for once. Like it’s not crazy for people to think you could actually be into me,” you add, quietly.

And for the first time since you two got in the car, Steve's face drops. For a second, you think he’s mad at you before he turns towards the backseat and pulls a paper gift bag onto his lap.

How long has that been back there?

“Steve, what-” you’re cut off by the resounding sound of a cassette tape settling on your lap. You feel your heart still in your chest as you read the title, The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths. “How- It’s only been out for a few days?”

“John at RadioShack owed me a favor,” he murmurs distractedly, hand still digging around in the bag before he pulls out something else. And this time, it takes everything in you not to cry.

It’s a copy of The Handmaid's Tale, the exact book you were eyeing at the store the last time you and Steve went. “Steve…”

“If you couldn’t tell, I like you the way you are. I like that you listen to The Smiths and Bowie, and read dystopian feminist novels, and don’t hesitate to almost slap me when I’m being a dick.” Steve's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly as you will back tears.

“Steve-” “and I like the way you don’t base your self-worth around how many friends you have, or the amount of parties you’ve been to, because none of that is important-”

“Steve-” “you taught me that none of that matters.” He finishes, eyes searching yours rapidly as you clutch the cassette and paperback between shaking fingers.

“Steve. I love you,” you whisper, voice shaky and so quiet that you’re sure if you two weren't sitting in a dead silent car, then Steve would’ve missed it.

Its the first time either of you have said it – you both felt it, of course you did, but the timing never felt right. 

Not like now, when the throbbing of your ankles dulled to nothing and the only thing you can really feel is the warmth of Steve’s eyes over you like a warm blanket in winter, because for the first time — possibly ever — you feel seen.

In fact, you don’t even exhale fully before you feel the familiar warm press of Steve's lips to yours.

It’s the blur of lips molding together and the warm hand brushing your cheek that make you forget why you were even upset to begin with.

It’s only when you’re both weak and breathless that Steve pulls away, hand still grasping your cheek as he looks at you with soft eyes.

“Well, if it wasn’t obvious – and Dustin’s been telling me it’s been glaringly obvious since our first date – I love you, too” he murmurs gently.

You don’t know what else to do, so you press your forehead against his with shuddering breaths, a weak laugh escaping your lips.

“Even when I force you to listen to The Clash’s discography from start to finish,” you tease softly.

Steve only laughs, nodding slightly as he looks at you, “Yes, even then.” he muses, pressing a delicate kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s get you home, clumsy girl.” 

You stifle a smile, intertwining your fingers with Steve’s as he pulls back onto the main road.