and I will hold on to you

SPRING BREAK 1978 (APRIL 2ND)

“Steven! Time for lunch! Don’t make me call you in again!” a shrill voice yells out into the backyard

With a roll of his eyes, Steve pulls himself up the pool ladder to head inside, not because he wanted to eat, but more-so because he really gets tired of Maggie the Naggie. That’s his third nanny of the year, his least favorite from the bunch. He gets she means well, but boy can she really go at it.

Wet footprints follow him into the sizeable dining room, a squelch can be heard from his wet swim shorts as he sits at the end of the lengthy table. Sometimes he wonders why his parents got such a big table when they’re hardly ever home to eat dinner here anyway. Twelve perfectly varnished oakwood chairs, but only one seems to be more worn than the rest.

“Maggie, I’m gonna head out in a bit” he manages with a mouthful of eggs

“Where are you going? You know you’re not supposed to go places alone, what if something happens to you” the older lady says as she eyes him, hands steadying their motions as they wipe down dishes

“Did my parents tell you that?” he scoffs as he pours himself a glass of apple juice, “We both know they don’t give a damn where I go, plus it’s Hawkins, nothing happens here” he says between sips.

“Your parents care about you, Steven” she says sternly, carrying the clean dishes to the cupboard, turning her back to him.

“Yeah, they can tell me that themselves when they find the time” he tries to laugh, but it feels empty. Composing himself he tries to argue, “I’ll be back before 4:30, just in time to wash up before dinner”

The older woman sighs, turning back to face him. “4:30 sharp? Not a minute more?” with a raised eyebrow.

Steve pulls out his secret weapon, he smiles in a certain way that makes his cheeks look fuller, he thinks the ladies dig it. Well, older ladies do…

Maggie coos, “Alright then, you got me. Not a minute less, Steven” she warns as she takes away his empty plate and glass. “Hurry and wash up then, you smell like pool” she nags with the clinking of dishes.

—

Steve runs down the stairs grabs a baseball cap off of the rack before making his way out, “Bye Maggie, be back soon!” he yells out into the house before shutting the door. Not bothering to take the time to listen to what the older woman yelled out after him. He gets on his bike and makes his way to the park.

Popularity has always followed Steve around, well so far it has. Nearing 7th grade, he finds himself being admired already. It feels nice to be paid attention to. He recently became friends with Tommy Hagan, who he can admit is kind of an asshole, but the other kids seem to think he’s cool. So as the people pleaser he is, Steve spared no time in accepting Tommy’s invitation to hang out today in the hopes of trying to climb the rather short social ladder that exists in the 6th grade.

The park has more kids than usual, they probably wanted to hang out after church, considering it is the last day before school starts again tomorrow.

Ditching his bike at the racks, he makes his way to Tommy Hagan who’s been waving him over.

“About time, Harrington!” Tommy snarks as he playfully shoves Steve. Three other boys surround Tommy, Steve can’t be bothered to try to remember their names.

“Dave brought his new football” adds Tommy, “How bout’ a game of catch, first one to drop it owes the rest some milkshakes” he smirks as the other three boys jeer in agreement. “You’re on” challenges Steve as they jog over to one of the clear areas of the park.

While the ball gets thrown around, Steve notices a white moving van pull up to one of the houses facing the park. A navy blue Ford country following closely behind it. He snaps back into focus as he sees the football nearing his peripheral, he manages to catch it with a little fumble.

“C’mon, Harrington! Better pay attention or you owe us smoothies!” one of the boys taunt as they get ready for the next throw. Steve laughs as he fakes a throw towards Tommy, which causes him to stumble back a little.

His eyes drifted back to the household, he sees that a woman and two kids got out of the blue Ford, and a man was unloading the moving van. One of the kids catch his eye, a girl, most probably same age as him, holding what seems to be her little brother in her arms with great care. A radiant smile on her face as she talks with her mother. That smile could take out an army, Steve can’t help but be infected by the laugh that comes out of her mouth, a small smile making its way onto his face as well.

“Harrington! Think fast!” he hears before the football hits him square in the jaw, knocking him backwards into a wooden bench where he bumps his head.

“Oh shit! Dude, are you okay?” Tommy says trying to stifle a laugh, “Could’ve dodged that if you kept your head in the game” one of the other boys laughed as he grabbed the football as Steve still laid on the ground.

Ignoring the aching pain in his jaw and the back of his head, he tries to push himself using his elbows, annoyed that none of his ‘friends’ bothered to help him up.

“Yeah, should’ve paid more attention, I got the milkshakes” he says as he rubs the back of his head trying to ease the ache.

“You’re the shit, Harrington!” Tommy H. says as he claps a hand on his shoulder before running back to position to continue the game without him.

He sits in pain for a while, he doesn’t know how long but at some point Tommy and the other boys decided to forget about him and run off to play baseball at one of their backyards.

He scoffs and thinks about how he could’ve stayed at home instead. Still rubbing the back of his head and jaw at the same time, his mind wanders off to the girl he saw earlier, he wonders if he’ll see her at school tomorrow.

It was if the heavens heard his wish when he heard a gentle voice cut through his thoughts, “Hey, are you alright? I brought you some cold water and a towel, our ice isn’t fully hardened yet since my dad just plugged in the refrigerator.”

Steve squints up, the sun casting a glare in his vision, but once his eyes focus he realized that he was being spoken to by his cause of injury. His heart does a little backflip when he finally sees your smile up close, he can’t tell if he feels lightheaded because of hitting his head or if it was your eyes looking at him with such care, though it was most definitely the former, he likes the say it was the latter.

No one would expect to feel such big emotions at twelve years old.

“I think you hit your head pretty hard there, did it make you lose your hearing?” you joke lightly as you slowly crouch down to sit with him on the ground. Long pale pink skirt getting stained with dirt, though you didn’t seem to mind at all.

Steve struggles to get a sentence out, embarrassed that a cute girl watched him eat dirt. You laughs as you listen to him stammer, dipping the towel into the cold water and handing it to him.

“Maybe start with giving me your name, don’t think you can mess that up” you smile, that smile again, even though he was already sitting on the ground he could still feel his knees go weak.

Bringing the cold towel to the back of his head, he lets out a sigh of relief from the sensation. “I’m Harrington, Steve Harrington.” he manages not quite meeting your gaze.

“Harrington?” you scrunches your nose. Steve raises his eyebrow, he’s never had such a reaction to his last name before.

“What’s wrong with my name?” he says dubiously, still holding the cold towel to the back of his head.

“Well, you just don’t look like a Harrington. But, you definitely seem like a Steve” you say playfully, holding up the cold glass of water up to him.

Steve furrows his eyebrows at you, glancing at the glass, dipping the towel back in to cool it off. “What’s your name then, since you’re such an expert” he says with a smile.

Something in him lights up as he hears your laugh up close, he hears your name roll of your tongue, now he understands why you’re such an expert. Your name matches you perfectly.

He repeats your name back to you with a smile, “Your friends are kind of assholes for leaving you here” you add as you look around the emptying playground.

“Yeah, I know they are” he tries to laugh but winces at the pain reverberating through the back of his head. He feels a killer headache awaiting him tomorrow.

“Do you go to Hawkins Middle School?” you ask him, eyeing his furrowed brows, you fumble with your pockets looking for something and grab his hand to put it in his palm.

Confused, Steve raises an eyebrow at you, ignoring the way he feels his skin heat up at your touch. He looks at his palm to see two tablets.

“That’s ibuprofen… I kinda figured you might need it soon, but I totally recommend you go see a doctor, you might have a concussion or something” you ramble looking away from his gaze.

“Concussion?” he repeats, trying to figure out what that meant. He didn’t want to seem like a total dunce in front of you so he just agreed, “Yeah, totally probably definitely have a concussion, maybe…” he adds.

“And I do go to Hawkins Middle, are you going there too?” he answers your previous question, stuffing the tablets in his jacket pocket.

“Yeah, I’m starting tomorrow!” you look back at him excitedly, “I was kind of nervous since it is technically almost the end of the school year, I figured it would be harder to make real friends this late” you sighed. “But good thing you got hit on the head!” you joke as you playfully bump his shoulder, apologizing when he squints his eyes and winces at the movement.

“Well, since you saved my ass today, I’ll save yours tomorrow then” he says with a smile, “I can show you around, show you the ropes” he tries cooly. Immediately regretting how cringey that sounded coming out of his mouth.

You probably thought the same with the way you laugh at his statement, something in him buzzes at the sound of your laugh. He can’t help but smile when you smile.

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Steve” you say with a grin, a voice yells out your name behind you. “Sweetie! Time to help your mom with dinner!” your dad calls out into the park.

Looking at Steve apologetically, “I didn’t realize it was 4:00 already” you say standing up from the dirt. You hold out your hand to him, he looks up at you confused, “Well are you gonna spend the night on the ground?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

Now understanding your gesture he quickly takes your hand to pull himself up. There it is again, that warm buzz of your skin on his.

“You better head home too, Steve.” you say to him as you look around the ground around you, bending down to pick up his Cubs hat covered in red dirt. Dusting it off before meeting his curious gaze. He slowly puts out his hand expecting you to hand it to him, but is surprised to find his heart stuttering when you carefully place it back on his head yourself.

The smile you give him after that is fully ingrained into his brain, he thinks that in this moment, he could look directly into the sun but it still would not compare with how bright your smile is.

All he can manage to say during his inner turmoil is a small, “Thanks” his pre-pubescent voice cracking around the edges. He watches you pick up the towel and glass of now lukewarm water, “Next time, I’ll invite you over for dinner, just gotta finish unpacking” you sigh.

“Bye, Steve! See you tomorrow!” you say as you turn to head back to your house. Your father already calling your name a second time.

Wanting to get the last word, “Thanks for helping with my- uh- percussion!” he says hurriedly. Fuck, was that the right word?

“Concussion!” you yell back, not looking back behind you as you wave him off with the back of your hand.

He feels he will never recover. From the football? No that’s long forgotten. From you? You just gave him a concussion for the rest of his life.

Looking down at his dirtied watch, he realizes it’s 4:18, it takes ten minutes to get home. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he gets there in eight minutes, just enough time to dodge another nag session from Maggie.

Also, enough time for him to reflect on how he thinks a football just made him fall in love with a random girl.

—

From then on, you and Steve became fast friends. With only a month left to the school year, you two were attached by the hip. Sure, you made other friends, but Steve was your most constant.

A year went by, his feelings grew. He always catches himself looking for you in the hallways during breaks, passing you notes full of nonsense during the classes you have together, and going out of his way to get you the juice you like during lunch before everybody else gets to it.

More time passes, you just became even more radiant from the day he met you. You were so sweet, never failing to make everyone around you feel cared for. He thanks the heavens every single day for letting him experience you.

Getting teased by all his friends about how soft he gets for you, he couldn’t bring himself to mind, he just loved spending time with you.

What he loved even more was that it seemed that you liked spending time with him too. Waiting for him at the school entrance because he gets to school later than you, making extra sets of notes for him because you knew he never really paid attention during class, and inviting him over for dinner every sunday.

For once in his life Steve felt wanted.

Now it’s the summer before sophomore year, you decided to join an all girls summer camp, despite Steve’s protests. This is will be the longest he will have to go without seeing you since you got chicken pox last year. (That was the most devastating week and a half of his life)

“Come on, you can’t just leave me here” he pouts while you pack your suitcase trying to hold in your laughter. He huffs as you eye him with your hands on your hips.

“Stevie, it’s only for a two months, you won’t even notice I’m gone” you roll your eyes as you turn around to dig into your closet.

“Trust me, I’m definitely gonna notice” he mumurs as he stares at the back of your head sadly. Just thinking of you being away for that long made his heart ache, he won’t act clueless as to why. He loves you, with every inch of his fifteen year old heart.

“At least it’s an all girls camp” he sighs absentmindedly, turning your head around you eye him, “So what if it’s an all girls camp?” you ask as you slowly turn your body to face him fully.

Realizing how his previous statement could have sounded to you, he stumbled over his words to try to salvage an excuse. “You know- Well- Boys are gross? Phew good riddance right?” he scoffs as his cheeks turn warm under your gaze. “Yeah you’re definitely gross” you laugh as you throw a sweater at him.

His eyes dart away from you trying to regain his composure. But if he just let his eyes stay with yours for a little bit more, he wouldn’t have missed the knowing smile that flashed across your face. 

The sun sets as you two immerse yourselves in conversation. Steve tried his best to ignore the tug in his heart every time he remembered that you would be leaving by tomorrow morning.

Setting aside the packed bags, you huff from exhaustion and throw yourself onto your bed, landing right next to Steve’s sock-clad feet as he rests against your headboard.

Steve mopes and fiddles with the loose thread on the sweater you previously threw, you nudge his arm with your foot to get him to look at you, “Don’t be all pouty on our last day, dickhead” you say as you try to comfort him.

He huffs and pretends to throw a fit as he looks out your bedroom window watching the sun set further. After a pause, he murmurs “Can you promise that you won’t forget about me?” still looking out the window. 

You nudge him with your foot again, “I’ll only be gone for a few months” you say as you laugh at his solemn expression. Noticing how his face didn’t lift, you add “As long as you don’t forget me, Steve.” as you smile at him.

“I couldn’t even if I tried” he replies gently, looking at you in a way that you can’t name. You could tell he was being genuine, but also that there was also something more there, you just couldn’t place what. Well, maybe not right now.

You smile, abruptly sitting up to face him which startles him enough that he jumps a little. “Pussy” you giggle at him as you pinch his side, you lean over him to reach the drawer of your side table. Your shoulder brushes against his chest and he feels it stop his heart, he could smell your shampoo from the top of your head just a few inches away. God, he was whipped.

His trance was shattered when you grab something and quickly sit back up to face him, tugging his hand toward you and wiggling something onto his wrist. “What are you doing?” he laughs as you slip what it seems to be a bracelet, shades of blue and white thread braided together.

“What’s this for? Where’d you get it?” he asks as he admires it, its a bit delicate for his taste but anything that comes from you is a treasure to him.  “Lots of questions there, Harrington” you joke as you slip on a bracelet of your own onto your wrist as well, now yours was like Steve’s but the roles of blue and white were reversed, there was more white than blue but they were braided together nonetheless.

“It’s for us, I guess they’re kinda friendship bracelets… But I wouldn’t consider us friends, you’re definitely more than that to me”, you say while placing the two of your wrists side by side. Steve feels his heart melt at your words, he could only hope you felt the way he did, but he can’t risk losing what you guys had just from assuming. 

“So like best friends?” he adds nervously as he glances up to meet your eyes, you pause as you look at him, feeling your heart tug. Honestly, you still wouldn’t call it that either, you know you love Steve more than anything but is it completely platonic? The way he makes you feel is different than what you feel for your other guys friends, that’s for sure, but now all you can do is slowly nod.

“Yeah… I guess” you smile softly at him. If Steve knew better he would’ve noticed the way the curve of your lips dont quite meet your eyes, but he doesn’t know better quite yet. 

Moving to sit next to Steve against your headboard, now the two of you were shoulder to shoulder, “Don’t worry your big head about it too much, Steven” you say gently, nudging his shoulder. Before Steve can retort, he feels a weight on his shoulder and glances to see you resting your head on it, giving him the sweetest softest smile. He feels his heart soar.

“You know I hate when people call me that.” he says slowly not breaking your gaze, he feels the heat across his cheeks. you laugh gently, “Well I’m not people.” Then, he feels your arms circle around his waist, hugging him tight. Your head now under his chin and he feels you let out a content exhale. He doesn’t waste any time to return the hug, wrapping his arms around you, “You definitely aren’t” he mumbles into your hair.

A few knocks resound from your bedroom door, “Come in” you call out unmoving from your position against Steve’s chest. “Honey, dinner’s ready-“ your mother was cut off from the sight before her. Steve couldn’t help but give her a sheepish smile, unsure if she would approve of the situation.

Your mother gives him a sincere smile back, his body relaxes when he realizes she didn’t mind at all. “We’ll be right down” your muffled voice replied. She laughs, “Don’t take too long, the food s’gonna get cold, I’m talking to you too, Steve” she points her finger in his direction before retreating back out the door. “Yes Ma’am!” Steve yelled out before she shut it. 

He rubs your arm as if to wake you, “You heard her” he whispers. When you don’t respond he resorts to gently shaking you, “Hey, are you good?” He asks gently, trying to angle his face down to get a look at you. “Yeah, I’m just taking my time” you finally say, voice still muffled.

He can’t help but snort at your behavior. You are absolutely everything to him.

Finally you untangle you arms from around him and sit up, he notices your eyes were slightly puffy and gasped incredulously, “Holy shit, are you crying” he couldn’t help but smile at your state. “Yeah, but don’t let it get to your head, asshole” you retort as you wipe at your eyes with your hands, still sniffling. 

Now, Steve could feel a tinge of burning in his eyes as well. You looked so sad looking at him with your glassy eyes, he feels his chest swell with emotion. “You were the one telling me to calm down earlier, now look at you.” He laughs as he sniffles back a tear.

“Well, that was before I realized I won’t be here for your birthday” you say voice wavering slightly as you feel emotion get caught in your throat. “Geez, I think your period is coming, dude” He laughs pulling you into another hug. “How did you know?” You laugh as fresh tears run down your cheeks. “And I don’t mind if you miss my birthday, sure I’ll probably be pretty bummed, probably super bummed but as long as you have fun, I’ll be happy” he says wiping the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs. 

You feel your heart burn with affection at the gesture, it’s moments like this when you mean what you said earlier. Steve is so much more to you than a friend, you could only wonder what he thinks. You then reach out wipe a single tear that escaped his eye, he can’t help but follow your finger but he managed to let his gaze land on your lips. His fifteen year old brain just about short-circuits when he realizes how closed the two of your faces are. 

“I think it’s time for dinner, Stevie” you say, snapping him out of it. The look on your face makes him realize that you definitely caught him. His cheeks feel red hot when he coughs awkwardly, “Yeah, yup, yes” he says quickly clambering off of the bed, immediately making a beeline for the door.

You love this weirdo.

After dinner, you saw Steve out to his bike, he thinks his dad’s getting him a car for his birthday next month. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised, it’s the least they could do for him at this point. 

“You know what, I’m still coming over when you’re gone. I can not miss out on your Mom’s steak and potatoes.” He says before he lets out a burp. You scrunch your nose in disgust and nudge him with your shoulder with a huff. 

Now he’s standing in front of you in the middle of your lawn, rocking a little on his heels. “So… I guess this is goodbye?” He says gently. “It’s see you later, Steven. I’m not going off to war” you say deadpan, trying to disguise your sadness terribly. He huffs out a small laugh at your retort. 

He takes a few steps forward and doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you again in a hug, it gets so surprising how tall he gets over a few months. You wouldn’t be shocked if he absolutely towered over you when you get back. 

“Promise you’ll write?” You say gently into his chest as you wrap your arms around his middle. “Of course, dude. Not like I got anything else to do with you gone.” He laughs into your hair. “Good.” He feels you smile against him. 

After a pause he hears you call out his name. “Yeah?” He asks, letting go of you now, allowing him to look at your face now. Your face is flushed, with a mischievous grin on your face. “What is it?” He continues, furrowing his brows at your expression. 

“Can you lean in your ear for me real quick, I got something to tell you” you say, trying to stifle your grin. “But we’re the only ones out here” he laughs unsure, not really trusting your intentions. He honestly thinks you might bite his ear off. “I’m not gonna bite your ear off if that’s what you’re thinking.” You add as you roll your eyes.

Steve huffs out a laugh at your ability to read his mind effortlessly. He hesitates but finally lets himself bend down to let you reach his ear, turning his head to the side so you could just say what you wanted. He feels the hair raise on the back of his neck when your breath fans slightly against his ear. Getting flustered, he impatiently prompts you to hurry, “Well?” 

He feels the soft air of your laugh, before he hears, “Don’t hang out with Tommy Hagan too much” you giggle into his ear. He furrows his brows, head still turned to the side. He thinks you’re going to continue on since that can’t be the only thing you want to say. After a few seconds of silence, he asks confused, “Is that it? That wasn’t even a big deal-“ before he could fully turn his head back to face you, he feels you place a kiss onto his cheek.

He feels every nerve ending in his body explode.

Goosebumps travel down his neck down to every other part of his body. His heart stutters when he realizes it isn’t a quick peck either. After a few seconds he feels the warmth leave his cheek as you pull away. 

Head still frozen to the side, it takes your fingers to pull his chin back towards you for him to look at you again. You giggle when you see that his face looked as reddened as your face felt. 

“I’ll see you in August, Harrington. Please behave” you say as you dropped your hand and started walking backwards, smiling at his lost expression. Trying to find his words, he stutters, “See yo- Good- Yea-, Goodnight” his voice cracking at the last syllable. 

You laugh as you wave goodbye, finally turning around to jog back into your home. Only glancing back at him when you open your front door. Giving him that same smile that always knocks him off his feet.

When you enter your house, Steve is still left reeling in your front yard. He lifts a hand to where you left the kiss, feeling his face still hot to the touch. Looking up to your bedroom window, hoping to see you one last time, but seeing the lights shut off. As much as he felt disappointed, he could still feel a lovesick grin forming on his face as he turned around to pick up his bike.

“August better be quick” he whispers to himself as he pedals home. 

⭒˚。⋆ 𖤐 ⋆。𖦹  ◡̈ . * ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ༘ ˚ ⋆ 𐙚

It was 11pm when you heard your doorbell ring. It was awfully late for someone to be at your door, you thought, but you hadn’t planned on sleeping anytime soon anyway, so you decided to answer it. You got up off your couch and as you were walking to the door your doorbell rang again, followed by insistent knocking.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” you shouted, annoyed at this person’s impatience.

You rolled your eyes as you reached the door, suddenly not in the mood for visitors anymore. But your mood shifted when you looked through the peephole and discovered who was outside your apartment.

“Oh my God, Spence,” you said, unlocking your door as fast as your fingers would allow. You flung the door open and took in the image in front of you. Spencer was standing in your doorway, his eyes red and puffy from crying. His whole body was vibrating under his large coat.

“Can I come in,” he mumbled after you’d been staring at him in shock for a bit too long.

“Yes, of course, sorry.” You quickly moved aside, allowing Spencer to enter your home. He slowly shuffled in, not daring to look up from the ground. You shut the door and walked over to comfort him by taking his hand in yours.

“Spencer, what’s wrong,” you asked, although your question was futile. You knew exactly what was wrong.

Ever since Emily’s passing none of the team had been the same. But Spencer was hit the hardest with grief. It wasn’t necessarily because they were the closest or because he missed her the most. Stuff like this just effected Spencer. You hated admitting it to yourself but you’d almost grown numb to the grief your job as an FBI profiler gave you. Obviously, Emily’s death broke you, but it had been weeks and you’d had to force yourself to get over it and move on.

Spencer wasn’t like that, though. He couldn’t just let the pain slide off his back. You’d noticed it at work. He’d been distracted and wasn’t his usual genius self. But you didn’t know how bad it was until he was standing in the middle of your apartment, trembling with misery.

“I just-,” he began, but he couldn’t continue. He started to sob, tears streaming down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he choked.

“Hey, it’s ok,” you said, pulling him tight to your chest in a hug. You shushed him, rubbing the back of his head in an attempt to comfort him.

You stood there for a while, just holding him as he wept into your shoulder.

After a few minutes his breathing became slower and he calmed down. He pulled away from you and slumped down on your couch.

“I just miss her,” he mumbled.

“I know,” you replied, sitting down beside him and placing a consoling hand on his knee. “We all do.”

“Well then why am I the only one still crying about it every night,” he said, fiddling with the corner of one of your cushions.

“Ok, first of all, I’m sure you’re not the only one still crying over her. Have you met Penelope Garcia?” you asked sarcastically. He let out a hesitant chuckle.

“And secondly, who cares if you’re still crying about it? I’m glad you are,” you revealed.

“What do you mean?” Spencer looked up at you with a confused expression.

“I mean, I’m glad you still have the humanity to be upset about this. I’m glad your letting your feelings out rather than bottling them inside you.”

“Please stop acting like a shrink,” Spencer complained.

“I’m not,” you retorted. “Ok, maybe I am. But I’m serious. I’d rather you come here every night and cry to me than stay alone in your apartment and hold all your sadness inside you.”

You couldn’t tell what had set Spencer off again but something caused his eyes to begin to water once more.

“Oh, Spence,” you said lovingly as he nuzzled into your chest. His tears began to soak through your hoodie but you didn’t care. He cried for another few minutes. You couldn’t do anything except wrap your arms around him and whisper to him that everything would be ok eventually. The agonizing sounds of his sobs were enough to bring you to tears, but you resisted. You had to be strong, for Spencer’s sake.

“Hey, why don’t we get this coat off you,” you said, noticing his red face. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

You began pulling on his sleeves, but he grabbed your hand.

“No,” he said authoritatively.

You raised your eyebrow, confused as to why he was so defensive over a coat.

“Ok, ok,” you said, taking your hands off him. “If you insist.”

From the minute you mentioned his coat something about Spencer’s demeanour changed. It was as if his sadness turned to anger.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he snapped, leaping up from the couch in rage. “Why can’t I just get over it, huh?”

“You will,” you said, trying to make your voice remain as comforting as you could. “You just need more time.”

“Oh yeah, how much more time?” he shouted. “Because, to be honest, I’m pretty fucking tired of this.”

He ran his hands through his hair. You didn’t know what to do. You knew how to comfort Spencer when he was sad but you’d never seen him this angry before.

“How come everyone has been able to move on with their lives except me?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Spencer,” you answered honestly. “You’re just more sensitive than everyone else.”

“Sensitive?” he yelled, his voice increasing in pitch the more he shouted. “No, I’m not sensitive, I’m weak. I’m just weak.”

You stepped closer to him and placed your hand on his arm.

“No, Spence, you’re not weak. You’re just a normal human being who’s experiencing grief because your friend just died. You’re normal, Spence, not weak.”

“Well, if I’m not weak then explain to me why I bought this before I came over here?” Spencer said, his voice cracking as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny bottle.

And suddenly everything made sense. The reason he didn’t want you taking his coat. The reason he was so angry. Hidden in his pocket was a bottle of the drug that he had worked so hard to recover from, and he was craving a fix.

You inhaled sharply in shock, but you couldn’t get a word in before Spencer started rambling.

“I tried for so long to resist the urge,” he explained, his voice still raised higher than necessary. “I told myself I couldn’t go through that again. But as time went on and I still wasn’t over it, it got harder and harder.”

You stared at the bottle and needle in Spencer’s shaking hand and tried to interrupt him.

“Spencer have you-,” you attempted, but he interjected.

“So, you see, I am weak, because I bet none of you the rest of you needed drugs to get over your grief.”

“Spencer!” you shouted, finally grabbing his attention. He looked down at your concerned face.

“Spencer, have you taken any?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he murmured.

You sighed in relief and you saw the anger dissipate from Spencer’s eyes. But that anger was only replaced by more sadness.

“I thought about it. That’s why I bought it. But as soon as I did I realised I needed help and you were the first person I thought of. That’s how I ended up here.”

“And I’m really happy you came,” you said, holding out your hand. “Now, I want you to give me the bottle and the needle, Spencer.”

He hesitated, pulling his hand away from you. You looked up at him expectantly.

“Please give them to me, Spencer.”

You could see the pain in his eyes as he decided to place the Dilaudid in your hand.

“Thank you,” he said, relieved that you had taken away his weakness. But there was also a part of him that wanted to grab the drugs from you and run out the door. He stayed put though, watching as you poured the drug down the sink and threw the needle in the trash.

“There you go,” you said, returning to him and pulling him close to you. “It’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, melting into your embrace.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you said, pulling his head down and leaning your forehead against his. He sniffed and you wiped a tear from his cheek.

“Do you need to go to a meeting,” you asked.

“I’d rather just stay here,” Spencer whispered.

You smiled at him sympathetically and led him back over to the couch. He sat down beside you and rested his head on your shoulder. You turned your face and planted a kiss in his hair.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you mumbled into his hair.

Spencer sighed heavily before answering.

“I get these cravings all the time, you know. But recently they’ve gotten worse, and today I just couldn’t bear it anymore.”

“That’s understandable,” you reassure him. “With everything that’s happened lately you’re allowed to struggle. And I’m so glad you came to me instead of using. That just shows you how much you’ve recovered.”

“Yeah, but I still want it,” Spencer sighed, covering his face with his hands.

“That craving’s always going to be there,” you told him. “You just need to find a way to satisfy it with other things.”

You swiftly rose from the couch and headed towards your kitchen. Spencer’s eyes followed you with curiosity. You opened the fridge and lifted out a white box.

“Why don’t we try this?” you smiled, sitting back down on the couch and opening the box.

Spencer laughed when he saw what was inside. Chocolate sprinkle donuts.

“These are my favourite,” he chuckled.

“I know,” you replied. “And I know these can’t even begin to fulfil your cravings, but maybe they can distract you for a little while.”

“It’s perfect,” he said, biting into one of the chocolate covered treats. “You know, Emily used to buy these for me all the time. She said she was trying to put some meat on my bones.”

Spencer smiled, a genuine smile. Your heart melted at the sight.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve smiled when someone’s mentioned Emily since she died,” you pointed out, your eyes tearing up at his happiness.

“I think you’re right,” Spencer said, taking another bite. “I think I’ve been focussing on the sad memories for too long. I need to think of her as the funny, smart, amazing agent that she was, not some cold body in a coffin.”

“That’s more like it,” you beamed. “That’s the Spencer Reid I know.”

hawkins was the kind of place people got stuck in.

not physically at first. physically, there were roads leading out in every direction. highways stretching toward illinois, michigan, anywhere else. but somehow people still stayed. they grew up here, married here, worked here, died here. generations of families rooted themselves so deeply into the soil that leaving almost felt unnatural.

you used to think there had to be something wrong with everyone who stayed willingly because every time you looked around this town, all you could see was a cage.

the same streets, the same people, the same expectations.

hawkins high alone felt like proof that no one ever really changed. there were categories for everyone before you even walked through the doors freshman year. jocks. freaks. nerds. burnouts. girls pretty enough to matter. girls who weren’t. and once people decided where you belonged, that was it.

you’d been labeled difficult before you even turned ten.

your parents made sure of that.

“why can’t you be normal for once?”

that sentence followed you through your entire childhood like a ghost.

normal meant smiling politely at dinner parties while rich adults ignored you. normal meant accepting that your parents would leave for weeks at a time without calling. normal meant pretending not to notice when your mother looked at you with embarrassment instead of love.

you’d never been good at pretending and your parents hated you for it.

they hated your temper most of all.

because you argued. god, you argued about everything.

about them missing birthdays, about forgotten recitals, about the fact your father only ever touched your shoulder to move you out of the way.

you screamed and slammed doors and cried and fought until your throat hurt because some stubborn part of you refused to quietly accept being unloved.

your mother called it dramatics, your father called it disrespect.

eventually they both just started calling you the daughter from hell.

sometimes jokingly in front of guests, sometimes not joking at all, and somehow that became your reputation.

meanwhile, steve harrington learned very young how to survive differently.

he adapted.

that was the thing about steve, he could mold himself into whatever people wanted.

perfect son at business dinners, charming boy next door at school, funny life-of-the-party teenager on weekends.

he made himself easy to love because somewhere along the way he realised being liked was the closest thing he’d ever get to being wanted.

you noticed that before anyone else did.

probably because you recognised loneliness when you saw it.

your parents and his dragged the two of you to events together constantly growing up. charity galas. company christmas parties. fundraisers. country club dinners. endless nights filled with expensive perfume and fake laughter and adults talking over your heads like you were accessories instead of children.

you hated every second of it.

steve did too, he just hid it better.

when you were younger, the adults used to force you both to stand together for pictures.

your mother gripping your shoulder too tightly while hissing through clenched teeth, “smile.”

steve would already be smiling perfectly by then.

effortless.

practiced.

you used to hate him for that, for how easy he made it look.

but then one night when you were around sixteen, you caught him in the bathroom after one of those events staring at himself in the mirror with this exhausted expression you’d never seen before.

his smile dropped the second he noticed you standing there.

“what are you looking at?” he snapped.

you crossed your arms. “you looked human for a second.”

his jaw tightened immediately.

“go away.”

but you didn’t.

because there was mascara running down your cheeks from fighting with your mother twenty minutes earlier and your chest still hurt from the things she’d said to you.

and maybe misery just liked company.

“my dad threatened to send me away tonight” you muttered eventually.

steve looked back at the mirror.

“mine threatened to stop paying for my car if i embarrass him again.”

“that all?”

he let out a humorless laugh.

“guess so.”

that was the thing with you and steve. there was never warmth exactly, never softness, but there was understanding.

raw and ugly and uncomfortable, the kind that crawled under your skin.

you knew things about each other nobody else did.

you knew steve’s father had a temper.

you figured it out slowly over the years through bruises hidden beneath sweater collars and the way steve flinched whenever older men raised their voices too suddenly.

once, during a new year’s party at some stupid country club, you found him outside sitting on the hood of a car in the snow.

his knuckles were bloodied, there was a cut near his eyebrow, he looked furious.

“you look like shit” you told him.

he scoffed without looking at you. “always so nice.”

“what happened?”

“ran into a wall.”

you stared at him flatly.

“right.”

for a while neither of you spoke.

music echoed faintly from inside the building while snow drifted slowly around you both.

then steve quietly said, “sometimes i think he hates me.”

the honesty in his voice startled you because steve never said things like that. ever. he swallowed hard after admitting it, like he already regretted letting the words out.

you looked down at your shoes.

“mine definitely do.”

he laughed softly at that, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

“yeah,” he murmured. “i know.”

and god, that should’ve made you closer.

two lonely rich kids with absent parents and too much anger between them.

but somehow it pushed you apart instead.

because outside of those rare moments, you couldn’t stand each other.

or maybe you just represented everything the other person hated about themselves.

at school, steve was king.

there was really no other word for it.

everyone loved him. teachers loved him because he was charming when he wanted to be, girls loved him because he looked like he walked out of a magazine, guys loved him because standing next to steve harrington somehow made them feel important too.

he moved through hawkins high effortlessly, surrounded by noise and laughter and attention every second of the day.

and you despised people like that.

or at least you pretended to.

because truthfully, there were moments you envied him so badly it made your chest ache.

not because of the popularity itself because he belonged somewhere. hawkins fit him. he knew how to survive here.

you never did.

you spent most lunches hidden in the library with fantasy novels spread around you in messy piles while rain tapped softly against the windows.

tolkien.

cs lewis.

ursula le guin.

stories about hidden worlds and magic and people destined for bigger things than small dying towns.

you clung to those books like lifelines.

because somewhere deep down you were convinced your real life hadn’t started yet. that there had to be something else waiting for you outside hawkins. somewhere bigger, somewhere quieter, somewhere you could finally breathe.

people called you weird for it.

you didn’t care. well, that was a lie. you cared more than you wanted to admit.

you cared every time someone laughed when you answered questions too enthusiastically in class, you cared every time girls whispered about your clothes or your attitude, you cared every time teachers looked at you like you were wasted potential.

but mostly you cared because no matter how badly you wanted to leave hawkins behind, a small part of you worried maybe your parents were right.

maybe there was something wrong with you.

steve saw that part of you even when nobody else did and you saw through him too.

you saw the way his entire personality shifted depending on who he was talking to, how desperately he needed people to like him, how terrified he was of being alone.

you understood it because you knew what waited for him at home when nobody else was around.

just like he understood why you hated yelling, why sudden loud noises made your shoulders tense, why you looked halfway out the door all the time.

because you weren’t just dreaming about leaving hawkins you were surviving by believing you eventually would.

the strange thing was neither of you ever talked about any of this directly, instead you ignored each other almost completely outside those forced business events.

you’d pass each other in school hallways without speaking. sometimes your shoulders brushed accidentally while squeezing through crowds between classes, sometimes he’d glance at you from across the cafeteria, sometimes you’d catch yourself watching him laugh with his friends and immediately look away before he noticed.

there were no dirty looks, no dramatic fights, just distance. like the two of you had silently agreed that whatever existed between you only belonged in those late-night conversations at parties neither of you wanted to attend.

and honestly?

that invisible understanding between you almost made things worse because hating someone was easier when they didn’t know you.

but steve knew you. not fully, not completely, but enough. enough to notice when your parents had been home recently because your mood would darken for days afterward. enough to know your favorite coping mechanism was disappearing into books because reality disappointed you too much.

enough to know you were scared that maybe there wasn’t actually a place in the world where you belonged.

and you knew him too.

you knew his popularity wasn’t confidence, it was armor. you knew every party he threw was just another excuse not to be alone in that giant empty house. you knew he chased attention because attention felt close enough to love that he could almost pretend not to notice the difference.

you knew the scar near his ribs came from the night his father shoved him into a glass table during an argument. you knew because one drunken evening at a fundraiser he accidentally told you.

and after realising what he’d admitted, he looked horrified, like he expected you to use it against him.

but you never did.

just like he never repeated the things you confessed either.

the invisible string between you stayed tangled quietly in the background of your lives. unspoken, confusing, pulling tighter every year whether you wanted it to or not.

-

the invitation had been sitting on the kitchen counter for three days.

thick cream paper, gold lettering, your parents names printed bigger than yours like you were some afterthought attached onto the end of the family title. every time you walked into the kitchen your eyes caught on it immediately and your stomach twisted.

another business event.

another night trapped in a room full of rich people pretending they liked each other, another night of your parents pretending they actually functioned as a family.

you were already exhausted by it and it hadn’t even happened yet.

“i’m not going.”

your mother barely looked up from her wine glass. “you are.”

“why?”

“because we said so.”

you laughed dryly at that, leaning against the counter with your arms crossed. “great argument.”

your father sighed from the other side of the kitchen table, rubbing a hand over his face like speaking to you was physically draining. “do we really have to do this every single time?”

“well maybe if you stopped forcing me to go to these things-”

“they matter,” your mother cut in sharply. “whether you like it or not.”

“to who?”

“to us.”

there it was.

always them. their image. their reputation. their business partners. their social circle. everything always came before you, and somehow they still acted surprised that you resented them for it.

your jaw tightened. “you know everyone there thinks i’m insane anyway, right?”

“that’s because you insist on behaving like a brat every time we bring you anywhere.”

you stared at her for a second, something hot and familiar settling in your chest.

“right,” you muttered. “because god forbid i embarrass the family.”

your father’s expression hardened immediately. “enough.” his voice was louder than it needed to be and instinctively your shoulders tensed.

you hated that, hated how quickly your body reacted to raised voices even when you tried not to let it.

your father noticed too, but instead of softening he just looked irritated.

“you’ll attend the event and you’ll behave yourself for one evening. that’s all we ask.”

you almost laughed at that. one evening. like it was ever just one evening. like every single one of these events didn’t leave you feeling hollow afterwards.

instead you grabbed your walkman off the counter and headed for the front door before the argument could get worse.

your mother called your name once, annoyed, but you ignored her.

outside, the air was cooler than expected. the sun had started setting, leaving everything washed in that dim orange light that made hawkins look softer than it really was.

you shoved your headphones on and started walking.

music usually helped. not enough to fix anything, but enough to quiet your head for a while.

you walked without really thinking about where you were going, just moving through familiar streets while your thoughts spiraled somewhere else entirely, out of hawkins mostly. they always did eventually.

you wondered sometimes if other people felt this trapped in their hometowns or if there was genuinely something wrong with you. everyone else seemed so content here, they talked about their futures like they’d always include hawkins somehow. college nearby. jobs nearby. marriage nearby.

the idea made you feel sick.

by the time you circled back toward your street the sky had gone dark, that’s when you spotted steve.

he was coming down the driveway of his house, keys spinning around his finger while he headed toward his car. he looked tired in that specific way you’d gotten used to recognising over the years. not angry exactly, just worn thin.

you probably would’ve walked straight past him normally.

but the argument with your parents was still sitting ugly in your chest and before you could stop yourself you pulled one side of your headphones off and said, “you heard about the party?”

steve looked up quickly, almost startled to see you there.

for half a second his face was completely open before recognition settled in and his expression shifted into something more familiar.

slight scowl, slight annoyance.

“jesus,” he muttered. “didn’t see you.”

“clearly.”

he shoved his keys into his jacket pocket. “yeah, i heard.” then after a pause, “you’re going too?”

“unfortunately.”

he actually looked surprised by that. “huh.”

you narrowed your eyes slightly. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” he said, though there was already the beginning of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “just figured you would’ve argued the house down over it.”

“oh, i did.”

that got a short laugh out of him.

“didn’t work though” you added.

“shocking.”

you rolled your eyes but there was no real bite behind it.

for a second neither of you said anything. the quiet wasn’t awkward exactly, it never really was with steve, which was strange considering how little you actually spoke outside these random moments.

then he opened his car door and looked over at you again.

“can’t wait, freak.”

you immediately flipped him off.

“drive into a wall, harrington.”

he grinned at that before climbing into the car. “see you there.”

you watched his headlights disappear down the street before heading back toward your own house.

that night sleep came slowly.

you spent hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sound of your parents talking downstairs and thinking about leaving. not in some dramatic running away way, just leaving eventually. properly.

new york maybe. somewhere with little coffee shops and people who didn’t already have an opinion about you before you spoke.

you imagined yourself there constantly. working in some tiny bookstore, spending your days hidden between shelves and your nights somewhere quiet and anonymous.

and weirdly enough, somewhere in those thoughts, steve appeared too.

not with you exactly, you couldn’t imagine anything worse than willingly spending that much time with him, but still there somehow.

existing in the edges of your future the same way he always seemed to.

you imagined him hearing you got a job in a bookstore and immediately deciding to buy the world’s largest library just to prove he could.

the thought made you laugh quietly to yourself in the dark.

because honestly? it sounded exactly like something he’d do.

as much as you disliked him sometimes, you couldn’t really picture your life without him in it either. not fully.

he’d just always been there.

always somehow one step ahead of you socially, emotionally, or at least pretending to be.

part of you hoped he got out of hawkins too.

you never understood why he didn’t seem as desperate to leave as you were. this place felt unbearable to you most days, but steve had learned how to survive here in ways you never could.

or maybe he was just better at pretending it didn’t bother him.

the next afternoon after school you stayed late in the library mostly to avoid going home.

the place was nearly empty, quiet except for the occasional sound of pages turning somewhere in the back. you had a book open in front of you but you weren’t really reading it. your eyes kept drifting over the same paragraph without processing any of the words.

then suddenly the library doors swung open hard enough to make several people look up.

you frowned automatically.

steve walked in looking slightly out of breath, his hair a mess like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. he scanned the room quickly before spotting you.

then, weirdly, he came straight over.

you watched him drop into the chair across from you.

“what happened to you?” you asked immediately.

instead of answering he leaned forward slightly and said, “did you know it’s out of town?”

you blinked. “what?”

“the event,” he said. “it’s not here.”

you stared at him. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

he rubbed both hands down his face tiredly. “our parents are flying out the day before, apparently they want us to travel there together after school.”

for a second you genuinely thought he was joking, then you realised he looked far too miserable for that.

“you’re kidding.”

“i wish i was.”

“no. absolutely not.”

“that’s pretty much what I said.”

you sat back in your chair slowly, trying to process the absolute disaster this was becoming.

the event itself was already unbearable, being out of town somehow made it worse, and now you had to travel with steve?

“i swear they want me dead” you muttered.

steve snorted quietly. “or me. being stuck in an airport with you sounds like psychological warfare.”

your head snapped toward him immediately. “i am not that bad.”

he just looked at you completely blank-faced.

you scoffed. “oh fuck off.”

“you’re mean to me constantly.”

“because you’re annoying constantly.”

“see?”

you shut your book harder than necessary and pointed toward the exit. “go away.”

he blinked once. “what?”

“go,” you repeated. “see you on the plane.”

a sarcastic smile pulled at his mouth immediately.

he flipped you off as he stood up. “can’t wait.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

you frowned before you could stop yourself.

steve seemed equally surprised by what he’d said because his expression shifted for a second, something unreadable flashing across his face.

then he shook his head lightly and started backing away.

“whatever,” he muttered. “see you friday.”

and just like that he was gone again, disappearing back out of the library while you sat there staring after him.

fucking great.

-

the next few days disappeared faster than you wanted them to.

school dragged on like normal, your parents barely spoke to you unless it was to remind you not to embarrass them this weekend, and somehow friday arrived before you’d mentally prepared for it.

at exactly five pm, a car horn blared outside your house.

you stared at your bedroom ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow.

perfect.

through the window you could see steve’s bmw parked outside your house. he was leaning back in the driver’s seat looking about as thrilled as you felt.

you dragged your suitcase downstairs slowly, little overnight bag hanging off your shoulder. your parents had flown out the day before without even bothering to say goodbye, not that you’d expected them to.

when you stepped outside, steve looked up from where he was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

he looked exhausted.

hair messy. sunglasses on despite the fact the sun was already starting to set. expression flat in a way that told you he’d probably been arguing with his parents too.

“you know,” you said as you reached the car, “i actually can drive myself.”

steve just rolled his eyes immediately and got out of the car before you could stop him.

“yeah, and then our parents would lose their minds.”

“sounds fun.”

he ignored you, grabbing your suitcase from your hand.

“hey-”

“just get in the car.”

you watched him carry your stuff around to the boot with a scowl.

wonderful, even more time with him.

the drive to the airport was surprisingly okay though. quiet mostly.

you’d expected bickering within the first ten minutes, but instead steve just kept the radio low while you stared out the window watching hawkins disappear behind you.

the silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, not really. it was familiar. comfortable in a strange reluctant way.

sometimes steve would tap his fingers against the steering wheel in time with whatever song was playing, sometimes you’d glance over and catch him zoning out completely before he noticed and fixed his expression again.

neither of you mentioned the event once.

by the time you reached the airport, you realised very quickly that steve got weirdly stressed there.

not outwardly panicked or anything dramatic just tense.

his shoulders tightened the second you walked inside. he kept checking signs repeatedly, running a hand through his hair every few minutes while looking around like the airport had personally offended him.

“you good?” you asked eventually while he aggressively stared at the departures board.

“fine.”

“right.”

he looked at you. “airports are annoying.”

“it’s literally just walking.”

“there’s too many people.”

you blinked a little at that.

huh.

after that you found yourself taking over most of the talking without really thinking about it. checking bags, talking to staff, figuring out where you actually needed to go while steve trailed beside you carrying both your carry-ons and looking increasingly irritated by the entire experience.

he never thanked you for it but you noticed how visibly calmer he got whenever you handled things first.

security was still a nightmare though.

you lost him for nearly ten minutes because he got pulled aside after forgetting he left coins in his pocket.

“you’re an idiot” you told him once he finally made it through.

“i was distracted.”

“by what? basic instructions?”

he just flipped you off while grabbing his shoes back.

by the time you got through to departures you were both already drained.

steve practically collapsed into one of the airport seats with a long sigh while you dropped into the chair beside him.

then the announcement came over the speakers.

“attention passengers for flight 247 to chicago, your flight has been delayed approximately two hours-”

you stared ahead blankly, steve slowly turned his head toward you.

“you’ve got to be kidding me” you muttered.

he sank further into his seat. “i’m gonna die here.”

“dramatic.”

“this place smells weird.”

“yeah that’s definitely your biggest issue right now.”

after sitting there miserable for another ten minutes, you eventually both gave up and started wandering around the airport instead.

which somehow ended up being… kind of fun.

there was one ridiculously expensive designer store filled with the ugliest clothes you’d ever seen in your life and you and steve spent nearly twenty minutes walking around pointing at things and deciding which of your parents’ business friends would wear them.

steve held up this horrible bright orange blazer at one point and went, “mr thompson would absolutely wear this and think he looks good.”

you snorted. “he’d pair it with those tiny little sunglasses too.”

“oh my god he would.”

then you grabbed some sparkly scarf thing off a mannequin. “this is very mrs patterson after two glasses of wine.”

steve laughed properly at that.

“that woman terrifies me.”

“she flirted with my dad once in front of my mother.”

“jesus christ.”

you were both still laughing quietly when you left the shop.

it felt weird, not bad weird, just unfamiliar.

after that you got food, wandered aimlessly through more shops, stole extra sweets from one of the airport cafés because neither of you wanted to pay airport prices, and before long the delay was finally over.

the flight itself was short.

thankfully.

your parents had booked first class though, which both you and steve immediately decided to take full advantage of.

“free socks” steve whispered dramatically after sitting down.

“don’t act too excited.”

“i’m taking everything they give us.”

“classy.”

the two of you ended up doing the stupid little facemasks from the amenity kits purely because they were there. steve looked ridiculous sitting there with a sheet mask on while reading the in-flight magazine and you made sure to tell him that repeatedly.

“you look terrifying” you informed him.

“you literally look the same.”

“no, i look elegant.”

he looked over at you slowly. “you look damp.”

you kicked his leg lightly under the seat.

they gave you hot towels too, which steve treated like some groundbreaking luxury experience.

“this is insane” he muttered, unfolding it carefully.

“you are so easily impressed.”

“they heated a towel for me.”

“you’re rich.”

“yeah but not like this.”

you were both genuinely offended when you realised they didn’t serve proper food on shorter flights.

“what’s the point of first class then?” you complained.

steve nodded seriously. “exactly.”

by the time the plane landed it was late enough that both of you were half asleep already.

you grabbed a car to the hotel together in silence, city lights passing outside the windows while exhaustion settled heavily over both of you.

the hotel was massive and cold and far too expensive looking.

your parents had already checked in earlier, of course. the receptionist handed over your room keys without much explanation besides, “your parents asked us to make sure you arrived safely.”

you almost laughed at that.

asked the hotel staff, not you directly.

neither of your parents had even called to check if you landed okay. not even a quick message. nothing.

it stung.

steve looked equally unimpressed by it all, though he didn’t say much as you both headed toward the elevators.

when you reached your floor he glanced over at you.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

you nodded lightly. “unfortunately.”

“there she is” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes but there was a tired smile threatening at the corners of your mouth anyway.

then you both disappeared into your separate rooms.

sleep came easily that night, the dread for tomorrow evening came easier.

-

you woke up to aggressive banging on your hotel door, for a second you genuinely thought the building was on fire.

you groaned into your pillow, half asleep and completely disoriented before the knocking came again, louder this time.

“alright” you croaked out, dragging yourself out of bed.

your room was still dim, curtains pulled shut against the morning light. the digital clock beside your bed read 8:12am which honestly felt deeply offensive considering the event wasn’t until tonight.

you stumbled toward the door still half asleep and pulled it open with a scowl already prepared.

steve immediately pushed past you.

you blinked slowly at the empty doorway for a second before turning around.

he was already halfway across your room running a hand through his messy hair looking irritated and stressed and far too awake for this time in the morning.

“morning to you too” you muttered, shutting the door behind him.

“my parents are looking for me” he said quickly.

you stared at him.

“…okay?”

“I know they won’t look in here.”

you were too tired to even begin unpacking how insane that sentence was, instead you just made a confused noise and crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets over yourself immediately.

“why are they looking for you?” you mumbled into your pillow.

steve dropped down into the chair by the window with a dramatic sigh. “something about making sure my suit fits properly.”

you cracked one eye open.

“the suit you already own?”

“apparently my dad thinks i’ve somehow changed shape overnight.”

you snorted tiredly.

“and you’d rather hide in my hotel room?”

“I’d rather die.”

after that the room went mostly quiet again.

you were too sleepy to fully process the fact steve harrington had barged into your room at eight in the morning just to avoid his parents. you could hear him shifting around occasionally trying to get comfortable in the chair, at one point he muttered, “this thing is fucking awful.”

you smiled into your pillow without answering.

the next time you properly woke up, sunlight was pouring through the curtains and steve was standing near the door.

“they’ll probably be off my back now,” he said quietly. “thanks.”

your brain still felt fuzzy with sleep. “mhm.”

he hesitated for a second like he was about to say something else, then just gave a small nod and left. the door clicked shut behind him.

you stared at it for a long moment afterwards, that had been incredibly random. but honestly? you were starting to get used to steve just appearing in your space unexpectedly.

a few hours later you deeply regretted ever getting out of bed at all.

your mother had dragged you and steve to the venue absurdly early because apparently the two of you were expected to 'help set up.'

which really meant standing around while adults barked orders at staff members already being paid to do everything.

the venue itself was obnoxiously fancy. huge chandeliers, polished floors, flowers everywhere. every table looked identical and painfully expensive.

you were stuck in some dress your mother picked out weeks ago while steve wore a dark suit that honestly fit him annoyingly well.

he looked miserable in it though.

which helped.

for the first hour or so you and steve mostly stayed near each other out of pure survival instinct while your parents busied themselves micromanaging everything around you.

“if one more person asks me to carry something,” steve muttered under his breath while adjusting his tie, “i’m walking into traffic.”

you glanced at him. “dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

“you carried three boxes.”

“exactly.”

eventually guests started arriving and somehow things got even worse.

you lost track of steve almost immediately after that, swallowed into crowds of businessmen and fake smiles and endless conversations you didn’t care about.

at some point you got cornered by one of your father’s clients near the drinks table.

older guy. slicked back hair. smelled too strongly of cologne.

he’d been talking at you for at least ten minutes and you still had no idea what he was actually saying.

something about networking, something about presentation, something about how important connections were.

you nodded along half-heartedly until he suddenly said, “a girl like you should really listen carefully to this kind of advice if you want to get somewhere in life.”

your expression flattened immediately.

a girl like you.

there it was.

you rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.

the man paused mid sentence. “excuse me?”

you didn’t even answer. you just walked away.

honestly, maybe it was rude.

but you were tired. tired of these people. tired of being spoken down to. tired of every conversation feeling like some performance you were failing.

unfortunately, apparently your father’s clients didn’t appreciate being ignored.

because less than twenty minutes later your mother appeared at your side looking furious.

“come with me.”

you frowned immediately. “what?”

“now.”

the tone alone made your stomach sink.

she led you down a quieter hallway and into one of the side rooms near the back of the venue.

your parents were already inside. so were steve’s parents, and steve.

confusion hit you instantly.

steve looked uncomfortable the second you walked in. his arms crossed tightly over his chest while his father stood beside him looking cold and unimpressed as always.

your father turned toward you immediately.

“you are embarrassing us.”

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t act clueless.”

“I’m not acting- what are you talking about?”

“you rolled your eyes and walked away from a client in the middle of a conversation.”

there was a brief silence then you stared at him blankly.

“oh my god,” you said slowly. “that’s what this is about?”

your mother looked horrified by your tone. “watch yourself.”

“he made a comment i didn't like,” you snapped. “what did you want me to do? kiss him?”

your father’s jaw tightened instantly.

you looked around the room in disbelief before gesturing toward steve and his parents.

“why are they even here for this?”

before your parents could answer, steve’s father spoke, and honestly, that alone made your chest tighten a little.

there was something about him that always unsettled you. maybe because you knew what he was capable of. maybe because he barely even looked at steve like he was a person.

“these people represent both our families,” he said calmly. “If you’re going to behave like an issue, we have a right to see it being addressed.”

you stared at him.

then he added, “steven is also here to learn how not to behave.”

ouch.

even steve looked slightly caught off guard by that one, though he covered it quickly.

you suddenly felt stupid for thinking any of this wasn’t a big deal because in your head it genuinely wasn’t.

you rolled your eyes. so what?

you rubbed at your forehead tiredly. “right. okay. whatever.”

you just wanted it over with at this point.

then steve’s mother sighed softly and said, “honestly, at some point people have to stop excusing this kind of behaviour as personality.”

the room went quiet.

it wasn’t even what she said exactly it was the way she said it. like you were defective. like everyone in the room had silently agreed on it already.

for once, you didn’t argue back. didn’t roll your eyes. didn’t snap something sarcastic. you just looked down at the floor because unexpectedly, horribly, it actually hurt your feelings.

and steve noticed immediately.

he’d felt uncomfortable since the second this started, standing there listening to all of them talk about you like you were some problem to fix.

truthfully, he’d never understood why they all came down so hard on you all the time.

probably because you actually said what you thought instead of swallowing it like he did but when his mother made that comment, even he looked shocked.

“that’s not fair” steve said suddenly.

everyone in the room went still.

you looked up immediately.

his father frowned. “excuse me?”

steve shifted slightly but kept going anyway. “she didn’t even do anything that bad.”

the silence afterwards felt heavy.

your mother looked stunned, your father looked annoyed, steve’s mother looked almost offended and steve himself looked like he regretted speaking the second the words left his mouth.

but you didn’t stay long enough to see what happened next.

because humiliation and anger were already burning hot in your chest and suddenly the room felt too small to breathe in.

so before anyone could say another word, you turned and walked straight out.

then faster.

through the hallway, through the venue, straight out the side doors into the cold night air.

-

you sat outside for a long time before you heard footsteps behind you.

at first you ignored them, assuming it was just someone leaving the event for a cigarette or a phone call or whatever rich people did when they got bored pretending to enjoy themselves.

but then the footsteps slowed, stopped.

you looked up slightly.

steve. he stood there awkwardly for a second, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened, hair messier than before. in one hand he was holding a bottle of wine very clearly stolen from inside.

without saying anything he walked over and sat down beside you on the bench. the silence stretched for a moment before he held the bottle out toward you.

you frowned at it.

“did you steal that?”

“obviously.”

you looked at him for another second, confused more than anything, before he nudged the bottle closer. reluctantly, you took it.

“thanks” you said quietly before taking a sip.

the wine burned slightly going down.

steve just shook his head a little at your thanks like he didn’t really know what to do with it. then he took the bottle back from your hands and leaned back against the bench.

“about time i did something, right?” he muttered.

you glanced at him. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he stared ahead for a moment before answering.

“i just stood there.”

you stayed quiet.

“i always do,” he admitted eventually. “after the first time i talked back and got my ass kicked for it, i kinda stopped trying.”

your expression softened slightly.

“isn’t that a good thing?” you asked carefully.

steve scoffed quietly and took another sip from the bottle.

“doesn’t feel like it.”

you leaned back further against the bench, staring up at the dark sky above the hotel. and weirdly enough, for the first time, you realised how much you and steve envied each other in completely opposite ways.

he wished he could challenge his parents the way you did, you wished you knew how to stop fighting long enough for things not to hurt so much.

you spent your whole life screaming and kicking against everything while steve survived by swallowing it whole.

neither of you were happy.

for a while the conversation drifted into easier things, mindless complaints mostly. how awful the event was. how miserable everyone inside looked despite pretending otherwise. how one of your mother’s friends had definitely gotten too drunk already.

eventually the wine bottle was empty.

steve turned it upside down dramatically. “tragic.”

“you’ll survive.”

“debatable.”

you smiled faintly despite yourself. then after a moment you stood up, brushing your hands against your dress.

“come on.”

he looked up at you. “where are we going?”

“away from here.”

that was enough explanation for him apparently because he got up immediately.

the two of you walked aimlessly for a while through quieter streets surrounding the building, the sounds of the event fading further behind you with every step.

eventually you found a small patch of grass tucked behind a row of bushes near the sidewalk. there was a streetlight nearby that cast everything in a soft orange glow, enough to see each other without sitting completely in the dark.

you dropped down onto the grass first, kicking your shoes off immediately.

steve sat beside you with a tired sigh.

for a few minutes neither of you spoke.

then somehow you started talking properly, really talking.

maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was everything that happened earlier finally spilling over, or maybe the two of you had just been heading toward this conversation for years without realising it.

“i hate quiet houses” you admitted quietly at one point, pulling your knees up to your chest. “people always talk about wanting peace and quiet but i hate it.”

steve looked over at you.

“why?”

you shrugged slightly. “cause when it’s quiet you can tell nobody’s there.”

he looked down at the grass for a second before nodding slowly.

“yeah.”

there was understanding in that one word alone.

after a moment he nudged your leg lightly with his foot.

“i wish i liked reading.”

you frowned at him. “what?”

he shrugged. “you disappear into books all the time, seems nice.”

you laughed softly. “trust me, it’s less poetic than it looks.”

“still,” he muttered. “better than parties.”

you snorted at that. “your parties are lame, by the way.”

he looked offended immediately. “wow.”

“seriously. and you never even invited me.”

you smacked his leg lightly and he laughed quietly, rubbing at the spot dramatically.

“because you hate everyone there.”

“doesn’t mean i wouldn’t enjoy judging them.”

“fair point.”

the conversation kept unfolding after that, easier and easier.

you talked about childhood memories neither of you had thought about in years.

all the summer camps your parents shipped you off to every year while they travelled around pretending not to have kids.

“we spent like eight summers at the same camp and barely spoke” you realised.

steve nodded. “you bit a kid once.”

you looked horrified. “i was ten.”

“still counts.”

“he threw mud at me.”

“yeah honestly i probably would’ve done the same thing.”

you laughed quietly then the conversation softened again. deeper this time.

“the first time i saw you cry,” steve said suddenly, “it freaked me out.”

you looked over at him in surprise.

“what?”

he shrugged awkwardly, eyes fixed ahead. “you were yelling at your mom outside one of those christmas parties. then she left and you just…” he hesitated. “i dunno. i’d never seen you cry before.”

you looked down at your hands.

“you always seemed like the strongest person i knew” he admitted quietly.

something in your chest tightened unexpectedly because nobody had ever described you like that before. difficult. angry. dramatic. embarrassing. never strong.

after a long silence you said, “when you told me about your dad pushing you into that table…”

steve looked over.

you swallowed slightly. “it took everything in me not to go inside and say something.”

he let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost like a laugh but sadder.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“i know.”

and that was the worst part really, the helplessness of it all. the way you both knew exactly how awful the other person’s life could be sometimes but neither of you could actually fix it.

for a while you just sat there listening to distant traffic and the hum of the streetlight above you.

then steve spoke again, quietly this time.

“the real reason i came into your room this morning…”

you turned slightly toward him.

he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “i had a nightmare.”

your expression softened immediately.

“oh.”

“used to get them a lot when i was younger,” he admitted. “i always hated being alone after.”

he gave a small embarrassed laugh after saying it, like he regretted admitting it out loud.

“so instead,” you said carefully, “you came to my room?”

he shrugged.

“didn’t really think about it.”

but you both knew he had.

because somehow, without either of you meaning for it to happen, you’d become the person the other ran toward when things got bad.

you shifted a little closer without thinking much about it and rested your head lightly against his shoulder.

steve went very still beside you.

“maybe,” you said quietly, “we should actually go to each other more.”

he didn’t answer immediately.

you could feel his breathing slow slightly beside you.

“why?” he asked eventually.

you stared ahead at the empty street.

“because you just know,” you murmured. “we both know how it feels.”

there was a lump in your throat suddenly.

“even if we deal with it differently… it still sits the same way in us.”

steve stayed quiet for a long moment after that then very carefully, almost hesitantly, he rested his head lightly against yours.

“yeah,” he said softly “i think it does.”

you kept talking after that, for so long that the night stopped feeling like part of the event at all.

you ended up telling him about the worst arguments you’d ever had with your parents, and once the alcohol really started to settle in, the stories got less careful. you told him about slammed doors, about being told you were ungrateful, dramatic, impossible. about the first time your mother looked at you in disgust instead of disappointment and called you the daughter from hell like it was funny. steve laughed at that, but only because it sounded so ridiculous coming out of your mouth.

“mr never good enough and miss daughter from hell,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s pretty bad.”

you scoffed quietly and nudged his leg with your foot. “don’t be stupid. you’re good enough.”

he looked at you for a second, softer than usual, and said, “and you’re not a daughter from hell.”

that made something in your chest loosen a little.

the conversation drifted again after that, less heavy for a while, until steve asked you quietly, “if you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

you blinked at him, a little thrown by how serious he sounded all of a sudden. “anywhere that’s not hawkins.”

he let out a small laugh through his nose. “yeah, obviously. but come on. i know you have some kind of plan.”

you leaned back on your hands and stared up at the sky, thinking about all the nights you’d spent imagining a life that didn’t have your parents in it. thinking about how often you’d pictured the same dream without ever saying it out loud.

and because you were drunk enough to stop caring how stupid it might sound, you told him.

“maybe new york,” you said. “some little bookstore, a place where nobody knows me. somewhere i can actually breathe.”

steve turned his head to look at you.

you huffed a quiet laugh and went on, “and probably you’d still be around somehow, buying the biggest library in the state just to annoy me.”

that made him laugh properly, the kind that made his shoulders shake a little.

“yeah,” he said, smiling at the ground. “new york sounds good.”

you looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in a long time the idea of leaving didn’t feel so empty. not because you wanted to go with him, or because hawkins suddenly seemed less awful, but because for one stupid, beautiful second the future felt real enough to touch.

then steve leaned back on his hands and started talking about his own dream, a little embarrassed at first, like he wasn’t used to saying things this honest out loud.

he wanted a big family, he said. kids, noise, people always around. not the kind of house where silence meant someone was angry or gone or waiting to hurt you. he wanted a home where nobody had to feel alone. where nobody got left out. where annoyance only happened over stupid things, like whose team lost a game or who forgot to take the trash out.

you smiled before you could stop yourself.

it was so simple, the way he said it. so ordinary. but that was what made it hit so hard. it was everything neither of you had ever had. a place that felt warm instead of sharp. a life that didn’t always have to hurt.

for a while after that, you just talked and laughed and kept circling back around to the same kinds of things without meaning to. how tired you both were of pretending. how much easier things would be if other people would just say what they meant. how strange it was that you’d both spent so long thinking the other person had it easier.

and slowly, with every word, something in your chest started to feel lighter.

steve did too.

you could see it in him, the way his shoulders dropped a little, the way his voice got easier and less guarded. like being honest for once had done something good to him. like maybe he’d needed this just as much as you did.

which was probably why, when the quiet settled between you again, he looked at you for a second too long.

you didn’t get a chance to ask what he was thinking.

he kissed you.

it was brief. uncertain. almost hesitant.

you froze completely.

the second he felt you go still, steve pulled back fast, like he’d already decided it was a mistake. “sorry,” he said quickly, already standing up. “i think i’m just drunk and i shouldn’t have-”

you rolled your eyes before he could finish and grabbed his sleeve.

“sit down.”

he stopped, looked at you, then slowly sat back down on the grass.

you stared at him for one beat longer, mostly to make sure he wasn’t going to say anything else stupid, and then you kissed him.

this time he didn’t hesitate at all.

he kissed you back hard, like he’d been holding his breath for longer than he’d realised and finally got to let it go. his hand came up to your face, fingers pressing into your cheek as if he needed the contact to make sure you were real.

you kissed him back just as desperately, and for a second the whole world seemed to shrink down to the two of you and the rough grass beneath you and the streetlight humming overhead.

when you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing a little harder than before.

you rested your forehead against his and smiled despite yourself. steve smiled too.

then, in a voice that was quieter than you’d ever heard from him, he said, “i always thought i kinda hated you.”

you gave a short laugh. “you definitely acted like it.”

he shook his head, still close enough that his nose brushed yours when he moved. “no, i’m serious. there was just something about you that always managed to piss me off.”

you laughed again, softer this time.

“that’s flattering.”

“i tolerated you at best” he said, though there was no real heat behind it anymore.

you tilted your head slightly. “thin line between love and hate, harrington.”

he stared at you for a second, then gave a low, disbelieving huff of a laugh. “i guess so.”

then his expression changed, just a little. more honest, more open.

“no, i definitely never hated you,” he said. “i’d have done anything for you.”

that made you go still for a moment, the words landed somewhere deep and warm and unexpected.

you looked at him for a long second before smiling softly. “me too,” you admitted. “even though we didn’t really, y’know… do that.”

he let out a quiet laugh, and you did too.

because the truth was, the thought had always been there. buried underneath all the snide comments and awkward silences and old resentment. neither of you had ever said it before, but maybe that didn’t mean it hadn’t been real.

after a while you both reluctantly got up, brushed grass off your clothes, and fixed yourselves as best you could before heading back toward the event.

the closer you got, the more the old dread started creeping back in. the same polished doors. the same expensive music. the same parents waiting inside like nothing had happened.

you and steve exchanged a look before going in. whatever came next, you weren’t alone in it anymore.

-

the weeks after that felt strange in the best way.

not different in any dramatic, obvious sense. hawkins was still hawkins. your parents were still your parents. steve’s parents were still his. school was still school, with the same hallways, the same faces, the same suffocating feeling that you were trapped in a place that had already decided who you were supposed to be.

but between you and steve, everything had shifted.

not into something neat or easy. not into a label. not even really into anything you could have explained to someone else without making it sound ridiculous.

it was just there.

he started driving you home from school without making a big deal of it, and after a while it stopped feeling strange to slide into the passenger seat of his car and let the silence settle around you both. sometimes he’d talk, sometimes you would, and sometimes you’d sit there with the radio low and the windows cracked just enough to let the air in. if you went on walks, you waited for him at the end of the street. if he was already outside, he waited for you. neither of you ever said it out loud, but you both knew the other would show up.

when something happened at home, you went to each other first.

that became the rule without either of you deciding it properly.

if your parents were home, steve would come over and climb through your bedroom window like it was completely normal, dropping onto your floor with whatever pissed-off expression he’d been wearing all day and immediately starting in on a rant about whatever fresh hell his father had put him through.

if his parents were home, you refused to crawl up to his window like some dramatic idiot, so instead you threw small stones at the glass until he finally pulled the curtain back and looked down at you with a deeply annoyed expression that meant he already knew. he’d disappear for a few minutes, then come outside claiming he was meeting a friend.

which he was, you.

the next few months passed with a kind of softness neither of you had known how to give yourselves before. you still argued sometimes, but it was different now. less mean. less sharp around the edges. more like habit than hatred. he still called you stubborn, you still called him dramatic, and somehow none of it mattered the way it used to.

for once, your life didn’t feel like a room closing in around you.

it almost felt like it was opening.

you even managed to graduate high school with decent grades and steve by your side graduating too. you wore your cap and gown because your mother insisted, stood with the rest of your class under the humid summer sky, and waited through the speeches with the kind of detached exhaustion only a teenager could muster at a school ceremony.

your parents didn’t come.

at first it stung, because of course it did, but then you heard steve clapping like an absolute maniac from somewhere behind you and turned just in time to see him grinning at you like you’d done something incredible.

it was so loud that people glanced over.

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too.

for one strange second, that was enough.

you thought maybe that was how life would stay for a while after that.

not perfect, just yours.

then one night, everything changed again.

your parents weren’t home. the house was quiet in that eerie way it only ever was when they were gone, and you were halfway through convincing yourself to make tea when you heard a knock at the front door.

you frowned immediately.

steve usually just came in through your window or let himself in if it was unlocked, so the sound of someone knocking like a normal person was enough to make your stomach twist before you even reached the door.

when you opened it, steve was standing there looking wrecked.

not angry, not annoyed, actually wrecked.

his hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, one hand shoved into his pocket while the other kept flexing uselessly at his side. his face was pale, and the second he saw you, something in it cracked a little more.

before you could even ask what happened, he said, “i need to go.”

you blinked at him. “what?”

he looked almost panicked now. “i’m leaving. i have to. i can’t stay here.”

your confusion sharpened instantly. “steve, what are you talking about?”

“can i come in?”

you stepped back without thinking, pulling the door open wider, and he walked inside like he was being chased. the second the door shut behind him, you turned and hugged him, partly because he looked like he might fall apart where he stood and partly because you needed a second to make sense of his face.

he went very still at first, then melted into it with a shaky breath.

you held on tighter.

even while his arms came up around you, he kept talking, words spilling out too fast and too messy to catch properly at first. then little by little it came together.

he had graduated, but not well enough for his father.

apparently that had been the final insult.

his dad had lost it.

there’d been a fight, a real one, loud enough that steve had thought for a second the walls might crack. his father had started talking about some business school a “friend” recommended, one of those miserable places full of boys who would grow up to be exactly like their fathers. he couldn’t go there. he refused. and once his dad realised that wasn’t going to change, he’d gone colder than angry.

so steve had done the only thing that made sense to him.

he was going to leave.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands still on his shoulders.

“leave where?”

he let out a humorless laugh. “i don’t know. anywhere.”

you stared at him.

“steve.”

“i know.”

“no, seriously. what is your actual plan?”

he looked at you like he hadn’t quite thought that far ahead, which was exactly the problem.

“i have some money,” he said. “enough to drive somewhere. we could get jobs. shitty jobs, probably. somewhere cheap, maybe a motel until we figure it out.”

you slowly lowered yourself onto the couch and put your head in your hands.

this was insane, absolutely insane.

and yet-

your parents were gone. they wouldn’t be back for days. if you left a note saying you were fine, just away for a little while, they probably wouldn’t even call. maybe they’d be annoyed. maybe they’d be angry. but they wouldn’t come looking for you. not really. not if it was inconvenient.

you looked up at him.

he was still standing there, tense and frantic and clearly expecting you to tell him he was losing his mind.

instead you said, “this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

he blinked, then he let out a short breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but it fell apart halfway through.

then he sat down beside you heavily, shoulders sagging.

“i’m sorry” he said quietly.

you turned to him. “for what?”

he rubbed a hand over his face, voice rougher now. “for this. for being crazy. for springing it on you.”

you looked at him properly then.

he wasn’t just scared about leaving he was scared you’d think he was asking too much, also scared of leaving you behind.

that hit harder than you expected.

“you didn’t want to leave without me?” you asked softly.

his jaw tightened once. “no.”

the honesty of it made something strange bloom in your chest.

“nobody’s ever really thought about me like that before” you admitted before you could stop yourself.

steve looked at you immediately.

the expression on his face changed, subtle but obvious. guilt, maybe. or sadness. or something heavier.

and after a second, you knew. you knew he was right.

you were graduated. he was graduated. there was nothing left here except the same houses, the same parents, the same dead-eyed future everyone else seemed content to accept. you could stay and keep being miserable in familiar ways, or you could do something reckless and terrifying and possibly stupid enough to become freedom.

you sat there thinking it through, silent for so long steve eventually looked nervous again.

then you said, “fuck it.”

his head snapped toward you. “what?”

you turned fully to face him. “if it doesn’t work, we come back and make up some excuse.”

“you’re serious?”

“as serious as i’ve ever been.”

he stared at you for a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

then he said, “you’re fucking insane.”

you huffed a laugh. “this is your idea.”

“yeah, but i was kind of expecting you to talk me out of it.”

“do you want me to?”

he went quiet, rubbed a hand down his face again.

“this is stupid” he muttered.

“a little.”

“a lot.”

you nodded. “yeah. really stupid.” then you smiled slightly. “but what do we have to lose?”

his expression shifted when he looked at you after that, like he’d been waiting for someone to say exactly that.

“we can call our parents from wherever we end up,” he said after a moment. “or send a note. maybe.”

you shrugged. “sure. why not.”

he stared at you, then let out a disbelieving laugh.

“have you already packed a bag?”

his mouth curved slightly. “yeah.”

you looked at him sharply.

“steve.”

he shrugged, looking only mildly guilty. “it’s in my car.”

you just stared at him then you laughed once, breathless and stunned.

“so this is actually happening.”

he leaned forward then, hands landing gently on your shoulders as if he needed to steady both of you at once.

“this is our chance,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “now or never.”

there was something unbearably earnest in his face, something you’d never seen in him this clearly before.

you looked up at him, still half-convinced this was some absurd dream, and smiled.

that was all it took.

steve kissed you again, this time without hesitation.

it was softer than the first time. not less desperate, just more certain. like he’d been sitting on the edge of this moment for so long he was finally letting himself fall into it.

when he pulled back, he looked almost stunned by his own courage.

“i’ve been wanting to do that since the first time,” he admitted.

you blinked at him. “then why didn’t you?”

he gave a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “because i liked you too much. i didn’t want to lose you.”

your expression softened so fast it almost hurt.

“i think we’ve figured out by now that we can’t get rid of each other.”

he smiled at that, a real one this time. “yeah. i guess so.”

you stood up first.

then, because there was no point pretending anymore, you went to your room and packed a bag.

not everything. just enough.

clothes. toothbrush. your favorite book. a few other things that suddenly felt important because they proved you were real and not just some person who had been waiting to disappear.

when you came back out, steve was already by the door, keys in hand, looking at you like he was trying to memorize your face all over again.

you hesitated only once then you followed him outside, suitcase in hand, and got into the car.

the drive felt unreal.

quiet at first, almost too quiet.

the town blurred past the windows as steve drove, both of you too tense to speak much. every few minutes he’d glance at you like he was checking you were still there. every few minutes you’d glance back and realise the same thing.

you really were doing this.

two towns over, the weight in your chest started to ease just enough for you to breathe properly.

it wasn’t a plan yet, not really.

it was just motion.

and for the first time in your life, moving forward felt better than staying put.

what the hell.

-

the first night was exactly as miserable as it needed to be to feel real.

the motel was cheap in the most obvious way possible, with flickering lights in the hallway, a stained carpet that looked like it had seen things it should not have survived, and a bed that sagged in the middle like it had given up years ago.

still, neither of you complained much once the door shut behind you. you were too busy standing there staring at each other like you had to keep reminding yourselves this was actually happening.

you ended up on the floor with a pile of job brochures spread out between you, both of you trying to turn panic into a plan. the town you’d landed in was small enough to feel temporary but busy enough to offer a few possibilities, and that alone felt like a miracle.

you talked in circles for hours, jobs, groceries, all the practical things that had never really belonged to you before. it should have been terrifying. in some ways it was, but mostly it felt like the first time either of you had been allowed to choose your own life instead of inheriting one.

you argued about stupid things too, because of course you did. who showered first. who got which side of the bed. whether the horrible curtains should stay open or closed. the kind of pointless little fights that would have meant nothing anywhere else, but here they felt almost sweet.

you were exhausted, underdressed, too wired to sleep, and somehow absolutely thrilled to be hours and hours away from everything that had made you feel trapped for so long. the room was tiny and ugly and temporary, but it was yours for the moment, and steve was in it with you, and that made even the worst motel in the state feel like a beginning.

the next day, against all odds, you both found work.

it felt so absurdly smooth that you kept waiting for someone to come in and say there’d been a mistake. steve got hired at a corner store after a barely convincing interview and a smile that seemed to work on every adult within a fifty-mile radius. you landed a waitress job at a diner not far from the motel, and the woman who hired you barely glanced at your résumé before saying you looked like you could handle it. by the end of the afternoon, you were both standing outside with your new schedules folded in your hands, staring at each other in stunned silence.

“that was too easy” you said at last.

steve let out a breath, half laugh, half disbelief. “i know.”

“it feels fake.”

“yeah.”

you looked back down at your paper. “maybe the universe finally decided to stop being a dick.”

he gave you a sideways look “that would be a first.”

you didn’t start until the following day, so that night became a strange little bridge between the life you’d left and the one you were trying to build. and after dinner, after the two of you had sat on the motel bed talking quietly about schedules and bus routes and what little money you had left, you each called your parents.

your call came first.

you sat on the edge of the bed with the motel phone pressed to your ear while steve lingered near the window pretending not to listen. when your mother picked up, her voice was sharp with immediate suspicion.

you told her you needed time. that you were trying to figure yourself out. that you didn’t want to keep disappointing them by staying somewhere that made you miserable. you kept your voice as steady as possible, even when she started raising hers, even when she demanded to know where you were, even when your father got on the line and started talking over her.

you didn’t give them much.

just enough to make them furious and not enough to make them find you.

you told them you were safe. that you were working. that you wanted to make it on your own for a while.

with steve.

not that they deserved the explanation, but it felt important anyway.

his call went differently, though only slightly. his father was louder, angrier, more determined to pull him back under control. business school came up almost immediately, followed by threats, followed by that cold, brutal disappointment steve had spent his whole life trying to outrun. but this time he didn’t fold.

he stood by the window with his jaw clenched and his shoulders squared, telling his father no over and over until it finally stuck. his voice shook once, just once, but he didn’t back down. by the time he hung up, he looked like he might collapse.

which, a second later, he practically did.

he dropped into your arms with a long, ragged breath, and you held him up without even thinking about it.

“thank you,” he said against your shoulder, and his voice sounded wrecked. “for doing this with me.”

you tightened your hold on him and shook your head a little. “you’re doing it for me too.”

and that was the truth of it. neither of you had really done this alone. you were doing it together, and that was the only reason either of you had been brave enough to try.

the months that followed were hard, ugly in the way new lives often are. there were rude customers everywhere. rude customers at the diner who treated you like you were invisible until they needed a refill. rude customers at the store who tried to make steve’s life miserable because they could. there were broken plates and late shifts and sore feet and too many nights spent in the same cheap motel room with a wall that felt too thin and a bathroom that leaked if you were unlucky. there was even one especially memorable morning when some idiot smashed the back window of steve’s car for no reason at all, which led to a long chain of swearing, repair estimates, and him sitting on the curb looking betrayed by the universe.

still, you settled into each other.

slowly, then all at once.

you started to move through life like a pair of people who had already learned how to survive the worst parts and were now figuring out the rest as they went. you came home to each other. you kissed goodbye before work and kissed hello when the shifts were finally over. you started falling asleep tangled together without even thinking about it. you learned the shape of each other’s bad days and the things that fixed them. a cup of coffee. a quiet hug. being left alone for twenty minutes and then pulled back in when the world felt less heavy.

it was obvious to everyone but you, and maybe even to you by then, that what you had was more than just a way to keep from falling apart.

you just never named it.

not until steve came home one night looking half dead from a horrible shift at the shop, dropped his keys by the door, and froze.

there was a slice of cake sitting on the bed with a single candle in it.

next to it were two tiny wrapped gifts.

you were sitting cross-legged on the mattress, hair tied up, exhausted but smiling in that quiet way you got when you were waiting for someone you cared about. steve stared at the cake for a second like his brain refused to process what he was seeing.

“what’s this?” he asked, voice rough.

you blinked at him. “your birthday.”

he stared harder, then looked genuinely confused. “it’s my birthday?”

you laughed a little, because of course he hadn’t remembered. “apparently.”

he just kept looking between you and the bed like he couldn’t understand how this was happening. then something in his face changed completely, all at once, and you knew.

you knew he was remembering every birthday that had been treated like a transaction back home. the expensive presents. the forced smiles. the absence underneath all of it.

he’d never looked so helpless.

or so loved.

you patted the spot beside you and he sat down carefully, almost like the whole thing might disappear if he moved too quickly. you lit the candle with a shaky match and handed him the cake before he could say anything else. the little flame flickered between you.

“make a wish” you said softly.

he smiled at that, small and almost disbelieving, and blew it out.

then he kissed you.

slowly at first, like he was trying to understand what it meant to be given something gentle and real. when he pulled back, his eyes were bright in a way that made your chest ache.

“you remembered” he said quietly.

you shrugged like it was nothing, though you both knew it wasn’t. “of course i did.”

the gifts were cheap, but they were thoughtful in a way that made them feel bigger than anything money could have bought. one was something he’d mentioned weeks ago and probably forgotten he’d said out loud. the other was small and stupid and exactly his kind of thing, chosen because you’d listened. really listened. not in the way people did when they were trying to be polite, but in the way that made someone feel seen.

his face crumpled a little when he opened them.

you let out a breathy laugh and reached for him immediately. “oh, don’t start. there’s no designer wrapping or whatever, i did my best.”

that made him laugh through the tears, which somehow made it worse and better at the same time.

“i’m not crying because of that,” he muttered, wiping his face and sounding embarrassed about it despite the fact there was no reason to be.

“i know.”

he looked at you for a long second, breathing unevenly, then said, “nobody’s ever done this for me before.”

that knocked the air out of you a little because it wasn’t just about the cake or the presents it was about how carefully you had remembered him. how naturally you had made space for him. how easy it had become for you to make his life feel lighter without ever asking for anything in return.

and maybe that was the moment he finally understood what had been sitting between you all along.

maybe it was the moment you understood it too.

because later, when the candles had burned and the presents were opened and the two of you were lying side by side on the bed in the dim motel light, steve turned toward you and said, very quietly, “be my girlfriend.”

you went still for half a second, then smiled so hard it almost hurt.

“yeah?”

he nodded once, looking a little nervous all over again. “yeah.”

you reached over and touched his hand. “okay.”

his whole face softened.

“okay?”

“okay,” you repeated, smiling at him. “officially.”

he looked almost stunned by how relieved he seemed, like something that had been hovering over him for months had finally settled into place.

because he wasn’t the sorry kid from hawkins with the perfect smile and the bruised ribs and the house full of silence anymore. he was steve. your steve. and you loved him exactly as he was.

and you, for once, didn’t feel like the daughter from hell or the girl who never fit anywhere. you felt like yourself, which was somehow better.

months passed after that, and eventually the money you’d scraped together became enough to take the next step.

you moved out of the motel and into a tiny apartment that was barely bigger than the room you’d once shared, but it had a kitchen of its own and a door that locked properly and windows that looked out onto a street neither of you had grown up on. it was small and cheap and not at all glamorous, but it was yours.

you loved it anyway.

more than that, you loved what it meant.

your parents barely kept up with you. you visited once, just once, and it ended exactly how you expected it to. they did not understand why you left. they probably never would. but that stopped mattering more than you expected it to. steve never once asked you to go back, and you never asked him to, either.

you both agreed, almost immediately, that neither of your parents were ever allowed through the front door.

“i don’t want their energy in here” steve said one night while unpacking boxes in the kitchen.

you laughed under your breath. “their energy?”

he turned to you with complete seriousness. “yes. this apartment only has room for one kind of emotional damage and it’s ours.”

you stared at him, then laughed harder because unfortunately, he was right.

living together was messy. there were fights over dishes and money and whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. there were nights where one of you got so overwhelmed you just cried on the floor for no reason other than being young and broke and terrified and free all at once. there were mornings when the ceiling looked too close and the world felt too big.

but there were also hands on your back when you couldn’t breathe properly. coffee made badly but lovingly. shoulders to lean on. quiet kisses in the kitchen. shared exhaustion. stupid jokes. plans that didn’t feel impossible anymore.

and slowly, over time, the future started to look less like a fantasy and more like something you could actually build.

steve’s dream of a big family didn’t seem impossible anymore, your dream of being far away from hawkins didn’t feel lonely anymore.

because the first step had never really been running it had been finding someone who would go with you.

and somehow, against all odds, you had.

-

“You better not run too far away from home, Duke,” you whisper at him. Duke only pokes his head from the gate. Then, as if thinking better of it, “Respectfully. Your Grace.”

He tilts his head sideways, and you only wave at him before turning around. Normally, you’d swing home the rest of the way. But you hardly have a chance to wander into these posh areas, so you might as well enjoy the view. Each house is different in its architecture, with delicate gates and gardens decorating their entrances—for a moment, you wish you had your camera with you. The sight is definitely pretty enough. The downside is that if you showed the photographs to Remus, he’d certainly wonder how come you managed to sneak your way into the nicer neighborhoods of the city.

“Oh, please. You seriously thought that?”

You halt, nearly slipping with the wet pavement at the familiar cadence. Quiet and soft, but your overdeveloped hearing (and secret affection for the owner of said soft voice) immediately picked up on the words. Almost like he’s by your side. Wait—

You flick your wrist towards the lamppost across the street, launching yourself up to perch on the light and look down at the empty street. Just narrowly missing the two silhouettes turning the corner into the neighborhood. Remus and… yeah, Regulus Black.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you drop your head to your knees. Hunching over yourself and taking advantage of the large tree that can cover your figure from any prying eyes that can look up. “Why is it always something?”

“Remus, you’re the one who said I had illegible handwriting.” Regulus says, almost jokingly. You don’t know him that well enough to decipher what his tone means. “Not my fault you can’t read.”

Remus laughs. Properly laughs, and it’s a miracle you don’t fall off the lamppost. You crawl backwards on the light, gaining momentum before jumping off to the next one. Yeah, you’re following them back into the neighborhood, so what? You know better than to let Remus hang alone with Regulus Black, whatever story he thinks they have. 

You nearly miss the next lamp when they stop, slipping onto the pavement and throwing yourself into a shrub when you accidentally curse under your breath. Regulus’ head whips in your direction.

“Well, here we are.” Remus says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Safe and sound.”

Regulus shakes his head, blinking rapidly before turning back to Remus. “You didn’t need to walk me home, Remus.”

“I don’t mind,” he says easily. As he always does. He glances around the street, then back at the house. It’s in this distraction that he misses the look that crosses Regulus’ eyes, almost… affectionate. Fond. “This is a nice place. When did you move in?”

“Hm?” Regulus blinks, then shakes his head again. “Oh, not that long ago. A few months, I believe.”

“Really?” Remus hums, looking back at the house. Then at Regulus. His lips twitch sideways. “Well, it suits you. I’m happy for you, Reg.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I mean,” he brushes his hair away. “I still want you to do well… despite everything.”

“Oh, don’t.” Regulus sighs, looking away and appearing almost… frustrated. You frown, narrowing your eyes to look better knowing damn well your vision is perfect. “Remus, please. There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’ve told you.”

“Still…” Remus shrugs, shoving his hand back in his jacket. “Can you at least… be careful?”

Regulus parts his lips, either in surprise or… something else, you don’t know. But you can gauge it, you’ve felt it yourself whenever Remus asks you the same. And of course, you’re far stronger than Regulus, because he doesn’t rein himself in like you do. You’re secretly glad you’re hidden, and not perched somewhere you can fall off from, when Regulus takes a step forward, cupping his face and pulling him down for a kiss. 

You crawl backwards deeper into the shrub, trying to put as much distance between them and you. But your heart, traitorous and masochist when it comes to Remus, doesn’t let you stray too far. 

“Reg—” Remus exhales, barely a whisper as Regulus steps back. “I don’t—what are you doing?”

“What?” Regulus blinks, momentarily confused. “Is this about… y/n?”

You frown, looking up from the gravel to try and get a glimpse. Across the street, Remus sighs again. He takes Regulus’ hands, gentle and careful as always, and guides them down. 

“I thought you wanted to… try again?” Regulus goes on, voice tipping into embarrassment the longer Remus takes to answer. 

“Regulus… you’re the one who called me,” he answers instead. “Is this why? Because you want to… try again?”

“Well,” he clears his throat. “I… yes?”

“Okay.” Remus nods, almost thoughtful. “Why? Why after all this time? Why when—”

You suck in a breath, as low as you can before looking around the bushes for a possible exit. One that won’t give yourself away. Whatever conversation they continue turns into a humming in your ears as you scramble out the shrubs from the other side, far and far away for them to even notice you. No one is around as you walk away, farther and farther until you reach the end of the neighborhood and can peacefully swing into the streetlights without gaining too much attention. 

It isn’t until you reach your street at the university grounds that you finally let the words sink into your brain. Your heart. And so do the tears. You flick your wrist towards the building across from your dorm and climb up, pushing your legs to your chest and giving yourself a couple of minutes to feel sorry for yourself before going home. 

Maybe if you hadn’t gotten so close… maybe if you had just accepted Remus as James’ friend from school, if you hadn’t asked about his dissertation and what his favourite novel was. Maybe if you hadn’t accidentally followed him home that night after a party back in first year, if Spidergirl hadn’t been out patrolling to notice him stumbling around campus… maybe if you hadn’t grown so attached to Remus… none of this would’ve happened.

You sniffle, acutely aware of how pathetic you look. Spidergirl, hunched over herself crying on a building, using her own hood as an improvised handkerchief when the person she wants to comfort her is out there with someone else? You’re glad it’s night, and that no students are outside because this surely would make a dent to your ego if it landed in any updates account. The same accounts Remus follow—Jesus fucking Christ. What were you thinking?

“Stupid,” you scold yourself, bumping your forehead against your knees. Once, twice, thrice, trying to get your head to rest. To stop turning the conversation around and find the exact moment you went completely wrong with your assumptions.

And even then, if Remus was interested in you. How could you even entertain it? When, even as friends, you keep lying to his face over and over again? When your life represents all he suffered, when you’re a reminder of the same people who hurt him? Of everything he’s been through? 

“Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

Your head snaps up, and, of course, you come sliding off the brick wall. Crash landing on the ground. Remus curses, crossing the street without even checking if anyone’s coming.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales sharply, startled and breathless at once. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yup!” you scramble to stand, brushing the dust off your suit. What dust? It’s not even windy. Jesus. “Yeah, good as new!” you say, voice catching in that obvious tell that you were crying. 

Remus tilts his head, eyes snapping up to your face. “Are you…” he frowns. “Are you okay? You sound… odd.”

You clear your throat. “Why do you think so? I just fell off a building.” 

His frown deepens. “Were you crying? I heard…”

“What? Me? Crying?” you scoff. Of course, it sounds wet and overly pathetic. “Spidergirl doesn’t cry.”

His lips twitch, like he wants to smile despite himself. But they return to a straight line. You drop your head, sighing.

“I just… um, bad night,” you make a vague gesture towards the city. “Found a lost puppy and… well. Those always,” you make another vague gesture, mimicking bawling. Please stop talking. “you know?”

“I… know, yeah. Sort of,” he glances around, at you, then at the dorm before looking back at you. “Did y/n make you cry?”

“What?”

“Well,” he points at your dorm building. “aren’t you here to… visit her? Or are you on your way home?”

I am home, you almost say. “Um… no?”

“You don’t seem sure.” Remus says, sounding a touch amused. But there’s worry underneath. It makes your heart ache again. Damn Remus. “Did you have a fight?”

“No,” you shake your head, fixing the hood of your suit over your head. “Just… um, passing through. Making sure things are okay… I suppose.”

Remus stands straight at this. “Why wouldn’t they be? Is she okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave him off. “Just standard vigilantism procedure.”

“Ah. Vigilantism, of course,” he shoves his hands into his jacket. “Where does the lost puppy fit into those procedures?”

You scoff, and Remus tilts his head, brows furrowing again. “Are you calling me a liar?” you cross your arms.

“What? No, I’m just… well, if you did encounter a lost puppy with y/n, I might have to go check on her.” He mimics you, crossing his arms. Lips twitching in a way that is dangerous to both your heart and your, well, your lie. “She’s quite emotional when it comes to baby animals. In fact, the other night, she cried when we watched Dumbo—the live action.”

“Who doesn’t cry watching Dumbo?”

“Well, that’s true,” he brushes his hair away. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

Your heart stutters. “Ask me?” you tilt your head, forcing levity to your tone. “I’m the one that ought to be asking questions here.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“What are you doing out this late? Again?”

Remus blinks, then again. As if recalibrating. He glances over your head towards your dorm, then to the side to the path he’s coming from—the posh neighborhood... Regulus’ house. 

“Walk me home?” he asks after a beat. “I can answer all the questions you want on the way. If,” he smiles, tentative and familiar all at once. “you promise to answer some of mine.”

“Huh?”

He starts walking, jutting his chin down the path to his flat building. You groan, shooting web towards the upcoming streetlight to follow after him. Remus is smiling to himself when you catch up, though it doesn't really reach his eyes. Pensive, almost. 

“Um… so?” A thwacking sound, then another. Remus watches your shadow on the pavement as he walks. “Why are you out so late?” you ask again. 

“Same reason you are,” he takes out his pack, putting a cigarette between his lips. “Was walking a friend home.”

Thud. You scramble to catch up, seeing you landed wrong, and a few feet behind. “Friend?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a long drag. “S’complicated.”

“Complicated… in a good way? Or a bad way?”

“Well... That depends on who you ask.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Remus huffs a laugh. “I thought this was a your turn my turn type of situation,” he glances sideways at you, smirking around the cigarette. 

You roll your eyes, then remember he can’t see you, then wave him off. “Alright, then. Ask away,” you jump, swinging close enough to the ground. “Just no personal questions,” you gesture at yourself. “for obvious reasons.”

“Right, of course.” Remus nods, taking a long drag. Like he’s finding the words. 

You’re starting to think he’s not actually going to ask you anything when he reaches for his backpack. He procures a small sandwich bag, a tad wrinkly you can barely make out the contents at first glance. Except, when you do, you’re glad you’ve decided to hover a few inches off the floor—because you would’ve surely fallen face first into the curb.

“Where d’you get that?”

“You tell me.”

You glance down at the bag, feeling your heart leaping all the way to your throat and struggling to function properly. Your note, from the other night, movie night—with webbing. Your webbing. How…?

Remus studies you silently, almost meticulously like he’s gauging your reaction. You don’t know why, or how, seeing you can’t even show any expression with the mask. 

“Oh, right!” you facepalm yourself, almost too harshly. He blinks in surprise, and you only scoff. “Right, this. Of course, silly girl, our friend.”

“What?”

“You see,” you point at the webbing. “I’ve given y/n some to use as… uh, tape. One time she… she ran out of tape for her prints!”  

“You gave her… this,” he points at the bag. “For tape?”

“Yup!” 

“But—”

“Honestly, I should have a talk with her about it! I specifically told her to use it carefully!” you click your tongue. “That girl, my god.”

“Okay… so, um,” he puts the cigarette back between his lips, raising the bag between you. Like you’re not acutely aware of its existence. “First, that’s… okay. Tape. She uses your web as tape… for some reason,” he takes a short drag, and you brace yourself for the upcoming question. “How did you know I was talking about y/n, though?”

A beat. 

Your brain freezes. A split second where nothing happens, just white noise. And Remus’ eyes staring right through you. Hell, right through your mask, if you really think about it.

You swallow thickly, glancing between him and the bag. Then realize you’ve taken too long to answer. “How?” you ask, then snort. “How could I not know? Look!” you point at the note. “That’s her handwriting!”

Remus must be reeling. Actually reeling, because he does look down at the note. Like he hasn’t seen your handwriting first hand, like you don’t see him nearly everyday and have studied together since you’ve met. 

“Right,” he blinks, eyebrows wrinkling. “Right, of course. I… keep forgetting you two are close.”

“Not that close.” You say quickly.

“Well, close enough that you can identify her handwriting,” he smirks. “And give her your… web stuff to use as tape.”

“Now who’s the one asking too many questions?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright!” he twists around, pocketing the bag back inside his backpack before continuing walking. “It was just a question.”

“Just a question, huh?” you jump, launching yourself upwards, hanging upside down from the streetlight a few feet away. “Who was that friend you were walking home?”

Remus laughs. “Ah, so that’s how it is, hm?”

You shrug. “You started it.”

He brings the cigarette back to his lips, looking down at his sneakers as he takes a longish drag. But doesn’t immediately speak after blowing the smoke out. “Promise not to tell?”

“Who would I tell?” you scoff. “Duke?”

“Who’s Duke?”

“The puppy… nevermind—I promise, yeah.”

“Uh.” Remus frowns, tapping at his cigarette. “Right, about your question. It’s complicated… he’s a friend now—or I thought he was, but we… dated. A few years ago.”

“Ah,” you force nonchalance into your tone, still dangling upside down. “Still got feelings?”

“Sort of,” he answers. “Not me, at least.”

You hold fast to the streetlight, unless you fall off. “No?”

“No. I…” he pauses, cutting you a quick glance. “I care about him, but not like that anymore. Not like… well,” he takes a step to the side, putting his cig out. “Not like someone else.”

“Someone else?”

“Hm,” he flicks the butt of his cig into the bin. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not asking.”

Remus laughs. “Okay, then. My bad.”

You shift positions, pushing yourself up to sit on the streetlight instead. “Sorry.”

“What for?”

“Overstepping, I s’pose.”

“You didn’t,” he shakes his head. “Or at least not in a way that would make me uncomfortable.”

“Still…”

“You’re fine,” he looks around, looking positively torn about walking into his flat building or staying back a couple of minutes. “Just… um, can I ask you one last thing?”

Your heart stutters. “Sure.”

“Do you… when you’re out fighting crime lords and stuff, does the name Regulus Black ring a bell?”

Oh God. Did you leave a trail? You glance over your shoulder, out towards the nicest part of the city, then back at Remus. He’s staring back at you with a question in his gaze, but a worrisome divot between his eyebrows as well. 

“Uh… why do you ask?”

“It’s just…” he brushes his hair away, stalling. You swallow nervously, acutely aware of his every movement as he leans sideways over the post. “He’s… my friend’s brother and, well, I think he’s mixed up with the wrong crowd. Has always been, and now he’s dragging my friend with him.”

“Ah. Your… friend,” you fix the hood of your suit. “This friend you have, uh, sort of complicated… stuff with?”

He huffs a laugh. “Nothing passes by you, huh?”

“Well, they don’t call me Spidergirl for nothing,” you shrug. Remus almost mimics it, but the worry is still lingering on his stance. You lean over your arm, nearly laying down. “The name does ring a bell. He’s from a well-off family, isn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Your friend too, I assume.”

“You’ve cracked the case.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to pinpoint who you’re asking me about,” you shift, looking around the street. Wondering if you should lie or… tell him the truth. 

Somehow, Remus manages to notice your hesitation. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“What?”

“If he’s mixed up in dodgy shit, I want to know.”

“Why? So you can… step in and what?”

He tilts his head. “So he is involved in dangerous things.”

“I didn’t say that,” you hold onto the streetlight, sliding backwards until you’re hanging upside down again. You’ve found it easier to speak this way. “It’s just… well. I can just tell you that he’s not… involved… directly?”

“Directly? What does that even mean?”

“What I mean,” you repeat, crossing your arms. “Is that I don’t think he’s doing it ‘cause he genuinely enjoys it. Or that’s what I’ve gathered so far.”

Remus hums, contemplatingly. “What else have you gathered?”

You snort. “That’s a lot of questions about somebody you supposedly don’t have feelings for.” 

“What?”

“Yes, I’ve seen Regulus Black doing some dodgy shit. No, I don’t think he’s directly involved. I’ll keep you posted on the rest, anything else?”

“Hey—”

You shift, landing almost silently and a few feet away from him. The opposite direction to your dorm this time, you can’t risk it again. “Well,” you point at his flat building. “In you go.”

“I don’t—what?” he tries to step into your path, but you only flick your wrist up towards a building. But don’t jump yet. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s late. You shouldn’t be out,” you say instead, feeling your own voice wavering. Jesus fucking Christ. “Especially if you’ve been hanging out with… that bloke Regulus.”

Remus’ jaw tightens, studying you with a certain confusion that you don’t have the energy to try and hide away from this time. 

“Right. Of course.” He nods, taking one single step backwards. “Thank you for… walking me home, I’spose.”

“No problem,” you salute him. 

But Remus doesn’t take another step. He just… stares. “Can I ask you one last question?”

“Depends.”

“Earlier… you weren’t crying about that… lost puppy, were you?”

You look away, gaining momentum before jumping to climb the wall. “Goodnight, Remus.”

Having always desired love, she was active on dating websites and apps before her relationship with Spencer began. Work always came first, but she really wanted someone to support and for them to support her: a life partner. She was doubtful that these apps would help her find her person, but she had heard enough success stories to give it a try.

She went on a handful of mundane dates. They were so unremarkable that they started to blur together in her memories. There was only one man she agreed to see for a second date, and she wasn’t even sure why she did. He wasn’t particularly riveting; he talked about himself the entire time, and he didn’t ask her any questions about herself. He was a little too confident, bordering on arrogance. Confusingly, she left the date more perplexed about who he was than she felt when she was just messaging him. He talked a lot about his work, something in the tech industry, but was vague about the specific details. “Security reasons,” he said. It was an understandable excuse, one that she had used in reference to her own job before.

Something about him intrigued her, though. She hoped that he was just nervous for their first date and that he would be more charismatic and open during the second one. Trusting her gut, she figured there was a reason he was the only date that lingered in her mind. 

Their second date went much like the first. He paid slightly more attention to the details she shared about her life, but he still didn’t make any inquiries. Every fact she shared was followed by a sharp nod that reminded her of a job interview. It was like he was filing it all away for later. She chose to interpret it as hopefulness for a future with her.

The drive home was uncomfortable. He blared bizarre music and kept a hand unsettlingly high on her thigh. Driving a sports car, he sped and drove aggressively, thinking it would impress her. By the time they pulled into her lot, her stomach felt like she had just gotten off a wooden roller coaster.

When she pushed the door open, he attempted to invite himself inside for ‘coffee’, but was clearly insinuating he was interested in other activities with her. She made an excuse that she was tired and had to be at work early in the morning, and he surprisingly took it well. “Good luck at your new job.” So he was listening to me, she thought. “I had a nice time tonight.”

Thanking him and agreeing out of courtesy, she waved goodbye and made her way inside. Feeling genuinely tired and eager for her first day with the BAU, she immediately got ready for sleep and collapsed onto her bed. She didn’t look out her window, or she would've seen that his car remained in the parking lot for an additional thirty minutes after dropping her off.

A year later, she and Spencer have been seeing each other in secret for six months. Not out of embarrassment or shame, but out of pragmatism. Keeping their relationship private felt like the responsible choice, one that would protect the BAU as a whole. Just in case things ended poorly, they wanted to prevent unnecessary tension and drama at the job they valued so much. The work had brought them together, after all, and they were both fiercely passionate and protective over it.

Her dating app era is long behind her; she barely even thinks about it anymore. When she does, she laughs at herself for thinking it was a reliable way to find her forever person. Yes, she knew some people who had found fulfilling relationships that way, but ultimately, they were the exception, not the rule, for online dating.

Evan, the one man she saw twice, continued to message her for three weeks following their last date. As nice as it was to be sought-after, as time passed, all she remembered was how uneasy she felt around him. Ultimately, she texted him that she wasn’t really in a place for anything right now, that she needed to focus on herself and her new job, and thanked him for the dates. She added that she was sure he’d find someone great who’d be a better fit for him, then she went on with her life.

She skimmed his response, “Understood. That’s admirable of you. Hope to see you around,” while she was standing on the front lawn of a random house in Wisconsin, investigating a crime scene.

Before she could think anything of the message, Spencer approached her from behind, “So, what do you think about the victim’s husband?” which startled her, making her heart lurch in her chest.

She turned to face him with a hand on her sternum, “Jeez, you scared me, Dr. Reid!”

His eyebrows furrowed in concern and atonement, “I’m sorry, Agent.” Eyes following her phone as she put it back in her pocket, wondering if something was going on. He brushed it off as her being distracted and immersed in whatever she was looking at, and led her into the house. 

He didn’t particularly care about her thoughts regarding the victim’s husband. Wait, that sounds bad. He absolutely was interested in her thoughts and opinions, but he mostly just wanted to talk to her; he was mostly interested in her. She had already impressed him with her professional insights.

After that, Spencer noticed that she got progressively jumpier and warier. The job is hard on everyone, especially at first, so he figured she was having trouble leaving the work at work. When exhaustion was prevalent under her eyes, he assumed the cases were visiting her in the middle of the night. When they started going on dates, her head was on a swivel no matter where they went. He felt inadequate because he wasn’t bringing her the same peace she brought him. 

One night, he was walking her home, and she pointed out a dark car that was driving past them. “I don’t know how common that make and model is, but I swear I see it everywhere these days.”

Sharing the statistical commonality of people near D.C. who drove Toyota Tundras, he hoped that would subdue her worries. She nodded and laughed it off, “You’re right, it’s probably just a coincidence.”

As her relationship with Spencer progressed, her paranoia only increased. She told herself she was just anxious about keeping their romance private. 

When she would come home after work and see her book on the coffee table instead of on her nightstand, where she could’ve sworn she left it, she chalks it up to being tired and misremembering. Same for when she went to open her blinds one morning and saw the slats were tilted in the opposite direction that’s recommended for privacy, she must’ve not paid close enough attention the night before. 

When her phone started playing a weird song on its own, she thought about how right Spencer is about technology being unreliable. Same for when a text from Spencer got marked as read without her ever opening it.

She asks Spencer if he went by her apartment when she smells a distinct masculine cologne. He tells her no and asks her why, but she’s afraid of sounding crazy, so she brushes him off.

She asks him if he took a picture on her phone –a dark, blurry thing where nothing can be deciphered– and he tells her no. They both attribute it to being an accidental photo she must have taken.

He starts getting scared when she tells him she’s been so forgetful lately, his mind barraged with memories of his mother’s bad days. Then, he feels guilty for projecting Diana’s illness onto her. To make up for it, he reassures her that she’s still adjusting to the BAU and gently suggests that she prioritize her sleep.

This is when she starts to sleep over at Spencer’s apartment more consistently. Instead of driving her home in the earliest hours of the morning, he encourages her to just spend the night. That way, she can get more hours of rest. They both notice her decreased stress levels on the days following a sleepover. 

At first, she would borrow something of his to sleep in and would stop by her apartment before work to change, not wanting to draw attention to herself by wearing the same clothes two days in a row. Soon, Spencer cleared a drawer and a section of his closet for her. It was only practical, he said. So she could sleep an extra thirty minutes in the mornings.

Her most frequented coffee shop becomes the one around the corner from his apartment. She’s texting him, see you at home <3 messages. The takeout apps on her phone have all defaulted to his address instead of hers.

One morning, she and Spencer walk out of his building, gloved hands intertwined. They’re laughing and leaning into each other's bodies, the cold air causing their breath to tangle. Spencer opens her car door for her and leans down to give her a tender kiss before she climbs in. She immediately turns the key in the ignition to get the heat blasting in the car.

“See you soon,” he tells her, before softly shutting her door for her. After drawing a little heart on the frosted glass window, he adorably waves, then turns to head to his own car.

She hears the little beep beep of his horn as he drives past her, and she honks hers back, smiling at his unintentional charm. This has become their morning routine; they offset their arrival and departures from work to avoid attracting attention. 

Fiddling with her radio and heat controls, she doesn’t notice a dark truck pull in right behind her, perpendicular to her car, blocking her in. As she sets her hand on the gearshift to reverse, she glances up to her rearview mirror and spots the vehicle. 

“Are you kidding me…” She mutters, annoyed that someone would park their car in the middle of the parking lot like this. Maybe they just pulled over to look up directions real quick? she thinks.

As the minutes tick by, she gets more and more worried about being late for work, so she pops open her door to step out and see what’s going on. As she stands and turns to approach the vehicle, she sees a man standing by her back tire; the sight of him makes her jump – she didn’t even see him step out of his snow-covered truck.

She recognizes him from somewhere, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. The hood of his jacket is falling slightly over his eyes, and his mouth is pressed into a firm, straight line.

“Wait, Evan? Is that you?” She feels slightly relieved that she won’t have to converse with a total stranger.

He doesn’t respond, but he takes a few steps toward her.

“Um, you’re kind of blocking me in? And I have to be at work in twenty minutes.”

Still, no response.

As he steps closer and closer to her, she gets more and more frantic. She tries to step backward, but her back collides with her open door, and he’s too close for her to sidestep him. Her breathing and heart rate increase with each passing second.

Just as she looks down and sees a rag in his gloved hand, he’s bringing it up to her face and wrapping his other arm around her body. The last thing she remembers is the sound of her own muffled screaming and her flailing legs attempting to kick him away.

Spencer walks through the glass doors of the BAU with a faint smile on his face, something that has become a norm for him as she’s been spending more and more nights at his apartment. He wants to tell her that he loves her soon, has wanted to for a while, but he’s unsure about when to do it. It should be special and romantic, that’s what she deserves.

He follows his exact routine as he settles into his desk to work. Follows the worn carpet path to his corner of the bullpen, drapes his satchel and coat over the back of his chair, turns on the computer monitor, then makes his way to the break room for coffee. After pouring two cups, one for him and one for her, he sets hers on her desk and drops into his seat. Any second now, she’ll step into the office.

His head perks up at each ding of the elevator and at each whoosh of the doors opening, a crease deepening between his eyebrows when none of them precede her arrival. She should be here by now. Maybe she got stuck in traffic? Or got unlucky with red lights?

“Where’s your girl?” Derek cheekily asks.

Spencer shrugs and tilts his head downward to hide the flush on his cheeks caused by his teasing. Everyone knows that they have a strong friendship, and Derek likes to make light of Spencer’s crush on her.

“She’s not my– She must be running late.”

Derek hums and shrugs in response before heading off to badger Penelope.

Spencer opens a manila folder and attempts to immerse himself in it, but as the minutes tick by, he grows increasingly confused. He sends her a text: Are you okay? and curses himself for not upgrading his phone to one that shows whether the message was delivered.

Ten minutes pass before he tries to call her. It goes straight to voicemail.

That sends a jolt to his heart. That’s never happened before. Even if she’s busy, she’ll pick up and quickly tell him so. He can’t even enjoy the sound of her voice saying I can’t come to the phone right now…

He mentally replays the memory of walking her to her car less than an hour ago. It didn’t sound like anything was wrong with it when she cranked the engine. Soft snowflakes descended around them, getting caught in her hair and eyelashes. A few people were sitting in their snow-covered parked vehicles, waiting for them to heat up: a couple of sedans, an SUV, a truck. He thinks about the heart he drew on her window – his indirect way of telling her he loves her.

Shaking his head at himself, he focuses his gaze on his computer screen. She’ll be here any minute.

Ten more minutes pass.

“She still not here?” Derek comes back to Spencer’s desk.

He shakes his head, no.

Derek frowns. “That’s not like her.” 

“No, it’s not.” Spencer agrees, before picking up his phone again to call her … again.

Straight to voicemail. I can’t come to the … is as far as he listens to before he hangs up.

“No answer?” Derek inquires.

Spencer shook his head again.

“Must be some really bad traffic on 95, maybe a pile-up?” 

Spencer sends him an incredulous look, “Don’t say that. I don’t want to think about her in a pile-up on the Interstate.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“I know you didn’t, but still.”

“Right, sorry, man…” Derek walks away again, this time to his desk.

Rubbing at his temples, Spencer glances over at the mug of coffee he left on her desk thirty minutes ago. There’s no more steam curling out the top of it.

He sees Hotch and JJ pass by, and hears the former query, “...And how late is she?”

Spencer picks up his phone again, presses the number 3 for speed dial, I can’t come– 

He hangs up and dials again, I can’t–

One more time, he thinks. I ca–

Slamming his flip-phone shut, he bolts up from his chair, beelining for Penelope’s office. He trips twice and completely ignores Emily’s “Whoa, where’s the fire?”

He pushes Penelope’s door open without knocking, startling her and causing her to choke on her Chobani.

“Knocking is not only appreciated, but enc–”

“You need to track her phone.” He spits out.

“What? Who? Why?” She stammers. Asking who was unnecessary, she just feels frazzled by Spencer’s intensity.

“Now!” He demanded, while gesturing toward the computer.

Penelope jolts at his raised voice; he’s never spoken to her that way before. Spinning in her chair, she types as fast as she can with Spencer looming over her shoulder.

“Okay, her last ping was…” She trails off.

“Was?” He insists.

“By your apartment. 6:37 am.” She slowly looks up at him.

Spencer’s heart drops into his stomach. “That was almost an hour and a half ago.”

“Yes.” She nods.

“Well, find something more recent!” He squeaks.

“Spencer, you know that I can’t. I can hack into any nearby cameras, but it’ll take me a second.”

He turns to head back through the door, “I’m going to find her,” then runs back to his desk. Grabbing his bag and hastily tossing it over his shoulder, he makes it halfway to the glass doors before Hotch steps in front of him.

“Reid, where are you going?”

With eyes wide and full of terror, “I need to find her– Something’s wrong– I’ll call once I get there.” He shoulders past his boss and sprints to the stairwell. Waiting for the elevator would be a waste of time.

When he gets to his car, his heart is pounding, his eyes are glistening, and his hands tremble as he tries to shove his keys in the ignition.

“Reid!” Derek shouts, jogging up to his car. “You can’t drive like this, let me take you.”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and stumbles out of the car. 

The two men scurry to Derek’s car and ride together in silence. Spencer’s leg is bouncing on its own accord, and he tries to call her two more times. He knows his attempts are in vain since her phone has been off for over an hour, but he can’t stop himself from trying. It’s a compulsion.

Finally, Derek breaks the silence, “So… what was she doing at your place at six am?”

Spencer blurts, “She slept over.”

“Hm,” Derek hums inquisitively, “Does she do that often?”

“Sometimes… Yes.” Spencer falters.

Derek hesitates, sensing that there’s more going on here, but not knowing how to approach it with Spencer so on edge. “We all want her to be okay, you know? She’s a friend to all of us.”

“Mhm,” Spencer half-heartedly agrees, perking up in his seat as his apartment building comes into view.

Her car is still parked in the lot. Derek asks, “Is that her–” 

“Yes.” Spencer feels like he might throw up.

As Derek pulls into a space a few spots over, Spencer unlocks his door and has his feet on the pavement before they’ve come to a complete stop.

Derek calls after him, “Jesus– Reid!” But Spencer is already circling her car, taking in the scene like the profiler he is, relying entirely on instinct. A choked sob falls out of his mouth when he sees her phone – completely smashed – on the ground next to her door. He’s clenching his hands by his sides to stop himself from picking it up, knowing that this is a crime scene that can’t be tampered with. He wants to pick it up, to try to turn it on, even though it’s futile. 

The driver-side door is wide open, her keys are still in the ignition, and the radio is softly playing top hits. There are overlapping footprints in the slush adjacent to her car. Spencer recognizes some of them as his own.

He lowers himself to the curb and drops his head in his hands. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t see–

“Spencer! Look at me!” Derek is crouching in front of him and grips his forearm. Spencer lifts his head, keeping his fingers over his mouth. Germs are the absolute last thing on his mind at the moment.

“We need you to pull yourself together. She needs you to pull yourself together.” He asserts.

Spencer nods, but the words sound muffled underneath his pounding heartbeat and scattered breathing. 

“Breathe, man, in and out.” Derek tries to guide him, but his breaths are choppy and uneven. It feels like he can’t get air to the bottom of his lungs.

“Good, keep trying. Hotch is on his way, okay?”

Spencer’s pretty sure he nods again, but he’s not positive. When Hotch arrives, he’s going to have to tell his boss that two of his agents have been seeing each other for half the year. This was never something he was supposed to do alone; they had planned on informing the team together. He hopes that she’ll understand the circumstances and won’t feel betrayed by him telling everyone without her. That is, if she’s still–

No, don’t think like that.

As Hotch’s dark SUV pulls into the parking lot, Spencer rises from the curb, brushing dirt and gravel off his slacks with trembling hands. Derek remains by his side, close, but not too close to crowd him. 

Hotch barely looks at Spencer as he steps out of the vehicle. JJ and Emily clamber out of the backseat and follow his trail. Eyes flicking over the scene with practiced precision, his expression remains flat as he dials Penelope.

“What’s the progress on that security footage?”

Spencer can just barely hear the tinny sound of her voice, but he can’t make out any of the words she’s saying. 

“We need to get in those cameras, Garcia.” He orders sternly. Spencer slowly approaches, needing to be informed. Derek was right; he needs to be here for her. Hotch hesitates before putting the call on speaker.

“--so somehow they’re all offline. Like every single one on that side of the building. I’m working on the closest traffic camera, now.”

“What do you mean they’re offline?” Spencer inquired.

“The last available footage I can grab is from yesterday at four pm. Someone must have disabled the feed.”

Spencer goes still. “So, this was planned.”

“Seems like it, this definitely wasn’t a crime of opportunity – it was organized,” Emily states.

“She was targeted,” JJ whispers. 

Spencer bolts to a line of bushes that border the building, keels over them, and dry heaves. He feels dizzy, like a tornado is tearing through his brain. His meticulous organizational system has been ripped to shreds. The file cabinets have been turned over and emptied, papers flying everywhere. Fragments dart in front of his eyes, an amalgamation of profiling facts and memories with her. 

“Spencer?” Emily approaches him from behind, placing a hand on his back.

He appreciates the sentiment of her touch, he really does, but it acts as an overcurrent to his buzzing veins. Shaking her off of him, he storms back over to Hotch.

“What did she find?” He demands, crossing his arms over his chest, digging his nails into his bicep.

Penelope’s voice crackles through the phone, “I’m pulling the footage from the traffic camera a mile east, but the quality is really low, and the snow isn’t helping. The lens is partially obstructed, and each car is coated. As much as I love things that sparkle, this–”

“Penelope,” Spencer warns her.

“Right, yes, I’m sorry… I’m parsing through the footage with a fine-tooth comb, I promise. It doesn’t help that it’s rush hour, there are hundreds of cars passing through between five am and seven am, and I don’t really know what I’m looking for… ” Penelope fretted.

“Spencer, would anyone want to do this to her?” JJ gently asks.

“No!” He attested, “She’s the best person I know. Nobody would ever want to hurt her.” His voice shrinks as he continued.

“Has she mentioned anything strange occurring lately? Anything at all?” Emily openly implores the team.

Spencer is suddenly overrun with memories of his girlfriend’s anxiety over the last year. The seemingly small moments that they both pushed aside and blamed on the stress of her accommodating life in the BAU. Her strange questions, her exhaustion, her skittish behavior, all flash before his eyes in a supercut. He thought that period of her life was over – she had become progressively calm and relaxed with each night she spent in his bed. 

His heart aches as he replays the memory of that morning. The way her laugh rang in his ears, the weight of her body against his, the brush of her lips. I should have kissed her longer, deeper, better. I should have told her that I love her when it first crossed my mind. I shouldn’t have let her laugh off and avoid the things that were bothering her. I should have been a better boyfriend.

With furrowed brows, he recounts her moments of ostensible paranoia. Looking backwards, he recounts what he knows. Her forgetfulness – joking that she was so scatterbrained lately. The things she thought he was doing, like taking random photos on her phone and visiting her apartment when she wasn’t there. Complaining about items of hers going missing – books, clothes, a journal. “I keep getting these emails about someone trying to log into my social media accounts.” They both thought her thermostat was broken with the way it seemed to change temperature on its own. 

The truck.

“A Toyota Tundra. Dark. Gray or Black.” Spencer lamented with a face as pale as a ghost. 

“Okay, that definitely narrows it down…” Penelope’s voice fades away as he re-enters his mind. 

He tries to pinpoint when her jumpiness began, and finds himself on the grass lawn in Wisconsin. It pains him to think about how he knew something was wrong, but didn’t want to be intrusive by asking. They hadn’t even known each other for a month at that point; how was he supposed to inquire about what was on her phone?

“...and then it turns on Old Triangle, but there’s a half-mile section on that road without any cameras, so that’s where I lose it.” Penelope deplores.

Spencer yanks at his hair, “We’re losing time, Garcia, you need to find it!” 

“I know! I know! I’m sorry!” She fretted, high-pitched and full of stress.

“Reid, take a walk.” Hotch orders.

“What? No!” 

“Unless you have any more information to detail, take a lap and calm down.” His boss looks at him expectantly, like he’s aware of more than he’s letting on.

Spencer swallows –hard– and glances around at his team. They’re all looking at him anticipatorily. 

The longer his silence stretches, and his feet remain glued to the pavement, the team begin meeting each other’s eyes with confusion. 

“Reid?” Derek probes.

He deeply sighs and closes his eyes, “Penelope?”

His heart is hammering against his ribcage.

“Yes?” Her voice is timid and small. 

“Can you find her text records?”

“I– I mean, of course I can, it does feel a little wrong and invasive–”

“February 7th of last year, I think she was messaging someone who made her uncomfortable.” His team gives him stunned looks at how long ago that date was.

“O– Okay, on it. It’ll take me a moment to parse through almost a year of messages–” They can hear her frantic typing through the speakerphone.

“Just do it – quickly,” Spencer feels guilty for how abrasive he’s being to her, so he adds on a, “Please.”

This is worse than just telling his friends what’s been going on between him and the newest agent. Penelope is scrolling through all of his girlfriend’s personal messages, including the ones between him and her. Texts littered with heart emojis. Texts that they sent to each other in the middle of the workday. Suggestive messages that nobody else should ever be privy to.

He can’t just stand there and wait for Penelope to find the needed information, so he announces, “I’m going to take that walk now. Call me when she finds out who it was,” without making any eye contact.

Turning on his heel, he starts trudging across the parking lot. His weary steps are not due to the thin layer of snow covering the asphalt, but to the deep remorse he’s carrying on his shoulders. She knew something was wrong. 

JJ watches his back as he walks, hands deep in his pockets. “Spencer, wait!”

He halts, but doesn’t turn around. As she meets his side, he begins plodding again.

“Hey, that’s really good that you remembered her behavior that day, I mean, of course you did, but it’ll definitely help us find her.”

“I hope so.” He mutters.

“We barely knew her then, so I definitely didn’t notice anything was wrong.”

Spencer doesn’t reply.

“There was a moment there where I was worried about her, though. She seemed a little stressed, but I figured she was still acclimating to the job.”

“I did too.” He says, irritatedly. 

He can feel her concerned gaze on the side of his face. “You don’t think someone’s been watching her that whole time, do you? Surely one of us would’ve noticed–” 

“Is this supposed to be helpful, JJ? Because it’s not.” He stops walking and turns to face her. “I’ve spent the last two hours realizing that the woman I love was being stalked, and I explained away every single warning sign. So unless you have something productive to say about the case, please, just leave me alone.”

Her jaw falls open at his admission, and she flinches at his acerbic tone. “Spencer, I–”

She’s interrupted by Derek jogging towards them, “We have an address, let’s go!”

1.5 hours ago

Her eyes flutter open, and she immediately emits a muffled, pained groan. Head pounding, lips and throat adjacent to sandpaper, she can’t move her arms or legs. There’s duct tape stuck to her mouth, holding it closed. With a stiff neck, she looks around the room. Dark gray brick walls. A singular light bulb sways above her head. On one side of her, the wall is lined with utility shelves, and the other contains a wooden staircase.

As her tired eyes continue darting around the room, they eventually land on her own body. She’s been changed into a dress, one that used to reside in her closet. The same one she wore on her first date with Evan. She can feel that she’s barefoot; her ankles are secured to the chair legs with more tape. Her arms are bound behind the chair, also with tape around her wrists.

As she takes in the inventory of her surroundings, her pulse rises higher and higher. Trying to break out of the constraints is futile – the tape is too strong, and she’s too weak. She tries to scream, but it’s stifled by the seal on her mouth. 

For a moment, the only sounds in her ears are her own shaken breathing, her pounding heartbeat, and the squeak of the light swinging. 

Then, she hears a creak above her. The floorboards shift underneath someone’s weight. His weight. She writhes around in her chair and yanks on the restraints, but her attempts are futile. Her breathing becomes more and more erratic as he gets closer and closer to the basement door.

The doorknob at the top of the stairs turns; she can barely hear it, then the door swings open. Light from the house upstairs floods through the door, obstructed by Evan’s body standing in the doorway. Whimpering as he descends the stairs, she continues her attempts to separate her taped extremities.

Holding a glass of water, he approaches her calmly, “Oh, good, you’re awake.”

He crouches in front of her as she jerks and thrashes in the chair, scraping the legs on the floor. 

“Hey, don’t do that.” He scolds her softly. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

She looks at him incredulously and attempts to yell at him through the tape, but it’s muffled and useless.

He winces as if he’s seeing the bindings for the first time, “I didn’t want to have to use the tape, I’m sorry… You were just so defiant in the parking lot, I had to!”

His gaze falls to the rapid rising and falling of her chest, exposed by the low-cut dress he’s put her in. Tears well in her eyes as he licks his lips while staring.

Returning his ogling to her face, “Don’t cry…” he reaches to swipe a tear from her cheek. As she turns her face to avoid his touch, he grips her jaw, “Now, don’t be like that. You’re being ungrateful. I saved you.”

Looking at him bewilderedly, she attempts to scream through the tape again while shaking her head in his hold.

Tsking at her, “Once you calm down, you’ll see that this is better for you. That man –Doctor Reid– wasn’t right for you.”

“I was going to give you this water, but you clearly aren’t ready for me to remove the tape.” He rises from his crouched position. “I’ll be back.”

After setting the glass of water on the floor next to her feet, he turns and begins ascending the stairs. He turns around to look at her as he reaches the top, “Oh, and you could use some rest. That’s what the Doctor recommended, right?”

He flicks off the light and laughs at her protesting screams, before slamming the door.

More tears descend her face as she attempts to make out shapes in the complete darkness. Blinking repeatedly, she hopes it’ll help her eyes adjust to the lack of light, but it’s a pointless effort. 

The pain from the tape stretching her skin seems to be intensified in the dark. She’s hyperaware of the cold concrete under her feet and the stiff metal of the chair under her body. The dress is too tight, and it scratches her skin with every inhale. 

Her eyes keep attempting to find shapes in the dark. In the instinctive way that’s innately learned in infancy, impossible to suppress. She can’t stop it, and it gets worse each time she blinks. It’s so dark, she questions if the color she’s blanketed in is actually black. 

Squeezing her eyes shut exacerbates the confusion. She squeezes them until she sees stars, then opens them, hoping to find a change in the room. In return, she’s met with static. 

Sound becomes her only proof that she’s still where he left her. Every so often, the house pops as it settles. Vaguely, she can make out the scuffle of Evan’s feet through the floor above her. 

Her heartbeat thuds in her eardrum, and her choppy breaths create a cacophony of terror.

She tries to shift her chair to find the glass of water, not that she has any way to pick it up, but as a reference point for her orientation. More tears and pained groans escape her as she attempts to move. Any adrenaline that was coursing through her when she first woke up has completely worn off and left her bare and exposed. Her foot knocks the glass over, shattering it and sending shards all over the floor. With no way of knowing where the pieces are, the ball of her foot lands on a fragment.

In an attempt to soothe her ragged throat, she tries to swallow, but her mouth is too dry to do so. Striving to generate spit is useless; she’s too dehydrated, and it only strains the tape on her mouth.

There’s no way of knowing how much time has passed. It could’ve been minutes or hours since he encompassed her in darkness.

Thinking about Spencer is bittersweet. She tries to calm herself by recalling their shared memories, but so many of them have been tainted by the knowledge that Evan was watching them the entire time. She misses him. She wants to go home – the shared home they’ve made in his apartment. She hopes he’s not too scared by her disappearance. 

In place of recounting memories, she imagines a new one. One where they’d leave work, waving goodnight to their team, with his hand on the small of her back. He’d wrap an arm around her shoulders as they descended in the elevator, kissing her cheek as he pressed the ground floor button. Pulling her into his side, where she fits like a puzzle piece, he asks her what she wants for dinner. She does what she always does, shrugs, and smiles up at him with a “I don’t know…” that neither of them believes.

They climb into the same vehicle; he opens her door for her and kisses her sweetly as she settles in, before jogging around to the driver’s seat. Immediately after starting the engine, he intertwines his fingers with hers over her thigh. He even buckles himself in with one hand, so he doesn’t have to let her go.

With a CD playing that alternates between her favorite songs and his, he gazes over at her with that soft look in his eyes, knowingly saying, “Chinese?” She giggles and nods, pulling his arm even closer to her body and wrapping her other hand around it. She watches him as he reverses out of the parking space and takes in how the sun's setting rays highlight his hair with golden streaks. As he squeezes her hand and absentmindedly runs his thumb over her knuckles, she feels happy, safe, warm–

Her fantasy is interrupted by the creak of the basement door and the harsh cascade of light bleeding down the stairs. It’s so jarring that she has to close her eyes at the brightness. It burns.

She freezes as Evan descends the stairs this time. In fear of being left in the darkness again, she remains as still as possible.

He smiles at the change, “There she is.” 

She glances down at his hand and sees a fresh cup of water. Looking around the room, she wonders how he knew that she needed a new one. She doesn’t see any cameras. 

Pulling up a chair across from her, he settles into it, “I knew that would help you calm down. I know you so well.”

She remains immobile. 

He reaches toward her face, and her slight flinch is involuntary. “You’ll stay quiet if I take this off, won’t you?”

She eagerly nods. 

As he slowly peels the tape off, she whines in pain. Each atom within her skin stings sharply as it separates from the adhesive. It’s excruciating.

The first breath of air she takes in through her mouth feels like inhaling fire.

He lifts the glass to her lips, “Slowly, sweetheart.”

She chokes on the lukewarm water at the term of endearment that only Spencer has ever called her. It doesn’t belong here: in this room or coming out of his mouth. The water dribbles down her mouth, and his grubby fingers wipe it away.

“You’re where you belong now – with me.”

She slowly nods in feigned agreement. 

His tone is sickly sweet, “I’ll take care of you properly,” before quickly turning sour, “Unlike that pathetic excuse for a man you’ve been calling a boyfriend.” 

With tensed shoulders, “He’s a good man, Evan.”

He raises his voice, “He’ll never be as good as me!” and harshly places the cup of water on the floor next to him. “I have a better-paying job with more stability and safety! That’s what you want for your future children, right? A man who you can depend on? A man who isn’t ashamed of your relationship?”

“He’s not— We’re not ashamed.” She tries to maintain a soft and even tone with him. 

He doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s said anything, “I know everything about you! I know the first song you play when you get in the car. I know that you set five alarms each morning, but you’re always up by the third one. I know that you didn’t like those granola bars you bought last month…”

Her eyebrows crease in confusion. Obviously, he’s been watching her, but how does he know all of this?

“What? They were in your trash.” He says flatly with a wave of his hand. 

“I know that when you buy cookie dough, you tell yourself you’ll bake it, just to end up eating the entire package raw. I know that you sleep better with your thermostat 2 degrees lower than what you set it to. I know that you talk to yourself when you’re looking for something. That one floorboard near your bedroom creaks. You pace when you’re on the phone. You were worried about dating that man because he’s so kind, you don’t know how to handle it.”

Her eyes widen more and more with each fact he presents. A chill crawls up her spine. She can barely feel her fingers and toes, and it’s not due to the tape bindings.

He mistakes her horror for amazement and impressiveness. “See! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, and show you. I played our song on your phone, I took that picture, I fixed your thermostat every night.”

Her stomach churns, and bile rises in her throat.

“You kept ignoring me. I was just trying to show you how much I care.”

Feeling completely separate from her body, she hears the monotone sound of her own voice muttering, “I’m sorry.” With eyes glazed, she can’t make them focus. The basement is blurry and muted.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I made mistakes too… Remember that day in August? When you cried in your car for twenty minutes before going inside your apartment? I’m sorry that I didn’t come and comfort you.” He smiles sadly.

“It’s okay.” She whispers.

“I thought you knew I was helping you, though. Didn’t you see my truck all over town?”

“I- I thought you drove a Mustang?” She says dumbly.

“I got us a more practical vehicle so we could start our family.” He coos, before his expression twists,  “That clunker the Doctor drives isn’t suitable for children, you know that.”

Nausea swirls in her stomach. This man carries no shame or embarrassment for what he’s done. He genuinely thinks that he’s saving her from a life she didn’t want. That Spencer is the wrong man for her and that he’s the only right option. He thinks that he is an option, even after everything he’s done.

“Speaking of, we’ve wasted so much time, sweetheart. You only have two more days left of this month’s ovulation.” 

Her chest heaves, and her eyes widen at his implication. Shaking her head, she blurts, “No!”

Recoiling at her denial, “No?” His eyes darken, and he rises from his chair to hover over her, fists clenching at his sides.

Terrified of being left in the dark again, or worse, she pleads, “Shouldn’t we wait for that?”

“Wait for what?” He questions through clenched teeth.

She glances around frantically, trying to think of anything that could appease him. He wants commitment, permanence, “Um… until we’re married?”

His lips rise into a smile, and his shoulders relax. Shaking his head, he laughs, “That Doctor was right about one thing, you do have insightful ideas.”

Remaining stoic, she tries not to react to the mentions of Spencer. Evan doesn’t deserve to talk about him. 

Suddenly, a thud penetrates through the ceiling. She and Evan perk their heads upward to the source of the noise. 

“What was that?” She asks quietly.

He doesn’t respond. 

Rumbles span throughout the floor above them – footsteps. Pulse leaping, she turns her gaze to his expression. 

With a clenched jaw, he turns to her and spits out, “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She insists while shaking her head profusely.

As the treading gets closer and closer to the basement door, he slowly approaches the bottom of the stairs.

The door bursts open, and Evan flinches at the intrusion.

A relieved smile graces her face at the sound of Derek’s voice, “FBI!”

Derek descends the stairs, gun-drawn, and Evan walks backward toward the wall. Like two planets in a solar system, they maintain a consistent gap between them.

“Evan Nelson! Don’t move!”

The rest of the team follows behind Derek, with Spencer descending the stairs last. They all have their guns pointed at Evan. Tears descend her cheeks, and her bottom lip trembles at the sight of her disheveled boyfriend. His clothes are uncharacteristically wrinkled, and his hair is a ruffled mess. She can tell he’s been running his fingers through it and pulling on it, and she hates when he hurts himself like that.

Evan’s about to be backed into the corner when he shifts his path and heads for her chair. Wrapping an arm around her chest, he yanks a knife from his pocket and holds it to her throat. 

Heart rate spiking, she keeps her eyes on Spencer as he slowly climbs down the stairs. His shoulders sag, and he sees the shape of her name leave his lips.

For the first time that day, Evan’s confident tone falters into one full of fear, “Back up! Don’t come any closer!” 

Derek’s voice remains a practiced calm, “We can’t do that, Evan. You need to put the knife down and let her go,” but she can hear a smidge of unease.

Evan only tightens his grip on her, and she can feel small droplets of blood trickle down her neck. She can’t look away from Spencer, no matter how painful it is to watch his reaction to the scene in front of him. Tears descend her and sting the wound he’s creating.

“If I can’t have her, no one can!”

Hotch speaks evenly, “Evan, you never had her. You only went on two dates with her.”

“She’s mine! She’s been mine for a year! I’ve had her longer than that little Doctor!” His voice echoes in the basement as his volume increases.

Spencer takes one step forward. Hotch warns him, “Reid, don’t.”

His eyes never leave her face as he speaks. He doesn’t look at Evan or the knife or anything other than her glistening, beautiful eyes. “Evan,” he forces his voice to remain even and controlled, “You don’t want to do this.”

Evan emits a sharp, choked laugh, “You don’t know what we want.”

Emily speaks up, “Evan, it’s over. Drop the knife and step away from her.”

“It’s not over until I say it’s over!” He increases the pressure of the blade, and a whimper escapes her. 

He leans down next to her ear, “Tell them that you want to be with me,” his chapped lips scrape her earlobe, making her shiver, “Then, maybe, I’ll put the knife down.”

She closes her eyes and whispers, “Okay.”

“Look at them while you say it.”

Shifting her eyes to Emily, she can’t look at Spencer while she says it, “I want to be with Evan.” Her breath hitches and her voice trembles.

“Good. Now tell him that you don’t love him.” He grips her jaw to force her to look at Spencer. “Tell him that I love you more than he ever could.”

She sobs brokenly and whispers, “Please, no.” 

His grip on her body tightens, “Do it!”

She takes a few deep breaths and lands her eyes on each member of her team, before they land on Spencer. They all know she has to say it if she wants to live, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

Spencer’s heart breaks as her eyes fill with grief and sorrow. “I… I don’t love you.” 

“And?” Evan prompts.

Her cheeks flood with even more tears, “Evan loves me more…” she hiccups, “...than you ever could.”

A singular teardrop falls from Spencer’s eye before he quickly brushes it away and re-orients his gun at Evan.

Evan slowly loosens his hold on her, dropping the knife to the floor, and raises his arms in surrender. Derek is on the man in a flash, twisting his arms behind his back and shoving him into the brick wall. 

She doesn’t feel real. She feels like a ghost as everything moves in slow motion around her. Faintly, she knows that Derek is yelling at Evan. In her periphery, he and Hotch escort him up the staircase. Emily and JJ cut her free of the duct tape, and one of them presses a cloth against her injured neck. Distantly, she knows that it hurts, but there’s a disconnect between her brain and her nerves. The women whisper kind things in her ear as they tend to her.

Spencer is frozen on the last step. The love of his life is bloody and bruised. His eyes flicker from her raw ankles to her wrists, to her neck, and to her tear-stained face. As the seconds pass, he feels foolish and deficient as he watches the scene.

A raspy, broken, “Spence?” breaks him out of his stupor. He’s drawn to her side like a bee to honey.  

His tears flow freely now, “I’m here, baby.” Afraid of hurting her, he doesn’t know if he can touch her. His hands hesitantly hover over her body. Emily remains on one side, maintaining pressure on her neck, and JJ pushes away the broken glass pieces around her feet with her boot. Is there any room for him? Will his presence just crowd and overwhelm her?

She makes the decision for him by collapsing against his body with a choked sob. 

“I’m so sorry– I didn’t want to say it– I’m so so sorry.”

“I know.” He consoles, immediately. Raising one hand to the back of her head and the other gently around her shoulders, he reassures her, “I know, sweetheart, it’s okay, I know.”

She was afraid of how it would make her feel to hear the term coming out of his lips after Evan tried to ruin it for her, but there was no need. Hearing it fills her with warmth and comfort. The world feels right again with Spencer by her side.

Eventually, Emily and JJ give them some privacy. Emily encourages her to keep the cloth on her neck before they ascend the staircase.

Clutching his shirt in her hands stings her sore wrists, but she doesn’t care. She needs him. 

He whispers in her ear, “I’m here, you’re okay now, I’m right here.”

They bawl in each other’s arms until medical personnel descend the staircase. As they arrive, she pulls back from his body and sees droplets of her smeared blood on the stomach of his shirt.

She mutters, “I got you dirty, I’m sorry,” as she looks up at him. 

He pulls her closer to him, “I’m not worried about that, don’t be sorry.”

Before the paramedics load her onto a stretcher, Spencer tugs off his cardigan to drape it over her exposed shoulders. As she pulls it against her body, he leans down and presses his lips to her forehead. 

Grabbing his hand, she pleads, “Please don’t go.”

He soothingly runs his thumb against her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The youngest ones loved outdoor activities, you knew that beforehand, so that day you had planned a nature exploration to collect plant specimens for a science journal. In it, they glued the leaves they gathered and wrote, or tried to write, some of the names. Some, more creative, made drawings of their adventure.

Along the way, listening to the dozen voices near you saying different things, you thought that the mud left behind by the rain from the night before would probably stain your chunky sneakers, white and well cared for, soon to be sacrificed in the name of vocation.

At some point, in the middle of the main courtyard, right next to the science lab and the sports field, your leg gave out. It was one of those silly falls where nothing in particular had caused it, and a second later, you were already on the ground.

In moments like that, having your little fleet of students was a blessing, and several pairs of hands immediately rushed to help you.

“Miss, are you okay?” one of them shrieked, practically throwing himself toward you.

You wished you could tell them yes, stand up, and laugh about it, but the truth was that you did not know which of all the sudden aches was worth paying more attention to. Your scraped palm, already starting to bleed, your side bruised from the fall where a bruise would surely appear, or the obvious burning sensation that was already spreading through your entire leg. Or even the emotional pain of the embarrassment of having fallen in front of your students.

You maneuvered until you managed to reposition yourself on the cold, hard concrete, now sitting so you could breathe properly. You did not know when it happened, but one of your students had already run to the nearest teacher to come help you.

For better or worse, it was Steve Harrington.

“Do not get up,” he ordered as soon as he saw you trying to support yourself on your palms.

He reached you at a light jog and, as soon as he could, crouched down beside you, accompanied by the small cluster of worried faces that filled your classroom every day.

That day he was wearing athletic clothes, probably because he had practice with the team, in soft colors. Blue, white, and touches of indigo to sharpen the outfit. You did not understand how someone could look so good in something like that, but every time he managed to make it work. Of course, a lot of it had to do with the man himself and not just the clothes.

Steve leaned in a little more, resting one knee on the ground to be at your height. The courtyard noise continued around you, but he seemed to have isolated it, as if the immediate space had shrunk to that brief circle between you, the concrete, and his focused attention.

“Hey, look at me,” he asked, without harshness.

You obeyed. His brow was slightly furrowed, his attentive eyes scanning you with careful, clinical restraint. He looked first at your scraped hand, then at your side where you were holding yourself, and finally at your ankle, twisted in a way that promised nothing good. He did not touch it yet. He only observed, assessed.

“Did you get dizzy?” he asked.

You shook your head slowly.

“No, I just… fell,” you murmured, almost feeling ridiculous for a moment.

Thankfully, Steve did not make fun of you.

“Does it hurt anywhere else besides your foot?”

“No. But it burns,” you said, surprised at how small your voice sounded. “A lot.”

He nodded, as if confirming something he had already suspected. He placed a firm hand on the ground near yours, close enough for you to know he was there, but without touching you.

“Okay,” he said. “Breathe with me for a second, alright?”

He inhaled slowly, exaggerating the motion just enough for you to imitate him. It worked. The tight knot in your chest loosened slightly.

That's what you did with the kids when an accident happened: you calmed them down. But it definitely felt strange to experience it from the other side.

That was when the small voices began to overlap, one after another, breaking the tense silence that had settled. They stepped a little closer, forming a messy semicircle around you both, hands fidgeting and faces furrowed with genuine concern.

“Is she going to be okay?” one asked, stretching his neck to look at your ankle.

“What happened to her?” another insisted, gently tugging at Steve’s sleeve, as if he had the right answer.

He looked up at them, attentive, and nodded calmly, reassuring them that yes, their teacher just needed to be checked, that everything would be fine. The children seemed to relax a little, satisfied for the moment, though none of them moved from their spot, as if leaving you alone was somehow unthinkable.

“I can take you to the nurse’s office,” he added then, looking back at you.

It did not sound like a polite offer. It sounded resolved, practical, as if he had already made the decision and was simply giving you space to agree.

You hesitated for barely a second, more for them than for yourself, and finally nodded slowly. Steve seemed to catch the gesture immediately. He stood up just enough to be on his feet and, with a calm authority that allowed no argument, addressed the group.

“I need two of you to go with the second-grade teacher,” he said. “Tell her to come stay with your group for a moment, okay?”

Two hands shot up almost at the same time and, without waiting for further instructions, they ran off, determined, as if it were the most important mission in the world. Steve leaned back toward you then, already decided. He warned you in a low murmur, explaining that he had to carry you, that you were not going to put weight on your foot. You tried to protest, out of reflex.

“I’m fine, really, I…”

He did not let you finish. His arms were already positioning themselves carefully, firm and precise, and his tone was not harsh, but it was final, shutting down any reply before it could form.

You did not fully register it until the weight left your legs and the ground suddenly dropped away. A small gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your hands reacting on their own, gripping the fabric of his sweatshirt. The change in height made you slightly dizzy, just enough for the courtyard to seem tilted and the children’s laughter to arrive with a different echo.

“Where are you taking her?” one asked, giggling shamelessly, and pointing.

“He’s stealing her!” another added, provoking immediate laughter.

Steve did not even stop. He adjusted his hold with a natural movement, his firm arms surrounding you as if your weight required no effort at all. The muscles in his forearms tightened beneath the fabric, solid and steady, and his posture did not falter in the slightest.

“Stay together,” he instructed them, with a calm that contrasted with the group’s excitement. “No one moves from here.”

Before they could answer, you cleared your throat, still very aware of how close you were.

“Listen to me,” you said, forcing a smile. “Stay where you are. I’ll be back in a second, okay?”

The voices quieted just enough to nod, though no eyes stopped following you. You lowered your voice then, turning your face slightly toward Steve.

“Hey,” you murmured, incredulous. “What are you doing?”

He did not slow his pace.

“Taking you to the nurse’s office,” he replied simply, as if there were no other possible option.

He did not look tired. He did not even seem to register the weight. He held you with an almost insulting ease, his steps steady, his arms stable, as if this were the most natural way in the world to move.

“No, I know, but I mean…” a brief, nervous laugh slipped out before you could stop it. “Why are you carrying me like this?”

Steve tilted his head just enough to glance at you out of the corner of his eye, without stopping.

“It’s more practical,” he replied. “And more effective.”

The silence stretched a little longer, uncomfortable, charged. Nervousness finally pushed you to speak.

“Please tell me you didn’t see me fall.”

“I did,” he answered, holding back a laugh. “From the other side of the courtyard. Then I heard the commotion.”

He made a small gesture with his head, pointing behind him.

“Two of your students came running. I didn’t understand everything they were saying, but I figured it out.”

An uncomfortable warmth crept up your face, a mix of embarrassment and something close to gratitude.

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” you admitted quietly. “They worry about everything.”

“That’s not a bad thing. They’re little and… well, they love you.”

You smiled, pleased, because it was true. He could not complain either, because you knew he was one of the most beloved there, by children and adults alike.

The walk stretched in a strange way, as if the hallway had lengthened just for the two of you. The courtyard noise faded little by little, replaced by the soft echo of his steps on the waxed floor. Every so often, a door opened and closed in the distance, but nothing really interrupted that awkward space that had formed between you.

You did not know where to look.

If you lifted your gaze, you were too close to his face, to the tense line of his jaw and the calm focus in his eyes. If you lowered it, you ran into the firmness of his chest, the way his arms held you without apparent effort, the muscles defined beneath the athletic fabric. You chose a middle point that did not exist, looking nowhere in particular, pretending interest in the ceiling lights passing one by one above you.

Nervousness made you aware of unnecessary things. The heat building between you, the slight brush of your shoulder against his collarbone each time he adjusted his grip, the way his breathing remained steady. You tried to shift instinctively, but Steve tightened his arms just a little, not to restrain you, but to make sure you did not move too much.

The nurse’s office door appeared at the end of the hallway like a promise of stillness. Steve pushed it open with his shoulder, with that precise movement of someone who has already calculated the space, and the interior welcomed you with a clean, sharp smell of alcohol and old medicine. Everything inside seemed frozen in time. The white walls, the narrow cot, the metal cabinet with misaligned doors. Even the air felt colder.

“We’re here.”

His voice lowered automatically, as if the place demanded care. He approached the cot and, before setting you down, slowed, adjusted his hold. You noticed how he tensed his arms for a second, not from fatigue, but from concentration. He held you as if you were fragile without making you feel that way.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” he added.

The mattress creaked under your weight and you released the breath you did not know you were holding. The burning in your ankle was still there, insistent, but now it had defined edges, as if you could finally locate it.

Steve did not step away. He stayed by your side, leaning slightly toward you, one hand resting on the metal rail. His presence filled the space without imposing, solid and constant.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you said softly.

For some reason, the curve of his lips into a smile caught your attention for perhaps a second longer than was prudent.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged, as if he did not quite know where to put that word.

“It’s nothing,” he replied.

The nurse appeared shortly after, her quick steps and professional expression contrasting with your internal mess. She asked the usual questions, palpated carefully. Each press pulled an involuntary grimace from your face, and each one was matched by a slight tightening in Steve’s posture. Jaw clenched, shoulders firm, gaze fixed.

“It’s dislocated,” she finally determined. “You were lucky you didn’t walk on it, or you would have fractured it.”

Steve looked at you then, for a fraction of a second, with a silent mix of relief and confirmed reasoning.

“You need ice, rest, and no putting pressure on the foot today,” the nurse continued as she wrapped it to immobilize it. “Could you stay with her for a moment? I need Mr. Whitmore to tell me if we can transfer her to the hospital.”

“I can take her.”

The sentence landed naturally, as if there were no other alternative. You turned to look at him, surprised, but he was already leaning against the wall when the nurse looked at him.

“Alright, I’ll tell him.”

And just like that, she left through the door, probably on her way to arrange a medical leave for you and excuse the coach’s absence for the next hour. The silence returned, different. Heavier. Only the faint buzz of the lamp and the occasional crackle of ice shifting in the bag could be heard.

“You don’t have to take me if you have classes…” You tried to justify. The truth was that all his attention was making you nervous.

“In half an hour. I think the principal will allow me to be late,” he assured you. He leaned near your leg and looked at you. “May I?”

You nodded, and carefully he held your calf with his warm hands. Your bare foot shifted slightly under his attentive gaze.

“Do you have X-rays or something like that?”

“I took a first aid course recently, in case I need it with the kids. I just want to see what a dislocation looks like so I know how to identify it.”

And that was when the thought slipped in, inevitable, as he continued to study your ankle with that calm seriousness you did not remember.

You had known him since high school. Or at least, you thought you had. You remembered the Steve from back then as loud, confident to the point of recklessness, always surrounded by people, always aware of his place in the world and how to occupy it. It was easy to see him before you heard him, easy to assume everything about him was surface, quick smile, effortless popularity.

This Steve was nothing like that.

Now there was no showing off in the way he moved, no urgency to draw attention, no glances seeking approval. Instead, there was an almost domestic concentration, a patience you had never known in him. His hands were the same, strong and steady, but now they knew when to stop. His voice still carried that confident tone, yes, but he used it to reassure, not to impose.

You were surprised to realize you were not thinking about the pain, not even about the embarrassment of the fall, but about that contrast. About how time had not softened him, it had refined him. And as he stayed there, caring quietly, you wondered at what point he had stopped being the boy you remembered and become this, and why, suddenly, it mattered to you to notice.

The crying came before the words, filtering down the hallway in a broken sound that clashed with the stillness of the nurse’s office. You lifted your head immediately, alert by reflex, even before identifying the adult voice trying to comfort him. The door opened softly, and the second-grade teacher appeared, bent toward one of her students, who would not stop crying, face red and fists clenched against his chest.

“There she is,” she said when she saw you. “He was very worried.”

The boy looked at you as if confirming something essential. He let go of his teacher’s hand and walked toward you with uncertain steps, the sobs still climbing his throat.

“Hey, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”

“I thought something really bad had happened to you,” he said between hiccups. “Everyone said you fell and that you didn’t get up.”

You did not think about it. You opened your arms, and he went into them immediately, clinging to your neck with a strength disproportionate to his size.

You thanked your friend and then focused on comforting the little one in your arms. You stroked his hair slowly, murmuring that you were fine, that you had only twisted your foot, that he did not need to worry. Your voice came out soft, almost sing-song, the same one you used in the classroom when something broke or someone got more scared than necessary.

Of course, it took him a little longer to calm down. His body remained tense against you, the sobs rising and falling unevenly, as if he did not want to fully let go of the fear that had brought him there. You rubbed his back with slow, steady movements, setting a patient rhythm, and rested your cheek against his head for a moment. You spoke to him quietly, repeating that you were fine, that you were not going anywhere, that you just needed to rest your foot a bit. You could not know it, but something shifted in Steve as he watched such tenderness in your actions, as if he were suddenly having a revelation about you and about himself.

Little by little, his breathing evened out. His shoulders stopped shaking and his fingers loosened their grip on your blouse. When he pulled away, his eyes were still shiny, but he was no longer crying.

“See?” you said, with a gentle smile. “Nothing serious.”

He nodded, calmer, and then turned to Steve, studying him with renewed attention, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Coach,” he said, very seriously. “You are super strong.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, surprised.

“Me?”

“Yes. The girls said you look like a prince because you carried the miss,” he explained. “But I think you’re more like a superhero.”

Steve’s laughter was immediate, open, escaping before he could stop it. You, without expecting it, laughed too, not mockingly, but incredulously at what your students had concocted in their little minds.

He brought a hand to the back of his neck, a little embarrassed, a little amused.

“I guess today I got to save the day.”

The boy smiled, satisfied, as if that answer was exactly what he had hoped for. The second-grade teacher then gently took him by the hand, thanked you quietly, and after making sure he was calm, led him out of the nurse’s office. The door closed with a soft sound, leaving you alone again.

The silence returned, though different.

He spoke first.

“They have quite an imagination, don’t they?”

“They’re not entirely wrong,” you admitted. Without looking at him right away, you continued. “About you being strong, I mean. Though I lean more toward the prince idea. Definitely.”

He smiled and let out an amused sigh, trying to hide the fact that the comment had caught him off guard.

Then, softly, you added.

“I think I like that better than The King.”

When you lifted your gaze, Steve was already looking at you. There was something nervous in his posture, but also full, deliberate attention. He did not smile completely, but his eyes brightened slightly, as if he had understood exactly what you meant.

There was no need to say anything else. You stayed looking at each other for a second longer than necessary, both aware that it had been a light, measured flirtation, and even so… unmistakable.