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the vegas mistake | steve harrington

Summary: You and Steve are exes who have managed to stay friendly after he decided to end your relationship. Robin plans a trip to Las Vegas, where it can get very chaotic – including strip poker, getting drunk in casinos, and stumbling through ridiculous drunken decisions.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol use

Word count: 9.7k

The first mistake was agreeing to go to Vegas at all.

It was all Robin’s fault. She claimed it should be a celebratory trip, arguing you deserved a “happy place where the rules don’t apply” just for surviving the Upside Down.

Eddie Munson lit up at the idea, eager to make bad decisions without regrets. Nancy took over planning the entire week, and Dustin wouldn’t stop talking about finally being able to drink legally.

You only agreed because it was easier than explaining why you shouldn’t go.

Steve Harrington is going.

Steve, your ex-boyfriend, the one who said he wasn’t ready for a relationship if he didn’t have an established life. He was standing in a place where he needed to save money, figure out a way to go to college, and find a home of his own. He needed stability before he could commit, or so he said, and you’d tried to understand it, tried to convince yourself it was reasonable.

Your ex, the one who promised things would stay the same after breaking up with you, but it went the exact opposite. Every group hangout felt awkward and uncomfortable – you would force yourself to avoid staring at him for too long, especially when the stubble on his jaw grew just right, or when his laugh rang out so fully that you had to turn your head so you wouldn’t watch him. Every small gesture, every glance from him, carried weight.

Now you tell yourself you’re over him. You’ve practiced it, rehearsed it in your head so often that the words almost sound convincing when you say them to yourself. Or at least, that’s what you think. Because the moment he appears, the memories, the feelings, the weight of what you lost… it’s all still there, quietly pressing against your chest even if you try to ignore it.

You’ve saved money for months just to fly to Vegas. The idea seemed better than being trapped in a van for a day or two with loud conversations, arguments over who controlled the radio, and the constant complaints of “you didn’t fill the fucking tank?”. The thought of a plane felt like freedom. But the airport itself immediately tests your plans: it’s bright, loud, and crowded, and you’re already standing in line with Robin talking at your side, words spilling over each other, too many to process, and you realize you aren’t even listening.

Steve is there, leaning casually against a pillar, sunglasses hooked into the collar of his shirt like he doesn’t care that he’s late. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying (and failing) to look completely relaxed. He isn’t nervous because you’re here; he’s nervous because he hates flying. Turbulence makes his stomach twist. He’d rather drive across the entire country than sit on a plane, and it shows.

Eddie, of course, is oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil. He’s jabbering nonstop, telling story after story, loud and animated, pointing at things no one can see or care about. Steve nods along absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him without really listening. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other tapping against his leg, a subtle rhythm to keep himself grounded.

He smiles when he sees you. It’s automatic. Soft. But it goes just as quickly as it came.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

There's tension between the words, like you've never noticed the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. And Eddie notices, of course.

“Well,” he claps his hands together. “This trip just got interesting.”

You're sitting next to Nancy, Steve across the aisle from you. His knees angled to the other side, like being close to you might mean something. Like he's afraid of proximity. His hand tightens on the armrest when the plane dips, his knuckles turning white immediately. You remember how he hates turbulence, but you don't reach for him. And neither does he.

You listen to Eddie speaking to an elderly woman who's already too entertained. She holds his thigh and pinches his cheeks as if he's her grandson. Occasionally, Steve can hear your giggles from Eddie's conversations, and his stomach flips. It's a weird sensation, he swore to himself he had done the right thing.

Vegas hits you like a sensory overload: too loud, too bright, too crowded. You hate crowds, and the thought of being pressed into the same space as dozens of strangers makes your chest tighten.

Eddie notices immediately, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “Relax,” he assures. “I’ve got you.” The small gesture makes you feel safer as the crowd surges around you.

Dustin, of course, is the opposite. He shrieks at the Fremont Street Experience, pointing wildly at the dazzling lights. You can’t help but smile a little, clinging to Eddie’s arm while chaos swirls around you.

“Dude, I really need to gamble,” he says, eyes wide and bright. “Okay, maybe I don’t… but it would be really cool to play!”

“I’ll show you the casino,” Eddie says, clapping Dustin on the shoulder with a grin.

Robin unfolds the map Nancy brought, scanning the downtown attractions with serious determination. “We should definitely start with the zip line!”

You and Nancy nod in agreement, while Steve lingers nearby, standing close enough to listen as Eddie and Dustin argue over the order of things. Finally, Eddie declares that the whole group is going on the zip line first, and then hitting the casinos after.

“You still hate heights?” Steve asks while walking beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

You purse your lips and nod. “I kinda hate the idea, but I don't want to be a party wrecker since everyone is going.”

He knows you hate heights, hate them enough that a panic attack isn’t out of the question. Being in a plane is bad, sure, but at least you feel safer enclosed in metal, away from the open air. This… this is a different kind of terrifying. Eddie goes first. He screams the instant he jumps, his voice echoing through the entire area. You can’t help but laugh, even if it’s nervous, as he flails wildly before the line swishes him across.

You try to step forward next, but your fear roots you to the platform. Robin leans over, grinning, trying to convince you to go before her. You shake your head, refusing to look down. She frowns slightly, then gives you a sympathetic look before jumping anyway, screaming just like Eddie did. You swallow hard and glance back at Steve. He’s patiently waiting for his turn, shoulders relaxed but eyes on you.

The corner of his lips quirks up into a small, comforting smile, and just like that, you feel a little steadier. Even if the fear hasn’t left, at least you’re not facing it alone.

“You don't have to if you don't want to.” He says, his voice warm.

You keep looking between him and the zip line, your heart thumping against your chest and your head pounding with dread. Just close your eyes and go.

The end of the zip line makes you exhale in relief. Your hands are still clenched around the rope, palms marked red from how tightly you held on. Your legs shake so badly you almost stumble when your feet hit the ground, breath coming out uneven. When you finally look up, your friends are cheering, smiles wide across their faces. Eddie whistles loudly and proudly, drawing the attention of anyone nearby to the whole group – and to you.

Steve taps your shoulder lightly, lips curved into a small smile. You return it without thinking, mouthing a soft thank you. He doesn’t say anything back. Just nods, then squeezes your shoulder once before letting his hand fall away.

“See? Not so difficult.”

You chuckle, still a little nervous. It feels weird to have him touching you again after months being apart. “Yeah, but I don't think I'll be doing that for another ten years.”

He huffs a laugh, quick and soft, his teeth flashing for just a second before he smooths his expression back into calm. You shake your head, smirking at him for a brief moment, then turn to catch up with the others.

Casinos and drinks don't actually go well together. It makes every tiny win feel like a gamble worth chasing, and suddenly even a single lost dollar feels like the world is collapsing. You know you shouldn’t waste money, but you also know it’s better to lose one dollar now than a hundred later.

Dustin being the perfect example. He grumbles and mutters under his breath whenever he loses, then yelps in exaggerated triumph when he wins a hand. He doesn’t even notice how much beer he’s been drinking, the golden liquid making his reactions louder, sillier, and completely unpredictable.

Robin convinces you to try something bright blue and dangerous. Eddie dares Steve to flirt with a blackjack dealer and Steve loses twenty bucks and his dignity. You laugh at that, you really laugh. It feels light and natural, and when you turn, Steve is watching you like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

You look away first.

You have been drinking more than it should be allowed, and by the time the bar changes the music and the lights seem dimmer, the past feels closer now. Steve ends up beside you without either of you acknowledging how. His arm brushes yours. Stays there.

He leans closer, lowering his voice. “I think Eddie is going to be bankrupt in the next thirty minutes if he keeps playing blackjack.”

You chuckle, watching as your curly-haired friend finally rips his shirt off, joining Dustin in their ridiculous display. Robin gasps loudly, clutching her chest like someone just shot a cannon of embarrassment straight at her. Nancy isn’t far behind – she laughs so hard she spills her drink, the liquid sloshing onto the table. The scene pulls a laugh from both you and Steve as well, messy and uncontrollable, and for a moment you forget about everything else.

You exchange a quick glance, the corners of your mouths twitching, while Dustin runs around like a man possessed, oblivious to the chaos he’s causing. Even in the mess and drunken silliness, the two of you feel the spark of something more beneath it all; fun, chaotic, and entirely impossible to ignore.

“God, they're so stupid.” You say, your laughter slowly dying as you sip on your drink. Steve agrees, nearly slurring something unintelligible.

The night goes on in a blur of bad ideas, too much drinking, and loud, careless laughter. You and Steve keep a careful distance from each other, only now and then with small, easy conversations about the hotel you’re staying at. About the way Dustin talks too much when he’s drunk, about nothing that matters and everything that does. The next day, you visit the Bellagio Fountain. Steve drives, having rented a car just so you could see more of the city. Later, you go shopping with Robin and Nancy, wandering store after store, while the guys stay back at the hotel, excited to spend the afternoon by the pool.

The second day in Vegas started off chaotic. Everyone is half-drunk and wandering through the casino, people are dressed in ridiculous costumes. There’s a giant dice, and a guy as a hot dog for some reason and it makes everyone burst out in laughs. You’re feeling dangerous, armed with a sharpie that can barely be erased by water. You sneak up to Steve first. You notice him for the first time today: his baseball cap is on backwards, the brim tilted just over his messy hair.

It’s a small thing, really – just a stupid little backwards cap, but somehow it sets you off. You blink, and the sight of him, all casual confidence and playful smirk, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s entirely unfair. Your hand darts out before you can stop it, scrawling a tiny, ridiculous mustache across his jawline.

“Don’t even–” He starts, but you’re faster, drawing a silly mustache across his face with a grin.

He freezes for a second, then bursts out laughing, dragging the sharpie back at you before you can react. Soon, your arms are brushing as he doodles random swirls and stars on your arm, smudging some of your previous scribbles. You laugh so hard you almost drop the marker.

“Okay, fine,” you gasp. “But now it’s fair game.”

Your eyes land on Eddie, leaning casually against a blackjack table and laughing at Dustin attempting to imitate a showgirl. You step toward him and jab your marker onto his arm, drawing a simple crown. He looks down and shakes his head, a smirk crossing his feature. But before you know it, he’s already drawing small flames on your wrist – Robin is scribbling little lightning bolts across Dustin’s hand. Nancy joins in too, trying to write something witty on Steve’s other arm.

You both end up in the bathroom, laughing so hard it’s almost painful. You’re holding a damp paper towel, Steve has a tiny bottle of hotel soap, and the sharpie marks on your arms and his aren’t budging.

“Ugh, this is never coming off,” Steve groans, scrubbing at a star you drew across his forearm. “I look like a crazy person.”

“You are a crazy person,” you tease, smearing your own doodle even further in the process. “But it’s our kind of crazy.”

He shakes his head, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips despite the mess. “I think you made this permanent.”

You shrug, not really caring. “Temporary is boring anyway.”

You both kneel in front of the sink, shoulder to shoulder, arms wet and slippery with soap and water. It doesn’t matter which bathroom this is – you don’t even acknowledge it. There’s no one else here, and the world outside feels like a distant memory.

“Here, let me,” he says, reaching for your wrist, his fingers brushing yours as he scrubs at a heart you drew near your elbow.

You freeze for a second, and he laughs, though it’s soft this time. “It’s just sharpie, not poison.”

“I know,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself. “But your hands are warm.”

Steve clears his throat, avoiding your gaze, and presses on with the scrubbing. A little more soap, a little more water, and the black lines start to fade, though not entirely. It’s messy, uneven.

You reach for another soap, balancing on the slick floor, when you mistakenly step on the bar that slid under your foot. Time slows for a fraction of time as you slip – arms flailing and legs kicked out in the air, landing hard on your backside. The streaked mixture of water and soap splashes everywhere, and Steve loses it. He doubles over, cackling uncontrollably, holding his stomach as the corner of his eyes fill with tears of laughter.

“Oh my god! You’re… oh man, you are such a mess!”

You groan, sitting there soaked and sticky, water dripping down your hair and back, soap bubbles clinging to your arms.

“I hate you,” you sputter, though there’s a laugh breaking through the frustration.

“Love you,” he manages between cackles, pointing at your soaked self, eyes sparkling. “You just… this–” He shakes his head, still laughing. “This is hilarious.”

You glare at him, but the corner of your mouth twitches upward. “Wait… wait. You’re not going to help me up?”

Steve snorts, grabbing a towel and holding it out just out of reach. “Not until you admit this is exactly what you deserved.”

You take a wet, slippery hand and swipe at the towel anyway, tugging it toward you while he continues to cackle like a maniac.

“You’re awful,” you growl, dripping soap and ink everywhere.

“And you’re adorable,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You freeze mid-groan. Your laughter falters. “Wait… what?”

Steve glances at you, and suddenly the laughter catches in his throat. The sparkle in his eyes dulls just a little. “I– I mean, not like– uh…” He waves his hands vaguely, his face getting red immediately, clearly aware he’s crossed some invisible line.

You blink at him, sticky water dripping down your arm, the sharpie smudges making it impossible to look serious, yet somehow, everything feels charged.

“Right… sure,” you mutter, unsure whether to laugh or roll your eyes.

There’s silence in the bathroom for a moment, except the chaos in the casino outside. Both of you know – despite being drunk – that there’s still distance, the breakup, in there. Beneath the laughter and the soap mess.

Steve clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “…Maybe we should just, uh… finish cleaning this up?”

You nod, brushing the wet hair from your face. “Yeah… that sounds like a good idea.”

You've been visiting countless casinos. This time, everyone seems to be drinking a lot more. You’re laughing harder now, Eddie decides it’s a brilliant idea to start taking his clothes off mid-poker game. Steve sits beside him, trying not to crack up, while the strangers at the table are just as drunk as they are. The whole scene is absurd, chaotic, and completely mesmerizing.

Meanwhile, Robin and Dustin are crouched by the coin pusher machine, furiously trying to strategize how to collect every last coin without getting scooped by it. They’re whispering, pointing, and occasionally nudging each other as if it’s the most critical mission in Vegas history.

You and Nancy find Eddie and Steve halfway across the casino floor, crowded around a table under harsh lights. There are chips scattered, drinks already sweating – long forgotten. Eddie is already down a jacket, grinning like he’s winning something, even when he’s not.

“Strip poker,” he announces proudly when he spots you. “Low stakes. High tragedy.”

You look at the table, then at them. “You’re all idiots.”

Eddie beams. “Sit.”

You do.

Steve doesn’t stop you. He just watches. His elbows rest on the table, his hands clasped with an unreadable expression. His eyes flick up when you slide into the empty chair – they take in the way you cross your legs, the way you tuck your hair back. Then he looks back down at his cards.

He tells himself it’s fine. Because he’s drunk enough to blame the alcohol. But that’s not exactly true.

Eddie quickly teaches you how to play.

A few rounds in, Eddie is down to a t-shirt and jeans, dramatically lamenting his downfall. One of the other guys has lost his hat and dignity. Steve is still fully dressed, but tense in a way that has nothing to do with the cards.

Then you lose a hand.

“All right,” Eddie says, clapping. “Rules are rules.”

You consider it for a second, then shrug and slip off your jacket, folding it neatly over the back of the chair. Steve goes still. Like, statue-still. His jaw tightens, his eyes flick to the guy across the table, who suddenly looks a little too interested for his liking.

“You don’t have to do that,” Steve mutters.

“It’s a jacket,” you say lightly. “Relax.”

Another round, another loss. This time, you kick off your shoes and hook them over the chair leg. Harmless, it’s barely anything. Except now people are looking. Not staring, just noticing. You’re laughing, relaxed, leaning over the table as you check your cards. Someone whistles when you win a hand back.

Steve’s patience snaps like a rubber band.

“Hey,” he says sharply, glaring at the guy. “Eyes on your own cards.”

Eddie squints between the two of you. “Wow. This got intimate.”

You laugh under your breath, eyes squinting at how your lips stretch. He turns to you, attempting flattery, with a grace of a drunk raccoon. “M’lady, if anyone troubles you, I will–”

He trips over his chair. It’s fine. He recovers. Barely.

The table erupts.

Someone snorts. Someone else actually wheezes, Nancy covers her mouth, laughing so hard she has to bend over. You clap a hand over your face, shoulders shaking, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.

“Oh my god,” you manage between laughs. “Eddie.”

“I meant to do that,” he says from the floor, muffled but undeterred. “It was a… tactical maneuver.”

Steve laughs despite himself, loud and surprised, shaking his head as he reaches down to drag Eddie back up. “You are never defending anyone’s honor.”

Steve loses a hand, groans dramatically, and tugs the hem of his shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion. The table goes insane.

“Oh my god,” Nancy laughs, clapping once before she can stop herself.

You cheer too. But half a second late, your breath ended up getting caught in your chest with the sight ahead of you. He stands there for a moment, his shirt dangling from his fingers, clearly aware of the attention but pretending not to be. His shoulders are broader than you remember. His arms look stronger, a lot more than it has always been before. And his chest – You freeze. You’ve forgotten he stopped shaving it.

There’s a light dusting of hair across his chest, darker at the center, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. But your eyes stick. Like glue, and you don’t even realize you’ve stopped smiling until Nancy elbows you gently in the side. Steve lifts both arms to rake a hand through his hair, stretching without thinking about it, muscles shifting under skin like he’s not doing anything deliberate at all. The movement sends a sharp, electric jolt straight through you.

Your mouth twitches, just a tiny, unconscious reaction, like your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. Like some old instinct flares awake and doesn’t bother asking permission. She notices it, bright and clear. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just turns her head slowly, eyebrows lifting the barest fraction. Her gaze flicks from your face to Steve’s chest and back again.

Oh, no.

You force yourself to blink, to look away, to reach for your drink like nothing just happened. Your pulse is loud in your ears. Too loud. Steve doesn’t notice. He’s busy tossing his shirt onto the pile, grinning at Eddie like he’s won something instead of lost.

But Nancy leans in close, her voice low and amused.

“You good?” she asks, sweetly innocent.

You swallow. “Fine.”

She hums, unconvinced.

Again, you lose. You have to pick between your shirt and your skirt – for obvious reasons, you would definitely not strip in front of everyone and show your underwear. Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. His brain very clearly short-circuits.

Steve stiffens immediately. Not visibly, there’s no sudden movement, but something in him goes tight, alert, like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy leans back in her chair, folding her arms, already smiling. She knows exactly what’s about to happen. Eddie points vaguely in your direction, then at Steve, then back at you.

“I… Okay, I just want to be clear that I am being very respectful right now.”

“You are sweating,” Nancy says mildly.

“I am thinking,” Eddie insists. “Carefully.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the cards on the table like they personally they're more interesting, his jaw working once as if he’s wearing out a thought he absolutely does not want to have in public.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s just a shirt. Or a skirt. Relax.”

Steve finally looks up, aiming a sharp glare directly at Eddie, who immediately lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not suggesting anything! I am a gentleman!”

“You fell over a chair ten minutes ago,” Nancy reminds him.

“Physical setbacks do not negate moral values.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and decide to put everyone out of their misery. You hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt – and Steve sucks in a strangled breath. You tug the shirt up and off, revealing a laced top bra underneath it. Nothing scandalous, it’s perfectly decent, and you actually feel relieved for choosing a good piece of lingerie. The table goes quiet for half a second.

Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for the past thirty seconds, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He looks away quickly, then back, with an expression that seems neutral, but inside he’s fighting off the urge to lick his lips – he swallows thickly.

Eddie slaps the table. “I need another drink. For reasons.”

Steve clears his throat, reaching for his glass without looking at anyone. “Yeah. Same.”

Nancy catches your eye, amused and knowing. Oh, she has clocked everything.

By the time the game ends, you and your friends sit down by the table to grab some food and more drinks.

“You totally didn't, that guy destroyed you two.” You say, offering your drink to Steve, who grasps the glass from your hand. Your fingers brush, and he clears his throat, struggling to pretend nothing happened.

“Oh, really? Because he was on the verge of taking his briefs off!” He shoots back, scoffing. “And by the way, who even wears briefs?”

You nearly choke to his outrage, and it only worsens when Eddie protests. “Hey, I do!”

It only takes a few seconds before the four of you burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter, everything dissolving into noise and chaos. Eddie spits his beer everywhere, and you and Steve end up nearly on top of each other, fighting for the same chair.

“You two should get married!” Nancy says, out of the blue.

You look at her, she smiles at you and Steve. The laughter dies instantly, leaving a heavy silence – only Eddie’s quiet giggle breaks it.

“You absolutely should.” Robin cuts in as she sits between you.

You both look at each other before laughing again. This time it's louder, careless.

The neon lights buzz softly in pink and blue as the sign flickers. The carpet is red and the aisle is narrow. You walk in wearing a makeshift veil they offer – you agreed to be there as part of the joke. Your dress is just a skirt and the top bra you’re still wearing from earlier, though Robin insisted that the veil would make it “official”.

Standing at the end of the aisle, Steve wears a crooked bow tie. It makes him look ridiculous and pretty all at once. His shirt is all kneaded, his hair still tousled from his hands running through it the entire night – he looks at you like he’s not really sure what is happening, but he’s not backing out. The officiant wears a priest’s collar that’s very much obviously plastic.

“Welcome,” he says cheerfully, already slurring just a little. “To the sacred institution of–”

“Elvis!” Dustin yells, a shriek of laughter coming from him.

Heads turn directly at the Elvis Presley cover wearing a jumpsuit full of rhinestone as he steps forward from the corner. Your friends are perched and leaning into each other, whispering loudly like they’re watching a movie, and it’s already being ruined.

Robin fans herself with a pamphlet. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“This is absolutely real,” Eddie says. “I will be telling this story forever.”

Steve glances over his shoulder. “Can you all… just–”

They don’t close their mouths, just keep the conversation muffled. There are giggling and whisper shouting that you can still hear. You step up beside Steve while he offers you his arm without thinking about it. You take it without hesitation. The contact shifts the air just a little.

“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Bob continues, “we are gathered here tonight because… Vegas.”

Laughter erupts from the benches, and you look up at him through the veil.

“Okay,” you say, pointing at him. “You.”

“Me,” he agrees.

You clear your throat. Immediately forget everything you meant to say.

“So. Um.” You laugh. “I promise to… not steal your fries. Except sometimes. When you’re not looking.”

“Impossible,” Steve murmurs.

Eddie wipes a fake tear. “Beautiful.”

Steve’s turn. He rubs his face, then looks at you like he’s trying to focus through water.

“Okay. Uh. I promise–” He pauses. “I promise to always come get you. Even if it’s late. Or scary. Or there are government guys.”

Robin gasps. “Romantic.”

“And I promise to carry heavy stuff,” he adds, gesturing vaguely. “Like bags. Or groceries. Or emotional baggage.”

You snort. Eddie makes an emotional choking noise. Nancy elbows him hard. Steve is smiling, it’s soft and real.

The officiant raises his hands. “By the extremely real authority vested in me–”

“Elvis!” Eddie shouts, jolting Dustin awake. He’d barely slept through the first few words before the vows.

Elvis strums three loud, incorrect chords.

“You may kiss–”

You lean in too fast. Steve laughs into it, the veil catches on his bow tie. He pulls back, and you lean in with a stumble, giggling when he steadies you with both of his hands around your waist. You share a single, slight, quick kiss – just a brush of lips, nothing more. It’s sloppy, unpracticed. Steve grins against your mouth, lifting you slightly as if to spin the both of you, and promptly loses his balance.

The two of you tumble forward, landing face-first on the floor with a thud. Laughter erupts again from your friends. You groan for half a second, your cheeks are pressed to the carpet, and then break into laughter yourself, muffled against Steve’s shoulder as he tries to regain himself, hair falling into his eyes.

He holds your hand like it’s instinct, vows that are half jokes and half painfully sincere. The others watch from their seats, while the cover sings “Can't Help Falling in Love With You” as you two share a kiss you won't even remember.

The chapel door bangs open and Vegas hits you. The three people behind you are still giggling, and Eddie keeps announcing that you’re all legally bound to absolutely no one. Some tourists passing clap either way, and Robin grabs your hands and lifts them.

“Just married,” she basically yells.

“Please don’t,” you say, laughing. The veil already long forgotten behind you in the chapel. Steve stumbles behind after throwing out his bow tie, squinting at the glowing sign above the chapel.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s… that’s permanent, right?”

Nancy adjusts her purse strap, already smiling like she’s going to remember this for the rest of her life. “It’s Nevada. Probably.”

Dustin fumbles with his disposable camera. “Everyone together! No, don’t move, wait—”

The flash goes off too early.

“Great,” Eddie says. “That’s a thumb.”

“So,” Steve says, leaning into you so you can hear him over the noise, “what do married people do in the eighties?”

You think about it. “Probably get drinks. Maybe dance to something with a terrible keyboard solo.”

“I really need a hot dog right now.” Dustin announces with a groan.

Eddie squints at him. “Buddy, we are celebrating a wedding.”

Dustin doesn’t move. “I want a hot dog.”

Everyone is still very drunk – not the quiet or manageable drunk, the kind of drunk where sitting on a curb while eating a hot dog feels more fun than actually having a proper wedding. Nancy takes a sip of her soda that she doesn’t remember buying, lifting it as if she’s about to make a toast.

“I just want to say,” she announces, swaying slightly but determined, “that this was my idea.”

You look at her. “The hot dogs?”

“No,” Nancy says, offended. “The wedding.”

Eddie cackles from beside her, almost choking on a piece of the hot dog, Dustin elbows him incessantly like someone had just told him the funniest joke.

Eddie snorts. “You said, ‘You guys should totally get married.’”

“That’s a suggestion.”

Robin grins, nudging Nancy’s shoulder with hers. “And then I said, ‘Yes, do it.’”

“And then,” Dustin adds with a mouthful of hot dog, “everyone yelled.”

Nancy nods, satisfied. “Group effort.”

Eddie lifts his hot dog like it’s a microphone. “I provided moral support.”

Steve looks between all of you, then shakes his head with a quiet laugh.

“…I can’t believe you people.”

Robin bumps his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You take another bite of your hot dog, smiling into the night.

Still drunk. Still laughing. Still very much married.

You wake up with a pounding headache, the light seeping through the curtain that isn't dark enough to hide the sun rays peeking from the edges of the window. Silence fills the room as you push yourself against your elbows and look around, finding Robin and Nancy still asleep. Your throat burns from thirst, your body heavy in a way that feels almost unnatural.

You stare ahead, trying to remember the night before – fragments of memory coming to your mind. The strip poker you played, a dancing contest with Robin and Dustin. Too many suspicious drinks with weird colors, and an Elvis Presley cover.

Why the fuck was there an Elvis Presley cover at the casino?

At breakfast, no one seems to be handling the hangover particularly well. Eddie’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, Dustin fast asleep where he slumps against his forearm, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. Steve wears sunglasses indoors, and Nancy quietly pours water for Robin like it’s a matter of survival.

“So, are we gonna talk about the wedding?” Robin asks suddenly.

Apart from Dustin, everyone else glances at each other for a few seconds. You furrow your brows. Who got married?

“What wedding, Robs?” Steve asks first, missing the clue in the way she looks straight at you for a brief second.

She stifles a giggle, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well duh, you and sunshine?”

You both turn to look at each other at the exact same time – and immediately regret it. Your head is still pounding, your stomach can barely keep food down, and now this?

That’s when a few things come back to you. A neon chapel. A fake priest. One white veil, one bow tie… and a fucking Elvis Presley cover.

“Oh, shit.” He mutters, shutting his eyes.

“There's no way we did that, is there?” You whisper to him, who still can't look at you.

His head hangs low, heart racing, and for a moment everything seems to slow down. Did he really get married to you while being completely drunk?

The moment turns into an awkward silence, Nancy and Robin trying to disguise how uncomfortable the situation became, while Eddie is the only one smiling.

“Oh, this trip keeps getting more fun.”

Steve lifts his head and sends his friend a glare. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie frowns and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

You don’t want to discuss it in front of your friends — not when things with Steve have already shifted. The two of you don’t talk for the rest of the day, an uncomfortable tension settling in the space between you.

Robin tries to convince him it wasn’t the worst idea ever, while you and Nancy keep the mood light, retreating to the spa to gossip and avoid thinking too hard. Meanwhile, Dustin and Eddie are thriving.

“So. Married life. You guys thinking kids or…?” He jokes during afternoon coffee, getting kicked in the shin by Nancy. “What?”

Robin won't stop calling you Mrs. Harrington, and Dustin keeps asking if he's going to be the best man.

You decide to stay at the hotel, get some rest, find something – anything – more relaxing to do. After dinner, you settle into a chair in the lounge area. Low jazz music fills the space as you flip through the book you brought but never quite had time to read.

“Who reads a book in Las Vegas?”

His voice startles you. You lift your gaze to meet his hazel eyes as he takes a seat across from you.

“If I step foot in a casino again, I’m pretty sure I’ll lose my mind.”

He chuckles, but the tension creeps up his neck. He chews on the inside of his cheek, careful not to look at you for too long.

“How are you?” His voice is cautious, like the question might take a wrong turn if he’s not careful.

You huff, setting the book aside and drawing in a deep breath. “Oh, I’m delighted. Robin won’t stop calling me Mrs. Harrington, and I’m pretty sure Nancy already has a wedding reception planned for when we get back.”

“That bad?” You shrug. “We were so drunk, I didn’t even remember there was an Elvis Presley.”

Your lips purse as a small pause settles between you. You notice how uneasy he looks, the way his right leg keeps bouncing, the way he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

“I know I shouldn't be too worried, but it doesn't mean anything, right?” You ask. He looks at your lips, then at your eyes. Steve nods repeatedly, as though he's telling himself that it's the truth.

That it didn't mean anything. That your vows were just made up for a performance.

His tone isn't sharp, more like aggravated for pretending that he agrees with you. “Yeah, sure. Of course. So, we should annul it?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”

A silence that stretched for several seconds turned into something completely awkward. Again.

“We don't even remember it.” He says, defensively. You both chuckle nervously, he keeps tapping his fingers against the table.

You’ll be back in Hawkins in two days, and you don’t even know where to go from there. Something nudges at you from the inside, like a quiet, restless feeling that makes you stare down at your book like it might hold the answer you’re looking for.

Robin groans again, fingers tugging at her hair. Dustin watches with his arms folded, clearly amused, while Eddie and Nancy roll their eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in ten minutes.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You absolutely kissed.”

Dustin sits on the arm of the chair with his arms folded, watching the whole thing like it’s his favorite rerun. There’s a smug little smile on his face, the kind that says he’s enjoying this far too much to intervene.

You and Steve sit side by side on the bed, shoulders almost touching, the space between you loud with everything you’re not saying. She paces as he talks, gesturing excessively.

“I remember it very clearly,” she insists. “You were both standing there, and you…” she points at you, "...were laughing so hard you could barely talk, and you…” now Steve, "...kept fixing that stupid bow tie like it was gonna save you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you say immediately.

Steve nods. “Didn’t mean a thing.”

Robin scoffs. “Then the vows.”

“There were no vows,” you say.

“They barely counted,” Steve adds quickly. “It was just… words.”

Eddie snorts. “Words are usually what vows are, man.”

Nancy sighs. “You promised fries.”

“That’s not a commitment,” you argue.

“You kissed,” Robin says again, firmer this time.

“Nope.”

“No.”

You both say it at once.

“It was barely a kiss,” Steve adds, after a beat. “Like... accidental.”

“Your faces were touching,” Dustin says cheerfully.

Eddie laughs, falling back against the wall. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend none of it counted?”

“Isn’t that the whole idea? Getting married in a fake chapel, with a fake officiant. With a fucking Elvis Presley cover?” Your voice gets exasperated, and Steve forces himself to seem unbothered.

Nancy pinches the bridge of her nose. “You signed paperwork.”

Steve blinks. “…allegedly.”

Robin throws her hands up. “You were smiling!”

“That also doesn’t mean anything,” Steve says, a little too fast.

Silence settles for a moment, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the faint noise of Vegas outside the window.

You stare at the carpet. Steve stares at his hands. But the truth is, he wishes he could say it was real. Even if it wasn’t how he imagined getting married. Even if it was messy and drunk and nothing like it was supposed to be. Your words cut straight through him. The way you dismiss it, the firmness in your tone, the way you refuse to entertain even the possibility.

It makes his stomach churn, nausea rising as he forces himself to stay quiet.

“I loved you before I knew how to be good at it.” He slurs, but his demeanor is earnest.

You laugh and cry at the same time. “You always come back when it matters.”

Your friends cheer you up, Elvis Presley sings, and the officiant asks if anyone objects and the entire group yelling a hard “no”.

You share a single, slight and quick kiss. There's no tongue, just a brush of lips. He tries to pick you up, but he loses balance and you both fall face flat on the floor, drawing a laugh from your friends. You laugh, reciprocating the drunken glances.

You sit still, eyes fixed on the floor, not moving an inch from your spot on the bed. Your hands are folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself for impact. The room is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all. You can feel it, the weight of everyone’s attention pressing in on you. Robin has stopped pacing. Eddie has gone uncharacteristically still. Even Dustin’s usual fidgeting has paused. They’re all waiting. Watching. Like if they just give you enough time, you’ll say it.

Because for half a second, you almost do.

And then the memory crashes in, sharp and unwelcome. Steve standing there months ago, eyes full of something that looked like regret but sounded like certainty. Him deciding, on his own, that you were better off without him. Him letting go first. Him giving up.

You swallow.

“I still think it was a mistake.” Your voice cuts through the silence. Eddie mumbles under his breath and Robin groans once again.

Nancy doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, really watches you, her jaw tight as her gaze flicks from you to the doorway. Because Steve has left. You hadn’t even heard him move. At some point while you were staring at the floor and fighting old wounds, he stood up, crossed the room, and walked out without a word. The door didn’t slam. It didn’t need to.

“You're so wrong about it.” Dustin mutters, breaking the silence. His arms still folded.

The air feels heavier without him in the room. Like something unfinished just walked away. You stay where you are, eyes still on the floor, heart pounding too loud in your ears. Because admitting it mattered would mean admitting it hurt. And admitting it hurt would mean facing the fact that this time he didn’t stay.

You were not wrong, though. Getting married like that – drunk, impulsive, in the middle of Las Vegas, was a mistake, for starters. The whole thing was wrong to begin with. You shouldn’t have been standing under flickering neon, wearing a borrowed veil, saying vows you barely understood to your ex while your friends treated it like a spectacle. You shouldn’t have been laughing through something that clearly still had impact.

And you definitely shouldn’t be sitting in a hotel room now, replaying a relationship that already ended once.

So you leave.

You don’t announce it. You don’t grab anyone’s attention. You just stand, slip out the door, and let the hallway swallow you whole. The carpet muffles your steps, the lights buzz over your head. Somewhere far away, someone laughs too loud, and it makes your chest tighten.

You wander until the noise thins out, until the air feels cooler.

The garden is quiet, too oddly quiet for Vegas. You sink plop onto a stone bench and stare at the ground, jaw tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you might unravel if you don’t hold on.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up.

Eddie drops down beside you anyway, close but not hovering, like his presence is familiar enough to be annoying in the way only he can manage. He studies you for a second, then slides an arm around your shoulders and leans his head lightly against yours.

“You know,” he says, voice low, almost gentle, “that was pretty stupid.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose.

“It's not stupid, Eds. He broke up with me.”

Eddie hums, like he’s turning the thought over. “Maybe he thought it was better that way,” he says. “And maybe this…” he gestures vaguely back toward the hotel. "...was the second chance you needed.”

You scoff, the sound bitter, and nudge yourself out from under his arm. “At a fucking Las Vegas fake chapel?”

He snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Eddie turns toward you, more serious now.

“I don’t think you really mean that,” he says. “See… there’s this quote. Goes something like–” he squints, clearly calculating his thoughts, "‘a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.’”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your silence stretches, heavy and telling, and Eddie sees it immediately. His shoulders sag just a little as he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s tired but not surprised.

“M'not gonna keep intruding, but sweetheart... don't be stupid.”

He stands and smiles sweetly at you before leaving.

During dinner, no one said anything about it anymore. Your friends found other subjects to talk about. You had barely touched your food, and Steve sat across the table from you, his eyes fighting to not find you.

Steve is quiet after that. You both stayed behind at the hotel while the others headed out to the fair. Only a hallway separates you now. A few doors. It feels ridiculous how small the distance is, and how impossible it seems to cross. Eddie tried to talk to him. Eddie’s voice low and earnest, Steve’s replies clipped and evasive. He dodged every word of advice like it might bruise him. Because what would it change?

You’d made it clear. It was a mistake, you don’t love him anymore. And he should’ve known better than to hope otherwise.

You run into him later in the lobby, the bar half-lit and quiet. He’s already seated, waiting for a drink, elbows resting on the counter like he’s holding himself in place. The bartender slides a glass his way just as you approach. Your head is still echoing with Eddie’s voice. With the stupid quote. With the way he looked at you like he could see straight through your denial.

You sit on the stool beside Steve. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even acknowledge you’re there.

“So...” you say, waiting for him to look at you. “You think it was a good idea?”

Steve’s fingers curl around the rim of the glass. The thick brown liquid inside sways as he sets it down on the counter, slowly. His shoulders tense, just slightly, but you miss it.

“I think it doesn’t mean anything.” He turns his head then, quick and sharp, finally looking at you. There’s a faint smile on his face, forced so tight it almost hurts to see. “Like you said,” he adds. “It was a mistake.”

The words hit harder than you expect. A jab straight to the chest. A physical ache would’ve been easier.

You swallow, pushing through it, “should we cancel it?”

He huffs under his breath and lifts the glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey. He didn’t want this question. You can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he avoids you again. But he feels cornered, whether you mean to or not, forcing him to agree with you – forcing him to admit how wrong it all was.

“I mean, yeah. Isn't that what you want?” He doesn't look at you this time, his eyes are fixed at some invisible point at the bar.

No.

“Yes.”

The word comes out clean. Final. A lie that sounds convincing even to your own ears.

Steve closes his eyes for half a second. He doesn’t look at you, he can’t. You can almost feel how close he is to breaking if he does. Instead, he stares at the glass in his hand and downs the rest of the drink in one go, the alcohol burning its way down like it might loosen the knot stuck in his throat.

“Then we'll do it.” It lands a little hard, he doesn’t soften it. Steve doesn’t take it back.

And you hate yourself for it, because this time, you know you’ve crossed the line. You were afraid, and stubborn. And hurting. By the time the realization sinks in, it’s already too late.

The damage is done.

The trip ended with a sour taste, but at least someone got something good out of it. Dustin had the time of his life; Eddie made bad decisions and ended up regretting all of them. Robin came back five hundred dollars richer and Nancy kept telling her that it was dirty money, trying to kill her mood – it didn't.

You sit a few rows behind Steve on the plane.

The weather is awful. Rain dribbles down the windows, the clouds are thick and angry, and the turbulence never really lets up. The plane jolts hard enough at one point that Steve reaches out on instinct and grabs Eddie’s hand. He never hears the end of it.

Eddie laughs so hard he nearly chokes, immediately launching into jokes about what a gentleman Steve is, how brave he is for enduring “a little shaking.” Steve shoves him, mortified, but there’s a crack of laughter there too. For a moment, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

When the plane finally touches down in Hawkins, things settle back into place. Or… close enough to pretend they have. You try to talk to him. You really do. You catch him alone once, heart in your throat, ready to fix it, to say the words you should’ve said back in that bar. But he shuts it down gently and quickly, tells you to pretend it’s just paperwork. Nothing more. After that, Steve disappears.

He decides to spend the rest of the vacation with his piblings, vanishing into family plans and forced cheer, putting as much distance between you as he can manage without being cruel about it. You feel it anyway. The absence. The deliberate space.

You feel bad.

Guilty.

And there’s something else too, something gnawing at you. Like a feeling you can’t quite name but can’t shake either. You want to fix things, to talk it through, but every time you call, he doesn’t answer. His aunt keeps saying he’s busy with relatives — and you know it isn’t true, because he still finds time to talk to Eddie and Dustin. Just not you.

He came back quieter, at least toward you. No small talk, no sharing glances, not even a word beyond “hi” and “bye” during your group hangouts. Mike and Lucas notice. They exchange looks when Steve goes out of his way to sit across the room from you, when he changes conversations so they don’t stand too close to anything resembling Vegas. He never mentions the wedding. Not once. You caught him laughing with Eddie, joking with Robin, listening intently to Nancy’s rambling plans – but when it came to you, he went quiet. Polite. Neutral.

Like strangers who shared a past no one wanted to bring up. And it hurt more than fighting ever did. The worst part is that you knew why.

You remember the night he broke up with you, how he looked exhausted, like he’d been carrying the decision around for weeks. How he kept rubbing the back of his neck, fingers pressing into the skin like he was bracing himself for something that was bound to hurt no matter how carefully he handled it.

He didn’t explain much. Just said it would be better for both of you. That he needed time to get settled first.

Things have been different ever since you came back from the trip. He flirted with other girls – something he’d stopped doing when you were together. Went on a few dates. Smiled at any girl that crossed his path. Played the part convincingly enough that most people bought it. But there was always something pulling him back. Something unfinished.

And you watch it happen in slow motion now, watch him slip further and further away from you, choosing distance over confrontation, silence over honesty.

You let him go every day.

And somehow, it hurts every time.

It isn’t until you find him alone in the kitchen that you finally decide you can’t keep doing this.

The house is loud everywhere else, voices too loud in the living room, music playing too quietly to matter, someone laughing too hard at nothing. But the kitchen is calm, and Steve stands in front of the refrigerator, door open. He stares inside like he’s forgotten what he came for. He grabs a soda, the bottle hissing when he twists the cap, and that’s when you step in.

“It was never a mistake”

The words leave you before you can overthink them.

Steve stills. Just for a second, but you see it. His shoulders tense, his hand tightens around the bottle. He doesn’t turn right away.

“Really,” he finally says, his voice carefully controlled and even. But still hurt. “Because you made it very clear back there.”

“I didn't mean that.” You swallow.

He lets out a short, humorless breath and turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. “I think you did,” he says. “I think you said it.”

You almost waver, despite your effort to keep your voice steady. “I said it because you broke up with me first. Because you decided, without asking me, that we were better off without each other.”

His brow furrows. “That’s not–”

“You didn't want me to fight for us, and you didn't give me a reasonable explanation.”

He closes his eyes, throwing his head back. His throat bobs and he shifts on his foot. Steve has been absolutely wrecked ever since he tried to pretend that you were doing better that way, that he was only going to slow you down while he was being stuck.

He looks at you, something raw about his expression. Like it’s hurt, buried and uncovered.

“Fine, you wanna know why?” He asks without waiting for your response. “I didn’t want to be the reason you settled, I didn’t want you staying with me and wondering what else you could’ve had.”

Your throat tightens.

“I never thought you were a failure,” you say. “Not once. You decided that for me.”

He looks up then, eyes glassy, disbelieving.

He drags a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture making your throat ache. “But when you said it was a mistake… it felt like confirmation. Like I finally did the right thing by walking away.”

You step closer, shaking your head. “I was angry. I was hurt. And I thought if I said it first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

It hangs there, everything you never said, everything he assumed. Neither of you moves.

“You were going places,” he says. “And I was… stuck.”

“Steve... you were surviving,” you correct. “Just like the rest of us.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have had to wait for me to catch up.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you say, stepping even closer now. “I was choosing you.”

That’s when he breaks.

Not dramatically. His breath is quietly shuddering, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something up for far too long.

“I thought letting you go was the right thing,” he murmurs.

“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me,” you say softly. “Not anymore.”

The tension eases slowly. Steve leans into you before either of you realizes it, his chest brushes against yours, shoulder pressing against yours in a way that feels tentative but grounding. His breaths are uneven and shaky, and you can feel them against your neck, a rhythm caught somewhere between relief and fear.

You let your hand brush his arm, careful at first, then more confidently as the seconds pass. The kitchen noises fade into the background – and nothing matters except this fragile closeness.

“You okay?” you murmur softly, barely above the fridge’s hum.

He nods, though his shoulders still tremble slightly. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I think so.”

You press your forehead lightly against his temple, letting him breathe you in, letting him know you’re here. The moment stretches, gentle and quiet, a small reconciliation that doesn’t need words.

“At least we had Elvis Presley singing at our wedding.” You joke, your voice soft.

Steve snorts, a laugh catching in his throat. He wipes his cheeks, sniffling. “God, that is kind of lame.”

You step closer and lift your thumbs gently to his face, brushing away the stray tears. You trail them down his cheeks to his chin, careful, lingering. “I think that was kind of cool,” you whisper.

His eyes follow your movements, scanning your face like he’s memorizing every line, every expression. Your eyes, your cheeks, your lips – they’re all his focus now.

“And I think Nancy said we also had a cake, I'm just not sure what fl-”

He cuts you off without warning.

Steve’s lips are on yours before you can finish the thought, fast and urgent, and the world stops. You freeze for a heartbeat, caught off guard, before letting go of the hesitation. You give him permission, matching him, letting your tongues swipe together carefully and desperate.

He groans softly against your mouth, and something in the sound makes your chest tighten.

Because you feel it. You feel the longing he’s carried since the minute he walked away. Every restrained glance, every stiff shoulder, every quiet avoidance, they all crash into this kiss. He’s been holding himself back for months, and now he doesn’t have to. You pull back just slightly, foreheads touching, breaths mingling. His eyes are wide, almost pleading, and you can feel the ache behind them.

“I never stopped loving you,” he admits.

You close the distance without thinking, pressing your lips to his again, softer this time, a promise without words.

And just like that, Vegas stops being about bad decisions. Because it led you back to him. It led him back to you.

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