lord, what fools these mortals be!

He looks warm. Something about him feels lived-in already. Familiar in a way strangers shouldn’t.

You adjust the tray higher against your hip before it can slip.

“Think that tray gets any heavier and it legally counts as manual labour.”

“It builds character.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the glasses balanced dangerously near the edge. “It builds workers' compensation claims.”

That pulls a small laugh from you before you can stop it. No polite customer service laughter either. Real enough that it catches you off guard.

His expression changes the second he hears it. Brief softening around his mouth, like he wasn’t fully expecting to get that reaction and likes that he did.

“There,” he says quietly, almost more to himself than to you. “Knew you could do it.”

You narrow your eyes immediately, though there’s no heat behind it. “Do what?”

“Laugh at me.”

“That wasn’t at you.”

“Mm.”

You push past him toward the bar, already reaching to unload the glasses into the sink. The warmth of the room presses against your skin, your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades from hours spent moving through crowds and kitchen heat.

Behind you, he shifts closer to the counter.

Most customers fill silence by demanding attention from it. Tapping cards impatiently against wood. Leaning too far over the counter. Looking around for somebody more interesting to speak to.

He just watches you work for a moment. Like he’s trying to place you.

“You looked homicidal carrying that thing through the crowd,” he says after a second.

“I probably was.”

“Fair enough.”

You reach for a towel to wipe spilled cider from the counter, the wood tacky beneath your hand. Somewhere behind him, somebody cheers loudly at the television.

The whole pub feels like it’s breathing around you. Expanding and contracting in waves.

“What can I get you?” you ask, finally. His patience amuses you.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What would you recommend to someone trying very hard to seem sophisticated?”

You finally glance back at him properly then.

He’s leaning both forearms against the bar now, close enough that you can now smell rainwater still clinging faintly to his jacket beneath the heavier scents of beer and citrus and old wood. His sleeves are rolled unevenly to his elbows. There’s a faded scar disappearing beneath the strap of his watch.

“You don’t strike me as sophisticated,” you tell him.

His grin appears slowly. Pointy canines and glossy lips. “Oh, devastating.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Hard to say.”

The smile tugs unexpectedly at the corner of your mouth before you can hide it. You duck your head slightly, reaching for a clean glass, mostly to give yourself something to do with your hands.

Behind him, one of the men from his table looks over. Dark hair. Leather jacket. Sharp sort of face. He notices where his friend’s attention is directed almost immediately.

“Oh my God,” he calls across the room, loud enough that several people nearby turn to look. “He’s at it again!”

The man in front of you closes his eyes briefly. Something exhausted in the deeply familiar way people become around their oldest friends.

“I’m ordering a drink,” he calls back.

“You’ve been ordering it for like fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because the service here is terrible.”

You bark out another laugh before you can help it, and have to point your face down to the floor to hide it. The stranger looks triumphant about managing it twice. 

Leather Jacket points dramatically toward you. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re humiliating yourself in public, Sirius.” Sirius.

“I do that every day.”

Another man at the table — quieter looking, book tucked beside his elbow — finally glances up from his drink. “Can you order before she throws something at you?”

“She wouldn’t,” the stranger says lightly.

You meet his eyes while reaching beneath the counter for tonic water. “Confident.”

“I believe in human connection.”

“You’ve known me two minutes.” You've seen him weekly for the past four months.

“And yet I feel we understand each other deeply.”

You shake your head despite yourself, trying to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, but something in your chest loosens anyway. The warmth of the room suddenly feels softer around the edges, the exhaustion sitting on your shoulders momentarily lighter beneath the easy sound of his laughter across the bar.

It’s annoying.

You’re tired. Covered faintly in beer. Your feet hurt. There’s still a stack of glasses waiting behind you. You do not have the energy for a charming stranger. And yet.

“Drink?” you ask again.

He watches you for a second longer before answering, expression gentling slightly beneath all the teasing.

“Tequila and soda,” he says. Then, quieter: “Please.”

The please lands somewhere unexpected. Small enough that it shouldn’t matter. But people reveal themselves in tiny things sometimes.

The way they thank you. The way they wait for answers instead of talking over them. The way they look at service staff when they think nobody notices.

You start building the drink carefully, ice clinking against glass beneath your hands.

He stays where he is. Not checking his phone. Not turning back toward his friends immediately. Just standing there comfortably in the space beside the bar while the pub moves noisily around both of you.

“You always work Thursdays?” he asks.

You lift your brow. “Usually.”

“Brutal.”

“You lot make it worse.”

He smiles. You hate it. “That hurts my feelings.”

“Your friend tried starting a football chant twenty minutes ago.”

“He’s passionate.”

“He was standing on a chair.”

“That does sound like Sirius.”

There’s affection folded so naturally into the sentence that you glance at him again before you can stop yourself.

James catches the look immediately. You’re beginning to realise he notices everything.

“You work here full time?” he asks after a moment, turning the damp coaster absently beneath his glass while he watches you move around the bar.

“Pretty much.”

You reach for a lime beside the chopping board, your colleagues behind on backup prep, the knife sliding cleanly through bright green skin whilst music hums low overhead and conversation swells through the crowded room around you.

“And live upstairs, yeah?”

You pause mid-slice. Only for a second, but it’s enough.

Your eyes lift toward him automatically. “How do you know that?”

A small smile pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth then, something quietly pleased settling into his expression without becoming smug about it.

“You pointed at the ceiling earlier when you said unfortunately.”

For a second, you just stare at him.

The memory flashes back embarrassingly clearly now — exhausted and distracted and making some offhand complaint about hearing the pipes rattle upstairs at three in the morning.

James watches realisation settle across your face. “Observant, me,” he adds lightly.

“You’ve got a dangerous level of attention to detail.”

“Or,” he says thoughtfully, “I’m incredibly creepy.”

“That could genuinely go either way.”

His laugh slips out low and warm at that, quiet enough that it almost disappears beneath the noise of the pub.

Outside, rainwater streaks steadily down the front windows, blurring the streetlights into long ribbons of gold against dark glass. Every time the entrance opens, cold air folds briefly through the packed warmth of the room before disappearing again beneath bodies and laughter and music.

You finish making his drink slowly, suddenly far too aware of him standing there.  You slide the final lime wedge into the glass before topping the drink carefully.

“There.”

The lack of motivation to finish his drink quickly doesn’t surprise you. You’re not in a rush to get him to leave. Your fingers remain curled briefly around the side of the glass while you push it toward him across the polished wood counter.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Then you’re the only bartender at the bar, and someone at the other end starts waving cash impatiently in your direction, and the moment breaks apart before it can become anything real.

Still, as you turn away to serve the next customer, you feel his attention linger for a second longer.

And later that night, while pushing through crowds of strangers and wiping down sticky tables beneath dim lights, you keep catching yourself looking toward the corner table near the windows.

Noticing whenever he’s there.

—

Outside, rain keeps throwing itself against the windows in uneven bursts, rattling faintly against the glass whenever the wind picks up hard enough. The front door barely stops moving all night. Groups stumble in dripping wet from the street, bringing sharp gusts of cold air with them before the warmth of the pub swallows everything whole again.

You lose track of time somewhere after eleven-thirty.

Orders blur together eventually.

Vodka sodas. Guinness. Rum and coke. Espresso martinis for girls already too drunk to pronounce it properly anymore. Somebody complains their chips are cold while you’re balancing at least eight empty glasses against your forearm. One of the newer bartenders disappears during the worst part of the rush and comes back twenty minutes later smelling like cigarette smoke and terrible judgement.

Through all of it, you keep catching pieces of James without fully meaning to. The scrape of his laugh carried across the room from somewhere near the front windows. The shape of him leaning back in his chair with one arm draped loosely across the booth behind Sirius.

His fingers tap restlessly against his pint glass whenever conversation drifts too long without holding his attention properly. It’s strange, the way awareness settles once someone’s lodged themselves firmly inside your head.

You stop looking for them consciously after awhile. Your body just does it automatically.

Every time you glance toward the windows, your eyes find him first before your brain properly catches up. Dark curls. Bare forearms. The familiar curve of his mouth whenever he’s halfway through saying something clever. The absent way he pushes his glasses higher up his nose while listening. The restless movement of his hands around pint glasses whenever he’s sitting still too long.

And later into the night, something about him feels wrong. Not dramatic enough for anyone else to pick up on. Just enough that you notice it because you’ve spent weeks accidentally learning the rhythm of him.

Sirius is halfway through some ridiculously animated story, gesturing so aggressively he nearly knocks over two drinks in the process. Remus looks exhausted in the deeply permanent way he always does when Sirius gets like this. Usually, James would be making everything worse on purpose. Interrupting. Laughing too loud. Throwing fuel directly onto whatever chaos Sirius starts.

Tonight he keeps drifting out of conversations halfway through them.

You watch it happen over and over.

His smile fades too quickly after Sirius says something funny. His attention keeps snagging elsewhere. Toward the windows. Toward the entrance. Toward movement outside whenever voices rise too sharply beyond the glass.

And every so often, toward you. The awareness of it settles uncomfortably beneath your skin after he points out your limp. You can still feel the ghost of his hand against your elbow.

Still hear the quiet certainty in his voice when he said it. You hadn’t realised anyone had been paying enough attention to notice things like that.

Near midnight, the atmosphere inside the pub shifts. The music keeps playing. People keep talking. Somebody near the televisions shouts loudly enough over football highlights that half the room groans at him to shut up.

Still, something changes. You notice it in fragments, a sharp burst of yelling somewhere outside, heads turning briefly toward the windows. The way James goes completely still mid-conversation.

Your eyes lift automatically toward him at the exact same moment his snap toward the front entrance. The shift in him is immediate enough to make your stomach tighten.

Every trace of distraction disappears instantly.

One second he’s half-listening to Sirius complain dramatically about something. The next, his posture sharpens completely, attention fixed hard toward the street outside.

Sirius notices too. You see his expression change the second he looks properly at James. You start to feel like a creep.

Whatever passes silently between them happens fast enough you can’t read it from across the room.

Then James is already standing.

The legs of his chair scrape harshly across the floorboards beneath him, loud enough to cut briefly through the surrounding noise. Several people glance over instinctively before losing interest almost immediately.

You don’t hear what he says. The music swallows most of it whole. You only catch Sirius muttering something sharp back before shoving himself upright, too.

James glances once toward the bar while moving for the entrance. Toward you. The look lasts maybe a second. Still, something uneasy twists low in your stomach before the front door even swings shut behind them.

Then they disappear into the rain. And the night keeps moving without them.

The second rush hits almost immediately afterwards.

A queue forms three people deep at the bar within minutes. Somebody drops a full pint near the pool tables and glass explodes across the floor. The kitchen bell starts going nonstop while one of the waitresses looks visibly close to killing someone with her bare hands.

You don’t have time to think. Not properly anyways. Everything becomes movement after that.

Pour. Swipe card. Smile. Carry tray. Apologise. Repeat.

Your ankle throbs harder every time you pivot wrong. Beer soaks into your sleeve after somebody knocks into you hard enough to spill half their drink. A man in a football jersey clicks his fingers at you while you’re actively serving someone else and you briefly consider phoning in a bomb threat to get this place to empty as quickly as possible.

Through all of it, your attention keeps catching on absence. It happens gradually. A glance toward the windows while pouring a pint. Another while trekking between the kitchen pass and back toward the bar. Then all at once, the awareness settles heavily in your chest.

James still hasn’t come back.

You stop near the taps for half a second longer than necessary, eyes flicking automatically toward the booth near the front windows.

Remus sits there alone now.

One arm draped across the back of the seat, phone glowing faintly in his hand while irritation tightens visibly around his mouth. Sirius’s empty glass still sits abandoned on the table beside him. Across from that, James’s drink remains untouched, the ice melted now.

Condensation slides slowly down the side of the glass.

You keep catching yourself glancing toward the entrance every time it opens, expecting him to reappear through the crowd with rainwater dripping from his hair and some easy explanation already waiting on his tongue.

But midnight stretches toward one. Then one bleeds slowly into close. 

And James never comes back inside.

By closing, exhaustion settles so heavily through your body it almost stops feeling real. The last customers stumble out sometime after two in the morning, laughter echoing faintly into the street once the front doors finally shut behind them. The sudden absence of noise rings loudly in your ears afterward.

Music cuts off midway through a song and the silence feels strange.

You move through cleanup mostly on autopilot. Chairs overturned onto tables. Sticky glasses stacked beside the sink. Your hands smell permanently like citrus and beer and industrial soap no matter how many times you rinse them.

Nobody else volunteered to take rubbish out tonight. You stopped expecting them to a long time ago.

The garbage bags drag heavily behind you while you shove open the back door with your shoulder. It sticks halfway like it always does when the weather turns wet, swollen wood catching stubbornly against the frame before finally giving way.

Cold air hits you instantly. Sharp enough to sting after hours spent inside overheated rooms.

Rainwater drips steadily somewhere nearby, echoing softly through the narrow alleyway behind the pub. The security light mounted above the back entrance casts everything gold and uneven against wet pavement.

And there he is.

James sits on the back steps behind the building with his elbows resting loosely against his knees, head tilted slightly downward like he’s listening absently to the rain.

For a second, your brain struggles to place the image properly. Not because he looks unrecognisable. Because you’ve never seen him still before.

His jacket discarded, wet, at his feet. Split skin stretched raw across his knuckles, where blood has already dried in dark streaks along his fingers. Bruising blooms faintly beneath his left eye, purple already spreading against dark skin.

There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his button down too.

You’ve spent weeks building this version of James in your head without meaning to. Warm laughter across crowded rooms. His attention catching on you from the other side of the bar. The smell of the same cologne clinging to his jacket. Long conversations after midnight while the pub emptied around you.

You’ve never once pictured him like this. Still enough to bruise.

Your grip loosens around the rubbish bags still hanging from your fingers. They hit the wet pavement heavily beside you with a dull thud you barely register.

James looks up immediately at the sound. And somehow, even now — bruised and exhausted and bleeding onto concrete — his attention still lands on you first.

“You look dead on your feet. Your ankle any better?”

His voice comes out rougher than usual, worn thin around the edges in a way you’ve never heard before. The teasing is still there somewhere underneath it — buried deep enough that it barely survives the exhaustion.

For a second, you just stare at him.

The alley suddenly feels too quiet after the chaos inside. Somewhere out on the main street, a car passes through wet roads with that low hissing sound tyres make after heavy rain.

James sits beneath the yellow wash of the security light like something half-forgotten.

Blood streaks across his knuckles in dark drying lines. The skin there looks split badly enough that fresh red still gathers slowly at the edges whenever he flexes his hand. Bruising has already started settling beneath one eye, staining the skin violet-blue beneath the harsh light overhead.

And somehow the thing that unsettles you most is how tired he looks.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

The words leave your mouth quieter than you intended.

James lets out a breath through his nose that almost resembles a laugh, though it sounds more exhausted than amused. He tips his head back briefly against the brick wall behind him before regretting it and deciding to look at you again.

“You should see the other guy.”

Normally, he would’ve smiled after saying something like that. You can practically picture it — the easy crooked grin, the softness around his eyes whenever he tries to stop you worrying before you’ve even started.

Tonight the joke just hangs there between you, tired and thin. Your eyes drag helplessly back toward his hands.

“What happened?” you ask again, softer now.

For a moment, James doesn’t answer.

His gaze shifts somewhere past your shoulder toward the mouth of the alley, jaw tightening briefly before he looks back down at his hands instead. The movement pulls another quiet wince across his face that he clearly hopes you won’t notice.

You notice anyway.

“There was some guy outside another bar down the street,” he says eventually. “He grabbed this girl — a friend — and wouldn’t let go of her.”

Something twists low in your stomach immediately.

James shrugs one shoulder lightly, though the movement looks uncomfortable.

“I told him to get his hands off her.” His eyes flick toward you briefly before lowering again. “He didn’t take it very well.”

The understatement almost makes you laugh. Almost.

“Jesus Christ,” you murmur quietly.

“I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding everywhere.”

“I’ve definitely looked worse.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly at the sound of it. You step closer before really thinking about it.

The movement makes James look up immediately. His attention lands fully on you with the same quiet focus he always carries around you, though now it feels heavier somehow in the stillness of the alley.

Up close, the bruising beneath his eye looks angrier. You can see where his bottom lip has split faintly near one corner too.

“You need to clean those,” you tell him, nodding toward his hands.

James glances down like he’s only just remembered them. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

His mouth twitches slightly at the sharpness in your voice.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The alley feels strangely separate from the rest of the world back here, tucked behind the warmth and noise of the streets. Just wet pavement reflecting yellow light. Both of you are breathing visible in the cold air.

Then James pushes himself upright from the steps. The movement is slow enough that you instantly know he’s hurting more than he’s pretending to. His expression tightens almost invisibly halfway to standing before smoothing itself back out again.

You catch it anyway.

“Careful,” you say automatically.

Something soft flickers briefly across his face at the sound of it. 

You hold the back door open while he follows you inside, and the place feels almost eerie now without customers filling it. Chairs stacked high. Half-finished cleanup abandoned around the bar. The low hum of the dishwasher carrying softly through the silence.

James pauses just inside the doorway while rainwater drips from the edge of his coat onto the floorboards.

Your eyes catch briefly on the blood still drying across the bridge of his nose..

“Sit down,” you say.

He obeys with surprising ease.

The stool scrapes quietly against the floor as he lowers himself onto it, shoulders finally sagging slightly the second he stops moving. Up close, the damage looks worse than it did outside. His knuckles are swollen already. The skin split deeply across two fingers.

You reach beneath the counter for the first aid kit while James watches you silently.

“You really should’ve seen the other guy,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now.

You glance up flatly while pulling antiseptic wipes from the box. “Don’t start.”

That earns something quieter from him this time — the faint pull of a smile worn thin by exhaustion, there and gone almost before it fully settles across his face. The expression disappears quickly, though the softness of it lingers unpleasantly in your chest afterward.

You wet a cloth beneath warm water, squeezing it carefully between your fingers before stepping closer to him again. Without thinking, you move automatically into the space between his knees so you can reach his hands properly.

The position registers instantly. James goes completely still beneath you. So do you.

Heat crawls slowly up the back of your neck as awareness crashes hard into the silence between you. He sits close enough now that you can feel warmth rolling off him despite the dampness of his clothes. Close enough to smell sweat and soap and the faint metallic scent of blood still lingering against his skin.

Neither of you moves away. Your fingers tighten slightly around the cloth before you finally reach carefully for his wrist.

Somewhere in the distance the sound of your footsteps echo into the dark, bitter night. 

Clenched within your hand are your knives. Their metal glints in the streetlights as you run past every lonesome car, avoiding their collisions. 

One of them slams their horn at you, screeching to a stop just before it collides into your fleeing body, but you hardly even flinch.

You don’t care. 

All you do is run.

Minutes pass. You hardly process any of it. 

The only indication of the passage of time are the ringing in your ears increasing in volume and how badly your chest burns for oxygen as you run as far as your aching legs will allow. 

Up the crest of the hill, the Wheeler’s house shines untouched. Safe. The relief of it being intact  strengthens you to keep going, to run for just a little longer, until a horrible, eerily familiar screech pierces through the silence of the night. 

The mangled sound chokes you. 

Only a Demogorgon’s cry could paralyze you so viciously. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?” your throat strains to be heard over the monster’s cries as you force the last of your sanity into running faster, harder, towards the Wheeler’s front door with your knives at the ready. “Holly?”

But no one answers.

Heart beating of your chest, you fling the door open with more cries on the tip of your tongue, searching through the living room and stumbling back at its disarray, but they all die at the sight of red.

Everywhere. 

The red is everywhere. 

It pools on the floor, drips down the walls, and covers the limp body of Karen Wheeler, leaving her almost unrecognizable.

The red glues your cowardly feet to the floor, rendering you unable to move. For what feels like an eternity you stand in the kitchen’s doorway, horror consuming you as you stare at Mrs. Wheeler’s mangled mess of a body on the ground. 

Her body? Or her corpse?

“Oh my god.” Bile rises in your throat. The sharp smell of blood stings your nose and you choke back grieving gags at the knowledge of who it belongs to.

This woman baked cookies for you every Christmas, always excited to share her recipes with you. She fed you dinners, countless breakfasts, endless snacks for long days with the boys in her basement. 

Karen Wheeler helped soothe your childhood wounds through her unyielding empathy.

Now she lies before you, motionless. 

Yet in your horror, you remember who else the woman fed and soothed. Mike’s teary eyes looking up at his mother and Nancy’s gentle voice and Holly’s small hands all reaching for Karen in your memories. 

They’d be lost without their mother. Her death would ruin them.

The realization forces you to your knees. The blood pooled on the floor soaks through your jeans and onto your skin. Its warmth unsettles you. But when you see Karen’s eyes wide and panic stricken staring back at you, your body moves to hers. 

“Mrs. Wheeler,” you press your hands against her jugular, suppressing a gag at the sensation of her thick blood between your fingers. She stiffens at the touch, tries to get away from the uncomfortable pressure, but you frantically shake your head and keep your grip firm. “It’s okay, I’m right here, alright? Just-just stop moving.”

Karen tries to say something, causing even more blood to bubble over her torn skin, and you’re quick to quiet the woman once more. Her eyes beg you for answers that you can’t give her. All you can do is stroke her cheek and whisper apologies to her over and over again. 

“Nancy will be here soon,” you try to reassure her, ignoring how cold her body now feels. “Just hold on a little while longer. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Her eyes flicker briefly, a question within them. She doesn’t know why you keep apologizing. She doesn’t know that the claw marks on her ribcage mirror the very same ones that mar your own ribcage. 

“Mom!” 

Nancy’s tormented scream haunts you. 

“I-I found her like this.” Your knees slide against the bloodied kitchen tiles in your haste to allow Nancy beside her mother. “The blood–”

But Nancy doesn’t acknowledge your presence. She tears her jacket off and pries your hands away from her mother’s neck before pressing it tightly against the wound. “Don’t try to talk, okay? Just stay calm.”

As she consoles Karen, you follow her daughter’s lead and quickly tear off your own jacket to tie around Karen’s abdomen. As you’re messily dressing her wounds you feel someone’s hand land against your arm. 

“Will she be okay?” El’s soft voice asks. 

You don’t know whether she means Nancy or Karen. Maybe both. 

“We need to get Mrs. Wheeler to the hospital–”

“H-Holly.”

Karen’s strained, broken vocal chords piece together only one name. The ringing in your ears crescendos into a deafening end. 

Nancy quickly turns to you. “Did you find anyone else in the house?”

“No, I–” You hadn’t even thought to look for anyone else. You’d been too focused on Karen to consider who else may still be missing. Ashamed and overwhelmed, your stomach churns and your head shakes violently. “I didn’t even think to look–”

“Then where’s my sister?” Nancy’s panic swells the room. “Why isn’t she–”

Her voice dies in her throat as something catches her attention. You twist your head around, trying to find the cause, and your own voice dies at the sight of a gate to the Upside Down, slowly closing into itself upon the front door. 

“Go.” Nancy snaps her attention back to El. She’s realized what you’re too afraid to comprehend. “Go, go, go, go!”

El looks between the two of you, torn and confused. She doesn’t want to leave you behind, not while covered in Mrs. Wheeler’s blood and unsure whether she’ll ever see her alive again, but you shake your head slightly, softly. 

“Find Holly.” You tell El, forcing down your own urge to follow. The Upside Down almost killed you once before. “Please.”

Nothing else has to be said. El doesn’t turn back even once as she runs towards the gate and into hell. She isn’t afraid. Not anymore. 

The gate closes behind her. 

“You’re gonna be okay, Mom.” Nancy’s tears break you back to reality as she clings onto her mother’s limp hand. “I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You reach for Nancy’s other hand. While she doesn’t accept the endearment, you cling onto it regardless to remind her that she isn’t alone. She will never be alone as long as she has you. 

You’re not sure how long you kneel in Karen Wheeler’s blood listening to her daughter’s pleas to stay alive. All you know is that you never once let go of the girl’s hand. You never once stop caressing the woman’s cheek. You watch other both Wheeler women, caring for them how they’ve always cared for you. 

And when you hear Mike’s urgent voice outside the house, you know what your final act of mercy will be. 

No child should ever have to endure seeing their family home covered in blood.

“You can’t come inside.” They’re the only words you say to the boy at the door, blocking him from entering. 

Mike’s chest heaves. “What the hell, Y/N?”

Lucas stands behind him. He catches your pleading look and understands. Squaring his shoulders, he grabs Mike’s forearm and tries to pull him back. “Mike, you shouldn’t–”

“Where the fuck are my parents?” Mike slams his body back, fighting against Lucas and shoving even harder against you when he notices the blood that stains your clothing. “Where are my sisters?”

“Mike–” You wish there was more you could do.

He only fights harder. His elbow digs into your ribcage and you know his nails will leave marks later. But you don’t blame the kid. He’s worried, terrified of what his family has become. “Let me go!”

Lucas roughly grabs Mike’s shoulders, forcing him off of you. “Enough, Mike!

“I have to help!”

“We’re not letting you inside!” Lucas screams over Mike’s insistent terror. He grabs harshly at the kid’s body, forcing him to look at you and Lucas in a vain attempt he’ll listen. “You can’t go inside, alright? We won’t let you–”

Blinding lights fill the Wheeler’s driveway. The paramedics’ arrival stuns Mike long enough to force him away from the front door. The EMTs rush inside, and just as you’ve secured Mike underneath your arms, the first of the gurneys crashes through the door. 

Ted Wheeler. Multiple puncture wounds to his chest and abdomen. 

Mike’s body collapses. You’re there to catch him.

Karen Wheeler follows. Nancy runs beside the gurney as she whistles off every piece of vital information she can think of to the emergency responders. 

When she sees Mike, she lunges towards him and pulls him into her arms. 

You and Lucas step back to give the siblings space. They’re all the other has left. 

Numb fingers worry away at your nailbeds, picking at the tender skin that never has enough time to heal before its next slaughter. The sharp pain of the bloodied wounds soothes the itch underneath your skin to crowd Nancy and Mike. To fret over them, to do more than what you already have because it’s what you do. 

It was all you were ever meant to do.

Lucas grabs your hands, intercepting the next wave of destruction they’ll endure. 

“Enough,” he gently chides, allowing the smallest of smiles to peek back at you. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to tell you.” Though you smile back at him, the effort exhausts you. 

Lucas notices and sighs, releasing your hands. His mouth opens as if to chide you once again, but one of the EMTs begins guiding Nancy and Mike into the back of the ambulance and you’re following after them immediately. 

“I’m coming with you guys.” The tone of your voice doesn’t suggest a question. 

Mike quickly grabs your hand to pull you inside the vehicle, but it’s Nancy who stops him. “You have to stay, Y/N.”

Your face pinches together. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting you face this alone.”

Nancy shakes her head violently. Her entire body ruptures at the movement, fresh tears spill down her face. “No, I need you to keep looking for Hopper.”

“Steve and Jonathan are already–”

“Then go find El!” The last of Nancy’s resolve breaks. She jumps to her feet, flings her arms out and gestures wildly as if to articulate her despair and delirium even more. “Find someone, anyone, who will lead you to my little sister.”

Find Holly for me.

A heavy burden to carry, the trust of finding one’s little sister.

Yet you’d do it in a heartbeat for Nancy. Time and time again, you would carry the burden and smile in its wake, full of gratitude. 

“I-I will.” You promise her, pulling her shaking body into yours one final time. She trembles at the touch. Her hair tickles your cheek and your lips press to her scalp. “I’ll find Holly.”

“Thank you.” Nancy’s wet voice breaks you. 

Your hand cradles her head. “Of course.”

“We need to get your parents to the hospital.” An EMT interrupts, not unkind, but firm. 

Nancy forces herself away, but you manage to grab the back of Mike’s neck and pull his head within your reach so that you can kiss his forehead goodbye. His body crumbles at the affection, he holds your hand so tightly that it cuts off the circulation, but you don’t care.

Instead you watch as the Wheeler children crawl into the ambulance with their mother while Lucas rides with their father. They leave in a storm of flashing lights and harsh sirens.

Mike’s old, abandoned bike remains the only thing left in its wake. 

You grab it, feeling your promise to Nancy etching itself into your skin. 

I’ll find Holly.

The promise rings in the air around you. Its tone mirrors the same cadence as the promise you once made to Jonathan about finding Will. 

In the end, you found him. But not before he became someone else. Someone different from the little bee you once adored. 

Swallowing down the overheated adrenaline coursing through your system, your feet kick off the bike’s pedals, ignoring how badly your hands shake as you do so. 

Jonathan and Steve will be worried about you. 

Yet the knowledge of their concern isn’t enough to suppress the gory images of Mrs. Wheeler’s body on the kitchen floor from flooding your mind. 

They will haunt you forever. 

– 

Steve stands outside the WSQK van with its engine tethered to a jeep. The owner of the vehicle, a girl you’re unfamiliar with, has her arms defensively crossed and an agitated expression of obvious disdain for your boyfriend. 

Steve’s uncomfortable stance reveals that he’s painfully aware of her feelings towards him. 

“Can I, uh. Offer you a Bopper?” You overhear him offer the girl, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

She doesn’t bother to respond, only making the uncomfortable situation worse. 

When Steve sees your silhouette in the distance, he exhales in relief and practically runs away from the girl in order to get to you. He would’ve much rather have spent his night alone with you, tucked away together somewhere no one else could find you, safe and sound. 

“I’ve been missing you all night, angel.” His head tilts when he notices you’re on a bike rather than on foot. But then his eyes fall to your chest, your stained hands and stomach, and the red that cakes your body strikes Steve’s aorta so deeply that he struggles to breathe. “Y/N.”

Steve’s hands fall to your waist immediately, helping you off the bike and sitting you onto the ground in a frenzy of concern and fear. He traces every inch of your skin repeatedly, trying to find the source of the pain. “Where the hell is the blood coming from? I-I have to stop the bleeding–”

“The blood isn’t mine.” Your hands grab his, quelling their weathered fears as Steve’s expression morphs from terror to confusion. 

“I don’t understand…”

“It’s Mrs. Wheeler’s.”

Despite how softly you say it, Steve hears the broken confession and closes his eyes in stunned remorse. “Will she be okay?”

The innocent question exhausts you. Mind nearly melted from the night’s events, you push yourself up and start walking towards the van. Your body moves on autopilot, brain only focusing on what comes next and the necessary steps. “We need to leave.”

“Woah, hey!” Steve scrambles after you. “Y/N, I really don’t think you should be running around right now.”

You ignore him and climb inside the van, only to startle Jonathan sitting in the passenger seat.

“Jesus, bug. You scared me–” But just as Steve’s worried eyes scoured your body, Jonathan does, too. He nearly chokes on his spit seeing all the blood. “Fuck, are you alright?”

“It isn’t her blood.” Steve answers for you, slamming the driver’s side door closed before crawling over the driver’s seat and pulling you into his lap. His fingers wipe away at the dried blood on your face tenderly, carefully, delicate in a way only love can provide. “C’mere, angel.”

He begins cleaning you, uncaring of the fact that Jonathan sits just a foot away. And while Steve’s touch has only ever brought solace to your tumultuous life, tonight it burns your skin and leaves you feeling raw, exposed. 

You pull away, just out of reach. “The Demogorgon got to the Wheeler’s before we could. Mrs. Wheeler, she…”

The unnatural angle of her arm, its protrusion and the lacerations on her throat and chest and all the exposed flesh and meat of her body all echo in your mind and bring bitter bile up your throat at the onslaught of memories. 

But you promised Nancy you’d find her sister. 

“I was trying to stop her bleeding when Nancy and El found us.” Swallowing down the nausea, you do your best to block out the memories, but they come pouring out anyways like a ruptured dam. “We think Holly was taken to the Upside Down, just like Will was, and-and Nancy sent El there to save Holly and forced me to come here so that we can find Hopper–”

You don’t notice your tears until Steve’s gentle fingers wipe them from your face. “Y/N, you need to breathe.”

As you manage a quick inhale that leaves your weak lungs craving more, Jonathan leans over the passenger seat and lowers his voice, eyes wanting. “What about Nancy, bug? Can you tell me if she’s alright?”

Steve reels at him. “For fucks sake, man. Can’t you see that she’s barely able to get a breath in?”

“I’m sorry, is my concern for my girlfriend really that distressing to you?” Jonathan scoffs in disgust. “I understand that Y/N’s had a hard night, but from what she’s just told us, Nancy’s entire family is in critical danger and I’d really like to know how I can help her.”

They argue with each other as if you aren’t even there. As if you aren’t sitting on the floor of the van, wishing you were anywhere but here, surrounded by two boys whose childish ego battle threatens to send you over the edge. 

“But unlike Nancy, Y/N is actually here. Covered in someone else’s blood.” Steve wraps a protective arm over you, pulling you away from Jonathan and deeper into his chest. “What we need to do is get her cleaned up and–”

Their voices pound inside your head until you can’t take it anymore. Until all that’s left to do is scream.

“Stop it!”

You’ve never heard your voice so shrill before. You almost don’t recognize it to be your own, but when Steve’s grip loosens in surprise and Jonathan’s eyes stare back at you wide, unnerved, you know that it had been you screamed. 

Suddenly overly aware of both boys’ eyes on you, you shrink in on yourself, covering your body with your arms as you crawl out of Steve’s grasp and towards the van’s doors. “I-I didn’t mean to yell. I’m sorry, I just… We have to stick to the plan. Nancy made me promise we’d find Holly. We have to find Holly.”

Bile rises in your throat yet again. It burns through the strain in your vocal chords from all the yelling. If you don’t leave now, you’ll do something you regret. 

“I-I need some air.” Hand on the door, your fingernails dig into the metal as you fling it open. The minute the fresh air hits your face, the tightness in your chest dissipates. Inhaling deeply, you throw your body up and quickly call over your shoulder to Steve and Jonathan as you flee, “don’t follow.”

You fall against the nearest tree you find just within reach of the van’s headlights. The girl Steve was talking to earlier who helps jumpstart the van gives you an odd look, but you simply drop your head to your knees and breathe in the night air, basking in the silence. 

Steve watches you through the windshield, lazily returning to the driver’s seat in frustration. He picks at his nails nervously, his worried eyes trace over your exhausted body over and over again. 

“We need to take Y/N home.”

Jonathan whips his head to look at Steve, completely in awe of his stupidity. “You can’t be serious.”

Steve bristles at his annoyed tone. “She’s obviously in shock and currently looks like she’s five seconds away from passing out.”

“Alright, and then what? What’s your genius plan after we tuck Y/N into bed, huh?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shifts in his seat, eyes never leaving your body just a few feet away. He watches for any more signs of distress, worried he’ll look and find you passed out moments later. “The hospital isn’t far from the Henderson’s. We can go there after, make sure Nancy is okay and maybe get some more intel.”

Jonathan rubs the crease between his brows. “No. No, we stick to the plan. Find Hopper, find Eleven, and find Holly. That’s what Y/N said, and it’s what she promised Nancy.”

“Right, but we don’t know how long it’ll take for us to locate Hopper’s telemetry tag again.” Steve’s knee bounces up and down. He hates being stuck inside the van, so far from you. “I’m worried Y/N has pushed herself too hard this time. I mean, she always pushes herself too hard, but this time she looks exhausted, dude.” 

“You can’t just sideline Y/N.” Jonathan shakes his head. He did that to you, once, when he tried sneaking out of the middle school with Nancy one night to go fight a Demogorgon. Jonathan will never forget the hurt on your face when you caught them. “She’d never forgive you.”

Something stirs within Steve’s stomach at the somberness in Jonathan’s voice, obviously recounting an old, nostalgic memory. A bitterness overtakes him. “Sounds like you’d know from experience.”

“Jesus Christ,” an exasperated breath rattles Jonathan’s chest, bordering between exhaustion and disbelief. He resents Steve’s bitterness over your history together, it isn’t fair. He gets a future with you while all Jonathan has left is the history. 

“What?” Immediately Steve feels defensive, caught. 

Jonathan stares out the window, his own eyes tracing your silhouette. Once, proximity didn’t exist between the two of you. Once, nothing else in the world existed outside of your own, small universe where your planets orbited around each other and your suns were intertwined. 

Now you can’t even bear to be in the same car as Jonathan. 

“I just thought that, tonight of all nights, you might just… give it a rest.”

Steve frowns. “Give what a rest?”

“This bullshit competition for Y/N and Nancy’s attention.” Jonathan hates the words coming out of his mouth. He knows you’d despise them as well. It’s embarrassing, groveling for his best friend’s attention and his girlfriend’s adoration. 

Yet here Jonathan is, on his knees with only bruises left to show for it. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Rarely does anything Jonathan says makes sense to Steve, but tonight he’s convinced the guy has smoked a stash behind your back, yet again. “No one is competing for anything.”

“Dude, ever since I got back from Lenora, you’ve been constantly injecting yourself into every one of my conversations with Y/N.” Jonathan’s own bitterness bleeds into his voice. “It’s as if you’ve become physically incapable of leaving her alone with me. She’s my best friend, we have a history together that you could never understand, and it’s fucking childish to hold it over my head as if it’s somehow all my fault that you’re uncomfortable with the history.”

Steve’s fingernails dig into the steering wheel. An old, familiar fury rises in his throat. “Careful there, Byers. It almost sounds like you forgot who Y/N is in love with.”

The words are like cold water poured upon Jonathan’s skin. “I’m not the one constantly showing off for Nancy, trying to remind her of how much better I am than you.” He swallows thickly, turns away from Steve, and says into the night, “seems you forgot who she’s in love with, too.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, obviously uncomfortable with Jonathan’s insinuation, and Jonathan latches onto the moment of vulnerability like a rabid dog. 

“Which is ironic, if you ask me, because while all you can focus on is Y/N, I’m actively trying to make sure that Nancy has a chance of surviving this shitshow of a night, because I could never forget who she’s in love with, despite your selfishish delusions.”

Years of built up resentment simmer between the two men. Neither one of them has anything else to say. The battlefield has been drawn, uneven grounds left in wreckage with no clear winning side. 

A series of staccato horns breaks the silence. Both Jonathan and Steve jump up in alarm, heads turning towards the direction of the sound and finding the girl they’d forgotten about, sitting in her car with nothing but disdain on her face, angrily gesturing to the van. 

The sound catches your attention, causing you to carefully stand up and begin making your way back to the van, seemingly ready to finally leave. 

Steve reaches for the keys and places them into the ignition. He notices the hesitancy in your steps, how slowly you drag your feet as if walking into a minefield. 

“You know what, Byers?” Suddenly everything Steve has ever wanted to say to Jonathan becomes a race against the clock, to get everything out before you walk back inside the van and force the reality into another endless silence. “You’re totally right about my ‘selfish delusions’.”

Jonathan’s head falls into his hands, clearly wanting the conversation to just end, but Steve doesn’t care. You’ll be back any minute, and for once in Steve’s life he can’t bite his tongue for your mercy. Not this time.

“Y/N told me about your little phone call.” And there it is. Steve has revealed his final card, and it's dealt as a javelin to Jonathan’s stoic demeanor. He stiffens in his seat, and Steve gets a sickening sense of satisfaction watching his facade crumble. “What did you say again? Something about whether you and Y/N made a mistake?” 

A ringing fills Jonathan’s eardrums. Cold, metallic ringing. The taste of betrayal and shock linger on Jonathan’s tongue, mixed with embarrassment and shame.

He never thought you’d tell anyone about the phone call. 

Then again, Jonathan never thought you’d do a lot of the things you’ve done since he lost you.

Humorless laughter drips from Steve’s cruel mouth as he watches Jonathan’s face twist in shocked grief. He has him right where he wants him. “And I’m the fucking delusional one.”

Shoving the key into the ignition, the van sputters once, twice, before dying again. All Steve wants is to leave.

“I’ve known all along how miserable you and Nancy are, from the minute you decided to call my girlfriend, high as a kite, trying to get her to leave me for you.” You’re only a few feet away now. Throwing all caution to the wind, Steve lays his final blow. “Maybe if you stopped living in some idealized past life with Y/N, a past life that is dead, and instead focused on your current life with Nancy, maybe then the two of you would finally be happy. Maybe then you’d finally have your best friend back.”

Then the van comes to life, its engine loud and daunting. The headlights come on and your arm reaching for the van’s backseat doors, a question on the tip of your tongue about how long it will take to recalibrate the telemetry tag, when suddenly the question dies on your lips as you see your little brother, bloodied and bruised, stumbling up the street. 

“Dustin!”

The sight of him breaks you completely. 

You grab for his broken body blindly, tears blurring your vision as you cradle Dustin’s head to your chest. Struggling to breathe, you finally allow the sobs that have been building within your frigid body to come crashing out in waves, no longer able to pretend that tonight hasn’t been one of the worst nights in your entire life. 

“I’m fine, Y/N.” Dustin’s body remains stiff, uncomfortable in your embrace. He places his hands awkwardly on your arms in a weak attempt to pull away, almost as if he hadn’t been expecting such a volatile reaction. 

“You don’t look fine,” Steve yanks Dustin’s bike out of his hands, uncaring of the boy’s bruises and bloody nose. “You chose a spectacular night to ditch us.”

Dustin opens his mouth to argue, maybe even defend himself and provide an answer to his disappearance, but Steve cuts him off. 

“Save the bullshit excuses for later,” he hauls the bike into the van and slams the door shut. “We need to leave. Now.”

Dustin looks to you for an answer you can’t give him. His eyes land on the dark stains of blood clinging to your sweater and the shell shocked tears that won’t stop falling. “What the hell did I miss?”

You wipe a stray tear, smearing even more blood on your face.

“It’s been a long night.”

– 

Your back presses into the van’s floor as you stare up at its ceiling, watching the streetlamps flash across like streaks of lightning. Every bump of the rough road digs harshly into your spine, but you’ve gone numb to it. 

Jonathan sits beside you, one hand pressing the headphones tightly to his ear, trying to catch any hint of Hopper’s telemetry tag, while the other hand carefully steers the antenna attached to the roof. 

“And by sheer luck, Jessica was coming back from a party and I charmed my way into getting us a jump.” Steve explains everything to your brother as he drives, eyes never straying from the windsheild. “Which brings us to you, arriving looking like Rocky Balboa.”

“Y/N’s the one who looks like she barely escaped Leatherface.” Dustin quips back, slouching further into the passenger seat at the idea of you covered in someone else’s blood. “So I think I’ll be okay.”

“This isn’t funny, alright? Out of all the crawls, this was like, the one to miss.” Steve rolls his eyes. The annoyance in his voice is like a jagged edge, piercing your thin membrane of patience. “So, well done, Henderson. Really, really well done.”

You roll onto your side, finding your brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror as you hand him a tissue for his wounds. His hard gaze softens slightly, accepting the small offer, and something loosens within your chest. “Are you sure you’re okay, Dustin?”

He purposely misinterprets your question as concern for his sanity, shoving the tissue up his broken nose. “It’s a lot to process… I mean, why Holly?”

“Maybe Eleven could tell us, but it’s a bit difficult to contact her now that we’ve lost our connection to the Upside Down.” Steve not to gently reminds Dustin. 

“We just have to keep trying,” uncomfortable with the quickly rising animosity, you sit up and force yourself between the two boys. “That’s what we should be focusing on right now.”

But Dustin has already latched onto Steve’s pointed finger. “You guys should’ve turned everything off the second the lights went from really bright to really dim. I’ve told you before that it means the generator is surging.”

Naturally, Steve doesn’t take the criticism well. “Yeah, great. I’ll remember that for next time, or, and this is a suggestion, you could be where you’re supposed to be.”

“Steve,” you kick the back of his seat, worried he’ll push Dustin too hard and create yet another blowout. “Leave it.”

“C’mon, Y/N!” He waves his hands in the air, exasperated. “You can’t seriously believe that the kid just fell off his bike and gave himself two black eyes.”

The indignation pisses you off. Of course you don’t believe that Dustin’s shitty excuse for his injuries. Of course the sight of his bent nose and swollen eyes makes you sick to your stomach, because Mike and Lucas fucking told you about some douchebag named Andy and you know Dustin has become only more bitter and swallowed whole by his grief. 

You know the bruises on your little brother’s face were caused by angry fists. Of course you know. 

But Dustin hasn’t been honest with you in a long, long time. 

You’re just relieved to see that he’s still breathing.

Dustin stares back at you, almost daring you to call him out on his bullshit, but you’ve come to accept that you’ll take whatever he’ll give you. Lies and distance and all. 

“Hey!” Jonathan snaps from the backseat, headphones in his hand and worried eyes on you. He sees the clench of your fists, the hardness in your shoulders and how close you are to spiraling. “Can you guys keep it down up there? I’m listening for a signal, in case you forgot.”

Steve flashes him a sarcastic thumbs up, but even before he opens his mouth you know that there’s no end to his merciless antagonization. 

“Who was it?” He questions Dustin, licking his lips in anticipation, eager for a reaction. “It was Andy and his goons, wasn’t it?”

“Steve!”

“He’s always practically begging to get his ass kicked, Y/N!” 

Cleaning his injuries, Dustin sighs, unamused. “Your concern for me is overwhelming.”

“We have shown nothing but concern for you since forever,” Steve keeps pushing, keeps instigating and insisting on berating your brother to the point of exhaustion. “And we’ve been repeatedly ignored, and now look what’s happened. We’re completely fucking screwed.”

The dam breaks. Dustin’s vitriol foams out his mouth. 

“Correction!” He exclaims, laughing manically to himself as he falls off the edge. “We’re screwed because you don’t know how to do the most basic thing like prevent a power surge.”

All night you’ve been pulled too far, stretched too thin until you have nothing left inside you. Steve and Dustin bite back and forth at each other with viscous words and over-saturated egos and you’re too used up to suppress the overflowing aggression. 

Their voices overlap in a pounding, splitting headache that numbs your tongue. Curling into yourself, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, anything to digest the turmoil that nauseates you. 

“Jesus Christ, just admit it for once!” Steve’s hard, loud voice squeezes at your lungs, flinching at the harsh finality. “You’re wrong, Henderson. You screwed up!”

Steve never, ever raises his voice. He knows how much you despise it. You’ve spent endless sleepless nights confessing to Steve how your father used to yell at you, how his anger haunted your childhood home. 

And now Steve screams at your baby brother. 

You’re no longer numb.

“Stop it!” Your head nearly hits the roof of the van from how quickly you sit up, throwing yourself against the boys’ seats in a desperate attempt to get it all to stop. “Jesus, both of you just shut up.”

Both Dustin and Steve jump at the sudden outburst. Neither of them had been expecting it, both too lost in their own passive aggressive world to notice the signs of your brewing collapse. 

“I’m so fucking sick of this,” the timbre of your voice shakes, unable to hide the devastation that coincides with all the anger within you. “The arguing. The snarky comments and excessive defensiveness. I-I can’t do it anymore.”

Dustin offers you a concerned glance. “Y/N–” 

“You’re in desperate need of help and it’s fucking infuriating that you refuse to accept it.” No longer do you dread upsetting your brother. For months all you’ve done is tip-toe around his feelings, but in the end all it’s done is drive him further away, and you’re tired of pretending that it isn’t killing you. “All you’re doing is hurting the ones who love you.”

Steve gestures wildly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!”

“And you,” immediately you turn Steve, your eyes hard and narrow and lacking their usual warmth when you look at the boy. “You need to act your own age. It’s so fucking infuriating having to deal with your insatiable need to always pick a fight with a literal child.”

“Until you both figure out whatever the hell is going on between the two of you,” hands shaking, you bite down on your teeth and spit out your final words, “leave me out of it.”

The sound of your uneven breaths become the only exhale that fills the silence in the van. Fragments of your ribcage rattle with every sharp inhale, heart on edge as it tries to piece together whether tonight has been real or if any second you’ll wake from the horrible, awful dream. 

But a rough, nostalgic hand cups the back of your neck. Its presence grounds you, it soothes the sporadic beating in your chest like a magnet to a nail. 

Falling back into the touch, your back presses against Jonathan’s legs, his body firm, unyielding, and you allow his touch to lull you into a bittersweet, endless silence. 

No one in the car speaks. 

– 

The hours pass by slowly.

Steve drives the same monotonous route over and over again, the four of you waiting for something, anything to happen. 

But Jonathan never gets a signal. The radios remain silent. 

As the hours drag on, the exhaustion from the night creeps in. Your eyes struggle to remain open. The adrenaline crashed long ago, with the only thing keeping you going is the fear that you’ve lost Hopper all over again.

You don’t know what you’d do if that were true. 

You’ve grown too used to grief, but you don’t think you’ll ever recover from losing Hopper. Not again, at least. 

“One more loop around the zone?” Steve asks Jonathan, navigation being the only conversation left to be had anymore.

Jonathan adjusts the antenna and checks for any new signal. His shoulders drop when he finds no difference. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Go ahead.”

The wheels of the van veer to a turn, but just as the tired gain traction, Jonathan’s hand flies to his headphones as he grips onto it harshly, face narrowed in concentration as he listens for something. “No, wait.”

“What is it?” You’re alert immediately, crawling onto your knees as you anxiously peer at the decibel meter. 

“Is it Hop?” Dustin’s voice laces with naive hope.

You shake your head, squinting at the meter, which has remained the same all night. “I don’t see anything on the decoder.”

“No, but I can hear something.” Jonathan’s body visibly strains, his eyes squeezing shut as he presses the headphones tightly to his ears. Suddenly he sits up in his seat, tired eyes now alight. “Yeah, I can definitely hear something.”

Dustin’s foot catches the base of your skull as he haphazardly crawls over the passenger seat and next to Jonathan.

“Fuck,” you duck to avoid further damage, wincing at the explosion of pain in your head. “Why is it always me you bruise?”

Your brother shushes you aggressively, shoving past you to get a better look at the meter himself just as Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie.

“Is that him?”

Dustin yanks the headphones off of Jonathan and shoves them onto his own head, forcing the older boy to respond to Joyce. “We’re not sure.”

Both you and Jonathan stare at Dustin, baited breaths as you wait for his answer. But just as you allow a grimace of hope to build, he tears it down with one single sentence. 

“No, it’s not Hopper.”

“Then what the hell is it?” You bite back tears of frustration, fingernails cutting in your palms. “What else could you possibly be hearing?”

“I don’t know, alright? It could be a million things.” Dustin wrings his hands together, anxious. His own hope has died alongside yours. “Military broadcast, TV channel, any EMI within our frequency zone.”

Yet you’re a hopeless naive. “But we’ve been driving the same route all night without hearing anything. Why start now?”

“I can’t answer that,” your brother admits, shrugging. “But I can tell you that it’s not Hopper’s telemetry tag. If it was, it would show up on the decoder. So… the search continues.”

He crawls back to the passenger seat, unphased, yet you can’t move on. You know Dustin is right. There isn’t any other possible explanation, but it still feels as if a hammer has torn a nail through your chest. 

Jonathan senses your disappointment and squeezes your wrist, a silent, gentle acknowledgement of your exhaustion. Raising the walkie to his lips, he delivers the news to Joyce. “Hey, mom, um. Disregard. It’s a false alarm.”

She remains quiet for a moment before responding. “Jonathan, is your receiver in any way connected to the flux capacitor?”

Simultaneously you, Steve, Dustin, and Jonathan all cock your heads at the question, each of you trying to figure out whether or not you heard Joyce correctly. While your time at the radio tower has been limited, and while almost all of the hard labor has fallen onto Dustin’s shoulders, none of you know what the hell the woman is asking. 

“Uh, sorry, mom. Can you… repeat that?” The tailed raise in Jonathan’s cadence, hints of amusement and disbelief, somehow gets you to laugh, if even for a second. 

“The flux capacitor.” Joyce explains confidently. “Robin said it was down, but she and Will are working on it. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t messing with your connection.”

And there it is. 

Robin Buckley. 

Somehow it’s always her.

Steve catches your eye in the rearview mirror, his thoughts echoing yours. He raises his eyebrow, chuckles to himself, and you find yourself biting back a smile as well while Dustin fully turns around in his seat. 

Joyce’s voice sounds from the walkie again. “Hello?”

“You gonna tell her, or am I?” Dustin asks you, highly amused. 

You huff an amused laugh, reaching for the walkie from Jonathan. “I’ll tell her, though I can’t imagine it’ll sound any better coming from me.”

“Are you guys still there?” 

“We’re still here, Mrs. Byers.” You answer the woman, unable to suppress the smile that won’t leave your wanton lips. “Did you, uh. Say that Robin went off with Will?”

“Yeah, to fix the flux capacitor.” Joyce’s tone shifts, teetering on suspicion. “...Why?”

“I regret to inform you that Robin Buckley is a liar,” you tell her, giggling despite your best efforts not to. “And you should probably start looking for them.”

A beat passes.

“Oh, those little shits–”

The signal quickly disconnects and the walkie shuts off. 

For a brief moment, the van fills with a warm, honeyed hue. Jonathan snorts in disbelief, Steve shakes his head as he chuckles to himself, Dustin rolls his eyes, though not even he can mask his pleasure in hearing of Robin’s ability to deceive even the most vulnerable of parties. 

The honeyed hue lingers as the night stretches on, though all good things must come to an end, and when the radio’s silence dregs over into the next hour with nothing to show for it, no signs of Hopper or updates from Nancy, the hue becomes bitter once more. 

Eventually the beginning rays of early morning sunlight ebbs over the van’s dashboard. Its light kisses your eyelids and coaxes them shut. 

Steve lays his jacket over you. 

No one wakes you up.

-

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November 3rd, 1987.

The rush of blood pounds against your ears, deafening the silence in your head. With every uneven breath, your heartbeat steadies itself. Inside your lungs resides the cold sting of the air, reminding your body of the hill still ahead of you. 

You stare at it, hunched over your knees as you struggle to return the much needed air into your lungs. The steep hill of a road has long since been worn down due to use. Its concrete cracked and freckled with debris. Your mother once told you it was the oldest road in Hawkins. The unimportant fact was once the only thing you knew about the road. 

Then one November night Will rode his bike down this very hill, before disappearing, changing everything you once knew. 

You stare at the stretch of road before you. Every morning you run the same path over and over again. Around Lover’s Lake, through the woods, past the Byers’ old home, before finally coming to the hill. Its steep surface always taunts you. 

It knows the reason why you run. It’s embedded with the remnants of the nightmares from the night before. 

Running has become all you have left to burn off the exhaustion that follows. 

Your legs scream at you to rest. The lactic acid within them burns, but you’ve grown used to the sensation. Struggling to catch your breath, your fingers dig into your knees and your head falls. The lack of sleep snaps every muscle in your body. 

Yet you force your legs to push off the concrete, running as hard as you physically can. You have to finish the hill. You have to keep running. It’s the only thing that drives out the screaming within your head. 

“Y/N!”

Your mother’s voice causes you to trip. The landing isn’t graceful by any means. You scrape your knees, cutting the inside of your palms and fingertips.

“Oh, sorry, sweetie!” Your mother shouts from the car, parking herself next to you. You hadn’t even heard her driving so closely to you. “Though, I do feel that I need to remind you that this is exactly why I hate you running in the road. There are plenty of perfectly good sidewalks all around Hawkins.”

“Thanks for the concern, mom,” you mumble, slowly wiping your hands off on your leggings as you evaluate whether or not you can stand. The blood that spills from your knees makes you wince. They’ll be a bitch to heal. Sighing, you look up at your mother, “What do you need?”

She sticks her head out of her window even further, doing her best to make eye contact with you from the awkward angle. She flashes you an apologetic smile that you don’t trust. “Well, my sweet girl, I need your help.”

Immediately you know what she wants you to do. “No.”

Your mother pinches her cheeks. “Y/N, dear, I really need to get to work and I’ve already tried–”

“I’m not waking him up.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And he’s your son.”

“Y/N,” your mother’s usually patient and sweet voice turns fatigued. “Please.”

Sympathy floods through you. You know she’s had yet another unpleasant morning trying to wake your brother up for school. Dropping your head, you stare down at the ground. “Fine.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Relief floods your mother’s voice. She then puts on her sunglasses, fixes her hair, and honks a friendly goodbye as she leaves. Before rolling up her window she shouts, “and please don’t get hit by any cars! Have a great day!”

Claudia Henderson speeds away in her car, leaving you to deal with Dustin all on your own. 

As usual.

The walk back down the hill serves as a small grace period before the inevitable storm. You dread what will come when you walk through your front door and into Dustin’s room. 

You used to love waking him up for school. You’d have pancakes ready for him on the table by the time he finished getting dressed. 

Now you stand before Dustin’s bedroom door, hesitant to even breathe too deeply in case he hears you. 

Fist hovering over the door, you brace yourself for impact. You knock gently the first few times, hoping the tenderness of the knocks will convince Dustin to finally let you in. “Dustin, you awake in there?”

But all that can be heard on the other side is silence. 

You’ve come to expect Dustin’s silence. 

Frustrated, with little patience left for the silence, you straighten your shoulders and start pounding on the door. Your fists turn red at the harshness, but you don’t care. The sting in your knuckles gets lost in the insistence that maybe today Dustin will open the door for you. You don’t care whether he gives in due to annoyance or to something else. 

All you want is for your brother to let you in again. 

“C’mon, Dustin,” you call through the door, voice edging on irritation. “It’s time to get up. You know mom doesn’t want you missing any more school.”

No response. 

Your palm slams against the door. “Dustin!”

Yet it all amounts to nothing.

Exhausted from more than just your run, you press your head against the door and softly say, “I love you, you know.”

Silence echoes back at you.

Forcing down the tears that threaten to spill over, you close your eyes. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to for you to come back.”

It’s what you did for me.

Though it goes unspoken, you know that Dustin hears it. 

“Come back, please.” Your fingers trace the ridges in the wood of the door. Faint, worn initials are carved into it, down near the hinges: D.H. He used to be such a lively, excited kid. 

Grief took him away. 

“I miss you.” You exhale softly, before pressing one final kiss against the door that your brother refuses to open. Swallowing down the grief, you know that you’ve done all you can. At least for now. “Have a good day at school, Dust.”

From the kitchen rings the telephone. You glance at the watch on your wrist, though you already know the time. Steve always calls just before he leaves his house to come pick you up. An old, familiar routine. 

Though your fingers linger on Dustin’s door. Steve will be expecting you to answer any second, but you can’t bear to leave your brother just yet. But his room remains silent and you know that it’s useless pulling a response from him. 

“Hi, angel.”

Steve’s voice is honey. It soothes the wounds in your skin, grazing over the cuts on your knees and the scrapes on your hands. Honey. An old remedy for childhood aches. 

“Hi, honey.” Your finger twirls around the phone’s cord. Another familiar routine. 

“You guys all set for me to be at yours in fifteen?”

You look at Dustin’s door one last time, biting your lip. It remains silent. Dustin won’t be ready in time for Steve to drive him to school. “It’ll just be me, actually.”

“Oh. Interesting.” Steve clicks his tongue. “That’s the sixth time in two weeks, angel.”

“Yeah.” Your eyes close. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Steve winces. “Sorry, I know it’s been hard–”

“I should get ready.” You interrupt your boyfriend, though not unkindly. The conversation just makes you miserable and you still need to shower. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Steve mumbles softly. There’s more he wants to say, but he knows that now just isn’t the time. 

The line disconnects. You don’t have any time to ruminate over the morning’s events as you quickly get ready. You’d hate to keep Steve waiting. Not when your skin buzzes at the idea of being near to him after a night apart. 

True to his word, Steve arrives in your driveway soon after. He beams at you through the windshield, winking playfully as he parks the car and gets out, eager to open the passenger door for you because he knows it makes you laugh. 

But as you giggle over how ridiculous Steve looks, sprinting over before you can beat him to the car’s door, movement behind the front porch catches your eye. You stop, squinting to figure out what lies behind the brustle, only to catch Dustin trying, and failing, to sneak off on his bike before either you or Steve spot him. 

At first you’re stunned, and relieved, he’s even awake and heading to school.

Then you see that he’s wearing Eddie’s old Hellfire Club shirt and immediately you’re pissed off that your brother could be so stupid and infuriating.

Dustin Henderson’s specialty. 

“Dustin!” You shout after him. You must not mask your anger very well given the fact that the kid nearly topples over on his bike. Worried you’ll only upset him further, you quickly run after him. “Wait, no. I’m not angry, I-I just wanted you to hitch a ride with me and Steve!”

“Fat chance.” Dustin shouts over his shoulder, already beginning to pedal away. “No way in hell I’m third wheeling with you and Harrington for the millionth time.”

“But–”

“Bye, Y/N.” And then Dustin is gone. 

You stand in the driveway, watching him disappear down the hill. At least he’s going towards the high school rather than away. 

How depressing it must be that your once prodigious brother now having a dwindling attendance record makes you grateful. 

“Is your brother seriously wearing that Hellfire shirt?” Steve scoffs next to you, squinting at the sun.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

“Aren’t they always rough?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, harshly squeezing your eyes shut as if that will somehow dim the sun and diminish your growing resentment. “Not now, Steve.”

“Listen, all I’m saying is–”

“Get in the car before I leave you.”

“What?” Steve whips around to face you, baffled. “I’m the one who drove here, how could you even–”

“You have five more seconds to get in the car before you find out exactly how I’ll leave you behind.”

He drops his head, slowly walking back to the car, though not without mumbling under his breath, “have fun opening your own car door.”

You smile. “I heard you.”

“Didn’t intend for you not to.”

“Start the car, smartass.”

“Yes, dear.”

– 

When you first heard of New York University, you’d been twelve. Jonathan had tugged you through the woods, swatting away bugs before they could get to you. It had been the early stages of your first summer in Hawkins.

He dragged you through the thick leaves and tall grass and brought you to a giant field that slowly ascended into a hilltop. Embedded in its weeds were beautiful yellow dandelions and their white seeds. 

Jonathan, long past his shyness around you, tackled you to the ground and laughed over your surprised squeals. He had made sure that your head would land on hand, safe, soft. He’s always been soft with you. 

It was that day that Jonathan confessed to you that he’d always wanted to attend NYU. Showcase his photography, something he picked up earlier that winter. He asked whether you’d thought about college yet, where you wanted to go. 

Truthfully, you hadn’t ever thought about your future. 

But then Jonathan had smiled at you, plucking a dandelion seed out of your hair as he did so, and you knew then that you’d never be able to leave him. His dream became yours, though in the end it was only yours to have.

Until Hawkins fell under quarantine and any chance of escaping its nightmares became a dream in itself. 

You would’ve been a sophomore at NYU by now, had you stopped Vecna.

Except you didn’t. 

Instead, Max lies in a coma while you sit in a formerly abandoned radio station amongst everyone else suffering the consequences of that bastard’s victory. 

“Count me in, pretty girl.” Robin’s gentle voice breaks you out of your spell. She looks at you expectantly, though with a fondness that makes you ache. 

You’d gotten lost in your own thoughts. Again. 

“Right, sorry.” You clear your throat, ignoring Steve’s concerned eyes as you straighten in your seat. Fingers hovering over the radio’s control panel, you adjust your headphones and give Robin a thumbs up. “You’re live in three… two…”

You mouth the final number before pointing both fingers at Robin, her designated signal that the show has begun, and she smiles wide. 

“Good morning, Hawkins!” She greets enthusiastically. “This is WSQK The Squawk.”

Quickly you flash a notebook page at Steve, which simply has the words chicken! now! scrawled on it. He salutes you and rushes to punch the poor rubber chicken wired to a mic. It’s a job he takes very seriously. 

When Robin first started her show, she was in charge of both directing Steve’s sound cues and hosting. A daunting task, but she managed to make it work. 

Then Steve accidentally cued up an applause track for someone’s funeral announcement rather than the mournful piano Robin had originally wanted. 

After that she dropped the cue job onto you, all but forcing you to join the production. While you protested and tried to get out of it, secretly you were relieved to have something to do in the mornings to distract yourself. 

It also helps that the sound booth is so small that you have to practically sit in Steve’s lap in between cues and that he always kisses the base of your neck in an attempt to get you to break out into giggles that the entire town will hear.

Robin hates it.

It’s her fault for forcing you into the job. 

“It’s my 500th broadcast,” Robin spins around in her chair after having made her usual announcements regarding the weather and cues up a celebratory song while you motion to Steve for applause. “Yeah, you heard that right, folks. Five-double-O!”

The cheesy audience applause plays over the broadcast and you can’t help but laugh. Who knew Robin Buckley would one day terrorize the town with 500 days worth of broadcasts in the midst of a military coup? 

Robin goes into the monologue she’s been writing all week full of not so subtle jabs at all Hawkins has been through this year and the unrealistic regulations you’ve been forced to endure since then. 

“And now, I’m stuck here with you, my fellow quarantine compatriots.” Robin says, snickering when you salute at her like the diligent soldier Hawkins expects you to be. “And, if I can be brutally honest, I couldn’t be happier. Because when you really think about it, why would you want to live anywhere else?”

You cue to Steve for a booing crowd, but Robin sees and reaches over to tear the page out.

Absolutely not, she mouths at you, eyebrows furrowed. 

Lame, you mouth back. 

Steve watches the interaction in amusement, deciding to resolve the issue with a sliding whistle he found the other day. Its unexpectedly pathetic sound distracts you long enough for Robin to continue her spiel.

The traitor took her side. 

With a sigh, you walk over to Steve and help him find the rest of the tracks needed for the broadcast. The two of you work fluidly together, always anticipating the other’s needs and moving just where needed. He hands you a freshly brewed cup of coffee after a sickly cough tape plays and you couldn’t be more grateful for him as the liquid warms your ever cold hands. 

You’re quiet for the rest of Robin’s broadcast, content simply handing Steve the necessary tapes and ordering him around via cues. 

“And go on that date! Which, by the way, is exactly what yours truly is doing tonight.”

A loud, shocked gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it. Embarrassed, you clamp your hands over your mouth and pray that it escaped Robin’s notice. 

You should know better by now. 

Hearing your shock, Robin spins in her chair and grabs her chest, feigning pain. “Did you hear that cute little gasp, folks? It seems that Hawkins’ sweetheart is surprised that I have my own sweetheart. Or, maybe…” she leans in close to you now, wiggling her eyebrows at your horror of being publicly denounced, “she’s just jealous that she isn’t the only person in town who gets serenaded via broadcast.”

Steve just barely suppresses his laughter with a cough, which only mortifies you more. Pinching his side, you harshly whisper at Robin, “I’m not jealous! I just didn’t think you’d announce your relationship so openly!”

“Regardless,” Robin ignores your frantic explanation and cues up her next song. “This one’s for you, babe.”

Some new song plays, but you don’t hear it over your struggle against Steve’s hands around your waist preventing you from jumping over the tape player and tugging Robin’s headphones off in retaliation.

“Let go of me!” You whisper as loud as you dare, trying to twist out of Steve’s grasp.

“Not worth it, angel,” he sighs into your ear. “I’ll help you sneak coffee grounds into her shoes after this but–”

Suddenly the broadcast begins cutting in and out. Static leaks into the audio as you and Steve look at each other in alarm. Then, at the same time, you both run to the control panel, hitting every button you can think of in a vain attempt to fix whatever has gone wrong. 

Probably not the most efficient method, but the two of you have never been the best under pressure together. 

“What the hell?” Robin shouts, watching you and Steve running around like headless chickens. “What did you guys do?”

“Nothing!” You both exclaim in unison, just before the broadcast completely shuts off. 

“Oh,” you wince. “That can’t be good.”

Robin tears off her headphones. “Shit!”

She runs out of the sound booth with you and Steve close behind. Irritation and disappointment radiates off of her skin while remorse coats yours. You can’t imagine how excited Robin had been to play her song for Vickie. 

“I told you to stop thumbing your nose at the military.” Steve berates as Robin scours the station for any sign of technical issues that can quickly be resolved. 

“You really think the military did this?” You ask, scrunching your nose. “I mean, Robin wasn’t as snarky as she could’ve been. I thought it was relatively tame.”

“Thank you, pretty girl.” Robin slams her hand against one of the station’s panels. “Seriously, I was just reiterating their goddamn rules, encouraging compliance!”

Steve sighs. “Right. No sarcasm there.”

“Says the dingus with the rubber chicken.”

“These are very serious people, Robin.”

“They’re morons, not ‘serious people’.” You scoff, but when you see the panic growing in Robin’s eyes, you tuck your hair behind your ears and exhale slowly. There’s only one person you know who’ll be of any use. “Listen, I’ll radio Dustin and see what he thinks.”

Robin doesn’t acknowledge what you’ve said, focused on turning some random dial she’s found over and over again without any luck. 

It’s Steve who hears you, and he’s the one who grabs the walkie before you can. 

“You sure you want to call the kid right now?” He asks you, holding the device over your head. “I mean, no offense, but do you really think he’ll answer after the psychological warfare I witnessed this morning?”

“He’s my brother,” the excuse has become an old friend on your tongue. You’ve repeated it every day, every time, for months now. “We have to at least try before Robin loses her mind.”

Steve wants to argue further, but Robin’s voice starts to raise and you both know she’s five seconds away from a breakdown. Reluctant, he grabs the nearest walkie and extends its antenna. “Henderson, you copy?”

You hold your breath at the silence that follows. Steve looks at you, shaking his head slightly when still no response comes. Growing anxious at the silence, you grab the walkie from him. “Dustin? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you.” He sounds tired, edging on the annoyance you’ve become familiar with.

Yet hearing Dustin’s voice, regardless of the displeasure that intertwines within his cadence that stings your skin, causes you to exhale in relief.

“Hey, buddy. Listen, we’re having some trouble with the tower.”

“Took you long enough.” Steve snatches the walkie from you, frustration cutting through the room. 

“God, you sound swell.” You can practically hear Dustin rolling his eyes at Steve’s impatience. Something you find yourself doing as well. “Let me take a wild guess, you and my sister aren’t calling to wish me a good morning.”

“You’re the one who refused to ride with us,” you snatch the walkie back from Steve, now annoyed with both of the boys. “And I know you heard me standing outside your door this morning.”

“Are you seriously calling just to berate me? Jesus, can’t you just–”

Steve cuts in before Dustin ever growing resentment spikes. “Alright, we really don’t have time for this seeing as how we’ve got a situation down here at the Squawk. The signal’s gone all wonky.”

“I was getting there,” you say through gritted teeth, glaring at your boyfriend. He takes a cautious step back. A wise choice. Exhaling the last of your frustration, you continue. “But Steve’s right. We think Robin finally pissed off the higher ups.”

“Doubtful. She was encouraging compliance.” 

“Told you!” Robin shouts, which Steve waves an annoyed hand at. 

Biting back a smile, you press for more. “That’s what I figured, but the broadcast suddenly went out and we can’t get the signal back. Any ideas?”

“Check the remote radio head.” Dustin suggests. Faintly you can hear a mixture of voices behind him. He must’ve just arrived at the school. 

Steve crosses his arms. “What the hell is a radio head?”

“Remote radio head,” your brother sighs tiredly. “Just read the manual, guys.”

To be completely honest, you had no idea that the radio tower came with an instruction manual. 

“Sure, we could read it, but…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “You know I’m pretty horrible with AV stuff. Maybe you could walk us through the more complicated parts? Help us with the terminology?”

Selfishly, you just want to hear your brother’s voice for a little while longer. Even if all he does is give curt, short responses. 

You miss him. 

“Find a dictionary and learn the terminology yourself.” Dustin huffs into the walkie. You flinch at the tone. “I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.”

Steve bristles next to you.

You try to still the slight tremor of your hands. 

Despite how many times Dustin has rejected you, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how deeply the sting cuts into your pulse. 

“But what if I always want you to be there?” You hate how small your voice sounds. How, even with how hard you try for it not to, the waver in your vocal chords reveals the hurt. 

A beat of silence passes. Dustin doesn’t say anything. 

Instead the walkie shuts off. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve runs an angry hand through his hair. “Does he seriously have to ignore you every time you try to reach out to him?”

He throws the walkie onto the couch and paces the room. “It’s his tone. It’s always his goddamn tone!” 

Robin turns to you, eyes weary as Steve continues to pace around the room and mumble angrily to himself. She silently asks what you want to do, but you just shake your head. 

You’re familiar with Steve’s anger directed towards your brother.

You despise it. 

“I don’t know how you aren’t sick of it by now, Y/N.” Steve laughs humorlessly. “I sure as hell am.”

And there it is. The insistence that you be in the middle of Steve and Dustin constantly arguing. As if you aren’t already dangerously close to losing your little brother in his grief. As if you want to constantly be begging for Steve’s understanding and Dustin’s vulnerability. 

But as Steve tugs at his hair and continues to talk a mile a minute about how much your brother pisses him off, you just choose to bite your tongue. Like you always seem to do these days. 

“We should look for the manual.” You say instead, needing something to distract yourself with.

Steve’s footsteps falter, having not expected you to move on from Dustin’s dismissal so quickly, but Robin seems to sense what he can’t and nods eagerly. “I couldn’t agree more!”

Before Steve can say anything else, Robin takes your arm and drags you away from him, the two of you giggling at Steve’s almost immediate protests.

It’s enough to distract you. If even for a little while.

– 

Finding the instruction manual turns out to be a shockingly difficult task. 

With how large the radio station’s infrastructure is, trying to find some ancient document is like trying to find a needle in the haystack. 

“I swear to God this stupid thing does not exist.” Robin slams yet another filing cabinet closed. Seems her search through the office hadn’t gone well. 

“It fucking better exist.” You roll your shoulders in an attempt to lessen the tension within your spine from crouching over a rack of files. “This really isn’t a pleasant experience.”

Jonathan snorts next to you. He’d shown up alongside Nancy just as you, Steve, and Robin started scouring the tower for the alleged manual. While Nancy chose to search through the bookshelf, Jonathan announced that he would search alongside you.

Something that Steve narrows his eyes at. 

You choose to pretend that you don’t notice. 

“Can you try Dustin again, bug?” Jonathan asks after rifling through the fifth file without any luck. 

“He turned off his walkie!” Robin answers for you, rushing over to search through yet another pile of boxes. 

“What’s been up with him lately?” Your head falls against the wall at Nancy’s question. Hearing your defeat, she hums to herself. “Noted.”

Eventually Nancy manages to find the manual, which ends up being a giant binder held together with a rather concerning amount of paperclips and tape. She holds it up gleefully and beckons everyone over to a table, dropping the thing down. 

You all crowd around Nancy as she quickly flips through the pages, searching for anything that even remotely resembles what Dustin had been talking about. 

“Wait, there it is,” Steve reaches over to point at a figure, inadvertently placing the majority of his body against Nancy’s as their hands graze. She tenses at the touch. “There it is. Remote radio head.”

It takes Nancy a second to respond. You watch as she swallows nervously, obviously uncomfortable with how close Steve has become. A thick, dark cloud of uncertain tension ebbs off them, and an unpleasant taste sours your mouth. 

The taste only bitters more when you notice the way Jonathan’s disdainful eyes linger on Steve. 

He knows just as well as you do why Nancy shifts away from your boyfriend. While you trust Steve more than anything, Jonathan doesn’t. 

The small, innocent touch will be yet another rift between Nancy and Jonathan. It will become yet another thing you have to pretend you don’t notice. Something you can’t talk about. Not with anyone. 

Steve hasn’t quite forgiven Jonathan for the phone call. 

Do you ever wonder if we’ve made a mistake?

And Jonathan hasn’t quite forgiven Steve for falling in love with you. 

I’ll always love you the most, bug.

Lost in your thoughts, you miss Robin asking how to find the remote radio head and Nancy’s terrifying, yet genius mind coming up with the solution: the radio tower itself. 

– 

Immediately you hate the plan. 

You’ve never stepped foot anywhere close to the radio tower due to its unnatural size and the unease it brings you. 

As you stand before the tower alongside the others, squinting against the harsh sunlight and height, you’re reminded yet again of how much you loathe the ideas Nancy comes up with. 

“It’s up there somewhere,” she says, squinting at the sun as well. “It’s gotta be.”

“Are we going based on fact or a hunch?” You ask. “Because as much as I adore you, I’m getting nauseous just looking at this thing.”

Robin pokes your side. “Scared of heights, pretty girl?”

“As if you would climb up there.”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Robin laughs, looking around at everyone else. “But, that does beg the question of who will climb to the tippy top of this bad boy.”

Nancy studies the tower, unsure. “Without a harness or anything, it does seem kind of dangerous.”

You choke back a scoff. “Kind of dangerous? C’mon, Wheeler. It’s a death trap.”

“Sounds like a job for me.”

Immediately you grab the back of Steve’s jacket and yank him to your side. “I’ll kill you.”

“Sounds pretty death trap-y to me.” He smirks at you, grabbing the hand that holds him back to kiss the inside of your wrist. He caresses the skin tenderly, amused by your reaction. “Relax, angel.”

In all honesty, he doesn’t actually want to climb the tower. Steve only volunteered because he thinks you’re adorable when you fret over him. He’s about to say as much when Jonathan suddenly steps forward and puffs his chest. 

“I actually think this might be a better job for me.”

What little rationality that Steve has quickly gets forgotten when Jonathan opens his mouth. 

“I got this Byers,” Steve throws his jacket off and slams it against the other’s chest. A small rush of satisfaction courses through him when Jonathan grimaces at the force. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Steve Harrington.” His name barrels through your gritted teeth. You know that he’s only trying to show off for you. “Don’t you dare.”

Hearing the finality in your voice is almost enough to get Steve to back down. But then Jonathan starts taking his jacket off as well and walks towards the tower and Steve really does wish he knew how to not make stupid decisions based around his pride. 

“I’ll be fine, angel.” He calls over his shoulder, unable to turn fully to look at you in fear that your beauty will break him. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t forget about the voltage, dingus.” Robin shouts at him. “Unless you want to fry.”

Embarrassment washes over Steve. He can feel your eyes burning into his back and how eagerly you want to scream “I told you so”. 

He’s in way too deep now to back down.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve directs his path towards the tower’s electricity shed, pretending it had been his plan the entire time. “I’m not an idiot.” 

“You sure?” You call out, annoyance clear in your voice. 

Steve ducks his head and continues walking. He knows it’s best not to keep engaging with you. You’re already pissed off at him as it is. 

Finding the necessary dial to shut off the tower’s power surge, he turns it all the way to the left until the faint electric hum shuts off. One step down. Pleased with himself, Steve exits the shed and is about to brag before he sees Jonathan dangling off the tower’s ladder like a fucking idiot. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I got this, dude.” Jonathan’s smug face pisses Steve off even more. “Don’t sweat it.”

And the race is on. 

Steve runs towards the tower’s ladder and throws himself up, climbing as fast as he physically can to make up for Jonathan’s head start.

You watch from the ground, not even bothering to try and stop what’s happening. It’s embarrassingly immature. While you understand Steve’s feelings towards Jonathan, you hate how he feeds into them. Anyone can see how fragile Jonathan’s relationship with both you and Nancy has become, and everyone knows that you’ll always be Steve’s.

Yet instead of having a conversation about it, or even allowing himself to be the bigger person, Steve feeds into Jonathan’s insecurity like he’s chasing after the high. 

Nancy turns away in disgust as Jonathan and Steve race to the top of the tower, and her sigh echoes your own disappointment. 

“How committed are the four of you to monogamy?” Robin throws her around you and Nancy, squeezing the two of you together with a glint in her eyes.

You shove her away. “Please stop talking, Robin.”

She pinches your cheek as she grins wickedly, far too amused with the situation. “Aw, c’mon, I’m sure there’s plenty of room for more in your relationship–”

The rev of an engine cuts Robin off, its harsh sound loudly announcing Murray’s arrival. He waves excitedly from his giant cargo truck and for once in your life you’re relieved to see the bastard. 

“I thought the next delivery was scheduled for tomorrow?” You tilt your head in confusion. 

Nancy’s eyes draw together. Concern sketches her features. “Me, too.”

Your teeth scrape over your lips. While you’re grateful Murray’s arrival has given you an excuse to turn away from your idiotic boyfriend and best friend, you know that Murray’s early delivery can’t mean anything good. 

Something is about to happen. You’re sure of it. 

Murray waits for you down the hill. He rubs his hands together in anticipation, eager to show what he’s smuggled in this time. 

“Ladies, hello!” He cackles in glee, yellow teeth and all. “Always a pleasure to see your beautiful faces.”

You don’t bother to mask your disgust. “Yeah. Right back at ya.”

“Santa’s brought a full sack today.” Murray ignores your indifference and opens the truck’s backdoor in a flourish. He grabs a large sack of supplies and throws it onto the ground before you. “A fresh telemetry bag. Scarcer than hen’s teeth, these things.”

He hands you the box and you carefully inspect the thing. “This is what Dustin wanted, right?”

“Correct, little miss. His requests are always the most annoying things on God’s green earth to find.” The disdain in Murray’s voice pleases you. He then turns to Nancy and hands her two large metal containers. “As for you, here are enough bullets and shells for Hop to start a small war, if he so chooses.”

Nancy accepts the containers with a small nod. 

“And did someone order a salad?” Murray holds up what you sincerely hope isn’t a grenade, but when he smiles wide with a crazed look in his eyes, you know it can only be a lethal weapon he’s playing with in his hands. “A grenade salad. Ha! Get it? I hid the grenades under the lettuce, and–”

“Is there anything else?” You interject, long fed up with the man’s horrible jokes and monologues. 

Murray glares at you. “You know, I work really hard to provide for your needs. A little respect wouldn’t hurt.”

You shrug. “I think I’ll pass.”

Robin snickers behind you and Nancy covers her mouth, hiding a pleased smile. Knowing he’s outnumbered, Murray purses his mouth and finishes his haul. “I also brought Gatorade for El’s battery, in case anyone was wondering.”

“God, please toss me one,” Steve slides next to you, severely out of breath and apparently alive with Jonathan, who doesn’t look any better. “I’m dying here.”

Murray happily complies, tossing the Gatorade bottle in the air, not anticipating that you’d intercept it and take the drink for yourself. “Thanks, Bauman.” 

“What the hell, Y/N?” Steve exclaims, choking on his own shock and eliciting several dry, overexhausted coughs after you elbow him in the ribs. “Fuck!”

“On a tight leash, Harrington?” Murray clicks his tongue, smug. 

Unscrewing the cap off the bottle, you flick the small piece of metal at the guy’s head. “Aren’t you a grown man?”

Murray steps closer to you, eyes seething and on the brink of losing all composure. “Alright, listen here, you little shit–”

“Is there anything else?” Nancy clears her throat expectantly. While she understands your prolonged annoyance for Murray, she wishes you’d piss him off after he’s delivered everything, rather than during. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”

The man inhales sharply for a moment, clenching his jaw as if to steady himself. You watch the overdramatic show of patience in obvious amusement. “Yeah, anything else, Bauman?”

“No,” Murray spits out venomously. “At least, not for you.” He turns back to his truck and fishes out an old cassette tape and dangles it in Jonathan’s face. “As for you, Mr. Byers, I know you’re allergic to jazz, but just a whirl. You might find it rather engaging.”

He then proceeds to use his entire face to wink at Jonathan, laughing to himself over a joke none of you seem to understand. Jonathan quickly snatches the tape from Murray and shoves it into his pocket, face red in embarrassment. 

Jonathan’s reaction unsettles something within your chest. The strings snap together in a brutal crescendo, pricking your skin as the lines break apart inside your ribcage. Jonathan keeps his eyes down, low enough that you can’t look into them. 

You dislike the way Murray presented the cassette tape. The words he used. 

But it all gets forgotten when the man hits Nancy’s head with an envelope of papers. “And for the station manager, the reason for my premature delivery.”

She snatches the envelope and fingers through its contents without hesitation. You all crowd around her, silent. You’ve become familiar with the envelopes and what they bring. 

The crack in your left ribcage seeps open. 

Dread creeps in. 

“A burn? Tonight?” Nancy asks, shaking her head. “But it’s–”

“Too soon. I know.” Murray’s normally overzealous nature falters. Even he can’t mask the worry. “Whatever they’re doing in the Upside Down evidently needs a serious injection of resources.”

Nancy flips through the pages of the leaked document. All crowded with numbers and orders, you’ve lost count of how many correspondences you’ve read through by now. They blur together, yet even as the numbers become harder to decipher due to how quickly Nancy rifles through them, you know why Murray came when he did. 

“They’re requesting more supplies than they normally do,” you peer over Nancy’s shoulder, face twisting in concern. “The supply drop could take hours.” 

Murray shrugs. “Two, at the minimum.”

“Which gives Hopper plenty of time for a crawl.” The rough timbre of Nancy’s voice reveals more than her words do. 

The dread seeps into your lungs. Thick like molasses, you know there isn’t any use trying to escape it. 

“Maybe tonight’s the night we finally find that bastard and end this.” 

Murray’s words hang in the air. 

End this.

But will it ever really end?

You’ve long stopped believing in miracles or that retribution can exist alongside the cruelty that predates it. 

Except Nancy’s hands remain steady, without any tremor, still somehow always firm in her belief that one day Vecna’s blood will finally cease the nightmares. 

You wish you had her faith. 

But for now, all you can do is prepare for yet another crawl. 

–

The beginning is always the same. 

Nancy’s quick eyes skim through the document’s pages as instructs you to write down every piece of information she deems relevant to the crawl. What time it will begin, how many men will be sent, which route they’ll take. 

Once completed, the two of you then pour over the details and try to piece them into a jigsaw code of a puzzle only few will understand. 

Steve adds in pieces of his own humor in an attempt to mask the code even further, while Jonathan selects the music that will play and alert the rest of the party to be ready. 

Then all Robin has to do is go on air as Rockin’ Robin with her script in hand and deliver the code while you and the others sit quietly behind her, bracing for what’s to come. 

The beginning has always been the easiest. 

In the midst of creating ciphers and analyzing complex military documents, you can usually convince yourself that maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time the crawl will amount to anything other than disappointment and frustration. 

But then you’re perpetually reminded that you will never get what you want.

Nancy always insists that she have you, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan go over what you’ve found in the documents together in the radio station’s basement with nothing but a projector to light the room. 

Though you understand why she remains adamant about going over the details and plan, it's become the thing you hate most about the crawls. Being stuck in the dark, rotting basement going over the same gridlines of Hawkins that you memorized well over a year ago as Nancy recites the same plan she always does creates a misery you never thought possible. 

“If Murray’s intel is correct, the supply convoy is set to reach Hawkins at 10:00 sharp. Meaning I want Hopper in the tunnels and en route to MAC-Z no later than 9:00.” Nancy motions to the military base on the gridmap with a pointer Robin jokingly got her months ago that she still hasn’t thrown away. 

Nancy conveys so much confidence as she speaks. It’s a shame it centers around a topic you really, really hate. 

“Barring any delays, I expect that the convoy will reach MAC-Z by about 10:15.”

“And the crawl begins." You finish for Nancy with a sigh.

Her pointer now aims at you. “Exactly, meaning Hop will be going a gentle 30 miles per hour while you, Dustin, and Steve do your best to keep up with his telemetry tag’s signal.”

“I’ll blow through any red lights we come across so we stay within range.” Steve nods to himself, satisfied with his own plan that he spoke with no one else about. A terrible plan, at that.

Your foot kicks the edge of his chair fondly, getting his attention. “And that’s why I’ll be the one driving.”

“Oh, in your dreams, angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you childishly, leaning back in his chair so his hair splays across your lap. “My car’s too pretty for you to drive.”

“More importantly,” the slight rise in Nancy’s voice is enough to snap Steve’s chair back to the ground, forcing his attention back to her. “We’ll lose Hopper if you get pulled over,” she then looks pointedly at you, “Regardless of who’s driving.”

Steve waves his hands up in surrender, knowing better than to argue with the girl. You simply place your chin in your hand, bored. Beneath the table you sit at hides your clenched fists. “Carry on, Wheeler.”

She purses her lips and exhales curtly before continuing. “As I was saying, Hop will have two whole hours to search for Vecna, which is ample time. He’s cleared zones faster, meaning all signs point to yet another successful crawl.”

Successful.

“An interesting word choice.” The molten dread within your chest solidifies to bitterness, and you don’t realize you’ve voiced your resentful thoughts until Nancy’s contempt eyes bear into yours. 

“I’m sorry?” She asks defensively, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem, Y/N?”

Awkwardly you clear your throat. “Nothing, it’s just…”

“We’re good.” Jonathan shuffles his feet, anxious to move onto a different conversation. He can feel a shift in the air, the charged static forming between you and Nancy that he desperately wants to avoid. “Promise.”

“We definitely aren’t good. I mean, no offense, but Zone G1 is not that exciting or Vecna-y.” Robin’s bluntness cuts through the room, voicing what you’ve been too afraid to.

Taking the risk, you swallow down your own hesitations as well and bite the bullet that Robin has inexplicably shot. “There’s nothing in the zone, either. Nowhere he could hide in that Hopper wouldn’t be able to find.”

The stiffness in Nancy’s posture sends pins through your body. Her eyes, always cunning and alert, darken into something malicious, almost even protective. She doesn’t say anything, though. She simply sets her cold gaze on the room, studying everyone before her. 

“Or maybe…” Steve’s loose arm around you flicks in the air, indifferent. “He’s already dead.”

Robin shot the gun, you bit its bullet, and Steve echos its finality. 

“Your plan is great, Nance, but this is crawl what? Aren’t we in the thirties now?” He continues, voicing the dread and contempt that has consumed you for months.

“Thrity-three,” you speak slowly, quietly. As if it will hide the pain that the knowledge plagues you with. You’ve written to Max thirty-three times now about the crawls. “This would be crawl thirty-four.”

Steve’s hand rubs up and down your back. Only he knows why you’ve counted each and every crawl. Why their every failure cuts deeper and deeper into your chest, like a landmine waiting to blow. 

“El can’t find him in her bath and that Will and Y/N haven’t felt Vecna since the world basically fell apart,” Steve scratches his face, worried he’s overstepping with the reminder that you’re still marked, still a target. “Don’t you feel like we’re scouring a battlefield that we already won?”

“Have you forgotten what he showed Nancy? Hawkins on fire.” Jonathan stands in for Nancy’s silence, infuriated. “Karen, Holly, everyone dead.”

“And what about what he showed me?” Your anger flings from your throat harsher than you intend for it to. The anger rings throughout the room, forcing everyone to stand in its messy wake, silent. Fingers digging into your palms, your eyes close and exhale slowly. “He showed me my father. He made me relive Will’s disappearance and-and…”

Your voice trails off as Nancy’s eyes avert yours. She shifts ever so slightly, the only indication of her unease, and you choke back your own discomfort at the memory you both share.

Did you really think I’d forget her, Y/N?

The venom that had laced Steve’s voice will always fester your skin, no matter how many nights you’ve spent trying to forget them. 

I can’t. At least, not as easily as your dad forgot you.

You wonder if Nancy has forgotten the venom, or if it haunts her, too. 

“What I’m trying to say is that Vecna only shows your worst fears,” your fingers scratch the tabletop beneath you, unable to look at anyone. “He’ll do anything to get into your head and scare you.”

“Yeah, well he did a good job because I am scared.” Nancy blurts out, her composure finally gone. “And you should be scared, Y/N. Because if he’s still out there, I can promise you that he’ll finish you off and end our world.”

As soon as she’s said it, the fire in Nancy’s eyes dims. A frail hand covers her mouth, but the damage has been done. She drops her head in shame. “I-I’m sorry. That was unfair.”

So deeply you want to scream at her how exhausted you are of trying to hold onto a hope that refuses to be grasped after every failed crawl. You want to scream at Nancy that every morning you run until you can’t breathe because it’s the only sensation similar enough to the death that took Max from you. You want to scream that you’re sick of pretending you don’t have the same bloodlust for Vecna’s body, a yearning so intense that it terrifies you. 

Above all, you just want to scream at Nancy that all your life all you’ve ever done is fail again and again in what matters the most, in protecting who you love. 

To expect you to want to endure it all over again is a fate much more cruel than Vecna’s curse. 

But rather than scream until your throat becomes a bloodied mess of vocal chords, you just stare back at Nancy’s mournful eyes and force a smile.

“It’s alright,” you tell her, too tired to mask the apathy. You’re sick of pretending. “Let’s just stick to the original plan for tonight.”

The frown line between Nancy’s brows only deepens. “Are you sure? If you really feel strongly about something, you know I’d trust whatever call you make.”

“I want him dead.” The words come out softly, an exhale more than anything. But they’re the only semblance of truth that you can provide Nancy. 

She studies your face, eyes silently caressing the silhouette of your body. The gaze lingers on your chapped lips, your nailbeds that have been picked raw, the way your hair hides more of your face than it used to. 

“Then it’s settled,” she eventually announces, gesturing to the others. “Tonight, kill Vecna.”

The declaration should provoke celebration and inspire awe. But no one stirs. Steve remains lock-jawed by your side, fingers pressed lightly into your skin to calm his own uncertainties. Jonathan keeps his head down, caught between relief and mourning. You’re no better, gnawing at your lip until you taste the familiar metallic consequence while Robin picks at her own nails and shifts in her seat, never one for being in a stuffy room for long. 

She breaks first. 

“Well, this was certainly a pleasant and absolutely not at all uncomfortable conversation,” Robin jumps up from her seat, wringing her hands out as if it will disperse her nausea. “And while I totally long to stay here with you guys, I unfortunately have to go make a rather doomed phone call and cancel a date that I was actually really looking forward to.” 

Hand at her temples, Robin salutes the room and leaves you stranded with the ensemble to your estranged love triangle that you want no part of. 

Lovely. 

“I should go, too.” Desperate for air, you quickly stand and head for the staircase. “Need to call Dustin and make sure he has everything for the crawl tonight.”

Steve jumps to his feet as well. “I’ll help you call him–”

“I’d rather do it alone, actually.” You don’t mean to interrupt him, but it’s obvious how anxious Steve is to go with you and while you adore how tenderly he treats you, you’re terrified that he’ll start yet another argument with Dustin and become the crux of your brewing breakdown. 

Seeing the disappointment on Steve’s face, you kiss the crown of his head, stroking his cheek. “I’ll be right back, honey. Promise.” 

He sighs into the touch, mumbling softly enough so that only you will hear, “Can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with Byers and Nancy.”

“Why do you think I want to leave?” You whisper, laughing under your breath. 

Steve’s eyes shine back, full of the ever present boyish charm that you stood no chance of surviving. 

– 

You radio Dustin a total of fourty-nine times.

Not once does he answer. 

Steve finds you in a spare closet, screaming into a walkie over and over again demanding that your brother respond. 

“Dustin Henderson, I swear to God if you don’t answer me I will shove Tew’s litter down your pillowcase and make sure you get pinkeye for the rest of your life!”

“What did the kid do now?” Your boyfriend comes up behind you, wrapping a loose arm over your shoulders. 

You brush him off, too worried and overwhelmed to stand still. “He’s not answering.”

Steve snorts. “Shocking.”

“I’m serious, Steve.” You spin around, facing him with anxious eyes. “I’m starting to worry. He’s never been radio silent like this.”

“Are you forgetting what happened this morning? The little shit totally shut you out. Again, might I add. Like he does every time. I’m not surprised he’s decided to go full AWOL.”

“He always answers eventually.” You argue weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds. “Dustin’s never just gone completely silent without warning.”

“The kid also never used to spit profanities at you until one day he thought it’d be a brilliant idea,” Steve shrugs. “Now it’s all he does.”

Your eyes sting in frustration, though you have nothing left to say. Not to Steve, anyways. He used to be the only other person in your life who truly understood your brother, but lately you wonder if Steve ever knew Dustin at all. 

“Y/N? Steve?” A hesitant knock sounds against the closet door. “You guys in there? And, uh, are you… decent?”

Will’s shy voice accompanies the knock, and you swing the door open without second thought, startling both him and Steve. 

“Where’s my brother?” You demand immediately, not bothering to acknowledge Will’s previous implications. 

He stumbles back, slightly alarmed. “Dustin isn’t here yet?”

It’s the absolute worst thing Will could’ve ever said. 

You barrel out of the doorway, ignoring Steve’s small yelp of pain when you accidentally elbow his chest trying to get out of the closet. Instead you start scouring the radio station, slamming every door open and shouting Dustin’s name until your tongue goes numb. 

On your rampage you run into Mike and Lucas in the field, both attempting to radio your brother as well. Seeing them prompts bile to rise in your throat. 

They don’t know where he is, either. 

“When was the last time you saw Dustin?” You demand the minute you’re close enough to the boys, Will and Steve struggling to keep up behind you. “Why didn’t you guys bike here with him? Where did he go?”

“Woah, slow down.” Mike throws his hands up in defense. “We just got here and I can guarantee that we know shit else like you.”

Lucas rubs the back of his neck. “We gotta tell her about Andy, man.”

“Who the fuck is Andy?” Heart rate spiking, you almost pass out from how fast you turn to face Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”

“I just got off the phone with Mrs. Henderson.” Robin joins the group, unaware of the argument unfolding. “She hasn’t heard from Dustin all day.”

“No way we’re telling Y/N about Andy.” Mike scoffs at Lucas, ignoring what Robin has said. “You know that Dustin would kill us.”

Lucas slaps the kid’s shoulder childishly. “We have to! He almost gave Dustin a black eye today for wearing that stupid Hellfire shirt–”

“Where’s my brother?” 

Your shout echoes off the woodline. Its reverberation cascades down your spine. 

Yet no one can expel the remnants of the outburst with any semblance of what you want to hear. 

“We don’t know, Y/N.” Mike murmurs, his careful hand grazing yours. He doesn’t want to give you unnecessary false hope. He understands better than anyone how painful it can be. “He didn’t meet us after school. That’s all I can tell you.”

“But he’ll be here soon.” Will offers, trying to comfort you as best as he can. “Dustin always shows up for a crawl.”

The tall grass beneath your feet tempts you to lay amongst them. You’re so exhausted from it all. “He should be here by now.”

“Yet he’s an hour late.” Robin not so gently reminds you. 

“So we go and look for him.” It’s the only answer you’ll accept. You’re not going on a goddamn crawl without knowing whether or not your little brother is okay. 

But a look gets passed between the boys. An underlying understanding seems to connect the three of them together, unifying against you before you can even come up with a defense. 

“You know we don’t have time, Y/N.” Lucas says delicately, eyes apologetic. 

“But–”

“Dustin would want us to do the crawl without him.” Mike cuts in, not unkindly, though firm. “Look, we’re all worried about him, but this is our shot at Vecna that we can’t miss. And if we don’t have your brother… someone has to step in for him.”

They want you to take your brother’s place.

Steve carefully takes your hand, risking everything when he says, “Dustin isn’t a kid anymore, angel.”

I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.

But what if I always want you there?

The silence that followed had been Dustin’s answer. 

You just have to accept it. 

“Fine,” you spit out, always prone to succumbing to the needs of others. “But the minute we’re done with this, we’re looking for Dustin.”

“No member of the party gets left behind.” Mike interlocks his pinky with yours. “Promise.”

While the gesture warms your skin, you wish you could believe that its sentiment was sacred and untouchable. 

Instead it leaves a hollow pit in your stomach.

– 

Everyone gathers their things in silence. No one needs to ask what to bring or where to go. You all have your designated areas and tasks from dozens of crawls before. 

Nancy and Will help Mike and Lucas ready their gear for the stakeout. While you’ve always hated sending them so close to MAC-Z, you’re at least comforted by the fact that you were able to secure Bookstrordinary as their base, providing them with information about where to hide and how to escape the building quickly if they were to get caught. 

Joyce helps Hopper with his bullet proof vest and readies his gun, Robin readies the radio signal, and Jonathan prepares the telemetry tracker.

You sit in the WSQK van with Steve, going over Dustin’s detailed instructions about how to signal for the tracker.

“Jesus, this kid has awful handwriting.” Steve sighs under his breath, eyes straining at your brother’s messy scrawls. 

“No one in our family has nice handwriting.” You sort through your own papers, making sure you have all the necessary data from last week’s crawl. Dustin insists that you help him track the exact distance of each route for crawls as a way to compile more data that could help in the future. 

You think it’s unnecessary, but arguing with Dustin never ends well. 

The reminder of him tugs at your chest. You wish he was here, you wish you knew where he was and why he always chooses to run away these days. 

Steve playfully tosses a pen at you. “I like your handwriting.”

“You’re easy to please.”

“Watch it, angel.”

You giggle despite the grief in your chest, tossing the pen back at him, and for a moment you’re just two kids in a car, happy and in love. 

“Harrington, Henderson, you guys getting any signal? Tag is active.” Robin’s voice interrupts from the walkie. 

“Yeah, just give us a second.” Steve bites the pen in his mouth and grabs the walkie. He then throws his legs over the driver’s seat and crawls towards the back of the van where the hatch to the antenna resides. He frowns for a moment, unsure what to do next. “Any idea what to do next, Henderson?”

You shake your head. Dustin never taught you. “Maybe twist it?”

Steve spits the pen out and sighs, fixing his hair. “Well, here goes nothing.”

He grabs the handle to the wheel and attempts to turn it. Except it never moves. He tugs at it with more force, but the wheel remains locked. With a frustrated huff he grabs the walkie again. “Anybody know how Henderson’s wheelie thing works?”

Robin takes a moment to respond. “Uh, there should be a safety lock under the wheel.”

“Safety lock, real necessary.” Steve laughs in disbelief, but when he sees your pointed glare, he drops the subject and tries the wheel again. This time, it moves. He turns the antenna towards the station as you hand him a pair of headphones to put on. 

“Okay,” he says into the walkie. “I’m getting a signal. It’s pretty quiet, though.”

Steve slowly turns the wheel’s handle, eyes steady on the decibel meter attached to the van. “Okay, signal’s holding a steady 90 dB… But how am I supposed to monitor this and drive without Henderson?”

“Isn’t Y/N already with you?” Robin’s confusion rings clear through the static. 

You crawl over to Steve and take over the walkie. “I have to track the route and time how long it takes us. Dustin uses it to calibrate the telemetry tags.”

The walkie goes quiet. 

“Robin?” You look down to see if the signal somehow has been cut off. “Hello?”

“Guess they didn’t consider who to send beforehand.” Steve yanks the headphones off. “They must’ve thought Dustin would show by now.”

“He still might.” You aren’t sure why vehemently insist on believing the impossible.

Steve spares you pity, choosing to change the subject. “Who do you think they’ll send, anyways? I mean, no one really understands this stuff like Dustin does.”

“Nancy should be able to do it.” You say hopefully. “She’s smart enough to figure it out quickly.”

“As if Byers would let her anywhere near me–”

The van’s backdoors swing open.

You turn, expecting to find Nancy climbing through them, but when you see Jonathan, you freeze. 

“Oh,” the words tumble out on their own as you stare at him. “They sent you.”

He fixes his jacket, eyes avoiding yours. “Don’t sound too excited, bug.”

In the corner of your eye you notice Steve’s fingers clenching the steering wheel at the nickname. You hadn’t even noticed he went back to the driver’s seat. 

Knowing that nothing you can say will alleviate the already choking tension, you force a smile at Jonathan before crawling back to the passenger seat. 

“You comfortable back there, Byers?” Steve asks, innocently enough. For a moment you think he’s playing nice, trying to appease you, but instead he turns to look at Jonathan with cruel, teasing eyes. “Or do you want me to get you a pillow?”

Jonathan forces the headphones on. “Just focus on driving.”

Your head drops to your hands. Running on little sleep and emotionally drained, you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night trapped in a van with the two idiots. 

From the rear window you spot Mike on his bike alongside Lucas, waving his hands in the air to signal that they’re ready to head towards the meeting point.

It’s time. 

Fingers grazing over the knives in your back pocket, you turn to Steve. “Let’s go.”

He nods, starting the engine.

The crawl has begun. 

–

Waiting in the hidden alleyway with Steve and Jonathan quickly becomes a nightmare.

While no one talks, the silence weighs so heavily within the van that it cracks open your chest and steals any oxygen left in it. 

Your fingers trace over the papers for the crawl, scratching at the ink splotches of numbers and miles written within it and trying to busy your mind to prevent yourself from spiraling.

Steve busies himself with a snack he stole from Murray. He eats messily, noisily, and with every grotesque swallow you can feel Jonathan’s patience waning. 

You dread the inevitable explosion. 

“We got action.” The crackle of the walkie coming to life with Mike’s voice startles you. You’d almost forgotten why you were even stuck in the van in the first place. “Four trucks, outer east gate on Main.”

Jonathan’s hand comes up to his headphones, the other to the wheel. He readies himself for a signal. He knows how crucial the timing is. 

You hold your breath as Mike counts down to the burn. If all goes well, you should be driving in minutes. 

“Hopper’s in.”

You allow yourself to exhale. All Hopper has to do now is get through the gate undetected. Your eyes close, silently hoping your luck hasn’t run out just yet as you whisper, “C’mon, Hop.”

Seconds later Mike announces, “He’s flipped.”

Steve fist bumps the air. “We’re in!”

But his celebration is short lived once Joyce takes over the walkie, directing the attention to her son. “Jonathan, signal?”

Jonathan turns the wheel painstakingly slowly, careful not to go over or under. Once he finds Hopper’s signal, he walkies back to his mother, “Snagged it.”

“Should I go?” Steve asks, mouth full of food.

“No… hold.” Jonathan shakes his head. His eyes never leave the monitor as his fingers twist the wheel. You can see he’s holding his breath. “Hold… hold… Go!”

He locks the antenna’s wheel before he can lose Hopper again and Steve speeds off, flinging the van sideways at the abrupt turn. You brace yourself on the dashboard, forcing down the nausea so that you can monitor the car’s speed. You still have a job to do. 

You’ve driven this route a dozen times. Looking at your notes, you notice that every time prior the military tanks consistently drove slower. Yet tonight the van flies down the route, struggling to keep up with the telemetry tag in the Upside Down. 

At first you think you’ve miscalculated something. Maybe you started the stopwatch too soon, or maybe the speedometer in the van has malfunctioned in some way.

That’s when it all goes wrong. 

“We’re losing him!” Jonathan shouts from the backseat, alarmed. 

“How?” You spin around in your seat, fearful that he’s simply misread the decibels.

“I-I don’t know–” Jonathan’s eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, stop! We need to stop!”

Steve flings an arm over your chest as he slams on the brakes, the force nearly sending you through the windshield. He looks at you in concern. “Christ, are you alright, Y/N?”

Except you don’t hear him. Your head swarms with dread as you stumble to your feet and kneel besides Jonathan. “What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t answer you, too busy forcing the antenna whatever way it will go in a desperate attempt to locate Hopper again. Your teeth dig into your lips. 

You can’t lose him. Not again. 

“We got him.” Jonathan’s relief rivals your own as you both breathe heavily against each other.

You cling to his knee, unsteady as all the dread that built its way to the crevice of your collarbones spikes your blood.

Steve’s gentle voice attempts to coax your heartbeat back down. “Breathe, angel. We got Hop, it’s okay.”

Your nails dig into Jonathan’s skin. “Then why are we stopped?”

Neither Steve nor Jonathan can give you an answer. The three of you sit in silence, all unable to voice what you desperately hope isn’t true. 

Suddenly the lights in the van begin to flicker.

The rapid flash of light elicits a sickening sense of deja-vu. It’s happening again. It always happens again. 

Something has gone wrong. 

“What’s going on?” Steve exclaims, now rushing to join you and Jonathan in the back. “What the hell is this thing doing?”

You lunge for the walkie, shaking as you scream, “Joyce? Joyce?”

No one answers. 

“Answer me!” Your vocal chords strain against your screams. “Someone answer! What happened to Hopper?”

But all contact has been lost. The radio station’s power must have gone out.

Back pressed against Steve’s chest, you sit in complete shock as the terror consumes you. You’re helpless against it. That’s all you ever are.

Helpless. 

Muffled, static filled panic screeches from your bag. 

“Y/N? Do you–copy?” Barely able to decipher the words, you scramble to the bag and find the source of the voice. Dustin left his personal walkie. Robin must’ve remembered.

“Robin?” The panic in your shrill voice nearly deafens you. 

“There’s a–demogorgon–” Whatever Robin is saying is barely audible. The walkie isn’t within its normal range. Static infiltrates every word that comes through.

You bring the walkie closer to your lips. “Robin, I-I can’t understand what you’re saying–”

“The Wheelers!” She screams at you, loud enough that the static doesn’t drown her. “There’s a demogorgon–running towards–Wheelers!” 

A metallic ringing pierces your ear drums. 

The Wheelers are in danger. 

Adrenaline infiltrates your veins. Every one of your senses sharpens. 

You’re not far from their home. A mile, maybe even less. 

You’ve spent all summer running. You could be there within minutes if you left now. 

The only thought running through your head as you fling open the van’s doors is Holly, alone without her siblings in the home. She needs you. 

They need you. 

“Y/N, where are you going?” Steve shouts after you, already stumbling to his feet to follow you into the dark. 

Jonathan isn’t any better as he tears his headphones off and nearly falls out of the van. “What the hell?”

“Nancy and Mike need me!” You’re standing in the middle of the road, torn between staying or leaving. But it was never really a decision. “Stay here, alright?”

“Didn’t you hear Robin?” Steve reaches out for you, tries to pull you back into the van. “There’s a demogorgon out there, no way am I letting you go by yourself!”

“I’m going.”

And before Steve’s hand can land on your wrist, you run. 

All you do is run.

-

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Puffs of air swirl around you, dancing with the fallen snow-like ash that settles quietly upon the crest of your cheeks. A blood rush pounding in your ears deafen the ever increasing unnerve within the crowd amongst you. 

Bodies push against yours. Their sensation goes ignored. 

The only movement you register is Dustin’s fingers interlocking through yours, terrified, afraid, lost. 

Lost. 

You’ve lost. 

Watching smoke billowing through the sky of the hometown which once shielded you, you get lost in the ruin.

Steve’s hands force you back. 

He shoves through the crowd, through the maze of people just as lost and terrified as you are, desperate to get to you. 

“Y/N!” His voice sounds faint through the pounding in your head. You almost don’t register that it’s him, but then Steve’s hands wrap around your arms and the force of his grip rips you back into reality. “Y/N, we need to leave.”

“What’s going on?” Dustin pulls you away from Steve, lost in his own panic as the sky darkens with smoke and the ground beneath begins to shake. 

Steve grabs onto his jacket, hauling him back as he grabs you once again, colliding you against Robin, death gripped behind the older teen. “We need to leave!”

The urgency in his voice shocks the remaining paralysis within you. Feet stumbling, you follow after Steve. You will always follow him.

“What the hell is happening?” Robin tries to pull away, but Steve only tightens his grip and knocks roughly into a group of strangers blocking his path. 

“Let’s go!”

His brute force startles you. “Steve, where are you–”

But your words get drowned out by the monotony of others asking each other the same frightened questions. Children start to cry. Mothers and fathers huddle together and demand answers that no one can provide. Someone even begins to scream.

That’s when the first helicopter wails through the sky. 

Its violent and ugly sound causes even more distress. The formerly stoic crowd Steve shoved his way through to get to you now becomes a mass panic. Red bleeds into the skyline and lightning strikes above.

The Upside Down has encased all of Hawkins. 

Any minute the sky could fall upon you. You aren’t sure if the sirens ringing in your ears are real or just another hallucination. 

Military vans fly down the streets. Officers yell at innocent civilians to clear a path for uniformed soldiers and their tanks. You don’t understand how so many appeared so quickly. As if they were expecting the snowfall. 

Steve never once slows down. He weaves between people and holds onto you so tightly that it almost hurts. Your shoulder throbs from the bats you fought only days ago and Dustin’s limp slows the rest of you down. 

Robin isn’t doing any better, stumbling over her feet repeatedly until she finally has enough. Slamming to a stop, she yanks her hand from Steve’s. “Where are you taking us?”

He frantically shakes his head, lunging at Robin’s hand as if afraid the crowd will swallow her whole. She screams at Steve for answers, protesting and violently trying to pull away from him, but already he’s arrived at his car and shoves Robin into the front seat. 

“Get in.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Robin screeches, her panicked eyes looking to you for answers. “We can’t just drive in the middle of a goddamn nuclear meltdown!”

You don’t say anything. While you may not understand what Steve is doing, you trust that whatever decision he’s come up with could save you and the ones you love the most. That’s all you have left.

Trust. 

Tugging at Dustin’s arm, you pull him into the backseat with you and slam the door just as Steve starts the engine. Your brother tucks his head into your chest and tears shake his body. Your own tears soak his hair and neither of you can let go of the other.

Dustin can’t lose you. Not like how he lost Eddie. But the sky erupts ash from the Upside Down and Steve’s reckless driving reminds him of the bats that swarmed Eddie’s dead body and all Dustin can do is close his eyes and hope that the blow of the end of the world will land delicately upon your face.

Steve jerks the steering wheel, narrowly avoiding other cars who seemingly had the same carnal desire to flee. “Everyone hold on!” 

You let out a sharp breath, bracing against the sudden turn of the car, while Robin covers her ears and flinches at the sound of oncoming cars honking at each other. 

“Steve,” she gasps out, holding tightly onto the dashboard. You’ve never seen her so pale. “Please. Where are we going?”

His eyes catch yours in the rearview mirror. He studies your face, the tension in your shoulders and exhaustion behind your eyes. Knowing he’s asking you whether you want to hear the answer, your head nods. 

White knuckled grip on the steering wheel, Steve says one name. “Hopper.”

Immediately everything within your body jerks awake. 

The cabin. 

Steve is driving to Hopper’s cabin. 

Though long destroyed, the cabin may well be the only option the four of you have left. After years of fleeing to the woods, after the Demodogs, after the Mind Flayer and his army, Hopper’s cabin became the solace that the party desperately needed. 

There are still weapons hidden beneath the floorboards. There are still memories within its walls that you know Mike and the others will run to as well. 

Swallowing down the fear in your chest, you hold onto the trust that you’ll find what you’re looking for in the cabin. 

“Turn left,” you say, guiding Steve where to go. “Then follow the woods.”

The relief on his face tells you that all he has left is trust, too. 

– 

Fraught with fear, the sight of Argyle’s obnoxiously hideous pizza delivery van parked outside the cabin almost makes you cry in relief. 

Nancy and Jonathan are inside, somewhere alongside Mike and El and Will. 

They’ll know what to do. They have to know what to do. 

With a frantic mind eager to find your friends, you run out of the car before Steve has even parked. You think you hear him calling after you, but it goes ignored in favor of making sure that the party is safe. 

You don’t see the unfamiliar black car parked next to the pizza van. 

Instead your unstable legs carry you through the cabin’s door, shouting the only names you can think of. “Jonathan? Will?”

Your Byers boys. 

Steve stumbles through the doorway and rushes to your side, pulling you close as Dustin and Robin crowd near. But the cabin’s wrecked interior remains silent. A ghost of the home it once had been, your heart slams against your chest in anticipation of someone, anyone, to come home. 

Then Nancy breaks through the backdoor, lost in her own fear, and seeing her eases the remaining chords of dread in your chest. 

“Nancy!” You stumble towards her, relieved to have someone to hold onto. “Are you okay? Is-is everyone alright?”

“Y/N?” She’s out of breath, just as confused and overwhelmed as you are. Her eyes flicker to the others and worry edges her face. “What are you–?”

Another body slams through the backdoor, only this time its inhabitant throws his arms around you fiercely and whispers only one name under his breath, “bug.”

Jonathan’s scent overwhelms you. Instinctively you melt into the embrace. “I’m okay, bee.”

“God, I was worried about you,” he pulls away, eyes never leaving yours despite the fact that Steve stands not even an inch away. “The roads, they aren’t safe to drive right now–”

“Oh, it’s not like we had any choice.” Robin sarcastically slaps Steve’s back. “Stevie over here decided it was a bright idea to drive amongst goddamn geysers. I mean, we were one pothole away from becoming flaming skewers.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I had to get the three of you to safety.” 

“By putting their lives in danger?” The clench of Jonathan’s fists foreshadow the argument soon to follow. “Yeah, great thinking, Harrington.”

“Only minor road laws were broken,” Dustin shoves Jonathan away, endlessly annoyed. “Now can we please focus on the fact that the world is seemingly ending?”

“The world isn’t ending.” El walks into the cabin, Mike and Will close behind her. 

The moment you see them, everyone else goes forgotten. You’re wrapped around them in seconds, exhaustion creeping through your relieved exhale, “You guys are okay.”

For once Mike doesn’t push you away. “We’re fine, Y/N.” 

“But Hawkins sure isn’t.” Dustin again reminds the group. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on out there?”

All eyes fall on El.

“I…” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know.”

The last fragment of stability collapses. Everyone begins talking at once in a cacophony of blinding incoherence. 

“We’re going to die.” Robin starts to dry heave. She paces the room and kicks at pieces of wood on the ground and it takes Nancy several attempts to even get her to listen to her reassurances. 

Yet Jonathan’s voice rings loud above the others. “How could you think that driving here was a good idea? The ground was exploding. You could’ve killed Y/N.”

Dustin shoves his middle finger at him. “I was in the car too, asshole.”

“So was I,” Robin says in between dry heaves. “Appreciate the concern, Byers.”

“Is now really the time for this?” Steve waves his hands in the air, seconds away from giving Jonathan another bruise. “Is your ego really so far up your ass that you’re willfully blind to the fact that there’s a very real possibility Y/N is still in danger?”

Jonathan bites back laughter and his response gets lost in the chaos within the cabin. Nancy tends to Robin’s unrelenting spiral, Dustin interrogates Mike and Will if they’ve seen anything, Steve barks out insults, and inexplicably Argyle walks through the door and worsens Robin’s already debilitating panic and it all builds into a crushing wail within your skull until a loud, familiar voice shouts–

“Enough.” 

The voice commands attention. It silences the room. The voice once told you that you were the best out of everyone before the July heat killed him. 

Hopper.

He stands in the doorway, a shell of the man you thought you buried last summer. 

Seeing him echoes old wounds. 

Your skin flinches, tendons connected to nerves scream at you to run. The man standing before you isn’t really Hopper. It can’t be him. Jim Hopper is dead. He died in a blast so powerful that it could only be covered up with a mall fire.

He’s just another hallucination. 

If you try to embrace him, all you’ll be met with is empty air. 

You’re in the dandelion field again. You can hear your father calling your name, only this time his voice sounds like Hopper’s and terror chokes your lungs. You try to scream, but all that comes out is a broken gasp. 

Yet Hopper hears it. He grabs your shoulders, seeing the panic in your eyes, and forces you to look at him. 

“Kid, listen to me,” you never forgot the rough timbre of his voice. “There isn’t any time to explain. I don’t know what happened to you out there, but right now I need you to help me get El to safety. Can you do that?”

A maternal palm rests on your shoulder, the hand small but fierce, and when you look up, Joyce’s tired eyes shine down at you. 

“Is this…?” Your head spins, unable to coax your lips into forming the question that beats into your chest. 

Steve’s hand lands on the small of your back. He understands more than you could ever ask him to. “This is real, angel.”

Again, all you can do is trust him. 

Squaring your jaw, you nod at Hopper. “Tell me what to do.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Spinning around, he faces the others. “I need everyone out.”

“What?” Dustin can’t believe that the chief is sending everyone outside where all literal hell has broken loose. “Are you out of your mind?”

“This cabin is the only location completely unknown by the rest of the world.” Hopper grabs your brother’s shirt and yanks him to the door. Glaring at everyone else, he sends a silent warning not to argue any further. “I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“But is it safe outside?” Nancy presses, refusing to move just yet. Not when her brother’s life may be at risk. 

“Look,” Will suddenly steps forward, wringing his hands anxiously when the room’s attention falls to him. “I-I can’t feel Vecna. Or the Mind Flayer. It may not be much, but I can promise you that we aren’t in danger. At least for now.”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Nancy. She bites her lip, uncertain, before looking to you for the final verdict. “Y/N?”

Nancy will trust whatever call you make.

“We need to listen to Hopper.” You say, grateful your voice doesn’t shake. “Everyone get out.”

No one hesitates. 

“Go home. Don’t come back here under any circumstances.” Hopper takes point, directing everyone where to go and what to do from here as they exit the cabin. “Pretend this place doesn’t even exist.”

“But what about El?” Mike protests immediately. “Where are you taking her?”

“She’s staying here,” Hopper responds, uncharacteristically soft. “I promise, alright? The minute I know she isn’t in any danger, we’ll find a way to establish communication.”

You ask the question that no one else will. “Safe from what?”

“You hear those helicopters flying above that pretty head of yours? They’re all looking for El. Each and every one of them.” A humorless laugh falls from his chest. “This isn’t the end, kid. This is only the beginning.”

– 

The entirety of Hawkins shuts down. An infiltration of military officials and their safety protocols meant only to protect the upper hand and take over the once quiet town. 

A quarantine goes into effect immediately. No one can leave. 

It hits you harder than you expect it to.

Mrs. Waters calls you almost a week after the first military watchtower gets constructed in downtown Hawkins. 

“Hello, dear.” 

“Mrs. Waters?” You almost don’t recognize her voice when she first calls, the exhaustion aging her nearly a decade. “Is that you?”

“It is,” the phone rustles on the other line. You can hear her heavy breaths, how she strains her body to continue. “Listen, my dear. I have some rather unfortunate news.”

“Are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?” You try to quell the roaring terror that rises.

“I’m alright.” Mrs. Waters sighs heavily. “No need to worry. What I wanted to tell you is that… Well, I’m afraid that I can no longer have you work at Bookstordinary.”

“I’m sorry,” you’re not sure you understand. “Did I do something?”

“Oh, never. You could never do anything wrong.” More rustling, you think you hear the woman blow her nose. “My dear Y/N, none of this is your fault. It was those wretched men outside. They took control of my store, claiming it to be their property because it happens to be too close to their silly science experiment.”

The final gate. The gate that took Max away from you.

Rusted nails line your throat. Swallowing down bile, you mumble a soft apology to Mrs. Waters. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“I know you’d do whatever you could.” The woman laughs softly. “That’s what I’ve always loved the most about you.”

The sentiment burns. You know Mrs. Waters means well, but a large part of you feels that you don’t deserve her kindness. Bookstrordinary would still be open if you hadn't failed to kill Vecna. Hawkins wouldn’t be destroyed and Mrs. Waters would still have the store she loved so dearly.

“Well, dear,” the woman sighs one last time. “I’d rather not keep you. Just know that you were a wonderful employee and an even more wonderful young lady. Do visit me sometime, yeah? And bring along that cute young man of yours.”

When the dial tone sounds, an indescribable urgency to disappear overwhelms you. 

So you run. 

The brisk early winter air stains your cheeks red. Fallen autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. It’s been a long time since you’ve run through these woods. 

And it’s been even longer since you’ve seen the Byers’ home. 

It’s still the place you run to. It will always be the home you run to. 

Somehow the home survived the earthquakes and ruin of the town. The old porch creeks with every step you take, an old exhale of a welcome to a familiar friend. The front door sways in the gentle wind, its hinges unable to secure it closed. Beyond the door stands a still empty home, and despite the innate urge to run towards Jonathan’s old room and pretend you’re still a little kid, you remain on the porch, no longer naive to the passage of time and its wounds it brings. 

You don’t know how long you sit there, listening to the trees rustle above and relishing in the silence that has become rare within Hawkins. There are no military tanks nearby, no soldiers barking commands. 

It’s only you and the memories engraved within the Byers’ home. 

“Get lost on the way home, bug?”

Of course it’s Jonathan who finds you. He will always find you. 

He still knows you better than anyone. 

“Just needed some air,” you respond, feeling Jonathan’s weight press against yours as he settles beside you. “Found myself here.”

He nods, able to understand through the little you’ve provided him. “Do you often come here to breathe?”

“Not since the summer you left.”

“Oh,” Jonathan’s exhale reflects sympathy rather than surprise. He looks at you, gaze lingering on the profile of your nose and the crest of your cheek. Your skin warms at the sensation, long used to his lingering eyes. He studies you for a moment, searching for answers you won’t give him. “What happened, bug?”

His question isn’t meant to force a response. You know he only asks because he cares about you and knows how often you hide. Yet as Jonathan continues to stare at you, the warmth on your skin slowly comes to a burn. 

Shifting away from him, you close your eyes and mumble, “They took Bookstordinary.”

“Bug…”

“And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.” Without meaning to, your voice rises and your heartbeat spikes. All the anger, all the resentment and pain and frustration seeps through your skin and comes spilling out before you can stop it. “I mean, those assholes come into Hawkins and what? Ruin our lives? All because they believe that hunting down an innocent sixteen year old girl is the answer?”

Pain pricks at your fingers, stabbed raw from the porch wood as your hands grip at whatever they can find. “People died,” Billy’s blue eyes flash inside your concave mind. The tears in Max’s eyes when you last saw her. “People died… but not the ones who were supposed to. Not him,” Vecna’s laughter, knowing he’d won in the end. “It was supposed to be him.”

“Y/N,” Jonathan tries to grab your hand, but you swat him away and stand up.

“It’s all bullshit! The military. The Upside Down. Vecna. All of it is bullshit.” All the fury that builds within your chest suddenly collapses, taking the air in your body with it. Dizzy, you nearly collapse against the porch steps. “I-I can’t keep doing this, bee.”

Jonathan quickly pulls you to his chest, terrified. “What are you saying?”

“I–” Though despite how hard you try, you can’t put into words the unrelenting dread that aches your bones. How the dread has been there ever since you were twelve hearing your father’s suitcase hitting the floor. How dread followed you when Will first disappeared, only getting worse with every year that passes. With every death that follows. “I can’t keep being helpless.”

“You aren’t–”

“I couldn’t save Max. I couldn’t save Hawkins or Bookstrordinary. I don’t know where Vecna is or if he’s even still alive. I don’t know anything. I-I don’t have any sense of goddamn control, so how the fuck am I supposed to help anyone–”

“Enough.” The fury in Jonathan’s voice breaks the remaining incoherence that drowns you. Like lifting your head from water, his presence serves as a lighthouse warning of what lies ahead. “Enough, Y/N.”

Pressed so tightly into his chest, you can hear how erratically his heart beats. 

“I won’t listen to anything else you have to say, alright?” Jonathan brushes hair out of your face, gentle as always. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

You try to pull away. “But–”

“There’s nothing that you could’ve done differently,” he says with a softened voice. He pauses, thinks over his words, before exhaling deeply. “And there’s nothing you can do now except allow the time to pass.”

In his words, the last of your fight ebbs away. Body limp, you allow Jonathan’s fingers to press between your shoulder blades. Quietly, you confess, “I don’t know how.”

“By letting the time pass together,” Jonathan kisses your forehead. “All we have left is each other, bug.”

“And the others?”

He nods. “And the others. They’re all we have left in this shitty town.”

For now, Jonathan’s words are enough. They may not remedy the wounds, but their burn becomes manageable. 

In the distance, leftover smoke rises from the ground. The last of the fires. Its smoke darkens the midday clouds, leaves a trace of red behind, and its presence taunts what you already know. 

This isn’t the end. Only the beginning.

– 

You come to mark the passage of time through grief.

One month after Hawkins falls apart, the town holds a commemorative service for all the lives lost that day. Hawkins, though always a small town, somehow looks even smaller piled together within the cemetery amongst an endless sea of portraits of those never found. 

You wear your mother’s favorite pair of mary janes. Tears sting your eyes, though they don’t fall. Dustin stands next to you, unmoving, eyes never leaving Eddie’s forever nineteen-year-old smile. His portrait stands at the very end of the ceremony procession. Only Wayne Munson leaves a flower in his honor while the rest of the portraits receive bouquets. 

Steve holds tightly onto your waist throughout the ceremony. His fingers melt against the overheated skin, but never once does he pull away. He insisted on coming along, not wanting to leave Dustin alone as he buried an old friend. 

“We’ll get through this, you know.” Steve whispers into your ear during one of the speeches, feeling the tension in your ribcage and the familiar scar from when you were sixteen. “Everyone will be okay.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’ve long stopped believing in fairy tales.

After the service, Steve drives you and Dustin home. 

It’s then that the onset of your brother’s anger ebbs to the surface. 

“I don’t know why you’re crying, Y/N.” Dustin says from the backseat, breaking the silence that had once been there before. “You never even liked Eddie, anyways.”

You flinch at his words, quickly wiping away the tears you thought he’d be unable to see. Surprised by the lack of venom in his tone, yet unnerved by the words themselves, you turn your head slightly and meet his gaze. “He didn’t deserve to die, Dustin.”

“Yeah, no shit.” The kid huffs sarcastically. “Good to know you finally caught on.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Dustin undoes his seatbelt and exits the car before Steve has even put it in park. “I’ll see you guys inside.” He says, bored, before slamming the door shut.

Left alone with Steve, you sit in stunned silence.

It’s Steve who breaks first. “What the hell was all that about?” 

“He’s mourning.” Though even you can’t quite believe the excuse. 

Steve shakes his head furiously. “Bullshit. The kid can mourn, but he can’t lash out at you, either.”

Shame darkens your cheeks. Looking down at your hands, you feel small. “But I did the same to him. Back when our dad left.”

“You were twelve, angel. He’s almost three years older now than you were then.” Steve’s hand settles upon yours. He traces the lines of your palm, slowly, carefully, long having memorized the way it can make you shiver. “What he said wasn’t fair to you.”

But I wasn’t fair to him, either.

Abandonment makes you cruel.

Your father taught you and Dustin that.

“He just needs some time,” you exhale softly, Jonathan’s words from a few weeks prior echoing within your mind. “Time will pass, and Dustin will come back to us when he’s ready.”

“Like you came back?”

Just because dad left it doesn’t mean you can be a bitch.

My sweet girl.

You’re just… scary right now.

I miss you, ladybug.

Their voices swirl around in your head. Your brother and mother and father and all their pleas for you to come back to them when you were twelve and believed that cruelty could cure the bitterness of abandonment and longing. 

“He’ll come back,” you finally respond, swallowing down unease. “He has to.”

Steve bites his lip. Words unsaid threaten to spill out, but he swallows down his own unease and settles on admiring the way the moonlight shades your hair, making it ethereal. He will never get over your beauty. 

“I love you, angel.” He whispers in the dark, not looking for anything other than the warmth of your smile. 

And you do smile. Because how could you not, knowing how lucky you are to be loved? “I love you, too, honey.”

In the seclusion of Steve’s car, you find the solace you’ve sought after ever since the fourth toll of the grandfather clock. 

– 

A few months later, an unnamable sensation of grief hits you, seeing all the empty chairs during your graduation ceremony; students who never lived to see graduation.

“C’mon, angel,” Steve had said earlier that morning, tearing your blankets off your exhausted body with an infuriatingly charming smile. “Can’t skip out on your own graduation. Especially considering you made me attend mine.”

You should’ve known Steve would be an insufferable asshole about the whole “graduation” thing. The thought of not having El and Max in attendance was almost too much to bear, so when you told everyone that you didn’t want to go to your ceremony, Steve had a bigger meltdown than your own mother.

“Your graduation wasn’t set during the end of the fucking world,” you huffed, yanking the blankets back over yourself. “Leave me alone.”

“We both know that I’m incapable of leaving you alone.” He throws a pillow at you. “Now get up. Robin said she’d only wait in the car for five minutes before storming your room to ‘see what silks you slumber in’. Her words. Not mine.”

You were about to throw the pillow right back at Steve, but then your eyes landed on the flowers he’d set on your desk, full of beautiful baby pinks and blues that matched the cardigan he once stitched his initials into, and you couldn’t help but give into his charm.

Asshole.

In the end, Steve gently guides you out of bed. He helps you brush your tangled hair, neatly arranges your gown and the dress that your mom had worn to her own high school graduation, and even manages to convince Robin to cook breakfast so that you’d have extra time to get ready.

Sometimes your love for Steve is enough to forget the nightmares, at least for a little while.

The graduation ceremony itself is the first community wide event since the commemoration. Old friends and neighbors and coworkers sit in the bleachers eagerly, anxiously, awaiting the old tradition of a graduation ceremony. Itching for a sense of normalcy.

Yet on every side of the bleachers stands a private military party, watching their every move. Their guns shine cruelly in the May sunshine.

At the very last row of students, you catch Nancy’s eye and nod your head at the soldiers. She sees them, rolls her eyes, and then fake gags. Robin notices the interaction, seated just a row or so ahead of you, and she boos childishly at the soldiers.

The small act is enough to get you to laugh. You wish that it was Nancy and Robin seated next to you. You wish that you could hold their hands and seek the assurance that only they can provide.

Dressed in the tacky orange graduation gown provided by the school, you sit by yourself, surrounded by vacated seats, cannibalizing yourself on guilt. 

You don’t deserve to be the one left standing. 

Then, tucked in the corner of your eye, you notice one solitary, bright sign waving frantically in the air. 

Proud to be Y/N Henderson's.

Messily drawn arrows in multiple colors point down to the ensemble of young teens waving the sign up and down. 

Dustin notices you looking first. He waves wildly and harshly jerks his elbow into Mike’s side to get attention. It’s been so long since your brother has smiled quite like is now. 

“Guys! Y/N is looking!”

The two boys quickly quarrel, Mike hitting Dustin back and Dustin simply smacking his chest, before the two boys catch Lucas’ and Will’s attention and suddenly all four boys begin jumping excitedly, cheering, very nearly almost taking your mother’s eye out with the sign.

Yet she screams louder than anyone else, pointing at you and whistling and buzzing with so much energy that your brother has to hold down her shoulders before she knocks them both off the stands.

Jonathan stands beside your mother with a small, fond smile. He hadn’t been able to graduate with you, Robin, and Nancy due to technically still being enrolled in California, yet he never once frowned or complained. Instead, he took your graduation portraits and in every picture, your smile is genuine. 

And then you see Steve.

Standing in the sunlight, a vision of gold and honey, he is a warmth that can only be found in rhymes and enamoration. 

Steve is all that love envies to be called. 

He screams your name over and over again. A force of adoration that demands to be seen. That demands to be believed in. To be lived for. 

Taut strings constrict your lungs seeing everyone you’ve ever loved, adoring you just as fervently as you adore them. The strings ache with grief, too, from the absence of Max and El, and the grief intertwines so tightly together with love that you can’t breathe, yet they reveal to you what you already know. 

Tomorrow you’ll mail the letter that sits at your bedside table at home. It was written after the very first time you saw Max in her hospital bed. 

Addressed to New York University, you’ve rescinded your enrollment due to "unforeseen circumstances”.

You can hear Dustin’s laughter in the crowd. Mike’s taunts and Will’s fondness and Lucas’ intervention and Robin’s joy and Jonathan’s soft bug and Nancy’s quiet congratulations and Steve’s lovesickness and your mother’s pride. 

Knowing Max would’ve shouted your name louder than anyone else. That El would’ve made her own sign for you.

How could you ever leave them? 

How could you even think to?

You can’t. It’s as simple as that. 

– 

July comes and before you know it you’re eighteen. 

You spend the day in the hospital waiting room.

The plan was to wake up early enough so as not to alert your mother or Dustin before biking the three miles to the hospital, where you’d walk up to the front desk and declare yourself a visitor of Max Mayfield. 

Except the minute you stepped foot inside the hospital, your entire body shut down. 

You fell against one of the waiting room chairs, where you remain for the rest of the day. Every time you try to get up, to go and see Max after months of not visiting, nausea creeps up your throat and threatens to spill out. 

The guilt eats you alive.

For hours you sit inside the waiting room. Blank, white walls surround you. Nurses walk past without a glance. Your muscles pull together, body begging to enclose around yourself, to protect yourself, and in fighting the urge to flee, exhaustion wins over. 

“Y/N?” The voice startles you awake. After years of never ending monsters and scars, you jolt upright and reach for your knives, aiming them towards the source of the voice, who exclaims, “It’s me, Y/N!”

“Lucas?” You quickly put the knives away, embarrassed by your overreaction. “Fuck, I’m sorry!”

The teen tentatively lowers his hands. “It’s alright,” he breathes out, forcing a laugh. “I should be the one apologizing for scaring you.”

You shake your head, wincing. “You know I hate when you boys apologize to me.”

“And you know that we’ll always be doing something worth apologizing for.” Lucas’ laugh now comes genuinely as he takes a seat next to you. His shoulder presses against yours and he winks, all charm. “What are you doing here, anyways? You’re an adult now. You should be off in a retirement home or something.”

Despite the knots in your stomach, Lucas still is able to pluck laughter out of you. “I’m eighteen, not eighty.”

“Same difference.”

A gentle silence follows. You haven’t answered Lucas’ question, though he doesn’t push you for more. He’s always been smarter than the party gives him credit for. In the months Lucas has visited Max, he never once has seen you. 

Now, the day you turn eighteen, he finds you shell shocked in the hospital waiting room.

Lucas doesn’t blame you for not visiting Max. No one does. It’s become an unspoken rule within the party not to mention the girl around you, something that Lucas mourns the most. He recognizes the signs of guilt. They’re the same signs that he finds within himself more and more every day. 

“I don’t blame you, you know.” Lucas says softly.

All the air gets knocked from your lungs. You’ve heard those words before. Once, exactly one year ago, Joyce had told you that she didn’t blame you, either. She saw how deeply the scars of guilt etched themselves into your skin. 

Your eyes close. Sometimes the dark makes it easier to hide from the truth. “Max almost died because of me.”

Lucas scoffs. “Bullshit. It was Vecna. He was the one who tried to kill her.”

“But I should’ve done more.” The familiar grief chokes your words. When Lucas tries to refute what you’ve said, you quickly shake your head. “I should’ve been with you and Erica that night. Not Max. It should’ve only been me as the bait.”

“What, and leave Max with the others in the Upside Down? Would that have been any better?” 

Your eyes widen. “God, of course not, but–”

Lucas grabs your hand, voice harsh, yet gentle all the same. “Y/N, you have to come back from the past.”

“I don’t–”

“You keep saying that you should’ve done more, as if you didn’t put your life on the line to save Max’s. As if you years prior you hadn’t spent each and every day devoting yourself to the party and everyone else around you.” Lucas’ voice catches suddenly, choked and stifled. “You almost died, Y/N, and if you had ended up like Max…I don’t think I would’ve survived losing the two of you.”

Lucas clenches his jaw. He swallows back the tears. “Whenever I can’t sleep, you let me call you, even when I don’t say anything the entire time. You pack me snacks every time I visit Max. Every Friday you make sure that I’m not alone on the weekends.” He swallows again, exasperated in fondness. “You keep saying that you should’ve done more, even though you’re already doing more than I could ever ask for.”

Eyes softening, Lucas twists your intertwined hands. “I mean, what else could I even want? Max still has a chance. She could come back to us any minute. And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party, including your obnoxious brother, and I’d consider myself a pretty lucky bastard because of it.”

Unable to bear the distance any longer, you fling yourself out of the hospital chair and into Lucas’ arms. He’s grown so much taller in just a few short months. He’s leaner now, stronger, far from the little boy you once met all those years ago, yet still entirely your dearest friend. 

Lucas allows you to hold him for as long as you need. He ignores the tears that wet his shirt and the uncomfortable angle of his neck in favor of holding onto you as tightly as you’ve always held onto him.

Eventually you let go, not bothering to wipe your eyes or hide the flush on your face. Never one for crying in front of others, you know that with Lucas, it’s safe to. 

“I’ll go get you some water.” He guides you back to your seat. “Stay here, okay?”

You nod, falling back against the chair to rest your exhausted head. Your entire body aches, and everything that Lucas told you settles heavily in your chest. 

“Here,” he returns quickly, handing you a styrofoam cup. You thank him, and he shrugs. “It’s the least I could do after snitching on you to Steve.”

You nearly spit out your water. “I’m sorry?”

“I called him, told him you were here and about five seconds away from a panic attack.” Lucas grins, not at all ashamed. “He’ll be here pretty soon.”

“Lucas!”

“It’s not like I lied!” He holds his hands up in defense. “I love you, Y/N, but you can’t stay in this waiting room all day. Go home. Celebrate your birthday. Allow yourself to feel literally anything other than guilt, alright?”

Exhaustion wins over your pride. Crossing your arms, you turn your head away from Lucas. “Just so you know, I’d never snitch on you to Max. That was a low move.”

“You wouldn’t need to. She always finds out what I’ve done wrong before I can.”

Both you and the boy laugh, for once the warmth of Max’s memory doesn’t burn. It tickles your skin, cradles your heart. For now, you welcome the tenderness.

True to Lucas’ word, Steve arrives at the hospital within ten minutes. 

“Jesus, are you alright?” He rushes over, inspecting your body for any signs of injury or distress. Worry writes itself over his pretty face, and you hate that you’re the cause of it. 

“I’m fine, honey.” You take his anxious hands into yours and steady them. 

“I mean, are you sure? Lucas called and said that–”

Rolling your eyes at Lucas, you tug Steve away. “He’s a liar and unreliable narrator.”

Lucas waves goodbye. “I love you too, Y/N.”

“Tell Max I said ‘hi’!” You blow him a quick kiss before turning back to Steve. “Can we go home now?”

Steve swings your interlocked hands back and forth, relieved to see that you’re okay. “Of course we can.”

The second you exit the hospital, all the air returns to your lungs. You inhale sharply, the July sun beats down on your skin and welcomes you home. 

An old Beatles song plays as you and Steve drive. He found the cassette at a garage sale and hasn’t stopped playing it since, knowing that the songs put you at ease. You stare out the window, content to simply watch the trees go by, but Steve never allows you to hide. Not when you only end up hurting yourself. 

“What happened back there, angel?”

Cold silver slides between your fingers, the charms of your bracelet worn smooth from the nervous habit. Feeling the pendants fall together soothes you. All the kids are still with you. Steve is still with you. 

“I wanted to see Max.” You confess, eyes following the horizon outside the window. You’re not quite ready to meet Steve’s gaze. 

You hear the breath he lets out and the words he bites back. He has never fully understood how to approach the loss of Max with you. Some days you’re alight with her memory, sharing stories with Dustin and Lucas as you drive them to Mike’s. Other days he finds you locked in your room, unable to move. 

Steve knows that today you were paralyzed. 

“How long were you there for?”

You unconsciously pull at the knife charm. A gift from Max. “I don’t know. Long enough for Lucas to find me, I guess.”

“I’m sorry, angel.” Steve doesn’t know what else to say. You still haven’t looked at him and he worries that any minute you’ll break the charms off your bracelet with how anxiously you twist them between your fingers. 

The sympathy washes over you in uncomfortable, overly warm waves. You never thought grief could be so stiflingly hot. Clenching your fists, you finally release the bracelet. “I just wish I could tell her that I miss her.”

I wish I could tell her how sorry I am. How much I wish I could trade places with her.

Though it goes unsaid, Steve hears it anyways. 

He thinks for a moment, rolls your grief over and over in his head. Words have never been Steve’s friend, but he knows how easily you lose yourself in them. How desperately you cling to them for comfort, for joy and for love. 

Then it hits him. 

“What if you could talk to Max without ever actually having to see her?”

Finally your eyes find Steve’s. “What do you mean?”

“She wrote us letters once,” he reaches for your hand, aching to hold you. “Why don’t you return the favor?”

Every day you fall in love with Steve just a little bit more. Your love for him has become an endless well, its depths unknown, yet inviting despite it all. 

“I think that’s a lovely idea, honey,” you bring his knuckles to your lips, kissing them softly. “Though I’m a little upset I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Gotta find reasons for you to keep me around.” Steve winks. He’s just relieved to see you smiling again. 

Your face burns from how hard you smile. “I’ll always keep you around, dummy.”

“Good. The dating scene is currently awful in Hawkins.”

You pinch Steve’s arm, causing him to yelp, and the two of you break into a fit of childish laughter that mends the remaining heartache in your ribcage. 

– 

The letters you write to Max become your lifeline. 

Every week you sit at your desk and play her favorite songs as you write to your long-lost penpal. As naive as it may be, the letters are enough to convince the hope-ridden part of your brain that Max is alive. 

Nothing goes unsaid in what you write to her. For the first time in your life, you talk about anything and everything without the fear of being selfish. 

Only Lucas knows what you write; he’s the one who reads them to Max.

In the letters you write endless lines about how much you miss Max and her wit. Often you beg her to wake up, to keep fighting, though you try to remind her of all the good, too. 

You inform her of the food shelter that you now volunteer at, which started after you stress baked more cookies than anyone could ever eat, and how you now bake for the recipients every single week.

To include as much of the good as possible, you share stories about the party that you know she’d love. Mike walking into the wrong homeroom his first day and embarrassing himself. Lucas’ growing talent for basketball and how proud you are of him. Will and how lovely it is to have him back, often helping you bake. 

In the letters you try to paint Dustin in a light that isn’t anger or resentment, though it gets harder with every passing day. He’s stopped interacting with you or Steve, tired of the interactions somehow ending in an argument with Steve and worry from you. 

What you write to Max instead are anecdotes of your brother. The brief moments of the little brother you miss dearly, like how he still prefers mint chocolate chip ice cream over vanilla and how he still smuggles your comics. 

In these letters you tell Max about Hopper’s return and how hard El trains these days to outrun the endless hunting she endures and how much you wish she could just be a kid.

And as hard as you try to keep the letters a source of comfort and good, lately you’ve found yourself scribbling about the goddamn crawls. 

And you fucking hate the crawls. 

They were Hopper’s idea. Which is never a good sign. 

“We need to figure out when those militaristic morons do their sweep of the Upside Down. They still think El is there somewhere.” Hopper announced to the group one day, crowding everyone inside the Byers’ abandoned home. 

“But what does that have to do with us?” Nancy asked, looking around at everyone.

“I go in after them.”

Immediately the house broke out into objections. 

Hopper waved his hands up, demanding silence. “We know more about the Upside Down than those assholes claim to know. We know that Henderson’s radio tech can penetrate through underground facilities run by Commies. We also know that he’s annoyingly smart and can figure out a way to track me while I’m tracking Vecna.” He then looked to Dustin. “Right?”

Your brother hesitated. “I mean, maybe, but–”

“You’re out of your mind,” you scoffed at Hopper. “We may not know much about whatever the hell they’re doing in the Upside Down, but we know for a fact that you’d be outnumbered practically 100 to 1.”

Joyce had nodded, stepping next to you. “She’s right, Hop. It’s too dangerous out there.”

“Not if we’re smart about it.” Hopper motioned to the room. “For this to work, I need everyone in this room to stay quiet, blend in, and focus on the crawls.”

“‘The crawls’? What, you’ve already named this thing?” Mike crossed his arms. “No way. We don’t even have any way to contact the military. How the hell are we supposed to figure out their every move?”

“That’s where Murray comes in.” Hopper smiled. 

Dustin then stepped forward, getting everyone’s attention. “Alright, no. For this to even hypothetically work, I’d need something way stronger than Cerebro to make contact with the Upside Down. Now unless someone here has an ultra powerful HAM radio up their ass, I doubt this will even work.”

“I mean, it’s not shoved up my ass, but I may have a solution,” Robin suddenly spoke up. “My neighbors, the Geralds, you know them? Super old, they kinda smell like canned corn, oddly enough. Anyways, they own the WSQK radio tower but Mrs. Gerald absolutely hates it when her husband climbs up the tower for maintenance work.”

Hopper stared at her. “What are you getting at?”

“Well, Mr. Cop, I think I’d be able to convince them to give me access to the tower in exchange for Steve’s handyman abilities.”

Your boyfriend choked on his spit. “Why am I–”

“I can talk to them, too.” Nancy interrupted. “I can show them my resume, maybe convince them with my journalism background.”

“The tower could work.” Dustin hummed.

And before you could stop it, the pieces fell into place. 

In the end Nancy and Robin were able to sweet talk the Geralds into giving them the radio tower’s keys. With access to the tower, Dustin was able to figure out a way to both trace and track radio frequencies in the Upside Down within two weeks. 

It takes several meetings between El, Hopper, Joyce, Nancy, Dustin, and Mike to figure out exactly how the crawls should work.

Within a month, Murray secures a web of information reliable enough for the first crawl to take place. 

Somehow, it works.

And it’s the first time you’ve felt true hope since Vecna’s burning body fell to the ground.

Until one crawl becomes five without any answers as to where Vecna is. After the tenth unsuccessful crawl you stop holding your breath that he’ll be found. When Hopper returns from the fifteenth crawl without his dead body, you stop holding any hope at all. 

The crawls become an endless abyss of the reminder that you failed. 

You fucking hate them. 

The only good thing that the crawls bring you is The Squawk.

“Welcome back, Hawkins! You’re listening to WSQK The Squawk!” Robin’s voice plays over the radio’s speaker placed on the table, followed by a loud squawk from the rubber chicken Steve found in the trash can one day and couldn’t bear to leave. “Today was brought to you by yours truly, Rockin’ Robin, with my wonderful copilot Soundy Steve, who I should really come up with a better name for.”

You laugh to yourself, scribbling your final disdainful thoughts about the latest crawl to Max while sitting in the radio tower’s communal lounge. 

Jonathan and Nancy sit to your left, reading over the newest map of the Upside Down with updated information from Hopper. They’re both quiet, though gentle with each other, and you’re secretly relieved to see them working together without any underlying tension. 

Across from you Dustin hunches over the table, working on some tracking tag for the next crawl. He looks relaxed, young again, without the scowl that seems to mar his face these days. 

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to Robin’s quips and Steve’s amusing sound effects. The moment is peaceful, almost even nostalgic. You hate how rare moments like these have become.

“Now, my dear listeners, I have a special final song lined up for today.” Robin’s smile is evident in her voice. “It was requested for Hawkins’ sweetheart. You know who you are, pretty girl. I was specifically told to tell you that this song is from your ‘sweetest admirer’.”

You’re an angel.

And you’re sweet honey. 

You’ll never forget that night in Steve’s car, dressed for a Snowball and falling in love faster than you could ever imagine. 

“This song proclaims love, devotion, and all the other lovey-dovey synonyms that this admirer insists on making me say,” Robin continues. “It’s also tastefully written by a band named after a bug, which just so happens to be this pretty girl’s original nickname. Pretty ironic, if you ask me.”

Jonathan stiffens, fingers frozen above the map. Nancy catches the reaction and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The tension returns. As it always seems to do. Neither look at you, despite how obvious it is that it’s you who Robin is talking about. 

“Anyways, this sweetest admirer wanted me to deliver a message before the song begins. He proudly states ‘sorry about your brother’. Wow! How inspirational!” Robin drops the record’s needle and the beginning notes of I Will play over the radio. “Now enjoy this bittersweet melody by the Beatles.”

Though you can’t hear her above Dustin slamming down a piece of metal. “Your boyfriend is a jackass, Y/N.”

He leaves before you can stop him. 

Tears burn your eyes. Unable to look at Jonathan and Nancy in fear of their reaction, you force your head down and scribble the final sentence to Max: I’ve come to measure the passage of time through grief.

The broadcast ends. Steve’s laughter echoes through the floorboards as he congratulates Robin on another successful show. 

You remain where you are, too anxious and wound up to go upstairs and join them. Really, all you want to do is go home and crawl into bed, pretending that the last year and a half has all been an awful, horrible dream. 

Instead Steve sprints down the stairs and grabs your hand, quickly forcing you to your feet before running with you outside. He’s a mess of excitement and boyish charm. “C’mon, angel!”

The rush of it all coaxes a laugh out of your worried mouth. Dizzy from love and adrenaline, you follow after Steve. 

How could you ever tell him no?

He guides you to a clearing near the radio tower. The early fall weather casts a honey-like glow over the fields, turning the green grass into melancholic gold. Birds sing above in the trees and soft dandelions dance around your ankles. 

Steve finds a small patch of untouched grass and sits down, tugging you into his lap. His arms wrap around you and he rests the crest of his nose against your hair. He breathes in deeply, his chest rises with yours, and you allow the sun to kiss your skin. 

“I got you something,” he murmurs against your shoulder.

You lean against his chest. “Tell me.”

Steve removes an arm, rustles through his pockets, before opening his palm out to you. “Figured you had some space left on that charm bracelet of yours.”

The three small charms shine in the sunlight. 

A bird, a mirror, and a record.

You don’t have to ask who they’re meant to represent. Carefully you touch the pendants, in awe of their beauty. “How did you…?”

“Robin has been begging me to give you the bird charm since we found it a few weeks ago. She claims she’s long past due to be included in the bracelet.” Steve chuckles. “As for Nancy, she took the mirror from one of her old charm bracelets. Said you’d understand why.”

“And Jonathan?” You can’t help but want to know. 

Steve bites his lip. “He said that the two of you grew up with each other’s music. He wanted it to mean something.”

“They all mean something.” You gently remind him, looking down at the rest of the charms that all represent the children you so fiercely adore. 

“I know,” he kisses your brow. “That’s why I wanted them on your bracelet. Nancy and Robin and Jonathan. I… I know how hard all of this has been for you, so I figured this way, we’re all together.”

“Together,” you echo softly, the memory of Jonthan once saying the same to you gently. 

“It’s the only way we’ll get through this.” Steve kisses your cheek, then your nose. “We have to be able to do this together.”

You lean into the affection, warmth cascading through you. “Thank you,” you breathe out, encased in the love that only Steve can make you feel. “Thank you.”

He kisses you over and over again. He kisses your mouth, your hands, your wrists and your neck. In the field he whispers promises into your skin. 

Together. Together. Together. 

Over and over his lips seal the promise into your shoulders, your hair, your chin. Anywhere they can reach, anywhere the sun can kiss you as well. 

You’re all together now. 

And you try to believe him.

-

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

if anyone were to ask, steve harrington would say his love language was physical touch. really, he couldn’t help his insistent need to reach out and touch you, not that you complained most of the time anyways, because it was just how he expressed his feelings. sometimes words weren’t enough, and steve was raised on the saying that “actions speak louder than words.” so it came to no surprise that he’d always have a hand on you; whether it was his fingers laced with yours, an arm slung over your shoulder or his hand ghosting over the small of your back, steve was always touching you in some degree.

steve could recall nearly every time he’d notice someone glance at the pair of you, or hear an off-handed comment from someone he knew about how you two were glued to the hip, how they almost never saw one of you without the other. he took pride in it, despite the judgemental tone some of them had, because why wouldn’t he want to spend quality time with the love of his life? he never really understood the idea of being without someone for long periods of time, because in his mind: to be loved is to be present.

i.

there was nothing romantic about the cramped employee back room of family video. it was dusty, the air was stale and more often than not you’d walk in and find keith sitting at the desk with a game & watch under the pretence of “admin work”. yet, steve still had the nerve to convince you that he couldn’t be more than five steps away from you, rambling on about how it’d physically hurt him to separate his hand from yours, and that he’s offended you wouldn’t “walk to the ends of the earth with your boyfriend in hand.” to which you just roll your eyes.

“steve, you’re so dramatic sometimes..” he’s moping, complaining that you don’t love him, because if you did, you’d be in the store room with him right now instead of calling him names. “is it a crime to want to be with my girlfriend?” he’s got a hand clutching his heart, murmuring that he’s wounded and the only cure for his broken heart is just behind the door to the back office. “no, but unauthorised entry in an employee only area is..” you’re teasing him now, steve is opening wearing his heart on his sleeve and expressing his unwavering love for you and you’re teasing him.

“baby, you’ve literally been behind doors countless times, and last time i checked..” he’s making a show of looking around, knowing full well the two of you were alone; robin not due to start her shift for another hour or so. “.. there’s no one else here.” it has you rolling your eyes, and steve’s calling checkmate. he’s got you right where he wants, no more excuses lined up on your tongue and you just sigh, giving in easily like you always do. steve’s internally cheering, a smug smile on his face as he interlocks your fingers with his, tugging you towards the secluded area out back, and all you can do is follow.

before you’re even able to question his clingy behaviour, steve is slowly backing you towards the nearest wall, one hand laced with yours and the other is pressed against the cold surface beside you, and it all clicks. “baby, you did not just convince me to come back here just so we can make out..” steve just shrugs, feigning innocence even when his eyes are telling you everything. “mm, don’t know what you’re on about.” he leans in anyway, and you don’t fight back, his lips on yours in a matter of seconds. and as much as you had wanted to poke fun of how needy he was today, you realised you needed this too, needed him close enough to touch, and you think you’re becoming just as bad as him.

it was just supposed to be a few innocent kisses, a few unspoken words in the form of his lips interlocked with yours, and yet, you can’t help but have an arm strung around the back of his neck, your need to have him closer clouding your judgement. steve’s just as bad, both hands on your waist, bringing you in, chest to chest, and you’re both whining about being too far away, despite the lack of space left between you. “you’re a terrible liar.” you call out, and he’s ignoring it in favour of kissing your jaw, following a path down your neck, while you’ve got a hand bunched in his hair, tugging just hard enough to get a sound out of him. he’s grinning up at you now, from the junction of your throat you can feel his teasing smile, and you roll your eyes, pretending you’re not wrapped around his finger right now, like you’re not as equally eager to have him.

he’s sliding a hand underneath your shirt, drawing aimless shapes along your bare skin, lost in the feeling, before there’s the distinct sound of shuffling outside that halts his movements. you both freeze, eyes stuck on the door before flicking back to each other, and you’re looking at him in horror, too afraid at the idea of being caught. “i thought you said it was just us?” you whisper, you curse him out for being reckless, and dragging you along with him, before you push him off you in favour of smoothing out the wrinkles on your clothes. steve’s groaning out in irritation, muttering something along the lines of “last time i checked, it was.” before sticking his head outside to see what the commotion was all about.

“dingus, the fuck are you doing? there’s a customer.” it’s robin, and steve’s eyes shoot up to the clock, she’s early, and he’s wincing because really, out of all days. steve coughs awkwardly, some feeble excuse on his tongue dies when robin takes notice of his disheveled appearance and he can tell she’s grown suspicious, that she’s got questions he doesn’t really want to reveal the answers to. her suspicions quickly turn into disgust when she pieces the picture together, and she’s looking at the door as if she can already guess who’s behind there with him. “think you can see what they want? i’m a bit preoccupied.” and robin is feigning a gag, all while the customer just stands there, judging the both of them before making a comment about the lack of professionalism the youth have these day.

“i’m not even clocked in you idiot!” but it doesn’t matter, because steve’s quick to close the door on her and robin flips him off when she thinks the customer isn’t looking. they were, and it’s just another thing she has to deal with before her shift even begins.

ii.

steve thinks it’s entirely unfair that you’re ignoring him right now. he’s lying between your legs, breath tickling your thighs and practically yearning for your attention. yet you’re more engrossed in whatever it is that nancy is saying to you on the phone, than your amazing, perfect, and very bored boyfriend. sure, you’ve go one hand playing idly with his hair, and it’s enough to have him close his eyes, to enjoy the way you rake your fingers through it softly, but it’s not enough to ease the ache of not being the centre of your attention. if the role were reversed, there wouldn’t even be a phone call, steve would happily ignore all his responsibilities if it meant he got to laze around with you, the most important person in his life.

it’s quiet, and the only sound in the room is nancy’s small voice bleeding through the speaker. she’s gossiping, giggling about something jonathan said and the vibration of your laughter makes steve look up, and he hates that he’s jealous over nothing. he hates that your attention is split between two, especially when it was so rare for the two of you to have a joint day off like this. sure, you both technically worked at the radio station, and you guys did see each other everyday, but rarely did he get to have you to himself like this.

he’s bored, grumbling under his breath and it momentarily grabs your attention, nancy’s speaking, but you’re not particularly listening right now, eyes locked onto your pouting boyfriend, who’s rolling his eyes and moving out of your space. you’re raising an eyebrow, and he’s leaning over you, and a part of you is expecting him to cling on to you, to bridge the sudden space between you. he cranes his body over yours, and breathes out a quick “sorry nance.” before taking the phone out of your hand and hanging up, placing it back on the cradle, and you can hear her sigh before she’s cut off. “steve, i was using that.” and he hums, clearly not listening in favour of wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side and focusing on the movie that played as background noise.

“oh sorry, i didn’t realise.” he’s being sarcastic, and you roll your eyes and hit his chest playfully, melting into his embrace nonetheless, because you were always so weak for your boyfriend despite his questionable intentions. “you’re lucky i love you.” and he can’t fight the smile on his face, he can’t play the role of the upset boyfriend anymore, because you always knew how to have him swoon with just a few words. “yeah? love you too.” there’s a lingering kiss to the edge of your mouth, and you’re turning your head, trying to catch his lips fully but he’s pulling away, teasing you like he always does.

“steve..” the roles feel reversed now, like you’re the one vowing for his attention and you realise just how easy you played into his hands. “you’re annoying.” he nods, ‘engrossed’ in the movie, and your fingers are grazing his jaw, pulling him back into your bubble so you can kiss him properly, so you can give him the attention you both were craving. “oh, hi baby.” steve is playing dumb, and you shake your head, bringing him even closer to the point where you have your legs thrown over his lap, perched on his thighs and blocking the view of the tv. “don’t ’hi baby’ me steve.” and the act drops, hands on your waist and he’s sighing into your mouth, both of you longing for the other.

“missed you.” he’s murmuring against your lips, breath mingling with yours and you can feel the way he pouts like he just can’t believe you would’ve rather spoken to nancy than to have him like this. “i’ve been here all day stevie..” and he’s shaking his head, pulling you closer because it’s different, yeah, you were here physically, but your attention wasn’t. steve just wanted to spend his day lying around idly with his girlfriend with no distractions, no interruptions.

“you were on the phone with nance for ages..” a sigh leaves your lips, cooing at his obvious bitterness and you’re quick to move both hands to the sides of his face, forcing him to look at you and you lean in for a chaste kiss. “it was for like ten minutes, you’re such a big baby..” steve rolls his eyes, but there’s a crack of a smile when he feels you stare at him, eyes shining with that familiar adoration and he doesn’t respond to your very true statement, because he’s aware that he was acting out, but really, who cares when he’s got you like this.

“yeah yeah, now can we please pay attention to your very handsome, doting boyfriend who wants to kiss his beautiful girlfriend right now.” and you just nod, breathing out a laugh and leaning forward once again.

iii.

dustin really wishes he missed this crawl, maybe then he wouldn’t have to deal with you and steve giggling in the front of the van like two lovesick teenagers. steve’s got a hand situated on your thigh, hearts in his eyes as you sit there, full focus on him whilst he explains the significance of the clutch pedal. you had made an offhanded comment on how you wish you learnt how to drive manual, and steve perked up, he felt like a petrolhead, eager to teach you all he knew.

dustin’s fiddling with a rubik’s cube he found lying around in the back, waiting for the signal from the others at the station, knowing it’d take awhile before they could finally hit the road. so he’s sighing, looking anywhere but the two of you, because he can already picture it, the way steve is gloating, priding himself on his extensive knowledge of shifting gears. he doesn’t need to look over to picture the way you’re batting your eyes, humming along to every word steve says, hyperaware of how steve’s hand is inching higher without him even realising it.

dustin wants to gag, you two were so disgustingly into each other that it’s suffocating, it’s got him flicking the antenna of his walkie and mumbling into the speaker, voicing a prayer and a cry for help. he can hear a snicker on the other side of the frequency, it’s robin, and she doesn’t even have the courtesy to act surprised, because it could be worse. “don’t bother henderson, it’s been like this all day.“ and he sighs, because he thought you two would’ve been tired of each other by now, really, he doesn’t understand how you find steve interesting enough to be infatuated by him at all waking hours of the day.

he thinks of steve like an older brother, his best friend, someone he looks up to but even he also knows just how annoying he can be. he admires your loyalty, because dustin might’ve clawed his hair out if he had to deal with steve the same way you do. steve was different before the two of you met, that cool, uncaring facade he carried with him only switched on when you were around and now that you two were together and grossly in love, it was like he was looking at a completely different person.

steve harrington, the same guy who beat the shit out some demodogs, who put up a fight against the russians is now the same steve who’s distracted by your every move, who misses his queues at the squawk because he’s too enamoured by you walking past while they’re on air. the same steve who keeps a polaroid of you two in his wallet, who insists that he can’t hang out with dustin on sunday’s because it’s date night, or because you two are seeing a movie. the same steve that’s looking at you like you’ve hung the stars, even in the cramped seats of the squawk van.

it’s best to ignore you two for now, because dustin knows that steve is too focused on you to even entertain his disappointed looks he keeps throwing at the pair of you. steve can’t help it though, he’s been dreaming for a girl like you, and now that you’re finally his, he wants to make sure that you know how much you mean to him, even at the cost of being teased by the entire party for being at your beck and call.

“..and that’s how you avoid a stall.” you’re nodding, and steve’s got that smug smile he always has when he’s showing off, and you couldn’t find him any more attractive as you do right now. you’re not even remotely interested in manual driving anymore, not when you’re distracted by how he hot he looks when he’s focused on something. you don’t even register the static of laughter in the back, the sound of a snicker coming through the speakers because steve’s looking at you in full earnest, soft smile tugged on his lips and it’s like the world around you goes mute.

“okay lovebirds, please don’t forget i’m here too.” a voice chimes in, and it’s like someone’s snapped their fingers, your attention drifting over from steve to dustin’s folded arms, he twitches when he can see you finally take off your rose tinted glasses and come back down to earth. you hear steve sigh beside you, annoyed that your time together is always cut short, and turns his head to greet his younger friend. “yes henderson?” but he’s distracted by the sound of your laughter, you’re clearing enjoying the exchange between the two and it just peeves dustin off more.

steve really can’t stay annoyed for long, not when you’re there; he has a soft spot for you always, and not even dustin’s glare can spoil his mood. “can’t you two hold it in until after the crawl?” dustin chimes in again, his hands emphasising the telemetry tracker beside him, and you nod, promising the two of you will behave, much to steve’s dismay. “baby..” you hold a hand out to stop steve from speaking out, and he pauses, eyes looking between you and dustin, and you can see the exact moment he gives up.

steve doesn’t remove his hand from your thigh though, instead he laces his fingers with yours and squeezes, because he still craves your touch even when he’s silently moping like this. you smile at him, squeezing back, and it’s then that they finally get the signal to drive, and dustin couldn’t be happier.

iv.

the kids had just graduated, and you soon find yourself situated with the others on the roof of the radio station. the nostalgia hitting and memories flood in of your time together at the squawk, and it feels like no time has changed, despite it being over a year since you all decided to pursue your seperate aspirations. there’s the lingering feeling of sentimentality, seeing your friends after months apart, and knowing it’ll be a long ways away until you’re all reunited again after this. it didn’t help that robin’s final goodbye on the radio had your heart feeling heavy for the past couple hours now, and sitting here, drink in tow, wasn’t doing it any favours.

jonathan and steve are bickering about the premise of jonathan’s film; capitalism, cannibalism? you weren’t really paying attention to the two, your eyes trailing around you, taking in the scenery, the sunset, the memories, and you’re thinking back to the first time you had discovered how to climb up to the roof. robin notices your silence, because she too is reminiscing all the time she took for granted with you guys, you two lock eyes, and there’s a silent agreement that you’d give anything to go back to how things were, minus the end of the world.

it’s then that robin speaks, roping nancy into spilling information about the “hot babes at emerson.” which has nancy rolling her eyes. she had dropped out, and that itself felt like a bombshell, but she had always known that maybe it wasn’t on the cards for her, that she was destined for other things, and you envy it a little. you hadn’t quite figured out what you wanted to do with your time, you felt a bit behind, and it was scary.

steve notices how quiet you’ve gotten, and the familiar feeling of his hand sliding into yours, fingers intertwined, is enough to silence that nagging voice in your head for the time being. you’re squeezing his hand back, grateful for the distraction before you notice the others around you fall quiet, it’s jarring how awkward it feels before robin’s clearing her throat, and she’s the one to address the elephant in the room.

“so is no one going to mention that huge rock on your hand?” and just like that, the air around you feels lighter and you can’t help but laugh at how blunt she’s being, and how shocked the others look when they finally take notice of the ring on your finger. “holy shit!” nancy exclaims, and she’s quick to move out of her chair, smacking steve’s hand out of yours; to which he groans in faux annoyance, in favour of checking the diamond attached to you.

it makes steve’s heart swell, the familiar feeling of pride that situates itself whenever he looks down at the engagement ring he had bought months ago. it’s a reminder of just how lucky he is, how he’s finally found the one, that he’s promised forever with you. “oh yeah, that..” you’re shy when people notice, but you can’t fight the grin that makes it’s way to your face every time, because steve harrington will always be your person, and now you have a physical reminder of that.

“spoiled her on a coach’s salary too.” you smack his shoulder, and steve pouts, knowing you can’t stay mad at him for long. there’s obvious heart eyes when you look up at him, that all too familiar feeling of yearning you don’t think will ever fade. it’s disgustingly cute, atleast that’s what robin says when she breaks the silence, and you can’t help but shy away from the eyes of the others, their gazes soft and it makes you feel extra vulnerable.

“took you long enough” robin’s calling out from beside you, and you furrow your eyebrows, because it still shocks you when you think back to his proposal, steve down on one knee with shining eyes and wobbly smile. he had this speech about how he couldn’t imagine a life without you, it was endearing how nervous he was, how sweaty his hand got whilst it was latched with yours, and you always tear up when you think back to that moment, how easy it was to say yes.

“now, what’re your thoughts about having six little nuggets?” jonathan jokes, and steve shoots him a glare, but you don’t fail to metion how easy it is to imagine a family with steve. “i mean, maybe not six, but definitely atleast two.” and it shuts steve up, you two had only really talked about kids a handful of times, nothing too serious, but he’s looking at you with stars in his eyes, there’s that familiar look of adoration, and you can see jonathan instantly regret bringing it up. “great, you’ve set him off again.” and steve doesn’t even care, because he’ll always be guilty of being in love with you, and god forbid a man is infatuated with his future wife.

────────────────────

yeah i ain’t even got an excuse for this one i literally blinked and it became this big ass fic.

i sincerely hope you all enjoyed this :) & please lmk if this was ok!!

i think a part of myself will always have room for steve, especially over the last month or so since i started writing. it’s kinda scary releasing something, but seeing people reblog and comment that they like my writing is enough for me to continue !!

She thinks it’s ridiculous, why is there rain in the middle of summer? It was never like this in California, they had some bouts of rain in December and April but never the summer. Even when it did rain it never lasted long or was bad enough that her mother invested in proper rain attire.

Which is how she finds herself walking down the street, her jeans and converse completely soaked. The crappy poncho her mom bought at Melvald’s was in the clearance section for a reason because her hair is soaked through and she can feel water soaking her shirt.

She wants to go home. Not that dump on Cherry Lane but San Diego.

She feels hot tears welling up in her eyes when her shadow starts to elongate in the puddles and she hears the rev of a car engine behind her. Great, some asshole is gonna splash water all over her. Instead the car slows to a gentle stop next to her and when she turns her head she sees a familiar red BMW, Steve’s already rolling down the window to talk to her.

“What are you doing?” he frowns, and she can see you in the passenger seat craning your head to look at her. “It’s pouring out here.”

Max’s mouth goes dry, what is she doing out here?

“Walk,” she finally says, hoping the lump in her throat isn’t obvious.

“C’mon get in,” Steve replies without missing a beat, nudging his head toward the passenger side. “You’re gonna get yourself sick.”

“I’m fine,” Max insists, because she really is about to start crying and she doesn’t want to be in his car when that happens.

“Max get in,” your voice cuts in, frowning at her and exchanging a glance with Steve, like you two can communicate without speaking.

She does, only because you’ve been the coolest person ever to her since you stabbed Billy with a tranquilizer syringe and threatened him with a baseball bat.

She gets in the backseat, probably ruining Steve’s fancy leather seats with how soaked she is, and immediately notes the grocery bags. Not junk food but actual ingredients, great Steve was gonna cook you dinner and now she’s crashing your date night.

Steve is already slipping off his knit sweater and cranking up the heater. He sets the car in park in the middle of the road before turning around so he can hand her the sweater.

“You wanna actually tell us why you were walking around in the rain?” He has a disapproving frown on his face but for some reason Max doesn’t feel like it’s directed at her.

She wants to refuse the sweater but she’s shivering in the backseat and it feels warm in her hands. So she takes her crappy poncho off and slips it on, hoping the two of you mistake the few tears escaping her eyes for rain.

“Hey we’re not gonna tell your parents,” you say gently, reaching out to smooth down her soaked hair. “We just wanna know, I promise.”

“My parents are out for the night,” her voice cracks when she talks and she really hopes you two just think she’s cold. “So Billy invited a girl over.”

She’s looking down at her soaked shoes because looking at either one of you feels scary right now. Even then she knows you two are exchanging glances, communicating without speaking again. She remembers her mom and dad doing that, when she was younger and they still loved each other.

“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, his voice softer and reaching out to fix the sweater so it sits evenly on her. “You’re gonna come back to my place with us, and then you can use my phone to leave a message for your mom that you’re sleeping at a friend’s house. Sounds good?”

Max nods, trying to rub her hands and warm them up. Steve takes the car out of park and starts driving back to his place. The two of you are quiet throughout the drive and she doesn’t feel like starting a conversation. Every so often her eyes dart back to the grocery bag, the thought of Billy making a girl dinner is so laughable it feels absurd.

After a few minutes the BMW rolls into the driveway and you come over to her door with an umbrella while Steve grabs the grocery bags from the other side. It’s ridiculous for you to walk her twenty feet over to the door with the umbrella but she humors you anyway.

She follows suit when you and Steve slip off your shoes by the front door before walking in. The two of you actually own proper rainboots and Steve gives a glance at her thoroughly soaked converse.

“Alright I’m gonna start cooking dinner,” Steve tells her, gesturing to the grocery bag. “Why don’t you go take a shower?”

“I don’t need–”

You both give her a look.

“...Fine,” she relents after a moment, because it does feel like her bones are rattling inside her body.

“Perfect,” you take her hand, leading her over to the staircase. “I’ll show you where it is and get you some clothes.”

You take her upstairs, stopping by one of the cabinets in the hallway to grab some towels before leading her into Steve’s room. It’s mostly what she’d expect from a teenage boy, some movie posters, a basketball laying around, and a desk that obviously has seen very minimal studying.

She does catch the fact that there are multiple pillows on the bed and the sheets are a nice cream color instead of bachelor navy blue. There’s some books and a candle on the nightstand, along with two mugs holding the remnants of last night’s tea in them.

“Here we go,” you say, finally looking up after having rummaged through the top dresser drawer. Based on the clothes Max can see in, it’s your designated space in Steve’s room.

You hand her the towels along with some fluffy pajama pants, they have little teddy bears on them, along with an oversized t-shirt.

“Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just yell if you need anything.”

She mumbles acknowledgment and you turn to leave, then Max calls out your name before she realizes it.

“What’s up?” you turn around. Her chest feels tight, everything feels wrong and right at the same time. This is how things should be for her, but they’re not and she’s terrified this brief moment will be stolen from her in seconds.

“You’re not gonna call my parents… right? You or Steve?”

Your face softens and you walk over to her. Wrapping her in a hug and pressing your lips to the top of her head.

“No we’re not,” you murmur and rub her back. “You just have to promise me one thing, okay?”

Max’s shoulders are shaking as she cries into you. Quiet sniffles like the girls who sit on the curb outside of their house after Billy decides he’s done with them. “What is it?”

“Next time something like this happens,” you whisper, still rubbing her back. “Call us, we’ll come get you.”

She nods against you and you hold her for a few minutes until the crying subsides. When she pulls away you press a kiss to her forehead before leaving.

She follows your instructions, going down the hall and to the left to find the bathroom. There’s two of everything. Tooth brushes, towels, body washes, and shampoo and conditioner sets. She can’t resist being nosy and taking a peek in the bathroom drawer. She finds a makeup bag and inside all the products look minimally used.

Steve must have bought it so you wouldn’t need to bring yours back and forth.

The idea of him standing in your bathroom carefully writing down the products and their shade names to buy them is so silly and sweet enough to make her giggle quietly.

Max takes her time in the shower, letting the steaming hot water warm her body. She also wants to make sure she’s fully composed because it’d be way too embarrassing if she started crying again.

She steals your body wash and washes her hair with Steve’s shampoo and conditioner because she thinks it’s funny. The boys make fun of him for preening with how much he invests in his hair products. It’s stupid considering how nosy they got when Dustin revealed he knew Steve’s hair routine. He never actually told any of them.

She dries herself off thoroughly after the shower and examines the skincare products on the counter. Not the cheap soaps she convinced her mom to buy after her face started breaking out. Fancy expensive ones that you need adult money to buy. Two of everything again, things Steve bought to make you more comfortable in his space.

She uses your facewash and dabs on a little moisturizer out of curiosity, it smells like clay and she likes it a bit. After wrapping her hair in a towel she heads out of the bathroom and walks over to the stairs. 

The smell of garlic hits her nose and just as she’s about to head down she clears the click of the front door. Then your feet padding on the floor as you walk into the kitchen and tell Steve: “She’s a size six.”

“Hmm you think red rainboots are a little too on the nose?”

“She likes the color so it’ll probably be fine. Just maybe make the pants and coat a different color?”

“How about all yellow? She can look like the Morton Salt girl.”

“Well she would look adorable, but she’d also probably kick you.”

“Red boots it is. I’ll get a small for the pants and a medium for the coat.”

“Steve, that jacket is stupidly expensive.”

“Which is why I’m getting a medium so she can grow into it.”

THE AIR OUTSIDE THE GREAT HALL IS THICK WITH MID-MORNING CHATTER, the kind of easy, unbothered noise that only follows a public humiliation. Someone else’s, not yours. You're leaned against a cool stretch of stone wall, arms folded, robes impeccable, a Slytherin constellation in the midst of flickering green and silver. You’ve just walked out of Potions with the satisfied swagger of someone who has committed a petty act of academic violence.

And the victim?

James Potter. Golden boy. Quidditch Captain. Gryffindor menace.

He’d confused powdered manticore spine with crushed scarab beetle – a rookie mistake, really, but an explosive one. His cauldron had burped, hissed, then violently frothed over like it was trying to escape the shame, the room quickly filling with the scent of scorched cabbage and what can only be described as broom bristle cremation.

“Don’t say a word,” he’d muttered through gritted teeth as you glided past his desk, his spectacles fogged with steam and regret.

Naturally, you’d offered him a parting gift: “Nice perfume, Potter. Eau de Incompetence.”

Which brings us here. The corridor. The smugness. The slow approach of James sodding Potter, who walks like he owns the floor, the walls, the bloody ceiling. There’s that look in his eye – the glint that usually precedes some half-brained challenge or unholy prank.

Sirius Black trails behind him, grinning like a man who’s just tossed a lit match into a pile of fireworks. Remus and Peter flank the pair at a safe distance, watching like seasoned war generals preparing for the fallout.

You don’t move. You merely tilt your head and ask, perfectly cool, “Got something to say?”

James stops just short of your boots, his gaze sweeping over you – not lecherous, not exactly admiring, but observant. Calculating, like he’s memorising the shape of a puzzle he intends to break.

“Actually,” he says, voice calm, “I do.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Well?”

He smirks, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the words before he says them. “I bet I can make you fall for me by the end of term.”

You blink.

And then – oh, then – you laugh.

A sharp, full-bodied sound that slices through the hallway and turns a few third years' heads. It’s not a giggle or even a snort. It’s the kind of laugh that starts in your chest and spills out like you can't quite believe how stupid he is.

“You think I’d fall for you?” you ask, between peals.

“I’m serious.”

“No,” Sirius calls, still grinning. “I’m Sirius.”

James rolls his eyes without looking back. “You said it last week,” he continues, undeterred, eyes locked on yours. “You’re immune to charm. I’m just testing a hypothesis.”

You narrow your gaze. There’s something alive between you now – not quite fire, but close. A chemical reaction in the air, the kind that makes your skin tingle, like you’ve touched something volatile.

“Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You think you’re going to win me over like I’m a Quidditch Cup?”

James rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, cocky and infuriating. “I think I’ve got better odds.”

“You?”

He leans in, just a fraction. Enough that you smell something clean and citrusy beneath the lingering scent of charred potion. His voice drops, soft but smug. “Terms and conditions apply, of course.”

You narrow your eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.”

James doesn’t flinch. He shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in the movement. Something alive. The way he rocks back on his heels, all lazy confidence and feigned indifference, like a boy who’s never had to doubt that the world would spin just slightly in his direction. His grin curves like a blade.

“Still not a no.”

Your arms tighten across your chest, more armor than comfort now. “And what do I get if I win?”

James brightens, like he’s been waiting for that. “Your pride.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they return. “Not enough.”

He pauses, theatrically thoughtful, tapping a finger against his bottom lip. You hate that it draws your attention to his mouth.

“Alright,” he says at last, a glint of mischief blooming in his eyes. “If you don’t fall for me by the end of term, I’ll walk into the Great Hall in nothing but a pair of socks and confess my undying love for Professor Slughorn. Loudly.”

You squint. “Strip and serenade Slughorn?”

He nods solemnly. “In verse, if you’d prefer.”

You try not to smile. “And if I do fall?”

“You kiss me.”

The words land like a lit match tossed into dry grass.

You scoff, maybe to cover the beat your heart just skipped. “You’re awfully confident.”

He doesn’t look away. “Do I have a reason not to be?”

It’s your turn to pause. Just for a second. And it’s not nerves. You don’t get nervous. Not over boys like him.

You know exactly what kind James Potter is. Loud. Golden. Lion-hearted and tragically proud of it. He’s the kind of boy who sets the world on fire just to warm the people standing close. A walking contradiction of heroics and hubris. You’ve seen him flirt with first years to get them out of trouble, charm professors out of detention, win arguments with nothing but a grin and that infuriating Quidditch-captain glint.

He’s a distraction. A glittering, glorious, useless distraction.

And you? You were raised better than to play a game you don’t intend to win.

Still.

You extend your hand and hold his gaze. “Fine. I accept.”

His palm is warm against yours, calloused from broom handles and reckless living. Your fingers curl before you can stop them.

Sirius gasps like it’s the best twist he’s ever seen. Remus mutters, “Oh no,” and Peter’s already betting on how long it’ll take.

James straightens, surprised. “You do?”

You smile, slow and sweet and deadly. “I’m just curious how badly you’re going to embarrass yourself.”

WEEK ONE: HE STARTS STRONG.

By the beginning of the new school week, you’ve already forgotten about the bet with James Potter or at least convinced yourself that you have. It drifts somewhere far in the back of your mind, buried under the comfort of routine. 

Your day begins as always: a quick shower in the steamy hush of the bathroom, the usual walk down stone corridors toward the Great Hall, the rhythmic chatter of your friends filling the space around you with gossip about who snogged who over the weekend, and then a mercifully quiet Transfiguration class without Gryffindor. You slip into your usual seat near the back, your fingers already flipping open the worn spine of your textbook, half-listening to the scrape of chairs and rustle of parchment. You’re determined to catch up on the reading, your eyes scanning the familiar lines until something tucked between pages 114 and 115 stops you cold.

There, nestled between the diagrams of spellwork and theory, are white hyacinths. Enchanted, of course, preserved so perfectly they look like they’ve just been plucked from the first bloom of spring. You can smell them even before you touch them – clean, delicate, a little green, like damp earth and warm sunlight. 

You stare for a moment too long. They sit innocently in your book, soft and lovely and unmistakably placed there for you. Your stomach turns – just slightly, just enough – and you inhale once more before snapping the book shut. 

“Too obvious,” you mutter, your voice flat, and with the same practiced indifference you use for most things that make your heart lurch, you pluck the flowers free and toss them into the nearest bin. Like it means nothing. Like your pulse didn’t catch. Like it didn’t feel like a dare tucked between the pages. And just like that, you forget it again. Or try to.

But if you’ve forgotten, James Potter clearly hasn’t.

Later that same day, in Charms, he makes his next move. 

You’re halfway through copying down the lecture when something starts circling over your head – slow, insistent, impossible to ignore. A swan, made of parchment, flapping its delicate wings as it spirals above you like it belongs there. You blink up at it once before looking across the room – and of course, there he is. 

Potter, looking irritatingly pleased with himself, wand still in hand. You shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, and he has the audacity to raise his eyebrows like he’s innocent. Professor Flitwick sighs, exasperated, and with a flick of his wrist, the swan lands. You snatch it out of the air with a huff, and for a moment, you consider crumpling it without looking. But curiosity is a trait you’ve never managed to fully extinguish, especially when it comes to him.

So under your desk, out of sight, you unfold the swan with careful fingers, smoothing out its delicate wings and sharp creases. The handwriting inside is unmistakable: neat, confident, slightly slanted, like someone who never doubts his own thoughts.

I bet you smiled.

You didn’t.

(You did.)

If you thought that was all James Potter was capable of, then you were deeply mistaken. 

He’s been showing up at the library all week. Always within five minutes of your arrival, like it’s a coincidence. Like he wasn’t just sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table seconds before you stood up. As if he hadn’t slipped away from Quidditch practice early or escaped another one of McGonagall’s detentions. He doesn’t say much when he joins you, just falls into step beside you in the corridor, hands shoved into his pockets, letting the silence stretch between your footsteps. There’s no forced charm, no theatrics, just his quiet presence keeping pace with yours, like it's always been this way.

He always reaches for your books without asking. You raise a brow the first time, caught off guard by the ease of it. 

“Chivalrous now?” you ask, arching an eyebrow with just enough bite to cover the small, unwelcome flutter in your chest.

He only shrugs, like it’s nothing at all, like this isn’t wildly out of character for him. He takes your bag from your hands in one clean motion, slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing, and keeps walking forward beside you.

“I can’t let you wear yourself out doing advanced Arithmancy,” he says, voice easy, unbothered, like the two of you aren’t supposed to be enemies in some long-forgotten rivalry everyone else has outgrown.

Then there’s the Quidditch match. You’ve always loved Quidditch. Not playing, of course, but watching. There’s something otherworldly about it, something exhilarating in the way players carve through the air like birds born to fly, spinning and diving and scoring in impossible arcs. It’s always felt like a celebration to you. Your father used to take you to matches when you were small, and that sense of magic has never quite left. 

But today, the weather is working against it. The sky is a heavy grey, swollen with rain, and the wind cuts straight through your scarf. Still, you sit in the Slytherin stands, your eyes tracking the green and blue blurs as they dart back and forth across the pitch, pretending not to care that your robes are damp and raindrops are crawling slowly, coldly down your spine. You tighten your silver-green scarf around your throat and shiver.

The last thing you expect is to see James Potter here. First of all, it’s the Slytherin grandstand. Second, he’s not even playing. It’s a Slytherin versus Ravenclaw match, and Gryffindor has no stake in the outcome. But somehow, despite all that, he finds you in the crowd. Soaked through, cheeks flushed from the wind, lips pale. And without a word, he presses a mug of tea into your hands – still steaming, warm against your skin.

“I don’t take bribes,” you say, but you wrap your fingers around the cup anyway. 

The heat sinks into your hands instantly, comforting in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. You turn your eyes back to the field, willing yourself to focus on the match and not on the curly-haired boy beside you who is looking at you like you're the most interesting part of the day.

James gives a casual flick of his wand, and the rain in your scarf disappears. The fabric dries instantly, soft and warm again against your skin. “Call it community service,” he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

And that’s not even the end of it. James Potter seems determined to sabotage your peace, orchestrating one absurd stunt after another until your attention is practically tethered to him by invisible thread. The most outrageous, by far, is when he praises your handwriting in Herbology. Your handwriting. Of all the tactics to employ.

“Are you trying a new approach?” you mutter, bending with him over a fluttering, fanged geranium that snaps at your gloves.

He twirls his quill between his fingers, casual, maddeningly at ease. “Maybe I’m just trying to be nice.”

You glance at him – measured, unreadable, the way you’ve trained yourself to look at things that shouldn’t matter.

He winks at you. That ridiculous wink. The same one that has likely caused an epidemic of fainting spells up in Gryffindor Tower.

You don’t faint.

(But your quill does stutter slightly in your grip.)

Still, you refuse to let any of it cloud your judgment. You’re determined not to fall first. Not for the ridiculous hairstyle, not for the way he suddenly remembers to hold doors open, or the way he’s begun smiling like he actually means it. It’s infuriating. Unnatural. James Potter, gracious? It reeks of strategy. It reeks of a boy who made a bet.

But you’re a Slytherin. And you didn’t get here by being unprepared.

So you begin to plot.

You start small, but clever. Something simple, something certain to break his polished new mask of gentlemanly charm. Something guaranteed to get a reaction. You curse his chair in the library.

It’s a subtle spell, just enough to ensure that the moment he sits, it will moan – loudly, long, and unmistakably suggestive. A moan echoing with the sultry creak of a bedpost in the back room of Madam Puddifoot’s.

He arrives. Sits. And the chair lets out its moan. 

You brace yourself for victory.

But James Potter doesn’t flinch. He simply raises one eyebrow and turns his gaze toward you – steady, direct, amused. You expect him to explode, to launch into the familiar rhythm of your arguments, but instead, he catches your eye with unsettling calm and says smoothly: “I didn’t know you were into theater, darling.”

You frown. Heat floods your face like a storm surging through your bloodstream. If you were a mandrake, you’d be screaming loud enough to knock out the entire floor. You’re boiling, silently combusting, and yet the best retaliation you can muster is a crumpled ball of parchment launched at his smug, insufferable head.

He dodges it with ease. And somehow, in the same motion, he flicks a chocolate frog across the table toward you, grinning like he’s already won.

But you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t keep trying.

After spending the better part of the night concocting 1001 Ways to Piss Off James Potter (a working title for your increasingly elaborate campaign), you woke in the morning with purpose blazing in your chest and pettiness blooming like a fresh hex. At breakfast, you carefully lace his pumpkin juice with a few drops of a mild truth serum – nothing dangerous, just potent enough to loosen his tongue for five minutes. Just long enough, you hope, for him to say something utterly stupid. Something embarrassing. Something that will unravel that smug composure and trigger the signature Potter fury you’ve grown so fond of provoking.

You don’t touch your food. You barely hear your friend beside you, who is chatting animatedly with a mouth full of toast. Your eyes are fixed on the doors of the Great Hall.

And then – finally – he arrives.

Loud as ever, flanked by his usual entourage, gesturing wildly as he tells some story that has Sirius Black howling and Peter Pettigrew clutching his sides. The morning light slices through the windows just in time to catch in the wild curls atop his head, turning his hair to gold. His smile stretches wide, dimples flashing, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a casual flick of his fingers.

He looks up. Right at you. 

Your stomach stutters. 

His grin widens, devilish. He winks.And you roll your eyes so hard they nearly fall out of your head.

You hear his laugh echo down the table, and your jaw tightens. He ruffles the hair of a passing first-year, who shrieks in indignant protest. Typical. But you’re not looking at him because of that. You’re watching for the moment – the moment – when he reaches for the pumpkin juice. He always does. First thing, every morning.

There it is.

He takes a sip.

You watch him closely, barely breathing, bracing for the spell to kick in. He pauses. Tilts his head. Then leans across the table toward you like he’s about to reveal some sordid piece of gossip.

“I think,” he says, voice low and maddeningly sincere, “you’re the most annoying and beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

You choke. Loudly. Toast nearly takes you out. Your eyes fly to his face, wide with shock, but James only shrugs, all smug amusement and maddening ease.

“I told you,” he says, lifting his glass in salute, “I’m honest.”

After two failed attempts, you abandon subtlety. You decide it’s time to go for the jugular – destroy what James Potter holds most sacred. And what does he love more than pestering you within an inch of your patience? Quidditch. Obviously. You spend the better part of lunch orchestrating the sabotage, hunched over the Gryffindor equipment trunk with the precision of a criminal mastermind. It costs you an apple, two napkins, and most of your dignity, but you manage to swap the standard practice Quaffles for a set that lets out a piercing shriek with every throw.

You sneak into the stands just in time to watch the chaos unfold. Players drop their brooms in mid-air. One Beater nearly falls off his handle from the shock. The sound is hideous like a mandrake gargling but it’s satisfying. You lean back against the stone, arms folded smugly across your chest, ready for James to finally snap and come storming over with smoke pouring from his ears.

He finds you exactly two minutes after practice starts.

“Smart,” he says, landing beside you like the broom is an extension of his body and not a barely tamed beast. He doesn’t ask if he can sit. Of course not.

You don’t look up. You flip a page in your Divination textbook, feigning intense concentration on a badly drawn palmistry diagram. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” His voice is amused. Too amused. “The screaming Quaffle must’ve just been in the mood today.”

You glance at him, ready to spit something scathing. But he’s just sitting there. Flushed from flying, his cheeks bright from the wind, hair a glorious, messy disaster, and smiling – smiling like he’s proud of you.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound flirtatious. It sounds like a fact. As if the sun rises in the east and you drive him insane but he’s decided to adore you anyway.

The air leaves your lungs in a soft gasp, and you gape at him like a stunned fish. You want to retort, to insult, to laugh in his face. But all you manage is a pitiful half-squeak as your brain catches fire.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, horrified.

James stands up and stretches, back arching slightly, as if this is just another Thursday. Then, with infuriating confidence, he leans down and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, fingertips barely grazing your skin. “See you at dinner, darling,” he says with a smirk that deserves to be outlawed.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You sit there for three whole minutes, stunned and incandescent, heart pounding like you had been flying laps around the pitch instead of just sitting there. Then you stomp back to your dorm in a fury, vowing to destroy him once and for all.

Which is how you come to cross off the final, most extreme item on your list of highly questionable tactics: false rumors.

Because if there’s one thing James Potter hates – truly loathes – it’s being talked about. Especially when the stories aren’t true. So you do what any girl on the edge would do: you casually, loudly, very deliberately spread the rumor that James Potter is secretly in love with Professor Vector.

The next day, while rifling through your bag in the middle of Arithmancy, you find a note tucked between your spare quill and a piece of licorice wand.

Nice try. P.S. You’re prettier when you’re jealous.

You let out a sound that is not a scream but something close – a strangled groan that sends your friend staring. You spend the next hour buried face-down in your pillow, kicking the mattress and muffling curses until your voice gives out. And then you read it again. And again.

You consider setting it on fire next to the fireplace in the Slytherin common room.

You don’t.

You fold it. Smooth the edges. Slip it into your potions textbook and pretend not to smile for the rest of the week.

WEEK TWO: THE BEST DEFENSE IS OFFENSE.

By the second week, you switch tactics. If James won’t fall for your traps, maybe he’ll fall for your victories.

You don’t wait for him this time. You act first.

You sit down opposite Sirius Black like it’s your personal writing desk. Your green-lined swamp robe gleams defiantly amid a sea of crimson. Slytherins never sit at any table but their own. And yet – here you are, surrounded by stunned Gryffindors. A couple of them pause mid-bite. A group of Hufflepuffs whispers behind their hands. Ravenclaws crane their necks. First-years scatter like startled owls as you cross your legs and rest your chin on your hand, as if this was always the plan.

“Well, aren’t you a vision this morning, Black”

Sirius looks up with a mouthful of toast and stares at you like you’ve grown antlers. Suspicious. Intrigued. You flash one of your better smiles – the kind that’s charmed professors out of giving you detention, and helped you avoid several homework assignments in Charms.

He chews. Swallows. Snorts. “What do you want?”

You lean in slightly, voice smooth as treacle. “Attention.”

That makes him bark out a laugh, loud and sudden enough to make a third-year flinch. You raise an eyebrow, unamused. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy this. Sirius downs his orange juice in one go, then starts twirling his fork like a wand, all smirking and dangerous.

“Careful, baby,” he says, glancing at you from under his lashes. “You’re playing with fire.”

Across the table, James Potter chokes on his pumpkin juice so violently you think he might combust.

You don’t even look at him at first. Instead, you lean closer to Sirius, fingers brushing against his chest as you reach up to adjust his red-and-gold tie – smoothing it like you belong there. The moment your hand moves, you feel it. James’s gaze: sharp, molten, unblinking. You meet it deliberately, holding eye contact as your fingers trail back down.

Your body’s blazing, but your face is sugar-sweet. “Is there a problem, Potter?”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin, the motion aggressive, then drops it into his plate like he wishes it were a hex. His eyes narrow like he’s trying to solve a riddle. Or start a fight.

“I just think you have terrible taste.”

Sirius arches a smug brow, enjoying this more than he should. “Careful, mate. You’re making it sound like I’m not your best friend.”

James doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on you. A silent warning. A dare.

You smile and turn to Sirius. “See you later.”

You rise, your skirt swaying just enough to make someone’s breath catch – possibly James’s – and stroll toward the exit without a glance back. Until, of course, you do. You turn just before the doors, catch James’s eye again, and blow a kiss like a threat dressed in lace.

Sirius’s laughter rings out behind you, uncontained.

James Potter watches your back all the way out of the hall.

Later, at dinner, you finally get your revenge.

You bide your time, patient as a Slytherin should be, watching as James Potter animatedly tells Remus and Peter about some ludicrous Quidditch stunt he wants to try at the upcoming match. He’s all flailing limbs and boyish enthusiasm, gesturing wildly with his fork like he’s dueling the mashed potatoes into submission. The poor things cling for dear life, wobbling on the edge with every sweep of his hand.

That’s when you strike.

Leaning back, you slip your wand beneath the tablecloth. A muttered spell, barely more than breath. A flick. A whisper. And then… you wait.

By the time he finishes recounting his story, something about a reverse Sloth Grip Roll and a spiral dive, his hair has turned the color of pond scum. Not even a flattering green. We’re talking true swamp algae. Something that might crawl out of the Black Lake and ask for citizenship.

He’s none the wiser.

Until, of course, you can’t help yourself. You smile. Broad and sharp and unmistakably evil.

Sirius catches the expression first. Then he turns, sees James, and promptly snorts pumpkin juice straight up his nose.

“Oh, Prongs,” Sirius wheezes, practically falling onto Remus. “You look like the love child of a mandrake and a traffic light.”

James blinks. Frowns. Turns to the nearest reflective surface. Unfortunately for him, a silver serving tray that offers no mercy. The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a groan and a growl. A strangled, vaguely inhuman noise of pure betrayal. At the other end of the table, you raise your goblet of pumpkin juice in a slow, mocking toast.

He sees you.

You laugh.

And for just a moment, right before Sirius starts howling again and James runs a hand through his mossy curls in horror, you swear he almost smiles too.

You don’t stop there.

The little reactions you get from James – flushed cheeks, clenched jaw, the way his eyes narrow like he’s trying not to smile – become your new favorite currency. So the next day, you up the stakes.

You steal his favorite quill.

It’s a nice one, made of dark wood with quick-drying ink. He always uses it for Transfiguration essays. He leaves it unattended for precisely two minutes in the library, distracted while chatting with Remus.

He spends the whole day asking around, retracing his steps, even checking under sofas in the Gryffindor common room. But strangely, he never once accuses you. He doesn’t even act suspicious. In fact, James walks beside you to the library that evening like nothing’s happened – quieter than usual, though. His head hangs low, and he kicks a small stone along the path, not really looking at anything. You don’t speak. You just smile to yourself, triumphant.

You take your usual spot in the far corner of the library, now almost a private corner of the world, just for the two of you. But he doesn’t joke this time. Doesn’t lean in to bother you. Doesn’t even touch his parchment. He answers your questions with dry, hollow monosyllables and stares at the table like it's trying to tell him something he can't quite understand.

Something inside your chest twists painfully, but you push the feeling down like you’ve been taught to.

On the walk back, he's still quiet.

He walks you all the way to the Slytherin entrance like always, but before you disappear inside, he stops you. He hands you a little bag of peppermints – your favorite, the ones you can only get from Honeydukes, in the fancy blue-and-silver wrapper.

“We went to Hogsmeade yesterday,” he says, voice softer than usual. “Sirius and Peter were trying every sample like lunatics. I saw these and thought of you.”

He gives you a small smile. Then he turns and walks away, like he hasn’t just spun your whole internal compass off its axis.

You hate the way your heart stutters. You hate that your fingers curl a little tighter around the bag. But most of all, you hate the way that, when you get back to your dorm, you don’t toss the candy aside.

You place it carefully on your desk.

You unfold a fresh roll of parchment.

You pull out his quill – the one you stole – and write the first line of his unfinished essay in slow, neat script: “The Nature of Change: Mastery Not Through Force, But Will” by James F. Potter

The next morning, just after breakfast, you slip into Transfiguration before anyone else. You place the quill back on his desk. Set your finished essay beside it, tied with a green ribbon. A note rests on top:

The effort is 5 out of 10. Try harder, lover boy.

You don’t stay to see his reaction. 

You’re halfway down the corridor when you hear him shout your name – half accusation, half promise. Your mouth curls before you can stop it.

That night, you return to your dorm and find something on your pillow. A lone chocolate frog.

Your dormmates giggle behind their curtains, whispering in that high, conspiratorial way that means they’ve been watching. You approach slowly, like it might vanish if you move too quickly. It’s an ordinary box – except someone’s scribbled over the tagline in black ink. Where it once said “Collect them all!”, it now reads:

Just try to resist me, darling The Terms and Conditions remain in force.

Next to it, there’s a folded note. You sit down on your bed and open it.

“True transfiguration is not a matter of power, but of surrender – of allowing something to become what it was never meant to be, and loving it anyway.”

It’s a quote. From your essay. The one you wrote for him.

You stare at the words until they blur. You don’t know whether to roll your eyes or fall a little harder. 

In the end, you crumple the parchment and toss it into the deepest corner of your drawer. Then you open the frog box and bite its head off in one go. It tastes suspiciously of cinnamon and honey. 

Your favorite.

Damn him.

WEEK THREE: HE SWITCHES STRATEGY.

He stops playing for the crowd. No more enchanted parchment fluttering overhead with rhymes he knows you'll hate. He no longer bellows compliments in the corridors, doesn’t make grand gestures designed to echo through the common rooms like some headline you didn’t ask for.

Instead, it’s quieter now. Softer.

You’re skipping dinner after hours buried in the library, the kind of night where ink stains your wrists and a headache blooms like a slow, spreading curse behind your eyes. You're too tired to remember what hunger feels like. Your fingers ache, cramped from too many pages of notes.

When you finally shuffle into the common room, bag slipping from your shoulder, you find him there – James Potter. Curled up on the battered sofa, legs tucked beneath him, half-asleep with a History of Hogwarts book pressed to his chest. The armchair beside him bears his invisibility cloak, the silver fabric draped like a secret. On the low table: a plate. Toasted bread, slices of apple, cheese, and a scattered handful of chocolate-covered raisins – Sirius’s stash, no doubt, and you’re sure James didn’t ask permission.

When he hears you, his eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and he presses a finger to his lips. Then he nods to the plate, like an offering.

You cross the room slowly, still watching him as you sink onto the couch. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. But you eat – every last bite, and he stays until you’re done.

When the plate is empty, he rises, stretches with a quiet groan, and winks at you. He mouths a single phrase – you’re welcome – before sweeping the cloak over his shoulders. In a blink, he vanishes.

You can still feel his warmth lingering, stitched into the air around you, until the common room passage creaks open. A draft rolls through, damp and cold, straight from the dungeons.

That’s when you know: James is gone. And this time, he took the warmth with him.

The next day, when you’re trying to study – really trying, even though every word looks like the same broken scribble – he finds you. The library is half-empty, soft with the hush of late afternoon, when even the light seems drowsy. You don’t notice him at first, not until a warm mug is set down in front of you, right at the corner of your parchment. Milk tea. No sugar. Exactly the way you take it.

You blink up at him, caught off guard, mouth parting with a question you don’t quite form in time.

James doesn’t say anything. He just drags out the chair opposite yours and sinks into it, flipping open a spellbook like he belongs there. His hair is all wind-tangled from practice, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a flush still blooming high on his cheeks and throat – that pink that comes from cold air and running fast and not caring about the burn in your lungs. His Gryffindor jumper is rumpled, collar askew, a glimpse of bare collarbone where the knit slouches. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t smirk, doesn’t make a scene.

He just turns a page and says softly, like it costs him nothing, like it’s just a thing he knows: "Your hands shake when you've had too much caffeine."

You stare at him then. Not the way you’re supposed to, not with irritation or exhaustion, but with this awful, unwanted warmth spreading in your ribs, slow and heavy and honey-thick. You don’t like that he noticed. That he watches closely enough to know something like that. You don’t like that he cares. You especially don’t like the part of you that… likes it. That wants to ask how long he’s been noticing.

So you don’t say anything. You drink the tea in silence, and it tastes exactly right, which somehow makes it worse.

The next day, your Charms essay comes back with a fat, unforgiving red P slashed across the top. The sight of it is a blow – sharp and sour, humiliation tightening in your throat. You’d tried. You really tried, and for what? You stare at the parchment so long that your eyes blur, but you don’t blink, don’t move, just sit there letting the shame settle, heavy and certain.

Across from you, James is still doodling, his quill skating lazily along the margin of his notes, sketching what looks like a dragon mid-flight. For a moment you think maybe he hasn’t noticed,  that you’ve folded yourself into smallness well enough, but then his hand slides across the table. A folded piece of parchment, pushed to the edge of your book.

You hesitate before opening it, already braced for whatever nonsense he’s decided to throw at you. But when you smooth it open, you can’t stop the smile. It betrays you, blooming soft on your lips before you can strangle it. You press your fingers to your mouth, hiding it poorly.

Why did the Hippogriff refuse to duel the Blast-Ended Skrewt? Because he didn’t want to stoop to its level.

It’s ridiculous. Childish, even. And yet. You’re not laughing.

(You’re laughing. Quiet, breathless. Like the sound snuck out before you could catch it.)

When you break your chocolate chip cookie in half at the end of class and wordlessly leave one piece on his side of the desk, you don’t wait to see his reaction. You disappear into the tangle of students before he can say anything back – before you can regret it.

Still, nothing has changed, not really. He remains an unbearable presence. Still bumps into you in the halls with the casual arrogance of someone convinced the earth itself is tilted in his favour. Still calls you darling in that ridiculous drawl, turning the word into something between a provocation and a promise. Still looks at you like he knows something you don’t.

But it doesn’t feel like a joke anymore.

It feels like something steadier. Something gentler, humming underneath everything, like the low, distant pulse of the sea. It doesn’t crash, doesn’t demand. It’s just there, insistent as gravity. Simple, the way a lighthouse is simple: a fixed point you can’t help but see, even through the thickest fog.

And that, you think, is the most dangerous part of all because you can’t remember when you stopped thinking about the bet every time he smiled. But you did.

And now it feels like something is beginning. Something without rules. Something without conditions. Something without reservations.

WEEK SIX: YOU FORGET WHO'S WINNING.

The Astronomy Tower is quieter than usual. No fifth-years sneaking kisses behind the columns. No prefects whispering warnings about curfews, no sharp footsteps echoing up the stairs. Just the two of you and the night, soft and silver-streaked, spreading across the stone floor like spilled ink.

You’re both hiding. Not just from your housemates or your homework, but from something murkier. From what’s happening between you, pressing in like a secret neither of you knows how to say aloud.

There’s a bottle of firewhisky between you, pinched from beneath Sirius’s bed.  James had caught you in the hallway after lights out, his grin lazy, his offer simple: “Come have a drink with me”. Now the bottle sits half-finished, warm in the way alcohol gets when too many stories are shared and not enough confessions.

His shoulder touches yours – confidently, thoughtlessly. Like his weight belongs to you. Like it’s always belonged to you.

Overhead, the stars are smeared, blurred like fingerprints dragged across glass. You should be paying attention to them. Measuring the sky, plotting coordinates, marking distances like they matter. Like the universe isn’t already expanding too fast for you to catch up.

Instead, your gaze stays fixed on the wood between your knees, the old grain split and scarred. You trace circles there, over and over, your fingertip moving without meaning.

Your voice comes out low, quiet enough that it might have been mistaken for a thought left unsaid: "Why did you make the bet in the first place?"

You don’t look up when you ask. You keep your eyes on your hand, the dumb curl of your fist like it might shield you from whatever answer is coming.

He doesn’t reply immediately. The silence isn’t awkward. It settles between you both, heavier than the whisky, stretching out like the Tower itself is holding its breath, waiting to hear how this will land. A cold wind ghosts between you, but you’re not cold. Not really. James is too close and the warmth coming off him feels like enough to thaw the whole castle if it wanted.

When his voice finally comes, it’s softer than you’ve ever heard it – a confession whispered to the sky, or maybe to the Moon, like he’s ashamed to give it to you directly.

"Because you looked at me like I wasn’t worth your time."

You blink. The words land sharper than you expect, and it takes a beat before you can even lift your head. When you finally turn to him, he’s not grinning, not smirking, not baiting you into a fight.

He’s just watching the sky. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like it might save him.

"Does that bother you?" you ask, and your voice is rougher than before. Not sharp, just uncertain.

His jaw clenches. You see it first, that flicker of frustration, before he exhales and lets it go.

"More than it should have," he admits. His gaze doesn’t waver from the stars. "And maybe... I wanted you to take another look."

And Merlin. That’s when it hits you – low in your stomach, blooming up through your chest with a kind of aching clarity. You’re sitting here, heart pounding harder than you’d like, the stars dragging their slow arc overhead, his body warm against yours, steady, unthinking.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because somewhere between the taunts and the bets, the shoulder nudges and the tea left waiting, the whispered jokes and stupid, scribbled notes – somewhere between all of it you looked again.

And you didn’t stop.

WEEK TEN: YOU CATCH YOURSELF.

You can see him on the other side of the courtyard.

It's foolishly windy outside. His tie is fluttering like a banner, his hair is disheveled, his cheeks are pink from the cold. A stray cat is sitting on his arm like a royal, purring, and he is humming to her. Obviously, Sir Mittens. He smiles like he has nothing to prove.

And your heart – usually a well-defended fortress of your gut, covered with sarcasm – turns over. Violently.

You tell yourself it's indigestion.

(That's not true.)

You're lying.

You start to notice things – terrible, intimate things that you shouldn't know about. For example, when he reads, his glasses always slide down the bridge of his nose, and instead of adjusting them with his hand, he just squints like a determined mole. Or the way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's trying not to laugh, especially when McGonagall is reprimanding Sirius and he's so close to snapping. Or how he always, always, without delay gives Peter the last chocolate frog from the package, even though you've seen him look at it as if it holds the secret of eternal life.

You tell yourself that it's just an observation. Tactics. Preparing for a counterattack.

(It's not like that.)

Worse, you start looking for him. In the corridors. At breakfast. During the lectures, which you should pay attention to. Your eyes scan the room as if searching for coordinates, as if your system won't calibrate properly until you know where he is.

Sometimes it's not there.

And that's when it really hits you.

You miss him.

Not in a vague, tolerant way. And in particular, why, damn it, it's calmer this way. It's like some part of your day is behind you. It's like your mood is waiting for something – or someone – to come before it can settle down.

You're not sure when it started. You don't know how to stop it. But you're losing. And the worst part, the thing that keeps you awake longer than you can imagine, is that it doesn't feel like a game anymore.

It feels like surrender.

And it terrifies you.

LAST WEEK OF TERM: ARE YOU WINNING (OR NOT?).

It’s the final night of the semester, and it feels like the castle is holding its breath. Like even the walls know something is about to end, or maybe about to break. Outside, snow lashes the tall windows, battering the glass as though winter itself is trying to claw its way in. Inside, the Gryffindor common room glows gold and red, pulsing with the low, heavy thump of music – a heartbeat loud enough to rattle the floorboards. Laughter ricochets off the stone, a little too bright, a little too sharp, like everyone is desperate to be louder than the endings creeping up behind them. Enchanted lanterns bob lazily through the air, and someone’s charmed sparkles burst overhead, dissolving into smoke that shimmers for a second longer than it should.

You came because you wanted to win. You dressed like a warning. Dark green velvet, a slash of silver at your throat, eyeliner winged sharp enough to cut. Your smile is a blade, your voice all silk and teeth. You let two Ravenclaw boys orbit you, laughing too loud at one of Sirius’s wilder jokes, drinking when Remus pressed a glass into your hand. You played the part perfectly – untouchable, careless, victorious before the final move was made.

And all the while, you could feel James Potter watching you.

Across the room, beneath the lazy whirl of the disco ball, his gaze didn’t waver. But something was wrong with it. Wrong with him. The usual light in his eyes, that bright, golden flicker of something like mischief, was gone. Instead, he watched you like you were already gone. Like you were slipping, sliding, vanishing – a shape he couldn’t keep hold of. And behind it, buried deep, was something worse. An abyss. A sadness that looked like it had nowhere left to go.

You felt it. Of course you felt it. But you told yourself not to care.

A few hours more – that’s all that remained. A few hours and you could win. Win the stupid, pointless bet. Prove him wrong. Prove yourself right. A couple more steps and you’d walk away clean, the whole stupid game nothing more than a story you’d tell, some day when it didn’t ache anymore.

So you kept going. You laughed. You danced. You swallowed the firewhisky your friend handed you without so much as a flinch, the burn of it scorching down your throat, pooling heavy in your stomach. You let the music drown out the rawness in your chest. You let some stranger put his cold, unremarkable hands on your waist, let him spin you beneath the glimmer of enchanted lights.

One last night, you told yourself. One more move. Win the game. Walk away untouched.

That was the plan.

So why, then… why did it feel like you were losing?

But it didn’t work.

No matter where you stood, no matter whose hands curled around your waist, no matter how loud you laughed – your gaze always, always found its way back to him. Like a tether you couldn’t cut. Across the room, half-shrouded in the lazy dark of the corner, James was leaning against the wall with the Marauders clustered nearby, though they seemed far from his mind. He barely spoke. The glass in his hand twirled in slow, thoughtful circles, the amber liquid catching flashes of light like it held answers at the bottom.

This wasn’t the James Potter you’d come to know – not the boy who lived with noise in his lungs, the gravitational pull in every room, the storm and the sun and every chaotic thing in between. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t calling attention to himself, wasn’t filling the spaces with his unbearable, inevitable charm. He was still. Quiet. Eyes dark, far away from wherever the party was trying to drag him.

You watched him longer than you meant to. Let your eyes linger for three, four, maybe five seconds too long. Then you swallowed it down and threw your head back, another laugh tumbling out, empty as the glass in your hand.

You kept up the act. Of course you did. You flirted with some boy a year below you – you couldn’t even remember his name, just that he looked at you like a prize. Your dress clung close, soft velvet like a whispered secret, and his hands traveled your hips in time with the music. It didn’t feel like anything. Just motion. Just the weight of someone else’s palms and the prickling trail of goosebumps that felt more like a warning than a thrill. But you didn’t stop him. 

And then James found you.

You didn’t see him coming. Just felt it, like a shift in the room’s gravity, the air tightening around you. Your would-be date was already gone, wandered off in search of someone easier, someone less preoccupied. And there James was, pushing his way through the crowd like he’d just decided he’d had enough.

He was flushed, the kind of flush that wasn’t just from drink but from frustration, heat blooming in his cheeks, his neck. His hair was a disaster – worse than usual, a wild tangle like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His shirt hung open at the collar, rumpled and loose, like he’d either tried to fix it and failed or never bothered to try.

And he had two cups in his hands. One of them – your favorite.

He held it out to you, saying nothing. Just standing there, eyes heavy, shoulders slack, offering you the drink like some kind of peace treaty.

You took it. You shouldn’t have, but you did. The glass was cool against your fingers, and you raised it to your lips, taking a small, wary sip.

Your face twisted immediately. Too sweet. Sickly. Off-balance. You turned away from him to hide the frown, to gather yourself before your mouth could betray you.

"It’s too sweet," you muttered, pretending to examine the crowd instead of him, pretending you weren’t unraveling.

He just shrugged. "You like sweets, darling"

You rolled your eyes, sharp and fast. "You don’t know what I like."

And you meant it to sting, you always did, but the blow landed somewhere else entirely. Because when you finally looked back at him, when you risked the glance – he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t cocky. His eyes, usually burning gold, looked dull, greyed out like something had drained the color from him. He stared at you like you’d taken something from him without realizing, like he was trying to recognize you through a fog he didn’t want to admit was there. Like you were already halfway gone, and he didn’t know how to call you back.

The silence stretched between you, taut and aching. He didn’t argue. He didn’t tease. He just stood there, watching, motionless ike if he moved, you’d shatter.

And it made you nervous. All of it. His quiet. His stillness. It wasn’t like him. James Potter was meant to be reckless and noisy, a boy so loud they could write headlines about him and still not capture the whole of it. But here he was, hollowed out in front of you, like some part of him had given up already.

The lump in your throat was sudden, sharp, impossible to swallow. Without thinking, you muttered some excuse, something flimsy and forgettable, and you fled – drink in hand, pulse tight and fast like it wanted to escape your body altogether.

The taste of the too-sweet drink lingered on your tongue. And so did the way he’d looked at you like you’d already left. And for the first time that night, it didn’t feel like you were winning at all.

You slip into a group of fellow students – familiar faces, easy voices talking nonsense you don’t care about. Some joke about McGonagall’s lectures, another about next term, another about how many drinks it takes to make Slughorn sing. You nod when it seems appropriate, toss in a smirk, sip the too-sweet drink James gave you just to have something to do with your hands. You don’t hear a word.

Because anything – anything – is better than standing there in front of James Potter, staring at the hollowness in his face. You’d rather pretend. You’d rather hide here, surrounded by noise, than look at the boy who always seemed too full of life to ever go quiet.

It’s almost midnight when you leave. The party is still pulsing behind you, but you slide through the corridors like smoke, like shadow, the castle dimming, softening, as if the walls themselves are growing tired. Drunken students have already collapsed into beds, some half-draped on couches, others giggling in corners. The portraits are murmuring to one another in voices too low for you to catch, and up above, through frostbitten windows, the stars shiver faintly over the Astronomy Tower, sharp and cold as needles.

You don’t know why you’re heading for the library. You just are.

Your heels tap sharp echoes into the empty hallways, each step a hollow sound that bounces back at you, too loud, like the castle is laughing under its breath. The air gets colder, the stone narrowing around you, like the walls themselves are squeezing you forward faster and faster.

The library is dark. Colder still. You pass shelf after shelf, the spines of old books watching in judgment. Dust heavy in the air. But you’re headed for the nook. Your place. The little corner tucked behind two tall stacks, where the light from the high window always falls in soft stripes.

The place where James used to find you. Where he’d sit – sometimes reading, sometimes watching, sometimes talking nonsense about his friends, about Quidditch, about things you’d pretend not to care about but always, always remembered. Where you didn’t have to fight him off with sharp words and sharper looks – you could just sit there, beside him, and forget there was supposed to be a game between you.

You settle into the chair, the dark pressing in around you. The great clock in the tower looms visible through the tall window, its face bathed in moonlight, each tick dragging you forward. You light the stubby candles you find in the little cupboard, their flames small and shaky, like they know they don’t belong here at this hour.

Thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes until the end of the day. The end of the term. Thirty minutes until the bet is over. Until you win.

You exhale, slow. Watch the clock hand crawl forward.

But you can’t see the time for long. All you see is him. James –  standing across the room, his eyes drained of light, watching you like you were the one who’d hollowed him out. His eyes follow you still, burned into the back of your eyelids, dull and disappointed, like you’d proved something to him that he wished you hadn’t.

Twenty-nine minutes.

You close your eyes.

Maybe it’s true what they say about Slytherins – that your heart is just a myth. Something you learned to live without.

James Potter finds you ten minutes before midnight.

You don’t even have to open your eyes to know it’s him because the air changes when he walks in, like the room exhales with him. The weight of it shifts – warmer, quieter, as if his presence tucks itself around you like a blanket. Gentle, encompassing. It’s him. Of course it’s him.

You’re curled in your usual armchair, legs folded beneath you, a book sitting untouched in your lap. The candles have long burned down to nothing, puddles of wax cooling in place. The only light now is the moon, spilling silver and pale across the frost-lined windows. You can see your breath when you exhale. Cold, sharp. You pluck the pencil from behind your ear and start rolling it between your fingers like it’s a wand or a weapon. Something to keep your hands busy. Something to pretend you’re still armed.

You feel his gaze before you see it – heavy and patient. He’s standing between the shelves, just watching.

"You’re late," you murmur, eyes still on the book you’re not reading. You say it like you’ve done this before like this is just another evening in the library, just another study session.

"I didn’t know it was planned," he answers, and his voice is soft. Not smug. Not teasing. Just James.

You glance up then, and there he is. Hair a mess from the party, tie loose around his neck, collar rumpled and dotted with faint sparkles that caught in the fabric somehow, as if the party still clings to him. His eyes are steady now, quiet. No wildness, no desperation – just something like peace. Like he’s glad he found you here.

"You look like you’ve been hexed," you say, because it’s easier than telling him what you really think.

He smiles faintly. "You look like heartbreak."

It lodges in you, sharp and sudden. You forget to breathe for a second. The pencil goes still between your fingers. Slowly, deliberately, you close the book on your lap – not that you’d read a single word anyway.

James steps closer, then drops into the chair across from you. He leans forward like he’s going to say something clever, some easy line, but the words don’t come. Instead, he just sits there, elbows on his knees, gaze flicking between you and the candle stump in the middle of the table. The clock ticks on. Five minutes to midnight.

Silence spreads between you – delicate and trembling, like the thread of a spell stretched too thin. It hums around your ears, sharp at the edges, and you can’t stand it anymore.

"Why did you actually do that?" you ask. Your voice is quieter now, thin with something you don’t want to name. "The bet."

He exhales, and it sounds like surrender. His shoulders curve in, and his eyes drop to the candle between you like if he looks hard enough, the wax and flame might hold the truth for him.

"I already told you, darling," he says, the nickname soft and worn-down, missing its usual mischief. "Because I didn’t know how else to make you look at me."

You blink, barely breathing, watching him like if you look away, he might vanish. Your hand grips the pencil tighter beneath the table, as if holding on to anything could stop the shaking just under your skin.

"I thought it was funny," he says, and there’s a crack in his voice he doesn’t bother to hide. "I thought you’d laugh. Roll your eyes. Maybe hex me. I thought it’d be another story to tell – Potter, the idiot who bet he could make the sharpest girl in school fall for him."

He pauses, swallows, his gaze flickering.

"And then you started resisting," he admits, like it still astonishes him. "You didn’t just brush it off. You fought back. And I thought- maybe… maybe that meant I had a chance."

The pencil might as well be a knife between your hands now. You keep your grip on it so you don’t say something dangerous.

Because he’s sitting there, his eyes glassy with everything he’s still trying not to confess. And you’re sitting here, four minutes to midnight, your victory perched on the edge of the hour – so close you could taste it, if not for the too-sweet drink still coating your tongue, and the sour ache curdling at the back of your throat.

You stand. Slowly, deliberately, like there’s a storm gathering in your limbs. The chair creaks faintly as you shift, but you don’t notice. You’re watching him, and James is already on his feet too, like his body refuses to let you rise without him. Instinct. Gravity. A need to match you move for move.

You cross the space between you – not too close, not yet – your expression unreadable, a mask of something dangerous or nothing at all. The candle between you spits and gutters, casting the sharp corners of your face in flickering shadow. The jut of your cheekbones, the curve of your mouth, the glint of your eyes that he still, still looks for.

"And that’s it?" you ask, voice too bright, too sharp-edged to be real. A theater smile curling at your lips. "The final act of your little charade? The last card in the deck?"

He flinches, barely, but his voice stays soft. "Do you think ’bout me like that, darling?"

It startles you. The tenderness in it. The quiet. You dig your nails into your palms. Hard enough that it should sting, but it doesn’t. You grit your teeth, forcing your jaw to stay steady. You want to hate yourself for him – for caring, for being here, for not walking away when you still could.

"We’ve been competing since first year, Potter," you snap, trying to make your voice as sharp as your memory. "You charmed my feathers off my quills. I hexed your broom so it hiccupped mid-air. You brewed me a potion that made cat ears grow out of my head."

His mouth quirks, just barely, and it lights something in your stomach that you don’t want to name.

"I hid your Marauder’s Map in the castle for a week, pretending I didn’t know where it was," you press on, voice rising, cutting. "We were at war, James. And now- … now you’re holding doors for me. Remembering how I take my tea. Bringing me food when I’ve forgotten to eat, making those- those stupid paper swans with their stupid sweet notes-"

"I meant every one of them," he murmurs.

"You flirted with half the castle!" you spit, like you’re trying to make it hurt.

His eyes don’t waver. He steps forward, slow, careful, like he’s afraid too sudden a move will send you fleeing. "It never mattered," he says, and his voice is a whisper you feel in your bones. "No one but you ever did."

You shake your head. Hard. You raise a hand, palm up, as if to block the words physically. You can’t let him do this. You can’t let yourself-

There’s a lump in your throat, rising and rising, so you force an exhale, try to gather up all that old hatred, the easy irritation that always fit so comfortably between your ribs. You close your eyes and reach for it – the biting annoyance, the sharp retorts, the rejection, the pride.

But it’s gone.

All you find is warmth. Gentle, steady, inevitable.

There’s no hatred. No real irritation. Maybe there never was. Maybe it was all a mask to hide the first time he ever smiled at you and you couldn’t stand the way it cracked something open.

All that’s left now is the unbearable, inexhaustible warmth that spreads through your chest every time you think about James Potter. And there’s nothing – nothing – you can do to stop it.

Your world falls apart quietly. Not like glass shattering, but like silk tearing – soft, devastating, irreversible. The walls you built crumble without a sound. And in the space where they stood, something new is rising, rebuilt from warmth and ache and inevitability.

You open your eyes.

Your gaze drifts, dazed, to the clock face high in the dark window. The moonlight pooling silver across its hands. It’s done. It’s passed. And the words leave your mouth before you can stop them, low and clear and final: "It’s after midnight."

James blinks, his brow creasing gently. "Yeah?"

You step closer. Slow and sure, until the space between you hums tight with electricity. Your breath fogs the lenses of his glasses, blurring you both together. And in that hush, that sliver of a heartbeat where he’s still waiting, you whisper, "Which means, technically... the bet is over."

He swallows, throat bobbing visibly. His voice is smaller than it should be. “So what?”

You tilt your head, eyes heavy-lidded, voice velvet-wrapped and dangerous – a blade slipped between ribs. "Looks like you've lost."

And before he can say a single word, before he can even draw another breath… You kiss him.

You kiss him like it’s a battle you’re finally, finally surrendering to. Ferocious, definite, like you’re claiming the ruins of everything you tried to hold onto. His mouth is warm, stunned at first but then he’s moving, kissing you back with a desperation that feels less like victory, and more like relief. Like he doesn’t give a damn who wins, as long as it’s you. As long as it’s this.

You pull away just an inch, barely a breath between your lips and his. Your eyelashes brush the edge of his cheekbone, and when you tilt your head up, his eyes are already waiting – wide, burning, reverent.

And then, so soft, so delicate he almost doesn’t catch it, you whisper, "I think I love you."

James doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because his hands are already in your hair, his mouth on yours again, kissing you like he’s heard it, like he’s known, like he’s been waiting for exactly this all along. Like the only thing he’d ever wanted was for you to say it out loud.

And now that you have, he’ll never let you forget it

A FEW WEEKS LATER:

The fire in the Gryffindor common room is burning low, all red coals and sleepy embers, the flames licking at the stone like they’ve grown tired. Shadows stretch across the walls, long and swaying, and the only sound outside is the hush of snow as it kisses the stained glass, soft and weightless. Inside, everything is warm – thick socks, threadbare rugs, laughter drifting faintly from the dormitories upstairs. The castle is folding itself into curfew, but no one’s come to usher you out yet.

You should be in your own common room. You’re not.

You’re here, pressed against James Potter like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you belong here, tangled with him, folded into his warmth, your head tucked beneath his chin. And maybe you do. Maybe you always have.

His jumper smells like parchment, mint, and boy – that specific, careless scent of someone who lives out of a satchel and a Quidditch locker and never remembers to cap his ink. His fingers are moving slowly through your hair, not with purpose, but with a lazy kind of affection, like he’s got nowhere to be but here. Like he can’t imagine a better place to be.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice a low echo against your temple, "I really thought I’d have to confess to Slughorn."

You laugh – soft, stifled, your breath catching where it brushes his collarbone. "I almost let you."

James leans his head back, grinning up at the ceiling like it’s shared in on the joke. "It would’ve gone down in history."

"You still can," you tease, your fingers idly tracing the seam of his shirt, a gentle map of something familiar. "Gryffindor student arrested for indecent behavior in a public place and unforgivable taste in bets."

"Hey," he protests, mock-wounded, "you’re injuring my pride."

You tip your head back to look at him and of course he’s already watching you. He always is. It’s in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something improbable he’s still not entirely convinced isn’t a dream. Like if he blinks, you’ll vanish.

"I kissed you, didn’t I?" you murmur.

"You did," he says, and his smile is soft, reverent. Not smug. Not victorious. Just… grateful.

You hesitate, fingers pausing in his hair. Your voice drops, lower, more fragile than you meant it to be.

"It wasn’t a fair bet."

His brows lift slightly, curiosity crinkling at the edges. "No? Why not?"

You shift, turning to face him more fully. The firelight paints him gold and shadow, haloed and human all at once. And something fierce presses tight behind your ribs – the terrible, beautiful ache of loving someone in the quiet, when there’s no one left to witness it but the dark.

"Because," you say, your voice slow, your hand slipping into his hair like you’ve done it a thousand times in another life, "I think I liked you from the very beginning."

You feel him freeze – just a breath, a second, the air hitching between you. And then his smile spreads, wide and unstoppable. Not prideful. Not like he’s won. Just… joy. Pure and warm and so achingly James.

"Yeah?" he asks, and his voice is just the faintest bit hoarse.

"Yes."

He kisses you then. Softly. Carefully. Like he’s still learning the shape of the word yours on his tongue.

There’s no argument this time. No clever retort, no battle to win. No conditions.

Just the terms of a heart freely given – and returned in full.

thankx for reading <з

if you enjoyed it, i’d love to hear your thoughts – comments, likes, and reblogs mean the world and help more people find my work. <з your support keeps me writing!

– your santi 🪐

"Me?" you ask, brow furrowing in disbelief as he plucks a cupcake out of the Tupperware dish beside you.

If Eddie notices your surprise, he doesn't mention it. "Yeah, duh," he says flatly. "You ever been to Crafter's?" It's a little brewery that opened up in the center of town. It's not the Ritz, but it's a little classier than The Hideaway. Over the last few years, Eddie drinks a lot less than he used to, so he prefers a quality drink when he does, instead of whatever glorified nail polish remover will get him drunk the fastest.

He's got no shame as he crams about two-thirds of the cupcake into his mouth. It's yellow cake and blue-dyed buttercream frosting. Eddie wouldn't just kill for the sweets you bring in on Fridays - he'd die for them. You gave up a long time ago on expecting Eddie to stick to one, so you've started bringing a little extra. For the whole crew, of course. Just in case.

You shake your head. "No, I've never been."

"Well, consider it a date," he says casually as he licks icing off his hand. "You, me, Gareth, and whatever other unlucky schmucks here don't already have plans for the night."

It doesn't go unnoticed by you that Eddie just assumes you don't have plans. Unfortunately, he's right, so it's hard to be mad. It's been a while since you've gone out anywhere, so you really can't blame him.

"Alright," you shrug.

Eddie throws a little side-eye your way. "'Alright'?"

You laugh at that. "What do you want me to say, Eddie? 'Oh, benevolent overlord, thank you for this blessing. I'd never be invited anywhere without you.'"

His grin is worth the teasing, and he throws a wink your way. "Now, that's more like it," he says, pointing in your direction. Then, he leans back in to snatch another cupcake, and you swat his hand away. He heads back into the shop with his hands up in surrender, wicked grin all but promising he'll be back to try again.

Surprising absolutely nobody, none of the guys from the shop come. Eddie's been trying to get to know his coworkers better, but it's been an uphill battle. Not everyone is keen to be seen associating with him in the first place. Plus, most of them have worked there since the shop opened. They're all somewhat older than Eddie and usually have wives to get home to or some sportsball event on TV.

But Eddie's been working hard to keep an open mind and an optimistic outlook. It's hard to do - harder than ever - but it's also more important than ever. Somewhere in the aftermath of all the shit that's gone down in Hawkins, he realized the only way he was ever going to have a life was to start acting like, one day, he might have one.

So he tries to let it roll right off his back, like a duck in water.

Gareth showed up, which is at least better than no one. And you should be here any minute now, assuming you keep your word. And he doesn't take you for a liar.

"What's this girl's name again?" Gareth asks, frowning at his cider. He doesn't love meeting new people and isn't very good at remembering them, either. He's already met you once, when he brought his car into the shop, but Eddie supposes maybe he wouldn't remember your name, either, if he'd only ever interacted with you once at the checkout counter.

It's not that there's anything wrong with you. It's just that he wouldn't exactly consider you memorable. You're punctual and diligent. You do a good job working the front desk, but Eddie's not sure what would even make a receptionist stand out in a place like Kovach's, or what would qualify one for employee of the month.

You're not what Eddie'd call a knockout, either. The guys at work don't make up excuses to come and lean against the counter all casual-like, just so they can lay eyes on you. They don't ask you out for dinner, or offer their "services" - the single employees or the customers. It's not like someone would take a look at you and run for the hills, but you're just… a regular person. Exactly the kind of girl Eddie would expect to see working the counter at Kovach's.

So no, you're not exactly memorable. But you are cool, in a sense. Your uncle runs the shop, so you're not afraid of making fun of the other mechanics with Eddie when you've got downtime. (What's he gonna do? Fire you?) And you're always willing to help Eddie squeak in last-minute orders for parts, even when you should tell him to wait until tomorrow. And the thing that makes you the coolest is that you look at Eddie like he's somebody, which is a lot better than he gets from anyone else at the shop, except for Kovach himself.

Eddie reminds Gareth of your name for the third time since he invited him to Crafter's in the first place. Says it nice and slow, then spells it for good measure with a mocking tune.

He never even sees you coming when you pull the barstool away from the high-top and climb onto it. One second, there was no trace of you, and now, here you are, in all your glory (or lack thereof).

"You spelled it wrong," you say by way of a greeting. You don't look directly at him, but you're not looking at Gareth, either. Instead, you lean slightly toward Eddie, bending over at the waist to place your purse on the ground between his seat and yours. Your hair brushes his arm, and he pulls back, trying to give you some space.

When you sit up straight, you flash Eddie a half-heartedly apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout that." Then you look across the table. "You must be Gareth?" you ask.

Eddie blinks, realizing he's fumbled the intro already. "Oh, yeah." There's something about your arrival that's thrown Eddie off-kilter. It's probably just that he expected he'd see you walk through the door - that's part of why he chose this table in the first place.

Gareth, for his part, doesn't seem fazed at all. He just says "yep," as though having a bit of personality might actually kill him.

"No Greg?" you ask Eddie.

He shrugs. "They all said no, except for Michael, who said maybe, which means no."

Gareth whistles lowly at that and shakes his head, taking a big swig of his cider. Eddie wrinkles his nose in response. Gareth's never learned how to savor anything. He drinks to get drunk. Eddie used to, too; now, he doesn't remember what he enjoyed about it.

"Wow, Ed," Gareth drawls, "your social life is reaching new heights every day."

Eddie doesn't even dignify Gareth with a response. There's plenty he could make fun of Gareth for, but he knows this game well. Eddie's got the advantage of knowing both of his guests, and you and Gareth don't know each other at all. Leave it to Gareth to try and build a bridge by making Eddie the butt of the joke.

He doesn't mind, not really. It's probably better than Gareth ignoring you all night.

So instead of reacting to Gareth's stupid jab, Eddie looks at you intently. "Want anything to drink?"

You cock your head to the side and look at the glass he's got his hand wrapped around. "What are you drinking?" Your voice is soft; he can just hear you over the low thrum of guitar and voices of regulars.

Eddie's been experimenting with mixed drinks since he started coming to Crafter's, and he's challenged himself not to drink the same thing twice all summer. It started as a bid to make conversation with the bartender on duty during his first visit. Now it's turned into a collaborative quest to test the limits of what Bartender Nick can do with the supplies available to him. Eddie's had some real stinkers as a result - last week, it was some atrocity that had the consistency of egg drop soup - but this one's not bad at all.

"Coffee and Coke," he tells you, like that's a normal thing to be drinking.

You don't seem impressed. Even worse, from your expression, you're a little revolted. "Seriously?"

"Well, yeah. It's like an espresso martini but with Coke." You don't seem convinced. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you try it. I'll buy you one if you'll give it a chance."

"I think I'd rather have a drink menu."

Eddie sighs theatrically, but like a diligent host, he pushes his barstool back and stands. "Your loss," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Food menu, too?"

"Yes," Gareth chimes in, looking bored as usual.

"Be nice," Eddie warns Gareth, signaling that he's keeping an eye on him before weaving through bodies and chairs to the bar. That's all he needs, is Gareth scaring you off before you can even settle in.

For better or worse, before Gareth even receives the appetizer he ordered, his mom calls the bar, asking for him, and he has to leave. Grandma had a fall, and his mom had to take her to the hospital but forgot all of Grandma's meds at home. Eddie asks if he's going to be okay, but Gareth doesn't let on like he's worried. He says it doesn't sound too serious, and despite how much Gareth pretends he doesn't care about anything, Eddie knows he's a Grandma's boy through and through. If it was a big deal, he'd be acting like it.

"Poor Grandma," you say with a contemplative frown after Gareth leaves.

Eddie'd never given a lot of thought to the prospect of getting older and what that must be like until '86. He never really thought he'd live to be old. Now that he's determined to do so, that kind of stuff weighs on his mind more than he'd like. He makes a mental note to take some flowers to Gareth's grandma tomorrow, after sleeping off whatever level of hangover he leaves Crafter's with.

As if like clockwork, one of the servers brings out the appetizer sampler. Eddie asks her to put Gareth's purchases on his tab. Gareth tried to insist on paying for himself earlier, but Grandma's unfortunate fall means that he isn't there to stop Eddie from covering the bill.

You and Eddie split Gareth's appetizer, and you chat a bit about you. While you're always friendly at work, you don't talk about yourselves much at all - just small talk and the like, and those awesome desserts you bring. You talk about how you moved back to Hawkins after college, that your family had lived here for a while when you were young, and then when you struggled to find a job after college, your uncle agreed to hire you. You tell him about your little shoebox apartment above the general store on Main Street.

He tells you he plays guitar, and that he and Gareth used to be in a metal band together, called Corroded Coffin. You talk about music quite a lot, comparing notes - the unexpected things you have in common, the funny differences in your tastes. Eddie's softened up a little in the last several years and has been trying to expand his musical horizons. He confesses that he's got a soft spot for Madonna.

It's when you laugh at his admission that something shifts in his mind. When you arrived, you sat between him and Gareth at the circular table, meaning you're directly to his left. You're sitting so close, he hasn't actually gotten a good look at you - although, he guesses he wasn't really trying. But when you laugh, he sees up close the way your eyelashes flutter, the way your smile touches your eyes. And your eyes - they're full of affection instead of judgment.

Eddie's seen you nearly five days a week for months now, and talked with you at least once each of those days, and yet, he's never really noticed you. Not the way he's noticing you now. He can't help but smile at the sound of your laugh, and against his will, his eyes follow the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips. You feel impossibly close. He didn't even see it before, the way your shoulders are tilted in towards him, and the way he's also turned slightly on his barstool, leaving you only a few inches apart.

When you place your elbow on the table and support your cheek with your hand, he sucks in a breath and leans back, blinking. He's been drinking, but he's not drunk. Not drunk enough to cause the warmth in his belly and chest, or the muddled feeling in his mind.

"I'm gonna go grab another drink. D'you want another one?" he asks with a nod toward your empty glass.

"Oh," you say, perking up, "sure!"

"Alright, what do you want?"

You're already sliding off of your barstool behind him. "I'll come with you. I don't trust you with my drink." Eddie's brow furrows at that before you interrupt his train of thought with another laugh. "Not like that - I don't remember what's on the menu, and you clearly have bad judgment," you say, waving a hand at what used to be his drink.

Bartender Nick had called it a Monkey Gland, whatever that means. Eddie's not even sure what was in it, just that it was a lot in the flavor department.

Eddie lets you lead the way to the bar, and oh, man, that was a mistake. Now that he's more than a foot away from you, his curious eyes are quite busy, and that's not a good spot to be in when trying to keep up in a crowd.

You've done your hair, is the thing - not like you do for work, but something softer and more feminine. He noticed your makeup earlier, your striking eyes, but he failed to notice the hair. Or your dress, for that matter; it's a tight little thing that ends at your mid-thigh. It fits like it was made for you. He's never seen you out of uniform, or wearing anything but non-slip tennis shoes. Your strappy heels draw his attention, glinting gold in the overhead lights.

You look like you dressed up, is the thing. Yeah, your outfit is cute. Yeah, you're more relaxed tonight than you ever are at work - and more conversational. But you look like you tried. Do you try like this for all your social events? Did you dress up for Eddie?

Did you come to Crafter's with the intention of going home to a place you've never been? Or do you have an "afterparty" he's not been invited to attend?

By the time you reach the bar, he's sweating, and it's not just his hair. It's you.

"I thought you weren't having anything you've already had this summer," you tease as you climb back onto your barstool. You just got a refill of your usual, but Eddie's changed from some obscure cocktail to a piña colada.

"Maybe I've never had a piña colada before," Eddie says, raising his eyebrows at you.

"I don't believe you."

Eddie simply sips through his straw in response, pink lips wrapped nicely around the black plastic.

You're feeling warm from the alcohol, and making conversation with Eddie is as natural as anything. Eddie's always a little bit of a charmer at work, and sometimes you struggle not to blush, but this is different. His not just charming tonight - he's flirtatious. You wonder if he's like this with all of his friends. Although, you can't imagine he'd flirt well with Gareth.

After a little while if shooting the shit, Eddie's posture grows a little more stiff. He leans back on his barstool and rolls his shoulders. "Thank you for coming out tonight," he says, just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, but low enough that you have to lean in.

"Yeah, of course," you say with a smile, surprised at the gratitude. "I wouldn't have missed it." Although, it's just now occurring to you - none of the guys from work came, and Gareth had to leave early. If you hadn't come, Eddie'd be spending tonight at the bar all by himself. The thought reminds you of birthday parties from your past, the ones where everyone said they'd be there but nobody showed.

Eddie's so genuine and so lively, you can't imagine him sitting in a bar all by his lonesome, waiting for someone to come who never will. Maybe it's just your little crush talking, but Eddie is… He's friendly and witty and oh my God, he's even hotter with his hair down. Someone like Eddie - it's baffling to think he could ever be stood up, by friends or otherwise.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Heat rushes to your cheeks as soon as you say it, and Eddie's brown eyes widen a little. You didn't exactly mean to ask. It just came out as soon as the thought crossed your mind. But you don't retract the question.

Clearing his throat, he says, "No, I'm not seeing anyone. Why do you ask?"

You feel a little bold, although not quite assertive. You look down at the table as you say, "I was just curious if anyone else would be coming to meet up with us."

After a beat of silence, Eddie's fingertips graze your thigh, just above the knee. When you look up at him, his brown eyes are warm like caramel. "It's just us."

Eddie doesn't know how it happened. It's like his fingers moved of their own volition, but he could swear he feels a spark when his skin meets yours. Your eyes haven't left his, but you take a sip of your drink through the little black straw, and then he feels you press into his touch, ever so slightly.

Every time Eddie's ever talked to you, he's noticed how kind you are, and how funny. But he's never before noticed the exact shade of your eyes, or—Jesus Christ—the scent of your hair. It's coconut. The smell is intoxicating, and it leaves him wanting more. So much that when his chest brushed against your shoulder at the bar, the only thing he could think about was coconut. He opened his mouth to ask for a lemon drop and ended up ordering a piña colada instead.

"Do you—" Eddie cuts himself off abruptly. For a moment there, he was almost so lost in your eyes that he forgot himself. You're his coworker. Your uncle owns the company he works for. The first place that's really given him a chance. It's a terrible idea.

But he doesn't miss the way your jaw drops, lips parting just slightly. "Do I what?" you ask. Slowly, you lift your leg up and cross it over the other, leaning just a bit closer in your seat. And Eddie can see it. He can see the way you want him, too. It's in your eyes. It's in your touch as you lay a soft hand on his forearm. It's in the flutter of your lashes as you look up at him, like you're waiting for him to give you something. Something he'd love to give.

Earlier today, Eddie had only ever thought of you as a friendly coworker, a buddy, maybe a confidant of minor indiscretions. Tonight, he can feel the charge of the static between you, can almost see the desire rolling off of you in waves. He knows what it feels like because it's vibrating at the same frequency of his own.

Eddie's been keeping a slow pace for his drinks, slower than he thought he would. His intention tonight was, despite his usual attitude, to get absolutely plastered. But he's been so caught up in chatting with you that he's only had three drinks, and it's been two and a half hours. And he's not even finished the third.

You're on your second, and he doesn't know your tolerance, but your eyes aren't glassy and your movements aren't that languid, too-slow pace of someone who's beyond tipsy. No, you're both a little tipsy at worst.

Your thumb brushes over the mottled scarring of his bat tattoo, and his breath catches in his throat. Finally, against his better judgment, he asks, "Do you wanna get out of here?"

Eddie's presence in your apartment is almost unnerving, with just how aware you are of him. You haven't had a guy over since you moved into the place six months ago, so for it to be Eddie, the funny guy from work who's way out of your league, is mind-boggling.

There's an awkward density to the air. It's surreal, is the thing. He's hanging his leather jacket up at the front door beside your raincoat, and your eyes are zeroed in on your feet as you undo the straps of your heels. Eddie takes his time unlacing his combat boots beside you. If he's as nervous as you are, he doesn't let on.

His hand brushes against your hip as you stand, ready to support you if you were to stumble. When you look up at him, he pulls you in close, one hand resting at your waist, and the other delicately cupping your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's afraid you might shatter, or worse, run away.

You don't miss the way his gaze flickers to your lips and his own part slightly with anticipation. He leans in just an inch or two before stopping himself, big, brown eyes looking into yours. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is the way you get out of this awkward feedback loop in your head, you think. The overthinking, the wondering what changed for him, why he suddenly wants this when he's never seemingly looked at you twice. This is how it ends - by you taking his cues. You've thought about touching Eddie close to a hundred times, at this point, and now that you've got the opportunity, you don't know how to close the deal.

So you nod quietly and follow his lead.

For all that Eddie's fingers are calloused from working on cars and playing guitar, his touch is gentle. He strokes the pad of his thumb over your cheek, his breath warm on your skin as he presses his lips to yours. Your eyelashes flutter as your eyes close, and you try to relax into him, hands finding his waist. His lips are softer than you would have expected, and he kisses you like…

It doesn't feel like an easy score or a one night stand, really. He moves slowly and methodically, but not without urgency. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his lips find yours again quickly, and you inhale the scent of his cologne through your nose - bergamot and cinnamon. Your lips part slightly as his fingertips graze the soft skin behind your ear, and when they do, you feel his tongue brush gently against yours. It startles you a little, and you pull away, cheeks burning.

Eddie leans back to see you better. "You okay?"

Embarrassed, you nod and bite your lip. "Yeah, I'm fine. You just surprised me is all."

Cocking his head to the side, he asks, "Good surprise, or bad surprise?"

"Not bad."

His eyes search yours, and he cradles the back of your head with his hand. "You're sure you want to do this?" When you hesitate to respond, Eddie tips his head toward the couch behind you. "Why don't we go sit down and talk it out?"

As he leads you to the sofa, you complain, "I don't think we need to talk, really."

He shoots a look your way that says he begs to differ. "Honey, we're not getting anywhere if you can't talk to me about how you're feeling." When he sits, he turns his body to face you, one leg pulled up onto the couch and the other hanging off of it. Uncertainty all over your face, you mirror him, dress riding up your thighs.

Eddie politely pretends not to notice, instead taking your hand in his and leveling you with a look of genuine curiosity and a hint of concern. He hesitates to begin, not sure which route to take to steer the conversation in the right direction, but after a second, he finally just asks, "Are you attracted to me?"

Your cheeks burn hot at the question, but you nod. "Yeah, I am."

"Okay," he says, drawing out the second syllable. "Do you like me?"

Your brow furrows, like you're not sure why he would ask. "Of course I like you."

He strokes the back of your hand with his thumb and asks, "Okay, so what's going on? You seem nervous." After a beat, he says, "Is it because of Kovach?"

You wrinkle your nose at that. "Don't talk about him," you say quickly, like you're trying to put your uncle out of your mind as quickly as possible. "No, it's not that; it's just… are you actually, like, into me?" Eddie's taken aback by your question. You can tell from the way he blinks in response, so you continue. "You've never acted like you had any particular interest in me before, and then tonight, it's like something has changed, but—Do you actually want me, or do you just want someone?"

There it is, Eddie thinks, the big question.

He lets go of your hand and sits up a little straighter before asking, "Have you ever been somewhere before, like a neighborhood you drive through all the time, and thought it was a nice neighborhood but never thought too much about it?" When you make a face, he says, "Seriously, just humor me. Think about it."

Even though it's silly, you try to do as he asks. You imagine your drive to and from work. It's a short one. You follow Main Street, and then go out toward Maple, and then on to the edge of town. And between Maple Street and Kovach's, sure, there are some pretty nice houses, and some average ones, but overall, it's a decent neighborhood.

"Yeah, I guess so," you say hesitantly.

Eddie perks up a little at that. "Okay, so you're driving through this neighborhood that you go through every day, and part of what makes the neighborhood nice is all the individual houses. So you pass the first house, and it's decent, you know, you like the house alright. And you pass the second one, and it's pretty good, too. And you start thinking, okay, this must be an alright neighborhood. And then on down the street, there's, like, this beautiful house. It's got nice siding and brick, and the lawn is manicured really well, like the people who live there must really care about their house. It's got the white picket fence and everything. It's the American dream."

You laugh, a little awkwardly. "Eddie, I really don't understand what you're getting at here."

"You're the neighborhood," he says quickly, as though that makes perfect sense. "And it's like all the houses in the neighborhood are parts of you that I've seen before. But it's like, today, I saw this fucking beautiful house in the neighborhood, on a street I'd never gone down before, and all I could think about was how gorgeous that house is - and how much I like this neighborhood."

You make a face.

"Seriously," he says, leaning in a little closer. "I see you every day, and you know what? I like it when you bring cupcakes, and I like it when you make fun of the other guys and shitty, asshole customers with me, and the way you let me get away with putting in last-minute parts orders, and the way you get embarrassed when I catch you reading, and—"

He can see it in your eyes and the little crease between your furrowed eyebrows - he sees the way it's dawning on you now, but he says it anyway.

"I didn't realize how much I like those things, but tonight, when I got to see you really just be yourself instead of who you have to be at work - I loved that. And I love seeing you dressed like this, and acting a little more confident, but it's not just about the way you look. I feel like, for the first time, I'm really seeing who you are. And this isn't just a decent neighborhood to me anymore. I just realized tonight that this is a really nice neighborhood, a beautiful one, and I'd move there if one of the houses were up for sale. But before tonight, I just hadn't seen enough of the neighborhood to know."

Your voice is smaller, softer when you look up at him through your lashes. "Eddie…"

He licks his lips, brown eyes searching yours, and then he asks again, "Can I please kiss you?"

This time, you feel it - that electricity that binds you, the same spark that simmered in the current between you both at the bar. You don't bother answering him, just raise up onto your knees and close the gap between you. Your fingers slot themselves into Eddie's hair, that soft, curly hair you've been dying to touch for ages, and as your lips meet his, he pulls you in closer, standing to his feet. On paper, it looks like you're following his lead, but Eddie feels the insistence in your touch as your press your hands to his chest, guiding him backwards to the bed in the corner of the room.

When the backs of his legs connect with the mattress, you slide your hands up to the hem of his shirt and begin tugging it up his torso. Your lips part from his just long enough to pull the shirt over his head, and then you're back on him, pushing him down by the shoulders until he gets the memo to sit down at the foot of the bed.

A moan escapes you as your hands find his abdomen, palms pressed flat against the firm muscles you've only seen in glimpses at the shop. Eddie laughs at the needy sound that spills from your mouth, and he hooks one leg behind your knee, rolling over to pin you to the mattress. "Oh, honey," he coos, all sticky sweet sympathy. "You've been wanting this a long time, huh?"

If it was anyone else, you'd probably feel patronized, probably take offense. But you know Eddie, and instead of offending you, it only makes you want him more. Nodding emphatically, you tug him closer by the belt loops. "Think about you a lot," you confess, your breath catching at the end as he presses a soft, languid kiss to your neck, beneath your ear. Hitching your leg higher up his waist, you press your hips against his, searching for relief.

"Mm, do you?" His hands roam your body, caressing the outside of your thigh with one and hiking up the hem of your dress with the other. His smile is a little smug. "What do you think about?"

You don't think you could feel embarrassed right now if you tried. Your response spills out of you of it's own accord, on a breathy sigh, as he lowers the strap of your dress and kisses along your collarbone. "Think about your - mm, your fingers," you whimper. "Filling me up, getting me ready for you."

"Yeah?" he pulls you onto his lap, then. With his hand, he cups your heat through your panties. "These fingers?" he murmurs, stroking you through the thin fabric.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you brace yourself for his touch, hips squirming slightly to give him better leverage. You're on fire now, pulse thrumming hard and fast in your throat. "Eddie, please."

"Oh, honey," he says, looking into your glassy eyes, "you don't have to beg. I'll give it to you, I promise."

You can't help it - when he hooks his fingers into the side of your panties, pulls them aside and grazes his fingertips against your clit, you whine and dig your nails into his back. This isn't just sensitivity after a dry spell. You need his touch like you need to breathe. Now that you have it, it feels so surreal that it's painful.

"Let me take these off, sweet girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You do as he asks, and the maneuvering is a little awkward, but the anxiety is gone. When you settle back into his lap, he strokes the hair at your hairline and pulls you to his chest, letting you slump against his shoulder.

Eddie presses the pad of his thumb into your folds, and he listens to your sounds to help guide him. After just a couple of seconds, he finds your clit again - confirmed when you whimper and spread your thighs a little farther apart for him.

"That's it, baby," he coos, sweeping a broad circle around your clitoris before using his middle finger to trace a trail all the way down from your labia to your hole. Your walls clench at the sensation, and he must feel it because he hums soothingly when you do. Then, just as he presses one fingertip to your entrance, he asks, "D'you touch yourself like this?" You nod against his shoulder, shame and embarrassment completely absent from your mind. He dips his finger inside you, just to the first knuckle, before pulling out again. "You imagine it's me touching your pussy like this?"

He doesn't wait for your response before sinking his finger deep inside you, all the way down to the chunky, silver ring at his third knuckle. You cry out in response, thighs already shaking with anticipation. "Eddie," you whine, lifting your hips up to fuck yourself on his finger.

"You should have said something, baby," he says, syrupy sweet. "I'd have taken care of you a long time ago if I knew you needed me so bad."

Normally, his cockiness might be sexy, but right now, it's more frustrating than anything. You grit your teeth as he works another finger inside of you. The stretch is so delicious, you lose your train of thought for a moment, walls clenching tightly around him. It's made even more difficult to think when he resumes rubbing little circles into your clit with his thumb. For a few seconds, the only thing you can do is surrender to the pleasure and moan into his shoulder.

Just when you're starting to adjust, he curls his fingers forward, toward your pelvic bone, and you gasp at the sensation. He tries different angles, but it's only a matter of seconds before he finds that spot, the one that fills you with blinding, white-hot pleasure. Before long, you're chanting his name like it's a life-saving incantation, and you're barely able to get a grasp on what's happening before your climax hits, hard and fast and way too soon, and suddenly, you're cumming all over his fingers. When you cry out his name, your voice sounds ragged to your own ears, like it's coming from someone else entirely. Your hips buck against his hand, silently begging for both more and less at the same time.

He works you through your orgasm, tells you what a great job you've done, how beautiful you look while taking his fingers. Wrenching a sob from your throat with one hand, he uses the other to rub your back, soothing you with touch and praise.

When you finally finish, you push his hand away half-heartedly, clitoris too overstimulated to handle anymore of his ministrations. Eddie laughs and eases you down onto your back, then presses a soft kiss to your temple as you try and catch your breath.

He takes your hand in his and kisses the back of it, gentleman-like, as though he didn't just make you cum all over his lap merely seconds ago. Your brain is seemingly stuck in overdrive, thoughts incoherent.

When his hand grazes your thigh, you look over at him, where he lies beside you, and his expression is serious - the most serious you've ever seen it. "Can I touch you again?" he asks, and your mind races at the thought.

Of course he can touch you, you think, but you don't know if you can handle it. "I-I'm sensitive," you say, looking into his eyes for any hint of disappointment.

"Sensitive… here?" He taps a finger just to the side of your clitoris, and you nod, curling into him. When you do, he asks, "What if I don't touch you there? You think you could handle that?"

Headlights shine through the window above Main Street and ricochet off the walls, casting Eddie's face in just a glimpse of light. In that moment, you can see it highlighted all over his face, the desire smoldering in his big, brown eyes. And you know you'd give him anything he wanted, even if you felt like you were going half-insane with over-stimulation.

Swallowing thickly, you nod. "What do you wanna do?"

He walks his fingers across your arm and pulls you closer. His voice is low as he murmurs, "I wanna take my time with you… wanna see how pretty you look when you cum on my cock."

Normally, that kind of talk might make you feel embarrassed from it's crassness, but instead, it's the flattery that makes you bite back a smile. "I'm not pretty," you say. Your voice holds no conviction.

"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."

"You think?" 

You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again. 

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks. 

The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face. 

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."

You shove Steve's shoulder lightly. 

"You are not dumb, Steve."

One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.

He had made you swear not to tell anyone. 

"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."

His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you. 

"Tommy says I am."

"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."

You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you. 

“Promise?” he asks.

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.” 

You nod and lay back on the floaty. 

“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks. 

“Just us?” 

“Just us.”

Now. (January, 1987)

You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you. 

Whoops. Right. You're still at work. 

You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing. 

You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink. 

And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it? 

Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar. 

“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”

Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.

“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”

“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.

“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."

The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?” 

You lean against the side of the game, considering.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

You snort. 

“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”

He glances at you. 

“So?”

“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.” 

You wink at Dustin. He beams.

“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add. 

The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently. 

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”

Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway. 

You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight. 

“You’re awesome, Y/N!" 

You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”

Dustin sours.

“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?” 

“No way!"

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”

You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot. 

“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again." 

You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young. 

Dustin shrugs, starting the game.

“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”

“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”

“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”

“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."

You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town. 

"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."

"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."

"Would I now?"

"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered." 

"Wow. Impressive."

"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”

“You would?”

The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.

“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”

“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."

“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”

“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”

Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.

“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."

"'Kay!"

Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family. 

"Who do I ask for?" 

"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"

"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"

"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."

Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck. 

The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.

"Can I help who's next?"

You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!

"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says. 

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?" 

You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler. 

She nods in realization. 

"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."

You wince. 

"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"

Her brows raise. She smiles a bit. 

"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"

"Pretty in Pink," you say. 

"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"

"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."

She grins.

"Me too. She's pretty."

"Super pretty," you agree. 

The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand. 

"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."

You take her hand. "Y/N.”

"Did you go to Hawkins High?"

"I did. Graduated last year."

"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"

You nod. 

"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."

"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"

"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."

You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest. 

"How come?" she asks. 

"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."

Robin smiles sympathetically. 

"They're jerks," she says. 

You huff. "Yeah."

You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore. 

Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans. 

"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."

"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from. 

She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass. 

You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on. 

The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures. 

"Have you been waiting long?"

You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter. 

Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font. 

He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles. 

"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."

You blink.

"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye. 

"No," you manage. 

"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?" 

He doesn't remember you. 

You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.

And he doesn't remember you. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.

You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve. 

"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."

"I have to go," you say. 

You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin. 

Her brows rise. 

"Oh. Is everything—"

"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."

"That's okay, we can just—"

You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away. 

Only there do you stop to catch your breath. 

And then you cry. 

February 1982

"What do you think about Marie?" 

You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table. 

"Marie Iverson?" you ask.

"Yeah." 

Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it. 

"I don't know. I don't know her that well."

"She's cute." 

"I guess so," you say. 

It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—

"I was thinking of asking her out."

The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase. 

"Shit, here. Take mine." 

Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it. 

"Y/N?" 

"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."

"Sure. So what do you think?" 

"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."

"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."

Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before. 

"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now. 

"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."

"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."

Steve deflates. 

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

You sigh and rub your temple. 

"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."

"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."

Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?" 

"Writing?"

"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."

"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."

He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention. 

"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."

Steve laughs, nose scrunched. 

"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."

"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words." 

"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"

"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."

Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."

Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.

You shuffle your papers into a stack. 

"Can we study now?" you ask.

"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."

He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.

"Lemme take you out," he says. 

You nearly swallow your tongue. 

"Wh–what?"

"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."

Steve beams. "I'll drive you."

Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do. 

You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair. 

Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back. 

"Just us?" you check. 

You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together. 

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?" 

You check your watch and close your book. 

"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later." 

Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.) 

"Please," he says. "For helping me."

Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."

Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends. 

"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."

You perk up at that. "Really?"

"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?" 

"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.

Now

You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs. 

"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."

You might have overshot the perks, though. 

Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses. 

"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."

She shoots you a mean look. 

"I'm complaining to the manager."

You paste on a smile. 

"You do that. Have a nice day."

She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation. 

Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.

Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always. 

You lean your elbows on the countertop. 

"What'll it be, gang?"

"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."

You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes. 

"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.

"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."

Dustin accepts this with no argument. 

"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."

You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that. 

He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking. 

"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say. 

"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?" 

Lucas nods. 

"Yup. They're both parents."

You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey. 

"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."

"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."

"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"

Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you. 

"What?"

"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains. 

"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."

"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."

"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone. 

Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie. 

"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."

"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort. 

"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared. 

"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."

"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector." 

Dustin nods eagerly.

You blink. "He protects you guys?"

Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly. 

"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."

"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."

"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."

"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."

You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that. 

"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."

"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."

"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?" 

Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."

"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”

“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.

“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”

You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change. 

When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty. 

"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"

"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."

"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"

"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."

"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.

"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business." 

"And why can't your babysitter take you?"

You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional. 

"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."

Now that sounds like the Steve you knew. 

"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."

"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."

“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.

You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.

“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”

“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.

“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”

You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”

Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”

You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”

“Byeeee!”

They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.

March 1983

“Okay, but if you had to choose.”

“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”

Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”

“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”

“Exactly! My birthday.”

He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.

“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”

“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”

“I keep telling you you need glasses.”

“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”

He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool. 

“Shit,” he says.

You belly laugh in delight.

“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”

“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”

"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."

You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy. 

The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy. 

“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”

"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.

“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”

“‘S cold.”

“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”

He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”

“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.

“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.

“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason. 

“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”

“Can’t believe no one else came.”

You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.

“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”

You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.

“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”

“I listen.”

Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.

“God, I miss you,” he says.

You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little. 

“I’m right here, Steve.”

“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”

Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.

“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”

“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”

“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.

“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”

You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.

“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”

“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”

Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”

His laugh is warm in your neck. 

You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.

Now

“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”

“Game plan?” El asks quietly.

“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”

She stares at Lucas.

“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”

“Right.”

“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”

You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”

Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”

“Or a total disaster,” Max says.

You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.

“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”

The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.

“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”

Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”

“Uh-huh.” 

The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning. 

“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area. 

You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share. 

“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”

Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.

“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”

He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.

“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.

“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”

“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”

“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.

“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”

“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”

Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.

“Harrington, man, what’s up!” 

Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.

“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”

Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.

“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm. 

“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.

“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”

America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying. 

“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded. 

You feel a burst of pride.

Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.

“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”

“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”

No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror. 

“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”

Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.

Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”

Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.

“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”

He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.

“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”

The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket. 

“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”

“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”

Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.

“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”

She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you. 

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”

“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”

Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”

You’re suddenly exhausted.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”

“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”

“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”

“I didn’t want it that much.”

“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”

“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”

“Y/N—”

“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it. 

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”

“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”

Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.

So you run. Again. 

You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting. 

You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?

So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.

Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.

Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.

"Slushie?"

She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"

You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"

"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"

Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth. 

You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese. 

"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.

Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"

"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?" 

Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too. 

"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava. 

"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"

"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."

Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none. 

"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."

"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."

You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head. 

"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."

"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."

Robin smiles a sad smile. 

"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."

The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?

"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."

"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."

"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble. 

"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."

You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.

"If you two are—"

"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met." 

"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."

Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."

You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot. 

"This town is so shit," you say. 

"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."

"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."

Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."

"I can sometimes be an asshole."

"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?" 

You laugh. "We'll get jackets."

"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle. 

You look at the tape in your hand. 

"Does Steve like John Hughes?" 

"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."

He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved. 

"I did want to watch this one," you say. 

"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises. 

You suppose not.

December 1984

You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.

Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on. 

Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap. 

Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.

You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't. 

A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself. 

You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.

Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been. 

"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."

There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie. 

It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.

Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not. 

Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy. 

Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life. 

No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.

You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault. 

But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him. 

You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital. 

Now (And Forever)

The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.

It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.

The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it. 

Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.

That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.

I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.

You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.

I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.

Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you. 

I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck. 

But I miss you. I always have.

Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.

I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships. 

Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that. 

It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.

I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it. 

I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.

You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.

Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.

Sincer

Lo

Your friend,

Steve

You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand. 

You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.

It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.

There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.

You knock on the door three times. And wait.

Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.

The door swings open. 

Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine. 

“I got your letter,” you say.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”

Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”

“Like a friend?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask. 

“Always.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”

You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—

“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you confess.

Steve nods against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”

“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.

“Hmm?”

You pull back to look at Steve.

“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”

“You ever gonna stop throwing yourself into fights for an asshole?” You asked lightly, squeezing ointment onto your fingers.

“Probably not” He said, shrugging “Not if it means they get away with saying crap like that.”

Your fingers were soft when they touched the corner of his lip, cleaning off dried blood with a tenderness that made Steve's chest ache. He hated how his voice sounded too quiet in these moments. He didn't want to feel vulnerable.

“Does it scare you? When I get like this?”

You blinked, surprised by the question, feeling your hands still for a moment.

“No, it never has. Because you don’t get like this with me.”

Steve met your eyes without fear this time, seeing a curve on your lips.

It wasn’t a romantic moment. Not yet, but it was the kind of moment that found its place in the silence between the two of you. It felt quiet and raw, as if it were etched in the space separating you both. All he wanted was to hug you and hold on for just a moment.

You returned to cleaning him up, brushing your thumb along the edge of his jaw where a bruise had started to form.

“You’ve gotta stop letting your parents’ voices live in your head. They don’t get to take up space in there forever” Your voice was tender, and it echoed in his head.

Steve’s throat tightened, but he nodded. He didn’t say thank you, he actually never did. Not because he wasn’t grateful, but because he didn’t know how to say it in a way that would do justice to you. Instead, he let you patch him up in silence. And you did. Carefully, as if it mattered.

Later that night, after you had fallen asleep next to Robin and Steve was lying awake in her guest bedroom, staring at the ceiling, he thought about how you had looked at him. You weren't afraid; you never were. It was as if he wasn't a wreckage you had grown accustomed to cleaning up. He thought maybe he’d tell you one day; not in the middle of a fight or after another busted lip, but on a regular, nothing-special day. He would tell you that he noticed, that he always did. No one else had ever made him feel less of a mess just by being there.

But for now, he let the silence settle, let you stay asleep, safe from everything, even from the worst parts of himself. For once, Steve Harrington didn’t feel like he was on the verge of breaking down. He just felt... intact.

Because of you. Because you always appeared when he was falling apart. And because, little by little, he was learning that maybe he didn’t have to break alone anymore.

He looks at you differently when he thinks no one’s watching. It’s neither dramatic nor obvious. He doesn’t linger like some guy in a teen movie, nor does he stare enough for it to get awkward. But in those quiet moments, or when you’re laughing with Dustin at the arcade, chatting with Robin behind the Family Video counter, or even just standing beside him in line at the gas station. His eyes find you like a magnet.

For example, you tuck your hair behind your ear without realizing it, or when you chew your lip while scanning the back of a VHS case. You don’t notice, but he does. Always. His gaze is soft, warm, and almost worshipping. Not because he’s trying to memorize you. He already knows you.

He just likes seeing you be… you.

He’s the only one who notices the small things. How you always tap the rim of your coffee cup twice - only ever with your left hand - before taking a sip. Or how you can’t stand milk in your coffee but still add exactly half a spoonful of sugar. Just enough to get the bitter taste off of it.

He never asked about those things. He just remembered. So every time he hands you a cup after school or during a shift at the video store, it’s perfect. You raised a brow at him the first few times, narrowing your eyes like you were trying to catch him off guard.

“Steve” You would say suspiciously and amused “How do you keep getting it exactly right?”

He’d just shrug, with a crooked smile “Magic. Or maybe I’m just very observant.”

You started calling it the “Steve Standard", almost playfully. But you always smiled when he handed it to you. To Steve, that smile felt like sunshine. Unbeknownst to you, he saw you as a safe haven during his difficult moments. And maybe, just maybe, he was becoming the same thing for you. There was something about sitting beside him when he broke down that created a special bond.

You never tried to pry, never forced words from him. You just sat there, too close to him, reaching out a hand for him. Sometimes you handed him a drink, sometimes you played with the edge of your sleeve until he could look you in the eye again. When his anger exploded, quick and hot as it always did, you never flinched. You weren’t afraid of him. You knew it wasn’t about you. And you never treated him like a broken person. You just… stayed.

Every single time.

And that's what made him so captivated by you. Not just because of that, but the entirety of it. He just wished he wasn't misreading the whole situation.

He was driving you home, throwing glances at you from the corner of his eyes, watching the way you would draw circles on your jeans. His hands tightened around the wheel, he urged to reach over and take your hand so bad that it hurt. But he didn't, not yet. Maybe it wasn't the right time for that yet. Because whatever this was. it wasn’t some high school infatuation anymore. Not after everything.

Then there was that night he called you. You could hear it in his voice before he even said a word: something was wrong. So you grabbed a movie, a six-pack of root beer, and showed up without asking. You sat on the floor together, your backs against the couch. The movie played, but neither of you really watched. He cried quietly, his shoulders shook. He was angry and ashamed. He told you about his dad’s latest blow-up that made him feel humiliated. How he had looked his son in the eye before slamming the door and muttering “no wonder everyone leaves you.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just pressed your hand flat against his chest, showing you could hold all the broken pieces together.

“I'm still here” You promised him. And he kept sobbing, his head resting on your shoulder.

Your hands played with his hair. His hands held your back tightly, as if he was about to break anymore than he already had.

“Thank you, Angel. I love you.”

He loved calling you Angel. More importantly, he loves you more than he could admit.

He remembers that moment more than anything. Maybe more than he should. On a Saturday morning, you walk into Family Video smiling, your hair all disheveled from the wind. He feels like someone just punched him gently in the chest. That’s what you do to him. You ruin him in the most careful way. Sometimes, he imagines telling you everything. Just blurting it out like an idiot.

You’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m not ruined.

But it always feels too much. Too soon. So instead, he memorizes the sound of your laugh. How your voice softens when you’re tired. The crease between your brows when you’re trying to finish a crossword puzzle. How you always reach for his hand when you’re crossing a busy street, even if neither of you ever acknowledges it.

He holds onto those things like a lifeline.

Because with you, it’s never been about impressive gestures. It’s about the late-night drives, the playlists you build together, the quiet understanding in your gaze when he lies and says he's fine. Even though you know he's the farthest from being fine. You treat his silence, in a way that it’s a sacred matter. Not something to fix. He doesn't need fixing, he needs reassurance, he deserves to know no one is going to leave him just as his parents make it look like that's the truth.

He knows deep down that he’ll never be the same after you. Even if he’s not ready to say it out loud yet, he knows it in his bones: you are the only person in his life who makes him want to be better. Not to prove something. Just to be worthy of the space you’ve opened for him in your world. You are the calm after his storm. And he’s learning, even if slowly, quietly and patiently how to be still in it.

You love snapping pictures whenever you hang out with everyone. They always make funny faces and strike poses to get the best of it. Most importantly, you love capturing Steve and memorizing every moment. He doesn't even complain, he just leans into it. He likes it when you take pictures of him.

You're in the parking lot of the gas station just outside Hawkins, the golden sunrays cast highlights in his hair, his sunkissed freckles glow. Steve’s leaning against the driver’s side door of his car, his hair perfectly brushed, almost as if he knew what was about to come.

You lift the camera, and he doesn’t even need direction. He crosses his arms on top of the car and leans his chin against them, as if he knows exactly what kind of picture you’re trying to take.

“You always get this look in your eye. Like you’re gonna steal my soul with that thing” He says before you find the best angle.

You snap the photo.

“Too late” You murmur with a smirk, and he flushes red under the fading sun.

He keeps a shoebox in the bottom drawer of his dresser. There are dozens of Polaroids in there. Him, blurry in motion at the arcade. Him shirtless, cooking eggs, flipping you off playfully with a spatula. Him holding up a kitten you found near the lake. Him asleep in your passenger seat, mouth open, lashes curled ridiculously long. And in one corner of the box: a photo of you holding the camera. You’re not even looking at it– you’re smiling at him instead.

It's the one he chooses one night to put on his fridge along with many others of you and his friends. When he's sitting alone in the kitchen and catches a glance of the picture, a smile tugs at his lips.

You never meant to memorize him. It just kind of… happened. Somewhere between the first time you cleaned up his busted lip and the third time he made your coffee exactly right without asking, you realized you knew him in ways that didn’t make sense to anyone else. How he only faked a smile when his parents were around. Or how he’d crack a joke and change the topic whenever someone mentioned their families, always playing up the “only child” thing like it was a joke instead of a wound.

He never talked about them. He didn’t have to, and you just paid attention. And apparently, you weren’t the only one. It started one night at Nancy’s. She had this idea for a “normal night” for once- without the Upside Down, no monsters, no trauma bonding. Just junk food, dumb movies, and way too many people packed into one house.

Robin. Eddie. Steve. Dustin. Lucas. Mike. Nancy. Jonathan… and you. You came late, work had you stuck there until past ten, and by the time you got there, someone had already claimed the best spot on the couch. You ended up near Steve on the floor, your legs stretched under a shared blanket, a bowl of popcorn balanced randomly between you.

“Hey,” He said as you settled down beside him. His eyes flicked over you, soft and familiar, his voice was like honey “Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

You smiled, nudging his knee with yours “Miss movie night with you guys? Not a chance.”

And just like that, his shoulders dropped. The tension melted from him like ice under the sun. That’s the thing with him: he carries tension as if it’s a burden. But when you show up, he always lets some of it go, as though maybe you’re a reason to breathe again. By the second movie, someone turned off the lights completely. The room faded into that sleepy kind of chaos that only happens around 2 a.m. Half the group passed out in random positions, the rest whispering or hardly watching the screen from under heavy eyelids. You were curled on your side, barely watching the TV with one arm under your head, when you felt Steve shift behind you.

This wasn’t just a dream.

At first, it was nothing. There was a kick on the blanket and a heavy exhale. Then something deeper filled the air. A low, broken sound escaped from his throat, a mumble between a breath and a word, and your whole body tensed. You turned toward him slowly, his face was strained in sleep, his jaw clenched, his hands fisting the blanket like he was bracing for something.

You knew that look. You had seen it once when he fell asleep on your couch after a fight, after a night where he had almost gotten slammed into concrete again and came home bleeding. You had heard the way he whispered “don’t go” in a pleading tone.

You sat up on your elbows, reaching out to him “Steve.”

You whispered gently, fingers brushing his forearm “Hey. You’re dreaming.”

He flinched hard, his whole body became rigid, his breath was ragged and he kept mumbling under it.

“No, no, get off me—” He muttered with a cracked voice “Please…”

You pressed your palm flat to his chest, right over his heart, as you always did when he spiraled. One hand went right up to his face, your fingers gently cradling him “Steve. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re here, with me.”

His eyes snapped open as if he had been yanked from another reality. They seemed wild and barely focused, his hands latched onto your wrist instinctively.

“It’s okay, It’s just me” You whispered, both hands holding his face forcing him to look at you.

He blinked. Once, twice. His breathing slowed gradually, your voice was an anchor to him. He stared at you as though he wasn’t sure how he got there, like you were the only thing that looked real. Robin stirred across the room, voice groggy but alert.

“Is he okay?”

You glanced up and gave her a small nod “Yeah. Just a bad dream.”

She rubbed her eyes, watching you for a moment longer. Then her expression changed and her gaze flickered, just realizing what it really was. She knew that look as well, but she didn’t say anything, just lay back down and rolled over.

Steve was still staring at the ceiling, lost in his own thoughts, trapped in his own mind. He was still heaving from the nightmare.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out” He muttered, letting out a quiet, but dry huff.

“You didn’t,” You say softly, brushing your thumb in a slow circle over his sticky cheek “You never do.”

He turned his head toward you, his eyes were bloodshot, his brow creased, almost as if he was embarrassed to be seen this way.

“I hate that you see me like this” He admits with a bitter tone, his voice low and hoarse.

“I don’t. I see you, Steve. Not the nightmare version. Not the one who flinches in his sleep. Just… you” You nod, meeting his gaze without flinching.

He swallows hard, trying to get rid of the lump stuck in his throat “You always show up. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

He always feels you’re about to disappear every time he has a nightmare, or when he snaps. Because he thinks you’re worth something better, not a broken man with problematic parents and a short temper. But you’re always there for him, and he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to keep you around.

“You don’t have to deserve me. That’s not how this works.”

He looked at you and felt something shake inside his chest. He felt it fluttering, his face burned and his fingertips keep tingling.

“Why? Why do you care so much?”

You didn’t look away, your thumb kept pressing his skin “Because you’re worth caring about.”

For a long second, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, tentatively, his hand reached under the blanket and brushed against yours. It felt like a jolt of electricity running through his veins. It was enough to say ‘I’m still here if you want me’. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers with his. And even in the dark, you saw how his whole body softened. As if your hand was the only proof he needed that he was safe.

The next morning, Robin handed you a coffee mug- black, just the way you liked it, and raised an eyebrow.

“You know... If you guys are gonna keep pretending you’re just friends, you should at least be a little less obvious about it” She said casually and you almost choked on your coffee.

You blinked a few times at her “What?”

She smirked, sipping her coffee as if it wasn’t a big deal. “He looks at you like you hung the stars for him. And you touch him in a way that he’ll fall apart if you don’t.”

Your mouth opened and closed, but you had nothing to say.

She shrugged, nonchalant “For what it’s worth… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look more like himself than when he’s around you.”

And honestly? You felt that too. That night stayed with you, it etched inside you. Not because of the nightmare, or because he reached for you. But because when the worst parts of him showed up, when the ghosts came creeping in, he let you be there. He let you stay. And maybe he wasn’t ready to say the words yet. But he didn’t have to.

Because he reached for you in the dark, and you didn’t let go of him.

He’s up not long after you, but he misses the company. He misses your warmth, and he holds his breath for a second before closing his eyes for a moment, trying to memorize your touch. You’re sitting with Dustin and Mike outside, you’re sharing the huge wooden swing as they talk about nerd stuff. He likes to see the way you try to understand whatever they say, the way you always crack up when Dustin gets too loud or too excited about something.

He sits beside you and stirs you when his arm brushes against yours. You immediately glance at him with a soft smile and it melts him completely.

“Hey” You murmur.

He offers you a small, tired smile “Hey.”

There’s something different about him in the daylight. He’s always been handsome, sure, but like this? His hair is tousled, eyelids heavy, mouth tugging at the corners in a way that doesn’t feel performative? Like this, he’s soft, and it feels domestic. And it almost makes you dizzy.

“You okay?” You ask, brushing your thumb along his knuckles, casually, but intentional.

Steve nods slowly, then sighs.

“Didn’t think I’d fall apart in front of everyone. Guess that’s a new record” He says quietly, almost as if he’s too ashamed of his friends hearing him.

They're deep in the conversation, but you get up from the swing and walk with him to the other one a few feet away.

You shake your head “You didn’t fall apart.”

His eyes flick toward you, and there’s bitterness in his voice “Felt like it.”

“You were sleeping, having a nightmare. That’s not a weakness, Steve...”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts onto his side so he can look at you fully. His hand slips and rests on your wrist, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point.

“I just–” He stops and his lips tightens “When I woke up and you were there... It grounded me. Like I didn’t have to explain anything. You just... knew.”

You swallow. Something fragile catches in your chest.

“That’s kind of the point. You don’t have to explain anything to me. I get it, I get you.”

His thumb keeps tracing your wrist in slow, distracted circles. His mind does that funny thing again. The action of just looking at you short-circuits his brain.

“I used to dream about my dad throwing punches. Not even at me, just at walls. At air. But the sound...”

He clenches his jaw as he cuts himself off. He doesn’t like the feeling of seeing his father punching anything, or someone. Because one of these days, if he talks back, he knows it’s going to be him.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers again.

“I’m sorry” You whisper.

He shakes his head and huffs a laugh “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t hate that it happened.”

Steve stares at your hands, at his fingers brushing your delicate skin, in a way that he’s memorizing the way your fingers fit between his.

“I don’t talk about this stuff... Not with Robin, not even with Nancy, back then.”

You nod “I know.”

“But with you... With you, it’s different. Feels different” He exhales slowly, he feels something building up in his chest and he feels it burning.

You wait, you don’t fill the silence. You let him find the words.

“I’ve never had someone see me like this and stay. You never run, you never flinch, you never retreat. You just… stay.”

You can feel his pulse in your palm. It’s fast and uneven, and you feel your own pulse reciprocating the feeling.

“Of course I stay, Stevie.”

You bring your hand up to his face, your thumb stroking his skin as he leans into the touch, as he always does. He lifts your other hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“You make me feel safe” He says it so softly that it’s barely audible.

You’re not sure what to say to that, not right away. Because in all the time you’ve known Steve Harrington, he’s always been the protector, the shield. The one who throws himself in front of danger first and worries about his own bruises later. But this? Letting you hold the softest, most breakable parts of him? This is something else entirely, this is him showing you his most vulnerable side without feeling embarrassed for doing it.

You lean forward, resting your forehead lightly against his.

“You’re safe with me. Always.”

He closes his eyes, and breathes you in. He takes in your words, and hopes to God you stay safe as well. And even though he doesn’t say it out loud, you know what he means when he squeezes your hand a little tighter. You know what lives in the spaces between the words.

He’s trying to say: Thank you. He’s trying to say: You mean more to me than I know how to admit. He’s trying to say: I think I’m falling for you. His heart skips a beat when you call him Stevie, his stomach ties to a knot and his knees wobble. It’s not much different when it’s him calling you Angel, because that’s how he sees you. You’re not only like an anchor to him, grounding him, you’re also an angel who protects him and makes him feel safer.

And you’re already there.

Steve has always been overprotective, especially when it came to you. He likes to say he’s your lucky charm while you’re his angel. Eddie often grimaces when he hears the way Steve talks about you to him. As the closest thing to a brother for each other, both Steve and Eddie are very cautious with one another after everything that happened in the Upside Down. You’re their sweet little treasure. Since you weren’t with them during those events, they want to make sure you stay safe.

You’re at The Hideout with Robin, watching as Steve and Eddie perform together for the third time. Although Eddie has his own band, he enjoys doing gigs with his best friend every once in a while. You’re sitting in a booth with Robin, sipping your drinks and whispering to each other during their break. Suddenly, someone approaches and leans against your table.

The man isn’t old; he looks to be in his 40s. His hand rests on the table, fingers tapping the surface, while his other hand holds a glass of whiskey. He attempts to make contact, trying to grab your attention. When he lifts his hand to hold yours, you instinctively pull it back. Robin immediately turns her head to glare at him, her elbows resting on the table.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not interested” She says confidently, which is the opposite of how you're feeling.

He grins, takes a drink, and clicks his tongue “I was just about to talk to the other lady.”

Robin scoffs and wraps an arm around your shoulders “She’s not interested.”

“You heard my friend, she’s not interested.” His voice cuts in deep and sharp. You didn’t even have to guess to know who it was.

You and Robin look up and meet Steve holding his waist. God, it’s almost as if you knew what was about to happen. You couldn’t handle another bar fight. You didn’t want to clean his injuries and patch him up again. You have been doing your best to keep him calm.

“Oh. You must be the boyfriend” He drags the word, measuring him from head to toe.

“I’m gonna give you a second to walk away,” Steve said, his voice flat but steady “That’s me being nice.”

The man laughed like it was a challenge “Relax, man. We were just talking.”

“She didn’t want to talk. That should’ve been enough” He says, his tone stern.

For a second, you saw that flicker behind his eyes. The growing rage, the urge to throw a punch, that old familiar feeling he tries so hard to hide. Instead, Steve took a breath. Closed his eyes, and rubbed his face slowly. His palm dragged down the stubble along his jaw, trying to ground himself. And then he counted, not out loud. You and Robin looked at each other, your foreheads wrinkled with confusion.

“Is he having a mental breakdown?” She asks and you shake your head.

“Hey, Dingus” She calls out.

The man stared at him with the same confused expression. Steve’s shoulders dropped and his fists unclenched.

“Dude, what are you even doing?” The guy asked, laughing awkwardly now, trying to act as though he wasn’t starting to feel dumb.

And they were calm.

“I’m not gonna hit you,” he said clearly. “But you’re gonna leave. Now.”

There was something about the way he said it, too low and calm, that made the guy finally back off. You all watched and the man turned on his heel and muttered something under his breath, walking off toward the bar. Only then did Steve look at you.

“You okay?” He asked softly. He felt lighter, almost as if it had wore down to concern instead.

You nodded, feeling your heart still thudding “Yeah. I was trying to handle it, thank you.”

“I know” He said, offering a small, sheepish smile “I just… couldn’t not come over.”

You reached for his hand under the table, lacing your fingers through his

“I’m glad you did.”

“What happened there, by the way? Looked like you were having a blackout” Robin asked and he huffed an embarrassed laugh.

“Thought I’d try something new. It helps me think, I guess.”

And you two shared a smile.

“Nice restraint, Harrington. The countdown’s new” She says as she pats his shoulder.

“Figured… if I want to be the kind of guy who doesn’t lose it in bars anymore, I should probably take it seriously.”

That knocked the air out of you in the best way.

You squeezed his hand “That’s… really good. Seriously.”

He smiled, finally really smiling, and it hit you again how gorgeous he was when he wasn’t carrying everything on his shoulders.

“Hey” He said as he leaned down, close enough that only you could hear “You sure you’re okay?”

“Better now” You said honestly, a shy smile painting your face.

His lips twitched “I don’t like it when people bother you.”

“I noticed.”

“I really don’t like it when they assume they can touch you or talk to you like that.”

“Then maybe” You murmured, pulling him just a little closer “You should give them a reason not to.”

Steve blinked, then laughed softly, brushing a knuckle under your jaw. “Careful, Angel. You’re gonna make me forget I’m trying to be good.”

Something inside of you coiled at his tone, at the way his eyes glinted with something mischevious.

“You’re already good, Harrington” You whispered back.

And you saw it. The way he blushed, trying to bite back a grin as Eddie called him from the stage.

“Gotta go” He said, standing reluctantly.

But before he left, he leaned down and kissed the side of your head, right close to your ear “Stay close to Robin, okay?”

You smirked “I can handle myself.”

“I know. But I like handling things for you.”

Then, before seeing your own cheeks blushing, he jogged back toward the stage, grinning, with his guitar hanging low across his hips.

Robin elbowed you and whispered in your ear “So, you didn’t deny when that creep called him your boyfriend.”

And only at that moment did you realize how you barely noticed when it happened.

“And he didn’t deny it either” She giggled.

You groan and take another sip from your drink “Just shut up, Robs.”

“Oh, this is so adorable. You know he likes you.”

You blush so hard, it’s difficult to pretend your cheeks aren’t burning. And when she sees it, she laughs and gives you a side hug, resting her head on your shoulder.

Eddie always catches a glance of his friend playing the entire time focusing on you. He sees the way Steve rarely leaves your eyes and even though you don’t stare right back at him all the time, you can’t help but think how you wished he looked at you. Eddie knows he loves you. He knows he cares so much about you that it makes him a better person.

He grins to himself when he looks at Steve again and witnesses a blush, a small fraction of a shy smile. He’s definitely whipped.

Steve Harrington didn’t just love you. He was learning how to protect you without breaking himself.

And that meant everything to you.

Sometimes when he’s not working, he likes to come over to your house and just... stay. No plans. No parties. You never ask him to come over, not really. He just shows up with a soft knock on the door with a lazy grin, a bag of chips or takeout swinging from his fingers. Like it’s instinct now. As if he knows when you need company. Tonight’s one of those nights.

You’re stretched out on the couch, one arm over your eyes to block the flickering light from the TV, your body finally relaxed. Steve’s on the floor again, leaning back against the edge of the couch, with the acoustic guitar in his lap. His head is thrown back just far enough to rest against your thigh, as if he’s been doing it forever. You can feel the slow rise and fall of his breath, the steady warmth of him.

His fingers move across the strings, strumming at something slow, like an unfinished song. A little dreamy, a little sad. You don’t recognize the tune, but it settles into your chest with something familiar.

“You always write your own stuff?” You ask.

Steve hums, not looking up “Yeah. Mostly.”

You smile behind your arm “Why haven’t you ever played me anything all the way through?”

“I do play for you” He says it just as if that should be obvious.

“Not real songs. Just little bits and pieces.”

He pauses, fingers frozen over the strings.

“Maybe that’s because they’re not done” He shrugs.

“Or maybe it’s because they’re about someone” You tease, lifting your arm to glance down at him.

He’s already looking up at you. His expression shifts, just slightly. Like you almost caught him.

“Maybe.”

You’re caught with surprise in your eyes, and suddenly it makes him chuckle “Wait… seriously?”

Steve shrugs again, smirking now, trying to play it off “Everyone writes about someone.”

You turn on your side, propping your head up on your hand “Yeah, but you get all intense when you write. Like ‘don’t talk to me I’m creating art’ kind of intense.”

“I do not” He grumbles.

You grin “You totally do. You get that furrow between your eyebrows and everything.”

Steve huffs a laugh “Okay, well maybe I do. Are you saying you keep staring at me?”

That makes you pause.

You reach down and gently flick at his ear, just enough to make him swat you away with a half laugh “So who’s she, huh? This mystery girl you’re writing all these secret sad boy songs about?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just leans forward to scribble something into his notebook resting beside him on the rug. You glance at the page, but his hand covers most of it. All you catch is a line: she walks like she doesn’t know I’m still watching.

You feel a flutter in your chest, but try to brush it off.

Steve clears his throat, still not looking at you “She’s… someone who knows me. Even when I’m kind of a mess. Especially then.”

Your smile softens.

“That’s sweet.”

He glances up at you, and the expression on his face makes something in your stomach twist. For a moment, you wonder if you’re the only one who doesn’t understand. Then, his head drops back onto your thigh as if it never left, and he strums a few more chords, this time quieter.

“You want me to finish one?” He asks after a minute. His voice is low, the honeyed tone makes your heart flutter.

You nod, your fingers absentmindedly brushing through his hair “Yeah. But only if you let me name the album.”

He groans dramatically “God, that’s a terrible idea.”

“Why? What’s wrong with ‘Songs for My Favorite Girl Who Steals My Fries and Thinks I Don’t Notice’?”

Steve laughs so hard his hand slips off the fretboard “Please. Never say that to a record label.”

You smile and run your fingers through his hair again. He doesn’t tell you that every song he’s written in the past year is about you. He doesn’t mention that when you lie on the couch like this, the words come to him the fastest. You’re the reason he even started writing again; half of his notebook is filled with little pieces of you, the way you fidget with your rings when you’re anxious, how you hum under your breath while brushing your teeth, and the sound of your voice when you’re sleepy and trying to pretend you’re not.

He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he plays, and it’s quiet and steady. It’s a song you’ve never heard before but that somehow feels like home. And you lie back, close your eyes, and let him write you into another night without even realizing it.

It was one of those pretty lazy golden Indiana spring afternoon where the air smelled like grass and the whole group stretched out on picnic blankets, passing around warm sodas and salty chips. You were all there. Steve, Robin, Dustin, Eddie, Nancy, even Jonathan. For once, the laughter rolled around easier. It hadn’t felt like that for months. Steve had been smiling, joking, and tossing grapes at Dustin as if everything was fine.

Until he saw his father’s car parked across the street. He was wearing a suit as always, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses hiding raging eyes. He tried to avoid the staring, pretending he wasn’t there. Tried to focus on your attempted tongue twist, forced himself to listen to what Eddie was telling Jonathan about weed. But eventually, he stood and walked off behind the trees with tight shoulders and clenched fists.

You watched him go. Ten minutes later, he came back pale and shaking. He didn’t say anything at first, sitting down heavily at the edge of the blanket and stared at the grass, as though it was the most interesting thing to look at. Robin noticed first, leaning in, nudging his shoulder.

“You good?”

Steve didn’t answer. Then you moved closer, voice soft “Hey, talk to me.”

He opened his mouth. and for a second, you thought he’d brush it off like he always did. But instead, he said, too loud and too sharp “He said I’m pathetic.”

The group fell quiet, there was a few exchanging of glances. His eyes were wide, wet, blinking too fast.

“He said I’m wasting everything. That I’ll never be anything but a failed babysitter with no ambition. Said it was embarrassing that I haven't gone back to school. Embarrassing that I hang around a bunch of teenagers.”

His voice cracked on the word embarrassing. No one moved. Steve looked around, as he suddenly realized what he was doing, breaking apart in front of all of you. He swiped a hand over his face and tried to laugh it off, but the laugh broke into a sob.

“I- I didn’t mean to lose it. Sorry. God, I’m so...”

“Stop” You said quickly, already kneeling beside him “Don’t apologize.”

He looked at you, his eyes full of pain and glossy “He doesn’t get it, none of it. He never wanted to.”

You put both hands on his face, gently grounding him “He doesn’t get you, Steve. But I do, we all do. Look around you, there’s a whole group who’s here to support you.”

He leaned forward before he could stop himself, pressing his forehead against your shoulder as if he were exhausted, as if he needed a place to rest. You held him close, not caring about who might be watching. Behind you, someone began quietly packing up food, giving you both some space.

The others started murmuring soft apologies, walking away and scattering toward the parked cars, sharing knowing glances as if they understood that you needed a moment alone.

When you looked around again, it was just the two of you under the trees.

“I thought I was okay. I thought I had gotten past needing anything from him. But every time he talks to me like that, I feel like I’m ten years old again, begging him to look at me.”

You wrapped your arms tighter around him “You don’t need anything from him, Steve. Not anymore.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face “I thought maybe if I was someone good, someone better, he’d see me. Maybe if I kept my life as he wanted and tried hard enough, he’d... I don’t know. Care.”

“You are good. You’re more than good.”

He studied you, his hand came up as if he wasn’t thinking about it, brushing your hair back, fingers trailing against your jaw.

“I thought maybe I saw something in the way you looked at me. Like maybe I wasn’t imagining it. But if I was wrong...”

“You weren’t” You didn’t let him finish. He didn’t get to feel like a failure because he thought he was misreading it.

His brows knit “I wasn’t?”

You shook your head slowly, heart pounding. Your hands were shaking, but you managed to smile.

“You weren’t wrong. I feel the same. I’ve felt it for a while.”

He blinked, in a way that he didn’t quite believe you “You do?”

“I do.”

You leaned your forehead to his, with eyes closed “And I hate that he made you feel as if you’re hard to love. Because you’re not. You’re not, Stevie.”

He let out a shaky breath, with half a laugh and half a cry, and cupped your face as if you were something he couldn’t actually believe was real.

“I thought maybe I crossed a line” He whispered.

“You didn’t. If anything… I was hoping you’d cross it.”

He leans in slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him, but you don’t want to. You want this. You want him. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is warm and careful. The kind that says I’ve thought about this. A lot. It doesn’t rush.

His hand curls gently around the back of your neck, fingers tangling through your hair, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to memorize how perfectly you fit against him. Your hands grip the sides of his jacket, holding on as if you never want to let go. You sigh into him, and that’s when he deepens the kiss, just a little.

It’s soft, yet it burns, slow and sweet. When you finally pull apart, with your foreheads resting against each other, he’s breathing as if he just ran a mile. His eyes are still closed, but he’s smiling. A real smile this time, an honest one at that.

“Wow” He whispers.

You smile back “Yeah.”

He nudges his nose gently against yours “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“Me too. You have no idea.”

His fingers graze down your arm and find your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, squeezing once.

“I think I do now.”

And for the first time all afternoon, maybe after a long time, he doesn’t look lost. He looks found.

You thought everyone already knew about you and Steve, especially after that afternoon at the picnic. At least Robin and Nancy were aware of it. They kept asking you to share details about that day and how everything happened. They wanted to know when you first noticed your feelings and what it was like. They seemed genuinely excited to see that Steve had finally found someone who liked him for who he is, flaws and all. Nancy, in particular, looked more than happy to know it was you, one of her best friends.

You and Steve are sitting on the hood of his car just outside the arcade. It’s not a date-date, but it kind of is. His thigh is pressed against yours, your coffee is in his hand because he always finishes it when you forget it in the cupholder, and he has his pinky loosely hooked around yours in a way that says “this is new and I like it here”. His heart leaps every time you look at him and smile. His throat tightens when you laugh loudly and throw your head back. His knees buckle when you pull his lip between your teeth during a kiss.

You’re in the middle of teasing him about losing Galaga to Dustin again when you hear it. A loud, very theatrical gasp. You both turn, already knowing who it comes from. Eddie Munson is standing frozen on the sidewalk, a bag of Funyuns in one hand and the other dramatically clutching his chest.

“What in the Upside Down hell is this?” He shouts, pointing between you two like he's witnessing a crime scene “Am I hallucinating? Did I die? Is this my personal version of hell?”

You burst out laughing, while Steve just gives him a look.

“Oh my God,” Eddie breathes, walking toward you in slow motion like he's approaching a wild animal “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like. Tell me this is just... You tripped, and she's holding you up, and the eye contact is accidental and deeply misleading.”

You grin, not moving from your seat in the car “What do you think it looks like?”

Eddie stares at you, then at Steve. Then at your hands, then back at you.

Steve raises an eyebrow “You good there, Munson?”

“Good? No, Harrington, I’m not good. You, you are supposed to be emotionally stunted and painfully repressed and terrible at love!”

“Wow” Steve mutters, offended but also amused.

“And you” Eddie says, spinning to face you “Are supposed to have standards.”

“Hey!” Steve protests.

You’re laughing so hard now that you nearly spill your coffee “Eddie, breathe. It’s not that deep.”

He holds up a hand “Okay. Okay, no. I just, how long has this been going on?”

You glance at Steve. He shrugs, sheepishly “Kind of… recent?”

“But not today recent” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes “You’ve got the look.”

“What look?” You and Steve ask at the same time.

“The look” Eddie says dramatically, his bag of snacks long forgotten “The soft ‘I’d die for you’ eyes. He’s practically glowing, and you’re sitting in his personal space like he doesn’t hate it. Don’t try to fool me, I’ve seen rom-coms.”

You roll your eyes “It’s… kind of new, okay?”

Eddie crosses his arms “Does Robin know?”

“Yes” You both say in unison.

“Dustin?”

Steve winces “I don’t think so.”

Eddie gasps again “You mean I found out before Henderson? Oh, this is the greatest day of my life.”

Steve glares “Please don’t make this a thing.”

Eddie smirks, but there’s something softer in his eyes now “Hey. I’m just surprised, not mad. A little horrified, sure, but mostly…”

He pauses, then gestures vaguely between you “It makes weird sense. In a ‘sun and storm cloud’ kind of way.”

You nudge Steve “See? He gets it.”

Steve just grumbles under his breath, clearly flustered. Eddie softens a little more, shrugging his leather jacket higher “Look, I give you crap because I’m me, but seriously… if you make each other happy, then I’m happy for you.”

You smile “Thanks, Eddie.”

He holds up a finger. “However. I will be running an extensive interrogation at your house next week. And if you break her heart, Harrington, I will write a very pointed rock ballad about it.”

Steve groans “Of course you will.”

Eddie grins like the devil “Working title: ‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow’ You’ll be immortalized.”

You toss your empty coffee cup into the nearby trash can and hop off the hood “Come on, lover boy” You tease Steve “Let’s go before he gets out his guitar.”

Steve stands too, sliding an arm casually around your waist now that the secret’s out. Eddie just stares at you both with a baffled smile.

“You’re kidding me” He mutters again, but this time it almost sounds as though he means finally.

The sun warms your skin as you step onto the grass of Lover’s Lake, the breeze with fresh hair hits you with the scent of wildflowers. Steve is already there, waiting by the edge of the deck, his eyes lighting up the second he sees you. He grins, hair tousled perfectly as if he just rolled out of bed, but in a way that somehow suits him. There isn’t a day where his hair is actually awful and you hate it. Mostly because you always spend too much time on your hair while he barely brushes his.

“Hey” he says, reaching out to pull you into a hug that’s tighter than usual. His chest is warm against you, and his arms linger longer than it should. You smile, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Miss me?” You ask, pulling him by the collar of his shirt and he giggles.

“Yeah. A lot” He admits, his lips ghosting over yours.

You wrap your arms around his waist and press him closer to you “Good, because I definitely missed you too.”

You walk together slowly along the shoreline, his hand finding yours. His fingers curl tightly around yours, as if he's afraid you might disappear. It feels a bit clingy, but it's also sweet, and you like it. You appreciate that he wants to hold on to you. Suddenly, he stops and gently pulls you toward a blanket he laid out earlier. The sun casts playful dots of shadows above you, dancing on your faces.

Steve’s hand never leaves yours as he pulls you close, his thumb is always tracing small circles on your skin. He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searches yours as though he’s memorizing every detail. After your picnic, he leads you toward the edge of the water and you can feel the cool, soft mud beneath your bare feet. The lake sparkles in the afternoon sun, but there’s there’s a sharpness in the spring air that makes you hesitate for a moment.

“You cold?” He asks with a playful teasing grin playing on his lips.

“A little” You admit, wringing your hands together.

He just laughs and grabs your hand, gently pulling you forward “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

The water laps at your ankles, cold enough to make you gasp but not enough to stop you. Steve steps closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms wrapping around you like a warm shield. You feel the goosebumps on your skin, mostly because of the water temperature. The feeling of having his bare chest brushing against your back is overwhelming.

“See?” He whispers, his breath tickling your ear “Not so bad.”

You take a tentative step forward, then another, until the water reaches your knees. Steve squeezes your waist as he secures you. The cold shocks your skin, but it's bearable when he's holding you. He splashes you lightly all of a sudden, and it takes you by surprise. You squeal, wiping your eyes and grinning.

“Oh, it’s on” You say, gathering water in your hands and splashing it back at him.

He laughs, stepping back to dodge the splash but tripping slightly and pulling you down with him into the shallow water. You both come up laughing, dripping wet and breathless. Steve’s hands are everywhere– on your shoulders, your waist, your back. He's clinging like he never wants to let go. You cup his face, wiping a stray of water droplet from his cheek, and he leans into your touch in a way that it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You smile, brushing your fingers through his wet hair “Yeah. You were right.”

He pulls you close again, and this time there’s no teasing, no laughter, just quiet warmth and hope hanging between your lips. The water still laps gently around your legs, but all the chill has faded away, replaced by the heat radiating between you and Steve. His hands slide up slowly, cradling your face with surprising tenderness. His thumb brushes your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw. You lean into the touch, your lips parting just a fraction, like an invitation.

Steve leans in too, his breath is warm against your skin. The space between you closes until it disappears entirely, and then your lips meet. The kiss is gentle at first, you’re both testing the water, but then it deepens. His mouth moves with careful hunger, he’s memorizing the shape of you, savoring the softness and your taste.

You close your eyes, letting yourself fall into it. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer until there’s nowhere left to go but into him. Your tongue laps against his and you hear a soft groan in the back of his throat. The cool water presses against your legs, but all you can feel is the warmth spreading through your chest. When you finally pull back, breathless and smiling, Steve rests his forehead against yours.

“Yeah, definitely the best part of the day.”

You laugh softly, fingers tangling in his wet hair “Agreed.”

The sun has dipped lower now, casting golden lights over the lake’s surface. You sit side by side on the blanket Steve spread out earlier, your legs stretched toward the water, fingers still intertwined.

He is quiet for a long moment, watching the gentle, slow sunset. Then he finally speaks, without looking at you first, his voice carrying roughness as the same time it's steady.

“You know… I don’t say this much” He starts, swallowing hard, feeling like he’s holding something heavy in his chest “But… you mean a hell of a lot to me.”

You squeeze his hand gently, encouraging him. You feel your heart thundering in your chest. He takes a shaky breath, eyes finally meeting yours, they're vulnerable and honest.

“I still get these… these moments where I feel like my heart’s breaking all over again because of my parents. It’s as if there's this weight I carry, even when I’m supposed to be past it.”

A flash of pain crosses his face, and you see the way his eyes glisten, as though he’s barely holding back tears.

“But… when I’m with you? I don’t feel so alone. You make all the hurt… less scary.”

You shift closer, brushing his cheek “Steve…”

He smiles “You’re the best thing I never knew I needed.”

You lean in and rest your forehead against his “You’re the best thing I ever wanted.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and for the first time in a long while, you see something peaceful settle over him.