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warnings: smut, creampie... squirting? idk... lying... denial... FLUFF! subtext angst... sorry... lots of making out. mentions of underaged sex. two idiots obviously dating but not saying it but spending a lot of time together. ... erm... sort of semi-public sex but no one is around in the empty building words: 14k summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: look... im really sorry if this is boring.... also i know planeteriums are probably a newer/modern thing but i just had to okay and it's also my fic idc! masterlist | Rules/Playlist

chapter 14

You had no idea you could be this happy waking up next to someone.

It's not that you hated waking up with other hookups in your life. Those mornings were always fine. But they came with bad breath you could taste from across the pillow, and that after-sex sweat smell that clung to sheets and skin, making you want to shower immediately, to wash away the evidence. You're a light sleeper too. Sometimes Robin will talk in her sleep during the night, full conversations with people who aren't there, and it jolts you awake every time.

But this morning, when you wake to a soft glow filtering through the tent fabric, the air smells different. It smells like morning dew and rain-washed earth, like pine needles and something warmer underneath—cedar and Steve. The rain has stopped completely, leaving behind that clean, fresh scent that only comes after a storm. You can hear birds starting their morning songs, water dripping from leaves outside, the distant sound of the stream swollen from overnight rain.

There's a pinch in your chest.

Steve is face-down beside you, one arm sprawled above his head like he's reaching for something in his dreams. But his other arm is wrapped tightly around you, his hand splayed possessively across your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to cover as much of you as possible.

You're tucked against his side, lying on your back, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. His hair is a mess in the most adorable way. It’s sticking up at odd angles, falling across his forehead, the blonde highlights catching what little light filters through the tent. His bare back glows golden in the dim morning light, and you can see the constellation of freckles and moles scattered across his shoulders, his spine.

You shift slightly, testing, trying to gently roll out of his grip without waking him. But Steve's arm immediately tightens around you, pulling you closer even in sleep. His fingers flex against your stomach, holding on.

You try again—slower this time, more careful—but Steve stirs. His head flops to the side to face you, eyes still closed, but a frown pulls at his lips. He makes a grunting noise deep in his chest, displeased.

You can't help but chuckle, smiling at his sleepy face, at the way his hair falls into his eyes, at the pout forming on his mouth. You try once more to move, to slip free, but one of his eyes snaps open—just one, squinting at you accusingly in the dim light.

"Uh-uh," he mumbles, voice rough and gravelly with sleep.

"Steve..." You keep your voice soft, not wanting to fully wake him. "I need to get up."

"No..." He shifts his entire body lazily, like moving through honey, throwing a leg over yours to pin you down. His nose nuzzles into your neck, breath warm against your skin. "Five more minutes. Please." The last word comes out almost dreamlike, slurred and soft.

You bite back a laugh, feeling his lips brush the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Steve, I need to pee."

He groans into your neck, the sound vibrating through you. "Okay. One more minute, then."

You sigh, giving in because what's one more minute? You scoot closer into him, fitting yourself against his body. You feel him smile against your neck, his lips barely grazing your skin—just enough pressure to make you aware of them, to make goosebumps rise across your arms.

His hand slowly creeps, palm warm and slightly rough against your bare stomach, traveling higher until it finds your breast. He doesn't do anything beyond a small squeeze—gentle, almost absentminded—but then he cups it, his thumb brushing once across your nipple, and he nuzzles even deeper into your neck. You can feel him hardening against your hip, the thick length of him pressing insistent.

You move slightly, deliberately, letting your ass press back into his cock. Steve's hand grips tighter around your breast, no longer gentle. His thumb starts rubbing lazy circles around your nipple, making it pebble and ache.

You sigh, pressing harder against him, heat already pooling between your legs despite the early hour. The ache from last night is still there—a pleasant soreness, a reminder of how many times he'd made you come, how thoroughly he'd taken you apart.

Steve moves with more purpose now, snaking his other hand underneath you, fingers brushing through the thatch of pubic hair between your legs. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs. A light moan escapes when his fingers find your clit, barely touching, teasing with the lightest pressure.

"Good morning," he says breathily against your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice. His fingers slide lower, testing, and he groans. "So wet already." He plants a kiss on the nape of your neck, lips lingering, teeth grazing. "Five more minutes."

His fingers slip inside you—slow, deliberate, curling to find that spot that makes your vision blur. You're already slick from sleep and want, and he circles that spot lazily, like he has all the time in the world. Your head lulls back against his shoulder, giving him better access to your neck. His hot breath fans across your skin, raising more goosebumps. His hips start bucking slightly, grinding against your ass, seeking friction, relieving his own ache.

"Stevie," the nickname comes out soft and breathy, and you feel him freeze for a split second before a muffled growl vibrates through his chest and into your back. You say it again, testing. "Stevie, please fuck me."

It doesn't take long for him to fully adjust your position. He lifts your top leg, hooking it over his, your back flush against his chest. Every inch of you touching every inch of him. He kisses your neck—soft, then harder, sucking. "You really want to?"

"Yes." You bite your lip, feeling the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding through your wetness but not entering. The anticipation makes you whimper.

"Spit," he commands, but his voice is sweet despite the demand. He brings his hand up in front of your face, palm open.

You follow his order without hesitation, spitting into his hand.

He grunts as he wraps his spit-slick hand around his cock, giving himself a few slow pumps before lining himself up. Then he's pushing inside—slow, so slow you can feel every inch of him stretching you, filling you, the burn and pleasure mixing until you can't tell them apart.

He wastes no time starting to pull out and thrust back in. His movements are lazy, unhurried, like he's still half-asleep and wants to stay in this suspended moment forever. He's gripping your breast as his pace gradually quickens, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple.

Heavy breaths fill the small tent. Soft moans that you try to muffle. The sleeping bag rustles beneath you with each thrust, and you're grateful for the sound of birds chirping outside, of water dripping from trees, providing cover.

His hand travels up from your breast to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, only holding. But before any sound can escape, he props himself up on his elbow, using his leverage to force you to turn your head back toward him. He captures your mouth in a sloppy, desperate kiss, both of you panting into it, tongues sliding together with no finesse, just need.

You throw your arm back around his neck, fingers immediately finding his hair and pulling. His teeth leave your mouth to dig into your jaw, your cheek, marking you in places that will show.

"You gonna let me come in you again, babygirl?" he whispers against your ear, voice wrecked and rough.

You whine in response, words failing you.

He tightens his grip on your throat, applying light pressure that makes your head swim pleasantly. "Use your words." His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide, but then they soften. "Please," he adds, and the vulnerability in that single word undoes you.

"Yes," you gasp, pulling him into another hungry kiss. You can taste morning on his tongue, can feel his nose pressing into yours as he whines—actually whines—feeling you clench around him.

You let your free hand slip down between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing quick circles. The sounds in the tent become obscene—the schlick of his increasingly frantic thrusts, your labored breathing, his quiet grunts of effort. You angle your leg higher in the air, opening yourself more, and Steve takes full advantage, plunging into you harder, deeper, the new angle letting him hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

You let out a wanton moan—too loud—and Steve's hand immediately clasps over your mouth, his palm huge across your face, covering from your nose to your chin. The action makes you let out another sound of pleasure, muffled now by his skin. You can smell yourself on his fingers from earlier, can taste the salt of his palm.

He nips your earlobe, tugging it between his teeth. "Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet."

His hips start to stutter, rhythm breaking down. "Baby, please come for me," he begs, voice cracking with desperation. "Please, I need to feel you."

He drives into you again—ruthless now, chasing both your pleasure and his own. Your orgasm hits you like lightning, sudden and devastating. You're writhing against him, gasping his name into his palm, coming so hard that warm liquid gushes out around his cock, soaking the sleeping bag beneath you.

"Fuck," Steve throws his head back, groaning loud enough that you're certain everyone outside can hear. "Fuck, that was so hot. You're so hot. God, you're perfect."

His own orgasm follows immediately after, hips slamming into you one final time as he fills you up, warmth spreading inside you. Hot breaths fan across your neck and shoulder as he comes down, his whole body shuddering.

He uncovers your mouth, turning your face back toward him for another messy kiss. You're both panting into each other's mouths, tongues moving lazily now, all the urgency gone and replaced with something softer, sweeter. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek while he kisses you like he has all the time in the world.

Not long after, once Steve cleans you up, wiping between your legs while pressing soft kisses to your shoulder—he was face-down asleep again. Out like a light, snoring softly, completely spent.

You took your time, propped up on one elbow, just looking at him. The morning light was stronger now, painting him in gold flecks. You placed soft kisses on his shoulder where his moles are scattered like stars, connecting them with your lips, mapping a constellation only you know. Then you put your pajamas on from last night and went to the shower building with your toiletry bag.

Eventually, Steve was the last to wake up, finally trudging out of the tent around mid-morning wearing his pajama pants and a fresh shirt—probably to cover any evidence of last night, any marks you might have left.

He went straight to the shower building without a word to anyone, but he caught your eye as he passed. That arrogant smile spread across his face—the one that says he knows exactly what you're thinking about, exactly what you can still feel between your legs. It pulls a shy smile from you in return, and you watch him walk away, unable to help yourself.

Eddie creeps up next to you, appearing out of nowhere and speaking way too loudly for someone who's supposed to be subtle. "Ah, you two kissed and made up?"

Your eyes go wide, panic flooding through you. Does he know about the kiss? The one from weeks ago? Your eyes shoot to Robin, whose expression is stony but curious, like she's trying to figure out if there's information she's missing.

But then Eddie adds with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows, "Or I guess boned and made up? Heard a lot of rustling last night in your tent. Thought it was a raccoon getting into our food." He winks, completely shameless.

"Shut up," you mutter, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He just laughs, dancing away from you.

Later, you're sitting in your lawn chair talking to Nancy, who still looks sad—her shoulders curved inward, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She and Robin clearly still aren't talking properly. You're trying to distract her with a story about a professor when you feel a tap on your left shoulder.

You turn to look, but no one is there. You turn to your right, and Steve is standing there with guilt all over his face—freshly showered now, hair still slightly damp and darker from the water, wearing a pair of shorts and a green t-shirt that brings out the hazel in his eyes. He smirks at you, shrugging innocently like wasn't me, before bending down to pick up a paper plate and pile it with scraps of breakfast—a piece of bacon, some eggs that have gone cold.

"You can have the rest of mine," you tell him, holding out your plate with its single piece of bacon and small pile of scrambled eggs.

He smiles, but instead of taking the plate, he leans down and opens his mouth expectantly, eyes twinkling with mischief.

You don't hesitate. You pick up the piece of bacon from your plate and place it between his teeth, watching his mouth close around it, holding it delicately. A grin spreads across his face even while his teeth grip the bacon, and you gently push his cheek away, shooing him. "Go away, I'm talking to Nancy."

Nancy is clearly biting back a knowing smile, eyes dancing between you and Steve.

Without a word, Steve takes the entire plate from your hands and walks away. You look over your shoulder briefly to see him throwing it away for you in the trash bag, saving you the trip.

You look back at Nancy and see she's no longer looking at you. Her gaze has drifted to Robin, whose head has found purchase on Steve's shoulder now that he's returned to the fire. Robin is saying something to him, and he's nodding, hand coming up to squeeze her arm. Nancy watches them with such naked longing it makes your chest hurt. She looks down quickly, blinking rapidly.

"Tell me what's going on," you say quietly, scooting your lawn chair closer like it will somehow block your conversation from reaching other ears.

Nancy sighs, staring into her coffee mug like it holds answers. The liquid has gone cold, a film forming on the surface. She shakes her head. "It's so silly..." Another sigh, longer this time. "I asked her why we hadn't made plans for spring break yet. Just to have something to look forward to, you know? And she got really weird about it."

She pauses, collecting her thoughts. "Turns out she already has plans. A vacation with her parents. And apparently..." Nancy's voice drops even lower. "Apparently they asked you to tag along. She just hasn't invited you yet because you two are, you know... not talking." Nancy's lip trembles slightly. "But I got upset because I was like, well, why didn't you ask if I could come instead? Why is it automatically her? And she looked at me like I was crazy."

Nancy looks away, brows furrowing, jaw tight with the effort of not crying. "And then she said, 'Babe, they just know she's my best friend. That's the only reason.' So I asked, 'What does that make me? Do you even talk about me to your parents?'" Nancy's eyes go wide, shining with unshed tears. "And she gave me this look, and I realized—she doesn't. She doesn't talk about me to them at all. I don't exist in that part of her life."

"Please don't think I'm mad at you or blame you," Nancy adds quickly, reaching out to grab your hand. "This isn't about you at all."

You shoot your other hand out to cover hers, squeezing. "I don't feel that way. And I'm sorry that happened. That's not fair to you."

"I just hate fighting with her about this because I understand. I really do." Nancy's voice cracks. "But we don't get to spend time like this. Like normal couples. I don't know..."

You nod slowly, thinking. "You know... I wonder if it'd be hard for her. Being on vacation with her parents where she can't do things like hold your hand or kiss you good morning. She'd be walking on eggshells the whole time because she's so infatuated with you." You lean in conspiratorially. "You like... mesmerize her. It's actually kind of gross how much she stares at you."

Nancy lets out a tearful laugh, a weak smile finally breaking through. "I guess... you're right. Yeah. I didn't think about it like that."

You let a beat go by, both of you sipping your coffee, listening to Eddie and Jonathan bickering about whether hot dogs count as sandwiches. Then you ask quietly, "What did you mean yesterday? About no one truly being happy in this arrangement?"

Nancy's face goes soft, searching yours. She looks past your shoulder, probably at Robin and Steve. "I'm in love with Robin," she says simply, like it's the easiest and hardest thing she's ever admitted. "But I haven't told her because part of me knows that when it comes down to it, she'll always choose Steve first. She has to. It's the deal they made."

Nancy looks back at you, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you want to look away. There's pity there, but also understanding. "Steve doesn't know what he wants in a girl because he'll always choose Robin first too. He has to. That's their future."

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight. The truth settles in your stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. You recall Steve saying last night in the tent, his voice rough with emotion, "There's no one like you, Hot Shot." You'd replied, "There's no one like you, Steve Harrington," and you'd meant it with every fiber of your being.

But maybe he'd only said it to you because of the heat of the moment. Maybe you were just his only chance to pretend his life could be normal, that he could have something real with someone. Maybe you were practice for a life he'd never actually get to live.

You didn't like each other. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. He didn't owe you any promises. This was just sex, just physical, just breaking rules that were already bent beyond recognition.

So whatever buzz and electricity you felt when he looked at you—whatever made your stomach flip and your chest tighten and your brain go fuzzy—you pushed it down. Buried it deep where it couldn't hurt you.

It was better that way.

.You tighten your grip on Nancy's hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, the slight tremor that says she's barely holding it together. "Let me talk to her," you say firmly. "You can still be disappointed, but don't punish yourself by not talking to her. I know it's killing you both. Especially when we're about to go home in a few hours."

Nancy closes her eyes, nodding slowly. Another smile breaks through—small and fragile but genuine. She squeezes your hand back, hard enough that you feel her ring dig into your finger. "Thank you," she says your name like it means something, like you've given her permission to hope.

Eddie whistles sharply, the sound cutting through the morning air. "Hey! Jonathan needs his mandatory group photo before we all scatter to the winds!"

You and Nancy look toward the group. Jonathan is crouched by his camera, which he's set up on a flat rock, angling it strategically to capture the campsite and lake in the background. Eddie is waving both arms over his head like he's trying to flag down a plane. "Come on, ladies! We're losing the light!"

Nancy and you smile at one another—something passing between you that feels like understanding, like friendship solidifying into something real. You both stand, brushing dirt and pine needles off your jeans.

Nancy wastes no time once you reach the group. She pulls Robin into her immediately, wrapping her arms around her and kissing her cheek—soft and lingering, the kind of kiss that says I'm sorry and I missed you and I love you all at once.

Robin looks startled, eyes going wide, but she immediately melts into Nancy's embrace. Her gaze finds yours over Nancy's shoulder, and there's gratitude there, understanding. She knows you said something.

Steve watches them with a soft smile, shaking his head fondly at their dramatics. Then his head turns in your direction. His smile grows wider when he catches your eye, something warm and bright lighting up his features. The morning sun catches in his hair, turning the blonde streaks to gold.

The five of you try to arrange yourselves in the camera frame, shuffling around, trying to make room for Jonathan to run back and join after he sets the timer. But there are too many of you this time, bodies overlapping, someone's head always blocking someone else. Everyone's laughing, the sound bouncing off trees and water, when Steve finally turns to you.

"Hot Shot, get on my back."

You laugh, startled. "What?"

He flashes his teeth—that full, genuine smile that makes your stomach flip—and pats his back, bending his knees in invitation. "Come on. We're running out of time."

So you do, still giggling as you hop onto his back. His hands immediately grip your thighs to steady you, warm and firm, fingers spreading wide across your skin. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you can smell him—pine and lake water and that cologne that's become so familiar it feels like home.

Jonathan peers through the camera lens, giving an enthusiastic thumbs up before clicking the timer. He sprints over, throwing an arm over Eddie's shoulders and nearly knocking him sideways. Nancy and Robin press into one another, Robin's arm around Nancy's waist, Nancy's head on Robin's shoulder. Everyone's smiling—real smiles, not posed ones.

Click.

Steve doesn't make any move to set you down after the photo. In fact, he holds you tighter, his grip shifting from steadying to possessive. Then his feet start moving—slowly at first, then faster, breaking into a run around the campsite.

"Steve!" you shout his name, but it comes out in a fit of giggles, your arms tightening around his neck as he picks up speed. He's laughing too—that full-bodied laugh that makes his shoulders shake, that you can feel reverberating through his back into your chest. He runs past the fire pit, nearly trips over a tent stake, spins in a circle that makes you shriek.

The moment is short-lived. "Hey, dingus!" Robin's voice cuts through your laughter, sharp and summoning. "We need a photo. For our parents."

It's immediate. Steve slows to a stop, breathing hard from the running, and gently sets you down. His hands linger on your waist for a beat longer than necessary before releasing you. You feel your face fall slightly—something deflating in your chest—when he turns to you, ruffling your hair affectionately like you're his kid sister or his buddy, then jogging back over to Robin.

They sit on a wet log near the extinguished fire pit, Robin settling into his lap with practiced ease. They angle themselves for the camera Jonathan is now holding, smiles sliding into place like masks. But they're still good at pretending—convincing, even. You fell for it in the beginning, after all. Though maybe it's because there is true love between them, even if it's platonic. Maybe that's what makes the lie work.

You catch Nancy's eyes watching them too, something complicated passing over her face before she looks away.

You head back to your tent to pack your things, rolling up Steve’s sleeping bag, erasing the taunting evidence, folding clothes that smell like campfire smoke.

The group is all packed up. Tents collapsed and stuffed into bags, coolers loaded, trash collected, but you decide to make one last stop. There's a cliff overlook about a ten-minute drive from the campsite, and Jonathan insists it's worth it for the view.

He's right. When you reach the top, the sight steals your breath. The lake stretches out below, blue-green and glittering in the late morning sun. You can see the curve of the shoreline, the dark shapes of fish moving in the shallows, the ring of mountains in the distance. The sky is so clear it looks like someone took a cloth to it, wiping away every cloud, every imperfection. Birds wheel overhead, their calls echoing across the water.

You're all standing there, looking, breathing in the clean air that smells like pine and water and freedom, when Eddie pulls out a cigarette. He lights it, takes a long drag, then flicks it to the side where it lands in dirt.

And then he starts stripping.

"Munson, what are you doing?" Robin asks with disgust, but she can't help laughing as he stumbles trying to remove his boots while also attempting to pull his shirt over his head. It's a disaster of flailing limbs and cursing.

He gets down to his boxers, plaid and riding dangerously low on his hips, and flashes a smile at the group, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Then he's running toward the edge of the cliff, legs pumping, arms windmilling, letting out a loud "WHOOOOP!" that echoes off the rocks as he spins mid-air and crashes into the water far below.

The splash is enormous, water fountaining up.

"Oh my god," Robin groans, but she's smiling.

Jonathan and Steve exchange a look—eyes lighting up with matching mischief, that silent communication of boys who are about to do something stupid together. They follow Eddie's lead, stripping off their clothes down to their underwear.

You feel heat flood your cheeks looking at Steve standing there bare-chested in the sunlight. His belly is soft, that slight curve you've traced with your fingers. The scars on his torso are pale against his tan, thin white lines you've learned by heart. And there, on his collarbone, are small bruises forming, purple and tender, shaped like your mouth. Evidence from last night.

The two boys don't hesitate. They run together, legs pumping in sync, and launch themselves off the cliff with matching yells—limbs flailing wildly in the air before they plunge into the water below.

Nancy, you, and Robin all look at one another. A beat passes. Then you shrug simultaneously, a silent agreement passing between you.

You start stripping down to your underwear and bra—practical cotton, nothing sexy, but you're still self-conscious as Nancy's eyes land on the marks scattered across your neck and chest.

"Wow! When did you get that?" Nancy laughs, pointing at the small tattoo on your hip that you keep forgetting about.

You groan, covering it with your hand. "Never let me be drunk around Eddie's friend Gareth again. Or drunk in general. Or around tattoo equipment."

All three of you dissolve into laughter. Robin hooks her arm through yours, then grabs Nancy's hand, linking all three of you together in a chain.

You don't run immediately. Instead, you walk to the edge of the cliff and look down. It's farther than you expected—the boys look small from up here, treading water and looking up at you expectantly. They start cheering, voices carrying up on the wind.

You see Steve looking at you specifically, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He whistles—loud and appreciative—and splashes water toward the sky.

"Now or never?" you ask, heart pounding in your ears.

The other two nervously laugh, repeating your words like a prayer or a dare. "Now or never."

You take a step back together, still linked, then break apart as you run. Your feet pound against rock, legs pumping, and then there's nothing—you're flying, suspended in air with the sun on your face and the wind rushing past your ears. For a moment you're weightless, free, untethered from everything that's complicated and heavy and confusing.

Then you're plunging into the water—cold shock stealing your breath, the world going muffled and blue-green. You kick toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp, hair plastered to your face, laughing because you're alive and exhilarated and this is perfect.

Everyone is laughing, smiling. The water is cool but not freezing, the sun warm on your shoulders.

Eddie lays on his back, floating away with his arms spread like a starfish, face tilted toward the sky. Steve does the same, drifting in lazy circles. Jonathan starts swimming toward something that caught his eye. Nancy follows him, their heads close together as they talk.

Leaving you and Robin treading water a few yards apart. You watch your friends scatter across the lake, all of them in their own worlds.

Robin looks sideways at you, then down at the water. "I'm sorry."

You look over at her, surprised. "What for?"

Robin sighs, the sound heavy. "About... getting mad at you for something you can't control. I know you were being safe, and I know it could've been Sammy's as much as Steve's." She pauses, gathering courage. "I was pissed off because Steve tells me everything, and... whenever I ask about you, he never wants to talk about it. Like you're this separate part of his life I'm not allowed into."

She looks at you now, eyes earnest. "Steve was the first person I came out to. And I don't know, I felt maybe a little threatened? Like you two were closer friends because you're sleeping together. And I know that's selfish, but I've been feeling left out. And I know that's partly my fault because of me spending so much time talking to Nancy, and we both agreed we're only going to do two phone calls a week now instead of every night—"

Robin is rambling now, words tumbling over each other, fast and panicked and so quintessentially her that you can't help but laugh.

You surge forward, engulfing Robin in a hug that nearly dunks you both underwater. "I'm sorry too," you mutter against her wet hair. "I should've told you. About all of it."

"God, I've missed you," Robin cries into your neck, her arms wrapping tight around you.

"I've missed you, Rob." Your own voice cracks, tears mixing with lake water as you hold onto her tighter.

You break apart after a moment, both teary-eyed but laughing now, the heaviness lifting. You splash Robin lightly, and she immediately retaliates, sending water into your face. You shriek and splash back harder.

Robin's laughter fades slightly, her expression going more serious. "I hate being an asshole sometimes. I guess I was getting worried you have feelings for Steve."

Your stomach knots immediately, tying itself into complicated shapes. You keep your face carefully neutral, not letting anything show.

Robin laughs—incredulous, like the idea is absurd. "I mean, you don't, right? Nothing's changed in that area?"

Your gaze drifts across the water to where Steve has found his way onto a flat rock with Eddie. He's sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, dripping with lake water, head tilted back toward the sun with his eyes closed. The light catches on the water droplets sliding down his chest, turning them to diamonds. Your heart stutters looking at the way the sun gleams down on him, painting him in gold and making him look like something out of a painting.

You think back to your conversation with Nancy. He'll always choose Robin first. That's their future, their deal, their life. The thought is cold water poured over the warmth blooming in your chest, extinguishing it.

You shake your head, forcing a scoff. "Nope. Still don't like him like that." The lie tastes bitter on your tongue. "We're friends. That's all."

Robin blows out a puff of air, visibly relieved, and starts floating on her back. "Thank god. That would make everything so complicated."

You follow her lead, floating backward partly to cool off but mostly because you don't want Robin to see your fallen expression, the way your mouth wants to turn down at the corners, the way tears threaten again for entirely different reasons.

You hear Robin speak again, her voice drifting across the water. "Thank you for talking to Nancy, too. I know I should have told her myself, but I felt so embarrassed." She pauses. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to tell my parents it'll be just me. As much as I want you there, I think... I think it’ll be better to go by myself."

You nod. "It’s really okay, Rob."

A beat goes by, both of you floating in companionable silence, the sun warm on your faces. Then you sit up suddenly, eyes lit up with an idea. "Wait. Are you required to go on this vacation?"

Robin furrows her brows, treading water now to stay upright. "Uh... no, I guess not. Why?"

You smile big, excitement bubbling up. "Who's stopping us from doing our own spring break trip?"

As if on cue, Jonathan and Nancy swim up to join you. Jonathan's camera is safely back on shore, but he looks happier than you've seen him all weekend. "You guys could come see me in Miami," he offers. "I'm flying out there for a few weeks. Working on a film. There's beach access and everything."

Robin's eyes glimmer, her whole face lighting up. She looks at Nancy, who looks equally enthralled, practically vibrating with excitement. They squeal in unison, coming together in a flurry of kisses—quick pecks all over each other's faces, hands cupping cheeks, foreheads pressed together.

"Let's do it!" Robin practically shouts.

You and Jonathan laugh at their enthusiasm.

Robin turns and looks at the boys lounging several yards away on their rock. "Hey, lovebirds! Spring break in Miami?"

Steve and Eddie look at one another. You can't hear what they're saying, but you see Eddie's exaggerated gestures, see Steve's mouth moving in response. Then they both look back at your group and put their thumbs up in perfect synchronization.

A few minutes later, Robin and Nancy decide to climb back up to the parking area. They need to change into dry clothes, and you suspect they also want a few extra minutes alone together before you all depart, probably catching up on all the time they wasted being upset with one another, probably kissing where no one can see.

Jonathan and Eddie decide to head up too, stomachs rumbling. When Eddie asks if Steve and you are coming, Steve gives a small shake of his head and a knowing look. Eddie and Jonathan exchange smirks before climbing up the cliff path, their laughter echoing back down.

When they're out of sight, Steve still makes no move toward you. He remains on his rock, water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his chest. You can see his sun-kissed nose, turned slightly pink from exposure.

You slip back into the water, but you don't swim away. Instead, you wade over to his rock and slot yourself between his legs, hands coming to rest on his knees. The water is cool around your waist, but his skin is warm where your fingers touch.

Steve leans back on his hands, looking down at you with a soft expression that makes something flutter in your chest.

"Can I ask a question?" you say finally.

"Shoot," Steve answers, tilting his head.

"When was the last time you kissed someone?"

Steve opens his mouth, brows furrowing slightly.

"The last time you kissed someone before me," you clarify.

Steve thinks, his eyes going distant. "I dunno... maybe senior year? Prom, I think. Some girl whose name I can't remember." He focuses back on you, suddenly looking uncertain. "Why? Am I... a bad kisser?"

You laugh, the sound bright in the quiet space between you. "No, Steve. You're not a bad kisser." Your brow quirks playfully. "Am I?"

He kicks one foot lazily in the water, splashing you lightly. "'Course you're not, Hot Shot," he teases, voice going warm and affectionate. He tilts his head, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"Another question."

"Nuh-uh, it's my turn," he argues, a smile tugging at his mouth.

You roll your eyes, but there's no heat in it. Your hands fold on top of one of his legs, and you lay your head there, looking up at him. "Fine. What?"

His playfulness fades, replaced by something more serious. "Did you really mean it? When you said you would've said yes about only sleeping with each other?" The words are delicate, fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly. His eyes are soft and searching, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache.

"I don't know." You hold his gaze. "Did you really end it with the others?"

"Yeah," Steve says firmly, no hesitation. Then more cautiously, "Did you really end things with Sammy?"

You bite your lip, nodding. "Yeah."

Silence settles between you. Your head is still resting on his leg, and Steve starts throwing small rocks into the water—plink, plink, plink. Each one sends out ripples that catch the sunlight, creating patterns across the surface. You can hear birds calling and Eddie's distant laughter carrying down from the parking area.

The water laps gently against the rocks, a rhythmic sound that's almost hypnotic. You can smell the lake. It’s all fresh and clean with a hint of algae underneath, and the sunscreen from earlier that's mostly washed off but still clings faintly to your skin.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask quietly.

Steve smiles, throwing another rock. It skips once before sinking. "About how nervous I am about the test I need to take. To see if I can get into the College of Education." He pauses, jaw working. "I'm not exactly a great test taker. Gonna be studying my ass off this week and through spring break."

"I can help," you offer immediately, lifting your head to look at him properly.

"Yeah?" His eyes light up, hopeful.

"I'm a great tutor," you say with mock arrogance, grinning. "No one's ever complained before."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's because of your tutoring skills," Steve says dryly, but his mouth is twitching with suppressed laughter.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You splash him, genuinely offended now.

Steve laughs outright, the sound echoing across the water. He leans forward, his belly folding slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. He reaches out and moves a strand of wet hair from your face, fingers lingering on your cheek. "You're cute, Hot Shot."

And there's something different about the way being called cute makes you feel coming from him. Your cheeks warm despite the cool water, and your head feels dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the sun or the altitude or the fact that you just jumped off a cliff.

Steve cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're always asking others what they're thinking, what they want to do. Why don't you ever talk about yourself?"

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You shrug, trying to deflect. "I talk about myself."

His other hand comes up to cup the other side of your face, holding you gently but firmly, making you look at him. His eyes are deep pools of hazel—gold and green and brown all swirling together. "Yeah, but I want to know you."

"You do know me," you say with a small laugh.

"You know what I mean," Steve mumbles, his eyes pooling with something you're afraid to name.

Your face cracks into a smile despite yourself. "I used to want to be a ballerina."

"Yeah?" Steve asks, genuinely interested.

You laugh, nodding. "Yeah, but I never made it because, believe it or not, I have two left feet. Can't dance to save my life."

He barks out a laugh, disbelieving. "Bullshit. I've seen you dance."

"Steve, dancing at parties or clubs is way different." You grin up at him. "Dry-humping to music is not the same as actual dancing."

They share a laugh—genuine and unguarded—and Steve brushes his thumb across your cheek again, touch feather-light. "Well, I think you would've looked cute in a tutu anyway."

You finally close the distance, stretching up to place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He tastes like lake water and sunshine and something sweeter underneath.

.-.-.-.

You weren't ready to say goodbye to Nancy when the time came, but you promised to actually call this time—not to let weeks go by in silence. You told Jonathan it was nice meeting him, that you'd see him in Miami for spring break.

You're walking toward Eddie's van, bags in hand, when Robin grabs them from you. "I'm going to ride with Steve on the way back!" she announces brightly. "We need to talk spring break plans, figure out flights and hotels and all that boring adult stuff." She kisses your cheek, already bouncing with excitement. "I'll see you when we both get back!"

You catch Steve's eye over Robin's shoulder. He smiles at you, soft and private, meant only for you, before climbing into his BMW.

You get into Eddie's van, settling into the passenger seat. The drive home is quieter than the drive there—Eddie is clearly sleepy, yawning every few minutes, and you're exhausted too, bone-deep tired in the best way. You watch the landscape blur past, trees giving way to fields giving way to the outskirts of campus.

Eddie helps you get your bags when you pull up to your dorm. And laughably, absurdly, your forgotten tent and sleeping bag are still on the sidewalk where he'd left them days ago. You both stare at them for a moment before dissolving into laughter.

When you get to your room, Robin is already there—sitting cross-legged on her bed with a fresh pizza box open and two face masks laid out on her desk.

You spend the evening catching up properly, no more walls between you. You tell her about getting wasted when she left after their fight, and she tells you about how she miserably hung around Eddie and Steve. You eat pizza until you're uncomfortably full, do face masks that smell like cucumber and make your skin feel tight, and laugh until your stomach hurts.

When you're both tucked into bed, lights out, Robin sighs wistfully into the darkness. "Please don't tell her, but I think I'm in love with Nancy."

Your smile is immediate, heart bursting with happiness for her, but also sad, thinking about Nancy saying the same thing to you at the lake. Two people in love who can't fully tell each other because of circumstances beyond their control. Or maybe that was just an excuse everyone keeps putting out there instead of facing their fears.

Robin starts snoring within minutes, but you can't sleep. Your mind won't shut off, replaying moments from the weekend. Steve's laugh, his hands on your face, the way he looked at you in the water.

Tap.

You groan, rolling over. Probably someone pranking the dorms.

Tap. Tap.

You sit up, annoyed now, and tiptoe to the window so you don't wake Robin. You look down, and your eyes go wide. A smile breaks across your face so suddenly it almost hurts.

Standing below your window is a boy with glasses, grinning up at you like an idiot, rocking back on his heels.

You run to your bedside lamp and turn it on—just bright enough to see by. You come back to the window and mouth dramatically, exaggerating each word: What are you doing?

He motions at you, then points down at the ground, telling you to come outside.

You make a show of looking at your wrist, pointing at an imaginary watch, mouthing, It’s late!

Steve shrugs, then clasps his hands together in front of his chest, lip puckering out in an exaggerated pout. Begging.

You roll your eyes, sighing loud enough that he probably can't hear but can definitely see. You hold up one finger—one minute—and watch his smile get impossibly wider, lighting up his whole face.

You throw on your robe to cover your pajamas, shove your feet into slippers, and creep out of the room as quietly as possible.

You find Steve outside, hands shoved in his pockets, still rocking back on his heels like he's nervous. "Steve," you whisper-yell, approaching him. "It's midnight. What are you doing here?"

"I..." He looks around like someone might be listening. "I wanted to see you."

Your smile is immediate, soft and helpless. Steve glances around one more time, then grabs your hand and pulls you behind a big oak tree that shields you from view of the parking lot and any windows that might have nosy people looking out.

He leans back against the rough bark, pulling you toward him until you're standing between his legs. His hands come up to brush your hair behind your ears, fingers lingering on your jaw.

He smells like lake water still—like he didn't bother showering when he got back. But underneath that is your scent too, clinging to his skin from this morning, from last night, from every time you've touched.

Steve doesn't say anything. He messes with the tie on your robe, rubbing his hands up and down your arms over the fabric. You plant your hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms, then move them up to his neck, burying your fingers in his hair. It's still slightly damp.

"Hi," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," you answer, leaning in to peck him on the lips. You giggle when the sparse hairs on his upper lip tickle your skin.

The kissing is languid, slow, neither of you in any rush. Steve pulls you closer, hands spanning your waist, thumbs rubbing circles on your hipbones. Your hands trail across his shoulders, down his back, sliding into the back pockets of his jeans to pull his hips flush against yours.

"Steve," you murmur between kisses, his lips chasing after yours every time you pull back even slightly. "I have an early class in the morning."

He sighs against your mouth, gripping your waist tighter. "Can I see you tomorrow?" He pauses, then corrects himself. "Or I guess later today, technically."

You smile against his lips, eyes fluttering open to look at him through your lashes. "When?"

"After Pike's chapter meeting? We get done at eight." His thumbs are still drawing those circles, making it hard to think. "You can come over after. Quiet hours start at nine on weekdays, so most of the guys go to their rooms to study. We'll have the common area to ourselves."

He brings your joined hands up, rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles in that way he does when he's nervous or thinking hard about something.

You nod, biting your lip to contain your smile. "Okay. But only because I'm making you study."

"Right," Steve says, but his eyes are on your mouth. "Study. That's definitely what we'll do."

"I'm serious, Harrington." But you're laughing, pulling him down for another kiss.

He kisses you like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like tomorrow might not come, like this moment is all that exists.

And for now, standing under the oak tree with Steve's arms around you and his heart beating under your palm, maybe it is.

It was a lie.

Monday night finds you in Steve's lap on the edge of his bed, the study materials scattered and forgotten on the sheets beside you. His textbook has been tossed to the floor, spine cracked from landing face-down on the carpet.

You're straddling him, legs bracketing his hips, and his hands are on your waist—have been on your waist for the past twenty minutes—gripping and releasing in rhythm with your kisses. He's wearing his glasses, and you can see your reflection in them when you pull back for air.

This is entirely your fault. You'd made the grave tactical error of telling him he could have one kiss for every answer he got right on the practice questions.

Steve, it turns out, is much smarter than he lets on.

He'd gotten the first three right immediately, claiming his kisses with a smugness that should have annoyed you but instead made you laugh. By question seven, you'd abandoned the notecard system entirely and ended up here—on his lap, his mouth on yours, everything else forgotten.

His room is dim, only one lamp on in the corner casting warm yellow light across. The house is quiet around you, the faint sound of Buck’s stereo bleeding through the walls through the bathrrom, bass thumping in a rhythm you can feel in your chest. Outside, a car passes on the street, headlights sweeping across the windows before disappearing.

His mouth moves against yours slow and thorough, like you're both teenagers discovering what kissing is for the first time—all exploration and wonder and the thrill of something new. His lips are soft, slightly chapped, and when he parts them to deepen the kiss, you taste mint gum and the Coke he'd been drinking earlier.

Your hands are in his hair, fingers threading through the strands and tugging gently. Steve makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—and his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.

"You're supposed to be studying," you murmur against his mouth, but there's no conviction in your voice.

"I am studying," Steve says, and you can feel his smile against your lips. "Human anatomy."

You laugh, pulling back to look at him. His glasses are slightly crooked, hair mussed from your fingers, lips pink and swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, eyes dark behind the lenses, pupils blown wide.

You tug his hair in retaliation, and he groans—properly this time, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hands slide from your waist to your hips, thumbs pressing into the divots there, and when he kisses you again it's slower, deeper, more intense.

The room feels smaller somehow, the air thicker. You're hyperaware of everything—the heat of his body beneath you, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the slide of his tongue against yours, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something underneath that's purely him.

"Steve," you breathe, and you're not sure if it's a warning or a plea.

"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and when you open your eyes his are already on you, searching your face.

"You need to pass it."

"I know," he says again, softer this time. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "But right now, I need this more."

The house settles back into quiet, and you stay there in Steve's lap, kissing him like you have all the time in the world, like there's nothing else that matters beyond this moment, this room, this boy— your very good friend— looking at you like you hung the moon.

.-.-.-.

On Tuesday, you're in the library with Robin, hunched over your shared American Literature textbook, halfway through an essay on Hemingway's symbolism when a shadow falls across your notebook.

You look up, eyes widening slightly when you see Sammy standing at the edge of your table. He's readjusting the leather strap of his satchel across his chest, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that broadcasts his discomfort.

Robin glances between you and Sammy, then back down at her paper with exaggerated focus, pretending she's not listening even though you can see her ears practically perked.

"Hey," Sammy says, and his voice is careful, measured.

"Hey," you greet, setting your pencil down, giving him your full attention because it feels like the least you can do.

Sammy clears his throat, eyes darting to Robin for a second before landing back on you. He swallows. "Look, uh... I was cleaning my room and you left some stuff there."

"Oh," you say, and the word comes out flat. "Okay."

He continues quickly, like he needs to get the words out before he loses his nerve. "I didn't really want to bring them to class and make it a big deal. George would never let me hear the end of it." A small, self-deprecating smile. "So whenever you want, you can come pick them up."

"Right. Okay." The awkwardness sits heavy between you, thick enough to cut.

"Okay. Yeah. See you later then." His mouth twitches at the corner—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace—and then he glances at Robin who was definitely staring. Her head snaps back to her paper so fast you're surprised she doesn't get whiplash.

Once he's gone, disappeared between the stacks of books, Robin watches his retreating form, tracking him until he's completely out of sight. You look back down at your paper, trying to refocus on Hemingway's iceberg theory, but you can feel Robin's gaze boring into the side of your head.

"What?" you ask without looking up.

Robin sighs, the sound heavy and pointed. "I don't get you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, look—I'm not into boys, I've made that clear." She gestures vaguely in the direction Sammy disappeared. "But Sammy is objectively hot, and he's clearly still totally into you." She shakes her head, genuine confusion coloring her features. "And you're... what? Not interested?"

You look up then, stomach sinking because you know what she's not saying. You know that even though Sammy never said it explicitly, he never actually wanted casual. You saw it in the way he looked at you, the way he asked you out properly instead of suggesting you hook up. You've played around with the idea—the what if. What if you gave him a real chance?

But for what? To be another dead-end relationship that runs its course and leaves you both awkward around each other for the rest of college?

What you have with Steve—being friends who sleep together, no expectations, no pressure—that's better. Right? You don't want to be serious with anyone. Right?

So you make up an excuse, shrugging like it's simple. "I mean, sure, he's cute. But there really wasn't anything there when we were seeing each other. I don't think he actually knows me. Like, he probably couldn't tell you what my favorite color is."

Robin snorts, mumbling something under her breath that you don't quite catch.

You set your pencil down, eyebrows raised, arms crossing over your chest. "Got something to say?" you ask, amused smile playing at your lips.

But Robin's face shifts—serious and playful at the same time, like her lips are ghosting the edge of a smile but her eyes look sad. "Babe, you don't really give people the chance to know you." She pauses, voice gentling. "I mean, you're my best friend and I'm still trying to figure you out."

Your stomach drops, Robin's words echoing Steve's from the lake. You're always asking others what they're thinking... Why don't you ever talk about yourself?

Later, when you've both packed up your things and the library has started its closing announcements, you glance at your watch. Eight.

You walk out of the building together, cool evening air hitting your faces, and you slow your pace. "You go on ahead. Don't wait up—I'll be back to the dorm later."

Robin's eyebrows shoot up, a knowing grin spreading across her face. "Oh, I see. You're going to do a late-night 'get my things from Sammy' run?"

The lie sits on your tongue, ready and waiting. "Yeah."

Because really, twenty minutes later you're pushing through the unlocked front door of the Pike house, climbing the familiar stairs, your heart rate picking up with each step. You can hear muffled music from behind closed doors, voices and laughter echoing through the halls.

When you reach Steve's room, you tap lightly on the doorframe. He's sitting at his desk, feet propped up on the edge, phone pressed to his ear, and when he looks over his face breaks into a grin that makes your chest feel too tight.

"Yeah," he says into the receiver, holding out his free hand and waving you over.

Steve plants his feet on the ground as you close the door behind you and cross to him. You don't hesitate, settling yourself on one of his legs, his thigh warm and solid beneath you. You look at the scattered papers on his desk. There’s practice questions, flashcards, his textbook open to a chapter on educational psychology.

His free hand finds your back immediately, scratching up and down absentmindedly, nails dragging lightly over your shirt. You can hear the faint voice on the other end. It’s high-pitched and animated, rambling on about something, but Steve doesn't look bored. If anything, he's listening intently, nodding even though the person can't see him.

"Yeah, I'm good. Was studying before you called." He pauses, then says your name casually. "She's here."

A beat of silence, then he rolls his eyes. "No, shut up."

You can hear loud, exaggerated kissing noises coming through the receiver. Steve groans, face flushing slightly. "Stop it, Max."

A loud cackle on the other end makes you smile. Steve listens to whatever she's saying, then, "Yeah, sure. Hold on." He holds the phone out to you. "Max says she wants to talk to you."

You take it gladly, bringing it to your ear. "Hey, Max!"

"Hey! How are you?" Her voice is warm, familiar, and you smile when Steve wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you closer against him, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Good. I'm ready for spring break, though." You sigh, then jump slightly when Steve places a kiss on the junction where your shoulder meets your neck. You swat at his face when he chuckles, clearly planning to do it again.

Max sighs on the other end. "I'm stuck working at the arcade all week. But Steve tells me you guys are going to Miami?"

"Yeah, I've never been, so I'm excited." This time when Steve kisses your neck, you stick your finger in his mouth. He bites down gently, laughing, then licks your finger, making you pull it out and wipe it on his polo shirt with a disgusted laugh.

Max hums knowingly. "I'm sure you are," she says, sing-song and teasing.

You don't have time to ask what she means before she continues. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, what's up?" you ask, mouthing stop it to Steve who's started getting handsy, his fingers walking up your ribs.

Max hesitates. You hear her soft sigh, the sound of her chewing on her lip. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more private. "How did you know you were ready?"

"Ready?" Your eyes go wide as understanding dawns. "Oh!"

Panic flutters in your chest. Is this appropriate? Should you be having this conversation with her?

Max's breath is shaky on the other end. "I'm sorry. I don't really talk to my mom about this stuff, and I don't have a big sister or anything. And I feel weird asking Steve." She rushes on. "You don't have to answer—"

"No," you interrupt gently, looking at Steve who's clearly gotten the hint to back off. He's returned to concentrating on his schoolwork, though he still drops soft kisses on your shoulder occasionally. "It's okay, really. I don't know... I was about your age, I guess. Are you... wanting to?"

Steve looks at you then, brows furrowed, confusion clear on his face.

You hear Max groan, followed by a thump like she's thrown herself onto her bed. "No... yes... I don't know. Prom is coming up and..." She trails off, then continues quietly. "I don't want to have sex with Lucas because we're dating and I love him, you know? Like, I don't want that to be the only reason."

You smile to yourself, standing from Steve's lap despite his immediate protest. You hold up one finger—one minute—and take the phone into his bathroom, closing the door behind you so you can talk more freely without freaking Steve out.

"Has he been asking?" you ask, settling on the edge of the bathtub.

"No, he's really respectful. He knows not to push boundaries. But I can tell he wants to. I mean..." She laughs, slightly embarrassed. "He is a boy."

You think for a moment, choosing your words carefully. "It's okay to talk to him about it, you know? To get on the same page. And it doesn't have to be this big thing because of prom. It can happen whenever you want. No pressure. You're never really ready—in a relationship or not—but that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it."

You hear hesitation on Max's end, the sound of shifting blankets.

"Look," you say softly, "you're right that loving him and dating him doesn't mean you owe him sex. The bigger question is: do you trust him?"

Max thinks, and when she speaks again there's a smile in her voice. "Yeah. I do."

"Then I think you're ready to at least talk about it with him. And it sounds like he loves you enough to be okay with whatever you want. Sex or no sex."

"Yeah... okay. You're right. Thank you."

"No problem."

A beat passes, comfortable and easy, before Max asks, voice careful, "Do you love Steve?"

Your breath hitches. You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the phone. "He's my friend," you say slowly, "and I trust him."

"That's not what I asked."

You close your eyes, and behind your lids you can see Steve—hunched over his desk, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, one hand running through his hair in concentration. "Probably," you admit quietly. "But not in the way you love Lucas."

Even as the words leave your mouth, something twists in your chest. Guilt, maybe, like you're lying. The same feeling you got when you lied to Robin earlier about going to see Sammy instead of Steve.

But you're not lying. You don't have romantic feelings for him. And if you don't like him romantically, how could you be in love with him?

.-.-.-.

On Wednesday, after Steve finishes his volunteer shift at the rec center, you end up in his room again. You're sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of his sweatshirts because you claimed it was "cold," even though the radiator is pumping heat into the small space.

Steve is in his desk chair—deliberately positioned far away from you—wearing only pajama pants, chest bare, hair damp and darkening the pillow when he tips his head back. He showered after volunteering, and you can still smell his soap, clean and fresh.

You have his study guide in your lap, asking questions, and he's getting most of them right. One or two trip him up, but overall he's improving.

Finally, you look at him, smiling. "Why are you so worried about this?"

Steve has been staring up at the ceiling, but at your question his eyes find yours. His mouth parts slightly, and in the lamplight you can see how much his hair has grown out, the blonde nearly gone now, absorbed back into dark brown like highlights fading with the seasons. The mustache he hasn't shaved is more prominent, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time in the rec center parking lot earlier kissing him, tracing your finger over his upper lip while he laughed.

His face falls slightly, jaw ticking. You watch the nervous way he breathes, see him tuck the pencil in his hand behind his ear.

"My dad isn't too happy I decided on this," he says finally, voice quiet. "But my mom talked him into at least accepting it. He said if I screw this up, he's gonna stop sending checks to the school." He pauses, and you see the weight of it in his eyes. "And sure, I have some money saved. I could get a job, try to make it work. But I'd probably have to drop out of Pike."

His eyes droop at the thought, and even though he wouldn't say it out loud, you can see it—he actually enjoys being in the fraternity. Not for the parties or the status, but for the brotherhood, the structure, the way they hold each other accountable.

Months ago, you would've believed it was all about popularity and beer pong. But Robin mentioned a few weeks ago that Pike was in talks about becoming the number one fraternity on campus because of their successful philanthropy events and the way their collective GPA had spiked since Steve became president.

You frown, something protective and angry rising in your chest. "Why do you let him do that? Make decisions for you. Dictate your life."

Steve shrugs, the gesture trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to defeated. "I don't blame him. I've never really shown him any reason to believe I'm hardworking." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I was a lost cause in high school. Probably only graduated because my mom was on the PTA and people respected her. Honestly, I think I'm scared of her a little more than my dad." He pauses. "But it doesn't help that he had to do damage control when the accident with Billy happened. I'm sure he's tired of me being a screw-up."

The anger bubbles hotter inside you, pressing against your ribs. You don't know why this bothers you so much—why hearing Steve tear himself down makes you want to shake him, or his father, or both of them. You can't force Steve to see the truth, and you can't force his father to either. Like father, like son—they're both stubborn, both set in their ways.

"How does your mom feel about you choosing this?" you ask, voice gentler.

Steve's face softens, a real smile appearing. "She thought it was great. I think she's already talking to people at Hawkins High, making sure they'll have a student teaching spot for me when the time comes." He chuckles. "I think she wants me back home, though."

"Your mom sounds nice."

"Yeah." He sighs, and then—like the words slip out before he can stop them—"She'd like you."

Your cheeks heat, warmth spreading down your neck. "You think?"

"Yeah," he says, matter-of-fact, but there's a shy quality to it too. A blush creeping up his cheeks. "She'd appreciate that you don't put up with my shit but also let me figure things out on my own." He laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "That you call me out when I need it."

He looks at you shyly, and for a second you're both imagining the same thing—you can feel it hanging in the air between you.

Taking you back to Hawkins one weekend. Introducing you to his parents. His mom pulling you away while Steve and his dad watch a game, showing you embarrassing baby photos. Maybe sharing a glass of wine while she tells you stories about Steve as a kid, the trouble he got into, the sweet things he did that he'd never admit to now.

Steve stands from his chair abruptly, breaking the moment. He gets on his knees at the end of the bed, and there's something predatory in the way he moves—slow and purposeful, eyes locked on yours. He crawls up the mattress toward you, hands and knees pressing into the comforter, muscles in his arms flexing with each movement. His chest is bare, skin golden in the lamplight, and you can see every rise and fall of his breathing.

He grabs your ankle gently, thumb pressing into the bone there, and places a kiss on the inside of your ankle. Then he kisses up your calf, slow and reverent, his mustache tickling your skin. He pauses at your knee, then continues up your thigh, and you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin.

He hovers over where you want him most, smiling up at you with that cocky grin before deliberately skipping it entirely. He kisses your stomach through his sweatshirt instead, then burrows his face there, wrapping his arms around your waist and laying his weight between your legs.

"Stay over," he mumbles into the fabric.

"Why?" you ask, and in your head you're thinking maybe he wants to have sex, wants to finish what he's started.

"'Cause I want to wake up to you again."

Your stomach flips, a smile spreading across your face that you can't control. You bite your lip. "Okay," you whisper.

The next morning, Steve does what he promised. He wakes you early enough that you'll have time to go back to your dorm and get ready for class. The room is still dim, early morning light barely filtering through the curtains.

"Hey," he says softly, and you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge. "I have breakfast for you."

You rub your eyes, expecting to see another sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit from wherever Sammy and Eddie got it. Instead, he's holding a plate of Eggo waffles covered in melting butter and thick, warm syrup.

You eat them right there in his bed, sitting up against his pillows, watching him get ready for his morning class. He moves around the room in his boxers, pulling on jeans, finding a clean shirt, running his fingers through his hair in the mirror.

When it's time to leave, Steve drives you back to your dorm. He can't get out to walk you to the door—too risky, too visible—but when the coast is clear he pulls you close and kisses you softly, his hand cupping your jaw.

"Hey," he says when you pull back, fingers catching yours. "Can I take you... I mean, can we hang out tonight?"

"I have plans with Robin to study in the library," you say, frowning slightly.

"Okay. After?" He's persistent, thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles. "Unless you're sick of me."

You laugh, leaning in to kiss him again. "No, it's cute. Okay, after. I'm all yours, Harrington."

When you and Robin are deep in your textbooks that evening, buried in a corner of the library surrounded by highlighters and note cards, Steve drops his backpack next to Robin with a soft thud. His eyes catch yours immediately—a private smile, a shared secret—before he leans down and kisses Robin's cheek.

It turns into them finalizing details about spring break. Robin's parents didn't mind her skipping the family vacation to Canada, were actually relieved they wouldn't have to navigate a political dinner with their daughter's restless energy. Tickets and hotels have been booked. A few nights ago, Steve had asked if your rooms could be next to each other, and you'd both known without saying it that one of those rooms would never be slept in.

Nancy and Robin have their own room. Eddie is sharing with Jonathan. And you and Steve have rooms that share a wall.

You fly out Sunday.

During their conversation, Steve's hand sneaks under the table. His arm reaches, fingers brushing your knee in a touch so light it could be accidental. Your eyes catch across the table when Robin isn't looking, both of you smiling shyly, like teenagers passing notes in class.

You slowly move your hand under the table too, placing it on your knee next to his. His finger traces circles on your knuckles, and the simple touch sends warmth radiating up your arm.

Robin finally sighs, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Okay, Nancy's waiting for my call, so I'm heading out."

She quirks an eyebrow at you, catching the way you're smiling at your homework—not because of Hemingway, but because Steve's fingers are now fully laced with yours under the table. "Are you going to be out late again?" She winks. "Or like last night when you didn't come home at all?"

You realize Robin probably still thinks you're doing late-night visits to Sammy's room, not sneaking off with her pretend boyfriend who she thinks is still an occasional hookup.

Steve lets go of your hand, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His cocky smile spreads across his face, head tilting, and you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes.

You roll your eyes. "I don't know. I'll see if I feel like it."

Steve bites back a laugh, lips pressed together.

Robin snorts. "Yeah, okay." She kicks the leg of Steve's chair. "Drive me back, please."

Steve furrows his brows. "Why can't you walk?"

"Because it's dark and I don't feel like it," she says, already standing and gathering her things.

Steve looks at you before grumbling something under his breath, quickly scribbling a last-minute note on his homework and shoving things into his backpack. His hand settles on Robin's back, ready to guide her out, and as they turn to leave he catches your eye.

"See you soon, Hot Shot," he says, winking.

His eyes dart meaningfully to the paper he left on the table—deliberate and unnoticed by Robin who's already calling goodbye over her shoulder.

Once they're gone, and after you've shamelessly watched Steve walk away (the way his jeans fit around his ass is truly unfair), you pick up the piece of paper.

parking lot. fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, you're sliding into the passenger seat of Steve's car, throwing your book bag behind you. He laughs when you plant a wet kiss on his cheek, and the sound fills the small space.

"Have a good day?" you ask, finally able to talk freely without Robin around.

"Yeah." He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing your knuckles. "And now it's even better. What about you?"

You smile. "Same here."

You linger there, caught in the warmth of shared smiles, basking in whatever the hell is happening between you. It's starting to cross a dangerous line—the line between friends and something more—but you push the thought down, bury it deep.

"I want to show you something," Steve says.

"Okay," you answer, clicking your seatbelt into place.

Steve doesn't take long to drive you across campus to the STEM building. It looms in the darkness, all glass and modern architecture, completely dark except for a few security lights glowing near the entrances.

It's after hours, but Steve still takes your hand, pulling you toward the doors with purpose.

"Steve, what are you doing?" you whisper. "The building is locked."

He chuckles, pulling out a keychain with a single key, swinging it around his forefinger with a cocky smile. He slides it into the lock and the door opens with a soft click. He holds the door open high, his other hand motioning you forward. "Ladies first."

You hesitate, looking at him, scoffing at his audacity. But despite yourself, you duck under his arm and enter the dark building.

The door shuts behind you, engulfing you both in pitch black. Steve comes up behind you immediately, hands on your waist, breath warm against your ear. "Come on, this way."

He grabs your hand and pulls you forward, fishing a flashlight out of his jacket pocket to guide the way. The beam bounces off walls and floors, creating strange shadows.

You don't question it until you approach a white dome structure in the middle of the lobby. You look at him, confusion clear on your face, and he opens a door in the side of the dome, motioning for you to go inside.

You do. "Okay, what's going on?"

He kisses your cheek before jogging over to an area filled with technical equipment—panels of buttons and switches and screens that look like a spaceship control panel.

"I'm kind of friends with this nerd at the Student Success Center," Steve explains, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He shines his light on it, squinting at what looks like handwritten instructions, then at the panel, then back at the paper. Even with his glasses on, he looks completely lost. "He helps me with my essays, and I get him into parties. Introduced him to his current girlfriend, actually. So he had no problem doing me a favor." Steve leans closer to the panel, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "Aha!"

He bites down on the flashlight to hold it in his mouth, freeing both hands to press a sequence of buttons.

Suddenly, the dome above you lights up.

Stars and galaxies explode across the curved ceiling—thousands of them, millions maybe, twinkling and glowing in constellations you recognize and some you don't. The Milky Way stretches across the center, a river of light and color, purples and blues and whites all bleeding together. Nebulae bloom like flowers, and planets hang suspended in the artificial cosmos.

"Take a seat, madam," Steve says, gesturing grandly.

You can't help but smile—the kind of smile that takes over your whole face, makes your cheeks hurt. You find a seat in the front row, dead center, and lean back to look up at the dome. The stars are magnified and glowing, moving in slow rotation like you're actually out in space watching the universe turn. Some twinkle, some pulse, some trail across the darkness in shooting arcs. It's beautiful in a way that makes your throat tight.

Steve joins you, settling into the seat next to yours. His arm rests on the armrest between you, elbow brushing against yours, creating a point of contact that seems to conduct electricity.

You stay silent for a long moment, both of you watching the artificial sky rotate overhead. The only sounds are your breathing and the quiet mechanical hum of the projector.

You feel something jolt in your chest—like someone sparked you with jumper cables, like your heart needed to be restarted and Steve somehow knew how. You turn to look at him instead of the stars. His profile is illuminated by the glow from above, casting his features in shifting light and shadow. The slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the way his glasses reflect the starlight.

He's beautiful. That's the word that comes to mind, unbidden. Not handsome, not hot—beautiful.

You lay your head on his shoulder, fitting yourself against him, and lace your fingers through his. The confession comes out before you can stop it, quiet but heavy with truth. "I don't like people getting to know the real me."

The words hang in the air between you, admission and vulnerability all at once.

Steve's head comes to rest on top of yours, and you can feel him breathing, feel the slight vibration when he speaks. "Which is weird," you continue, needing to explain now that you've started. "Because I obviously want people to understand me. I like being noticed, being seen. But I'm okay with people knowing what I'm good at—not the cracks. Not the broken pieces."

You're both still staring at the stars above you when, as if the universe is listening, a supernova explodes across the dome. Light flares brilliant white, then cascades outward in expanding rings of color—orange and red and gold, fragments flying in all directions before slowly fading.

"Do you think a star is any less of a star when it explodes?" Steve asks quietly.

"What?" You laugh, the sound soft and surprised in the enclosed space.

"Like... that one that went kaboom. Yeah, it's in all these fragmented pieces now and it's different and could turn into a black hole. But there's still pieces of it drifting out there that can eventually turn back into stars. New stars. Different, but still stars."

You pull back fully to look at him, tilting your head. "How do you know so much about stars, Harrington?"

He blushes, the color visible even in the dim light. "I hear Dustin talk about this shit a lot, okay?" He gives you a sideways look, defensive. "I am not a nerd."

"I don't know, Steve. You bring me to the nerd building, talking nerdy to me with those glasses on..." You grin. "I think that qualifies you as a nerd."

"Shut up," he says, but he's smiling.

"Or what?" You poke his chest.

He leans in, voice dropping low. "Or I'll kiss you."

Your mouths slot together not long after. It starts slow—soft presses of lips, gentle explorations—but quickly builds into something more desperate. Steve's hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift in your seat to get a better angle.

His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, the kiss deepening. One of his hands slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave marks.

You gasp when his hand slides higher, cupping your breast through your sundress, thumb brushing over your nipple. The touch sends heat flooding through you, pooling low in your belly.

"Steve," you breathe against his mouth.

"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked already.

"Touch me."

His hand slides down your body, over your stomach, your hip, your thigh. When he reaches the hem of your sundress, he doesn't hesitate. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, skimming up your inner thigh, and when he reaches the apex he groans.

"Fuck," he whines.

His fingers find your center, stroking through your underwear, and you whimper. The planetarium stars wheel overhead, painting you both in celestial light as Steve works you open with his hand.

"Need you," you gasp, reaching for his belt.

The two of you move to the floor, Steve shrugging off his jacket and laying it down beneath you like a gentleman. The carpet is rough against your shoulders, but you don't care. All you care about is Steve above you, between your legs, his weight a comfort and a promise.

You stay in your sundress, but he pulls the straps down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to the cool air and his hot mouth. His shirt comes off, revealing the expanse of his chest, and his jeans are pushed down low enough to free his cock.

He moves above you with careful thrusts, and the starlight plays across his face—his closed eyes, his parted lips, the furrow of concentration between his brows. The projector hums its mechanical lullaby while you rock together, while you map each other with hands and mouths and bodies.

Above you, the stars continue their ancient dance. Light spills across Steve's skin, turning him golden, ethereal, like something carved from starlight itself. His glasses catch the glow, reflect it back at you, and when he looks down at you there's something in his eyes that makes your heart stutter.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, and it doesn't sound like a lie. It sounds like truth.

Your orgasm builds like a star forming in space—matter collecting, pressure increasing, heat rising until suddenly you explode outward in a burst of light and sensation that leaves you gasping. And as you come, gasping Steve's name, you feel it. The pieces of you scattering, drifting, and some of them—maybe all of them—now belong to him.

Steve follows moments later, burying his face in your neck, your name bright and starry on his lips.

Suddenly, the door opens. A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness.

"Who's there?"

You squeal, squirming out from under Steve, panic flooding through you. He's pulling up his pants with one hand, grabbing his shirt with the other, and somehow you're both laughing—quiet, hysterical giggles that threaten to give you away.

"Campus security!" the voice calls. "I know someone's in here!"

You grab your bag, Steve grabs his jacket, and then his hand finds yours and you're running toward the emergency exit, the alarm blaring to life as Steve slams through the door. Behind you, you hear the security guard: "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

Steve is running ahead, looking back at you with his shirt still off, hair wild, the biggest smile you've ever seen splitting his face. He's laughing, and you're laughing, and your heart is swelling in your chest, maybe even glowing like the stars you just left behind.

And that's when it hits you with the force of a supernova, with the clarity of starlight—

You're in deep shit.

You like Steve Harrington.

Not as a friend. Not as a hookup. You like him in the way that matters, in the way that changes everything, in the way that means you're absolutely and completely fucked because this was never supposed to happen.

You like him like him.

Fuck.

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