@aisekaise - Tumblr Blog

warnings: angst... lack of communication. misunderstandings.... sex. drinking. weed. mean! steve, smut. breeding kink. creampie. sub! steve if u squint... very brief... saying everything under the sun BUT "i like you" words: 25k 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: okay, here is the long awaited chapter... it's a monster. and there's a bit of relationship building... i hope it's not boring... masterlist | Rules/Playlist

chapter 13

You can't shake the feeling from yesterday—sitting on Steve’s bedroom floor, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for those tests to tell you whether your life was about to change forever.

You can't shake how normal it felt. How right.

Last night, while Robin had sprawled on her bed talking excitedly about the camping trip for her birthday—who was bringing what, where you'd all set up tents, how Eddie promised to bring his guitar—you'd decided not to tell her about the scare. The guilt is already gnawing at you, sharp teeth in your stomach, because you could've been the cause for all their carefully constructed plans to fracture and collapse. Their future—Steve and Robin's marriage, Nancy living with them as a "roommate," the whole delicate fiction they're building—could've come crashing down because you couldn't keep your legs closed.

This morning you woke before Robin did. That alone is unusual—normally you're both up at the same time, talking while getting ready for class, sharing coffee from the pot on Robin's desk, complaining about professors or assignments or whatever drama is currently unfolding. But this semester you only have one class together, and that's Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Today is Tuesday.

You'd slipped out while she was still asleep, leaving before you had to lie to her face.

It's later in the evening now, the sun already setting, casting long shadows across campus. You've skipped all your classes today because—well, to be honest, you're still shaken. You wouldn't be able to concentrate. Especially if you saw Sammy, another person in the equation who has no idea how close he came to being part of something catastrophic.

You find Steve in the library, tucked into a corner on the third floor where hardly anyone goes. He's alone, actually has a book open in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he reads. There's a highlighter in his hand, uncapped, and you watch him mark something on the page with careful precision.

You wouldn't say you're stalking Steve, per se. You just happen to know where he is and end up being in the same spot— all day. Normally hiding behind a wall or a cluster of people, watching him from a distance like some kind of pathetic shadow.

It's such a mundane sight—Steve Harrington studying—and yet it makes your chest ache for reasons you don't want to examine.

You're standing between the stacks, peeking through the gap where you've pulled out a random book, when you hear your name.

You jump, nearly dropping the book, quickly shoving it back into the empty space on the shelf.

You turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Sammy.

"Oh. Hey." Your eyes dance to the side—toward where Steve is sitting, unaware—then back to Sammy's face.

He smiles awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he's unsure what to say. "Hey." He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "You... weren't in class today."

You swallow hard. "Yeah. I just wasn't feeling good. So, yeah."

The lie is terrible. You can see that he notices—the way his eyes narrow slightly, the way his smile becomes more forced.

"Right." He clears his throat. "Well... listen, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry for being kind of weird last week. I'm really stressed about midterms, especially the one we have on Thursday." He's rambling now, words coming faster, nervousness bleeding through. "And I was hoping I'd see you today, and I was actually going to come by your dorm to drop off the review sheet for class. And maybe even see if I could take you out this weekend?"

You used to find this cute and endearing—the shy rambling, the nervous energy, the genuine sweetness of him. But now it's kind of annoying, and you can't help the irritation that prickles under your skin.

"Yeah, maybe we can talk about it on Thursday after class."

Sammy smiles hopefully, looking around the library before leaning in to kiss your cheek. The touch is soft, brief, and makes you want to pull away. "Sounds good."

Before he walks off, he halts. "Oh shoot, wait." He fumbles in his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "The review sheet. Study hard."

He hands it to you and walks away, disappearing down the stairs.

You lean back against the bookshelf, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding. Relief floods through you—relief that he's gone, that you don't have to keep pretending, that you can go back to watching Steve.

You pull the book out again, creating your spy-hole, and peek through the gap.

Steve is gone.

Your heart sinks, frustration flaring hot in your chest. You scan the area where he'd been sitting, but his books are gone too, his backpack, everything. Like he was never there at all.

The next day is better. Except with Robin.

Robin, who notices immediately that you're off about something. She suggests getting lunch together before your shared class, but you shake your head, telling her you need to go to a professor's office hours first. Which is a lie. You don't have any questions for any professors.

Robin looks disappointed, her face falling slightly before she covers it with a smile. "Okay. Rain check?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

After class, Robin catches you at the door. "Dinner tonight? We haven't eaten together in days."

"I can't," you say, already moving, nearly bolting out the classroom doors. "I have to—I promised I'd help someone study. Sorry!"

You don't look back to see her reaction.

Instead, you camp out in a small corner of the library, tucked behind the periodicals section where no one ever goes, watching the achingly slow clock on the wall. Each minute feels like an hour, each hour like a day, until finally it's 8:10 p.m.

You pack up your things and head to the parking lot, positioning yourself near the edge where you can see Steve's BMW.

At exactly 8:15, your smile is ear to ear when you see him there, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. The ember glows orange in the darkness, and you can see the smoke curling up into the night air.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest, spreading through your ribs like sunlight.

You're about to call his name, already opening your mouth to say "Steve," when his head turns. He lifts his hand, waving at someone.

Not just anyone.

Polly.

Her red hair sways as she walks toward him, wearing a tight bright green yoga outfit that shows off every curve. Steve and Polly start walking together, away from his car, talking about something you can't hear from this distance.

Steve stops for a second, looking in your direction. Your breath catches.

You do the very adult thing and duck behind a car, crouching low, pressing your back against the cold metal.

You hear their footsteps getting closer, then stopping. You peek around the edge of the car and see them talking, Steve's hands in his pockets, Polly gesturing animatedly about something. She's smiling, laughing, reaching out to touch his arm.

Then she hugs him.

Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging crescents into your palms.

You don't know why you're fueled with such jealousy. You knew what Steve was. You knew the rules. You knew there were other girls.

And you think you might even like Polly. She was kind and you have no reason not to. Except now, you were trying to find every reason to hate her.

Robin was right. Steve wouldn't change. Not even for you.

You storm into your dorm, don't even bother changing out of your clothes, just climb into bed and pull the covers over your head. When Robin comes back an hour later, you pretend to be asleep, evening out your breathing, keeping perfectly still even when you hear her sigh sadly before getting ready for bed.

The next day, you're grateful you studied despite your inner turmoil. You're a pretty natural test taker, always have been, and you breeze through the exam with time to spare. You turn it in with forty-five minutes left in the period and wait outside the building, leaning against the brick wall.

When you see Sammy emerge, you grab his hand and drag him behind your designated bush—the one you've used before, hidden from the main walkways.

You kiss him hard, desperately, trying to get his lips to burn away the memory of Steve's. Trying to replace the taste of Steve's mouth with Sammy's, trying to convince yourself that this is enough, that this is what you want.

After a few minutes of making out, breath coming hard, you pull back. "There's a party tomorrow night. At the Pike house. Eddie's band is playing. Want to go?"

Sammy's eyes light up. "Yeah. Definitely." He pauses, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want to hang out before?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

That night, again, you go to bed before Robin gets home. You hear her come in, hear her sigh—sad and resigned—and listen to her get ready for bed in the dark.

That next day, you show up to the Alpha Tau house around seven. Most of Sammy's brothers are home, along with a handful of girls you vaguely recognize from classes or other parties. The house smells like beer and pizza, music playing from somewhere upstairs.

About an hour in, you're sitting in Sammy's lap, nursing a drink that's stronger than it should be, when you lean in close to whisper in his ear. "You should take me upstairs."

Because whatever, your period stopped yesterday and Steve was out fucking other girls. You deserve to feel good.

His eyes widen, pupils dilating with want, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

In his room, door locked, you're drunk enough to be brave. Drunk enough to say what you've been thinking about. "I want you to be rougher with me. Dirtier."

Sammy looks surprised but nods eagerly. "Yeah. Okay. I can do that."

And he does try. He kisses you harder, teeth catching your bottom lip. He digs his nails into your flesh—your hips, your thighs—leaving red marks. When he enters you, he's more forceful than usual, hips snapping harder.

Then he leans close, breath hot against your ear. "Do I fuck you better than the other one?"

The other one?

You furrow your brows, the words jarring you out of the moment. "That doesn't turn me on."

He stops, just for a second, processing. "Okay." Then he keeps going. The two of you only make dirty sounds, not speaking to each other. Not telling the other they feel good or what to do.

When he turns you over, positioning you with your hands against the wall, you close your eyes. You imagine it's Steve behind you. Steve's hands on your hips. Steve's lips on your back, trailing kisses down your spine. Steve's lips...

You think about the kiss at Mardi Tau. The taste of him—cigarettes and want and something underneath that was purely Steve. The way his tongue had moved against yours, desperate and hungry.

Then you remember something he'd told you months ago, his voice rough and commanding: "You don't need me to touch you to come."

You let out a moan as your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around Sammy, your whole body shuddering.

After, Sammy doesn't say anything. Just helps you clean up with a damp towel, gentle and thorough. Another thing he checks off the list of good sex partner, you suppose. Considerate. Caring. Everything you should want.

He drives you to the Pike party, and two of his other brothers—Gary and Ryan—pile into the back seat, already drunk off their asses. They're loud, talking over each other about girls in other sororities, rating them on a scale of one to ten, laughing at jokes that aren't funny.

You lean toward Sammy. "Why won't you say anything?"

He shrugs, eyes on the road. "They're just being dumb."

You cross your arms across your chest, annoyed at his dismissiveness.

When you finally arrive at the Pike house, it's already packed. You can hear Corroded Coffin from the backyard—Eddie's voice cutting through the night, guitar wailing. The bass vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.

Sammy puts his hand on your lower back as you walk toward the front gate, and you shift uncomfortably. His hand feels wrong—too light, too uncertain, nothing like the way Steve touches you with possession and purpose.

The pledge at the entrance—PJ, you think his name is—smiles when he sees you. "Hot Shot! Welcome!"

"Hey, PJ." You smile back, moving to walk inside.

But PJ steps in front of Sammy, blocking his path. "Oh... wow. Mr. Samuel." His smile becomes apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I've been informed you aren't allowed at Pike parties until further notice."

Sammy looks confused, then laughs like it's a joke. "What?"

You think it's a joke too. "Very funny. Come on, Sammy." You hold out your hand for him to take.

But PJ stops him again, hand coming up. "Sorry. I'm being serious."

Sammy's confusion morphs into anger, jaw tightening. "And why the fuck not? I didn't do shit."

PJ just shrugs, genuinely apologetic. "I just work here, man. Those are the rules."

"This is bullshit." Sammy pivots, turning to his friends who are watching from a few feet away. "Come on, guys. We're leaving."

"Sammy, wait!" You run after him. "Hey! Let me go in and find Steve—"

Sammy snaps around, and there's something in his eyes you haven't seen before. Hurt mixed with anger mixed with resignation. "Harrington won't do shit." He turns to his friends. "You two, go wait in the car."

Gary and Ryan exchange glances but do as they're told, stumbling toward Sammy's car.

Once they're out of earshot, Sammy crosses his arms. "Well?"

You stutter, trying to find words. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It won't take more than a few minutes. I'll just—"

Sammy laughs, but there's no humor in it. He says your name, flat and tired. "Harrington is the one who blacklisted me. Don't you see? He doesn't like me."

"I'm sure that's not—"

"Look, I know you've been sleeping with him too, alright? I know you're one of his girls." His voice drops lower, something bitter creeping in. "I saw you two disappear together at Mardi Tau."

The other one.

You don't try to deny it. The words stick in your throat, useless and heavy. Now you know why you couldn't find Sammy after Steve had left the bathroom. Though, if you're being honest, you hadn't tried that hard to look for him in the first place.

What's more unsettling is how Sammy knows about Steve's multiple girls. "How do you know about that?"

Sammy rolls his eyes, scoffing. "It's Greek life. We know everyone's skeletons in the closet, even if we don’t talk about it. And everyone knows since Buckley is waiting for marriage, she lets Harrington do whatever.”

Oh, so he doesn’t know the entire truth. You found it startling that he didn’t look down on you either. Because from the outside, it looks like you’re a homewrecker.

He pauses, licks his lips. "Look, this casual thing might be working for you, but it's not working for me."

You can see the hurt in his eyes—genuine pain mixed with embarrassment, with the realization that he was never going to be enough for you. Shit, did you even really give him the chance?

"I'm sorry," you whisper, because what else can you say?

Sammy doesn't answer. Just looks at you for a long moment, like he's memorizing your face, then turns and walks to his car.

You watch him peel out of the driveway, tires squealing, gravel spitting up behind him.

And you're left standing there in front of the Pike house, alone, while Corroded Coffin plays and people laugh and drink inside like your world hasn't just tilted sideways again.

You still go into the party, pushing through the crowd gathered near the front door, following the sound of Corroded Coffin bleeding through from the backyard. The house is packed—more people than you've seen at a Pike party in weeks now that Steve got rid of the bullshit invite only rule—and you have to shoulder past bodies to make your way through.

You find Robin and Steve in the backyard, standing near the makeshift stage Eddie's band has set up. They're wrapped around each other, Steve's arms holding Robin upright while she sways to the music. She's clearly high or drunk or both—eyes red-rimmed and glassy, face loose and unguarded in a way that only comes from being completely gone. Steve is holding most of her weight, keeping her steady.

When Robin sees you, she squeals loud enough to be heard over the guitar. "Hot Shot!" She turns to Steve, grinning wide. "You know, I see why you like calling her that."

Steve catches your eyes but doesn't say anything. Just looks away, back toward Eddie's band, jaw working.

Robin tilts her head, swaying slightly. "Where's Sammy?"

You narrow your eyes at Steve, anger flaring hot in your chest. You don't say anything about his potential blacklist—not here, not now—but you reach over and take the red solo cup from his hand. You shoot the entire contents in one go, liquid burning down your throat, gasoline and bad decisions. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth.

You turn your attention to Robin. "We're not going to see each other anymore."

Robin's face crumples, arms immediately coming around you. "Aw, babe. Here, let's get you another drink to get your mind off it."

Steve looks at you—really looks, his eyes searching your face for something—and then away, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

For the first time in weeks, you're alone with Robin. Loose and carefree, four cups in, dancing with each other to Corroded Coffin's cover of some metal song you don't recognize but can feel in your bones. It feels easy and simple, like last semester. Right before you chose to let Steve fuck you in his room during Thanksgiving break.

You should've said no.

It was only meant to be fun. You were okay with the rules. You were okay with the other girls.

And you have no idea what changed.

You don't like him. Not like that. Not in any way that matters. It's just... you don't know. You feel so lost, unmoored, like you're floating in open water with no land in sight.

"Hey, what's wrong, babe?" Robin asks, having to lean close to be heard over the music.

You realize you're crying. Tears streaming down your face, hot and shameful, and you hadn't even noticed. "Oh." You wipe at your face with clumsy fingers, smiling half-heartedly. "I'm just... happy to see you."

Robin smiles, pulling you into a tight hug that smells like weed and the strawberry shampoo she uses. "Me too! I've been missing our time together. We should go have a girls' day tomorrow."

You nod against her shoulder, squeezing her tighter.

You pull apart and start dancing again, Robin spinning you under her arm in a move that's more enthusiasm than coordination, both of you laughing when you stumble.

When suddenly you feel another presence. To your side is a boy you've never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a backwards baseball cap—looking at Robin and you with a wicked smile, reeking of beer so strongly you can smell it from two feet away.

"Can we help you?" you ask, grabbing Robin's wrist protectively. Robin stops dancing, her loose, carefree expression fading.

"Just wondering how much it'd be to see you two make out," he slurs, leaning in closer.

Robin frowns, rolling her eyes. "Leave us alone."

"Oh, come on. Bet it'd be hot." He turns to you, grin widening. "Isn't that what they call you? Hot Shot?"

"In your dreams, asshole," you mutter, tugging on Robin's arm. "Come on, Rob."

But the man grabs Robin's wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to make her wince. "Come on, pretty girl."

You push the guy off Robin, shoving his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. "Don't fucking touch her."

"Yeah, get him!" Robin drunkenly rambles, pumping her fist in the air.

The guy grabs your wrist in retaliation, his grip painful, fingers like vices, and he's opening his mouth to say something when—

He falls to the ground.

A figure has appeared beside you, fist connecting with the guy's jaw with a sickening crack. The figure is Steve.

There are a few yelps around you, people nearest backing up, creating a circle, but not enough to make the entire party freeze. Eddie is still going at it on his guitar, oblivious.

Steve walks over to the guy who's trying to scramble backward on the grass, grabs a fistful of his collar, and hauls him half-upright. "Don't you dare touch my fucking girl again."

Your breath catches. Is he talking about you?

You can't ask before Robin steps closer, putting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Uh... babe." You notice how she grimaces, and then she’s… laughing? "It's okay. Really."

Steve is panting, chest heaving, and he looks at Robin, then back at the guy, tightening his grip on the collar. "Tell them you're sorry. Now."

Of course it's not you. He would never say that about you.

"I—I'm sorry," the guy stammers.

Steve lifts him slightly and then shoves him back down to the ground. "If you know what's best for you, get out of here."

The guy nods frantically, scrambling to his feet, and scurries away, swaying dangerously from how drunk he is.

Steve stands there panting, eyes dark and wild, knuckles already starting to bruise. He looks at you.

"Steve—"

He cuts you off, voice loud enough to carry. "Alright, party's over. Everyone go home."

No one hears him over the music. He grumbles something under his breath, stomping toward the amps that belong to the band. He unplugs them with one violent yank.

The music dies instantly.

Eddie stops mid-solo, lowering his guitar. "What the hell, man?" he mouths.

Steve repeats, louder this time. "Everyone. Leave. Now!"

Protests and groans ripple through the crowd, but they listen. People start drifting out the backyard gate or back through the house. You hear complaints—"It’s not even that late," "What's his problem?"—but the yard is clearing.

You step closer to Steve, noticing his bruised hand, the knuckles already swelling. "Hey, are you—"

"Everyone includes you, Hot Shot." He snaps, stepping away from you like you've burned him.

"Steve, what's your deal?" Robin asks, stumbling slightly.

He glares at Robin—actually glares, something cold and furious in his expression. "Munson, take them home."

Then he storms away, slamming the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.

"Geez," Robin complains, waving her hand dismissively. "He has one bad phone call with his dad and he takes it out on all of us."

She approaches Eddie, who's packing up equipment with his band members—Gareth and Jeff, you think their names are. "Looks like you're our ride."

Eddie grins, pulling a joint from behind his ear. "Oh, ladies. The night has just started. What do you mean?"

"I love you, Eddie Munson," Robin says wistfully.

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie waves them off fondly. "Why don't you guys go wait in the van while we finish packing up, 'kay?"

He tosses Robin the keys, and she catches them with surprising coordination given her state. She hooks her arm through yours, grinning goofily. "Come on."

You walk the long way—out the backyard gate and around to the front driveway—not wanting to risk going through the Pike house and running into Steve again.

Once you're in Eddie's van—both of you claiming the front seats, Robin in the passenger side—you chew on your lip before speaking. "What was the phone call about?" You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, with Steve's dad?"

Robin sighs, digging around in the console and finding a package of crackers. She tears into them, munching loudly. "Well, turns out the dingus finally figured out what he's gonna do for the rest of his life. Declared his major for teaching. He still has to apply to the College of Education, take some test after spring break and all that jazz.”

Robin crunches on another cracker, crumbs falling in her lap.

She continues, “But anyway, he didn't tell his dad until today. Thought maybe his dad being on vacation would ease the news, but nope. His dad totally went berserk. Said teaching was a waste of time, blah blah bullshit." She shoves another cracker in her mouth. "Feel bad for him, but he's been a total grump all week anyway."

Your heart sinks, heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Why are you sad that Steve hadn't told you about declaring his major? You'd been the one who suggested teaching in the first place, but whatever. You shouldn't care.

"When did he do all of this?" you ask, keeping your voice level.

Robin thinks for a moment, fumbling with Eddie's keys even though the van is already unlocked. "I think first thing Tuesday morning."

Tuesday. When you'd definitely not been following him.

He hadn't said anything Monday that he was going to do that. But then again, did he really have a chance?

Robin finds a package of tissues in the glove compartment and blows her nose loudly. "Also, he's pissy with me because I told him he needs to be more careful with sex."

"What?" Your head snaps toward her, a humorous smile painted on your face. "Why?"

Robin shrugs, unwrapping another cracker. "Went over yesterday evening to study, and I found a pregnancy test in the bin."

She freezes, cracker halfway to her mouth. "Shit. Shouldn't have told you that since you're hooking up with him and all."

Your blood goes cold. Static fills your ears. "I... uh... what?"

Had you not gotten them all when you left?

"God, sorry. I just—" Robin shakes her head. "It pisses me off, you know? Sometimes he thinks more with his dick than what our plans are. I mean, can you imagine what I'd have to tell my parents if Steve got some babe pregnant? 'Oh no, guys, don't worry. I'm okay with my boyfriend who's not really my boyfriend having a kid with a girl I allow him to be with.'" She laughs bitterly. "Anyway, I found it and he wouldn't tell me who it was. Gosh, there I go again. I'm sure you don't want to hear it."

She turns to look at you, and something in her expression shifts. Softens. "I mean, at least I know it's not you." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I mean, you would've told me—"

"Robin, please stop." Your voice cracks, looking away. You run a hand through your hair, fingers trembling.

"Babe..." Robin's voice goes cold. Realization dawning. "Tell me it wasn't you."

Your eyes are glassy when you look at her, and the pain written on your face is answer enough.

"Holy shit."

"I know. I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin asks, voice flat and cold in a way you've never heard from her before.

Your mouth opens and closes. "I—I don't know. I—"

Robin's eyes widen, pieces clicking into place. "Monday. When you weren't feeling good and I came back to check on you, and you were gone all day. I knew you were lying." Her voice rises. "Am I right? Is this why you've been avoiding me all week?"

"Yes, but listen, Rob—" You reach for her, but she pulls away. "I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to be a big deal. I didn't want you to think that I'd do anything to jeopardize you and Steve and—"

Robin scoffs, shaking her head. She opens the van door and gets out, stumbling slightly on the curb.

"Robin, wait!" You scramble out after her. "Please, you have to understand where I'm coming from."

Robin snaps around, hair flying in her face, eyes red and furious. "You don't know how I would've reacted. You didn't give me a chance."

Your own defense boils over, spilling out before you can stop it. "Well, maybe it's because your head is so far up Nancy's ass and I never see you anymore. I would have given you one if you were ever around."

Robin looks like you've slapped her. "God, you don't get it." Her voice cracks. "Do you know how lucky you have it? You get to be with boys like Sammy, get to dance with him, and no one bats an eye. Make out at parties, be near them in public. But if I ever did that with Nancy..."

She swallows hard. "Even if people were cool with it, it'll just be like tonight, where dipshits want to make it into a sick fantasy. When Nancy comes here, I don't actually get to be with her. When I go visit her, we can't do shit like hold hands until we get in her apartment. All I have where it feels normal is talking on the phone." Her eyes are shining with tears now.

"God forbid you don't get any attention, 'cause clearly you enjoy it, Hot Shot." Your nickname is thick with venom, turned into an insult, a weapon.

"You know what? Screw you, Robin."

"Whatever." She turns away. "Tell Eddie I'm walking home. Forget about tomorrow.”

You immediately want to protest. Robin shouldn't walk home alone like this—drunk and upset and it's dark. But you're so mad at her, fury burning hot in your chest, that you just stand there.

You watch her disappear down the street, her silhouette getting smaller and smaller until she turns a corner and vanishes completely.

.-.-.-.

You wake up with your head pounding, each pulse of your heartbeat sending a spike of pain through your skull. Your stomach hurts—a deep, nauseous ache that makes you want to curl into a ball. You feel a creak in your neck as you slowly lift your head, vision blurry and unfocused.

You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of your surroundings.

You’re in the back of Eddie’s van. You recognize the faded band stickers on the interior walls, the ratty mattress beneath you that he keeps back here for—well, you’re not entirely sure what for, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. You’re laying back, body sprawled at an awkward angle that explains the neck pain.

You feel a breeze on your legs. You look down.

You’re wearing a shirt—not your shirt, you realize with dawning horror. It’s too big, hangs off one shoulder, smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne and someone else.

But your jeans are gone.

You’re only in your underwear.

Oh fuck.

Right when panic starts to claw up your throat, making your breath come faster, the back door to the van swings open with a metallic groan. Blinding light pours in, white and searing like a spotlight. Your eyes scrunch shut immediately, a groan escaping your throat as you throw your arm up to shield your face.

"Morning, sunshine!" Eddie's voice booms, way too loud, way too cheerful.

You peek through your fingers and see him standing there, backlit by what must be morning sun. He's grinning—that wide, toothy smile that takes up half his face—and he has a slice of pizza in his mouth. Cold pizza, judging by the way the cheese has congealed into a solid, waxy mass and the grease has turned opaque. Of course he eats cold pizza for breakfast. If it even is breakfast—you have no idea what time it is.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie," you mutter, covering your ears with both hands. "Inside voice."

He just chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest, and takes the pizza out of his mouth long enough to say, "This is my inside voice. You're just sensitive."

He doesn't climb into the van yet. Instead, he reaches to the side—probably the front seat—and grabs something, then tosses a greasy paper bag onto the floor near your feet. It lands with a soft thud. "Gotcha breakfast."

You sit up slowly, every movement making your head swim and your stomach lurch. You grab the bag with shaking hands, opening it with fumbling fingers. The smell hits you first—heavy, greasy, overwhelming. You grimace immediately. It's a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit, the bread already soggy with grease, the cheese looks plastic, the sausage a questionable grayish-brown.

Why does every boy think this is appetizing?

You set the bag aside quickly, swallowing hard against the nausea, and Eddie finally crawls into the van. He moves with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times, ducking his head to avoid hitting the roof, settling cross-legged near the door. He tosses you a water bottle—which you catch clumsily—and then a small orange bottle that rattles with pills.

You don't argue. You rake your fingers through your hair—tangled and probably a disaster—rubbing your temple with your free hand. Your mouth tastes like something died in it. You desperately twist the cap off the water bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip, and drink half of it in one go. The cool liquid soothes your raw throat, washes away some of the terrible taste.

You fumble with the pill bottle, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, finally getting it open and shaking two pills into your palm. You swallow them dry, then chase them with more water.

Only then do you look at Eddie—really look at him. Then down at yourself. The too-big shirt that definitely isn't yours. Your bare legs reflecting in the morning light. The absence of your jeans.

"I... uh..." You swallow hard, your throat clicking. "Did we...?"

Eddie laughs—loud and sudden and completely without shame—making you wince and press your fingers to your temples. "You don't remember?"

"I'm... oh god, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out in a rush, panic making your voice go high and thin.

He laughs again, shaking his head so his curls bounce. "Sweetheart, if we ever did anything like that, I would make damn sure you remembered." He waves his pizza slice at you, toppings threatening to slide off. "But no. We didn't do anything. Scout's honor."

He holds up three fingers in what might be a Boy Scout salute, though you're pretty sure Eddie was never a Boy Scout.

"Okay." You take a breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "So why am I in your van?" You look around again, taking in the cramped space with new eyes. "Did you sleep in here too?"

"You were passed out," Eddie explains, taking another massive bite. He talks around the food, which should be disgusting but somehow just seems very Eddie. "And you begged—like, actually begged—me not to take you to your dorm." He swallows, then continues. "And no, I didn't sleep here. I moved into the Pike basement a few weeks ago."

You blink at him. "What?"

"I mean, not like officially," he amends, gesturing with the pizza slice. "But Steve put a pullout couch down there for me, and I even got myself a bookshelf." His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. "With all my little knickknacks. It's pretty sweet, actually. I was like, 'Aw, Steve-o, you love me?' And he was like—" Eddie drops his voice into a gruff impression of Steve—"'Shut up, Munson.'"

He grins at the memory, then pauses to chew and swallow. "Anyway, before you ask why you're half-naked in my van—" He holds up a hand to stop your incoming question. "You got absolutely shitfaced last night. Like, I've seen you drunk before, but this was something else."

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. "Oh god."

"Yeah. You threw up all over yourself after Gareth gave you your stick and poke." He gestures vaguely at your lower half with the pizza crust. "So that's why you're not wearing your clothes. They were... unsalvageable. I had to throw them in a dumpster."

"My jeans?" you ask weakly.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly sorry. "I would've carried you inside the Pike house—would've been easier, honestly—but you said something about being too mad at Steve to be around him." He shrugs. "So I gave you the shirt off my back—literally, that's my favorite Dio shirt you're wearing—and gave you a kiss goodnight."

Your eyes widen.

"Not really," he adds quickly, grinning. "But I did pray I wouldn't find you dead this morning. That would've been a real downer."

You stare at him, blinking slowly, your brain trying to process all of that information at once. It comes in fragments—throwing up, begging not to see Steve. Then your brows furrow, catching on something he said.

"What do you mean stick and poke?"

Eddie chuckles again, that shit-eating grin spreading wider across his face. "Oh man. I tried to talk you out of it. I really did. But you were very insistent." He takes another bite of pizza. "And you already had your pants off at that point, so..."

Your eyes grow wide, heart dropping into your stomach. "No."

"Oh yes."

You move immediately, hands scrambling for the hem of the shirt you're wearing. You lift it up, twisting to look at your hip, and sure enough—right there, just above the waistline of your underwear—is dark ink. Fresh and slightly raised. The skin around it is pink and irritated, swollen like a fresh wound.

The words Hot Shot are etched into your skin in slightly wobbly, imperfect letters. Permanent. Forever.

You bite your bottom lip hard enough to hurt, staring at it. "Great. This is just... great."

You let the shirt fall back down and flop backward onto the mattress with a loud sigh, the springs creaking beneath you. Your arm comes up to cover your eyes, blocking out the too-bright light from the open van door.

"Your van isn't all that bad, you know," you mumble after a moment.

You can hear his pleased smile even without looking at him—hear it in the way he shifts, the slight huff of amusement. "High praise. I’ll let the next person I bring in here know."

"I'm serious. It's kind of cozy."

"Okay, well, cozy time is over." Eddie claps his hands together, making you flinch. "Get these clothes on so I can take you home."

He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a new top— a silent way of telling you to give back his Dio shirt.

You don't move. "I think I'm okay hiding in here the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the semester."

"Nope." Eddie shifts forward, and you hear him moving around. "Not happening."

"Why not?" You peek out from under your arm. "You said it yourself—it's cozy."

Eddie rolls his eyes—you can see it now, the exaggerated way his whole head moves. "Look, the van is kind of a drama-free zone, and I don't want you ruining the vibe."

You move your arm fully now, propping yourself up on your elbows to give him a proper death glare. "You're literally best friends with drama queen one and drama queen two. You're pretty much their love child."

"And that's why you fit in so well," Eddie snides, finishing off his pizza and wiping his hands on his jeans.

You stare at one another for a long moment—him with that infuriating smirk, you with your best attempt at intimidation despite your pounding headache and disheveled state.

You break first. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself, small and reluctant but real.

Then it falls.

"Last night..." You sit up fully now, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "Did I... tell you anything?"

Eddie leans back against the side of the van, arms crossed. "Nah, not really. Just said Robin is mad at you. You're mad at Steve. Steve is mad at Robin, blah blah..." He starts circling his fingers in the air by his head, letting his eyes roll back dramatically. He flops backward onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated sigh. "Or wait, was Robin mad at Steve? Honestly, I can't keep up anymore. You three are like a soap opera."

You're quiet for a moment, then reach down to touch the tattoo again, lifting the shirt slightly. The letters are uneven—definitely done by someone drunk. But they're there. Irreversibly Hot Shot.

"Eddie..." You bite your bottom lip, not looking at him. "Do you think I'm an attention seeker?"

The van goes quiet. You can hear traffic in the distance, birds chirping, the rustle of Eddie shifting beside you.

When you finally look at him, his face is completely serious for once—no smirk, no jokes, no deflection. His dark eyes are steady on yours.

"Sweetheart," he says in the most genuine tone you've ever heard from him. "Aren't we all?"

.-.-.-.

Robin doesn't say anything the morning they throw their belongings into Eddie's van to drive to the camping trip. She hasn't talked to you all week, and you haven't tried to force it. The only reason you even know you're still invited is because three days ago, Robin walked into your dorm—you were lying on your bed, pretending to read but mostly staring at the same page for twenty minutes—and said, "Eddie is picking us up at 4PM. sharp on Friday."

The air in the room had felt thick, suffocating. You'd looked up from your book, mouth opening to say something—anything—but she was already turning away.

She stopped at the door, hand on the knob. Didn't turn around. "Nancy's excited to see you."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut with a finality like a period.

You think maybe Nancy is your only saving grace for still going. Or maybe not really, because thinking about it—being in such close proximity to Robin who is clearly still furious with you, and to Steve who you're pissed at because you know he's pissed at you—makes your stomach churn with anxiety that tastes like battery acid.

Could you blame him, though?

Eddie had mentioned in passing that Steve and Robin aren't really speaking to each other either, except for some public appearances together for Greek life stuff. Things you weren't invited to this time. Things you wonder if Steve's other girls attended. If Polly was there in some tight dress, standing close to him, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm.

Maybe that's why you're pissed at Steve. Sammy ended things with you—and you still have to see him twice a week in Art Appreciation, where he now doesn't even blink in your direction, just stares straight ahead at the professor like you're made of glass or air or nothing at all—and Steve still gets to fuck whoever he wants. While you're not getting any. Not even from Steve.

At least you're not stuck in a car with him for the two-hour drive to the state park. Apparently he only had morning classes on Friday and left early to set up what he could.

But that doesn't mean the two-hour ride isn't one of the longest of your life.

Eddie does most of the talking—rambling about Corroded Coffin's upcoming gigs then about how he's pretty sure one of the Pike pledges is dealing weed and cutting into his business. His voice fills the van like smoke, impossible to escape.

You're in the back seat, watching the landscape blur past the window. Trees give way to fields give way to small towns with faded storefronts and gas stations. The vinyl seat is cracked beneath you, sticking to your bare legs where your shorts ride up. The van smells like stale cigarettes and the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that does absolutely nothing to mask it.

Robin is in the front, arms crossed over her chest, staring out her own window the entire time like if she looks hard enough she can transport herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. Her hair catches the sunlight streaming through the windshield, turning auburn strands to copper and gold.

Occasionally though, when Eddie says something particularly ridiculous—comparing his guitar skills to Eddie Van Halen with zero irony, claiming he's "basically a guitar god in the making"—you and Robin make eye contact in the rearview mirror. The corners of your lips twitch, almost smiling, something familiar and warm flickering between you before you both erase it and look away quickly, back to your respective windows.

Eddie drives down a dirt road that kicks up dust in thick clouds behind the van, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that you can taste in the back of your throat. The state park spreads out around you—tall pines and oak trees creating a dense canopy overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through in golden shafts that look almost solid. The air smells different here—clean and sharp with pine resin, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss.

Campers and tents are spread out at different sites along the winding road, some with families already grilling—the smell of charcoal and cooking meat drifting on the breeze. Others with groups of college kids drinking beer from coolers, their laughter carrying through the trees.

Eddie finally backs into a spot next to Steve's BMW, which looks absurdly out of place here—all sleek lines and polished paint next to the dusty, beat-up van. On the other side of Steve's car is a light blue sedan you don't recognize—a Ford, maybe, with Indiana plates and a small dent in the rear bumper.

The three of you climb out of the van. Your legs are stiff from sitting for two hours, muscles protesting as you stretch. The ground beneath your feet is uneven—packed dirt and pine needles that crunch softly with each step. The air is cooler here in the shade of the trees, and you can hear water somewhere nearby, a stream or creek bubbling over rocks.

You follow Eddie and Robin toward the campsite, taking in the setup.

There are already two tents pitched—one larger, the fabric a dark green that blends with the surroundings. The other is smaller, a bright blue that stands out like a beacon. There's a fire pit ringed with large stones blackened from previous fires, and someone—probably Steve—has already laid kindling in the center. A wooden picnic table sits nearby, the kind that's permanently installed at campsites, its surface weathered gray and carved with decades of initials and crude drawings.

Lawn chairs—the collapsible kind with cup holders in the arms—are folded on the ground next to a substantial pile of firewood. The logs are fresh-cut, pale wood still showing where the bark was stripped away, and they smell sweet and sharp like sap. You can see a cooler partially hidden in the shade of a massive oak tree, condensation already beading on its blue plastic surface.

"Hey!"

The voice is warm and familiar, carrying easily through the clearing. Your attention snaps toward the tree line as Nancy emerges from between two pines, carrying an armful of sticks and small branches—probably meant for kindling. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, a few leaves caught in her short bob.

Next to her is a boy you've never met in person but have seen once before. In the picture on Steve's bathroom mirror, the one with Eddie, Nancy, Robin, and him all squeezed together and grinning like idiots. The last time you saw that picture, you'd been sitting on Steve's closed toilet seat, peeing on a pregnancy test with shaking hands, and you'd noticed Steve had added a new photo to the collection—Eddie, Robin, him, and you, taken at some party you barely remember but where everyone looks happy.

Robin's face transforms instantly. Whatever moodiness she's been carrying for the past week—that heavy, dark cloud—evaporates like morning fog burned away by sun. "Nance!" She beams, already moving forward with quick steps that kick up dust.

Nancy barely has time to hand the pile of sticks to the boy beside her before Robin reaches her, pulling her into a tight hug. They hold each other for a beat longer than necessary, Nancy's face buried in Robin's shoulder, Robin's hand cradling the back of Nancy's head with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. You can hear Nancy's small sound of relief, muffled against Robin's shirt.

The brown-haired boy—tall and lanky with shaggy hair that falls across his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes—trudges through the campsite with the kindling balanced precariously in his arms. He's wearing a worn flannel over a faded Talking Heads t-shirt despite the warmth, jeans that are torn at one knee, and beat-up Converse that have seen better days. His face is gentle, features soft and unassuming—brown eyes that look kind, a slight bump on the bridge of his nose like it's been broken before.

Eddie's face lights up when he sees him, practically glowing. "Jon-boy!" He proclaims, voice booming across the campsite as he approaches with open arms. He slings one around the boy's shoulders, nearly toppling the kindling. "My favorite future Spielberg!"

"Hey, Ed." The boy—Jon, apparently—smiles, the expression soft and a little shy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice is quiet, gentle. "How was the drive?"

"Exhausting!" Eddie shoots a look at Robin, then at you, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear into his bangs. "The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Actually, forget a knife. You'd need a chainsaw. Maybe dynamite." He releases Jon and digs into his denim jacket pocket, pulling out a small tin that's definitely full of pre-rolled joints. The metal catches the sunlight, glinting. "How about we get started on the fun part?"

Jon laughs, a quiet sound that barely carries, shaking his head. But he also doesn't say no. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and you can see familiarity, but no idea where.

Eddie turns to you, grinning so wide it looks almost painful. "Hot Shot, what about you? Wanna join?"

You sigh, shifting your backpack on your shoulder. The strap is digging into your skin, and you can already feel the beginning of a bruise forming. "Can't. Need to build my tent first before it gets dark." You gesture at Eddie pointedly. "You should do the same, you know. Unless you want to be fumbling with tent poles in the pitch black."

Eddie waves a dismissive hand, clicking his tongue. "I'm all set. I'm sleeping in a hammock. The only right way to camp. You get to sway with the breeze, sleep under the stars—it's transcendent." His eyes go wide, and he smacks his forehead dramatically. "Wait, how rude of me. Hot Shot, let me introduce you to the one and only Jonathan Byers."

The name sounds familiar—you realize with sudden clarity that this must be Will's older brother. You'd heard stories about him, mostly about how he and Steve had a complicated history.

You step forward, and notice how similar his features are to Will's—the same gentle brown eyes, the same soft jawline, though Jonathan's face is more angular, more grown into itself. His hands are stained with something dark—maybe developing chemicals if the photography stories are true—and there's a small scar on his chin.

You hold out your hand. "Hi."

Jonathan takes it, his grip gentle and a bit uncertain, like he's afraid of hurting you. His palm is callused, warm. He doesn't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I've heard... well, I've heard a lot."

You smile despite the awkwardness thrumming under your skin. "All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly." He cracks a small smile, and you see a dimple appear in his left cheek.

And because the world apparently hates you, footsteps crunch on leaves and gravel behind you. You turn and Steve is walking back from wherever he disappeared to—probably gathering more firewood or checking something, his arms empty now.

He stops when he sees you. His eyes—that golden hazel color that shifts in the light—land on where your hand is still clasped with Jonathan's. Something flickers across his face—too quick to read, gone before you can name it. His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin.

Then he looks away and slips into one of the tents like you don't exist, like you're part of the landscape he can ignore.

You drop Jonathan's hand quickly, heat rising to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm afternoon sun.

You look over at Nancy and Robin. They've separated slightly but Nancy's hand is still resting on Robin's lower back, a touch that looks casual but you know is anything but. Robin is glaring at the tent Steve disappeared into, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with an intensity that could burn holes through the fabric. Then her gaze catches yours for a split second—something complicated passing between you, hurt and anger and maybe a tiny bit of understanding—before she deliberately turns away, looping her arm through Nancy's more firmly.

"Come on, babe. Help me figure out where we're setting up our tent."

Eddie leads you back to the van, the metal hot under your hand when you grab the door handle. Nancy and Robin trail behind, still joined at the hip, and you can hear them talking quietly, Nancy's voice soothing whatever's churning in Robin's head.

The back of the van is cluttered—sleeping bags, a cooler, Eddie's guitar case covered in more stickers, some camping equipment that looks like it hasn't been used in years.

Robin grabs her duffel bag, then her backpack. Eddie hands you yours.

But he makes no motion to hand you anything else.

You peek into the van, scanning the remaining contents, then look at your single duffel bag. A sick feeling starts in your stomach. "Uh, Eds. Is my other bag in there still?"

"I just handed it to you." Eddie points at the duffel, confused.

"Yeah, my other bag." You say slowly, enunciating each word like you're talking to a child.

"What other bag?" He blinks at you innocently, and you can see the exact moment realization dawns. His face goes from confused to oh shit. "Uh..."

"What's wrong?"

For the first time in a week, you hear Steve's voice directed at your general vicinity. You give him a sideways look, refusing to fully turn, your spine stiffening.

He's standing a few feet away now, and up close you can see more details—the way his hair has grown out, brown roots overtaking the blonde highlights so it looks honey-colored in the dappled sunlight. It's longer, curling slightly at the ends where it brushes his neck. He's wearing dark jeans that sit low on his hips, and that blue t-shirt that's slightly too short. You can see a sliver of his stomach when he shifts his weight, a line of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair leading down. The sleeves hug his biceps, fabric stretched across muscle, and more hair peeks out from the collar, dark against his chest.

His arms are crossed over his chest, defensive, and there are smudges of dirt on his forearms like he's been working.

Nancy—still standing with Robin, their fingers now loosely intertwined—speaks for you. "She forgot her tent and sleeping bag."

You swivel to face her, defensive heat rising in your chest. "Correction; Munson here forgot my tent and sleeping bag. I put them right by the van because he told me to." You do air quotes, pitching your voice lower in a poor imitation of Eddie's gravel-rough tone. "'Have it all under control, sweetheart.'"

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, climbing out of the van with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. His boots thud against the ground, disturbing the layer of pine needles. "Okay, yeah. Might have gotten... distracted. You see, I needed to take a smoke break while you and Robin went upstairs to double-check you had everything." He's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly in the air, nearly hitting the side of the van. "And then I saw this really cool beetle—or was it a moth? It had these incredible wings, all iridescent—doesn't matter. Point is, I, uh..." He grimaces. "Shit. Sorry, Hot Shot." He brightens slightly, like he's just had a brilliant idea. "You're welcome to share the hammock with me! It'll be cozy."

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose where a headache is starting to form. "I'll just sleep in your van again."

Nancy giggles, eyebrows raising with curiosity and amusement. "You slept in his van?"

You shrug, not elaborating, the memory of waking up in Eddie's shirt with a fresh tattoo on your hip making your face heat. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve's jaw tick, his posture going rigid, shoulders pulling back.

Eddie looks back into the van, assessing the cramped space. "I mean, you're welcome to it, but I took the mattress out after our wild night together." He winks obnoxiously, making smooching noises. "Made quite the mess, sweetheart."

"Shut up. Please." Your eyes drift to Steve despite yourself, despite knowing you shouldn't care what he thinks.

He doesn't seem bothered. His face is carefully blank, neutral, giving absolutely nothing away. Does he know the real story—that you'd gotten shitfaced and thrown up on yourself? Or does he not care anymore? Has he written you off completely, moved on to other girls who don't come with complications?

Steve sighs heavily, like this entire situation is a massive inconvenience he didn't sign up for. "Okay. She can take my tent and I'll just crash with Jonathan." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't address you directly. His gaze stays fixed somewhere over your left shoulder, like you're a problem to be solved rather than a person standing right there. "It's fine."

"It's fine, really—" you start, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.

But Steve has already moved. He's walking toward you, and before you can step back or protest, he's taking your duffel bag out of your hand. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm and callused, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch—and then he's moving past you. The scent of him washes over you: pine needles and campfire smoke and that cologne he wears, the one that makes you think of clean laundry and something warmer, spicier underneath.

He sets your bag inside one of the tents—the smaller blue one—then walks to the larger green tent and grabs his own stuff. He tosses it into what must be Jonathan's tent with more force than necessary, the duffel landing with a heavy thud. He walks over to Jonathan, says something low that you can't hear over the rustle of wind through the trees, probably explaining the new arrangement.

Jonathan nods, glancing at you with something that might be sympathy or pity or just general confusion about what the hell is going on.

"Good thing they're friends now," you hear Nancy tell Robin quietly, though not quite quietly enough.

Robin snorts, loud enough that you know she meant for you to hear. "I'm gonna go build our tent, babe. Which means I'm going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing until Harrington inevitably helps me." There's affection in her voice when she says his name.

"Sounds good!" Nancy's arm is suddenly looping through yours, and she's standing right next to you, practically vibrating with excitement. Her skin is warm against yours, and she smells like the lavender shampoo she uses and something like vanilla. "That means we get to stand around, look pretty, and catch up!"

Robin's face falls slightly when she catches your eye. Something passes between you—not quite forgiveness, but maybe an acknowledgment that you're both here, both trying. Then she turns toward the campsite, already calling for Steve in that bossy tone she uses when she wants him to do something.

Once Robin is out of earshot—already gesticulating wildly at Steve while pointing at a tent bag—and Eddie is wandering off toward the tree line with his hammock under one arm, Nancy spins to face you fully. "Okay, fill me in on everything. I know something is going on between you and Robin."

You scoff, defensive walls automatically going up. "She didn't tell you?"

Nancy shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. A few leaves are still caught in her hair from gathering kindling. "She won't talk about it. Clams up every time I try to ask. I tried to ask Steve when Jonathan and I got here, but he keeps running off." She searches your face with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "What happened?"

You should tell her it's nothing. Should brush it off and change the subject to something safer, easier. But the more you think about it, the lonelier you feel. The weight of the secret pressing down on your chest like a physical thing. "Wanna go on a walk?"

Nancy beams, relief evident on her face. She swivels to look at the group scattered around the campsite—Robin and Steve already bickering over tent poles, Eddie climbing a tree to test its hammock-worthiness, Jonathan crouched by the fire pit arranging kindling—and shouts, "We'll be right back!"

You hike for a while, following a narrow trail that winds through the trees. The path is uneven, full of exposed roots and rocks that you have to watch out for. The air smells incredible here—pine resin sharp and clean, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss growing on the north side of tree trunks. You can hear birds calling to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, that stream you heard earlier, water moving over rocks in a constant murmur.

The conversation is easy at first—Nancy tells you about one of her professors at Emerson being a total tightwad and misogynist but pretending not to be. "He talks over me in class," she says, voice tight with frustration. "Dismisses my ideas, calls them 'interesting' in that condescending tone. But then a guy says literally the exact same thing five minutes later and suddenly it's brilliant. Suddenly it's worth discussing."

"Sounds like an asshole," you offer, kicking at a pinecone on the trail. It rolls ahead of you, bouncing over roots.

"The biggest." Nancy's hands are clenched into fists at her sides. "But I've got an internship lined up for the summer at a newspaper in Boston. The Globe, actually."

You stop walking, turning to face her. "Nancy, that's amazing!"

She smiles, but it's tempered with realism, with an understanding of how the world works. "I'll probably be getting coffee the whole time and making copies. Maybe some light fact-checking if I'm lucky. But it's good for networking. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll get to write something. Even if it's just an obituary." She laughs, but there's an edge to it.

You walk in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds your footsteps on the packed dirt trail and the birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. It smells like spring and growing things and the promise of evening to come.

Then, finally, you tell her. Not everything—not that Steve kissed you like you were the only person in the world, not that you're confused about what the rules even are anymore or if they ever meant anything in the first place. But you tell her about Sammy.

How you feel guilty for using him when he clearly wanted more, even if he said he was okay with casual. How you'd liked him well enough but never thought about him when he wasn't right in front of you. How you'd used him to try to stop thinking about someone else, and how spectacularly that had failed.

You tell her about the pregnancy scare. About the way your stomach had dropped when you realized you were late, about the panic that had clawed up your throat, about how the first person you'd thought to go to was Steve. Only Steve. Not Robin, not Sammy, not even your mom. Just Steve.

You tell her about Robin finding the test in Steve's trash, about putting the pieces together, about the fight in Eddie's van where Robin had said things that cut like glass.

You stop walking. Nancy's chewing on her bottom lip, her short bob framing her face, moving slightly in the breeze that smells like pine and approaching evening. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts, practical and unfussy, but somehow she still looks put-together in a way you never manage. Her heart-shaped face glows in the golden late-afternoon light filtering through the trees, making her skin look warm and soft. There's dirt on her knees from kneeling to gather kindling, and a small scratch on her forearm from a branch.

Then she smiles—soft and a little sad and knowing in a way that makes your chest ache. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

Nancy swallows hard, looking away toward the trees where birds are settling for the evening. She hugs herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's cold even though it's still warm, even though sweat is beading at your hairline from the walk. The air smells like earth and green growing things and something darker, richer underneath—decay and new life all mixed together.

"I love Steve and Robin," she says quietly, each word careful and deliberate. "But I don't think they'll both be truly happy in this arrangement. And I don’t think the people around them will be either."

There's a tear rolling down her cheek, catching the light as it falls. She wipes it quickly with the back of her hand, laughing breathlessly. The sound is hollow, painful. "God, I've never said that out loud before. I've never let myself even think it completely through."

Your chest aches watching her. You step closer and link your arm through Nancy's, pulling her against your side. "It's safe with me."

She leans her head on your shoulder for a long moment, and you stand there together on the trail surrounded by pine trees and the smell of approaching evening. Two people holding secrets that are too heavy to carry alone, that cut into your hands with their weight.

The light is starting to change, going from golden to something softer, more amber. You can hear the campsite in the distance—Eddie's laugh carrying through the trees.

Then you squeeze Nancy's arm and smile. "Okay, enough heavy stuff. Tell me—have you been reading any new books lately?"

Nancy lights up immediately, the sadness lifting from her face like clouds parting. She launches into a detailed explanation of the mystery novel she just finished—something about a detective and a murder in a locked room and a twist ending she didn't see coming. Her voice picks up speed as she gets more animated, using her hands to gesture, and you let her words wash over you as you walk back toward the campsite.

.-.-.-.

Everyone is sitting around the campfire as the sky deepens from orange to purple to deep blue. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky. The smell of burning wood is thick and pleasant, mixing with the pine scent of the forest and the faint smell of bug spray someone—probably Robin—sprayed liberally.

Beers are in hands, all of you in lawn chairs arranged in a loose circle around the fire pit. The flames cast flickering shadows on everyone's faces, making expressions hard to read. Eddie brought his guitar and he's strumming absentmindedly—not playing anything specific, just chords that blend with the crackling of the fire and the evening sounds of the woods. Crickets chirping, owls starting to call, the distant sound of other campers laughing.

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are talking about something—you catch fragments about a movie Jonathan saw at some art house theater in LA and about Nancy's classes and her internship.

You're sitting next to Steve. There's a gap between your chairs—not huge, maybe a foot, but deliberate. Intentional. His chair is an old-fashioned folding one with green and white striped fabric, and yours is blue with a rip in one arm where the fabric has worn through.

He hasn't taken a sip of his beer. The bottle sits in the cup holder of his chair, condensation running down the glass, forming a small puddle on the plastic. He's just staring into the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes, turning them more gold than hazel, face expressionless. You can see the flicker of orange light playing across his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, those long lashes that aren't fair for any guy to have.

When you and Nancy had gotten back to the campsite earlier—the sun starting to sink toward the horizon, the light going soft and golden—you'd found Steve standing apart from the group. He was facing the neighboring campsite, perfectly still, just watching.

There was a family there. A camper trailer painted white with blue racing stripes down the side, a striped awning pulled out to create shade. A picnic table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth that billowed slightly in the breeze. Paper plates and plastic cups, a cooler open showing ice and beer and juice boxes.

A little boy—maybe five or six with a gap-toothed grin—ran in and out of the camper, shrieking with laughter that was pure and unselfconscious. His parents stood together by a small charcoal grill, the dad flipping burgers with a metal spatula, wearing a t-shirt that said "World's Okayest Dad." The mom had her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder, both of them laughing at something. Their faces were bright with genuine joy in the purple dusk, easy affection written in every line of their bodies.

The little boy was chasing fireflies with a mason jar, his small hands cupped around each one before gently placing them inside. You could hear him counting—"One, two, free, four"—his voice high and excited.

When Steve had noticed you and Nancy approaching, he'd immediately looked away, turning his attention to one of the tent stakes like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He'd crouched down, pretending to check that it was secure, but you'd seen his hand trembling slightly.

You wonder if he was imagining his own childhood. Did he ever go camping with his parents? Did they ever act like that—easy affection, casual touches, genuine happiness in each other's presence? Did his dad ever wear a goofy t-shirt and flip burgers while his mom laughed? Did they ever chase fireflies together as a family?

From the stories you've heard, from the brief glimpse of his mother's carefully maintained distance and his father's cutting voice you heard at New Year’s, you're pretty sure the answer is no. Steve had none of that. His childhood was probably country clubs and stiff family dinners and being told to be quiet, to be perfect, to not embarrass the Harrington name.

Jonathan gets up from his chair, the metal creaking slightly. He stretches, his back popping audibly, and you see him grimace. "Hey, you want something?" He's looking at you, friendly and open, voice quiet and kind.

"Coke would be great, thanks." You smile politely, grateful for his easy presence.

He nods and heads toward the cooler tucked in the shadows. You turn your head slightly and catch Steve staring at you. The firelight makes his features look sharper, all angles and shadows, the flames dancing in his eyes. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath skin. He finally takes a long drink of his beer—Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows—then turns away again, back to staring at the fire like it holds answers to questions he won't ask out loud.

Nancy had told you more about Jonathan during your walk, filling in gaps and backstory. He's sweet but shy, just like his brother Will. Always observing, always thinking, taking mental photographs of moments before they disappear. She'd dated him right after breaking up with Steve—it had been messy, feelings still raw on all sides like an open wound.

They'd even gotten in a physical fight, Steve and Jonathan, though Nancy hadn't gone into details. Something about words said in anger, about Nancy caught in the middle, about two boys who were both hurting and didn't know how else to express it. Now they don't act like it in front of people, but either one would kill for the other if it came down to it. Secret best friends, bonded through shared trauma and Nancy's– unrequited– love, through parallel experiences of feeling inadequate and out of place.

You'd asked Jonathan earlier—while helping him arrange firewood, building the structure for the fire—why he wasn't in Hawkins for the holidays. He'd looked surprised by the question, like most people don't ask about his life, before explaining that he works in California now, in film production. He's an assistant on some indie film, "basically the coffee boy with delusions of grandeur," he'd said self-deprecatingly while building a careful teepee of kindling.

But you'd seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. About being on set, about watching the director work, about the way light and shadow create mood, about the script he's working on in his spare time.

He'd tried telling the group earlier about the plot of that script—something called "The Consumer" about capitalism and body horror and the ways we literally consume each other in American society. Everyone had worn knowing smiles, nodding along with varying degrees of genuine interest. Eddie had looked fascinated, asking questions. Robin had made jokes about it being "very Jonathan" which apparently meant pretentious but in an endearing way. Nancy had watched him with such open fondness it made your chest ache.

Even Steve had smiled a little—small and fond and resigned, the expression of someone who's heard this pitch before and knows it'll probably never get made but hopes anyway.

Eventually, as the fire burns down to glowing coals and someone adds another log that sends up a shower of sparks, Eddie produces a joint and a lighter with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The joint is perfectly rolled, neat and tight.

"Alright, birthday girl," Eddie announces, standing and doing a little bow. "Your chariot awaits."

Everyone sings "Happy Birthday" to Robin—slightly off-key, the harmonies all wrong, Steve's voice a low rumble you can feel in your chest more than hear. Nancy's soprano climbs too high on the final note, and Eddie adds unnecessary vocal runs that make Robin laugh so hard she almost falls out of her chair.

She's smiling when they finish, genuinely happy, and she even looks at you during the last line—her eyes finding yours across the fire, her face saying I'm glad you're here, and you return it with your own expression saying I'm glad I'm here too, and something unknots slightly in your chest.

Robin lights the joint, taking the first ceremonial drag as the birthday girl. The cherry glows bright orange in the darkness, and smoke curls up into the night sky where stars are starting to appear. She passes it to Nancy, who takes a delicate hit and immediately coughs, her face scrunching up in a way that makes Robin laugh and rub her back.

Nancy passes it to Jonathan, who inhales deeply with the practiced ease of someone who's done this many times, probably in parking lots after his shifts at developing photos, probably alone in his apartment in California while working on his script. The smoke doesn't even seem to affect him.

Jonathan passes it to you.

You take a hit, the smoke harsh and burning in your lungs despite Eddie's claims that this is "the smooth stuff," and you look at Steve.

You make a thoughtless decision fueled by weed and firelight and the desperate want to fix something between you. You stick the joint between your lips, turn to Steve, and lean in. It's like that time months ago in the Pike basement when he'd done it to you— close enough to feel the heat of his lips when you slipped it in his mouth.

You hope he remembers. Hope he understands it's a peace offering. That you're still friends, despite everything that's happened, despite all the rules broken and boundaries crossed and words left unsaid.

The corner of Steve's mouth betrays him, twitching like he wants to smile, like he's remembering the same moment you are. You see his hand start to reach toward you—fingers extending, moving through the smoke-hazy air—and then his eyes flicker from yours to your lips. You're certain he's not looking at the joint. He's looking at your mouth, at the way your lips are parted, at the space between you that's measured in inches but feels like miles.

Then something shutters in his expression. Something closes off, locks down. His hand drops back to the arm of his chair. He takes another sip of his beer—a long pull that drains half the bottle—stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the dirt and rocks, the metal legs leaving gouges in the ground.

"Happy birthday, Rob. Love you." His voice is soft, genuine, the tone he reserves for the people he actually cares about. He walks over to where Robin is sitting, bends down to press a kiss to the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She reaches up to squeeze his hand, their fingers tangling together briefly before he pulls away.

He pours out the remaining beer from his bottle—the liquid splashing on the ground, soaking into the dirt and pine needles—and tosses the empty into the trash bag Eddie had set out earlier for their hot dog wrappers and paper plates. The glass clinks against other bottles.

Then he walks to the tent he's sharing with Jonathan and disappears inside, the zipper loud in the relative quiet of the campfire. The fabric glows slightly from his flashlight inside before it clicks off, plunging the tent into darkness.

The group falls into awkward silence. Eddie chuckles—forced and uncomfortable, trying to salvage the mood—and stands up, taking the joint from your lips where it's still burning between them. He gives you a sympathetic smile that makes you want to punch him, that makes you want to scream, that makes you want to rewind time and not do something so stupid.

You see Nancy lean over to Robin, whispering something close to her ear. Robin's face goes through several expressions—surprise, resignation, frustration—before she sighs heavily and sets down her beer. She stands, brushing dirt and pine needles off the back of her jeans.

"Steve?" she calls softly, approaching the tent. The zipper opens and she slips inside, her silhouette visible through the thin fabric, backlit by the flashlight she must have turned back on.

You don't wait to see what happens. You grab your toiletry bag and a change of clothes from your—Steve's—tent, not making eye contact with anyone, and head toward the shower building without a word.

The path to the showers is marked with small solar lights that barely illuminate anything. You can hear other campers—laughter from a site nearby, someone playing acoustic guitar, the sound of children being called in for bed. The air has cooled significantly now that the sun is down, and you wish you'd brought a sweatshirt.

The shower building is cinder block painted an institutional beige, lit by fluorescent lights that buzz and flicker. It smells like chlorine and mildew and the industrial soap from the dispensers mounted on the walls. Your shower-shoed footsteps echo on the concrete floor.

The showers are communal but mercifully empty when you get there. You stand under hot water that never quite gets hot enough, washing away the day—the tension, the awkwardness, Steve's face when you'd tried to share the joint and he'd looked at you like you were offering him something poisonous. The water pressure is weak, more of a drizzle than a spray, but you stay under it until your skin turns pink and pruney, until the water starts to run cold.

You get dressed in your sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants covered in little stars. You brush your teeth at the sink, staring at your reflection in the spotted mirror. Your eyes are red-rimmed, whether from smoke or something else you're not ready to acknowledge. You look tired. You look like you need this weekend to be over already, like you need to go back to campus where you can avoid everyone more easily, where you're not trapped in close quarters with your mistakes.

When you come out of the building—toiletry bag clutched in one hand, your dirty clothes rolled up under your other arm—you nearly run directly into Robin.

You both stop. Look at each other. The light from the shower building casts long shadows across the ground, making Robin's face half-illuminated, half-hidden. She's wearing her sleep clothes too—boxers and an old Emerson College t-shirt that must be Nancy's. Her hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it.

Robin nods at you. You do the same, a small dip of your chin.

You step to the side to walk around her, giving her space, not wanting to force proximity she doesn't want. But then you hear her say your name—quiet, almost tentative.

You turn. "Yeah?"

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, arms crossing over her chest then uncrossing, then crossing again. She won't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Are you good with kayaking tomorrow?"

You blink, thrown by the mundane question, by the normalcy of it. "Uh, yeah. Sounds fun."

"Cool. Okay." She crosses her arms again, defensive but less rigid than before. "We're going after lunch."

"Cool."

You both nod again—this weird, formal acknowledgment of each other's existence, of the fact that you're both here, both trying in your own broken ways.

You spin back around and start walking toward the campsite, following the little solar lights, listening to the sounds of the forest at night—things moving in the underbrush, owls calling, the distant sound of the stream. Then, on impulse, you stop. Turn back.

"Hey, Rob?"

Robin swivels around, eyes wide. Hopeful, maybe. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on your part.

You smile—small and genuine and meaning it. "Happy birthday."

Something in Robin's expression softens entirely, all the hard edges melting away. She smiles back—real and warm and familiar, like the Robin you know, the Robin who's your best friend even when you're fighting. "Goodnight, Hot Shot."

The nickname doesn't sound like an insult this time. It sounds like an olive branch.

When you walk back to the campsite, the path lit only by those weak solar lights and the moon overhead, you catch Steve leaning against a tree near the edge of the clearing. He's smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the darkness, smoke curling up into the night air where it disappears among the stars. He's staring at the neighboring campsite again—that family with their perfect trailer and their perfect laughter and their perfect life.

He catches your eye as you approach, standing up a little straighter, shoulders pulling back. He looks at you like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, eyes dancing with something between guilt and defiance and exhaustion.

In the moonlight—stars twinkling overhead like they're watching, judging, bearing witness—you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to walk up to him and kiss the corner of his mouth. To taste the smoke and ask him to come join you in your tent. Well, technically his tent. To forget about rules and complications and just be close to him in the darkness where no one can see.

Because no matter how pissed off you are at him, no matter what reason your brain conjures up to justify the anger, the truth is simpler and more dangerous: you're addicted to Steve Harrington the way people get addicted to things that are bad for them. One taste is never enough. And now that you've had his lips on yours, his tongue sliding against yours, his breath mingling with yours—you want more. You want it so badly it makes your teeth ache, makes your chest feel too small to contain your heart.

You realize why you're upset. Why you're mad. You have to be angry at him because he's angry at you for almost ruining his future. Robin and Steve might have made up, talked it out in that tent while everyone pretended not to listen, but you're certain Steve will never want to see you the same way again. The pregnancy scare wasn't just about you—it was about threatening everything he and Robin have built, every carefully constructed plan for their future.

So you walk away, head bowed, not trusting yourself to get any closer to him. You unzip the tent and slip inside, zipping it back up behind you like you can seal yourself away from temptation.

But inside is worse. So much worse. The sleeping bag is Steve's—navy blue and worn soft with use. The pillow smells like cedar and aftershave and something indefinably Steve, that scent that clings to his clothes and his skin and now fills your lungs with every breath. You lie there staring at the tent ceiling, unable to sleep, drowning in the ghost of him.

.-.-.-.

You manage to sleep eventually, though it's fitful and broken. You wake to the sound of birds and muffled voices, the tent still dim but starting to glow with approaching dawn. The sun hasn't exactly risen yet—the light is that pale blue-gray of pre-morning, soft and uncertain. Your body aches from sleeping on the ground despite the sleeping pad, your neck stiff, mouth tasting like you licked the inside of a shoe.

You trudge out of the tent, squinting against even the weak light, and find Eddie and Jonathan already awake. Eddie's hair is pulled up in a messy bun at the crown of his head, curls escaping everywhere, and he's crouched by a morning campfire he's somehow coaxed to life. There's a makeshift camping stove set up on a flat rock, a pan sizzling with eggs and bacon that makes your stomach growl despite the early hour.

"Mornin', Hot Shot," Eddie greets sleepily, his voice gravelly and rough. He hasn't fully woken up yet, moving on autopilot and muscle memory.

You scrunch your face, the smell of coffee hitting you like a physical thing—rich and dark and exactly what you need. You walk away from your tent, noticing Jonathan's tent is half open. Inside you can see the tanned expanse of Steve's back, moles scattered across his shoulders and spine like constellations you've traced with your fingers in darkness. His sleeping body is curled on his side, face smushed into a pillow, hair sticking up at the back in a way that's stupidly endearing.

You force yourself to look away and keep walking, smiling at the cup of coffee Jonathan pours and hands to you. The mug is enamel camping ware, chipped at the rim, warm in your hands.

"Morning, boys." You climb onto the wooden picnic table, sitting on the surface with your feet dangling, taking a sip of the coffee. It's strong enough to strip paint, exactly what you need. "Everyone else still asleep?"

Eddie yawns so wide his jaw cracks, stretching his arms overhead. "Nancy and Robin, I have no idea. Just Steve-o is still out." He grins, something mischievous in his expression. "We men had a late night."

You raise a brow, taking another sip. "That's ambiguous, Munson."

He picks up a piece of bacon from the pan, biting it with his teeth, grease running down his chin. He looks at Jonathan, who suddenly finds the ground very interesting. "We went boat fishing last night. On the lake."

"Okay..." You raise both brows now. "Wait, how'd you get a boat?"

Jonathan snorts—actually snorts—and Eddie is grinning ear to ear, eyes dancing with barely contained glee. "Well, you see, sweetheart. You ever wonder why I got into legal trouble back in Hawkins?" He laughs, taking another bite, bacon crunching between his teeth. "Took Principal Higgins' car for a joyride when I was sixteen. My old man taught me how to hotwire."

"Oh god." Your eyes widen. "You didn't..."

"Oh, don't worry, Hot Shot. We returned it safe and sound. Even topped off the gas tank." His teeth are shining, a few bacon pieces stuck between them. "We're gentlemen thieves."

You turn to Jonathan, who's been quietly sipping his coffee. "I thought you were the sensible one."

Jonathan chuckles, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "Sometimes you just gotta live a little."

And despite everything—despite the tension and the awkwardness and the horrible night's sleep—you laugh. Really laugh, the sound startling birds from nearby trees.

Suddenly the cup in your hand is taken.

You look up and Steve is there—shirtless, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips, bed head making his hair stick up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep. He takes a drink of your coffee, grimacing at the taste—too strong, no sugar—but giving it back to you anyway. His fingers brush yours, warm and callused.

"Is there a reason we're being loud this early in the morning?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. He stands close to you—so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin, can see the goosebumps on his arms from the cool morning air. He looks at you, then Jonathan, then away quickly like the eye contact burned.

You poke his bare shoulder, definitely not staring at the constellation of moles trailing up his arm, across his collarbone, disappearing into his chest hair. "Eddie was telling me about the crime you committed last night. And now I'm an accomplice."

Steve looks down at where you poked him, a smirk tugging at his lips. The corner of his mouth lifts, showing a hint of teeth. "Is it bad to say it's not the worst thing we've done?"

"Please don't tell me." You cover your ears with both hands. "I do not look good in orange."

Steve turns to face you more fully, and you notice a new development. Had it been there yesterday? It's the beginning of a mustache on his upper lip—patchy and uneven with a small gap in the middle, like he's growing it out just to see if he can. He mutters under his breath, so quiet you almost miss it. "Handcuffs maybe..."

His eyes dart to yours when he realizes you might've heard, and heat floods your face.

But there's no time to react because Jonathan chuckles, oblivious to the tension. "Oh yeah, what did you guys tell me happened a few months ago? You broke into a pig farm?"

Eddie laughs wildly, slapping his knee. "Oh man, I wish you'd been there, Jonathan. You could've documented it. Steve, remember the look on—"

Steve's eyes snap to Eddie, burning with intensity, warning. Eddie's mouth forms an O shape, realization dawning. He looks at you, then back at Steve, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Actually, you know what? I don't remember. I was really high that night and it's all fuzzy and—"

Your brows furrow, looking between Steve and Eddie, both of them with guilt written all over their faces like billboards. Anger bubbles inside you, hot and acidic, as you connect the dots. Pigs. The reason Sammy was late to your first date was because pigs had gotten loose in his frat house. Pigs that someone had to have put there.

Jonathan is the one to sense the tension thickening in the air, suffocating everyone. "Uh... so, I'm thinking about going on a hike in a few minutes. There's a trail that leads to an overlook. Anyone want to join?"

You snap your attention away from Steve, the tentative truce from the past five minutes—from the time he took a sip of your coffee and you poked his shoulder—evaporating like morning dew. He moves away from you immediately, like you're cold, or like you're on fire and will engulf him in flames if he gets too close.

"Yes," you say, voice tight. "I would love that. Let me go see if the lovebirds want to join."

You narrow your eyes at Steve as you pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his bare chest, and walk toward Robin and Nancy's tent.

"Nancy—look, I'm sorry."

Robin's voice comes from inside the tent, muffled but clear enough. There's rustling, sharp movements like someone sitting up quickly.

"Robin, I told you it's fine. Don't really want to talk about it right now." Nancy's voice is clipped, careful, holding something back.

There's more muffled conversation you can't make out, and then the zipper unzips hastily. Nancy steps outside in clothes that tell you she's been awake for a while and ready to start the day—jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, hiking boots already laced. She seems surprised to see you standing there but doesn't say anything. She sighs, the sound heavy, and walks past you toward where Jonathan is pouring more coffee.

Robin follows shortly after, her eyes dropping when she sees you, probably knowing you heard everything.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "I, uh... we're going to go on a hike. Wanna join?"

Robin looks past your shoulder, seeing that Nancy must have been asked the same thing by Jonathan. She reaches into the tent and starts collecting snacks and water bottles, shoving them in a small backpack. "No, I think I'll stick around here and read." She won't look at you. "Not much of a hiker."

You know this is a lie. Sure, Robin isn't much into physical activity usually, but her natural hyperactivity makes her need constant stimulation, constant movement. She can't sit still for more than twenty minutes without bouncing her leg or drumming her fingers or getting up to pace.

"Okay," you say, because what else can you say?

The hike ends up being you, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve. Eddie had said something about trying to catch flying squirrels around the campsite—"They're fascinating creatures, nature's little gliders"—but really, as soon as you set off on the trail, you saw him crack open a beer and flop back into his hammock with a contented sigh.

The hike is pretty at least. The trail winds through dense forest, pine needles cushioning your footsteps, the morning air cool and fresh and smelling like earth and growing things. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance you can hear that stream again, water moving over rocks.

Nancy walks up ahead with Steve most of the time, their heads bent together, hushed whispers you can't quite make out. You catch fragments—"...she won't talk to me..." "...give her time..." "...don't know what to do..."—and realize they're talking about Robin.

Jonathan trails behind the group, stopping frequently to take photos with his camera—the way light filters through trees, a particularly interesting mushroom growing on a fallen log, a spider web strung between branches and covered in morning dew that catches the light like diamonds.

You're in the middle, enjoying the view, the rhythm of walking, the simple act of moving your body through space. Still cooling off from the reveal that Steve tried to sabotage your date with Sammy. I mean, it's not like you ever sabotaged any of his dates. Well, there was that one time you told him to cancel on a girl, but other than that, you respected his rules.

These goddamn rules.

The word makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a stick. What the fuck even are the rules anymore? And what kind of jeans is he wearing that make his ass look that good and—

Your attention is brought to the top of the hill you've been climbing. The trail opens up suddenly into a clearing, and the view steals your breath.

It's beautiful—genuinely, achingly beautiful. The overlook shows miles of forest stretching out below, pine trees swaying in the breeze like the strings of Eddie's guitar being plucked by invisible fingers. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the sun has fully risen now, painting everything in warm golden light. You can see the lake in the distance, glittering like someone scattered diamonds across its surface.

You take a deep breath, feeling grounded for the first time since you arrived yesterday. The anger in your chest loosens slightly, makes room for something else—awe, maybe, or peace, or just the simple acknowledgment that the world is bigger than your problems.

You see Nancy and Steve doing the same thing—both of them breathing deeply, shoulders dropping from their ears. Steve's arm comes up to rub Nancy's back in small circles, clearly consoling her about whatever's happening with Robin. The gesture is tender, familiar, the kind of touch that speaks to years of friendship and history.

You feel your anger toward Steve evaporate, just a little. Just enough to remember that he's a person, not just an object of your frustration.

You turn to look at Jonathan, who's taking more photos of the view, his camera clicking steadily. You walk up to him, curious. "How long have you been behind a camera?"

Jonathan doesn't seem bothered by the conversation while he works, doesn't stop taking photos. "I don't know. Since I can remember, I guess." Click. "I've always been kind of quiet. Not great at talking." Click. "And, uh... as cliche as it is, a picture is worth a thousand words." He shrugs awkwardly, like he's embarrassed by the sentiment even though it's clearly true. Click.

"So why film then?" you ask. "Why not just stick with photography?"

He laughs—quiet and self-deprecating. "I... I don't know. I guess even though a picture can tell you something, can make you feel something..." He pauses, lowering the camera to look at you directly. "Movies can invoke deeper feelings that make you feel less alone, you know? Like you're part of something bigger than yourself."

You smile, understanding blooming warm in your chest. "That's how I feel about books. Like the author is speaking directly to me, like they understand something I couldn't put into words myself."

Jonathan smiles back, and you see that dimple in his cheek again. "Steve told me you like to read."

Your face falters, the smile freezing then melting. "He did?"

"Yeah. He talks about you all the time. Pretty much knew who you were before I met you." Jonathan shifts his camera bag on his shoulder, lifting the camera again. "Hey, uh... do you mind?" He motions the camera at you.

You look at him, a little surprised. "Oh... uh, sure. I don't mind. You want me to just...?"

"Yeah! Just stay right there and pretend I'm not here. Look at the view, think about something that makes you happy."

You do as you're told, turning back to face the overlook. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, and somehow you can smell Steve's cologne even though he's several feet away. Cedar and something warmer, spicier. You smile despite yourself, your stomach flipping, chest tightening with something you're not ready to name.

You hear the click from Jonathan's camera. You turn to him, smile still in place.

Jonathan smiles back, lowering the camera. "Steve was right about you."

Your face flickers, confusion replacing contentment. "Right about what?"

"You two ready to go back?" Steve's voice cuts across the clearing, sharp and sudden. "It's almost lunchtime."

You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at you and Jonathan with an intensity that feels disproportionate to the moment.

So you make your way back down the trail, the mood noticeably cooler than the hike up.

Lunch is awkward in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Nancy and Robin are barely speaking to each other, even though they're sitting next to each other at the picnic table. They only call each other by first names—no nicknames, no "babe," no soft touches. The absence of their usual affection is glaring, makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Steve is avoiding looking at you entirely, keeping his gaze fixed on his sandwich or the trees or literally anywhere else. Jonathan seems to like the quiet, eating steadily without feeling the need to fill silence. Eddie, on the other hand, absolutely does not like the quiet, and makes it very obvious there are multiple elephants in the room.

"So!" he says loudly, gesturing with his sandwich. "Anyone want to address the fact that there's more tension here than a fucking... I don't know, a tightrope? A rubber band about to snap?"

No one responds.

"Cool, cool. Love that for us." Eddie takes another bite.

After lunch, plans for kayaking are still on. You pile into Eddie's van, driving down dirt roads to the lake access point. The only sound is music playing from the tape deck while Eddie and Steve talk quietly in the front seat about something you can't hear over Metallica.

When you arrive at the lake, everyone decides to do pairs for kayaking. And because you are ever so lucky, even when Robin and Nancy are secretly fighting—Nancy choosing Jonathan as her partner and Robin immediately asking Eddie—you end up in a kayak with Steve.

Steve, who has changed since the hike into clothes that make you want to commit crimes. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with your university logo across the chest, but the real problem is the jean shorts. They're cut off at mid-thigh, frayed at the edges, and they show off his legs in a way that should be illegal. His thighs are thick, muscular, covered in dark hair that you know is soft to the touch. You can't help but look at them every chance you get, eyes tracing the line of muscle, the way they flex when he moves.

His hair is pushed back by a red baseball cap worn backwards, eyes hidden beneath aviator sunglasses that make him look like a lifeguard or a model or some unholy combination of both. His shirt hugs him everywhere—across his chest, his shoulders, his stomach—and when he bends down to adjust their kayak before pushing it into the water, the shirt rides up on his back, showing a strip of tanned skin and the dimples at the base of his spine.

You feel that anger bubbling again, mixing with want, creating something volatile and dangerous.

He seems just as annoyed to be paired with you, his lips pressed into a thin line when he hands you a paddle. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm, familiar—before he pulls away.

Steve climbs into the back of the kayak and you get in the front, and then you're off. The water is calm, glittering in the afternoon sun, cool spray occasionally hitting your arms.

Nancy and Jonathan are slowly trailing in front of you, their paddling synchronized and efficient. Robin and Eddie are already way up the stream, even though they've flipped their kayak twice—you can hear Robin's shrieking laughter carrying across the water, can see Eddie's hair dripping as he rights the kayak again.

The tension between you and Steve is suffocating despite the open air, despite the beauty of the surroundings. You can smell the sunscreen he's wearing—coconut-scented. You can feel his eyes on you even though you can't see them behind those sunglasses, boring into your back like lasers.

Occasionally you peek over your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes but you can feel the intensity of his stare, can see the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the paddle.

Soon it's just the two of you. Nancy and Jonathan have disappeared around a bend in the stream, their laughter fading. Eddie and Robin are long gone, probably halfway to the next lake by now.

You're surprised that for how competitive Steve usually is—always needing to win, to be the best, to prove himself—he makes no effort to speed up. Even when you want to, to get this over with as quickly as possible, to get out of this godforsaken kayak with Steve Harrington and never look back.

"Wanna take a break?" he asks suddenly, his voice startling in the silence.

You turn to look at him, seeing him point toward a small bank where the water is shallow and trees provide shade. You swallow. "Okay."

You both adjust your paddles to head that way, working in tandem without speaking. You reach the bank and Steve is quick to get out, practically leaping from the kayak and rushing into the woods without a word.

It makes you laugh despite everything—he probably needs to pee. You take your shoes off, setting them on the bank, and dip your toes in the cool water. It feels incredible after the heat of paddling in the sun. You wade out knee-deep, the clear spring water refreshing against your skin, small fish darting away from your feet.

"Hot Shot, what are you doing?"

You don't turn around, just giggle at the panic in his voice. "Taking a break, Steve." Your voice drips with sarcasm. "Come join me. It feels great."

But Steve's voice goes sharp, loud. "Where the fuck is the kayak?"

You spin around, hand already raising to point at the bank where you left it. But it's not there. Your eyes scan the area frantically, then look down the stream. Your stomach drops. You can see the bright green kayak floating away downstream, bobbing in the current, already twenty yards away and picking up speed.

"Oh shit..."

Steve's large hands come up to rub his face in frustration or maybe grief or maybe murderous rage. You can see him weighing his options, deciding whether it's worth trying to swim after it. His sunglasses slip down his nose and you can see his eyes roll dramatically, his hands coming to rest on his hips, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he's trying to decide whether to kill you or figure out what to do next.

"I'm sorry," you offer weakly. "I thought I pulled it up far enough—"

"Just—" He holds up a hand. "Don't."

Luckily, Steve had grabbed his backpack when he got out of the kayak—some instinct or experience telling him not to leave it in the boat. The camp map is shoved in there along with water bottles and snacks, and now the two of you are trekking through the woods, trying to navigate back to the parking lot.

You don't know how long you've been hiking. The sun is lower now, late afternoon stretching shadows long across the forest floor. Steve keeps stopping abruptly, looking up at the sky like there's a huge compass up there that only he can read, like he's some kind of wilderness expert instead of a rich kid from Hawkins who probably went to summer camps with air conditioning.

By the third time he stops, you crash into his solid back, stumbling backward. He doesn't look at you when he turns and grabs your arm, steadying you before you can fall. "Do we need to stop for a bit?"

"No, Steve." You huff, pulling your arm free. "The quicker we find the parking lot, the better."

Steve straightens, jaw twitching. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that an attitude while I'm trying to get us back?"

"Key word: trying, Harrington." You tap his chest, smiling sweetly in a way that's anything but sweet. "You're not really making much progress, are you?"

You start walking ahead, as if going by gut feeling is any better than his sky-reading method.

"Excuse me?" Steve's voice rises behind you. "Do we have a problem or something?"

"Nope." You pop the ‘p’, not looking back at him.

"Crazy, because it seems like you've been mad at me for no reason for over a week now." He walks ahead of you, eyes stuck on the map, holding it up like it'll reveal secrets. His voice sounds casual but there's bitterness underneath, sharp and cutting. "You didn't think I could tell you didn't want to be stuck with me today, but I could."

You stop walking, arms crossing over your chest. You scoff in disbelief. "Oh geez, you think because I didn't give you attention for a week means I'm mad at you?" You giggle, but it's full of venom. "Maybe you needed to wear those glasses, because maybe—just maybe—you're the one who was avoiding me."

Steve stops. He pivots to face you, and his lips turn upward in this infuriating smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure. "Aw, look who's upset because I didn't whip out my dick for them."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

His lips purse, and he shrugs—one shoulder lifting in this exaggerated, sassy gesture that makes him look like a bitchy teenager. His head tilts, eyebrows raising above his sunglasses. "I dunno. You seemed just fine without me. With Sammy and all. Oh, I saw you two in the library, pretty much making out against the—"

"Oh please, Steve, he was giving me notes because I missed class—"

"—and since I didn't give you attention, you're trying to sleep with my friend—"

"—I didn't fucking sleep with Eddie! I don't want to sleep with Eddie!"

"Yeah, I'm not talking about Eddie." Steve's voice goes cold, sharp. "I'm talking about Jonathan, Hot Shot."

You stare at him, an incredulous sound escaping your mouth—half laugh, half scream. "Jesus Christ, Steve. I don't want to fuck any of your friends! It's not my fault you get jealous of any guy I speak to." Your voice rises, echoing through the trees. "You don't see me blacklisting your fuck buddies from parties or releasing pigs in their houses to sabotage dates. Really cool, Steve. Very mature."

Steve laughs, the sound bitter and harsh. "The Alpha Taus are douchebags, Hot Shot. That prank had nothing to do with you."

"Well, it doesn't make sense, because you weren't that upset about Sammy when you were off canoodling with Polly last Wednesday night." You cross your arms tighter. "Oh, don't give me that look. I saw you two in the parking lot."

He points at you, shaking his finger like he's just had an epiphany. "I knew that was you! You were spying on me!"

"I wasn't spying!" You throw your hands up. "God forbid I knew where you'd be and wanted an easy fuck."

Steve leans in close, invading your space, and you can smell him—sunscreen and sweat and anger. "I don't know why you think you're special. Is it because I kissed you, huh? Is that what this is all about?"

"Oh, give me a break, Steve." You push past him, following what you think might be a trail through the underbrush.

"Aha! See, there it is." He follows behind you, voice getting louder. "You think I'm going to break my rules just because I slipped up once. Even after I told you to forget it happened."

Your chest is heaving, face hot despite the shade of the trees. If you were a cartoon, steam would be rolling out of your ears. You spin around, storming up to him until you're chest to chest, and press your finger hard into his solid chest. "Oh, bullshit! Tell me, Steve—what does 'once a month' mean to you?"

"What?" His brows knit together in confusion.

You close your mouth, eyes going glassy. Tears threaten from how pissed off you are, from how much this hurts, from everything building inside you for weeks.

"I—" He swallows, face falling as realization dawns.

"Tell me," you demand, pushing his chest again. Harder this time.

He doesn't move from your force. Doesn't speak. His face has fallen completely, all the anger draining away into something that looks like guilt and sadness and fear.

You let out a breathy huff, scowling, turning back around to keep walking. To get away from him before you do something stupid like cry.

"Because I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck!" Steve's voice echoes through the trees, bouncing off trunks, scattering birds into flight.

You don't have time to reply. You turn around and he's already there—right behind you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the freckles scattered across his nose from sun exposure, the way his chest is heaving with emotion. His eyes search yours, desperate and afraid and hopeful all at once. Those puppy dog eyes that make your knees weak, that make you forget why you're angry in the first place.

"Steve? Hot Shot?" Eddie's voice comes from somewhere nearby, cutting through the moment like a knife.

Steve looks at your mouth, his body visibly deflating, shoulders sagging. "Over here!" he calls, voice rough. He moves past you, jogging up what must actually be the trail to meet Eddie.

The others are behind Eddie—all of them looking concerned and slightly annoyed.

.-.-.-.

Later, everyone is around the campfire again as darkness falls. Most of the evening was wasted looking for you and Steve. You're sitting far away from Steve this time, deliberately choosing a chair next to Robin instead. Nancy and Robin seem to be sort of talking—their shoulders aren't touching but they're not completely ignoring each other either—but you can see it's still careful interaction.

Jonathan is the one to try reaching an olive branch, suggesting s'mores. Everyone lights up at that—even Robin and Nancy exchange small smiles.

They start collecting the supplies—graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows—when Eddie suddenly sniffs the air dramatically.

"My dear friends..." He stands, looking at the sky with fake solemnity. "I'm afraid a storm is coming."

Everyone looks up. The sky is completely clear, stars twinkling peacefully overhead.

They ignore him, laughing, going back to setting up for s'mores. But a few minutes later, thunder claps—loud and close, rattling through the air.

"Well, shit," Robin says, exasperated. "Guess no s'mores."

Eddie sighs dramatically, looking at you. "Guess I'm bunking with you tonight, Hot Shot."

"Absolutely not," you say immediately, ignoring the way Steve's eyes snap to you, something lighting up in his expression. "Your snoring kept me up all last night."

Eddie frowns, wounded. "Well, I'm not sleeping in my hammock in a storm. I'll blow away." He turns to Jonathan and Steve, spreading his arms wide. "Boys? Which one of you loves me most?"

Steve shakes his head quickly. "You kick in your sleep."

Nancy speaks up, looking at you with eyes that are slightly desperate. "You could just bunk with Robin and me." Her expression is pleading: please, I don't want to be alone with Robin, please help me, please.

But Robin groans loudly, throwing her head back. "Can we stop pretending? Steve and Hot Shot obviously want to share a tent but don't want to say it out loud."

You and Steve immediately look at one another across the fire, then at the group. Eddie wraps his arm around Jonathan's shoulders, grinning wickedly. "Looks like you're stuck with me tonight, Jon-boy! Hope you like cuddling."

Jonathan just sighs, resigned to his fate.

Really, you don't want to be stuck in a tent with Steve. But you don't want to say it out loud and admit there's something different between you, something beyond just fucking, something that terrifies you.

There's no more arguing because small droplets start hitting everyone's skin—fat raindrops that promise a real storm. Everyone rushes to their tents, laughing and cursing and trying not to slip in the mud already forming.

You have time to change in the tent before Steve opens the zipper. He's already changed too—back in those pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and a t-shirt that's seen better days. You're both in the small space now, moving around each other awkwardly, trying not to touch, adjusting sleeping bags and pillows until finally you're both lying down.

The rain starts in earnest, drumming against the tent fabric. Thunder rumbles in the distance, getting closer.

You're both on your backs, staring at the tent ceiling, the space between you measured in inches but feeling like miles. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the rain, the thunder, and your breathing—his deeper, slower, yours quick and nervous.

And you wait.

.-.-.-.

You're lying on your side in the tent, facing the nylon wall that shifts slightly with the wind. Behind you, Steve faces the opposite direction, and you can feel the solid warmth of his back against yours through the layers of fabric separating you. He's wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. You're wearing the same.

The tension is unbearable.

You've done everything—had him inside you more times than you can count, felt his hands on every part of your body, come apart beneath his touch in ways that should've stripped away any possibility of shyness. You've kissed him now, desperately, in a grimy bathroom while a party raged outside.

But you've never slept this close.

Somehow this feels more intimate than all of it. Fully clothed, not even touching except for the accidental press of your backs, and yet your skin is on fire. Every breath he takes, you feel. Every small shift of his body sends awareness crackling down your spine.

You think about what he'd said earlier, “I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck." The words have rooted inside you, burrowing deep, and you're not sure how to ignore them anymore. Don't think you want to.

The rain patters against the tent, gentle at first, then harder. The sound fills the small space, making everything feel closer, more isolated from the rest of the world.

You hear his breath stutter behind you, the rhythm breaking and catching. You wonder if he's still angry, if he's regretting agreeing to share the sleeping bag, if—

"Hey." He says your name, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches. For a second you think you imagined it, that it was just the rain creating phantom sounds. "Yes?" you whisper back.

He hesitates, and you feel him shift slightly. "I need you to know... I didn't hook up with Polly when you saw us."

There's a beat of silence. Rain drums steadily above you.

"Okay," you say quietly, not sure where he's going with this.

He continues, words coming faster now like he's afraid he'll lose courage. "I was... ending things with her.”

You’re not sure how to react, but your lips part, and without thinking you say, “Oh.”

You wonder if he was finally bored of her. Or maybe she broke a rule and you didn’t know.

Steve speaks again, his voice so soft you barely hear it against the crack of thunder. “I ended things with all of them."

You imagine the look on his face when he'd told you about the accident—how his downturned eyes had drooped further, how that permanent cocky assured smile had dissolved into pure, raw, unfiltered honesty.

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Steve doesn't speak for a moment. You hear the sound of his tongue pressing into his cheek, a nervous habit you've noticed. Then you feel movement—he's shifting in the sleeping bag, turning, and suddenly you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. But you can't look at him. Can't turn to face him.

His voice cracks when he says your name. And as much as you love it when he calls you Hot Shot, or moans your name in different degrees of pleasure and desperation, this feels so soft it prickles your skin, raises goosebumps along your arms.

"The night of the formal... when I came looking for you..." He drifts off, and you hear him swallow hard. "I didn't just look for you to hook up. I wanted to... I wanted to ask if we would only sleep with each other."

Your breath hitches, lungs forgetting how to expand. You think about that moment—seeing Steve in the hallway, the glasses on his face, and then going with Sammy to that hotel room. You'd told yourself you hadn't thought of Steve. Maybe you'd tried not to, but it had made it worse.

"There were never really any rules when it came to you," Steve says, voice low and rough.

Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he can hear it in the small space. You close your eyes, your lips burning at the memory of the kiss at Mardi Tau, the desperate way you'd clung to each other.

“I would’ve said yes,” you admit into the dark tent.

Finally, you slowly roll over. Lightning strikes outside, illuminating his face in fragments—the sharp line of his jaw, the worried crease between his brows, those eyes watching you. You're both lying on your sides, hands tucked under your heads, noses inches apart because of the size of the tent and the sleeping bag you're sharing.

“I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m sorry for avoiding you,” your voice comes out even softer than his. "I thought you were mad at me."

"What? Why?" He's quick, shifting closer, and you see the shadow of his hand reaching out before he pulls it back like he's not sure he's allowed to touch you.

"I thought..." Tears rim your eyes, hot and unwelcome. "Maybe you were mad because I thought I was pregnant... and Robin found out... and I almost ruined your life, Steve."

Lightning strikes again, closer this time, and you see his hazel eyes lit with something fierce—rage maybe, or panic—and just as quickly they droop in worry. "No. No, you didn't. Fuck." His hand finally makes contact, cradling your face, thumb wiping away a tear that's escaped. "I wasn't angry with you."

You're not sobbing, but your breathing is erratic, sniffling sounds escaping despite your best efforts. "But I feel so guilty. Robin and you are fighting and she won't talk to me because I didn't tell her, and I don't want you thinking—I thought I scared you."

Steve's thumb pauses mid-stroke on your cheek. "I was scared," he admits quietly. "But not in the way you think." He takes a shaky breath. "I was scared because I sat there on my bedroom floor and for the first time in my life, I imagined having kids. Really imagined it. Like… I think I do want them and it fucking terrifies me."

His voice drops lower. "I keep looking at that camper—the one you keep catching me staring at. I keep imagining it full of kids. My kids."

He lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking you would hate that it could've been mine. If you were pregnant."

"Steve." Your voice breaks. "I would've prayed it was yours."

There would've been no hope otherwise. You would've wanted divine intervention, would've bargained with a god you're not sure you believe in, would've offered anything for it to be his.

You can see in the dark how his eyelashes fan against his cheek as he blinks, processing your words. He takes a deep breath, and you scoot closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face now, fingers gentle against his skin.

"What happened the night of Mardi Tau?" you ask softly.

Steve looks at you with such sadness it makes your chest ache. "I was so confused. I didn't want to be jealous, but seeing you with Sammy... and hearing you talk about him with Eddie or Robin, knowing that he was touching you..." His jaw tightens. "Since your date with him, it got harder and harder to be with the others. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't fucking finish with anyone else, and finally I just couldn't even..." He closes his eyes, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's so fucking embarrassing."

You rake your fingers through his hair, and he immediately relaxes into the touch. "It's not embarrassing, Steve. I wish... I wish it was less complicated."

"Me too," Steve whispers.

You lay in silence for a moment longer, the rain getting heavier outside, more lightning illuminating the tent in brief, brilliant flashes. Thunder rumbles, close enough to feel in your chest.

"I don't really want to forget the kiss happened," you admit. "In fact, I haven't. It's all I can think about."

Steve's hand moves from your face to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. "I can't stop thinking about it either."

In the dark, you can see his eyes light up—crystal clear in another flash of lightning. His hand trails down your arm, pulling you closer, fingers wrapping around your wrist and gently pulling your hand from his hair. He brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them slowly, deliberately. Then he kisses your palm, the touch soft and reverent. Your wrist next, then your forearm, working his way up to your shoulder until his face is inches from yours.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, his other fingers sliding under your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

You see his eyes flicker to your lips and then back to your eyes.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says.

It's not a question. Not a can I? He's telling you. Maybe even telling himself. Giving you a heartbeat to object if you want to.

You don't want to.

You grip the fabric of his shirt and meet his lips in the middle.

This kiss is different from Mardi Tau. Slower. Softer. Still passionate—god, still so passionate it makes your toes curl—but measured. Intentional. His mouth moves against yours like he's savoring it, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use every second.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely Steve— sarcastic, fun, attentive. The kiss buzzes through you, electric and warm, spreading from your lips down through your chest and settling low in your belly. His lips are soft, the pressure perfect, and when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, you open for him immediately.

The slide of his tongue against yours is slow, exploratory, like he's learning the shape of your mouth. You feel it everywhere—in your fingertips still gripping his shirt, in your chest where your heart is trying to beat out of your ribs, between your legs where heat is already pooling.

Steve shifts, moving slightly over you, one arm coming down to cage you in. The kiss deepens, tongues moving together with more purpose now, but still not fast. Never fast. Every movement is controlled, like he's determined to make this last.

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms splaying flat on his stomach. You feel the way he breathes—his round belly contracting and expanding beneath your touch. You feel the raised lines of his scars, the ones you've traced before but this time with new purpose.

Tenderly your fingers ghost each soft tissue. You’ve told him before, how brave he was. And maybe you were only trying to make him feel better, but now you really believe it. He was brave then. He was brave when he told his dad about becoming a teacher.

God, you want him.

You tangle your legs with his, bodies aligning, and Steve starts to suck on your top lip. You buck your hips involuntarily, feeling him twitch against your thigh.

Steve pulls back, panting slightly. Lightning flashes, illuminating his face—flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing. "Honey," he says softly, voice rough. "I want to... I really do, but I didn't bring anything."

You understand what he means. There's nowhere he could finish except on you, and then you'd be gross, sticky— you’re not going to walk in the rain to the showers— and it might get everywhere in the confined space of the sleeping bag, on the tent floor...

You look up at him, seeing the same disappointment in his eyes that you feel in your chest. "It's okay."

He nods and starts to pull away, but you stop him, hand fisting tighter in his shirt.

"No, I mean..." Your heart is thumping so fast you can hear it in your ears. Maybe this is totally insane given the circumstances of this week—the pregnancy scare, the fight with Robin, everything complicated and messy. Maybe you're thinking only with lust and desire, being reckless and stupid. But you need him. "I want you to come in me."

Despite the way you feel his cock harden immediately against your hip, despite the shaky breath he releases, his brows furrow. "Babygirl, are... are you sure? I don't—not if..."

This is insane. This is entirely the stupidest thing you could choose to do.

You answer by kissing him deeply, pouring every ounce of want and need and certainty into it. Then you sit up, putting your arms up in offering.

Steve takes the top of the sleeping bag off you both, pushing it aside. Lightning streaks across the sky outside, illuminating the tent in brilliant white light for a split second before plunging you back into shadow. Thunder follows immediately after, so close it rattles through your bones.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and his movements are so slow, so different from every other time. His fingers drag up your skin as he peels the fabric higher, making you shiver. The shirt comes off over your head, and Steve's eyes immediately catch sight of your bare chest.

He smiles. "I knew you weren't wearing a fucking bra. It's like you wanted this the whole time."

You giggle, leaning forward, both hands cupping his face, and kiss him again. You feel him smile against your lips, his hands coming up to gently squeeze your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you gasp into his mouth. He pushes them together, massaging, his mouth kissing them, nipping, sucking.

"Your turn," you murmur, and start working his shirt up his torso. You take your time, kissing his belly, dragging flesh between your teeth. Kissing freckles as more skin is revealed, then his navel, one of his pecs, his throat. The shirt gets awkwardly stuck on his nose as you try to pull it over his head, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter—his a low chuckle in his chest that sounds sweet and boyish, yours breathy and slightly hysterical.

And you can’t help but kiss him, drinking the sweet sounds of laughter, teeth clanking from smiling. His laughter is sweet like caramel, thick and smooth against your tongue. It’s something you can see yourself getting drunk on more often if he lets you.

He finally gets the shirt unstuck and tosses it aside, and then you're finding each other's lips again, mouths meeting in the darkness with the kind of accuracy that only comes from want. One of his hands cradles your face, so large, palm covering your entire cheek. His other hand pushes your lower back, pressing your chest flush with his.

His skin is warm like sunshine, making you melt in his embrace. He smells like campfire and the river you two were lost in. Your fingers thread the hairs at the nape of his neck, twirling each strand, opening your mouth to capture his sigh.

Steve lays you back down slowly, your head finding the bunched-up jacket you've been using as a pillow. His hands find the waistband of your pajama bottoms, and he starts sliding them down your hips.

"Wait—" you start, but it's too late.

He sees it. The dark ink on your hip, just above your pelvic bone.

Steve pauses, squinting at it in the dim light, and then a crooked smile spreads across his face.

"Shut up," you laugh, covering your face with your hands, looking at him through your fingers.

"Wasn't gonna say a word," Steve says, sticking out his bottom lip in mock innocence, holding his hands up in surrender. Then he laughs—quiet and fond—and finishes pulling your pajama bottoms off completely.

He plants a chaste kiss on the tattoo—the words Hot Shot in thoughtless script.

"My Hot Shot," he whispers against your skin. "My girl."

Then he places a kiss over your underwear, right over your cunt, and the way his lips— now that they’ve touched your own, now that you know what he they taste like— plush against the fabric makes your breath catch.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly drags your panties down your legs. You tangle your fingers in his hair while he presses soft kisses to your bare skin—your hip bone, your inner thigh, higher until his breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him.

But then his eyes trail up, and his large hand splays on your ribs, trailing down past your belly button to rest on the soft flesh just above your womb. You feel a pool of warmth low in your belly at the tenderness in his touch.

He leans over, and you watch how his belly rolls, sticking over the waistband of his pajama pants. He kisses the spot on your belly softly. Once, twice, three times, his lips lingering on your skin. His thumb traces idle patterns there.

"You would've looked so hot pregnant with my baby," he whispers against your stomach, then looks up at you—checking, making sure what he said wasn't weird, wasn't too much, didn't turn you off.

But you smile, tilting your head, biting your bottom lip. "Yeah?"

Steve grins, placing another kiss there, his eyes dark with something that looks like reverence. "So fucking hot. Would've loved seeing you like that. All round with my baby."

Heat floods through you at his words, settling low and insistent between your legs. "Steve..."

"What?" He kisses lower, just above where you're aching for him. "You don't like thinking about it? About me filling you up? Getting you pregnant?"

You whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. "I—"

"Because I think about it," he admits, voice rough. "Think about it all the fucking time now."

Before you can respond, he's working to pull down his own pajama pants. He grunts, shifting around in the limited space—it's harder than it looks, all awkward angles and elbows bumping into things—until he finally peels them off.

You realize he's not wearing any underwear. His cock slaps against his stomach, already hard and flushed dark. There’s another flash of lightning— he’s pumping himself, biting his lip, looking at you splayed out on his sleeping bag,

"Now look who wanted this," you tease.

He crawls up your body, caging you in with his arms. "I always want you," he mutters against your lips before kissing you again.

The kiss is still slow but hungry now, need building between you. Steve positions himself between your legs, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He doesn't push in yet, just rocks slightly, sliding through your wetness, and you both make sounds that are barely human.

"Ready?" he asks against your mouth.

"Yes," you breathe. "Please."

He pushes in slowly—so slowly it's almost torture. You feel every inch as he enters you, the stretch and fullness, the way your body opens for him. He hadn’t prepared you with fingers. You feel the ache, making you wince. He kisses you again like it will help, and maybe it does.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, you’re just so big, Steve. But it feels so good.”

He bottoms out with a groan that reverberates through his chest into yours, and for a moment you both just stay like that, completely joined, breathing the same air. You both pant in each other’s mouths. Steve brushes hair from your face, jaw slack, searching for something in your eyes. Or maybe he likes looking at them as much as you like looking into his.

"You're perfect," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, blonde illuminating, refracting when lightning strikes. "Always so good to me."

A soft whimper escapes him at the praise, and he starts to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that have you both groaning. His soft stomach presses into yours, the thick thatch of hairs rubbing, dragging against your skin.

It's nothing like before. Every other time has been fast, hard, desperate—chasing release with single-minded focus. But this is different. This is Steve pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked on yours in the flashes of lightning, watching your every reaction.

"God, you feel so good," he breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that's making you see stars despite the measured pace.

You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly, and he hits something inside you that makes you gasp and arch up into him. He notices immediately, adjusting to hit that spot again and again with each slow thrust.

"So do you," you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. "You always make me feel amazing."

He smiles against your lips, the movement becoming something tender before deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours in the same rhythm as his hips, slow and purposeful, building pleasure with every thrust.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking gently, and you tilt your head to give him better access. One of his hands slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple while his other hand braces beside your head, holding his weight off you.

"Steve," you whimper, nails dragging down his back.

"I know, babygirl. I know." His nose rubs against yours, your foreheads pressed together. "You're so beautiful."

He kisses you again.

You smile shyly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, your fingers pressing into his ass, pushing him deeper. The new angle makes you both moan, the sound swallowed by another crack of thunder outside.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," he pants. "Such a good girl. My good girl."

You preen at the praise, and he notices, grinning. "You like that? Like being my good girl?"

"Yes," you admit, voice breathy.

Lightning illuminates the tent again, and in that brief flash you see his face clearly—lips parted, eyes dark with desire but soft with something else. Something that looks dangerously close to lo— you let out a wanton moan.

Steve maintains that slow, torturous pace, and you realize with startling clarity that you like this. You like slow sex—with him. Only with him. Because with anyone else, going slow felt boring, felt like waiting for something to happen. But Steve going slow feels intentional, feels like worship, feels like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every expression that crosses your face.

He reaches down between your bodies, and you think he's going to touch your clit, but instead he takes your hand. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight, and he brings your joined hands up beside your head, pressing them into the sleeping bag.

His hips continue their steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, your joined hands pressed into the fabric beside your head. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, such a small gesture but somehow more intimate than anything else.

He angles his face, capturing your lips in another kiss.

"You feel perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "So perfect inside me."

Steve groans, his rhythm faltering slightly, cock pulsing inside you. "Don't—fuck—don't say things like that if you want this to last."

You giggle, the sound breathy. "Can't help it. You make me feel so good."

He smiles against your lips, kissing you again, soft and sweet. Then he angles his hips slightly, hitting that spot inside you with more purpose, and you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you, honey. Love hearing all the pretty sounds you make."

Each slow thrust builds the pleasure higher, coiling tighter in your belly. You mewl breathily.

"Baby… Steve I—" your head lulls back.

"I know," he says, and his free hand finally slides between your bodies to find your clit. "I've got you."

His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts, and the dual sensation has your eyes rolling back. Your hand squeezes his tighter, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.

"Feels so good," you praise, one hand sliding down to rest on his lower back, feeling his muscles flex with each thrust. "You make me feel so good. Such a perfect boy."

Steve's rhythm falters, a broken moan escaping him. "I can't—you're gonna make me—"

"Not yet," you say gently but firmly, and watch him visibly struggle to obey. "Want to come with you. Can you do that for me? Be a good boy and wait for me?"

He nods frantically, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard you're afraid he'll draw blood. "I'll try. I'll be good. Promise I'll be good."

The rain pounds harder against the tent, matching the building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Lightning illuminates you both in brief snapshots—his face above you, eyes dark and reverent; your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization.

"Does Sammy make you cum like I do?" Steve asks, voice strained. His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts.

You bite your lip in a wave of pleasure, your fingertips dragging against his shoulders, feeling his skin and muscles. “No, not once. No one fucks me like you do, Steve.”

He falters briefly, whimpering, head bowing before he comes back. "So beautiful," he gasps. "So fucking perfect. Can't believe—can't believe I get to see you like this."

You moan, pleasure building rapidly. "Keep going. You're doing so good. Just a little longer."

The pleasure builds like a wave, slow and inexorable, rising higher with each roll of his hips, each pass of his thumb. You're making those sounds you made like in the bathroom—high, breathy whimpers of his name mixed with nonsense syllables.

"That's it," he encourages, and finally—finally—his pace picks up. Not frantically, but with more purpose, more urgency. His hips snap against yours, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the rain and thunder.

"Want to—fuck—want to fill you up," he pants, and you can hear the desperation in his voice. "Please can I come? I've been good, haven't I? I've been good for you?"

“Yes, god yes. Please, Steve. I’m so close,” you cry. You kiss him sloppily, full of the filthy things you want to cry out but can’t form into coherent words. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, releasing it with a pop.

His eyes snap to yours, something fierce and tender burning there. "Come for me, babygirl. Come on my cock while I fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Want to get you pregnant so badly. Want everyone to know you're mine."

You know it's fantasy talking—the heat of the moment, bodies wound tight with need, words spilling out unchecked. It probably wouldn't happen, the odds are slim, but thinking about it, imagining Steve's baby growing inside you, imagining him telling everyone you're his—

Your orgasm hits like lightning—sudden and all-consuming. Your whole body arches up into him, clenching around his cock, and you cry out his name into the small space of the tent. White-hot pleasure races through your veins, makes your vision go black at the edges, leaves you gasping and shaking beneath him.

Steve follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he comes. You feel it—the warmth flooding inside you, the pulse of his cock, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, grinding against you through the aftershocks. His face drops to your neck, hot breath against your slick skin, and he lets out a sound that's half-moan, half-so. Your name follows, escaping his warm lips, leaving an entirely new tattoo on your skin.

Thunder crashes directly overhead, so loud and close it feels like the sky is splitting open.

Steve pulls out slowly, carefully, but doesn't move off you. Instead, his face burrows between your breasts, arms sliding underneath you to hold you close. You feel his come leaking out, warm and wet between your thighs, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Your fingers immediately find his hair, threading through the sweat-damp strands, scratching gently at his scalp the way you know he likes.

You smile, your other hand tracing patterns on his back, finally getting to know the moles there.

He lifts his head slightly, reaching down with one hand to touch where you're still leaking his come. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin, and you gasp. "So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All full of me."

"Steve," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.

He brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting, and groans. "We taste good together." Never in your life would you think he would be okay with tasting his own spend.

Steve then brushes his thumb where the tattoo is. "There’s no one like you, Hot Shot,"

You smile, kissing his head. “There’s no one like you, Steve Harrington.”

He presses a kiss to the space between your breasts, then another to your collarbone, working his way up to your jaw. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate ones from before. When his tongue catches yours, you taste the both of you, and it nearly sends you over the edge again.

When Steve eventually rolls off you, it's not like before where your limbs tear apart in haste, where you're both scrambling for clothes and space and distance. Instead, he reaches for his discarded shirt and uses it to gently clean between your legs.

The gesture is so tender it makes your breath catch. His touch is careful, reverent almost, wiping away the evidence of what you've done with a gentleness that feels more intimate than anything that came before it. You feel your tummy flip and your heart stutter, and you’re sure it’s the afterwaves of your undoing.

You're sure this would be a moment of weakness. Another slip in the rules where reality crashes back in and he realizes what you've both done, what he said. Maybe he'll freak out, remembering the things he told you during the heat of the moment—saying things that were empty promises because he could never actually get you pregnant, and he could never tell anyone you were his.

I mean, it’s not like you two really wanted that. You both were still in school. You both were still too young. And you both couldn’t really be together like that.

Maybe he'll put distance between you, go back to the carefully constructed boundaries you've been dancing around and breaking for months now.

But Steve makes no effort to run.

Another lightning strike illuminates the tent, and you see his goofy smile—dopey and satisfied and completely unguarded. He tosses the shirt aside and plops down next to you, immediately grabbing you and pulling you toward him. He kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around you as your limbs tangle together naturally, fitting like puzzle pieces.

You motion to the sleeping bag. "You're going to have to throw this out now," you mumble against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your cheek.

"Mm, worth it," Steve chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.

There's only the sound of rain now—steady and soothing—and the afterglow settling warm in your bones, and this moment suspended in your tent like a snow globe, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, there are rules and arrangements and complications. Outside, your friends are in their respective tents. Robin.

But in here, it's just you and Steve and the ghost of what you just did hanging in the air between you.

You don't want to ask what this means for you both. It's not like you like each other—not like that. It's all possessiveness because you're the only ones who know how each other's bodies work. That's the only thing. Has to be the only thing.

But it is different. The rules are bent beyond recognition now, twisted into shapes you don't recognize anymore— and apparently don’t apply to you according to Steve.

So you ask something else instead. "Why didn't you tell me you declared your major?"

Steve sighs, but he doesn't tense. His hand continues its path up and down your back, scratching gently, tracing patterns on your skin. "You were the first person I wanted to tell." His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "I mean, shit, the moment you told me you thought you were pregnant, I had made a decision. Even if it's not in the cards for me—kids, a family, all of that—maybe I could have something that's just for me. Something I chose."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your throat tightens, tears prickling hot behind your eyes. You don't cry, but you feel it building in the middle of your throat, threatening to spill over.

Maybe because everyone else in his life has made decisions for him—his father pushing business, his arrangement with Robin dictating his future, even the rules he set for himself born out of fear and self-preservation rather than genuine desire.

You're sure everyone has asked him all the questions by now. Why teaching? Why not something more prestigious, more lucrative? Why would the guy who hasn't shown any real interest in direction or ambition suddenly choose something so decidedly... honorable?

"Are you happy, Steve?" you ask quietly into the darkness.

You don't mean just about his major. You mean everything. Is he happy with his arrangement with Robin? Is it actually benefiting him, or is he sacrificing pieces of himself for her happiness? And Robin—is it even benefiting her, or is she just as trapped in this elaborate fiction they've constructed?

But Steve doesn't answer.

His breathing has already evened out into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep, a gentle snore escaping him.

You lie there in his arms, listening to the rain and his breathing, and wonder if the question scared him into unconsciousness or if he simply had no answer to give.

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