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26 || she/her || all things Star Wars

[parsonkenny101-deactivated20161]

[enki2]

[the-thing-of-worms]

Prev these are some good tags

[electric-butter-slug]

Those tags are LEGIT. Canada has gotten so bad in recent years because provincial governments are so confident overstepping in wake of Trump. I cannot stress enough how important it is that all Americans get out and vote.

I don't care how you feel more moral not voting because it matters so so so much and anyone trying to tell you otherwise is doing so to get Trump or someone like him back in power by using your non vote. It's bad for everyone.

Do not let them convince you not to vote.

[beskarprincessjenny]

[pedropascal24-7]

Mando costume fitting

[starfvckersinc]

are you kidding me

[tbbs-best-hair]

My favorite holonet day approaches 🗡️

[tbbs-best-hair]

It's here. 🗡️

[deceasedcardinal]

[blupeeblep]

Like to charge, reblog to cast

[djospurnell]

get yourself a man who can do both

[thegleampt2fromtheglowpt22001]

I know it’s not hard to point out reactionaries hypocrisy when it comes to like safe spaces or hug boxes or whatever but genuinely how much of an echo chamber do you have to exist in for you to think this is a reasonable thing to say

[apisashla]

reblog if attacking fascism is really the hill you want to die on

[alpine-insurrection]

this is literally like one of the most justified and honorable hills you could die on??? lol??

[harostar]

[lilithtransrights]

Quick someone reply with the gif™️

[burnt-to-cynders]

[lilithtransrights]

[momusu-saval-deactivated2024010]

Always reblog this if you are cool

[weirdphotographernerd]

Reblog if you’re a clone, you support clones, or if you’d throw chancellor Palpatine off a very tall building

[skellymom]

Make him Senator PULPatine! 😎

[maryscinema]

steve making the groups whole final battle plan and showing how he’s never been dumb and dustin being proud… i’m so here for this

[pedropascalsx]

[pascalispunkczechia]

This man is a personal attack 💚

[ethicalfboy]

[levanswrites]

𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 12k summary: five-year-old steve harrington hates the hamptons—until he meets a barefoot girl with a bucketful of shells and becomes stevie. a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), childhood best friends to lovers, oldmoney!steve, coming-of-age, vignette storytelling, first kiss, loverboy baby steeb!, heavy angst, slow burn, canon divergence, his parents are godawful in this one, character study as always, happy ending | playlist | moodboard

Steve Harrington is 5 years old when he decides that the Hamptons are the worst place in the entire world.

He knows this because he’s been here for one whole hour and he already wants to go home.

At least, he thinks it’s been an hour. The numbers on his new watch are shiny and hard to read, and the leather strap feels too heavy on his arm. It keeps sliding down like it’s trying to escape.  

Steve kind of hopes it does.

If it slides off completely, down through the cracks in the porch and into the sandy dirt below, then maybe the ocean will take it. The ocean takes lots of things. Shells, seaweed, shiny bits of glass, baby turtles.

Maybe it could take him, too.

Maybe he could float on the blue waves all the way back home.

Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?

No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.

His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.

He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.

His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”

He tries. He really, really does.

But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.

Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.

Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”

Steve frowns.

Why would he do that?

He likes hearts.

Hearts are for loving, not hurting.

He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.

He wants it.

Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.  

Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.

His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”

He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.

“I am standing straight,” he mutters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He wants to run.

Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.

So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—

Steve sneaks away.

He’s fast and light, like a ninja.

He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.

The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.

The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.  

The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.

On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.

A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.

It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.

He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.

He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.

The sand slides back in.

He digs again.

Slides back in again.

He huffs and tosses the stick away.

“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.

He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—

When a shadow falls over his hole.

“What’re you doing?”   

Steve looks up.

It’s a girl. About his age.

You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.

You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.

A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.

Steve jerks back. You don’t.

Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.

“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.

He blinks. “…I’m not?”

“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”

“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”

Nobody ever asks him that.

Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.

He nods fast. “Yeah.”

You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.

“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.

You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.

“Can I call you Stevie?”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”

Steve thinks about it.

Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.

It feels special. Like a secret.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling.

You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”

Stevie.

He likes it.

Loves it.

It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.

The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.

They become you.

Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.  

Every month of the school year, Steve waits.

And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.

When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”

But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.

The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.

He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.

If he sees you.

What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?

The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.

He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.

The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.

He can’t wait. He can’t.

He barely waits for the car to stop.

“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”

He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.

He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.

He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.

He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—

“STEVIE!”

He spins around so fast the world blurs.

You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.

Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.

You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.

“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”

You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.

“See?”  

Steve blinks.

The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.

“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”

He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.” 

“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”

Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.

“…What’s it do?”

“Just listen.”

He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.

And then—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

His eyes go huge.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Cool, right?”

“It’s loud.”

“That’s the ocean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”

You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”

He frowns. “But… you found it.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”

He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”

Of course he does.

⚓︎

You drag him everywhere.

To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!

To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!

To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!

You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.

You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.

You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”

Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.

“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.

Steve blinks. “Why?”

“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”

“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”

“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”

He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Next summer.”

He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.

He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.

“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.

“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.

You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.

You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.

You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.

Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”

“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”

“What’s that?”

You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”

Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.  

Flying… but on water.

He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.

And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.

His mouth twists.

“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.

You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”  

You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.

For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.

He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.

But you’re laughing.

Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.

Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”

And you’re gone before he can say wait up.

The tight feeling in his chest disappears.

He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.  

It’s perfect.

It’s the best day of his whole life.

Until you fall.

It happens so fast.

One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.

The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.

“Ow!”

Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.

He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.

“Your... your knee,” he whispers.

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”

It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”

You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”

He nods hard. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.

“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”

“O-okay.”

Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.

“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”

And then he sprints.

He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.

Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.

You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.

“I got it!” he pants.

He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—

You hiss and pull back.   

“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”

He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.

“Better?”

“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”

He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.

“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”

When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.

“Hey, are you oka—oof!”

All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.

A warm, squishy, full-body hug.

“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.

He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.

And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.

Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.

It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.

He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.

His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.

He knows you’re there, waiting for him.

You always are.

Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.

You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.

When you see him, your whole face lights up.

“Stevie! You got it!”

“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”

“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”

He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.

Closer than last year, he thinks.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.

The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.

You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.

Your fingers slide between his.

Steve looks down, startled.

Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

But he’s not looking at the sky at all.

The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.

So he squeezes back.

Carefully at first. Then a little braver.

Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.

You’re brighter.

You’re always brighter.

When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.

“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.

You smile at him.

“You’re my best friend.”

His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.

He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.

“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”

Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.

A hug.

It feels familiar. But also different.

Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.

He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”

That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.

“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.

Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Barely there.

But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.

His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.

Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.

You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.

The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.

Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.

Something big.

It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.

Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.

He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.

And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.

But none of that really matters.

Because you’re here.

You’re back.

And you’re different, too.

Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.

But now...

Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.

The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.

You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.  

Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.

He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.

You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.

“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”

Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.  

But he can’t stop staring.

At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.

He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.

He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—

You go quiet.

Really quiet.

Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.

You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.

There’s nothing.

You’re just… looking at him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.

His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”

You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”

He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.

“O-okay,” he manages.

You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—

And you kiss him.

Right on the mouth.

His first kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.

You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.

Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.

“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”

He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.

You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”

He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.

When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.

Steve turns his head to look at you.

Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.

“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?

Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”

This time, he leans in first.

And this time, he’s ready.

He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.

“Oh my god, your face is so red.”

“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.

“Nope. It’s you.”

You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.  

“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.

You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.

You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.

Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.

The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.

After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.

He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.

“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.

“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.

“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”

Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.”

You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”

“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”

You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his. 

“I hate you.”

He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.

“No you don’t.”

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.

It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.

He starts the day happy.

He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.

On his desk sits a small shoe box.

He pauses in front of it.

Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.

The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.  

He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand.  Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.

The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.

Then he picks up his gift.

It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.

But this year feels different.

This year, he thinks he can give them to you.

He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.

He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.

He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.

Hey, these are for you. Too boring.

You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.

You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.

He settles on a smile instead.

You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”

No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.

He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.

“Stephen? Breakfast.”

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.

His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.

“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”  

She doesn’t look up.

“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”

The world stops.

“...Huh?”

She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”

For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.

His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.

“What?” Steve croaks.

“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”

“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”

“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”

Lovely.

Like the sound of your laugh.

Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.

Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.

“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”

“You’ll make new ones.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”

His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”

Steve flinches.

“I’m not whining,” he whispers.

His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”  

Something hot and awful swells in his chest.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.

Instead, he tries again.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”

He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.

Anything.

“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”

Something inside Steve drops with it.

Falls.

Cracks.

Shatters.

⚓︎

He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.

He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.

That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.

Stevie, look!

He cries until his pillow is soaked.

⚓︎

The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.

On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.

He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.  

He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.

There is no treasure map back.  

Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.

He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.

Waiting.

Maybe you’re mad.

Maybe you’re worried.

Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.

That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.

⚓︎

In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.

He tries not to cry.

Some nights, he fails.

But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.

In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.

In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.

Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.

You’re my best friend.

He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.

In dreams, he is flying.

The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.

The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.

So Steve pretends, too.

He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.

By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”

He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.

It works.

High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.

⚓︎

One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”

It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.

Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”

Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.

Harrington. Not Stevie.

Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.  

And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.

He’s not alone.

⚓︎

Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.

He laughs, because it sounds stupid.

But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.

He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.

His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.

Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.

He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.

Everyone loves the parties.

Everyone loves King Steve.

⚓︎

Steve has a drawer that no one opens.

Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.

The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

Inside it is a shoe box.

Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.

Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.

Most nights, he leaves it alone.

But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.

Lifts the lid.

He doesn’t touch anything.

Just looks.

He wonders if you remember him.

If you still call him Stevie in your head.

If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.

Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.

In the morning, he is Harrington once again.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.

It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.

The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.

He isn’t sure if he is.

On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.

His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.

“California,” he says flatly.

Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”

His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.

“A public university. On the other side of the country.”

“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”

The look he gets says more than words ever could.

“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”

Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.

“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”

“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”

Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.

“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”

The room shrinks.

For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.

Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.

Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.

Something quiet settles inside him.

“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”

Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.

Possibility, distance, risk.

Hope.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.

⚓︎

Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.

The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.

He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be his.

⚓︎

He loads his entire world into the BMW.

It doesn’t take long.

For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.

Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.

The last thing he opens is the drawer.

It sticks, like it always does.

Inside is the shoe box.

And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.

He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.

His father doesn’t come outside.

His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.

Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.

It’s heavy.

He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.

Closes the trunk.

Gets behind the wheel.

Looks west.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.

He likes California.

The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.

College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.

He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.

He still gets tired sometimes.

Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.    

The house is packed tonight.

Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.

An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”

Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.

Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.  

He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.

Then, he hears it.

A laugh.

Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.

Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.

Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—

There’s a girl.

Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.

Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.

He stares without meaning to.

You turn.

Your eyes find his.

Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.

Then recognition.

Disbelief.

“...Stevie?”

Something in his chest detonates.

The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.

You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”

Steve can’t speak.

His throat closes. The world narrows.

He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.

He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.

He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.

He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.

He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.

And you did.

You always did.

The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.

He whispers your name.

A decade of wanting, released in one sound.

⚓︎

“...Hi.”

“...Hi.”

“How—”

“What—”

He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”

You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”

For a second, Steve just stands there.

Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.

Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.

He doesn’t say I missed you too.

It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.

Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t say it’s okay.

But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.

And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.

⚓︎

The place is called Scoops Ahoy. 

Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.

The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.

He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.  

At this hour, it’s dead.

Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.

But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.

Because you’re here.

You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.

He can’t stop staring.

The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.  

Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.

But the details are all the same.

The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.

And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there. 

You smile. “What’re you getting?”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.

“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”

“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.

The Triple Decker Extravaganza.

“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”

You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”

Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.

Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.

When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.

“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.

The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.

You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.

Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.

Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.  

“What’s your major?”

“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”

“Really? What kind of psych?”

“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”

You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”  

He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.

“Thanks… uh, what about you?”

You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.

“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”

Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”

He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.

Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.

A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.

Edge of Seventeen.

Stevie Nicks.

He meets your eyes.

Feels something click, then.

He’s never really believed in fate.

But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.

⚓︎

When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.  

June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.

Steve’s heart stutters.

What happens now?

He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”

You’re smiling when you kiss him.

Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.

The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.

This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.

He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.

When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.

You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.

He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.

You both speak at once.

“So—"

“Would you—”

He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”

You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”

He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

⚓︎

You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.

Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.

Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.

Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.

It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.

Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.

You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.

Steve looks down.

Feels it hit him all at once.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.

Nothing that felt like this.

Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He swallows.

Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.

“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.

Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?   

“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”

Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.

And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.

⚓︎

What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.

A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.

Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.

He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.

But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.

And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.

It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.

A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.   

He wants to know everything.

He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.

He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.

He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.

And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.

He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.

But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.

He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.

When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.

There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.

That you’re here.

He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.

He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.

He only fights it long enough to get the words out.

Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.

But he’s tired of pretending.  

And with you, he doesn’t have to.

He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.

The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.

With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.

“I love you.”

The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.

But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.

“I love you, too.”

And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.

⚓︎

The rest of the night is spent talking.

Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.

He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.

Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.

He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.

He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.

That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.

He’s never been built that way.

He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.

He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.

When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”

He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”  

You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”

Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.

Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.

Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.

You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.

You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.

How to fly, just a little.

Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.

The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.

Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.

A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.

He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.  

He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.

He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.  

Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.

He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.

And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.

He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.

A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.

He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.

Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.

But eight years is also nothing.

Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.

You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.

Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.

He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.

For now, he has tomorrow.

⚓︎

In dreams, he is thirteen again.

He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.

He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.

And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.

June 24th, 1979

Hi!

I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.

I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.

I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.

I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.

I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.

P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001

P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?

Your best friend, Stevie

[chestharrington]

let's hear it for the boy! || steve harrington x reader

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 10.9k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Best Friend!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (solo masturbation, dry humping, f!receiving oral, handjob, premature ejaculation, p in v sex), language, sexual references, Steve is very oblivious, Steve can't get it up (unless it's for you), porn WITH plot, slow-ish burn

Summary: set before s4. steve has a problem. he can't cum unless he's thinking about you. except you're his friend and he definitely doesn't have any romantic feelings towards you. at least, that's what he tells himself.

“Seriously? Katie Frey doesn’t do it for you?” You asked, sitting atop the counter at Family Video. Steve shrugged, embarrassment welling up in his chest at your words, and the general topic of conversation.

“I was as surprised as you are now,” he said, twirling a company branded pen between his fingers and hoping the fidgeting would take his mind off of how absolutely mortified he was. “Because, like, Katie is hot.”

“Absolutely. Smokin’ hot.” Your voice was muffled around a twizzler, framed by perfectly made-up lips.

He made a face at your interruption, staring at you with narrowed eyes until you mimed zipping your mouth shut.

“And like, she’s got these great tits. Huge.” Really huge, fucking perfect tits. Not that he was a perv about it, but it was hard not to notice them. “And she’s pretty. And, you know, we were going at it at her apartment after our date and I swear I was into it. But…” He stopped twirling the pen so he could bury his face into his hands, mumbling the end of the sentence. “I couldn’t… cum, you know? I had to just fake it.”

“Fake it? Were you convincing?” you asked, brows furrowed. He peered up at you through the spaces between his fingers, at the quirk of a smile on your lips. “Maybe you should show me. I’m a visual learner.”

He threw the pen at you and groaned in frustration. “You’re an asshole, you know that right? This is serious.”

You did your best to adjust your expression and be empathetic. “Okay, well that didn’t happen with Sheryl, did it?” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re still stuck on Sheryl.”

He shrugged, letting himself relax a little. “Eh, not really. She was fun, but clingy.”

You sighed, leaning forward like a scientist observing him under a microscope. “Other than like… the finale, was the sex good?”

“Yes! And the date was perfectly fine too.” He sat up straighter, crossing his arms across his chest. He was telling the truth… mostly. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t amazing. It was just… fine. He gave you a half-smile. “Thanks for letting me talk to you about this. Robin would be all weird about it.”

You smiled teasingly. “Oh, Robin would’ve bailed the moment you said the word cum.” You altered your voice into a shockingly accurate impression of your friend. “‘Ew, Steve! I don’t want to hear about the details of hetero sex. I faked mono during sex-ed for a reason.”

“She would’ve agreed about Katie’s tits, though,” Steve insisted. “She’d pretend to be mortified that I’m objecting women or whatever, but she’d agree.”

You laughed and shook your head at his words, and he felt a tiny tug in his chest— some sort of like, stirring, big feeling.

He didn’t get it. The two of you had been friends since Freshman year, when you moved next door to Carol and she dragged you to every hangout, big and small. He always sort of figured that Carol was trying to set you up with him, but neither of you ever made a move.

He wasn’t sure why he felt that uncomfortable ache in his chest when you smiled lately. There had never been any feelings there in all the time he’d known you, right? Sure, he thought you were hot— that’s why he had to give you dating advice all the time—but that was different.

"Maybe you just need to find the right girl, or something,” you said earnestly. “Like… maybe your dream girl is right in front of you, and even if your brain doesn’t know it, your body does.”

You tucked your permed hair behind your ear and it made his stomach drop like he was on a roller coaster. And he was confused about how such a tiny sensation could feel so overwhelming when he heard the bells above the door ring.

The girl approached the counter with big brown eyes and hair that looked a little fried by bleach and perm solution. He did love curls, though.

“I called this morning,” she said, her voice low and sultry. He liked sultry. “Some guy named Keith set aside Footloose for me? Should be under Rebecca Martin, or Becky, maybe.”

Steve smiled and turned on the charm.

Becky wasn’t the hottest thing to moan during sex, but Steve Harrington wasn’t a quitter. He’d just… avoid names in general.

Steve was a gentleman. They’d gone to dinner a few nights prior, and he’d been polite and kissed her at the front door. It had gone well enough to tell Robin about, which was saying something. He liked her sense of humor, she was sweet, and her perfume was so nice that it was practically addicting.

The second date wasn’t as formal. Movie at his place, stealing his parents’ fancy wine out of the cabinet like a high schooler. It started innocently enough that he wasn’t even sure if he should go any further, keep things cool, really see this one through this time.

But, Jesus Christ, did she have other plans. Pretty, pink manicured nails traced along his thigh, dimpling the fabric of his jeans, which were already tight enough. She played coy— eyes on the movie, a satisfied smirk on her lips as her hand paused just below where he wanted it. He squirmed, just slightly, feeling his dick stir with interest. She batted big doe-eyes at him and furrowed her brows in a very practiced manner.

“Something wrong?” She asked, and he could see the amusement in her gaze as her hand wandered up, cupping the bulge that was swelling in the front of his jeans. She sprung into action after he captured her lips in a hungry kiss, making quick work of the button and zipper so she could wiggle her hand beneath his boxers.

Her hand was deliciously soft, and he liked the soft gasp of surprise that escaped her when she took him into her hand and gave a testing stroke. It was dry, and a little uncomfortable until she spat into her hand and started over. It felt good. She felt good.

“Do you wanna go to your room?” Her words were damp against the column of his throat, no doubt leaving pink stains from her lipstick.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah. I want to.”

——

His cheeks were burning as he watched Becky redress, hurriedly tugging her panties up her legs. Her annoyance and disappointment was blatant in her features, and it made his chest ache with mortification.

“That doesn’t—“ He shook his head. That doesn’t usually happen sounded like a stupid excuse, especially considering that his last hookup had ended similarly. This time had been worse. “I don’t know why that happened.”

She shrugged, shimmying into her denim skirt. “It’s whatever, Steve.”

“No, no I mean it,” he said, trying to fight the frown on his lips, trying to seem at least a little… casual about it all. He’d gone down on her until she came apart right on his tongue, then he took his time to get her stretched out and ready for him until she couldn’t take anymore and begged for him.

He wanted to fuck her, he wanted to feel her around him, warm and tight and pliant, blinking prettily up at him while she moaned and gasped. So why wouldn’t his body let him do it?

What the fuck?

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” As soon as he heard the pity in her voice, he nearly wanted to die. “I’m only in town to visit my aunt anyway.”

“This really never happens to me,” he insisted. The look on her face— the subtle mix of disbelief and scorn— made him feel like he was a bug under her shoe.

He didn’t bother redressing more than just tugging on his boxers as she left, and he was grateful she at least let him walk her to the door after the world’s most disastrous hookup attempt.

He groaned in annoyance as he closed the door behind him, running his hands through his mussed-up hair. He was at the phone before he even realized where he was walking, dialing the number through sheer muscle memory.

“Hello?” Your voice crackled along the line, sounding sleepy. What time was it?

“Hey,” Steve said, leaning against the wall where the phone was mounted. He didn’t need to worry about calling directly from his personal line when his parents weren’t home. Besides, he was sweating, smelled like sex, and there was something comfortable about the cool, empty room downstairs. “Am I bothering you?”

“Nuh-uh,” you hummed, and he heard something shuffle on your side of the phone. “Just painting my nails. What’s up? I thought you were busy with Becky tonight?”

His heart thumped uncomfortably and he wished he hadn’t called. “Yeah, uh, she left.”

“Oh,” you replied, and he could picture the look of soft concern you would be wearing. “You sound disappointed. Did it not go well?”

Steve scratched at his chest, the hair there still a bit tacky with sweat. “Permission to overshare?”

You paused. “Hm…” Another beat. “Uh, I guess so. Why not?”

You were quiet as Steve recounted the experience with you, right down to the horrific realization that he couldn’t stay hard and their night had to be cut short. He waited as soon as he explained Becky's departure, waiting for you to laugh or tease him.

“That’s tough, but it happens, Steve,” you said softly. “Maybe your heart wasn’t in it.”

He groaned again, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I don’t care if my heart was in it. I wanted my dick to be in it.” He paused. “That wasn’t on purpose, but you know what I mean. My heart has never been a problem before.”

“Well, stress can impact performance,” you explained. “Especially if you’re psyching yourself out about whether or not you’re going to get off. Permission for me to overshare?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his mussed hair. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Permission granted.”

“Last year when they hired me at The Gap at the mall and made me a manager for no reason, I was so fucking stressed out that I couldn’t get myself off for weeks. Like, I tried everything. You know what finally helped?”

Steve swallowed. Hard. “W-what?”

“I turned off my brain for a few hours. I just let my hands wander a bit, figured out what felt good, and explored that for a while before moving on to the next spot. Eventually, I made myself cum without even realizing what I was doing.” You paused, and he heard a nervous laugh slip past your lips. “Um, that's just, like, a suggestion.”

The mental image was enough to make his cock twitch beneath the thin material of his boxers. He swallowed, trying to block out the images of you; naked, hand between your thighs, writhing in pleasure. His length throbbed again, because despite his best efforts, the image didn’t go away.

“I’m just trying to explain that it’s super common to have issues getting off, and it’s not weird!” You said, the silence clearly making you antsy. “Did that help at all?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Robin would say this is a sign from the universe that I should just be single for a while.”

“Maybe.” You paused. “Give yourself some time, alright? You’ve been through a lot, Steve. Stuff like that is bound to catch up sooner or later.”

You were waiting for him by your next shift, sneaking past Robin to pull him aside. “Did you try it?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“What?” He furrowed his brows until you mimed jerking off and his cheeks fucking burned. “Oh, no. I wasn’t up for it.” He groaned. “I didn’t mean it like that either.”

“I know, I know,” you assured, a pretty smile on your lips. “So, do you think that Becky’s not…”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again, which blows.”

You shrugged. “Screw that. You can find someone way better, alright?” He wanted to roll his eyes as you grabbed his shoulders in your hands, making him look right at you. When he tried to look away, you repeated yourself. “Alright?”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah, alright.” He wriggled out of your grip. “Can you just hand me the returns cart so I can shelve them?” You shrugged and passed him the cart, eager to offload your tasks if he was willing to take them.

He needed a distraction. Because you were wearing a black miniskirt with your dumb family video vest, and a fucking Star Wars shirt he would’ve found dorky if you weren’t perfectly endearing.

You were giggling and smiling, fighting with Robin over a copy of some movie you both were dying to see before the other. He sighed as he shelved a copy of A Christmas Story, wondering why someone would’ve rented that in August.

He got the cart shelved, helped a nice old lady find a Hitchcock movie she’d liked when her late husband showed her, and even reorganized the snack counter before he finally came upon a hitch in his day.

“Steve!” Your voice was barely a whisper, coming from Keith’s office. He looked around at the store, where Robin was sitting unfazed at the main counter, and slipped past the door.

Oh fuck. You were bent over Keith’s desk, legs sprawled awkwardly, tugging hopelessly at where your shirt was caught on a screw pinning it and you to the wall. He couldn’t even fathom how you’d gotten into that position— maybe reaching for something that had fallen behind the bulky desk?

Worst of all, that stupid mini skirt. Bent over the desk, he saw the baby blue cotton of your panties. His mouth went dry. He’d forgotten why he’d walked into the room in the first place.

“Steve! My shirt is stuck on one of the screws,” you explained, squirming slightly with impatience. “I got this when Empire came out, it’s irreplaceable. Just pull the desk out so I can move.”

It took a few seconds for his brain to comprehend what was asked of him. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Easy-peasy.” He grimaced. Why the fuck did he say that?

“Steve, hurry.” He tried not to look back at your ass as he approached the desk, giving it a slight tug so you were no longer pinned. You stumbled a bit before standing and tugging your skirt down, giving him a sheepish smile. “Jesus, that was so stupid. I dropped my time card clocking in from my break. Thanks Steve.”

With the desk pulled out, you grabbed it easily and waved it in front of his face. He gave a weak heh as you patted his shoulder and sauntered back out.

He leaned against the wall, relishing in how cold it was against his weirdly hot body. He wasn’t dumb. He knew you were attractive. He thought you were fucking stunning. But you were his friend, not someone he was trying to fuck around with.

Imagine his surprise when he found himself already half-hard just from barely even a glimpse of your panties when he couldn’t even get it up for the girls he was actually trying to sleep with.

“God fucking damn it,” he muttered, adjusting himself as best as he could before stepping out of the office. As soon as he hit the floor, Robin grabbed his arm and tugged him towards a box of new releases.

“Hey, Stevie, do you mind putting out the pornos? I would but… you know. I don’t really want to.”

Better and better. “Yeah, what would Gloria Steinem think if she knew you saw a VHS sleeve that showed tits?” He raised a brow and took the new box, boasting salacious titles like— Slutty Slumber Party and Cock Fight III.

She pinched his cheek with a grin and patted his back. “You’re the best, Steve.” He rolled his eyes. He knew that already.

You caught up to him before he could pass the privacy curtain that partitioned the triple X section from the rest of the store, peering down into the box.

“Let me help you put these out,” you offered, already scooping up as many titles as you could carry from the box. It was his worst nightmare come to life— an inconvenient boner, his cute friend, and a million sets of tits and dicks everywhere the eye could see.

It was blissfully quiet as he focused intensely on alphabetizing the titles. You helped him do stuff all the time, no need for him to make it weird just because you were shelving movies like Hot Groupie Fuckfest 2.

“Maybe you should sneak one of these home,” you finally said, turning the title in your hand towards him. “It could help.”

“I don’t need tapes to get off,” he insisted, maybe a little too defensively. “I like magazines better anyway. Classier.” He swore internally, realizing he had revealed something extremely private that he hadn’t shared with anyone.

You shrugged and continued shelving. “Magazines are cool,” you replied, rather awkwardly, like you were walking on eggshells. “Very classy.”

“Nothing is wrong with me,” he finally said. His mortification had gotten the best of him and the words just came out. “I’m fine.”

“Okay…” you replied, a furrow between your brows. “I never said you weren’t, Steve. I’m just—“

“Trying to help— I know but…” he groaned, raking a hand through his hair. “Let’s drop it, alright?” You nodded in agreement and he sighed, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The two of you stood there for a moment before you nodded back to the crate. “Okay, we’ve got, like, three dozen more to stock, so let’s just get it done.”

He hated that he’d upset you, or offended you, or made you feel any way towards him other than perfectly happy. But what was he supposed to do? The entire ordeal was utterly humiliating.

And you seemed totally unbothered as you read the back cover of some girl on girl flick, interest in your eyes. Were you into that stuff? Was that what you liked thinking about? Why was he even concerned about what you think about?

You shelved the movie and moved on— grabbing your next pile, one that took you across the room to the shelf of more taboo, kinky stuff. He stared as you got onto your knees, bending over to stock the bottom shelf. And there he was— greeted by another tiny flash of your panties under the fluorescent lights just before you tugged your skirt down.

His cock stirred with interest, toeing the line between half-hard and impossible to ignore. Jesus. Were you doing it on purpose?

“Hm? Doing what?“ you asked, glancing over your shoulder. “Because if you mean stocking the weird shit on the bottom shelf, that’s a yes. No one wants to walk in and be eye-level with Fist Fest II.”

There was something about your smile then— sweet, like you had no idea the torment you were putting him through. He wanted to cry. “I’ll be right back.”

Robin ignored him as he practically darted past her and into the back rooms. He didn’t even bother clocking out for his break before he ducked into the employee’s only bathroom and locked the door behind himself.

He wasn’t an animal. Typically, he had self control. But a week of being unable to get off combined with your obliviousness as to what you were doing to him had him ready to jump out of his skin.

He fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking echoed off of the tile walls as he practically ripped it off. He made quick work of the button and zipper of his fly, practically moaning with relief at the lack of restriction. He spat into his hand before he shoved it into his briefs, crying out in relief before he thought better of it and bit onto his fist to keep quiet.

This, he realized as he grew frustrated with the lack of mobility and pulled his dick out at work, was a new low for him. Teeth cut into the meat of his palm as he fucked his hand in earnest, muffled moans coming out strangled and desperate. There wasn’t time for teasing, for drawing it out like he usually did when he was alone. It felt like his body was a rubber band, stretched and poised to snap.

And, god help him, he was thinking about you. Of you bent over Keith’s desk, legs gangly and awkward, ass in the air, wriggling to try to free yourself before caving and asking him for help. Steve was a gentleman. He only spared one look of shock before averting his eyes. But fantasies didn’t hurt anyone.

Fantasies about you doing it on purpose— arching your back and wiggling your hips invitingly because you wanted him to see you like that. In another world, where you wanted him and he wanted you, he would’ve relished in that scenario. Of you teasing and entrapping him in some game of cat and mouse. Of fucking you over the stupid squeaky desk and covering your mouth so Robin didn’t hear. Biting into your shoulder to keep himself quiet.

He came thinking about you, a guttural, desperate moan cutting into the air despite his best efforts to stay quiet. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed a release until he was coming down, his hand sticky and warm, cum painting the tile in front of him.

“Jesus fucking— goddamn it.” His voice wavered, most of his energy sapped. He felt pathetic as he stuffed his softening length back in his briefs and tugged his pants up, wincing at the sensitivity. And he felt even more pathetic as he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser and cleaned up his spend from the bathroom wall at his fucking workplace.

A sudden loud knock sounded on the door, nearly making him yelp. “Are you okay in there, dingus?” Robin asked, her genuine concern masked by the sarcasm that dripped from her tone. “You ran past like you needed to shit, or something, so I wanted to check.”

He sunk onto the gross bathroom floor and banged his head against the wall. Dying, he decided, would have been less painful than whatever this was.

It had been days, and he had yet to cum unless you were at the top of mind. It had to be a coincidence, like he’d Pavlov-ed himself into only getting hard if he thought about you.

No. That wasn’t exactly true. He could get hard, he just couldn’t cum unless he thought about you. There was a big difference, and it meant he wasn’t totally broken after all. It meant he could fix it.

The most inconvenient thing about it was the fact that he had to jerk off before any shifts with you or he’d have to repeat that first bathroom session, which was something he really, really wanted to leave in the past.

There was a possibility that there was something to the situation at hand— that the reason for his body’s reaction to you was beyond just physical. But that was dumb, and every time that tiny voice in his brain told him to consider it, Steve just shook it off.

His phone rang at his bedside and he sighed, tossing the book he’d been trying to read for the past hour with no avail.

“Yeah?” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He really needed some glasses, huh?

“Hey, Steve, it’s me.” Your voice was like music over the phone, and he sat up quickly, like you were there to witness his lazy, slouchy morning. “I was just calling to ask if you could cover my shift this afternoon. I know it’s a big ask since it’s so last minute, but I can totally pay you back double sometime.”

He scratched the back of his neck. Fucking Keith was on the schedule tonight, and they hated each other. Then again, it wasn’t like he had any plans. He couldn't risk another failed hookup, or word might get around that he was a limp dick loser. “Mhmm. Shouldn’t be too bad,” he lied.

You sighed with relief on the other end. “You’re a lifesaver, Steve. I thought I was gonna have to cancel my date.”

His heart stuttered for a few moments before he recovered and tried to act casual about it. “Date? I didn’t even know you were…” He trailed off, unsure of how to even finish that sentence. His voice was higher than usual, so he cleared his throat to brush it off.

You laughed. “Yeah, I know it’s been a while. I figured I should stop waiting around for something to fall into my lap and just put myself out there, or something. You know, just… casually, nothing too serious.”

Oh. He didn’t have the right to feel disappointed, and yet… He wanted to tell you not to go, to stay home like normal, and keep things like they were already. He didn’t want to imagine you with some random Hawkins asshole right now, especially when he couldn’t think of a single person in city limits who might be worthy of your time.

It was crazy. He’d set you up on plenty of dates and coached you through even more. He didn’t have any reason to feel weird about it now.

“Steve? Did I lose you?” You asked softly. “I know you’re still dealing with… you know, everything. I don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want me to. God, hearing you talk about getting laid while I was having a dry spell used to make me want to rip my hair out.”

“It’s fine,” he insisted. “Go have a good date, and don’t let him have all the fun, alright?”

You laughed, and he could picture you wrinkling your nose the way you always did when he said something dumb. “I would never. Thanks again, Steve.”

You were giddy at work the next morning, a pretty glow about you, an unusual chipper attitude that you shared with every single guest. You weren’t even being particularly snarky with him or Robin.

“Good night?” He asked, despite not really wanting to know. God, it was like there were two halves of himself constantly working against the other.

You smiled brightly, and he almost winced. “It was so good. I think you know him— Andy from Varsity baseball in ‘84. He graduated a year earlier than us and goes to Purdue. He’s living at home while he’s doing an internship for some financial firm.”

“What happened to just being casual?” Steve asked, brows furrowing as he looked at you.

You laughed in lieu of a response and grabbed the box of merchandise for the latest new releases. He stood there dumbly until Keith knocked into his shoulder.

“Back to work, Harrington,” he said in that stupid, asshole voice of his. “These returns aren’t going to shelve themselves.”

——

“You’re glowering.” Robin whispered into his ear a few days later, so close it made him jump out of his frustrated stupor and back into reality.

“I’m not, I'm just focused,” he insisted, even though his eyes were burning holes into the back of Andy’s head. He hit stop on the tape he had successfully rewound and put it back into the case, then back into the cart for shelving.

It was the sort of monotonous task that gave him time to ruminate. And to glower.

Why was Andy even there? Just to distract you from work and charm his way into your pants? Again? You’d been shelving the same tape of The Outsiders for twenty minutes, at least.

God, he sounded like Keith. Wasn’t that terrifying?

“Do you remember him from high school?” Steve finally asked, sparing a glance back at Robin. She shrugged, and he whipped his gaze back to the two of you. His hand was on your hip, dangerously close to grabbing your ass. Classless, asshole college guy. “Yeah, I figured. He graduated in ‘84. Third baseman.”

Robin snorted. “I bet.”

“Cute. Very charming, Robin,” Steve sighed, shaking his head. He stopped the tape and slipped the cover back on. “Whatever. He just doesn’t seem her type, that’s all.”

Robin rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand before he could reach for the next tape. “Steve. Andy is exactly her type. Sweet guy, athletic, charming…” She raised her brows, like she was trying to make a point. But to Steve, the only point she seemed to be making was that Andy was the total package and he was a loser.

“I’m not glowering,” he repeated, if only to prove it to himself. “I’m just trying to finish up the rewinds since we’re down an employee.” He gave a lazy gesture towards the front of the store, where you and Andy were making eyes at each other.

Not jealous. Not jealous at all. Just… sexually frustrated. That was an easy fix.

His Rolodex was filled with girls who he’d fooled around with. When he got home, he flipped through the remaining names, each eliciting vague memories.

Deanna was hot… she had a weird laugh though. Not like you. Your laugh was a nice, warm sound. He liked your laugh more than anything. As a friend. Of course.

Maybe Kelly? She was sweet, pretty. Not as pretty as you were, obviously, but who was?

He tried calling a few, but most of them wanted nothing to do with a guy who’d forgotten to call for a few months. After his third rejection, he gave up entirely. He didn’t really have it in him to lead another girl on, anyway.

Maybe there was something there he should acknowledge. That itching, stirring feeling of want that had started to fester months ago. Gnawing at the edges of each interaction he had with you. Maybe it had always been there and his dumb body was making him do something about it, just like you’d said.

He was in a mood for the next week. He hadn’t felt this pent up since after graduation, when he had to wear a sailor uniform and perform a public humiliation ritual for minimum wage.

You sidled up to him at the register at closing, where he was getting a sick sort of satisfaction in checking on all of the late charges about to hit the overdue rentals.

You were dressed like you were going to go on a date later— with one of your favorite tops and that goddamn mini skirt. Even worse, you were smiling a pretty smile like you wanted something, which made the itch of irritation claw at his tongue. “I’m not taking another one of your shifts so that you can go out with Andy,” he said sternly, with a narrowed glance at you.

Your brows raised and you gave him a look that told him he was being an asshole, which he already knew. “Okay, one, I wasn’t going to ask you to take one of my shifts, and two, who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

He just huffed. “Sorry, long day.” Long month. “I’m being a dick.”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, you are… but I forgive you.” You brushed your hair back and leaned imperceptibly closer. It probably wasn’t on purpose, but your arm pushed against his and you were so warm, and you smelled like the Avon perfume your mom always bought you. ”Let’s hang out tonight. I feel like I only ever see you at work lately. I’ll rent us a movie, grab some dinner on the way… it’ll be just like old times.”

The realistic part of his brain told him it was a bad idea. He’d been plagued with graphic, explicit images of you playing in his head at the worst of times. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself to be normal about hanging out at your place.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. It would be the thousandth time he’d been over, but the odds of him getting an inconvenient, persistent boner around you were frustratingly high.

But his alternative was going home to sulk alone and sink deeper into his funk, so he nodded. “Yeah, sounds fun.” It would be fine. He could persevere.

——

Your basement had always been his favorite place to hang out. Unlike his own parents who wanted input into every facet of his young life, your parents let you do whatever the hell you wanted to the space, as long as they could store their treadmill and your mom’s Tupperware stock.

It was lit with old Christmas lights and covered in tchotchkes that you had found in garage sales. Old quilts, your grandma’s macrame, needlepoint throw pillows. It was like an estate sale had crawled inside to die, and he loved it.

The couch had an uncomfortable spring that always dug into his thighs, you picked a really dumb movie, and you had slightly burned the popcorn on the stove, but he couldn’t complain. Maybe he did need this.

”So… are you still seeing Andy?” He asked when the movie hit a lull. It wasn’t that he wasn’t paying attention, it was just hard to focus.

You laughed, shaking your head. You were sprawled across the ugly floral couch, legs in his lap, curled up facing the TV. “Ew, no,” you said with an eye roll. “He was fun at first, but I was just kind of using him, you know?”

Did he know? Probably not, but he nodded like he understood anyway. He took another handful of the mildly-burnt popcorn and watched you out of his periphery (which was, admittedly, not what it used to be).

He tried to focus on the movie some more, but it was you that broke the silence next. You shifted your legs a bit to get comfortable before he felt your gaze on him. “So, how’s your problem?” You asked.

His cheeks felt hot, like his entire head had been shoved under the heat lamp in Dustin’s turtle’s tank. “Oh,“ he cleared his throat. “Fine, I guess. I don’t know, actually. I haven’t been on any dates since Becky, so…”

“Really? Why not?” You asked, brows knit.

His expression was incredulous. Why not? Oh, nothing too bad— just that I can’t get hard lately unless I’m fantasizing about you. “Why do you think? This is totally reputation killing stuff here. I’ll be lucky if the entire female population of Hawkins doesn’t think my dick doesn’t work.”

You shifted closer, but your legs were still heavy in his lap, which he was growing increasingly conscious of. “What about when you’re alone?”

His heart started to hammer as thoughts flooded his brain of the session he’d had in the shower that morning, which had been, in part, fueled by a quick perusal of his photo album from last summer and the handful of pictures of you in a remarkably high cut swimsuit.

“Uh…” His voice was higher than usual, and he tried to bring it back down to Earth before continuing. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, glancing only briefly at your lips before forcing himself to look back up at your eyes. “Normal. It’s normal.”

“So, if that's normal, what do you think about when you’re alone?”

His throat feels tight as he tries to think of something to say other than you, you, you, you. You in your stupid granny pajamas, you in the backseat of his car, you bending over to shelve DVDs… you had burrowed into his mind and totally corrupted it. He squints, like he’s considering anything else. “Um… normal things. Just… normal stuff, you know?”

You sighed out a soft huh, and there was something in your gaze that made his stomach flip. It was an expression he’d never seen you wear so plainly, especially not towards him. Pure, hungry desire, so obvious that he had to have been imagining it. “Steve,” you whispered.

He closed his eyes, swallowing. “Mhmm? Yeah?”

“You’re hard right now.”

He glanced down as you shifted your legs again and had to swallow a pathetic moan at the tiniest amount of friction. And, well, he was obviously, undeniably hard in his jeans.

“Oh, that’s just… y’know, from me remembering all of the totally normal stuff that I—“

The rest of his lame excuse was swallowed by the warm press of your lips against his. Lapped away as your tongue slipped into his mouth and took every rational thought away with it. It was slow and sweet, like you were trying your best to savor every second of it. Jesus, had you always been that good of a kisser?

When you pulled back, with spit-glossed lips and met his gaze, he felt so turned on that his head started to swim. He couldn’t find words for how he was feeling, for how he’d been feeling, so he offered a meager, “You’re really good at that.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, and his heart did that thing again, which felt more embarrassing than the obvious bulge straining in his Levi's. For once, his body’s ability (or lack thereof) to function was the least of his worries.

“I don’t know how much more obvious I can possibly make it,” you said softly. “I’m really into you.”

His brows furrowed. For a second, he thought he might have slipped in the shower, died, and woken up in a very forgiving afterlife. “What? Since when?”

You swallowed and chewed your lip sheepishly for a moment. “Um, on and off since I’ve known you, but, like, very much on since graduation.”

It was like a fog had lifted over his memories. The lingering touches and flirty eyes across the rooms. The late nights on the phone, where it felt like talking to Steve was the only place you wanted to be. And, frankly, it had been all he wanted to do too.

Maybe he had been a total idiot this whole time. A dense, oblivious dumb ass who had been ignoring his dream girl because she was one of his best friends first.

Then his brows knit deeper, forming two parallel furrows between your brows. “But you were just dating Andy.”

You groaned and rolled your eyes. “I was trying to make you jealous, which obviously worked since Robin told me that she caught you pouting.”

Robin. “I didn’t pout,” he insisted, but he knew that lying was futile. He had just… glared in Andy’s general direction. “Okay, fine. If that was on purpose, I’m guessing your panty flashing was too.”

That seemed to make you pause. Your head tilted, brows furrowing. “I’m sorry, my what?”

He blanched, embarrassed. “You know, the time you wore this same skirt, and you got stuck on Keith’s desk. You were messing with me, obviously.”

He could see the gears turning in your mind as you thought back to when you’d gotten stuck on the desk. As soon as the grin split across your features, he wanted to melt right into the shitty couch cushions and die next to the fucked-up spring. “You think I’d risk my Empire shirt just to turn you on?” You questioned, frankly offended at the insinuation. When his face went pink with embarrassment, you looked positively giddy. “Oh my god, Harrington you perv—“

He had you pinned on your back before you could fully form the insult, planting kisses to your neck. “You’re so evil,” he mumbled into your throat, lips grazing, soft and wet against your fluttering pulse. Each kiss made you squirm beneath him, which wasn’t doing much to help him cool down. “You’ve been driving me crazy, like you’ve got some sort of witchy spell on me.”

You giggled, and the sound went straight into the warm, gooey center of himself. “Did it turn you on?” You gasped softly. He groaned as you hooked one of your legs around his thigh and pulled him closer against you, so he was grinding directly against your core.

Did it turn him on? It had led to one of the most humiliating moments of his life, of which there had been many. It was embarrassing, but the sound of your laughter was like a drug to him, so he’d throw himself into the fire for your amusement. “It turned me on so much that I had to jerk off in the employee bathrooms,” he mumbled against your throat.

That was a dumb thing to admit. A dumb, gross, creepy thing to tell one of your best friends. Your oldest friend! Stupid, stupid Steve—

“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” you said finally. One of your hands came up and he shivered as he felt your nails combing through his hair. “But you could have just told me, dummy. We could’ve run out to my car so I could take care of it for you.”

Just the thought made his hips buck against yours, seeking sweet, sweet friction between your thighs. “Don’t say things like that,” he groaned. “If you talk like that it’ll fucking kill me, I swear.”

He pulled back, just to see the sharp, wet glint of your teeth as you smiled up at him. You drove him crazy. Before, it was just in the normal ways, like when you made him give you a ride into the city and didn’t give him gas money, or when you drank too much at a party and puked on his new sneakers.

This was new. He felt stricken by some new form of hysteria, where something as tiny as the smallest twitch in your brows made him feel overcome with intense need. Jesus, he’d never been so pent up in his life. He felt the soft pressure of your leg tugging him close again, then the slow roll of your hips against his.

"Fuck," he panted. It was embarrassing, frankly, how gone he already was. He leaned down, capturing your lips with his again, and relished in the slow drag of your tongue against his.

He'd never loved a kiss so much in his life. With you beneath him, grinding up against him and moaning against his lips. The way your tongue felt tangling with his. He got too lost in it— in the kiss, in your bodies pressing together. After a while, the kissing got lost and it was just the two of you, panting into each others mouths as you slowly ground against each other.

You pulled back first— lips kiss-swollen and slick. It took everything in him not to kiss you again.

“So…” You murmured, peering up at him. When you bit your lip sheepishly, he wanted to bury his face in your throat and groan. He watched, hypnotized, as your tongue slipped out and wet your lips. “Everything definitely feels like it's working like normal.”

He nearly whined as your other hand moved down and palmed him through his jeans. Your fingers pressed against his button, working it undone. He groaned as your hand wriggled past his waistband to grope him through his briefs.

It all felt so good, too good. Your thumb brushed over the damp fabric clinging to his weeping tip and he swore he saw stars. "Ah, just… just wait—" He choked out.

You froze, brow quirked. He could feel his cock twitching in your palm, and tried to think about horrible, disgusting things to keep from coming too soon. Demodogs, Russian torture, Tommy Hagan's gym locker, mopping random kids' puke off of the Scoops Ahoy tile. "What? Is it happening again?"

"No, no, the opposite," he panted. His eyes squeezed shut and he tried to control himself as best as he could, given the circumstances. You showed him a little bit of mercy and slipped you hand free, which he was immensely grateful for.

"So I beat the curse, huh?" You asked with a coy smile. "Becky Martin and Katie Frey can totally suck it."

Steve laughed, despite everything. "Jesus, you are the curse," he said, meeting your gaze. "For the past month, I could only get off if I was thinking about you." He swallowed, feeling vulnerable with you looking up at him. "Like I said… witchy spell."

He sat back as you pushed at his shoulders, encouraging him to sit back against the cushions. His eyes widened as you shifted into his lap, the weight of you warm and comfortable there. When he glanced down at where you sat on his lap, where your skirt rode up your thighs, he got a head rush. "You know…" You trailed off, looping your arms around his neck. "Usually, I'd never sleep with a guy who said I'm a curse."

He groaned as you tugged at the hair at the base of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back and expose his throat. He laughed weakly, eyes half lidded as he looked at you. "Usually," he echoed.

You nodded and leaned closer, so he could feel the warm buzz of your proximity. Like every cell in his body was vibrating with the desire to just press against you. "Well, someone needs to fix that attitude of yours. You've been really bitchy for the past few weeks." He scoffed at your words, but couldn't fight the smile on his lips.

You sat back on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his torso. He hummed contentedly as your fingers combed through his chest hair, just exploring the newly exposed skin.

Your hands trailed down, following the trail of dark hair on his tummy that disappeared into his briefs. He swallowed hard as you wrapped your hand around his cock, warm and tight. He wanted to see though. He wanted to look at the way your manicured hand fit around him, so he tugged his pants down and moaned at the sight.

"You must really want this," you murmured, lips twitching up in what he could only recognize as pure triumph. "You're dripping." The pad of your thumb swept over his tip, gathering slick precum to make the glide of your hand smooth.

It didn't take much. Actually, it took a mortifyingly small amount of attention. Your hand just felt so good wrapped around him, and it was the very thing he'd been fantasizing about for the past month. You, in his lap, with your hand around his pulsing cock and your lips on his throat. It couldn't have been more than three pumps of your hand, not even enough time to get a good rhythm, and he was crying out with pretty moans and shooting thick ropes of cum all over his abdomen.

His chest was heaving like he'd just run a marathon as you worked him through it. "Fuck," he panted. "Nngh— You've gotta— Ah, fuck— 's too much." You relented, like a benevolent god, and released him from your grip, so his dick twitched and softened against his stomach.

"Is that how you sounded when you faked it for Katie?" You teased.

"Oh, fuck off," he panted, a smile splitting his features.

When his mind cleared enough to have a little bit of shame, he realized how embarrassing it was that he'd finished so fast. Maybe you were into him for other things, but he didn't want to risk losing you now. So as he hastily tugged his pants back up, he stumbled through an explanation. "I'm not usually, like… I mean… I do have stamina, typically."

"I actually think it's really sweet, Steve. It's like a compliment." He was going to argue more, then you licked the cum from your fingers to clean it up and he nearly blacked out at the sight. He couldn't wait a second more, he had to have his hands on you.

"Alright, your turn," he said, and before you could say anything, he had you pinned beneath him on the couch again. He worked the buttons of your shirt quickly, until it fell open at your sides. He sat up, just to take in the sight.

"You're so goddamn pretty," he practically groaned. With your shirt undone, he relished in the sight of your tits cupped by white lace. "I don't even wanna take it off."

"Steve," you gasped as his mouth moved down your throat and sternum, until he was planting wet, hot kisses onto the plush of your breasts. He moaned against your chest, propping himself with one arm so he could grope at your tit with his free hand. You keened, arching into the attention, and he relished in your neediness. "I think you should take it off."

Your wish was his command. Not that it was such a difficult ask. He made quick work of the clasp and let you shrug it off and onto the floor. He sat back and really had to fight the urge to whistle at the sight. "Goddamn," he murmured, letting his hands roam up your body and cup your breasts.

You rolled your eyes, but he could see the tiniest bit of bashfulness in your eyes. In the back of his mind, it was kind of weird. Not bad weird, just… different. You were the person he went with to the hair salon and watched the Bulls with. It felt odd to have you pinned beneath him, moaning softly as he squeezed the plush of your tits and teased your nipples.

To your credit, you let him take his time. You let his hands wander and explore at his own pace. Your breath hitched as his hands dipped lower, until he was hiking up the fabric of your mini skirt to reveal your panties. Baby blue.

"Oh, fuck you," he groaned, meeting your gaze. "It was on purpose, you liar."

You grinned, and the smug expression you wore made him feel like his chest was going to implode. "I don't know what you're talking about, Steve. Do you really think I'd play mind games to torment you when you're pent up and needy?"

Yes, actually. He huffed and shifted down your body. He felt right at home with your thighs bracketing his head. He pressed a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh.

The pastel of your panties betrayed just how affected you were, much to his amusement. He ran a thumb over the damp patch at your center and felt your thighs tense on either side of him. "You must really want this," he said with a grin, echoing your previous teasing.

"Jesus, of course I do," you said, breath shuddering as he thumbed at your clit through the sodden fabric. "You're, like, my dream guy, and you're about to go down on me."

Your dream guy. Steve's pulse thrummed as he took it in. You were incredible, way too good for a Hawkins loser who spent his shifts renting video tapes. To be fair, you were also spending your days shelving video tapes, but he always felt like that was a brief stop in your life that you'd move on from.

But if you thought he was good enough to be your dream guy, maybe there was something worthwhile left in him after all.

He kissed your clit through your panties almost reverently. His tongue laved over the fabric and he groaned at the taste of you saturating the cotton. God, you were like heaven. He could have stayed like that for hours— just tasting you through your panties. Each lap over your center just soaking the fabric more, until it clung to the shape of your lips like a second skin.

It wasn't enough though, and he was too lost in his desire to be particularly patient. He wanted his tongue on you, in you, licking up every drop of your juices until he made you spill more onto his tongue. He sat up and tugged your panties down, then quickly repositioned himself between your legs with your thighs over his shoulders.

Steve's tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the sight of your pussy. Slick with arousal, twitching with anticipation. He ran his thumb up the seam of you, spreading you open. He relished in the cute twitch of your clit as blew a puff of cool air over your heated, sensitive skin.

"You're really pretty," he murmured. "So wet for me. And so goddamn responsive." He grinned up at you from between your thighs, relishing in the way your tits heaved with each shuddery breath.

His tongue lapped at your center, tasting just how badly you've wanted him. You writhed beneath him, thighs tensing to clamp around his head before he finally just held them apart. He started to taste you in earnest then, lapping up your juices, stroking the bud of your clit with the flat of his tongue.

You tasted so good, practically gushing onto his tongue as he feasted on you. His tongue pressed against your entrance, just barely dipping in so he could feel the way you clenched around the intrusion.

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. Your hips bucked, practically grinding against his mouth. He moaned against you, nuzzling his nose against your clit. "That's— ah, fuck— that's really good."

He smiled against your pussy, giving a few more slow, wet kisses before he sat up. In the dim light of the basement, you could see where his face was slick and shiny with your spit and juices. "Gonna stretch you out a little for me, okay?"

You nodded, propping yourself on your elbows to see him better. He pressed another sweet kiss to your clit before he eased his middle finger into you. If he hadn't already fully recovered from his first orgasm, just the feeling of your walls clenching around his finger would have done it for him.

It took a minute for him to learn your body. Where to touch, what spots inside made your legs shake. You took two fingers easily, squirming as he pressed his fingers against a sensitive, spongy spot. Your eyes rolled back and his head thumped against the arm of the sofa, which made him grin.

"Right there, huh?" He teased. He applied a little more pressure and felt you gush around his fingers. Yeah, right there. He wrapped his lips around your your sensitive clit and sucked until your thighs trembled on either side of him.

"Steve!" You gasped, back arching. Your voice was high and breathy, he'd never heard you so desperate before. He knew you were close— he could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his fingers. "Oh, fuck. Jesus christ, like that— Just like that—"

When you finally came around his fingers and on his tongue, he had never heard such a perfect sound before. Soft, keening moans and pretty cries of his name. Your clit twitched against his tongue, and when your sweet moans finally turned into overstimulated whimpers, he relented.

You panted, chest heaving breathlessly as you came down from your high. You propped yourself up on your elbows and giggled as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Holy shit," you gasped.

He grinned, crawling up your body to plant a slow, sweet kiss on your lips. He could feel you smiling into the kiss, until his teeth knocked with yours and he had to pull back with a sheepish laugh. "Think you can give me another one?"

You raised a brow. "I can, but do you think you can?"

He laughed. Jesus, he'd been hard since he'd gotten his hands on your tits. "I definitely can."

Your gaze was on him as he stripped the rest of his clothes off— kicking his socks, jeans and briefs into a messy pile on the floor. For the first time in a long string of hookups, Steve Harrington felt self-conscious under your scrutiny.

"You're staring," he said weakly, feeling heat flood his cheeks. Usually, the second he was undressed he had a partner ready to jump his bones, but you just took in the sight of him.

"Only because you're really hot. You're forgetting that this is the culmination of every teenage fantasy I've ever had," you finally said, shifting to sit up. He hummed contentedly as you ran your hands up his chest then traced over his broad shoulders

"How did this next part go in those fantasies, huh?" He asked.

With a tiny grin, you pushed him back onto the couch, which creaked under his weight. "Well, usually," you began, straddling his hips. "They start like this."

Oh. Steve swallowed, peering up at you with wide eyes. Your hands splayed over his chest, fingers dimpling the muscle of his pecs. He groaned as you gave a slow rock of your hips, gliding your cunt along his length.

You were so wet and warm on top of him, and the precum dribbling from his tip only added to the sticky mess. All he could do was watch, totally slack-jawed as you ground your hips against his.

Well, he could also reach up and play with your tits. So he did. His heart thrummed at the soft and pretty sound that fell past your lips as he tugged and pinched your nipples.

You didn't wait any longer, not that he would have made you. There was something so sexy about the way you took control— taking his cock in your hand so you could line him up with your entrance and begin to slowly sink onto him. His hands quickly moved down to your hips, squeezing tight as you took inch after inch.

Jesus, you were taking it like a champ. With your head tossed back and your pussy clenching around his cock, he knew you really fucking loved it. He wanted you to love every bit of it.

"That's it," Steve goaded, the tiniest hint of a smirk on his lips. "Just a little more, honey. You've got it."

You moaned, lips parted as you sunk down. Warm, wet, tight until you were fully seated. A furrow formed between your brows as you stilled, accommodating to the size of him. "Fuck," you breathed, fingers tensing on his chest.

He wanted to squirm, to buck his hips deeper, to force you to finally move. But he could behave, he could let you have this. You gave a slow roll of your hips and he groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. "You doing okay?"

A cocky smile broke across your lips, and when you laughed he felt your walls squeeze around him. "I'm doing great," you said, punctuation your words with another slow grind. "I'm just trying to make sure you can last long enough to enjoy it."

His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and arousal, the smirk faded into mild offense. "Don't be cute. I'm fine."

"Yeah?" You began to move faster, your thighs colliding with his with each bounce onto him. You took him as deep as you could, then rose up until he was just about to slip out of you, only to slam back down. In, out, in, out, in, out. "Is this what you've been thinking about every time you jerked off?"

Had he thought of this? And then some. Steve had learned that he could be very creative when he needed to be. "Something like it," He managed, eyes squeezing shut as you gave a particularly sinful swivel of your hips.

He groaned, head falling back, neck bared as you rode him within an inch of his life. At least, that's what it felt like. Pretty moans and soft ah, ah, ahs slipped past your lips like his cock was punching them out of you. He moved his hands, grabbing your ass like he had any semblance of control over what you were doing to him.

Who the fuck taught you to ride dick like this? And should he thank them or murder them?

"Fuck, Steve," you panted. "Should've known you'd feel this good. No wonder you have a fucking harem around you."

He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about another girl ever again. In one steady motion, he had you pinned to the couch. From beneath him, he relished in the way your eyes went wide with surprise. He didn't just feel good, he was good. He wanted you to know how good he was for you, how good he could make you feel.

"You feel goddamn perfect," he groaned. As soon as the compliment passed his lips, he felt you squeeze around him, pussy fluttering as he drove into you again and again. "So wet and tight, so pretty. Can't believe I've wasted my time when you've been right here."

Steve moved his mouth to your throat, licking and sucking and biting at all of the soft skin there. He wanted to leave a mark. He wanted Andy to show up to Family Video the next day so he could beg for a second chance, only to see you'd already moved on.

But he couldn't focus too much on vindictive pettiness when you were so beautiful beneath him, with your eyes wide and full of so much want. Had he ever felt so wanted before? So needed? Your legs wrapped around him, heels digging in to drive him deeper.

His thrusts slowed, until he was buried deep inside of you and grinding nice and slow, rubbing against the soft, sensitive spots inside of you that made you drip around his cock.

It was then that he pulled back, meeting your gaze as he ground into you. Your eyes fluttered, rolling until he saw the whites of them. "Jesus Christ," you gasped. "Fuck, Steve, just like that. Feels s'good."

He grinned, preening at your praise. He propped himself up on one arm, then snaked the other between your bodies, so he could rub at your clit. The second his thumb rubbed over the slick bundle of nerves, your walls squeezed around him so tight he could hardly move.

You cried out prettily, nails cutting into the meat of his back. "Just a little more, yeah?" He cooed. He moved his thumb a little faster, feeling the way your clit twitched against the pressure.

"Fuck—" You gasped. "Steve, god, don't stop, please—"

He could feel that the band was going to snap. Your gasping breaths and whiny moans were as much of an indicator as the fluttery way your walls clamped down on him.

Steve wasn't much better off. He could sense his impending orgasm like the buzz of lightning about to strike. A tightly wound spring, a dam about to burst. But, god, he wanted to feel you cum first. "C'mon, I've got you, sweetheart. Just give it to me."

It was a goddamn miracle that you came when you did— crying out nice and pretty as you clenched around him like a vise. The sound of his name falling from your lips, with your body enveloping him like you were made to… it was everything he'd been craving for the past month. Probably longer, if he was honest with himself.

He barely managed to work you through your orgasm before it all became too much. He pulled out and spilled onto your tummy with a guttural moan.

"Fuck," he panted, collapsing onto you. He should have been disgusted about the warm slickness of his cum sandwiched between your bodies, but he was so sated that he couldn't bring himself to care. "Was it okay for you?"

Steve propped himself up on his elbow so he could look at you. God, you were pretty. You'd always been pretty, but right now you looked so perfect.

You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, it was great," you replied. "Really great, actually. I guess it was okay for you too, considering I'm glazed with your cum right now."

He laughed sheepishly and rolled his eyes. "Shut up."

The two of you dressed in comfortable silence, mopping yourselves clean of fluids and sweat with a few towels sitting on top of the washing machine… that promptly went right back in for another clean.

You hopped on top of the machine when it was running, peering over at where Steve stood. "Penny for your thoughts?" You asked. He glanced over and his heart thrummed. Even in shitty lounge wear with your hair pulled back in a banana clip, you looked like a supermodel.

"Just thinking about work tomorrow," he confessed. Your brows knit in confusion as you looked at him. Work? Now? "I don't know how we're going to share a shift without me going absolutely crazy and wanting to get my hands on you. Especially now that I know that I can."

You grinned, and Jesus, he wanted to just jump your bones again. "Well, it's just you and me on the schedule tomorrow," you reminded him. "Maybe we close at lunch so you can help me with restocks? Just to make sure your problem is completely solved. I don't want you relapsing."

He knew there wasn't a chance in hell that he'd ever have a problem getting hard again. Not with you around, looking like the finest goddamn thing to ever set foot in Hawkins, Indiana. "Might as well," he said. "Just to be sure."

thank you so much for reading! i can't believe this has been in the works since 2023 and i FINALLY found the motivation to finish it!! i really hope you enjoyed, i had so much fun with this plotline :) let me know what you think!!

[sweartochangetheworld]

Casual.

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Reader

Word count: 16.7k

Summary: You and Eddie had been best friends since the start of your high school career. When suddenly one night he asks you to be casual, friends with benefits. How could you say no when the man you love is offering you to be with him? Even if it’s temporary.

Warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no use of y/n, reader is AFAB, vague descriptions of reader, reader and eddie are bestfriends, friends with benefits, tons of yearning, eddie being toxic (briefly), jealousy, drinking alcohol, smoking pot, smut, pussy eating, brief dirty talk, unprotected p in v, reader on birth control(not mentioned though) happy ending.

Authors note: So honestly, I’m just obsessed. Listening to Casual by Chappel Roan had me wanting an Eddie one shot. This is my first one shot. (I’m a multi-chapter type of person) Also, formatting is alittle weird cause tumblr wouldn’t let me use as many lines as I needed when posting.

—————-

Your fingers tightened around his knotted curls, feeling the sweat and heat radiate off of his scalp. The new mixtape he made and wanted to show you, was long forgotten, getting drowned out by lewd noises.

A moan or maybe a scream caught in your throat as his head was deep between your legs, his tongue exploring every intimate inch with a skill that left you breathless and almost begging for more. Each stroke was deliberate, designed just to drive you closer and closer to your orgasm. The noises you were making had him smiling and almost laughing into you.

One hand gripped your hips, holding you firmly in place as if he knew exactly what you needed, his fingers digging into your plush flesh with a possessive urgency. The other hand? Both middle and ring finger deep inside, making your toes curl behind his head. The world around you dissolved, leaving only the sensation of his mouth and the sound of your own ragged breathing.

You could feel the pressure building. That rubber band stretched so thin, it was only a matter of seconds before it snapped. Your body arched against him. The room spun with a dizzying intensity, and you were on the brink, teetering on the edge of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

—————-

“Hellooooo.”

Gareth’s hand drifted into your line of sight, fingers wagging dramatically, dragging you back to reality like someone yanking open a blackout curtain at high noon.

“Earth to—”

“What do you want?” You cut him off, a little sharper than you meant to, blinking hard as the cafeteria snapped back into focus. Plastic chairs, the smell of fried potatoes, the hum of a hundred conversation. Not the close quarters of his dingy Chevy van.

Gareth raised his brows but didn’t flinch. “I asked if I could have your fries. You’re not eating them anyway. Why let them go to waste?”

“Oh.” You felt heat creep up your neck. Embarrassment making itself known. “Yeah. Sorry. I spaced out. Sure. Have them.”

You nudged your tray toward him, letting it scrape across the table until it settled in front of his hoodie-clad chest. He shot you a quick, grateful grin before shoving a handful of fries into his mouth like he’d been dying of starvation.

You tried to let the noise of the cafeteria sweep you back into the present. The metallic clang of trays, the squeak of sneakers and chair legs on linoleum, bursts of laughter bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It was so loud sometimes. So overwhelming.

To your right, the freshmen discussed loudly about their girlfriends and what plans they had for spring break, like any of them were actually gonna do more than the typical D&D one shot in Mike's basement or go to the arcade.

To your left, the upperclassmen were half-shouting over each other about their late-night gigs, already basking in the imagined glow of being past curfew and untouchable.

“Oh! And don’t forget! Tomorrow we have that bonfire party at Lover’s Lake. So, that’ll be fun too.”

Your head gave a dull, traitorous throb, and you pushed your chair back with a sigh, slinging your backpack over one shoulder as you stood.

“Hey! Where you going?” Gareth called out through a mouthful of fries, watching you weave between tables like he expected you to sit back down.

“I forgot I had a test today,” you lied without hesitation. “Gonna cram a little. Library.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t want one.

You hit the hallway and the silence swallowed you whole. Lockers stretched in both directions, the overhead lights humming quietly, and you finally let the truth you’d been dodging crawl up your spine.

The guy who sat at the head of the table, the one running the show with his loud voice and louder laugh, He’s the one you called your best friend.

Or at least, you used to.

You wanted to call him something more. But lately you weren’t even sure you could even claim best friend anymore.

He was like whiplash. One day, things are normal. You’re in his van, windows down, screaming along to music. Making a pit stop at the convenient store for slurpees and snacks before you start to bullshit the day away together. Whether it’s watching movies, playing guitar, finding local music shows to see, going out to the roller rink—which he definitely hates but still does just for you.

Then the next he’s distant, you touch his shoulder and he shrugs you off. Makes plans with your friends right in front of you and doesn’t think to invite you along, keeps things short. He’s not necessarily cruel about it, but it still makes your heart feel like it’s in pieces around your feet.

Until suddenly, he’s banging on your door while your parents are at work. As soon as you open it, his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you. So aggressively that you would’ve definitely fallen back, had he not been holding you upright.

You brought that on yourself. You knew that.Smoked too much. Drank too much. Let things blur too far.Climbed into his lap like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. And you had let that happen again and again.

All you had to do was tell him no. Maybe even been honest with him.

You had pushed all your feelings for him to the side just to be with him any way that he’d have you. And he doesn’t even care that every time you guys finish, he takes another piece of you when he walks out that door.

He doesn’t care that when he smiles at you, your heartbeat slows down and somehow beats faster at the same time. He doesn’t care about the flowers that bloom behind your ribs when he touches you. Doesn’t care about the way his kisses shoot electricity through your body, leaving you buzzing and breathless

And you hate it. How he could continue on like nothing is wrong. Like his friendship with you wasn’t worth fucking up. How could he not know how you feel?

Or worse, what if he knew and just didn’t think it was worth the effort? Or just using it to his advantage?

How could you mean so little to him? After all this time?

—————-

The two little clear glasses slammed on the counter, the clink echoing in the cramped kitchen. You and Eddie grinned at each other, loose and warm. The kind of smile you’d only ever let him pull out of you. All walls down. Not having to put on a show for anyone.

He grabbed your hand and raised it above your head, beginning to slowly dance in front of you. You laughed, trying to hear the soft music above your heartbeat.

Lita Ford and Ozzy.

You joined in for a moment before he twirled you. His smile was so wide, dimples and sharp canines on display.

He didn’t even realize what it did to you, the way he smiled like that. He never did.

You stayed like that for the rest of the song, easily dancing with him. It was second nature. You both don’t care if you step on each other, or fumble and end up bumping shoulders. You just laugh and continue.

Finally, he turned away, disappearing down the hall toward his room. A few seconds later, he reappeared, shoulder braced casually against the doorway, a joint pinched between his fingers.

“Care to join?” he asked, lifting it slightly.

“Always.”

He jerked his head toward the front door. You followed him out onto the tiny porch, really just a concrete slab with an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked cigarettes. The night air was cooler outside, brushing against your warm skin, sobering you just enough to feel the tension stretch thin between you.

Eddie flicked the lighter, cupping his hand from the wind. The flame caught, illuminating his face, the curve of his nose, the lazy concentration in his eyes as he took the first hit. Smoke curled from his mouth and back into his nose before he passed the joint to you, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary.

You inhaled, slow, heart beating somewhere too loud, the joint shaking almost imperceptibly between your fingertips.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard.” He said softly.

“Says the guy staring at me like he’s waiting for me to do something other than hit this joint.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t look away. He just stepped closer, close enough that your feet were now touching, close enough that you could smell the mix of smoke and whiskey on his breath. You took another hit.

“Maybe I am.” He whispered.

The joint dangled forgotten between your fingers. Your pulse was too loud, too frantic. You exhaled shakily and he leaned in, dipping his head like he was about to kiss you, breathing in the smoke deeply. He smiled and slightly angled his lips to the side to blow out his impromptu shotgun hit. Eyes never leaving yours.

But then he leaned in again, close enough that your lips parted on instinct, close enough his breath warmed your cheek. Your heart tripped over itself. This is it. You felt it like a spark in your chest. Hope rising too fast, too bright.

You couldn’t help it. A smile tugged at your mouth, equal parts disbelief and relief. For a split second, you let yourself think he was finally admitting it—finally seeing you the way you’d always seen him.

Then his lips touched yours. Immediate sparks.

The kiss was slow. Trembling. A hesitant brush that deepened just enough to make your knees weaken so violently you had to grab onto his sides for stability. His mouth tasted like the shared whiskey and smoke, warm and soft and devastating. His fingers curled around your jaw like you were something breakable, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that felt intimate, purposeful, and dangerously close to tender.

You melted into him without meaning to. God, he kissed like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d thought about it. Like he liked the taste of you more than he expected to.

Your stomach flipped, everything inside you tightening at once, and you kissed him back because you’d replayed this moment in your head so many times you could’ve sworn you dreamed it into existence.

He pulled back a breath too soon, eyes still half-lidded, lips slightly parted.

And you smiled, because now? You finally had him. Your best friend is finally admitting to being on the same page as you. So stupidly in love, but always too scared to admit.

But this was it, he was finally choosing you.

Then his expression shifted as he leaned away, something softer becoming something guarded. Calculated. He dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, trying to look casual even though his chest rose and fell a little too quickly.

“Fuck” you whispered, almost in disbelief he finally made the first move.

“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink beneath the porch light.

“That, uh… probably shouldn’t’ve happened.” He continued.

The words hit you like a slap you never saw coming. Small. Quiet. Almost gentle. But still a slap. Silence. Awkward. Thick. Hot.

Shouldn’t have? But God, you wanted it to.

Your heart, which had been buoyant and stupidly soaring just seconds ago, plummeted so fast it made you dizzy. You felt it—felt the crack form right down the center of it, delicate and sharp like thin glass splitting under pressure.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came. Every word dying before it made its way to your throat. All that spilled through you was a familiar ache, the one you’d been drowning in since the first night you realized you loved him in a way he would never return.

Eddie cleared his throat as he took a step back to lean on the railing.

“Look… it doesn’t have to be weird.”

You blinked. Hard. “Huh?”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, shrugging like this meant nothing to him. “Why can’t friends help friends out? Y’know.” He gestured vaguely, eyes sliding to your lips again. “Blow off some steam. Relieve some stress.”

He said it lightly, like it wasn’t the biggest deal ever. But there was something hungry behind it. Something he didn’t want to name.

Your chest tightened. He had no idea he was offering the exact thing you wanted. Just stripped of everything you needed. A hollow gift wrapped in the exact shape of your longing.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said, voice dipping, like he was doing both of you some kind of favor. Like he wasn’t twisting the knife with a smile.

Your stomach dropped—hope plummeting straight through the floor. He didn’t even notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t want to.

You swallowed, the motion thick and unsteady, your heart battering itself against your ribs like it wanted out, wanted him, wanted something you couldn’t even name without breaking in half.

Eddie watched you patiently. Too patiently. Pretending he wasn’t waiting for your answer like it mattered. Pretending he wasn’t hoping for the version of you that didn’t feel things, the version he thought you were. Pretending you weren’t already his, and hadnt been for longer than you’d ever admit out loud.

“What do you mean?” you managed, though your voice sounded small, scraped thin and hollow.

He smiled that easy, oblivious smile, taking the joint from your hand and shaking his hair out of his face. He inhaled slow, cheeks hollowing, smoke curling up between you before he blew it in your direction, playful and soft and completely unaware of how close you were to shattering.

“I mean let’s be friends with benefits.” he said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been my best friend for the last four years. Why not?”

You froze. There it was. The twist.

The part where your perfect, knee-buckling kiss was—to him—just convenience.

Your lips still tingled from him. Your heart still thudded out of rhythm. And all he wanted… was casual? But the way he had kissed you? The way his hand trembled against your jaw? That had not felt casual at all.

Why not?

Fuck. Because you loved him. Because it meant everything to you and would mean nothing to him.

Because being close to him without actually having him was the exact kind of pain you’d spent pretending didn’t gut you.

But the alcohol in your veins was warm and stupid and reckless. The weed rolling in your lungs made everything feel a little softer around the edges, a little less sharp.

And then there was the fact that you had wanted him for so long that the idea of being with him in any way he’d allow felt like stepping to the edge of a cliff and willingly stepping off into that free fall.

A part of you hurt. That deep, quiet, bone-deep hurt. Because he didn’t want more. Didn’t even think to want more. Didn’t think to ask.

But another part, that louder, hazier, selfish part, jumped at the chance to touch him again. To kiss him again. To pretend, even for a night, that he was yours in some temporary, fragile, doomed way.

You felt the sadness settle in you. In your heart, in your bones, filling every inch. Heavy and familiar. But it didn’t stop the heat that coiled right next to it.

“So…” he said, watching you closely now.

“What do you say? No strings attached. Just casual?”

—————-

You scrubbed a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in a knot as you reached your locker.

“Fuck it.”

You changed directions and headed to the parking lot. Right past that stupid beat-up Chevy van, straight to your black ’77 Ford Pinto.

You tossed your bag through the open passenger-side window, the strap catching for a second before dropping onto the ripped vinyl seat, and rounded the hood toward the driver’s side.

“You cutting class, Bean?”

You didn’t even have to look to know who it was. You rolled your eyes at the stupid nickname.

“You really have to come up with something better than that, Munson.”

“You’re the one driving a pinto bean, sooo…” He drew the word out, grinning around it. “Get a cooler car and you’ll get a cooler name.”

He pushed off from where he’d been lingering near the Chevy, sauntering over like he had all the time in the world. Eddie leaned his hip against your passenger door, the metal of his chains clanking against it. His rings clicked softly as he dug into the front pocket of his jeans for his pack of Marlboro Reds.

He looked annoyingly good doing it, too. Messy curls spilling around his neck and over his shoulders, dark strands escaping to brush his cheekbones. His bangs were too long again, skimming his lashes every time he blinked. He wore that battered leather jacket, the one with the stressed seams and the cigarette burn near the pocket, a few chains to keep the cuff from flying wide open, over a faded Motörhead tee.

He pulled a cigarette free with a practiced flick, held it between his lips, and cupped his hand around the lighter as he sparked it. When he inhaled, his cheeks hollowed just enough to make your stomach flutter in a way you refused to acknowledge.

He exhaled a line of smoke, then turned his head to look at you fully.

“So,” he said, voice dropping into that low, curious drawl he used when he actually cared what the answer was. “What’s up?”

You yanked open the Pinto’s door, the metal protesting with a loud squealing groan.

“I’m going home, Eds. I feel like shit, okay?”

He stepped around the car, eyebrows lifting. “I wouldn’t mind skipping and following you back to yours. I know your parents aren’t home until—”

“No. Thanks.”

He blinked, big brown eyes going wide as his smile faltered like someone had flicked a switch inside him.

“Why not?”

You swallowed, jaw tightening, already regretting how sharp you’d sounded.

“Sorry, Eds. I’m just… not feeling up for it today. I’m probably gonna go home and sleep it off.”

He stared at you for a beat, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. Then his face softened, the tension slipping away.

“That’s fine,” he said simply, shrugging one shoulder as he finally took another hit. “I’m still coming home with you. We’ll throw on a movie, maybe smoke, and just lay around until you feel better.”

It was so him. That stubborn, casual devotion he didn’t even seem aware of, that you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your mouth.

“Okay,” you sighed, giving in. “But I’m picking the movie.”

“Please,” he scoffed, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Like I ever win that battle.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile grew. “You never do.”

He smiled, bright and boyish and ridiculously Eddie.

“C’mon then, Bean,” he teased, nudging your shoulder with his. “Race you home.”

“You’ll lose.” you declared, sliding into the Pinto.

“Only cause I let you win.” he yelled over his shoulder, heading toward his van.

You laughed and it felt good. Felt like something inside you loosened.

You pulled out of the lot first, Eddie’s van rumbling behind you. He honked in rapid bursts, which made you shake your head and grin like an idiot.

Every time you hit a stoplight, he pulled up next to you, revving his engine dramatically until the old van wheezed in protest. You snorted, holding up your middle finger.

He flipped you off with both hands. You yelled, grow up. He retorted with a make me, before turning the knob and blaring whatever tape was shoved in his radio, obnoxiously headbanging until the light turned green. Despite everything—everything messy and confusing and unspoken—this part was easy. This part was home. This is why you loved him.

You parked in your driveway, Eddie pulling in right behind you like he lived there.

The minute you climbed out of your car, he was already walking over, hands shoved in his pockets, curls bouncing as he moved.

“Alright,” he announced, “get inside, change into something comfy, and I’ll start setting up the movie.”

“What movie?” you challenged.

“Whatever you tell me to put on,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Because I’m spineless and at your mercy, Sweetheart.”

You laughed out a “that’s how I like it” as you shoved his shoulder before unlocking the door.

He stumbled exaggeratedly, arms flailing.

“Abuse!” he shouted.

“Drama queen.” you shot back.

Inside, it was simple. Warm. Familiar. You dropped your keys on the small table by the door. He kicked off his shoes without being asked.

Both of you made a beeline to your room, tossing your bags to the floor and grabbing whatever soft, mismatched clothes your hands first touched from your closet. Eddie grabbed one of his many shirts you’ve stolen, along with his sweat pants he leaves here just in case.

You changed with your backs turned to each other, like you always had. It was a habit, natural. No one called attention to how silly it seemed now that you’ve both laid yourself bare to each other. Then you wasted the rest of the evening exactly the way the two of you always did. Half-watching shitty movies you’d both memorized, trading commentary, quoting lines, laughing as you both laid comfortably against one another.

The room was quiet except for the sound coming from the TV—some scene you weren’t even pretending to follow anymore. Eddie’s fingers kept tracing slow, absentminded shapes on your arm, drifting up to your shoulder, then back down again like he was memorizing you by touch. The soft and warm pads of his fingers were leaving blazing trails in their wake, your nerve endings reacting dramatically to such a casual touch.

Every so often, his thumb would sweep over a spot that made your breath catch. He leaned in and you felt him smile against your neck like he heard it, like he liked it.

His lips brushed your skin again, barely there. A question, almost.

When you didn’t pull away, when you tilted your head just enough, he took that as an answer enough with another soft kiss, then another, each one lingering a little longer, a little warmer. Your pulse jumped under his mouth.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but a quiet, involuntary moan slipped out—and that was it. You felt the shift in him instantly. The way his hand slid from your arm to your waist, pulling you fractionally closer. The way his breath warmed your skin before he pressed another slow, deliberate kiss just under your jaw.

This time it was a slow open mouth kiss, that his teeth lightly nipped in before his tongue soothed away any type of pain it could’ve caused.

You turned toward him, your nose brushing his cheek. And suddenly everything felt electric, suspended.

His pulled away from a moment, eyes flicked down to your mouth, then up to your eyes, checking, waiting, swallowing hard like he wasn’t sure if he should cross that tiny space between you. As if he hadn’t done it already. Plenty of times.

You closed it for him. Your lips met his in a soft, searching kiss, the kind that started tentative but deepened fast. Eddie’s hand slid up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone with surprising gentleness as he kissed you again—slower, deeper, like he’d been wanting to do that for longer than he’d ever admit.

You could only hope…

You felt his heartbeat through his chest where it pressed to yours, steady at first… then stumbling in a way that strangely mirrored your own. Beating a little too fast. He pushed again, laying you completely on your back with him practically ontop of you.

He pulled back just a fraction, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling in the dim light.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice low, warm, full of confidence. Just like he always was.

You brushed your nose against his. “Hey.”

His hand trailed down to your waist again, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt just enough to feel your warmth but not enough to push boundaries. Not yet.

“You sure?” he murmured, his lips hovering over yours, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache. He always asked this, as if you were ever going to change your mind about him.

And your truth rose up like a tide you couldn’t fight. You weren’t sure about a lot of things. But you were painfully, undeniably sure about the way you felt when he touched you like this.

You nodded, small but certain.

His breath hitched, just barely but still noticeable, and the way he kissed you then was different. As if this suddenly meant something to him too… even if neither of you dared to say it out loud.

His hands moved with a newfound confidence, exploring your body with a tenderness that made you feel cherished. You could feel the heat building between you, a slow, sensual burn that pooled low and left you breathless, wanting more.

You pulled him closer, your body arching against his, and he responded with a low, approving moan that vibrated through you. His kisses trailed down your neck, his teeth nipping gently at your collarbone, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.

Your hands found their way under his shirt, tracing the lines of his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin. He shivered under your touch as you explored him with a boldness that surprised even you before you pulled it over his head.

When his eyes met yours again, his pupils were blown wide. He slowly trailed his hands up your sides, bunching your shirt up with them until he slowly pulled it off of you and tossed it to the side.

His hands roamed over your body. You arched toward him without thinking, your body answering him even while your mind spun with a dizzy mixture of want and fear and longing. He made quick work of the clasp behind your back, his fingers steady while yours trembled, and when the fabric slipped away, his breath caught.

There was so much hunger in his eyes. That alone nearly broke you. Almost did every time.

Then he leaned down, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue circling your nipple with a skill that left you gasping.

You fumbled with his waistband, your hands shaking with anticipation, and he helped you. His pants fell to the floor, and he kicked them aside, leaving him in just his boxers.

He settled between your thighs, slowly grinding himself against your clothed heat, his eyes never leaving yours. It only served to heighten your arousal. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, allowing him to grind against you more intimately. You couldn't help but arch into him, wanting more friction.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice rough at the edges.

You nodded, but the truth pulsed louder beneath your ribs. I’m not okay. I’m in love with you, and you don’t even know you’re breaking me.

But your body leaned up anyway, your hands sliding over his shoulders, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. He exhaled shakily, his nose brushing yours.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured, thumb stroking your hip with a tenderness that didn’t match the casual arrangement that you both had agreed on.

You swallowed hard. “Don’t stop.” you breathed.

Something flickered across his expression. Maybe surprise, relief, maybe something deeper you didn't let yourself examine. And then he kissed you again, slower this time, like he needed the reassurance as much as you did.

He slowly pulled down your panties, his fingers brushing against your skin, making you shiver. You helped him remove his boxers, your hands trembling slightly. You weren’t sure if it was nerves or anticipation. His cock sprung free, the pink tip already leaking a bead of precum. He lifted you effortlessly, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling his length against you.

He looked down between the two of you and wrapped his hand around his cock before running it up and down your wet folds. Your mouth fell open with a loud moan as it grazed your clit. Only for a moment before he lined himself up and entered you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch before filling you completely. You both moaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together perfectly. He began to move, not pulling out, just rolling his hips against you.

“You take my cock so perfectly, baby.”

You couldn’t respond with anything more than a moan as you threw your head back on the pillow. He started his slow thrusts in a steady rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through you. You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as you met his every thrust.

His lips found yours again, and you kissed deeply, your tongues dancing with each other, moaning into each other's mouths. The room spun around you, and all you could focus on was the feel of him inside you, the taste of him on your lips, and the sound of your combined moans filling the air.

He increased his pace, his body slamming into yours with a force that had you crying out his name. You could feel the pressure building inside you, the coiled tension ready to explode. He reached between you, his fingers finding your clit.

“That’s right, baby. This pussy is all mine.”

“Fuck! Yes! It’s all yours, Eddie!”

He continued to circle your clit, thrusting relentlessly into you. Watching you as your jaw went slack and you squeezed your eyes shut. Focusing on the sensation of your orgasm building. His free hand suddenly came up to your face, grabbed it and angled it towards him.

“No, don’t do that. You look at me when I’m fucking you.”

You couldn’t help but listen. Your eyes meeting his, the iris almost completely gone with how wide his pupils were. You’d never thought Eddie would be like this in the bedroom, not that you hadn’t thought about it before, late at night with your hand shoved in your panties. It practically had you like putty in his hands.

But there were times he’d be inside of you, whispering absolute filth, it had you blushing the next day when your mind would drift back. Sometimes you questioned how he was able to look at you the same after the things he’d say to you. The things he’d done to you.

“You’re mine. You got that? You and this pussy.”

The words hit you like heat, sharp and overwhelming. Something inside your chest ached, your breath catching in your throat. You couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t even think past the rush of electricity running through your veins.

The possessiveness in his voice—raw, unfiltered, unguarded—tore through every boundary you tried to believe you had set with him. He didn’t say it lightly. He didn’t say it playfully. He meant it. At least, in this moment.

Your lips parted, a small, helpless sound slipping out before you could stop it. Your whole body reacted before your mind caught up—legs shaking, stomach tight, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your fingertips.

His thumb stroked your cheek in a way that contradicted the rough edge in his voice, as if he knew exactly what that moment was doing to you.

“Baby,” he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “Answer me.”

Heat rushed through your chest, your face, everywhere. You tried to nod, tried to breathe, tried not to fall apart under the weight of how badly you wanted those words to mean more than he intended.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice unsteady. You tried to nod as best you could with him still holding your face in place. “I’m yours.”

He smiled at that answer and slowed down his thrusts, making sure to focus on the force of them, turning it to a slow hard pace. Thumb never leaving your clit.

Then suddenly, you shattered, he had finally pushed you over that edge. Your orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you screaming out his name.

“Fuuuuck. Such a good girl and cumming for me.”

He gave a few more sloppy thrust before following soon after, his body tensing as he spilled into you, your name a whispered plea on his lips. You held each other tightly, your bodies slick with sweat, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.

—————-

You slowly blinked your eyes open. Welcoming the morning sun rays in. You tried to roll over and stretch, but something held you in place. Eddie’s arm.

It was slung lazily around your waist. His fingers were curled into the plush of your stomach like he’d fallen asleep holding on. His breath warmed the back of your neck in slow, even waves. Somewhere after the sex, between the third bad movie and the few joints he insisted on rolling, the two of you had knocked out. Him flat on his stomach, you curled on your side, your legs tangled together like you’d forgotten where you ended and he began.

You blinked blearily at the soft morning light coming through your curtains. The room smelled like weed, deodorant, and Eddie’s cologne he sprayed, swearing it would get rid of the skunky smell. His hair was sprawled across your pillow, curls tickling your cheek.

Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out from under him. He made a low sound—half-groan, half-whine—but didn’t wake, just flopped onto his back and spread out like a starfish.

“Idiot.” you whispered, not sure if it sounded annoyed or fond.

Probably both. You quickly got dressed then made your way downstairs.

Your mom was in the kitchen already dressed for work, hair done, coffee mug in hand. She looked up as soon as she heard you on the stairs.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said brightly. “Eddie awake yet?”

You cocked an eyebrow, silently asking how she knew.

“His van was in my spot.”

You nodded, mumbling out a still asleep, grabbing a mug from the cabinet and pouring yourself a cup of coffee, flavoring it to your liking with milk and sugar.

Your mom sighed happily. “I like having him around. He’s sweet. And he makes you laugh.” She paused, giving you a pointed look. “You should keep him.”

You almost choked on your coffee.

“Mom.”

“What? I’m just saying.” She shrugged, stirring her own with way too much enthusiasm for the hour.

“He’s adorable. And polite. And he says ‘thank you’ every time I hand him a plate like I’m giving him a bar of gold.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s just… Eddie.”

She leaned against the counter. “Is just Eddie staying for breakfast?”

You shrugged. “I’ll wake him in a minute. You know he doesn’t like turning down free food.”

Your mom beamed. “Good. Tell him I made muffins. I’ll pack you guys some to take to school.”

You snorted. “You’re spoiling him.”

“I’m spoiling you,” she corrected. “He’s just a bonus.”

You shook your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escaped. “Alright, alright. I’m pretty sure you love him more than me at this point.”

“You said it, not me.” She laughed.

You turned to head upstairs again, already knowing Eddie would still be spread across your mattress, snoring softly, dead to the world.

Your mom called after you, teasing. “Tell him to brush his hair this time!”

“I’m not his mother!”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t do exactly what you tell him to!” She called after you.

You froze for half a second, heat rushing to your cheeks. Then you fled up the stairs before she could see you blush, heart thumping way too fast for seven in the morning.

You padded back up the stairs, the old wood creaking under your feet. Your room was dim minus the one single sun ray that found its way between your half-closed curtains. The soft orange glow of morning settling over everything Eddie had left scattered around. His socks, his rings on your nightstand, his shirt lazily thrown over your desk chair like he lived here.

He was exactly where you’d left him, exactly how you knew you’d find him. On his back, sprawled diagonally across your bed like a menace, mouth slightly open, hair a wild halo.

He always told you his best night's rest was in your bed. His mattress could never compare. You climbed onto your mattress gently, knee sinking into the sheets beside him.

“Eds,” you whispered, rubbing a gentle hand on his chest.

A groan.

You leaned closer. “Wake up. My mom made muffins.”

His eyes cracked open—just barely, then shut again dramatically. “Five more minutes.” He mumbled.

“No,” you said, stretching out beside him. “We have school.”

He made a sound that was definitely a complaint and definitely not a word. Then before you could react, his arms looped around your waist and he yanked you down against him.

You squeaked as you toppled into his chest, your face pressed into his warm body.

“Eddie!”

He grinned sleepily, eyes still half-closed. “Why doesn’t this alarm clock have a snooze button?”

That drew a small giggle out of you, but before you had a chance to retort, he rolled. Suddenly you were pinned beneath him, and he started kissing you—everywhere except the mouth. Your forehead, your cheek, the side of your nose, your jaw, your collarbone. Quick, playful, affectionate little pecks, each one punctuated with a muffled “mwah.”

You burst into laughter, wriggling under him. “Stop! Eddie!”

“Nope,” he said, kissing your cheek again. “I’m awake now. This is your fault.”

You shoved at him, giggling, but he only flopped more of his weight onto you, warm and heavy and annoyingly comfortable.

“Come on,” he murmured into your neck. “Let’s skip today. Again. One more won’t kill us.”

“We skipped yesterday.”

“Barely.” He kissed under your ear. “C’mon. Let’s just stay here. Sleep. Eat muffins. Watch movies. Smoke a little. Nap some more. You love napping with me.”

You did. Too much.

But if you stayed here with him warm and lazy and kissing you like this, you were going to do something reckless. Or stupid. Or both. And at this point, you weren’t sure how much more your heart could take.

Eddie was an affectionate person. No matter who it was, he liked hugging, throwing his arms around his friends, holding hands. Get him drunk enough and he’s trying to give everyone pecks on the lips. He craved the physical touch. But he had never been this physical with you. Up until you agreed to his stupid request.

You put your hands on his cheeks then ran them down his body until they landed on his waist. With all of your tired strength, you pushed him to the side, rolling you both over until you were on top.

He cocked an eyebrow, definitely thinking he had won as he hands moved to lazily rest on your thighs that straddled him.

“Nope. No. We are going to school.”

His eyes were wide as he frowned at you dramatically like you’d betrayed him. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m realistic. Buuut,” you drug the word out as you pushed off of his chest and stood up. “We have that bonfire. Get through today and it’s like a reward.”

He rolled his eyes then watched as you made your way around the room. You grabbed the pair of jeans he’d left on your floor yesterday and tossed them at his face. He caught them with one hand, barely.

“Now, get dressed.”

He sat up, hair a mess, smirking at you like you didn’t just manhandle him. Like he didn’t enjoy every second of it.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You huffed, trying not to smile. “Shut up and put your pants on.”

—————-

You stood in front of the mirror, leaning in close as you dragged the last sweep of liner across your upper lash line. The bedroom was warm from the late-afternoon sun, your stereo playing low in the background, something upbeat to keep your nerves from chewing holes in your stomach.

You told yourself you were getting dolled up because all of your friends were going to be at the Lover’s Lake bonfire tonight.

Not because Eddie would be there.

Definitely not because you’d picked out your nicest outfit—the one that made you feel confident and soft and just a little dangerous. Definitely not because you wanted him to notice.

You fluffed your hair, tugged your shirt into place allowing for more cleavage to be shown, and brushed a thumb across your lips to clean up a smudge of color.

A honk blared from outside. Short, sharp, impatient. You felt your stomach drop and flutter at the same time.

“Show time.” you muttered to your reflection, like you hadn’t been listening for that exact sound for the last ten minutes. You grabbed your jacket, spritzed perfume on your neck, and headed downstairs.

Outside, Eddie’s van was crooked in your driveway. He slouched behind the wheel, hair wild, one ringed hand hanging out the window as he drummed his fingers against the metal. When he saw you, he sat up a little straighter.

“Hello, Miss lady.” he called, before eyeing you as you made your way to the passenger side. “Look at you.”

Your face warmed, but you rolled your eyes so he wouldn’t see just how much that one look affected you.

“Shut up.” you said lightly as you climbed in.

“Not a chance,” Eddie said, eyes sweeping over you once more, quick but too meaningful to be accidental. “You look good.”

He put the van in gear before you could decide whether to thank him or shove him.

The drive to Lovers Lake was loud windows-down music, lots of breeze, and Eddie drumming the beat against the steering wheel. Every time he glanced at you, your chest tightened.

When you pulled onto the dirt clearing near the lake, the sky was already tinted orange. A big bonfire roared at the center, people gathered around it, laughing, drinking, leaning against cars.

Eddie parked and hopped out, stretching his arms like he’d been crammed in the van for hours.

His shirt lifted just enough to expose a thin strip of stomach—pale skin marked faintly by the waistband of his black jeans. His rings caught the dying sunlight, glinting as he ran both hands through his messy curls. They fell right back into that wild, chaotic halo he always wore, soft around his jaw and brushing his collarbones.

His red and black flannel shirt was completely unbuttoned, the edges frayed from years of wear, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A chain hung from his belt loop, clinking lightly as he shifted his weight. There was a smudge of grease on his forearm—probably from messing with the van again. Damn thing is always giving him problems.

He grinned when he saw you looking, dimples flashing, eyes warm beneath dark lashes.

“Come on,” he said, nodding for you to follow, the corners of his mouth tugging higher. “We drink first, socialize later.”

He made a beeline toward a cooler by the fire. The moment he reached it, he dug inside and handed you something cold.

He clinked his own can lightly against yours.

“To bad decisions.” he announced proudly as he leaned forward to open your can for you.

You laughed. “To the worst.”

But secretly? You hoped tonight brought something you could keep.

—————-

The night drifted on in that lazy, buzzing way only bonfires, teenagers and cheap liquor could create. Music thumped from someone’s boombox, beer cans clattered, people laughed too loud. You and Eddie slipped into your usual rhythm—shoulders bumping, inside jokes, him stealing sips from your drink like he didn’t have one in his own hand, dancing with each other until your legs felt like they’d give out at any second.

But the more alcohol that slid down your throat, the more unsteady everything became.

At some point, your head warm and your body pleasantly loose from the alcohol in your system, you lost track of him. One minute he was beside you, rolling his eyes at a guys-vs-girls argument happening nearby… and the next, he was on the other side of the fire, leaning in close to some girl whose name you didn’t care enough about to remember. She laughed at something he said, tossing her hair, fingers slipping down his arm before he wrapped it around her.

Your stomach dropped. Hard. You stared, you told yourself not to, and then you stared harder.

You knew he was an attractive guy. Attractive enough that other people noticed. You knew when certain girls got enough of anything in their system, they didn’t care that he was the freak of Hawkins. They just saw a metalhead who played guitar, smoked pot, and would definitely piss off their parents if they were to bring him home. He was a way for people to rebel.

It made your insides twist into knots that almost had bile rising in your throat.

“Yikes,” someone said as they plopped down beside you.

You blinked and turned. Steve Harrington. Perfect hair, perfectly relaxed expression, beer in hand. He followed your line of sight, then whistled low.

“Damn. Didn’t expect to see Munson with anyone other than you.”

You said nothing, jaw tight. Steve’s eyes shifted back to you, softening like he already knew more than you wanted him to.

“You want to make him jealous?” he asked casually, taking a sip from his drink. “’Cause I’m game.”

You snorted. “Please. That’s dumb.”

“So… is that a no?”

You hesitated. Just a second. Just enough for the ache in your chest to pulse through you.

“Well, let’s play then.” you muttered.

Steve grinned like he’d been waiting for that. He slid his arm over your shoulder—warm, confident, not subtle at all—and tugged you in against him.

“Atta girl,” he murmured.

You laughed, even if it sounded a little uneven. It was easy with Steve. It had always been easy.

You’d known him practically your whole life. Not through school, not through Eddie or Robin or the party scene, but because your parents had worked together for years. You’d spent half your childhood in the Harringtons’ backyard pool, throwing water balloons at him until Mrs. Harrington yelled from the kitchen window.

He was the first boy you ever practiced slow dancing with, both of you standing on his parents’ polished floors at age thirteen, his hands awkwardly on your waist while you tried not to step on his toes. A year later, he was your first kiss. Both of you immediately agreed it was weird and awkward, like kissing a sibling.

He’d always been there. Birthday parties, holidays when your parents were working late, crappy middle school dances where the two of you hid in the corner and mocked everyone else’s outfits.

He wasn’t the version of himself everyone at school liked to talk about. The king of Hawkins High, the flirt, the heartbreaker. You knew the other parts. The softer ones. The loyal ones. The ones that made him show up at your front door with milkshakes after your worst days, or call you at midnight asking which sweater to wear because he “needed an opinion that didn’t suck” for his date tomorrow.

And even though you ran in different crowds, minus a few mutual friends, you guys never let that impact the way you loved each other. Robin likes to say “Platonic with a capital P” when referring to friendships like this.

Which made him the perfect shield tonight.

You leaned into his side just a little more, enough to sell the act, not enough to mean anything, and he squeezed your shoulder in silent understanding.

Across the fire, Eddie’s stare sharpened like a blade catching firelight. And Steve, without looking, smirked like he could feel it. Eddie wasn’t laughing anymore. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even pretending. He was staring. Directly at Steve’s arm around you.

His expression was dark with his mouth set in a hard line. He looked like he wanted to rip Steve’s arm off and throw it into the flames. You looked away first, heart hammering, pretending you didn’t notice.

But the heat of his gaze stayed on you long after, each glance from him hitting you like sparks from the fire, hot and impossible to ignore.

Steve kept talking, something about how someone from chemistry had already fallen into the lake twice. He kept selling the act. As he spoke, he’d lean close, brushing your hair away from your face. Glancing at your lips a few times. But his voice faded into background noise. Because Eddie was still staring.

The fire cracked loudly between you, flames curling upward like they were trying to swallow the tension whole. People laughed, music thumped, someone shouted about needing more wood—but all you could see was Eddie’s eyes locked on you, lips pressed into something that wasn’t quite a scowl but definitely wasn’t a smile.

Finally, he pushed off the log he’d been sitting on, muttered something to the girl beside him, and stalked toward you. Steve’s hand on your shoulder tightened.

“Oh boy,” he murmured, then leaned in to whisper in your ear, as if to sell the scene one final time. “Get ready.”

Eddie didn’t slow, boots crunching over gravel until he stood right in front of you—close enough that you could smell the cigarette smoke in his clothes and the faint bite of beer on his breath.

His gaze flicked to Steve’s arm still draped around you, then back to your face.

“You look cozy.” Eddie said, voice light. Too light. Like a joke he couldn’t quite land.

“Yeah,” you replied, matching the tone even though your pulse jumped. “Steve’s great company.”

Steve gave Eddie a sunny, borderline antagonistic smile. “Munson, take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Eddie didn’t even look at him. He kept his eyes on you, expression unreadable except for that spark, burning through every defense you had.

“You gonna come talk to me,” he asked softly, “or you sticking with Harrington all night?”

Steve shrugged. “Don’t mind me. I can share.”

You slapped Steve’s thigh, but he only grinned. Eddie’s nostrils flared, just barely. Then he leaned closer, speaking low enough that only you could hear.

“Let’s go for a walk.”

Your breath hitched. Steve heard it, apparently, because he let his arm fall away from your shoulders and patted your knee.

“Go on,” he said with a wink. “before he combusts. I’ll be here when you get back, babe.”

You heard Eddie scoff as you stood. Eddie stepped back to give you space, but not much. His fingers brushing yours as you passed him, a fleeting touch that felt intentional.

You walked with him toward the tree line, the fire lighting his silhouette in flickering orange. His curls blew in the faint breeze, and every few steps he glanced at you like he couldn’t help it, like he needed to make sure you were still beside him.

When the noise of the party finally faded enough to think, he stopped, turned, and looked at you fully.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, voice low, breath uneven.

And you realized—he wasn’t angry. He was jealous. Jealous and confused and maybe a little hurt? Which might’ve been worse.

“You tell me.” you said quietly.

His eyes searched yours, wide and vulnerable for just a second before he blinked it away.

“Why him?” Eddie asked. “Why’d you go to him?”

You swallowed, heart thudding loud enough you were sure he could hear it.

“Why do you care?” you murmured.

Eddie stared at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. Then he stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulders grazed. Close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, “but I do.”

You crossed your arms, partly because the night air had cooled and you were no longer warmed by the blazing fire, mostly because his sudden possessiveness was stirring up every emotion you’d been trying to drown in cheap beer.

“Eddie,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “we’re casual. Remember?”

He blinked, thrown.

“We never said we couldn’t see other people. You made that part pretty damn clear.”

His jaw flexed. “That’s not— I wasn’t—”

You huffed a laugh, sharp and humorless, and looked away toward the fire, where Steve was talking with Robin, perfectly unbothered.

“Don’t act like you get to be jealous,” you said. “You were flirting with someone.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

You shot him a look.

He winced. “Okay, maybe I was a little. But that’s different.”

“How?” you demanded, heat rising in your chest. “Because you were doing it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking genuinely frustrated—like the words were there but tangled up.

“You and Harrington just looked—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Too close.”

“Okay, and?”

“And he had his arm around you.”

“So what? You say that like you weren’t doing the exact same thing.”

Eddie froze. Like he hadn’t expected you to have seen him. Like he didn’t know how to handle the weight of it.

The wind rustled the trees around you. A distant laugh echoed from the main group. And Eddie stared at you, something fierce and conflicted twisting through his expression.

“You’re right,” he said quietly, voice rougher now. “We are casual.”

You felt something in your chest restrict. You should’ve known this would’ve gotten messy. Friends with benefits never works out. Especially when someone is already head over heels for the person propositioning it.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t care who touches you,” he went on, taking a step closer. “Or who puts their hands on you. Or who looks at you like they have any right to.”

Your breath stuttered. “Eddie…”

“And for the record?” he said, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face. “That whole casual thing? That was supposed to make this easier, not make me feel like I’m losing my mind watching you with someone else.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “I thought you didn’t want more.” You whispered.

He exhaled, slow and shaky. Eddie dragged a hand across his mouth, eyes darting everywhere but your face now—like looking at you made the whole thing worse.

“Forget it,” he muttered, backing up a step. “I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“Eddie—”

“No.” He shook his head, curls falling forward. “I’m gonna go home. It’s fine. I just… need air or space or—whatever.”

The words stung more than you expected. Especially when he forced a crooked, fake smile.

“You should stay. Have fun. Seriously.” He pointed vaguely toward the fire. “Harrington’s here, Robin too. The hellfire gang. You’ll be fine.”

You took a step toward him, reaching out to grab his hand. He took a step back to dodge it.

“Really,” he said, softer, but firm. “Stay.”

And then he turned and walked away. No dramatic exit. Just Eddie, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight as he disappeared into the line of parked cars and then out of sight down the dirt road.

You stood there for a moment, fire crackling behind you, stomach twisting like you’d swallowed a stone.

Fine. If he wanted you to stay, you would stay.

You forced your legs to move and wandered back toward the crowd. Steve spotted you first, raising an eyebrow like he already knew the answer and didn’t need to ask the question.

“Everything cool?” he said lightly.

“Totally,” you lied.

He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. Instead, he nudged your shoulder and pointed you toward Robin, who was ranting loudly about her part time job and the stupid customers.

You slipped into her orbit easily. Laughing. Chatting. Pretending your heart wasn’t in the pocket of Eddie's leather jacket as he drove home.

Steve kept an eye on you—not hovering, but close enough that you felt grounded. The theatrics of him pretending to hit on you ended as soon as Eddie left. Robin tried to pull you into a ridiculous dance circle, offering you a beer you hesitantly took. Someone offered you another drink after that, you took that one too. You chatted and joked with Jeff and Gareth. Tried to sing with them when Jeff pulled his guitar from Gareth’s mom’s station wagon.

You tried. You really did.

But every time someone laughed, you glanced in their direction. Every time a car door slammed, your pulse jumped. Every time someone with long curls walked by, your breath caught—only to fall when it wasn’t him.

By the end of the night, it wasn’t fun anymore.

Steve noticed your silence, your staring, your sudden inability to pretend this wasn’t killing you.

“You ready to go?” he asked gently.

You nodded.

The drive back was quiet, headlights cutting through the dark trees as you twisted your fingers in your lap. Steve didn’t comment when you directed him past your house.

He didn’t comment when you told him to turn left. Then right. Then down a familiar gravel drive. He parked outside Eddie’s trailer and let the engine idle.

“You sure you wanna talk to him drunk?” he asked softly.

You nodded again.

“I’m not that drunk.”

Steve sighed, but not in a judgmental way—more like he was rooting for you, even if he didn’t know what the hell was happening.

Steve wasn’t stupid. He knew you like the back of his hand. Knew within the first few months when you wouldn’t stop talking about the stupid metalhead, that you were too gone.

“Call me if you need a ride home,” he said. “Or if you need to escape. Or if Munson’s being Munson.”

You managed a small smile. “When is he not? But thanks, Steve.”

You stepped out into the cool night air, closing the door gently behind you. His car pulled away, tires crunching over gravel, until the sound and headlights faded.

The trailer was dark except for the faint glow of the living-room lamp through the blinds.

You swallowed hard, nerves and alcohol buzzing like electricity under your skin.

Then you walked up the steps and knocked. You stood on the small porch, arms wrapped around yourself as the cool night air lifted the hairs on the back of your neck. The porch light flickered and every second he didn’t answer made your heart pound harder.

Just when you were sure he was either asleep or ignoring you, the deadbolt scraped, then the door cracked open. Eddie blinked out at you, squinting like the porch light was too bright.

His hair was a complete disaster. Tangled, flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other like he’d been tossing in bed. A soft, faded pair of gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, drawstring untied, the trail of hair down his stomach disappearing into the waistband.

He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, voice rough with sleep when he finally spoke.

“…You okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. I- did I wake you?”

He stepped aside, motioning you in without answering the question. “C’mere. It’s chilly out.”

You walked past him, your shoulder brushing his bare arm. He shut the door quietly, leaning back against it once it clicked. When he looked at you properly, confusion and something softer flickered across his face.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be at the party? With-” His jaw tensed briefly. “everyone else?”

You looked down at your shoes. “They’re probably still there.”

“Yeah,” he said, shifting his weight. “So why aren’t you?”

You lifted your eyes to meet his. His hair fell across his cheek, his breathing still a little uneven from being woken up.

“I didn’t want to be there anymore, wasn’t having any fun.” you said honestly.

His brow softened, the line between his eyebrows easing. “So you came here?”

“Yeah.”

A slow exhale left him, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it. He raked a hand through his chaotic curls, making them even worse.

“You shouldn’t have walked alone.” he murmured.

“I didn’t. Steve drove me.”

He blinked, caught off guard but not angry—just startled.

“…Oh.”

Silence settled between you. Eddie finally pushed off the door and stepped closer, stopping just a foot in front of you. You could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his voice dropped even lower

“I’m, uh…” His eyes trailed over your outfit—the one you’d picked with him in mind. “glad you came.”

You let out a small chuckle. “I didn’t want to go home alone.”

Eddie nodded, like he understood exactly what you meant and all the things you weren’t saying. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”

And then he reached out, fingers brushing yours, hesitant but hopeful, waiting to see if you’d pull away. Eddie’s fingers barely ghosted over yours before he pulled in a shaky breath and stepped back—not far, just enough to brace a hand on the counter behind him like he needed something solid to hold onto.

His eyes stayed on the floor for a moment, curls falling forward. He looked younger like this—unguarded, tired, still carrying the leftover heat of irritation and jealousy.

“I should say something…” he murmured.

You waited, heart tightening. This was the moment you wanted—the moment you hoped he’d finally admit something real. But when he looked up, his expression made your stomach drop.

He lifted his hands before falling uselessly at his sides. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you asked, even though you already knew.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “For tonight. For getting jealous like an idiot. For-” His mouth twisted. “for flirting in front of you. It was shitty.”

“Oh.” You swallowed, nodding once. “Right.”

Not the right kind of sorry. Not the one you needed. He didn’t notice the way your chest caved, too busy shaking his head like he was scolding himself.

“I won’t… do that again,” he continued, voice low and earnest. “Not in front of you. Not like that.”

There it was. The apology that fixed absolutely nothing.

You forced air into your lungs and nodded slowly. “Okay.”

He stepped closer again, just enough that his bare chest brushed your sleeve. His voice softened, like he thought he was giving you reassurance.

“It won’t happen anymore.”

For a moment, you almost broke. Told him he was apologizing for the wrong thing. Told him you weren’t hurt because he flirted—you were hurt because he cared only when he saw you with someone else. Because he wanted ownership without wanting you. But you couldn’t. Not while he was looking at you like this. Not while the smell of his skin and the warmth of the trailer made your feelings too loud to control.

“Okay,” you repeated quietly.

Eddie let out a breath of relief, stepping even closer, his knuckles brushing your hip.

“I just… I don’t want to mess things up with you,” he said. “I like what we have.”

Your heart cracked because what we have was the exact problem. Not enough. Never enough. But he was looking at you with those wide, soft brown eyes, hair a mess, chest bare, voice hoarse from sleep, and god, it hurt how much you loved him.

So you smiled. Small. Careful. A lie he needed.

“Yeah, Eds,” you whispered. “We’re fine.”

His shoulders relaxed instantly. And that killed you most of all. You took a slow step back, needing distance before the ache in your chest swallowed you whole.

“I should probably… get going,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

Eddie’s face fell instantly. So fast that you had to look away before it broke you.

“What? Why?” he asked, already stepping toward you again. “It’s late. You can crash here. You always crash here.”

“I know,” you said gently. “but I’m just… tired. I think I should go home.”

He blinked at you, confused and a little hurt. “Sweetheart, you didn’t walk all the way over here just to leave.”

“I had Steve drive me,” you corrected quietly.

He winced. “Right, yeah. Still. You don’t have to go.”

He moved in, instinctively reaching for you. His hands settling at your waist like muscle memory. The warmth of him hit you all at once. His bare chest, the faint heat of sleep still clinging to his skin, the smell of him, that soft mix of bonfire and cigarette smoke, detergent, and Eddie.

“Stay,” he murmured, leaning in, forehead nearly brushing yours. “Just… stay here tonight.”

Your breath stuttered. God, you wanted to. Your whole body leaned toward him like gravity was pulling you in.

His arms tightened, pulling you against him, his lips brushing your cheek before trailing toward your mouth. And that was exactly why you had to stop.

“Eddie,” you whispered, hands pressing lightly to his chest. “Stop.”

He froze. Right there—lips inches from yours, arms warm around you—he froze. You eased out of his hold, every inch you stepped back feeling like ripping Velcro off your own heart. His brows knitted, hurt and confusion twisting through his expression.

“Did I… do something wrong?”

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what-?”

“Eds…” Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. “I just need to go home. Okay?”

He swallowed, jaw working like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the pieces for.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. I can drive-“

“No. It’s not that far anyway. It’ll give me time to sober up before having to sneak in.”

He moved toward you like he couldn’t help it, stopping just shy of touching. “Will I-” He swallowed again. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

You looked up at him and somehow managed to nod “Yeah,” you said softly. “You’ll see me later.”

He nodded once, slow, like he wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a goodbye.

You opened the door, the cool night air spilling in. Before you stepped out, you heard him say—quiet, vulnerable, not meant to reach you.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You closed the door gently behind you. And carried the crack in your chest all the way home.

—————-

The moment you got home, you barely made it to your room before the first sob hit. Ugly and way too honest. You shut the door with shaking hands, stumbled to your bed, and collapsed face-first into your pillow.

You cried like something inside you had snapped. Because something had. All this time, you thought you were being subtle. You thought you could be close to him without being close to him.

You thought you could handle the little pieces he offered, even if they didn’t add up to anything real. You tried to be what he wanted. Letting him get away with whatever bullshit, giving him space when needed.

Friends with benefits. God, how stupid. How fucking stupid.

You dragged your palms over your face, trying to muffle the next sob, but it still tore out of you.

You didn’t get to love him. Not like that. Not out loud. You didn’t get to want the future he didn’t want. But you let him hold you like he did. You let him kiss you like he meant it.

You let yourself believe, even for a second, that maybe—just maybe—your heart wasn’t delusional.

And tonight proved exactly how wrong you were.

You curled onto your side, knees to your chest, breath breaking in uneven gasps as tears soaked the fabric beneath you.

You replayed it all in brutal detail. The flirting. The way he lit up when someone else touched his arm. The way he looked at you across the fire. He was jealous, but not jealous enough to choose you.His apology that wasn’t an apology. The way he tried to kiss you like it meant nothing. The way you almost let him.

You pressed a fist to your sternum, as if you could physically hold your heart together.

You couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t keep letting him halfway love you. You couldn’t keep letting him act like you were his only when it was convenient. You couldn’t keep pretending your feelings weren’t swallowing you whole.

You sniffed hard, wiping your face with your sleeve.

You had to distance yourself. You had to stop the friends-with-benefits thing before it killed you from the inside out. You had to protect the tiny piece of your heart that wasn’t already bruised purple from his grip

He would get over it. He’d be upset for a day, maybe two. He’d pout, he’d complain, he’d sulk—and then he’d go back to being fine.

And you?

You let out another shaky breath, fresh tears burning. You’d lie awake like this. Trying to pry your heart out of a place it had never been wanted.

You sobbed again until there was nothing left but the ache. One thing was clear now, clearer than it had ever been.

You couldn’t keep doing this. No matter how much you loved him. Because love shouldn’t be this messy. Love shouldn’t hurt this bad.

—————-

The first day back after spring break felt heavier than it should’ve.

The halls buzzed with everyone comparing their time off, hookups, where they went, what they did, stupid stories about stupid things. All of it slid right past you, muted under the steady thrum of anxiety sitting at the base of your spine.

Your backpack was too heavy. Your clothes felt wrong.

And every time you turned a corner you expected to see him. Expected to bump square into the middle of his chest.

You’d gotten good at avoiding Eddie over break—staying in your room, telling your mom you were “still sick,” cracking your door open just enough to tell him you weren’t up for visitors when he came by.

He’d frowned, offered to drop off movies or soup, lingered on your porch like he could will you into changing your mind.

But you held your ground. It hurt. But seeing him would’ve hurt more.

It would’ve led to stupid decision. Meaningless kisses. Meaningless touches.

More meaningless You’re mine’s.

That always seemed to be his go to when he had you wrapped around him. And you always felt so stupid in the wake of the aftermath how easily you let those two stupid words go straight to your heart.

Now you walked into the cafeteria with Robin chattering beside you, Steve trailing close behind, balancing a tray loaded with two extra juice boxes he insisted you drink because "They're your favorite and it’ll make you feel better.”

You forced a laugh.

“It’s just school, Harrington. I’ll get better when we graduate.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, giving you a once-over. “Humor me.”

Again, he wasn’t stupid. He knew what had been going on. Going to hang out with Eddie then the next day showing up with hickeys barely hidden by your poor makeup skills.

Robin nudged you toward your usual seat—well, your new usual seat. Away from the Hellfire table. Away from the boys arguing loudly over campaigns and dice rolls.

Away from him.

You slid into the spot between Robin and Steve, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Trying to pretend your heart wasn’t kicking at your ribs every time someone with long dark curls crossed your peripheral vision.

Steve watched you for a moment before leaning on his elbow on the table.

“You okay?”

You nodded quickly. Too quickly.

Robin snorted. “That’s the I’m-fine-but-I’m-not-fine nod. Very iconic. Very suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to fire back some sarcastic retort—when the cafeteria noise dimmed in your ears, just for a second.

Because he walked in. Eddie.

Hair a little messier than usual, like he’d rushed out of bed. Eyes scanning the room in that casual, effortless way he always scanned for you. His graphic tee stretched over his chest, rings glinting as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

He looked tired.

He looked like he’d been looking for you.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you turned away, trying to hide yourself from him.

He hadn’t seen you yet—until Gareth nudged him and nodded toward your table.

When you turned just a little to catch a quick peak, you saw Eddie’s head turn, saw his eyes land on the three of you—

Saw the moment he realized you weren’t coming to him today. His expression flickered. Almost too fast to catch. But you caught it.

He tried to play it cool, tried to smile when Jeff said something beside him, but his gaze drifted back to you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek and forced your attention onto your tray.

Steve leaned closer, his voice low. “He keeps staring.”

You didn’t look up. “I don’t care.”

Robin raised a brow. “Uh-huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You rolled your eyes. Everything inside you felt too full and too empty at the same time.

Across the room, you felt his gaze again, waiting for you to look back. To smile. To motion him over.

You didn’t.

For the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t give in. And when he realized that—when he realized you weren’t coming to him, weren’t going to let him pretend everything was normal—his shoulders tensed. His jaw tightened.

He turned back to the Hellfire table, dropping into his usual seat in a way that was too stiff, too deliberate.

Robin gave you a gentle nudge. “You gonna tell me what’s going on there?”

You swallowed, eyes on your untouched food.

“No,” you whispered. “Not today.”

Because if you started talking about Eddie Munson right now— in this loud fluorescent cafeteria with him sitting twenty feet away— you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop and no one needed to see you have a full blown mental breakdown over him.

—————-

The days blurred together. Robin and Steve finally got the full story of what was going on. They did their best to be a distraction for you. Inviting you out after school. Stopping by the house on their way to work. Taking you to the mall for retail therapy.

It only worked sometimes. Once you were alone though, you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about him.

You avoided him in the halls. You avoided the Hellfire table. You avoided any path that might cross his.

And at first, Eddie tried. He really tried. He’d wave when he caught your eye. Call out your name when you pretended you didn’t hear him. Lean against your locker like he always used to—even when you hurried past without stopping.

But after a while, the light in his face dimmed. The calls turned into glances. The glances turned into nothing. And then came the irritation. The hurt he pretended not to feel. It started small.

You’d dropped a worksheet outside English class, papers scattering, and he’d been passing by. Normally he would’ve crouched down beside you, teasing you for being “a helpless little disaster.”

This time?

He just stepped over them. Didn’t look at you. Didn’t slow down. Just muttered, “Maybe pay attention,” under his breath.

It stung. But you let him go.

You tried to slip past unnoticed, but Gareth spotted you and waved enthusiastically.

“Hey! We haven’t seen you all week!”

Eddie turned at the sound of Gareth’s voice—turning just in time to see Gareth reaching for you, smiling.

And Eddie’s face changed. His expression shuttered. Jaw set. Something dark flickering behind his eyes.

You swallowed. “Hey, Gare. I’ve just been—busy.”

Eddie scoffed. Loud enough to make you flinch.

“Oh yeah? Too busy to even say hi now?”

You stiffened, heat crawling up your neck. “I said, I’ve been busy, Eddie.”

“Right,” he said flatly. “Because you’ve suddenly got this brand-new life that doesn’t involve any of us.”

You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand.

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Not like I’m your fucking babysitter.”

Gareth looked between you two, confused and uncomfortable.

You took a breath, tried to stay calm. “I’m going to class. I’ll give you a call later today if you want, Gare.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Shocker,” Eddie muttered as you walked away. “She remembers we exist when it’s convenient.”

Your stomach twisted painfully. But you didn’t turn back.

By the end of the week, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

Whenever you were near him, even by accident, he went rigid. Short answers. Cold tone. Like he was punishing you for hurting him. It almost made you want to laugh.

And then came the moment that broke you a little more.

You were at your locker between periods when he passed by with Jeff. He wasn’t even talking—just walking, tired and quiet.

You almost didn’t notice him. Almost.

Then Jeff said something that made him huff a laugh, and his eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a fraction of a second. Enough to acknowledge you. Enough to see you. But instead of looking away like he normally did… Eddie shot you a glare. Cold. Sharp. Done.

“You got a problem?” he snapped when he realized you were staring.

You jerked back, startled. “The fuck, Munson?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

It hit harder than you expected. You opened your mouth, stunned, but nothing came out.

He didn’t wait. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften.

He just walked off with Jeff, shaking his head as though you were the one being unreasonable.

And for the first time since this whole mess started… you felt something inside you break. Completely shattered with no pieces left to try to pick up.

Because this wasn’t the Eddie who’d held you through the night. Wasn’t the Eddie who kissed your forehead when you were falling asleep. Wasn’t the Eddie who once told you that you were his favorite person in the world.

This Eddie was tired. Frustrated. Wounded. And taking it out on you.

And still—some pathetic, traitorous part of you missed him.

—————-

The Hellfire boys had finally had enough. You didn’t know it but they’d been watching this slow-motion disaster unfold from both sides. Eddie moping and snapping at everyone. You avoiding them like they carried the plague.

And Hellfire, for all its chaos, was a family. A meddling one.

It happened on a Thursday after school. You were heading toward the parking lot, hoping to escape another day without bumping into Eddie, when Gareth caught your wrist.

“Hey-can you help us with something real quick?”

You blinked. “Um… help you with what?”

Dustin and Jeff appeared behind him, too quickly. Too smiley. Suspiciously smiley.

“It’s…uh…d&d.”

“Characters and whatnot!” Jeff added.

“We need your opinion.” Gareth said at the same time.

You raised a brow. “Since when do you need my opinion on your campaign?”

They ignored that, herding you down the hall like some awkward sheepdogs with an agenda.

“Guys, what is going on?”

Gareth opened the drama room door and pushed you gently inside. You stumbled forward, catching yourself. Just as the door clicked shut behind you. You spun around.

“Seriously? What-”

Locked.

You jiggled the knob. “Are you kidding me?! Guys, come on!!”

Silence. Then hurried footsteps. Then nothing.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “Unbelievable.”

But before you could fully process the level of stupid you’d just been subjected to— A voice came from the back of the room.

“Well, fuck.”

Your heart lurched.

Eddie sat on the edge of the stage platform, hands braced behind him, expression caught between annoyance and disbelief.

“They locked me in, too,” he said, glaring toward the door. “Said they needed help painting a new Corroded Coffin banner. Said Jeff wanted one to hang in his room.”

You stared at him. He stared back. Both of you tense. Wounded. Waiting.

The silence stretched until he exhaled harshly and pushed off the stage.

“So what,” Eddie muttered, hopping off the stage and pacing a few steps, “this is some messed-up intervention?”

“I guess,” you said quietly. “They’re worried.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, well. They shouldn’t be.”

But there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion.

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “You haven’t exactly been fun to be around lately. Heard all about it when I called Gareth.”

He stopped pacing. Slowly turned to you.

“Oh, I haven’t been fun?” he repeated, voice sharp. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. You won’t talk to me, won’t look at me-what was I supposed to do, just smile and wave?”

“That doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to everyone around you.” you snapped.

“Oh, trust me, I know,” he shot back. “I’m painfully aware that I’m screwing up everything. That I already screwed shit up long ago.”

His voice cracked, barely there. That shut you up.

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again, agitated. “You think I don’t notice when you’re gone? You think I don’t see you with Harrington and Buckley at lunch, pretending we never mattered? Pretending I never mattered?”

Your throat tightened. “Eddie, that’s not-”

“I miss you,” he blurted.

You froze. He froze. The words trembled in the air between you.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Shit. I didn’t mean to- well, I did, but not like-” He groaned and dragged both hands down his face. “Look, I’ve been an asshole. A huge one. The biggest. I know that. But I-I miss my best friend.”

Something inside you cracked, painfully and softly at the same time. You stared at him, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“I miss you too.” you whispered.

His eyes lifted. Hope flickered. Small and careful and afraid.

“But,” you continued, voice wavering, “I needed space.”

“I know,” he said immediately, stepping closer. “I get it now. I wasn’t giving you any. I was pushing. And I got jealous like a fucking child and…yeah-I deserve the silent treatment.”

He let out a breath, shaky and sincere.

“But I’m begging you- just talk to me. Yell at me. Hit me with a shoe. Anything. Just… don’t disappear on me again.”

You blinked fast, overwhelmed by the crack in his voice.

This wasn’t angry Eddie. Or defensive Eddie. Or casually cruel Eddie. This was your Eddie. Slowly, you stepped toward him. He stayed still, watching you like you were something fragile.

You swallowed. “It’s not that you got jealous, Eds. It was everything else.”

His brows pinched, the smallest shift, but you saw it— that flinch he tried to hide, like he was bracing for impact. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twisting together.

“It wasn’t the jealousy that hurt. It was how you treated me. The things you said. Then the way you made it seem like I was… disposable.”

Eddie’s face crumpled, the bravado slipping right off him.

“I didn’t… shit.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean that. I swear to god, sweetheart, I never meant it like that.”

“Stop with the sweetheart shit, please…” you whispered.

“It felt like once we started… whatever we started… I stopped being your friend unless you wanted something.”

He closed his eyes like the words physically hit him. You kept going, because stopping meant chickening out.

“You’d pull me close one night, then ignore me the next morning. You’d tell me I was your favorite person but flirt with other girls in front of me. You’d kiss me and then act like I was some chore the next day.”

“Jesus… fuck,” Eddie muttered, shaking his head as if trying to shake the memories loose. “I know. I know. I was an idiot. I was scared and-and defensive and… I handled everything like a complete jackass.”

You swallowed, throat tight.

He hesitated before stepping a little closer—not touching, just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“When you started avoiding me,” Eddie said softly, “I panicked. I didn’t know what I did wrong. And instead of asking you, I got pissed.”

A humorless laugh escaped him. “Really mature, right?”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t ready to let him off the hook. Not yet.

He looked at you, really looked—eyes soft and wrecked in the way they got when he was telling the truth.

“You’re not disposable,” he said.

His voice was rough, low, like it hurt him to say it out loud.

“You’re… you’re the one person I care about more than I know how to explain. And I fucked everything up because I didn’t know how to deal with that.”

He took one tiny step closer—giving you every chance to step back.

You didn’t.

“Eds…” you whispered, unsure of where to go from here.

His jaw tightened, eyes shining with something like desperation.

“I miss you,” he said again, voice cracking on the last word. “Not because of the sex. Not because you make everything fun.”

His chest rose and fell, uneven.

“I miss you because you’re my best friend,” he finished, softer than a whisper.

“And because losing you, like actually losing you, felt worse than anything I’ve been through.”

Your Eddie. Right there. Heart in his hands, terrified you wouldn’t take it.

He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the floor.

“If I ruined us and there’s no going back, tell me,” he said. “Tell me and I’ll let you go. It’ll hurt like hell, but- i’ll do it.”

Your heart squeezed so tight it hurt.

He looked up at you again, eyes wide and scared and full of hope he wouldn’t dare admit to.

“But if there’s a chance… even a small one… that we can fix this…”

He took a breath that shook.

“Just say the word.”

You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself, because this—this was the part you’d been terrified to touch.

The part that would change everything.

“Eds,” you said softly, “I need to ask you something.”

He straightened, shoulders tense. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, then forced it out.

“How do you feel about me?”

For a heartbeat, he froze.

Then Eddie Munson did what Eddie Munson always did when backed into an emotional corner.

He deflected.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels like this was all casual, all easy. Like your futures didn’t hang on his next sentence.

“Well,” he said with a shrug, “you’re my best friend.”

You stared at him, unblinking.

“And?” you pushed.

He huffed a nervous laugh. “And you-uh…you feel like home, I guess. My safe place. The person I go to when shit sucks.” He gestured vaguely. “The person I wanna talk to when something cool happens or when I have a shitty day. That’s… that’s how I feel.”

You blinked. That was it?

He must’ve seen the disappointment cross your face, because he rushed on.

“I mean, that’s important, right? That’s-big.”

But you just shook your head, the hurt creeping back into your chest.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered. “That’s not what I’ve been asking.”

You turned away, the burn behind your eyes making everything blur. “Forget it.”

“Hey-no,” he said quickly, stepping forward. “Don’t do that. Don’t walk away from me again. Talk to me. Help me understand.”

“You’re still not answering me,” you said, voice shaking. “You’re dodging. Like always.”

“I’m not dodging.”

“You just said I’m your best friend,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “You described a pet. Or a comfort blanket. You didn’t answer what I asked.”

Eddie’s mouth opened then closed. His eyes darted away, jaw clenching hard.

Your heart sank.

“Right,” you whispered, stepping back. “That’s what I thought.”

And when you turned toward the door, everything changed.

Because Eddie surged forward, grabbing your wrist—not hard, not enough to hurt, just enough to stop you from leaving and make you look at him.

His voice cracked and his eyes had started to get watery. “I’m in love with you.”

You froze. Every part of you. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

He swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours, desperate and terrified and done pretending.

“I am so goddamn in love with you it scares the shit out of me,” he said, words spilling out like he’d been holding them back for far too long. “That’s why I screwed everything up. That’s why I acted like a fucking idiot. Because every time I looked at you, I felt…more than I knew what to do with.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He stepped closer, still holding your wrist, lightly brushing his thumb against it.

“You wanted the truth?” he said, voice quiet but fierce. “That’s the truth.”

Your heart pounded in your ears.

“I freaked out,” he whispered. “I panicked. I wanted you so bad I couldn’t think straight. And instead of dealing with it like a normal fucking human, I ruined everything.”

His voice dropped to barely more than a breath. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes shone, soft and pleading. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

Silence fell between you—thick, powerful, fragile. Your wrist still in his hand. Your heart still pounding like it was trying to break free and crawl into his ribcage, trying to make a home next to his own heart.

And Eddie. he was bare, terrified, hopeful. Just waiting for you to speak.

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

His confession echoed in your head, too big, too impossible, too… everything.

Your voice came out small. Shaken.

“Are you…are you fucking with me?”

Eddie’s eyes widened immediately, almost offended. “What? No. No, I- why would I joke about that?”

“Because this doesn’t make sense,” you whispered. “Because you never said anything. Because you acted like-like everything but that.”

He let go of your wrist only to cup your face gently, palms warm against your cheeks.

“I know,” he murmured. “I know I handled everything wrong. But I’m not fucking with you.”

You held his gaze, searching for any sign of a lie, any hint of the old defensive Eddie.

Eddie’s expression softened—not nervous, not frantic anymore, but tender.

Almost painfully so.

“You remember that blackout?” he asked quietly.

“What?”“The first night you ever stayed at my house. The blackout.”

Your eyebrows drew together in confusion and you slowly nodded.

The storm.

The thunder that rattled the windows. Had you both worried it would tear down Wayne’s mug collection with how much the trailer shook from the wind.

The power going out mid-movie night.

You crawling into his bed because you were scared—and him pretending not to notice how tightly you clung to him.

“You fell asleep on me,” he said, eyes softening at the memory.

“Right here.” He touched his chest lightly. “Curled up like you belonged there.”

Your eyes quickly flashed to his balled up fist that rested on his chest before looking back into his gaze.

“And the storm kept getting worse,” he continued, voice warm, low, honest. “Every time thunder hit, you squeezed my shirt and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. And I just… I held you. Because it felt natural. It felt right.”

Your throat tightened.

He smiled faintly, shaking his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You were scared and all I wanted to do was protect you and make you feel safe. And you tucked your cold feet between my ankles, like you always do, like it was the most normal thing in the world.”

You blinked, lips parting.

You hadn’t even realized you’d done that.

“And I remember lying there,” he said, voice dropping to something more vulnerable, “in the dark, with your heartbeat against me, thinking… oh, shit.”

A soft, stunned laugh escaped you. “Oh shit?”

“Oh shit,” he repeated with a crooked, self-deprecating smile.

“Because I realized I didn’t want to fall asleep alone anymore. I realized I wanted you there every night. I wanted to be the person you came to when you were scared. Or sad. Or excited. Or bored. I just wanted to be your person.”

He exhaled, the confession pouring out of him like he’d been holding it back for far too long.

“And I realized I wasn’t just attracted to you. I wasn’t just… into the physical stuff. I wanted everything with you.”

Your chest ached but this type of ache was new. It had all those cracks he had created in you suddenly filling with warmth.

Eddie swallowed, eyes locked on yours.

“But it terrified me,” he said. “Because I’m me. And you…”

His voice cracked.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had. And the idea of losing you scared me so bad I messed everything up trying to ignore how I felt. So I slapped the casual label on it, ‘cause if it’s casual, you wouldn’t have to break my heart by rejecting me.”

You loosened, the tight coil of hurt and anger inside you unwinding. It wasn’t fully gone, not magically fixed, but softening. Like it was starting to fray and dissolve at the edges.

Dissolving because this was real. Because he meant it. Because he wasn’t just saying what you wanted to hear.

Your voice shook. “Eds…”

He stepped closer, forehead brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.

“I’m not messing with you,” he whispered.

“Not now. Not ever. But ever since that night, I used to pray for thunderstorms to happen while you were at my house.”

You stared at him—really stared—at the flushed cheeks, the trembling hands, the way he was trying so hard not to touch you unless you gave him permission.

And something inside you finally, finally snapped. Not in anger. In relief.

Before he could say anything else, you gave a light laugh at his last confession before you surged forward and grabbed the sides of his face, pulling his mouth to yours.

Eddie inhaled sharply against your lips, like he hadn’t dared dream you’d actually kiss him outside the confines of your homes. Then he melted into you, the way you had done with him so many times. His hands sliding to your waist as if he’d been holding himself back.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was weeks of hurting.

Months of wanting.

Years of being stupidly, hopelessly in love with each other.

When you finally broke away, both of you were breathless—your nose brushing his, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

His voice was wrecked. “Sweetheart…”

“You idiot,” you whispered, a tear slipping down even though you were smiling. “You never had to worry about me rejecting you.”

Eddie blinked, stunned. “W-what?”

“I’ve been in love with you too,” you admitted, cheeks burning, heart pounding. “For a long time. Longer than I should’ve let myself.”

He stared at you like the world had just tilted under his feet.

Then a shaky disbelieving laugh escaped him. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

You laughed, wiping your cheeks. “Eds—”

But he pulled back, cupping your face as if he needed to see the truth written there. His brown eyes were glassy, wide, and so full of emotion it almost hurt to look at them.

“You mean it?” he breathed. “You’re in love with me?”

“I mean it.” you whispered.

A slow, awestruck smile spread across his face—soft at first, then growing into something radiant. Something he couldn’t have held back even if he’d tried. It was his best kind of smile. The one you always wanted him to wear.

“Holy shit,” he said, and before you could tease him for it, he kissed you again like he’d been starving for this. Like he’d been waiting forever.

You realized neither of you were worried anymore. Not about jealousy. Not about rejection. Not about ruining anything. Because you’d finally stopped running from the truth.

You’d been his. And he’d been yours. Long before either of you were brave enough to say it.

When you finally parted, he leaned his forehead against yours. Eyes still closed, dropping his arms between the two of your and finding your own.

“I didn’t have an ah-ha moment like you.” You admitted. Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t shake.

“I didn’t suddenly realize I was in love with you all at once.”

Eddie pulled back, finally opening his eyes to look at you, watching you like he was afraid whatever this spell was would suddenly break.

“It just… built,” you continued. “Little things. The way you’d make everything feel lighter, even when my whole world was going to shit. How you’d look at me during campaigns like you were making sure I was still having fun. How you always saved me the last cigarette. Or the middle seat on the couch. Or the warmest blanket.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tensing.

“And it didn’t feel dramatic or shocking,” you said, shaking your head. “It felt normal. It felt… like breathing. Like something I’d been doing forever without realizing it.”

Your laugh came out uneven.

“Honestly, Steve was the one that pointed it out to me. Asked if I was in love with you. By the time I actually stopped and thought about it, it was already true. So true it scared the hell out of me too.”

One of his hands rose slowly, cupping your cheek.

You leaned into the warmth before you could stop yourself.

“I kept waiting for you to figure it out first,” you whispered. “Because if you didn’t, that meant I’d ruin everything by saying it first.”

His thumb grazed your lower lip, and his eyes flicked down to your mouth like he couldn’t help it.

“I wish you would’ve. Just taken that leap. Or maybe me have enough balls to do it the proper way. So, I guess, million dollar question. Do you want to be my girlfriend? Officially. Fuck this casual shit.”

You shook your head lightly, overwhelmed, giddy, breathless in a way you hadn’t felt since the first time he ever smiled just for you.

“Eddie…” you said, but your voice was already cracking around the edges of a laugh.

He looked panicked for half a second—eyes widening, shoulders tensing like he thought you were about to turn him down.

“Hey—no, no, don’t laugh,” he rushed out as more panic built in his chest. “I’m being serious. Dead serious. I want you. I want us. No more pretending we’re just… whatever the hell we thought we were doing.”

You laid your head against his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist. His moved to wrap around your shoulders, holding you tight against him.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, smiling into him. “I’m laughing because… I’ve wanted you to ask me that for so god damn long, Eds.”

The relief that washed over his face was instant and obvious—like his whole body exhaled at once. His grip on you tightened, steadying himself like you were the one holding all the power now.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, half a laugh, half a disbelieving groan. “You’re gonna take years off my life, you know that? Make my hair go grey early.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was beating too hard, too fast.

He looked so happy. So open. So yours.

“So…” he tried again, lifting your face up to look at him, leaning in, noses brushing, “is that a yes? Before I keel over from suspense?”

You pretended to think for half a second, just to tease him, and he dropped his head and let out a dramatic whine into the curve of your neck.

“Yes, you idiot,” you finally said, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”

He froze.

Then he scooped you up—literally lifted you off the ground—laughing into your neck like he couldn’t help himself.

You squealed, arms tightening around him as he spun you once before setting you back down, hands framing your face like he was making sure you were real.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, grinning wide and a little wild. “You’re mine. Like—for real.”

You nudged your forehead against his, smiling so big it almost hurt.

“And you’re mine.” You murmured.

He kissed you then. It was messy, eager, but this time, full of so much love. Every feeling you guys had swallowed for so long poured out all at once.

No hesitation. No pretending. Just Eddie. Your Eddie.

Finally.

Because fuck being casual.

[lunamonchtuna]

— Uma Thurman (via lunamonchtuna)