Boy Wonder

Tina. 24. she/her. Just living my best life watching tv shows and crying for fictional characters. Criminal minds

[foxilayde]

Nine [Poe Dameron x fem!Reader]

Warnings: *looks you dead in the eyes* Bitch if you only knew how long this has been in my drafts. Nearly two thousand words of cunnilingus, piv, one tickle fight, alien alcohol consumption, mixed metaphors, and the projection of sexual/emotional desires onto the best pilot in the resistance 18+ ONLY.

Summary: Idiots in love. You’re the idiot, mainly. You happen to hear something quite salacious about your bestie. And oooh boy, are you awful at keeping your shit together.

Word Count: 15.7K 

There are some things you can’t unhear. Tidbits of information that just fuck your whole day up with the implications. Specific ideas or mental images, solicited or not, that take form in your brain and proceed to run through your mind like a fathier on a racetrack. Oh Maker, you wish you could unhear this conversation. Because you know, you know after hearing all that… you’ll never be able to look at Poe Dameron the same way again. At least not for a long, long time. 

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You really didn’t. You were in the stall peeing, minding your own business for Maker’s sake and they just happened to come in and have this conversation. This was on them, not on you. What were you supposed to do? Cover your ears and hum to yourself? Bolt out of the toilet without washing your hands? 

You were just having a normal, routine, piss in the cantina bathroom- spotchka going right through you, as per usual… and that’s when you heard them. Maker, you wish you’d never heard them. 

Voices coming from the sink area.

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[batshitbimbo]

▬❝ crush? ❞

summary: one moment he was just some pilot and the next he was your Poe, ⟶ {Poe Dameron x f!reader}

warnings: minor alcohol consumption, injury mention

ONESHOT. 5782 WORDS

find more of my work here // masterlist !!! or get to know the author here :))

You weren’t quite sure when exactly it had happened but you did know that Poe Dameron was paying you more attention than ever before. One day you’d barely interacted with him and the next you seemed to be seeing him everywhere. 

As one of the resistance’s assistant strategists you didn’t officially have that much to do with Poe. The two of you had been in meetings together, you’d run a few errands for your superiors that had involved delivering something to him, once he’d come directly to you to ask your opinion on a plan he had, but aside from that your paths didn’t cross. And then they did. 

All of a sudden he was greeting you as he passed your office - somewhere so far away from anywhere he’d need to be it was ridiculous. Then he was bumping into you in the hallways with an ‘extra’ cup of coffee that just happened to be exactly how you liked it. And soon you were one of his friends. A feat you had nothing to do with and yet still managed to make a few of your peers jealous. It wasn’t as if you’d done anything, or at least nothing you could remember.

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[peachpitfan]

love these guys

[mangio-formaggio]

[moroseghost]

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions and interpretations, but a lot of opinions I see on Spike feel like they’re undermining the entire point of his character.

Spike thematically represents morally grey areas. He’s not the simple black and white worldview that Buffy has as a young teen. It’s not good vs evil. It’s not Angel vs Angelus. Spike truly is evil, and sometimes he truly is good. Canonically he has done countless reprehensible, immoral, disgusting things. But he also supports Buffy. He cares for Dawn. He would sacrifice himself for either of them in a heartbeat. He tries to do better. Some of that is rooted in selfish reasons and some of it isn’t.

My main point is that Spike isn’t simple. That is the entire point of his character. He’s a representation of Buffy growing up and having to face that morality is a lot more complex and confusing than you want it to be.

When people defend him so much that they pretend he hasn’t done anything wrong, it erases why he’s a good character. It erases everything he represents and all the work he puts in to grow. So many of the opinions I see on Spike are “he’s done nothing wrong” or “he’s purely evil no one should like him”. It’s ironic that people have very reductionist views of him. The whole point is that he forces Buffy, and you as the viewer, to think about moral grey areas. To make you uncomfortable. Because we want morality to be simple. The older you get the more you realize it isn’t.

The fact that people have that reaction to him kind of shows how incredible the writing is and how much he truly embodies that theme. He’s there to make you uncomfortable and force you to think about moral grey areas - and fans try to simplify him to make themselves comfortable. Including me sometimes! It’s a completely normal and human reaction. And it’s why he’s a great character.

[dirtbaghot]

happy to help

9.2k, melfrank, explicit jerk off instructions, mutual masturbation, phone sex

“Hey, Frank?”  “Mmph, yeah?” He says, head still searching for what he’s looking for.  “About what I said earlier.” Frank pauses, still crouched inside the fridge, phone in between his ear and shoulder. Suddenly his breathing slows. “I’m sorry if it was weird. You’d tell me if it was too weird, right? I… I didn’t know what else to say.” Why does she sound so guilty? Frank feels a pit nestle itself in his stomach. “No. Mel, listen. Don’t apologize. One, it was part of the game. Blame Santos if you have to. She’s the dumbass who started it. Two, it’s a perfectly normal human behavior. We’re doctors. We should be able to talk about it like adults.” Liar.

Or, Mel has never gotten herself off. She goes to Frank for help.

[dirtbaghot]

happy to help

9.2k, melfrank, explicit jerk off instructions, mutual masturbation, phone sex

“Hey, Frank?”  “Mmph, yeah?” He says, head still searching for what he’s looking for.  “About what I said earlier.” Frank pauses, still crouched inside the fridge, phone in between his ear and shoulder. Suddenly his breathing slows. “I’m sorry if it was weird. You’d tell me if it was too weird, right? I… I didn’t know what else to say.” Why does she sound so guilty? Frank feels a pit nestle itself in his stomach. “No. Mel, listen. Don’t apologize. One, it was part of the game. Blame Santos if you have to. She’s the dumbass who started it. Two, it’s a perfectly normal human behavior. We’re doctors. We should be able to talk about it like adults.” Liar.

Or, Mel has never gotten herself off. She goes to Frank for help.

[aquawild]

i’m so sorry for doubting your vision kingdon shippers but i can see it now i’m happy for you

[elektranatchios]

And so I wake in the morning, And I step outside, And I take a deep breath and I get real high, And I scream from the top of my lungs, What’s going on?

[stevie-petey]

episode one: the vanishing of will byers

Steve nods, as if you almost getting hit by his car makes perfect sense to him. When you walk over to your bike and inspect it for any damage, he follows after you.  “So,” he whistles, trying to pretend that this is all a completely normal occurrence. “You, uh, need a ride?” Honestly you don’t know why you’re surprised he hasn’t noticed the clear signs of you crying, your swollen eyes and red nose. Not only is he a boy, but he’s also Steve Harrington. It’s a miracle he even stopped to make sure you weren’t dead.

Summary: jonathan smuggles you free food in exchange for friendship, will goes missing the one time you listen to jonathan, hopper doesn't really like you, and steve harrington almost hits you with his car as you're sobbing like a damn baby (in a cool way).

Rating: general, although there's plenty of cursing and slight innuendos, so fair warning.

Warnings: cursing, fem!reader, and use of y/n.

Words: 7k

Before you swing in: hello ! this is the first chapter of my come home series, where i plan on rewriting the entirety of stranger things because i really love a good rewrite fic and this is me just indulging in my ideal fic fantasies tbh. before we start: this is a steve x reader fic, however there will be some slight feelings between the reader and jonathan, but it doesn't at all get in the way of steve and honestly just adds to the angst because i love a good tragedy. also, reader is dustin's older sister, but i tried to write her as neutral as possible in terms of physical features, so let's all just play along. that is all ! i'm very excited for this series and i hope y'all enjoy the reader as much as i do :)

-

November 6th, 1983

Your shift at Bookstrordinary ends at 8:30 tonight, so as soon as you’ve organized all the books within the store and cashed out the last customer, you say goodnight to your boss, Mrs. Waters, and clock out. Today had been a longer shift, and it didn’t help that you had to deal with a particularly eager bookclub mother who insisted that you had the latest copy of some obscure novel that she needed for her club. After several attempts to inform her that no, you really didn’t have some novel about a cowboy falling in love with a rodeo girl from Michigan, nor would you ever want to read that, the mother angrily walked away. 

You’re happy to finally be free from work though, excited to see Jonathan to tell him about the book club mom because you know he gets a kick out of those suburban middle class mothers that terrorize Hawkins. He works across from you, at The Hawk theater, and it’s one of your favorite things about the bookstore. Besides getting to be surrounded by books all day and reading Spider-Man, you get to be across the street from your best friend and share frequent breaks together. 

A bell signifies your arrival at the theater, alerting Jonathan to look up from the concession stand and smile at you. He looks tired, which you can understand. It’s been a particularly long school year so far with Jonathan having to work more shifts than usual to support his family. 

“Welcome to The Hawk, can I interest you in our specialty popcorn and candy corn mixture?”

You make a face, “No, thanks. Candy corn freaks me out.” 

Jonathan laughs, knowing you’d say that. It’s been a running joke between the two of you for as long as you can remember. You’re not picky with most foods, but candy corn? The bane of your existence. “Tough crowd, then.” 

You laugh as well, now standing in front of the counter, and you learn against it so that you’re in Jonathan’s space. After being friends for so long, personal space doesn’t exist between the two of you. You’re the only person that Jonathan lets get this close to him on a regular basis, which you’re secretly proud of. 

“So, you almost done so we can pick up our idiotic brothers?” Tonight, as usual, Will and Dustin are at Mike’s house playing DnD. They’d biked over as soon as school let out, while Jonathan drove you to work, so he was your ride back for the night. 

He shakes his head at you, wincing, “I picked up an extra shift tonight. Stacy called out sick, and it’s good money…”

You nod in understanding. He doesn’t have to explain himself to you, which he’s always relieved by. 

“It’s okay. Is my bike still in your trunk?” 

“Yeah, I can get it out for you since I’m kind of ditching you tonight.” 

You wave him off, already reaching across the counter to grab his keys from his coat pocket. “No need, I’ll get it out myself so you don’t get in trouble with your boss.” Jonathan’s boss is an older guy, extra scary. “I’m assuming that I’m taking Will home tonight?” 

“It’ll be late by the time you get the boys, and you’ll have Dustin. We only live a couple blocks apart, you can just bike with Will until you get to your street.”

“Are you sure? I know he’s scared of the dark.” 

“It’s fine, Y/N. You’re already doing enough being there for most of the ride; I’m sure Will can survive the last five minutes alone.” 

You give Jonathan an unsure look, but you don’t argue with him. He’s his brother, he knows Will’s capabilities, and it’s an unspoken fact that you baby Will a bit too much. He’s just so much tinier than the other boys, softer in a way that you want to protect. He’s special. 

Jonathan sneaks you a large peach lemonade and hot dog from the concession stand when you return with his keys. You’ve parked your bike up front, and you accept the food gratefully. You hadn’t had time to eat your usual dinner during your break due to the bookclub mother fiasco, so you inhale the food quickly and give his hair a ruffle. 

“You’re a lifesaver, bee.” 

Jonathan lightly hits your hand away from his hair. “Consider it your payment for dealing with Will and Dustin on your own tonight, bug.” 

Bee and bug were the names the two of you had given each other years ago. Jonathan had started it with bug, stemming from the fact that you love Spider-Man so much, and you had struggled to come up with your own nickname for him. Then it came to you: bee, or B, for Byers. It was perfect, and you’re still incredibly proud of yourself for the creativity, honestly. 

After your quick dinner, you say goodbye to your friend and head off. It’s late now, nearing 9, and you hope that Mrs. Wheeler and your own mom won’t be too upset with you for being late for pick up. You know they prefer to have the boys in bed by a decent hour, but in your defense, Jonathan did skip out on you.

You arrive at the Wheeler’s in a short amount of time and knock on the door. Your cheeks are flushed from the early November cold, and you’re regretting that you only put on a thin sweater and jeans this morning.

Mike answers the door, giving you a dirty look. “Did you have to come early?”

“I’m actually later than usual,” you sidestep him, making your way into his house; you’ve become used to Mike’s attitude. “I take it the campaign is still ongoing?”

“See, mom? Even Y/N understands how long a good campaign can go on for!” Mike waves his arms at you, as if to signify to his mother the importance of your understanding. 

Mrs. Wheeler ignores her son to greet you kindly, albeit a bit exasperated. “Hello, Y/N, please come in.” Then she turns to Mike, giving him a stern look. “Mike, why don’t you tell Y/N how you boys have been playing for ten hours? I’m sure she’ll be understanding then.” 

“You guys have been playing for ten hours?”

Mike looks down in embarrassment for a second before turning to his father for help. You laugh a bit at his enthusiasm and see a faint smile on his mom’s face as well. Quietly you excuse yourself to go downstairs to find the other boys, and Mrs. Wheeler wishes you luck. 

Everyone always acts like the boys are some giant pain; truthfully, you enjoy them. Sure, they can be a handful, but they’re just kids; it’s hard for you to ever stay mad at them. Plus they like you, so it makes dealing with them easier. 

Lucas, Dustin, and Will are running around the basement when you get down there, frantically searching for something. You hear Lucas inform Will that if Mike doesn’t see something, then it doesn’t count. The urgence in his voice amuses you; you’ll never fully wrap your head around why they take DnD so seriously, but you love that they can enjoy it with each other. 

Dustin is the first to see you. “Y/N!”

The other boy’s heads turn to you and they greet you with enthusiasm as well. Will rushes towards you for a hug, which you gladly accept. When you break apart, Lucas gives you a high five and asks about a comic you’ve put on hold for him at the store. 

“Any luck?”

“Sorry, Sinclair. It’s still sold out, but the second it’s restocked I’ll smuggle one for you.” 

“Sick!” 

Dustin walks over, now in his coat and holding a pizza box. “Want a slice?” 

You decline, informing him that Jonathan snuck some food for you. At the mention of his brother’s name, Will asks where he is. You tell him that Jonathan had to cover a shift and that you’ll be taking him most of the way home tonight. 

As you all make your way upstairs, you notice that Dustin continues up to the second floor. Lucas notices too, and the two of you share a knowing look. 

“Still have a crush on Nancy?” You ask, already knowing the answer. 

“Yup.” Lucas responds, smiling in disappointment. 

You wait for your brother outside, helping Will with his coat and listen to Mike’s rambling about the campaign. Lucas is already on his bike, ready to go. 

“There’s something wrong with your sister.” Dustin declares when he finally returns.

Mike looks at you, then at your brother, confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“She’s got a stick up her butt.” 

“Dustin!” You berate. Nancy isn’t your favorite person, but she’s always been nice to you the few times you’ve interacted. You guys used to be closer when you were younger, but high school has a way of distancing people.

“Yeah,” Lucas now speaks up. “It’s because she’s been dating that douchebag, Steve Harrington.” How the hell does Lucas even know about that? You didn’t even know about that until just now. 

“Lucas! Language!” 

“Yeah, she’s been turning into a real jerk.”

“Dustin, I swear to God-” 

The boys ignore you, which you’re honestly not surprised by. While they may like you, that doesn't mean that they listen to you. On a good day they maybe listen to you 25% of the time, but tonight was clearly not a good night. 

Mike finally cuts in, “She’s always been a real jerk.”

“Hey, she’s your sister. Give her some credit-”

Dustin is now the one who cuts you off. “Nuh-uh, only you get the sister leniency, Y/N. Nancy used to be cool, now she isn’t.” 

“Remember that time she dressed up as an elf for our Elder tree campaign?” Lucas asks, almost reminiscent. 

You shudder at the way he says it, and you shudder more when you see the dreamy look in your brother’s eyes. “Yeah, I remember…” 

“Gross,” you huff at your brother, now hopping on your own bike. 

Lucas and Dustin begin to pedal away, and you call after them to wait up. Will is still with Mike, and you promised Jonathan you’d get him home. You give the boys a bit of space, waiting a few paces ahead. Will has always been shy around Mike, something that you’ve tried not looking into too much, but to be safe you give them some privacy. 

Faintly, you hear Will say, “The Demogorgon, it got me.” 

Lights flicker a bit, but you’re too focused on the slight unease you feel by Will’s words. Before you can think too much about them, he joins you. “Race you up to Lucas and Dustin?”

“You’re on,” you tell him. 

Will beats you to the boys (which you let him do), and you’re out of breath. The four of you bike in silence for a bit until you reach Lucas’s turn into his neighborhood. 

“Good night, ladies.” He says, and you don’t need to be a psychic to know what your brother’s response is going to be.

“Kiss your mom ‘night for me.” Bless him.

You and Will giggle together, and Dustin smirks at the two of you, proud. He sits in the praise for a few moments before challenging you and Will to race home with the promise of a comic for whoever wins. 

“I call last year’s Black Cat issue of Spider-Man!” You call out, already biking away from the boys. 

“We didn’t say go!”

Dustin and Will call after you as they try to catch up, and within a few seconds the three of you are speeding down the hill towards your home. You laugh gleefully, enjoying the way the wind whips through your hair and the way Dustin, though annoyed by your early start, laughs alongside you with Will. 

Somehow Will is the one who wins the race, which you’re impressed by. He may be small, but he’s surprisingly good at winning when it comes to a competition. Dustin shouts at Will that he’ll kill him, which makes you send a warning look at him. 

“I’ll take your X-Men 134!” Will retaliates, still flying through the street. 

You and Dustin are now stopped at your mailbox and you take a moment to catch your breath before shouting at Will, “Be careful, please! Stay safe!”

“I’ll be fine, I promise!” Will’s voice is distant, now a few yards away, and you stand outside for a few more seconds to watch his figure disappear into the night. Dustin has already gone inside but you wait to follow, only going inside when you can no longer see Will, hopefully home safe and sound. You feel fear creep upon you, but you chalk it up to your usual worry when it comes to the boy. 

He’ll be okay, Jonathan should be home within the hour. 

– 

The next morning you’re frantically biking to school, pissed off at Jonathan. He’s your ride every morning, or everywhere, really, and for the second time in 24 hours he’s bailed on you. Dustin left for school ages ago on his bike, so you’re thankful he doesn’t see you embarrassingly sweaty and gross as you race to school. 

It’s not that you’re pissed that Jonathan bailed again, you’re pissed because he didn’t even have the nerve to call you ahead of time to warn you. Now you have only ten minutes before the first bell rings, and your sweater clings to you uncomfortably as you sweat. 

You make it to school with a few minutes to spare, so you quickly make your way over to your locker to grab the necessary books for the day. You’re still sweaty, and you don’t want to even think about what your hair looks like right now. You look down the hall towards Jonathan’s locker, still not seeing him, and you begin to worry a bit. Maybe he overslept after last night’s shift? 

A body crashes into yours, sending your notebooks spiraling to the ground. Steve Harrington looks at you sheepishly, only saying a small “whoops!” before continuing his fast pace towards the girl’s bathroom. You scoff, now even more annoyed with your entire morning, picking up your stuff as you see Nancy enter the same bathroom a few moments later. 

“In a public school bathroom?” You mutter in disgust, collecting the last of your things and heading to class. 

You decide to give Jonathan until second period, sophomore English which the two of you share, before you freak out. You know you have a problem with over worrying about the people you love, so you try to calm yourself down. While Jonathan has never been the type to cancel without at least calling first, you reason with yourself that everyone has a bad morning. He simply slept in too late. When he wakes up, he’ll come to school and he’ll be sitting in the seat next to you in English. 

Except Jonathan isn’t in the seat next to yours when you enter the classroom an hour later. Now you officially let yourself begin to worry. Something about this doesn’t feel right. 

You’ve never skipped class before, school has always been important to you. You’re the top of your class with hopes of running away from Hawkins with Jonathan to a big city with an even bigger university. However, you don’t even hesitate to flee the classroom and find the nearest phone in the school to call the Byers’ residence. 

Jonathan answers after a few rings, and the words that leave his lips change your life forever. “Will is missing.”

You feel all the air in your lungs be knocked out of you. You can’t breathe and you sway a bit as your knees threaten to give out. This isn’t real, this can’t be happening. 

“What?”

“Will, he-he’s gone, Y/N. We can’t find him and-” 

You don’t hear whatever else Jonathan says. You struggle to get air back in your lungs. Will isn’t missing, you just saw him last night. Mere hours ago Will laughed next to you, face alive with joy, he hugged you and joked along with you. 

“He didn’t come home last night-”

“He didn’t come home?” Jonathan’s words catch your attention and you feel bile rise in your throat. Will didn’t make it home last night. You were the last one to see him, and the realization crushes you; it’s all your fault. 

“Mom and I just searched the woods, and there’s no sign of him and-” Jonathan is rambling now, his own fear and despair clear in his voice. 

“Jonathan,” you force his name out, now needing to be there for your best friend. You can worry for Will in your own time, right now Jonathan needs you. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” 

“Y/N, you don’t-”

You hang up before Jonathan can argue with you and stumble towards the exit. Your limbs feel heavier than normal, and your ears are ringing. Will is missing. He’s so small, he’s scared of the dark… You left him alone in the dark. 

The bike ride to the Byers home is a blur. You don’t remember much, your body going on autopilot the second you hopped on your bike. You’re running on pure fear and adrenaline right now, too worried for your boys to focus on anything else. 

You don’t bother to knock when you arrive, instead you let yourself in. Joyce is on the phone, arguing with some woman named Cynthia. Your eyes find Jonathan’s, who is sitting on the couch hunched over something. You walk over to him and sit down beside him and your stomach lurches when you see the words “have you seen me?” he’s so neatly printed out on a piece of paper.

“Bee…” you exhale, voice cracking a bit. 

Jonathan doesn’t say anything, but you know him as well as you know yourself. He doesn’t want comforting words right now. You take his hand into yours and lean your head against his shoulder. Worry has made his muscles tense, but you feel him relax into you a bit as he rests his own head against yours. The two of you sit like that for a moment, taking in the comfort you bring each other. 

“Bitch!” Joyce slams the phone down, causing you and Jonathan to jump apart. 

“Mom,”

“What?” Joyce is a mixture of both rage and anxiety, and you feel awful looking at her. Her son is missing, you can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now.

“You have to stay calm.” Jonathan tells her, his voice firm but kind. You know it’s taking everything in him to be as stable as he is right now; he’s putting on a front for his worried mother. You squeeze his hand, hoping it conveys the support and love that you need it to.

He squeezes back, and you see Joyce finally recognize that you’re there as well. She sends you a weak wave, which you return, before she goes back to dialing and trying to reach Lonnie. Jonathan gives your hand one last squeeze and lets go, now returning back to the posters. You immediately understand that he’s doing this to distract himself, so you do the same and wordlessly help him.

You begin writing your own “have you seen me?” when Joyce once again slams her phone down. The sound makes you flinch, inadvertently messing up your writing, which you sigh at. Before you can ask Jonathan for another piece of paper, you hear a car pull up. 

Jonathan stands up to investigate, alerting his mom that the cops are here. You follow after them outside, your heart dropping when you see Will’s bike in the Chief’s hand. He ushers everyone inside, informing Joyce that he found the bike lying in the road.

“How far was it from the house?” You ask, your voice frail. 

The Chief looks at you, his nametag informs you that his name is Hopper, and raises his eyebrows. “And can I know who is asking?” 

You clear your throat, nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. “I’m Y/N Henderson. I’m close with the Byers, I biked with Will home,” your voice catches in your throat, snagging onto the guilt that has been clawing at you ever since you found out Will was missing. You clear your throat again, determined to continue. “I was with him last night. My brother and I live right off Mirkwood, a few blocks from here. He only had a few more minutes before he would’ve been home.” 

Hopper stares at you. “Mirkwood?”

“It’s where-”

“Yeah, those moron kids explained it to me. I just didn’t think someone your age would call the street that, too.” Then, as an afterthought, Hopper adds, “The bike was found a block from here.”

His words sting, but you ignore it. If the bike was found only a block from the Byers’ home, then that means that something had to have happened to Will only minutes after you last saw him. You feel the familiar churning in your stomach, wracked with guilt. 

“Did it have any blood on it?” Joyce now asks, and you’re thankful she’s taken the attention off of you. 

Jonathan sees your distress and grabs your sweater so that you fall back a bit from the cops and Joyce. “Do you need a minute?”

You can only nod, afraid that if you open your mouth you’ll either cry or throw up. He gently guides you to his room, closing the door. Once you’re alone, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in tight. You’re shaking harder than ever now, Will’s happy and shining face from last night keeps flashing through your mind. 

You were the last one who ever saw him.

You’re the one who was last responsible for him. 

You.

“It’s not your fault,” Jonathan whispers, his voice muffled by your hair. You’ve always loved how you fit perfectly in his arms, your height difference being just enough that he always rests his chin against your head when he hugs you. 

“I’m the last person who saw him.”

“Y/N, I was the one who asked you to only bike him halfway-”

“No,” your voice comes out louder than you intend it to, and you push Jonathan away. He lets out a confused noise as you grapple at him, forcing him to look directly at you. “I should’ve been with him, Jonathan. It’s your job to support your family, and it’s my job to help you. I have to… I have to be the one who helps you.” 

You’ve always been fascinated by psychology, and you remember reading in one of the journals about codependency; the term was used in relation to addiction, specifically alcoholism, but it had caught your interest. To love someone to the extent that their actions make you feel responsible for them, to selflessly take on their burdens to a debilitating extent, well, it reminded you of your relationship with Jonathan. 

You’ve always taken on whatever Jonathan has had to deal with, ever since you were kids, and it’s always come so naturally to you. He’s never asked you to, and sometimes the extent to which you carry his weight angers him, but it’s how you love.

It’s who you are. You’re always the one who helps, it’s what you need to be able to do. If you can’t help the ones you love the most, then what good is your love for them?

Jonathan may not know about codependency, but he knows how hard you love those closest to you. “Bug, listen to me.” He grabs your face, almost aggressively, in order to cut off your rambling. “My mom, she-she’s already spiraling and I can’t… I need you. I need you to be here, with me, right now. If I lose you too, then I-I don’t know what I’ll do.”

His words cut through you like glass. He’s right, you know he’s right, and you feel another wave of guilt wash over you. This guilt is different from the guilt surrounding Will. This is mixed with shame for allowing yourself to spiral so far and forcing Jonathan to take care of you. Joyce is clearly unwell, you can’t fathom how much he’s had to deal with today. 

You gently remove Jonathan’s hands from your face and take a step back. If you’re going to help him, you need to collect yourself. From here on out, you have to be a wall for him to lean on, a shoulder to cry on, someone who will listen to him. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jonathan shrugs at you, now allowing a hesitant smile to cross his face. “If it makes you feel any better, it took a lot less pleading to get through to you. I’m still working on my mom.” 

The joke is foul, one that should make you feel even worse than you already do, because what sixteen year old has to plead with their mother to remind her that he’s there, too? The joke is horrible, and it’s exactly what you need to find yourself laughing, and Jonathan joins. 

Codependency can be a bitch, but Jonathan understands you in ways that no one else can. 

“You think the cops are gone?” You ask, wiping away the remaining tears. 

Jonathan listens for any sign of them and shakes his head. “No, I think we’re all clear.”

He walks out the room first and you follow after him. Joyce is standing in the kitchen, staring at the counter with a far off look in her eyes. You and Jonathan look at each other and you motion for him to go talk to her. He nods, and then you motion to the living room to indicate that you’ll continue working on the missing posters. 

Carefully writing on the posters soothes you, in a way. It’s rhythmic, providing a sense of lull that you readily embrace. You faintly hear Jonathan talking with his mother, then you watch as he leads her to her bedroom and shuts the door. When he returns he sits next to you on the couch and begins to work on the posters as well. No words are needed. 

You work on the posters in silence for a few hours until it nears 3pm. Dustin will be getting out of school soon, and you have to be there for him when he’s home. While Will may be Jonathan’s brother, he’s also your brother’s best friend. You get up and head into the kitchen, long familiar now with its layout and usual contents within the fridge, and quickly prepare the ingredients for spaghetti. It’s a simple meal, but Jonathan and Joyce need to eat. Once it’s all laid out, you return to the living room and tap on your friend’s shoulder. 

“Hey, I have to head out now to check on Dustin, but I just put a pot of water on the stove along with some noodles on the counter. I also cut up some vegetables and put them in the fridge for the sauce. Start the meal whenever, I laid everything out for you.”

“Thank you, really,” Jonathan exhales, relief evident on his face. He hadn’t even thought about dinner, which you figured he wouldn’t. 

You bend down to kiss the top of his head. “Anytime, bee. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” 

“Just…” you linger at the door, not fully wanting to leave him all by himself. “Be careful, please.” 

“Go, Y/N. I’ll be fine, I promise.” Jonathan reassures you.

“I’ll be fine, I promise!” Will’s voice is distant, now a few yards away, and you stand outside for a few more seconds to watch his figure disappear into the night.

It’s brief, but the flashback punches you in the gut. You close your eyes, holding onto the image of Will’s face in the moonlight last night, and when it fades you take a deep breath and force yourself to leave. 

The second you’re on your bike, pedaling away from the house, you let the sobs that have wracked against your throat all day out. It’s messy, the tears coming down your face faster than you can wipe them away. All the fear you’ve felt is now able to freely come out. It’s not the safest way to bike home, but you know that if you hold the tears in any longer you’ll collapse. You do your best to still be alert, but apparently you fail because a BMW honks at you to avoid you hitting it. 

“Fuck!” You yank your bike to the right, having no idea that you had been on the left side of the road, and topple over. The fall isn’t anything bad, but it definitely is your final straw for the day. You lay in the ditch you’ve landed in, staring at the November sky, and let the pain from your skinned knee serve as something to ground you to reality. 

“Holy shit, did I hit you?” 

Steve Harrington stands over you, a horrified look in his eyes. 

“Unfortunately not, otherwise I’d be able to sue you and get money out of it.” 

“Uh… okay?” He offers you his hand, although still very confused. “You didn’t like, happen to hit your head or anything, right?” 

You accept his help, albeit mostly because you have to, and brush yourself off when you’re up. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t paying attention, sorry.” 

Steve nods, as if you almost getting hit by his car makes perfect sense to him. When you walk over to your bike and inspect it for any damage, he follows after you. 

“So,” he whistles, trying to pretend that this is all a completely normal occurrence. “You, uh, need a ride?”

Honestly you don’t know why you’re surprised he hasn’t noticed the clear signs of you crying, your swollen eyes and red nose. Not only is he a boy, but he’s also Steve Harrington. It’s a miracle he even stopped to make sure you weren’t dead. 

“No,” you say, now repositioning your backpack so that you can get back on your bike. “Thanks anyways, Harrington.” 

Steve continues to follow you, even after you’ve started to pedal away. “You’re welcome, random girl I almost hit!”

You’re a bit further now, and you still feel like utter shit, but his words somehow make you laugh a bit. For a brief moment, you forget about everything, so you call behind, “It’s Henderson!” 

“That’s an odd first name!” The boy shouts after you, still following from a distance. 

“Y/N Henderson!” You’re fully yelling now, a good yard away, but you can tell that Steve hears you based on the way he begins to wave eagerly, finally stopping next to his car. Faintly you understand the boyish charm that makes him so loved by all the girls in the school; you understand why Nancy Wheeler has fallen for him.

“Bye, Y/N!” It’s faint, but you swear you can hear a smile in his voice.  

The good mood that Steve Harrington inexplicably puts you in vanishes when you near your house. Nothing has changed, yet it feels as if something has shifted. Will had been here only hours ago. You spot Dustin’s bike laying on the grass, haphazardly thrown as usual. 

Dustin is just taking off his coat when you enter, immediately running over to him to pull him into a bone crushing hug. 

“Y/N!” he squeaks in surprise. 

“Are you okay?” You know you’re squeezing your brother harder than you need to, but God. He’s safe, in your arms, and you’ve now learned that not everyone can say the same about their own loved ones. 

Dustin wiggles a bit, trying to break away from the hug, but you only pull him in tighter. “Geesh, no one died.” 

Normally you’d berate him, but you embrace his snarky comments. They’re what make Dustin so unique, his humor one of your favorite parts of him

When you don’t respond, Dustin stops wiggling around and finally accepts the situation. “I love ya too, sis.” 

You giggle a bit, now pulling away. “At least mom isn’t home right now. The minute she hears about what’s happened, we’ll be on lockdown.”

Dustin’s eyes widen. “Shit, you’re right.” 

“Lan-”

“Language, I know.”

You ruffle his hair, now feeling a bit better. Dustin is still Dustin, so maybe everything will be okay. You and your brother go into the kitchen for your post school snack, and you call your boss to inform her that you can’t make it to your shift. The words “family emergency” catch in your throat a bit, and Mrs. Waters is kind enough not to push it.

Dustin catches you up on his day, informing you about Hopper questioning him and the other boys. 

You scrunch your nose at that. “Is that even legal?”

“Unsure, but it was awesome.”

“Will went missing, Dustin. It isn’t ‘awesome’.”

Dustin tilts his head at you. “Well, I bet Will is going to have a blast hearing everything when we find him.” 

His words are so matter of fact, as if he already knows that Will will be found after all. His naivety worries you a bit, but you also can’t help but indulge in his hope as well. Then you think about what he’s just said. “Wait, who’s ‘we’?”

Your brother pretends he can't hear you, miming at his ears. “Dustin-”

“What?”

“Dustin, you and the boys can’t just-”

“I can’t hear you!” He’s running to his room now with you quick behind his heels. 

“Dustin, I swear to God-”

“I gotta do homework, Y/N, bye!” He slams the door in your face. 

You sigh. There’s no getting through to him, years of being Dustin’s older sister has taught you that, so you go into your room instead. You might as well get started on the assignments you missed today, and you have a huge chem test tomorrow, so you’ll focus on that and keep an ear out for Dustin. Whatever he’s planning with the boys, you won’t let them do it alone. 

After a couple hours of silence from Dustin’s room, you decide to call Jonathan. The line rings for a while with no answer, and eventually you give up. It makes sense that he’s not answering, he’s had a long day. You hope he’s asleep, but you know him better than that. He’s probably holed up in his room, trying to distract himself like you are right now. 

A loud thud from Dustin’s room breaks you from your thoughts. Then you hear a quiet “shhh!” that sounds suspiciously like Lucas, and you immediately throw on your shoes and a jacket and march outside. 

Dustin is halfway out of his window when you arrive, and Mike and Lucas stare at you, caught red handed. 

“Guys, I think she can hear us.” Your brother says, breaking the silence. Mike scoffs at him and Lucas groans. 

You eye the three of them, unamused. “Your best friend just went missing, what the hell are you guys doing out here so late and alone?”

Dustin awkwardly finishes his descent down, finally landing on his feet with a thud. He secures his hat back on his head and goes to grab his bike. You block his path. 

“I’m serious, one of you needs to start talking, now.” 

Lucas and Dustin look at Mike, who is their unofficial leader of the gang, and he huffs. “Look, Y/N, I like you-”

“How thrilling.” You say, voice monotone. 

The boy ignores you and continues to talk. “But Will is missing, and we aren’t just going to sit around and wait. He’s our friend, we have to do something.” 

You open your mouth to speak, but Lucas interrupts you. “You’re definitely our favorite sister in the group, so you’d be even cooler if you let us go.” 

Again, you try to respond, but this time Dustin beats you to it. “Yeah, you’re like, totally cool already. If you pretend that you never saw us, that’d be great.” 

“Guys-”

“And don’t give us a whole lecture about safety. That’s all bull.” Mike says. 

“Boys!” You scream. They all fall silent, not used to you ever raising your voice at them. You’ve only ever yelled at them once or twice, preferring to be the “cool” sister whenever you can, but right now they’re seriously pissing you off. 

“Let me speak.” When no one says anything, you continue. “I’m not going to stop you guys from looking for Will. In fact, I support it-”

“You do?”

You shoot Mike a death glare, which promptly shuts him up. “Yes, I do. However, I’m not letting you guys go alone.” 

The boys all groan at this, acting as if it’s the worst thing in the world to have you tag along with them. You ignore their complaining and head over to where your bike sits against the porch. You zip up your coat, the chill from the night making you shiver a bit. 

“No arguing, or I’ll call all your moms. Ours included, Dustin.”

“Why me?”

“Look, guys. I’m proud of you for stepping up, but I’m coming with. The last time I let one of you boys go off into the woods alone…” 

The boys shift uncomfortably now, realizing how heavy the guilt weighs upon you. After a few beats of silence, Mike finally gives in. 

“Fine,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “But the second you start to freak out, you’re gone.” 

You salute Mike, hopping on your bike as you all begin to bike away. The ride doesn’t take long, since you live just off of where Will was last seen. Thunder rumbles when you all approach the crime scene, and you shudder a bit. 

“It’s going to rain, guys.” You inform them. 

Dustin looks up at the sky with uncertainty. “I think maybe we should go back.”

Mike is quick to shut down the idea, urging the others to keep going. You admire his loyalty to Will, and you figure it’s why the two of you butt heads so often. Out of the entire group, you’re the most similar to him. 

Lucas and Mike go under the caution tape first, and Dustin hangs back. You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We can go back, you know.” 

He clenches his jaw, jutting his chin out a bit. “No, Will needs us.”

Your brother puffs out his chest and follows after his friends, leaving you to take up the rear. More thunder rumbles and the rain begins to come down. You flip your hood up, thankful you remembered to grab a hoodie when leaving. 

Mike guides the way with his flashlight, then Lucas, then Dustin, then you in the back. You make sure to keep your eyes on the three boys, scared that the second you look away they’ll be gone. The woods have always creeped you out, but you push your fear down to keep them safe. 

“Will!” Mike calls out, the rain now pouring down on you guys. 

“Byers!” 

“Will, little bee!” You call out as well. He never liked when you called him that in front of the others, but tonight was an exception. 

“I’ve got your X-Men 134!” Your brother bribes, unintentionally making you laugh a bit. If Will is nearby, he’ll surely come out to claim his prize. 

Your foot catches on a tree log, and you slip in the mud before just barely managing to catch yourself. It’s getting hard to see given how dark it is and the rain surrounding you. Dustin voices his concerns, only to be called a baby, and you bite your tongue. If you defend him, he’ll only look more like a baby to his friends. 

“I’m just being realistic!” He retaliates, which you commend him for. 

“Dustin’s right, guys. It’s getting really bad out here. We’re surrounded by a ton of trees, don’t they attract lightning?” You ask, now paranoid that you’ll be struck down any second. 

“You guys are being sissies.” Lucas taunts, annoyed as well. 

You try to argue, but Dustin voices a thought that’s been at the back of your mind. “Did you ever think Will went missing because he ran into something bad?”

You think back to how Hopper seemed worried when he investigated the Byers home. From what you can recall, he suspected that Will had been running away from something, explaining why he’d abandon his bike.

“And now we’re going to the exact same spot where he was last seen, and we have no weapons or anything?”

Maybe Dustin’s right. This definitely wasn’t your best idea, and you’re regretting letting them follow through with their plan. For someone who claims to want to keep their loved ones safe, you really suck at it. 

“Dustin, shut up.” Mike voices, though he now looks a bit concerned as well. 

“He’s right, Mike.” You speak up, stumbling a bit in more mud. Your shoes are definitely ruined, now. “I was at Jonathan’s when Hopper showed up, he thinks Will was running from something.” 

The boys go quiet now, and when you’re about to suggest going home, you hear rustling in the bushes. 

“Did you guys hear that?” Mike asks. 

Your heart stops as the rustling continues and you all start to twist and turn, looking for the source of the sound. The rustling gets louder, almost as if it’s getting closer, and you tighten your hand around your flashlight, ready to use it as a weapon just in case. 

Then, the light flashes upon a little girl, drenched in an oversized yellow shirt, shivering. Her head is shaved, but her small stature suggests to you that she is indeed a girl. You all stare at her, no one saying a thing. She stares back, a terrified look on her face that breaks your heart. 

“Holy shit,” you whisper. 

Her eyes land on you; something about her reminds you of Will, and  you know that nothing will be the same again.

-

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[dearlizzies]

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

[reidscanehand]

The One Where Everyone Finds Out

Master List

Spencer Reid is in love with Y/N, and she’s in love with him…only they don’t know it yet…and they might be are definitely going to be the very last to know. And since Spencer and Y/N happen to be surrounded by the best profilers in the country, the rest of the team is, of course, the first to piece together the romance. Little by little, bit by bit, the team solves the case of Spencer and Y/N. 

A 1K Celebration miniseries!

TIMELINE OF EVENTS MENTIONED IN THE SERIES

The One Where Hotch Finds Out

The One Where Penelope Finds Out

The One Where Derek Finds Out

The One Where Alex Finds Out

The One Where JJ Finds Out

The One Where Rossi Finds Out

The One Where Spencer Finds Out

The One Where Everyone Finds Out

Full Fic in Chronological Order

~~~

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Link to Main Master List

[levanswrites]

𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐧𝐬

“Gosh, babe. I think she might've been right. It is too big.”

pairing: steve harrington x reader warnings: established relationship, oral (m!receiving), deepthroating, throatfucking, cock worship, body worship, praise kink, hair-pulling, semi-public sex, bigdick!steve obv, tiny bit of end-of-world angst, that damn knit sweater!! summary: your man, who, for all his confidence and libido, would much rather wait to make love to you on cotton sheets than surrender to the thrill of a quickie in this impersonal space. your man who holds your hand when his face is buried in your cunt, who likes to be face to face during sex, who could spend hours on end kissing you and not have it lead anywhere else—now the object of your most debauched, impatient desires. a/n: i couldn’t just write a quick blurb about sucking his dick noo I had to do a 4k character study abt it. smh. title by florence+the machine

.   *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

At the end of the world, you love him with intention.

Because of all the ways to love Steve Harrington, this one outshines the rest.

“Hah—shit, baby, that’s it...”

Cornered, breathless, all that easy bravado stripped away, reduced to nothing but instinct.

Your brave, reckless boy—the one who charges headfirst into nightmares, who squares his shoulders and steps forward when everyone else hesitates—shuddering with restraint under your palms. The same Steve who stares down monsters without blinking, now breaking into choked grunts and muffled curses, control slipping away in slow, beautiful increments.

He’s made a habit out of offering himself up. Body, bones, blood—whatever it takes.

Yet he can barely keep it together at the sight of you on your knees.

The obscene, torturous sight of his cock pressed up against your pretty face, laying flushed and heavy from brow to chin.

The view from down here is just as exquisite.

You’ve got him pinned against the sink, his back pressed hard to porcelain, boxed in by tile and steel with nowhere to go. The long, flushed column of his throat is bared to the ceiling, adam’s apple working around each thick swallow as he tries to steady his breathing. The overhead light catches on the veins standing out along his neck, the frantic jump of his pulse, his skin still slick with leftover sweat.

There’s a bruise blooming dark across the hinge of his jaw. A small cut over his left cheekbone—one you helped clean not twenty minutes ago, your hands gentler then, careful in a way he never is with himself.

Your boyfriend treats his body like collateral.

Except here.

Here, his body becomes the subject of the most devout kind of worship.

You study him like scripture, tracing the lines of pleasure etched so deeply into his expression.

Because for all his bravado, Steve Harrington has never been good at masking his emotions. Written across his face, his voice, the tension in his breath, clear as day—and ecstasy is no exception.

You watch the soft, pink pout of his lips, the way they part around each shuddered exhale. The heat that spills from his gaze, clinging to dark, fluttering lashes before sliding down the sharp bridge of his nose.

His warm brown eyes, wide and usually so steady, have gone molten, pinched at the corners as he struggles to hold your stare.    

Looking up at him like this, you notice everything about the boy who’s owned your heart for longer than you can remember: the trembling outline of his shoulders, the soft swell of his stomach with each shallow breath, all wrapped up in the warmth of that sweater.

Light-washed Levi’s shoved unceremoniously to his ankles, yet you wanted him to keep that cream sweater on. Plush, warm, achingly domestic, the fibers gone fuzzy from too many washes. From down here, though, the softness does nothing to temper him.

The lines of him are amplified beneath the thick fabric, stretched taut across the broad plane of his chest, the swell of his pecs, his biceps—hard-earned muscles carved from years of blood and sweat. Every small movement betrays him: a subtle flex, a shiver of tension, all magnified by the way the knit clings to his skin.

And all of that obscured by the thick, wondrous sight between his thighs.

Laid warm and heavy across your face, you drag it slowly across your cheek, over your nose, marveling at it’s weight, the velvety texture, the raised veins along the top and the flushed rosy hue that deepens at his tip.

The smell is intoxicating; a lovely, familiar musk that sends your head spinning the longer you breathe him in. You lick lazily along the length, dipping down to press a kiss to his balls, just to hear the stutter in his breath.

You take your time with him. There’s something sacred about this kind of leisure, stolen from the end of the world, where every second has felt like a countdown, borrowed and fleeting.

Here, in this quiet space, you get to linger. Trace and touch and memorize every detail of the man you love most.

A pearly bead of white clings to his tip, glistening under the low light. Each stroke of his cock—slow, firm pulls, gliding along all eight inches of him—forces it upward, the droplet swelling and quivering with every pass. You squeeze a little harder on the next upstroke, thumb and index making a tight ring to wring more out of him. Your fingers never fully connect in the middle, even around the very tip.

“Gosh, babe,” you huff in mock defeat, dropping his cock to bring your hand up to your mouth. Your tongue darts out for a taste, lips closing around the patch of pre smeared across your skin. You suck it off with a wet smack. “I think she might've been right. It is too big.”

That’s what started all this, really. Robin’s childish, offhand joke.

The laugh tore out of you before you could stop it, sharp and way too loud, only made worse by the incredulous looks you received from the adults around the room—your boyfriend’s being the most scandalized of all.

You’d found him soon after, elbow-deep in a crate of old gear, leftover giggles still fizzing in your chest. You slipped up behind him, arms looping around his waist as you nuzzled your face between his shoulder blades. He’d laughed when you nipped at his neck.

“Jesus,” he smiled fondly, glancing back. “Why aren’t you getting ready?”

“Mm, can’t. Keep thinking about what Robin said.”

“What did—?” He rolled his eyes before the confusion could even fully land, giving you an exasperated huff. “Oh my god, you two are—you’re both children, you know that? I swear, it’s like I’m surrounded by nothing but twelve-year-olds.”

That triggered another bout of giggles as you tugged him up by the collar, fingers sinking into the plush wool of his sweater. He came easy, always does, soft and pliant in your hands as he leaned in for a kiss, lips curled into a helpless grin you were itching to spoil.

What he’d clearly meant as a brief, chaste peck didn’t stay that way for long.

Not when you slid your fingers into his hair, tugging sharp enough to hitch his breath. Not when you dragged your tongue slow across his lower lip, teeth sinking into the tender flesh before you let go and mumbled:

“Think I need a reminder, babe.”

“Hm?”

“To see if it’s still too big,” you smiled sweetly, brushing your nose against his. “Bathroom. Five minutes.”

Then you skipped off before he could get a word in edgewise.

The bathroom in the basement of the radio station is little more than a cramped, fluorescent-lit closet.

One narrow turn down the hall and there’s over a dozen people readying themselves: boots scraping, weapons clicking, voices murmuring final checks as everyone braces for the most important fight of your lives.

The end of the world, looming just outside these tiles.

Meanwhile, you’re here.

Tucked away in a room that smells of bleach and mildew, low on your knees before the man you love.

Your man, who, for all his confidence and libido, would much rather wait to make love to you on cotton sheets than surrender to the thrill of a quickie in this impersonal space. Your man who holds your hand when his face is buried in your cunt, who likes to be face to face during sex, who could spend hours on end kissing you and not have it lead anywhere else—now the object of your most debauched, impatient desires.

Boxed in all sides, buzzing with the kind of delirium that only comes when desire eclipses logic, when the vice-grip of need is louder than the impending doom he knows is waiting outside.

A sort of primal frenzy born out of your loving gaze, your smile, the way you’re stroking him and nuzzling against where he’s most vulnerable.

He sucks in a sharp breath when you finally close your mouth around the tip, enveloping him with warm, wet suction. You suckle around the spongy head, glide your tongue across the raised ridge of his frenulum, the veins that pulse steadily along his length. You revel in the small drop of salted bitterness that melts onto your tongue and swallow it back greedily.

Fitting just the tip inside your mouth feels like a feat—you have to force your jaw to unhinge all the way—and the thought of that is enough to get you going again.

Quiet little laughs bubble up in your chest, erupting with barely any warning as you quickly pull off him, teeth grazing against where he’s oh-so-sensitive.

“Oh my god… are you still—?” he pants, eyes wide, caught between confusion and disbelief. He groans, tipping his head back while your stifled giggles echo through the cramped space. Both hands buried in his sweat-matted hair, he lets out a long, half-laughing sigh. “I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”

You only hum in response, his faux annoyance breaking into a shuddered groan when you go back to stroking him, the obscene clicks of his spit-drenched cock filling out the space.

“I guess the secret’s out,” you murmur, still smiling, admiring the way his cock jumps when you squeeze around the head, twisting your wrist just right. “The whole group knows about it now.”

“Yeah, not exactly thrilled about that,” he mutters dryly, though his breath turns uneven as you pick up speed, the grip around his cock firm and relentless.

“Mm, bet they don’t know how pretty it is, though,” you mumble, pressing your lips against the underside so he feels the vibrations hum throughout. He lets out a startled grunt, eyes squeezing shut, shaking his head at the sensation—or your words—it’s hard to tell which.

“Jesus christ, babe.”

Praise hits him harder than anything else. You know that now. A lifetime spent proving his worth through usefulness, through sacrifice. To be desired without condition is a revelation you hope to etch into him again and again, as many times as it takes.

“You are, baby,” you continue, nosing along the underside. “It's perfect. So thick, long. All pink and shiny at the tip. So pretty.”

You watch his jaw clench down at your words, brows scrunched tight under the weight of your honest attention.

And it's here that your narrative starts slipping. Away from the obvious and toward the essential. Not just the strength of his body, but the strength beneath.

You tell him how he’s always there for you, how you feel safe and seen and adored, just by being near him. How brave he is, how he never hesitates for the people who need him. You tell him how confident he sounded laying out the plan, smart enough to see angles no one else had.

“I really don’t know how you do it, baby… should’ve seen yourself up there. Everyone was listening. You’re so good. So smart. God, can’t believe you're mine sometimes.”

Hand still working his cock, you blink up at him, lashes fluttering against the heavy weight nuzzled against your face.

He’s staring back, incredulous.

Pupils blown dark with lust, yet there’s something earnest that flickers there. Almost pained.  

Steve’s never been good at being seen like this.

He’s used to being desired. Admired from afar. Used to being strong, useful, first one to step up, last one to step down.

Pain is familiar. Courage is second nature.

But being wanted—this openly, this deliberately—leaves him off-balance.

And it’s why loving him in this way feels so sacred.

Why being on your knees, filthy and exposed, carries a kind of divine transgression. A ritual to honor the man who bears the weight of the world, a quiet reminder that he deserves care, softness, to be accepted without expectation or pretense.

Here, in the heat of something so taboo—nothing to separate you from the rest of the group but a clumsy, rusted lock and four inches of drywall—he is laid completely bare. Cradled in a kind of devotion he’s never truly known, the impropriety of the act overshadowed by the purity of the intention. The trust he surrenders in letting you cherish him like this.

“I love you,” he breathes suddenly.

You go stock still for a moment, stunned out of your quiet rambling.

Your cheeks grow hot, lips curling in a flustered, dumbstruck smile. Not a single trace of doubt on his handsome face, nothing but that earnest, Harrington-brand intensity, through and through.

And it’s ridiculous, really, to think that after twenty minutes of being on your knees—making a mess out of his cock, teasing and drooling all over him—this is what gets you blushing.

“I love you too,” you murmur quietly, holding his gaze as you press a chaste kiss to his slit, licking away the pre that smears there before wrapping your lips around him again.

Deeper now, your jaw warmed up from the initial stretch, you take him in as far as you can, humming so he feels the little buzz at the back of your throat. You pull out all the stops, every trick you know will have his thighs quivering—cupping his balls, tongue flicking against the head, pulling off to lick from root to tip.

“Fuck, baby...” his breath fractures, words barely audible under the loud creak of the sink. He’s got a death grip around it, knuckles bleached whiter than the porcelain. The skin over the back is bruised and swollen, split open from god knows what this time. The same hands that have carried more than he’ll ever admit: for kids, strangers, people who’ll never know his name—and most of all for the people he loves.

“God, honey I‘m.... ’m close—”  

You pull back with a soft pop, both hands wrapping tight around his cock, viscous dribble running down your wrists as you squeeze in rhythmic strokes.

“Shit—you’re—baby, please.”

“What, Stevie? Tell me.”

He groans, chest heaving, eyes rolling all the way back.  

It’s impossible to look away when he gets like this. Your sweet, golden loverboy, who gives and gives in every way that matters. Selfless when it comes to his pleasure, he’d much rather fall apart under your insistence than ask for it himself.

But now, this close to the edge, there’s a hint of something wilder, something savage stirring beneath his skin. A kind of violence he’s never learned to use on you, for he’d sooner bleed than hurt you.  

His fingers twitch as they thread into your hair. He rarely does this—rarely pulls, even when you beg for it—but there’s something a little insistent about the way he's brushing your hair to the side, fingers curling around the back of your head. It ignites something low inside you, a quiet sense of pride that sharpens into satisfaction when he tugs you forward with his grip, just a little.

“Wanna—ah, fuck—wanna come in your mouth.”

“Yeah? You want to fuck my throat?”

He makes a sound like he’s dying, eyes pinched so tight they’re narrowed down to slits.

“Yes, goddamn it, please. Need you, baby.”

You let out a pleased hum, taking him back into your mouth, letting his hips guide the pace.

“God, that’s good... feels so good honey, jesus christ.”

His thrusts run shallow at first, fucking in and out of your mouth, slipping wetly across your tongue.

The first real push has you gagging—eyes watering, throat instinctively clenching around the intruding length. Yet, when he tries to pull back, you make a soft, breathy whine of disapproval, fisting the hem of his sweater with one hand to yank him back forward. With the other, you reach around to the back of your head, clasping your fingers together, pressing hard, holding him there with all the insistence you can muster.

“Oh my god, baby—” he gasps, hips twitching as he lets himself push inside, the tight catch of your throat squeezing around him as he bottoms out again, and again, and again. That small thread of violence in him unspools with every thrust, cock burying all the way in, down to the hilt, as deep as it'll go, forcing your lips to stretch wider than they’ve ever had to.

You let the strange, almost blissful discomfort carry you for a while: the stinging at the back of your throat, the dull ache in your jaw, the heavy weight against your tongue as it gets crushed down by his girth.

“Shit, shit, I gotta—" There’s a sharp rustle of fabric overhead, nearly lost to the sounds of your soft gagging. A desperate hand slips down into your periphery, scrabbling for the hem of his sweater. You blink up at him through tear-blurred eyes, the golden, freckled expanse of his skin melting into a wavering shimmer as you watch him drag the sweater up and jam it between his teeth.

His jaw locks down hard, teeth sinking deep as he buries his grunts into the plush fabric. Nostrils flaring, brows drawn tight, those molten eyes sear into you with an intensity so raw it makes your stomach twist. The ache between your thighs flares red-hot, despite your stubborn resolve to ignore it.

You bring yourself back to the pain, trying to relax your jaw, letting your tongue hang loose while he fucks up into your mouth. Slowly, you slide your free hand up to the base of his cock, fingers brushing against the coarse hairs, made tacky with your spit, before following the familiar path upward. Along the happy trail running below his navel, the jagged, faint pink scars along his sides, just under his ribs. His stomach’s clenching tight in that familiar, tell-tale way, muscles coiling as he braces for the mounting pressure in his gut.

You keep moving, up, up, as far as your arm will reach, splaying your hand over his chest to feel the soft tuft of hair between his pecs. Stroking over warm, flushed skin, feeling the frantic, insistent hammer of his heart under your touch.  

The sink gives a shuddering creak as he lets go, his hand closing around your wrist instead. He grips on tight, laces your fingers together, pulling you closer without saying a word.

You hold him in your throat, nose nuzzled against the curls at his base, and squeeze his hand in silent encouragement. He grunts, fucking himself deeper, rocking, grinding, burying one last groan into his sweater before he spits it out just in time:

“Fuck, fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

His whole body bows, a muffled shout tearing out of him as he comes.

It hits him so hard, for so long—heavy, relentless waves of pleasure that has him pulsing and twitching on your tongue, thick ropes spilling down your throat. His whole body shudders as he stays folded over you, hand still locked around yours.

You manage to swallow most of him, reveling in the creamy, bitter aftertaste that blooms on the back of your tongue—sharp at first, earthy and a little sweet—letting it flood your senses until your head feels light, pleasantly dizzy.

When he gently slides out of your mouth, hips twitching from the aftershocks, you look up at him.

Lips parted, neck arched, showing him what’s left behind.    

Pearly white coats the back of your tongue as you smile, breathless and smug.

And the sound it pulls from him is pained, almost a whine.

“Jesus,” he groans. “C’mere.”

He hauls you up with insistent hands, his jacket abandoned on the floor where it’d been bunched under your knees the whole time. Pulls you into him, kisses you hard, mouth hot and trembling as he licks his way inside without hesitation. He doesn’t mind the taste.  

In fact, you think it’s the part that turns him on more than most: sharing flavor, doesn’t matter if it's yours or his.

You pull back with a grin, pressing one last peck to his swollen lips. Your throat stings, still so dizzy and out of breath but the sight of him like this—panting, smiling, more fucked-out and love-drunk than you’ve ever seen him—is worth more than words can say.

“Good?” you ask lightly, tapping his cheek.

He blinks at you, stunned for all of two seconds before he starts moving. Hands gripping your waist, mouth crashing into yours again as he spins you around, backing you up against the sink. You laugh into his mouth as he gets you perched halfway on the porcelain, knee-kicking your thighs apart. His hands roam restlessly, fumbling with the button of your jeans—

“Hellooo? Is someone in there? I really gotta pee.”

Steve freezes so fast it’s almost impressive.

You burst out with a laugh that he manages to muffle just in time, a large hand clamped over your mouth that ends up covering the entire bottom half of your face.

“Uhh, yeah!” he calls back, voice cracking a little. “Just, uh—one second!”

You blink up at him from beneath his hand, brow cocked in a silent: What now?

“I don’t know!” he whispers back, eyes huge, hand twitching—and you’re so, so in love it hurts. “Maybe… maybe I can ask her to grab something for me? Shit, like—like a towel? Then she’ll leave for a bit, and you can—”

In all his panic, his hand slips down.

Just enough.

“—Yeah! We’re done, Robs!” you call out cheerfully. “All yours.”

Steve stares at you in horror.

You slide off the sink and step past his stunned frame, pressing a kiss to his cheek on your way out. His skin is so warm it leaves your lips tingling.

The door swings open, revealing an equally horrified Robin.

“Are you... were you two... oh my god, seriously?”

You grin, giving her a firm pat on the shoulder. “Only got yourself to blame, pal.”   

“Gross! Get—” She flails halfheartedly as you walk away, cackling.

Exactly two seconds later, Robin’s sigh echoes from all the way down the hall:

“Steve. Why is your jacket folded on the floor?”

...

You’re gloating by the weapons stash when Steve sidles up behind you.

He’s still a little breathless, snapback shoved low over his hair because it got ruined by sweat and the way he’d been raking his hands through it.

You don’t even turn around. Just tilt your head slightly, grin already forming.

He leans in close, pinning you against his chest, heat rolling off him in waves. His lips skim the shell of your ear, voice low and threatening though you can hear the smile tucked into it:

“Once we get through this tonight, you're in so much fucking trouble.”

You finally turn, just enough to press a quick, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, eyes bright.

“Yeah? Better hope your plan works, then.”

(It does.)

(And Steve Harrington has always been a man of his word.)

[levanswrites]

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

* = smut, 18+ only, minors DNI ♡ = personal favorites

⋆.˚🎶 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝*♡ (𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐦!𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞) - Eddie knows he shouldn't want this. not like this, not with you. because there’s something sacred in the way you’re breaking. and he’s never been gentle with holy things.

𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞* (𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞) - a small-town rumor sparks an unlikely invite to a sex shop. Eddie’s just helping Steve make his girlfriend happy... right?

⋆.˚𝜗𝜚 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐥* 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 (𝐟𝐰𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬) - the rules of the crawl are simple. but whatever this thing with steve is? it's not even close. (contains s5 spoilers!)

𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐧𝐬* (𝐛𝐟!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞) - “Gosh, babe. I think she might've been right. It is too big.” (contains s5 spoilers!)

𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞*♡ (𝐟𝐰𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬) - touch-starved doesn’t even begin to cover it. steve harrington is affection-starved. love-starved. and it would’ve all been fine, if this wasn't supposed to be just a casual thing. if he hadn’t said I love you, with his whole heart, mid-fuck.

𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫! 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲! 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞!* (𝐛𝐟!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞) - “Would you ever wanna try something a little… different?” “Different how?” “Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”

𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧* (𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐬𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬) - a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time.

𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬) (𝐝𝐚𝐝!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞) - your daughter's terrible twos have been… difficult. but for steve, it’s not the tantrums that hurt. it's the way they scrape against old bruises. it's the weight of hearing I don’t want you from the one person he swore he wouldn't fail.

𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬*♡ (𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭) - heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠*♡ (𝐟𝐰𝐛 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬) - after a 7.4 earthquake swallows half your hometown, you start volunteering at your old high school gym turned relief center. that's where steve harrington shows up—soft, kind, earnest, and nothing like the guy you thought you knew.

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 (𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐬!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞) - he wears that sailor hat like it's penance in this neon-lit purgatory you call a summer job. welcome to scoops ahoy: where dignity melts faster than the soft serve and every road leads right back to steve-motherfucking-harrington.

𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞* (𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐲!𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞)

[harringtonsdiary]

It's Not Over Until it's Done

steve harrington x f!reader words: 23,232 warnings: reader has commitment issues. mentions of underaged sex. mentions of sex. mentions of blood. two idiots who love one another. angst. hurt and comfort. fluff. friends with benefits summary: You and Steve have always been a little doomed. All longing looks and almosts, circling each other for years without ever landing in the same place at the same time. a/n: I cannot get “It’s Over” by Djo out of my head. This is very much unedited. And it’s very much the first fic I’ve done in a year.

It was the kind of late summer night that hummed with static. It was warm, soft-edged, and slow. The air in  Steve Harrington’s room smelled like dryer sheets and drugstore cologne, like something trying too hard to be grown-up.The ceiling fan spun lazily, making his posters ripple against the wall.

You were licking your teeth, feeling the ghost of braces that had been taken off a few weeks ago. You were sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a mess of playing cards between you, a pile of candy wrappers and loose change serving as your winnings. 

Steve squinted at his cards like he was doing something serious. His hair flopped a little too much over his forehead,curls curling the wrong way because of the heat. He laid his hand down carefully, slow and smug. “Full house.” He said, and grinned like he’d just won the big basketball game. 

You slumped, dramatic. “You’ve gotta be kidding me” 

He reached for the pile, fingers already scooping up his victory, but you were faster. You pressed your cards over his hand. “Sorry Harrington,” You fanned your cards, all hearts, right up to the ace. “Royal flush.”

His jaw dropped. “Shit,” He fell back on his elbows, like the weight of defeat was too much. 

You smirked. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” 

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “No, ‘cause I don’t kiss anyone, apparently.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

He sat up, expression crumpled between embarrassment and frustration. “Nothing. It’s just…” He looked away again. He brought his knees to his chest and laid his arms on top. You knew he did that when he was flustered, hoping it would hide that he cared what people thought of him. ”We’re starting high school next week, and I’m gonna die before I ever kiss a girl. Everyone else has done it, even Tommy freakin’ Hagan.” 

You tilted your head, studying him.. “You’re not gonna die, Steve. It’s just a kiss.” 

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” he muttered. “You’ve kissed, like, half of our class.” 

“Not half,” you said defensively, then shrugged. “Maybe a quarter.” 

He laughed, shaking his head, hair falling into his eyes. “Great. So maybe you can tell me what I’m doing wrong. What if I mess it up? Like, what if I’m terrible at it and everyone knows?” 

Something about the way he said it. It was too soft, making you pause. He often wasn’t serious. When he was, it always caught you off guard. His hands were restless, picking at the corner of a card.

You titled your head. “You wanna know how not to mess it up?” 

He glanced at you, wary. “You’re going to say something mean, aren’t you?” 

You nudged his knee with yours. “No,” you said, with a not so convincing tone and a threatening grin. “I’m gonna teach you, doofus.” 

That got a laugh, but it faltered when he saw your face. It was the realization that you were being serious. “Oh. You’re… serious.” 

“It doesn’t have to be weird.” You assured him. “It’s only practice.” You leaned back, licking your lips. 

Steve looked like he was ready to bolt out of the room but another part of him, the way his eyes gleamed with a certain curiosity told you he would stay. Steve was notoriously known as the trouble maker, getting into things, and making teachers think about retirement. It wasn’t until the last couple of months of eighth grade that he started to find girls interesting. You knew Tommy gave him a hard time and that’s why it was bothering him so much. To be truthful, you wanted his first kiss to be with someone he trusted. 

In a way. You had always hoped you were each other’s first kiss. 

The room felt smaller all of a sudden. The fan kept spinning but utterly useless. Steve scratched the back of his neck, then nodded slowly. “Okay.” 

You were a little too eager to stand up and sit on his bed. You patted the space next to you, smiling. He rolled his eyes like it was the worst idea he’d ever agreed to, but he joined you anyway. The mattress dipped under his weight. Your knees brushed.

“So,” he said awkwardly. “How do I even know when to… do it? Do I just ask?”

You bit back a smile. “You can,” you said slowly. “Or you can give them the look.”

He blinked. “The look?” 

“Yeah,” you teased, your knee pushing into his. “You know, like the movies. You look her in the eye and then at her lips and then back into her eyes.” You said it like it was simple. 

He scoffed. “That’s stupid.”

”Steve,” you said, patient and exasperated all at once. “It works.” 

He muttered something under his breath but turned to face you anyway. Then he did it. It was exactly like you described. Eyes, lips, eyes. It was a little hesitant, but you still were annoyed how perfect it already was. You almost thought it was cute. Almost.  

You felt your pulse skip. “Good,” you whispered. “See? Now if a girl wants you to kiss her, she’ll lean in too. Like this.” 

You leaned in closer. 

He mirrored you, hesitating only a moment before closing the last inch of space. His lips brushed yours, soft and uncertain.. But when he pulled back, mouth parted like he wanted to go again. 

Your lips tingled lightly at the lingering warmth he left behind. “M’kay,” you said, keeping your tone even. “Not bad for a first try.” 

“Not bad?” He echoed, eyes narrowing. 

You laughed quietly. “Could be better.” You took his hands, moved them to your waist. His palms were warm. You swallowed, suddenly aware of how big his hands were, how close he was. You never noticed them whenever he picked you up and threw you in the pool. “Like this,” you murmured. “And then I put my hands here.” Your fingers on his shoulders, ignoring how solid they felt. 

He breathed out slow. “Okay,” he said again, voice barely a whisper.

He looked at you for a long second before he did it again. The look. Eyes, lips, eyes. Then he leaned in. 

The first brush of his mouth was soft. His thumb grazed your hip. You felt him exhale against your skin, the tremor of it making you pulse stumble. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head and kissed you again. Deeper this time. 

Every time his fingers shifted against you, the space between you seemed to shrink. You could smell his shampoo, that faint clean scent you’d come to recognize as him. The world outside blurred into gold light and the sound of your own breath. 

You parted you lips, just barely, and felt the smallest spark when your tongue brushed his. Your hands had moved on their own, up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. His hands found your back, sliding up until you were almost pressed against him. 

You were supposed to be teaching him. But now you were kissing him like you’d been waiting to. Like this was something inevitable. 

You were kissing your best friend. 

You were making out with Steve Harrington. 

You pulled back first, breathless, throat tight. He followed, almost. His lips chased yours until he caught himself. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Your foreheads hovered close, his hands still fisted in the back of your shirt before he slowly let go. 

You both stared forward, the silence too fragile to touch. 

“Well,” you managed finally, voice thin, “you’re definitely ready.” 

He licked his swollen lips, trying for casual and failing. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Guess so.” 

You patted his chest, the gesture light but clumsy. “Just… don’t use your new skills to break a girl’s heart, okay?” 

His grin was crooked. “Promise.” 

Then, after a beat, with the air between you still charged, he cleared his throat. “You’re not, uh… uh gonna show me anything else, right? Like—“ 

“Oh my god, Steve.” You cut in, laughing, too loud, too quick. “No. I’m not teaching you how sex works.” 

He laughed too, that easy nervous kind. “Yeah. No. Totally.. That’d be… really weird.” 

You both tried to stop laughing, but it lingered. The kind that lived in your chest more than your mouth. When it finally faded, there was just quiet again. 

He looked at you. You looked at him. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like kids pretending to be older. You felt like something had changed. It was something that neither of you could take back. Crickets began to sing and the room bowed with the last breath of summer light. 

.-.-.-.

The world had shifted between that summer and now. Or maybe it was only Steve who had.

By the time sophomore year came around, he’d grown into someone that hallways seemed to bend toward. Taller, louder. Hair somehow even bigger. He leaned against lockers like he’d invented them, flashing that grin that made girls bite their lips and giggle behind spiral notebooks. 

You were still his best friend. 

Mostly. 

He spent too much time with Tommy and Carol. He spent too much time acting like he didn’t care about anything. Carol didn’t like you much. It might because you didn’t laugh when they were mean, or maybe because she could tell that if it came down to it, Steve would still pick you. He always did. Movie nights. Lunch tables. The quiet walk home when you wanted to leave a party early. 

You told yourself that meant something. 

You told yourself that when you stormed down the hall after last period, backpack thumping, heart thrumming hot against your ribs. 

Beth Parker had been crying in the girls’ bathroom, mascara bleeding down her face. Whispering something about Steve. Your Steve. 

By the time you made it to his house, your anger had settled into something colder. A quiet, steady pulse. You didn’t bother knocking. 

He was at his desk when you found him. His hair was a mess, pen tapping against a math book like it might start answering the questions for him. When he looked up, his smile came easy. Too easy. 

“Hey,” he said. “You just break in now or—“

”Why was Beth Parker crying in the bathroom?” 

He froze for a second, then groaned. “Jesus. You heard about that?” 

You dropped your bag, arms crossing over your chest. “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything.”

”Steve.” 

He avoided your eyes, staring at the book like it might save him. “She’s mad because I didn’t call her after our date. No big deal.”

Your voice sharpened. “Did you sleep with her?” 

He blinked, startled. “What? No.” His hands went up fast, defensive. “We just kissed. A lot. And maybe… there was some touching. But nothing more.” His ears went red, the way they always did when he got caught. 

You exhaled hard through your nose. “Steve, you can’t do that. You used her.”

”I didn’t use her,” he said, turning in his chair to face you. “I went on a date. Like a normal person. We had fun. I just didn’t think it was going anywhere.” 

“Then tell her that,” you said, voice low. “Don’t promise something you don’t mean.” 

He sighed, long and annoyed, turning back toward his desk. “Whatever.” 

You sat down on the edge of his bed. The air between you went still. It was quiet except for the faint scratch of pencil against paper. You could feel him looking. 

When you finally glanced up, he was half-turned in his chair again, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The one that meant trouble. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.” 

He leaned back, lips curling. “You know, you’re kinds hot when you’re mad at me.” 

“Steve.” 

He shrugged. 

“Your parents are home,” you warned. 

“Hasn’t stopped us before.” 

You wanted to roll your eyes, to laugh, to tell him he was ridiculous, but your stomach flipped because he wasn’t wrong. 

It hadn’t stopped you before. 

What started as one kiss. One stupid accidental kiss. Was not a pattern. Nights when you shouldn’t have come over. Morning where you left before his parents woke. It was supposed to be simple. Secret. An agreement between friends who didn’t talk about it in daylight. 

But it never felt simple. 

He was still watching you now, that lazy smirk softening at the edges, waiting for you to give in. He knew you too well. 

You sighed, standing. “You’re ridiculous.” 

You shut his bedroom door gently, the click of it sounding louder than it should have. 

He didn’t move. Just watched under his heady gaze as you crossed the room, stopping between his knees. The air was charged, the kind of quiet that made you aware of every breath. 

“Just so you know,” you said softly, “I have to leave by seven. I actually plan on graduating.” 

Steve’s grin was slow. “I’ll make it worth your time.” 

You didn’t even get a chance to roll your eyes before his hand found your hip. The kiss came fast and it was familiar and hungry. The kind that made you forget you were supposed to be mad. 

His fingers tightened against your waist, as his mouth moved against yours, you realized what you’d never say our loud. 

He always did. 

.-.-.-.

Steve’s freckles were one of your favorite things about him. Tiny constellations scattered across his skin, like a map only you could read. You traced them absentmindedly, circles on his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, watching the way goosebumps followed your touch. 

The fan above hummed lazy rotations. The light from his bedside lamp was soft and golden, tinting everything honey. His skin, the sheets tangled around your legs, the air itself. It was quiet except for the small sounds of the room, your breathing, the shift of linen, the faint creak of the house settling. That hazy space where everything felt tender and close. 

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “What’re thinking about?” 

Steve hesitated, eyes fixed somewhere near your elbow instead of your face. “Nothing important.” 

You hummed, though the sound came out skeptical. You knew him well enough to hear the difference between silence and avoidance. He must’ve felt your eyes on him, because he leaned in and kissed you once, but it was chaste and apologetic. Then he was gone. 

You watched as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, the movement too deliberate to be casual. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him. 

The bed felt colder without him.

So did you. 

You lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, the hum of the fan filling up the space where his voice should’ve been. You tried to tell yourself it was fine, that maybe he just needed air, that maybe he’d had another fight with his dad. That has been happening more lately. It was always sharp words about Steve’s future. 

You got up slowly, gathering your clothes from the floor. It was Saturday. Normally, you’d stay the night, steal one of his shirts, wake up to him making burnt toast and pretending it was breakfast. But something in your chest told you this wasn’t one of those nights. 

When he came back out, you were sitting cross-legged on his bed, knees pulled to your chest. His hair was damp at the edges. He didn’t look at you. Just sat down at the edge of the mattress, shoulders curved forward, elbows on his knees. 

The silence stretched thin. You could feel the question burning between your ribs before you spoke it. “What’s wrong?” 

He let out a breath that didn’t sound like it helped much. His voice was low, uneven. “I was just thinking about… what we do when we start dating other people.” 

You froze. The words hung there, heavy and delicate, like glass about to slip. “Oh.” You swallowed, forcing a small nod. “You mean… like going steady with someone?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not really. “Yeah.” 

You picked at the edge of his comforter, pretending it was easier to look at that than him. Your throat felt tight, like the room had gotten smaller. “I guess we’d stop doing this.”

He nodded slowly, still not facing you. “Yeah,” he said after a long beat. “That’s what I figured.” 

The fan hummed, a low, steady whir that felt too loud against the quiet between you. The golden light from his bedside lamp had dimmed, thinning into something colder. You could see the slope of his back, the rise and fall of his shoulders. It was too quick, too uneven. Like he was trying to breathe through something heavy. 

“Is that… what you want?” Your voice cracked on the last word. 

He then turned, eyes finding yours. For a moment, he looked almost scared. The kind of scared that made your chest hurt, like he wanted to tell you the truth but didn’t know how to survive it. 

“I don’t know what I want,” he admitted quietly. His gaze flickered toward the wall again, his hands clasping together in his lap. “What do you know about Nancy Wheeler?” 

It felt like someone had opened a window in the middle of winter. All the warmth in the room escaped at once. 

“Nancy Wheeler,” you echoed, forcing a breath of a laugh. “She’s… nice.” 

Steve smiled. It was small, almost sheepish. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Nice.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his voice turning rough around the edges. “It’s not like that. I mean, it could be. We’ve just been talking. On the phone, for a couple weeks now. I’m just—“ he hesitated, searching for words, “trying to figure it out. What I’m supposed to be doing.” 

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “You don’t have to figure anything out, Steve.” You looked down at your hands. “It’s not like we’re anything.” 

His head snapped toward you, brows pulled tight, like he hadn’t expected that. His voice came out softer than you were ready for. “But we are something,” he said. “Aren’t we?” 

You wanted to tell him yes. That he was your something , had been for a long time. That the way he touched you, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. It was impossible to believe this wasn’t real. But the words wouldn’t come. They sat in your chest like stones. 

“No,” you said instead. It barely came out. 

You straightened your back, forced yourself to breathe. You remembered the promise he’d made once. He promised he wouldn’t break a girl’s heart. And somehow, here you were, sitting in the ruins of that promise. Maybe that was on you for letting it get this far. For thinking he’d never aim the hurt in your direction. 

Your jaw tensed. “So what is this, then?” You asked, voice sharper now. “One last bachelor night before you tie yourself down?”

He let out a small laugh, almost disbelieving. “Come on. Maybe nothing’ll come out of it.” 

You scoffed. “You’re Steve Harrington. Something always comes out of it.” 

He shifted, leaning forward a little, hand reaching for you like he could smooth this over. “Here,” he said softly. “Don’t worry. You’ll always be my closest friend.” 

That invisible thread between you. The one that had always tugged, gentle but constant, snapping clean. You could almost feel it. 

You stood, rubbing at the bridge of your nose to keep from crying. “Steve, you slept with me while liking someone else. That’s kind of messed up.” 

He blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “What do you want me to say? You just said this wasn’t a thing.” 

“It isn’t,” you bit out. “That’s not the point. It still sucks. You have any idea what kind of position that put me in when you and Nancy inevitably start dating?” 

He exhaled hard through his nose, fingers running through his hair. “I said we talked on the phone, not planning a damn wedding.” 

You let out a frustrated sound, hands in the air. “That’s not the point, Steve! You never call girls on the phone. You’ve never brought this up about any of them. So yeah, something’s different.” 

He looked down at his hands for a long second, then reached for his sweatshirt and pulled it on. The sound of cotton dragging over skin filled the space between you. “It’s late,” he said finally. “Let me drive you home.” 

You shook your head. “Don’t worry about it. I can walk.” 

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. Just stood there, still half in shadow, watching you pull on your jacket, gathering the last bits of yourself before you walked out the door. 

You paused, hand on the knob. The air was heavy with things you hadn’t said. 

“For what it’s worth,” you said quietly, not turning around, “Nancy’s lucky.” You managed a weak smile over your shoulder. “You’re a good guy, Steve. Even if you don’t know it yet.” 

Then you opened the door and stepped into the dark. 

.-.-.-.

About a month had passed. Enough time for the bruises on your heart to scab over but not quite heal.

You’d kept your distance from Steve. 

He had made his choice, and you’d seen it for yourself. The way he and Nancy Wheeler slipped into empty classrooms, the way their laughter followed after them like a secret. Every time, jealousy twisted low in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it. 

It was after midnight when you heard it. It was a faint tap against your window. 

You’d switched off your lamp, your room dim and soft with moonlight. At first, you thought it was a branch brushing against the siding. Then came another tap. It was quick, deliberate, almost urgent. 

When you pulled back the curtain, you froze. Steve was outside, face half-lit by the streetlight. His lip was split, one cheek bruised, a small cut on his brow. He looked wrecked. 

You sighed, already hating how quickly you move to unlatch the window. 

He didn’t say anything. Not a single word, before climbing through. Then his mouth was on yours. It was messy, desperate. The taste of blood and salt. His hands came up to frame your face, holding you like he’d been drowning and finally found air. 

You stumbled back, heart lurching, your palms pressing against his chest. “Steve… hey, wait,” you gasped. “What happened?” 

He just shook his head, breathing hard, eyes wide and frantic. “Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, voice low. “We’ve never asked why before.” He leaned in again, but you stepped back. 

“Yeah,” you said sharply, “but that was before Nancy.” 

He let out a short, butter laugh. “Jesus, that whole thing’s over. She’s having a real fun time getting to know Byers.” 

You blinked. “What… like Jonathan Byers?” Your eyes swept over his bruises, the ugly cut near his temple. “He’s the one who did that to you?” 

Steve’s mouth twitched into something between a smirk and a wince. “He’s mad that I told him the truth.” 

You folded your arms across your chest. “God, what is it like to be so completely self-involved?” 

His eyes flickered up, and you didn’t stop. 

“Unlike you, Nancy actually cares about other people. She wasn’t two-timing you, Steve. She’s been spending time with Jonathan because his brother’s missing.” You could feel your voice shaking. “Her best friend is missing too. And instead of giving a damn about that, you’re too busy worrying about whether she wants to sleep with you.” 

His jaw flexed, eyes dark. He didn’t look at you. 

The realization came slow, but when it hit, it hollowed you out. “You already slept with her, didn’t you?” you asked quietly. 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. 

Something snapped. 

“You’re such a dick,” you said, the words trembling out of you. You put your finger into his chest. “You can’t just come running here every time something blows up in your face. I’m not your backup plan, Steve. I’m not the person you crawl to when the world stops giving you what you want.” 

He stared at you. He was wide-eyed and stunned. For a second, you almost saw guilt there. But then it was gone, replaced by the familiar, stubborn fire. “You act like you never did the same thing,” he said. 

You froze. It hit like a slap. “Excuse me?” 

He gave a small, humorless shake of his head. “You used me just as much as I used you.” 

You took a step forward, heart pounding. “You know what, Steve? I really wish we’d never kissed.” 

He let out a sharp, hollow laugh. “Yeah. Me too.” 

The air between you thinned. Every ounce of anger you had curdled into something that felt like grief. You didn’t understand why it hurt this much. You both knew what this was. You’d told yourselves it meant nothing. But somehow it had become everything. 

You looked at him then, really look. The split lips, the exhausted eyes, the quiet kind of hurt buried under his anger and your throat burned with regret. “We’re not friends anymore, Steve,” you whispered. “Just… leave me alone.” 

You turned before he could see your eyes shine. 

You felt it. His fingers ghosting against the back of your arm. Just a brush, light enough to make you stop breathing. The floor creaked behind you, and for a moment, you waited. You wanted him to argue. To say anything. 

He didn’t. 

When you looked back, the window was open again. The curtain lifted in the night air. And he was gone. 

Outside, his car door slammed. The engine started, a hollow sound in the quiet street. 

You stood there, staring at the empty space where he’d been. The reflection of your own face looked back at you in the glass, tired, angry, heartbroken, and for the first time, you let yourself admit it. 

You’d lost him long before tonight. 

.-.-.-.

The annual Fourth of July fair stretched across the Hawkins fairground like a fever dream of lights and noise. The air smelled of popcorn and smoke, a haze of fireworks already threatening to stain the sky. 

You spotted Steve before he saw you. He stood behind Nancy by the lemonade stand, his hand loosely on her shoulder. He was laughing, head tilted just enough that you could see the dimples you’d spent too many summers memorizing. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were here to have fun. That you didn’t care if he was happy. 

Him and Nancy had made up, you assumed, after the last time you had spoken to him. They were now the couple everyone in school couldn’t shut up about.

”Three shots for a dollar!” Called a voice, snapping you out of it. 

You turned toward the bowling pin booth. The attendant was a guy about your age and the kind of grin that came prepackaged with confidence. He waved you over, flashing you a charming and convincing smile. “Come on,” he teased, “let’s see if you’ve got an arm.” 

You giggled, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “What do I win if I do?” You batted your eyes innocently. They flashed across his name tag which read, Sam. 

“Anything on the top shelf,” he said. He looked you up and down, smirking. “Or maybe my number.” 

You felt the heat on your cheeks rise. ”Very tempting, but I’m afraid I don’t have the money.” 

It was then, someone next to you, slammed a dollar bill on the counter, startling you. You turned, frowning. It was Steve with Nancy lingering beside him. She smiled politely and Steve had an unamused look on his face. He motioned to the game, “Go ahead.” 

You weren’t sure what he was doing but the attendant set three baseballs in front of you, winking. You cleared your throat, picking up one of the balls, and throwing it. Completely Missing. Steve blew out a puff of air that sounded like a laugh. You saw Nancy elbow him out the corner of your eye. 

To prove a point, you threw the second ball, only managing to hit two pins down. You nearly felt defeated but then Sam put the final ball in your hand. “May I?” He asked. 

You glanced over at Steve and Nancy. You knew you should feel insulted or embarrassed but you found a sort of satisfaction in the way Steve’s jaw clenched, eyes burning at how Sam held your arm. 

You smiled shyly, nodding. Sam took the opportunity to hold your arm. His touch didn’t make you tingle but you did find it attractive how gentle he was. He counted down and you released the ball, hitting it right where he told you to. They clattered to the ground from the stand. Sam let out a low whistle, leaning towards. “Damn, that was a good throw.” 

You bit your lip. “It helps when you have a good teacher.” 

He chuckled. “Alright then. I don’t suppose you made up your mind what you want your prize to be?” 

The presence of Steve was even stronger beside you, his silence sharp as glass. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand flexed once against his thigh. There was a vindictive urge to let him see that he didn’t own the part of you that used to ache for him. 

So you smiled at Sam, all teeth and mischief. “I have a better offer. You free to watch the fireworks later?” 

He laughed, clearly delighted, and grabbed a small plush bear from the shelf. “I can make that work.” 

You felt the burn of Steve’s stare like sunlight on the back of your neck. 

You gave Sam one last smile before turning to face Steve and Nancy. “Thanks for the dollar.” You wanted to make a really low blow. “And I guess for the impromptu date.” It was fueled with sarcasm that only Steve would recognize. 

His mouth twitched like he wanted to make a remark. Instead, he grinned. “Anytime. I always look out for my friends.” He then pulled Nancy closer. “Come on, Nance. We should get to the Ferris wheel before the line gets too long.” 

Nancy hesitated, then glanced back at you, her tone gentler. “Do you want to join us? We have plenty of tickets.” 

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. You looked from Nancy, who had a soft expression on her face to Steve, who wouldn’t meet your eyes. You expected her to hate you. You had believed Steve told her that they were to steer clear from you. “That’s sweet, but… I’m good. Thank you.” You rubbed your finger on the stuffed bear’s fur. You held it out to her. “Here, it was your boyfriend’s dollar after all.” 

“Thanks,” Nancy gave you a small nod, taking the bear from you. She turned and laced her fingers through Steve’s. “See you later!” She called out. Steve followed wordlessly, his free hand shoved in his pocket. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t look after them, but when you did, you caught him in the act. Steve had stopped a few paces away, turning his head just slightly. His eyes found you in the crush of carnival lights. It was brief but fierce and it lingered. It was only a second. But it was enough to stir your stomach like you were on the tilt-a-whirl. 

.-.-.-.

Halloween really wasn’t your thing anymore. 

Sure, it was cute. The kids running around in plastic masks, the sound of leaves crunching under tiny sneakers. Okay, fine. It was really cute. 

It wasn’t like you had bad memories attached to it. You and Steve used to spend the whole night racing from door to door, pillowcases dragging against the pavement, and then the next morning you’d sit in front of the TV watching some horror movie you definitely weren’t allowed to see, eating your way though the entire pile of candy. 

But high school had a way of killing simple things. Somewhere between eighth grade and freshman year, it became “uncool” to trick-or-treat. You were supposed to party instead. 

That first year, Steve threw the Halloween party. Hawkins High still talked about it. It was the night “King Steve” was born, crowned by the longest keg stand anyone had ever seen. It was also the night you’d kissed him again. 

You remembered sneaking into his room because everywhere you turned, there were couples pressed up against walls and you couldn’t breathe through the noise. You found him sitting on the floor, staring at nothing, and it was stupid. The two of you, drunk and lonely. But that’s how it happened. 

Anyway, tonight was just another night you didn’t want to think about. 

Tina’s party was happening across town, and she’d invited you out of pity, probably. Senior year charity. You weren’t going. You had school tomorrow, and you weren’t about to show up hungover. 

So you say on your bed, eating stolen candy out of the bowl your mom had left for trick-or-treaters. The wrappers made little paper sighs each time you reached for another. The house was quiet except for the muffled hum of your heater. 

Then came the knock. 

Soft, hesitant. Familiar. 

You froze mid-bite. Told yourself it was the wind. Then another tap. 

You sighed, crossing the room. Pulled the curtain back. And there he was. 

Steve Harrington. 

Half of him caught in the glow of the streetlight, eyes rimmed red. His hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. He was wearing a black jacket and a black shirt tucked into his jeans. It made him look older. If you two were friends, you’d make a joke about how he looked like a knock-off Tom Cruise. But you didn’t. He already looked ruined enough. 

“Hey,” he rasped.

You stepped back a little. “Are you drunk?” 

He shook his head, too quickly. “No. I didn’t drink anything.” 

You folded your arms. “Then why are you here?” 

Steve rubbed both hands over his face, and when he dropped them, his eyes were wet. “Nancy,” he said, voice cracking. “She got drunk, and… I think we broke up.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

He laughed, a dry, broken sound. “Yeah. She said—“ He stopped, swallowed hard. “She said we were bullshit.” 

Your stomach sank. “Where is she now?” 

He looked up at you like the question physically hurt. “Jonathan took her home, I guess.” 

Something in your chest pulled tight. His lip trembled before he bit down on it, sitting heavily on the edge of your bed. He dragged his hands through his hair and let out a shaky breath. “I don’t even know why I came here. I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t want to go home. My parents are gone, and the house is too quiet and I just…” 

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek, before sitting beside him. Not too close. Just enough. “It’s okay that you came here, Steve.”

Silence settled like dust. The clock on your wall ticked, slow and even, the sound impossibly loud. 

Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane, and you thought about how it always used to be you and him. Sugar high and laughing. You thought about how different he looked now, sitting there in the half-dark, hands shaking. You thought about how unfair it was that no one had told you growing up meant losing people before they were even gone. 

Then, without warning, Steve leaned forward. 

You braced for the kiss. You always did. But it never came. Instead, he pressed his forehead to your shoulder. His fingers caught the fabric of your sweater, knuckles white, like he needed something solid to hold him up. His voice was rough when it finally broke the silence. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “For how I treated you. For everything.” 

The breath in your throat snagged. For a long second, you just sat there, unsure what to do with your hands, with the ache that spread through your chest. Then instinct won out. You slid your arms around him, felt the sharp inhale he took, the way his whole body trembled under your touch. He was exhausted. Not just tired, but wrung out. 

When his head dropped into your lap, your heart lurched. This wasn’t the same boy who used to climb through your window for a kiss or a fight or both. This was someone stripped bare. The same messy hair, the same heartbeat under your hands, but something softer now, broken in all the quiet places you used to avoid. 

“Hey,” you murmured, fingers threading through his hair. The motion felt old, like a song you hadn’t realized you still knew. “We can talk about us later, okay? That’s not important.” 

His voice was barely a breath. “It’s important to me.” 

You pretended not to hear it. “You should get some sleep.” 

He nodded, slow and shaky, pulling himself upright. The light caught the wet shine in his eyes, the way he tried to swallow down whatever was left of the night. “Yeah. You’re right.” 

You reached out, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture made your throat ache. “Do you… want to stay?” 

For a moment, it looked like he might. 

His gaze found yours, heavy-lidded, soft around the edges. Then he gave you a small smile, tired and almost shy. “No,” he said quietly. “I should probably head home.” 

You nodded, but your chest burned when he stood, when he turned toward the window again. The cool air slipped in from outside, carrying the sound of kids still running down the street, their laughter thin and far away. 

He hesitated halfway out. Looked back at you. “Thank you,” he said. “Can I… call you later?” 

You just nodded. Words didn’t feel like they’d fit right now. 

When he disappeared into the dark, the room felt too still. You stood there for a while, listening. You listened for his car, for the echo of his footsteps, for anything. But all that was left was the faint him of the streetlight and the hollow stick of your clock. 

Your eyes drifted to the bed. The sheets were still rumpled from where he’d sat, the fabric warm, a faint impression left behind. You hovered your hand over the spot like touching it might make him come back. 

You didn’t. You just stood there, feeling the ghost of him pressed into your skin. The weight of his head on your legs, the warmth still trapped in the cotton. And you realized how dangerous it was to open the wound. 

He did end up calling. Two days later.

You’d seen him that afternoon, across the quad, sunlight catching in his hair, sweat still drying on his temples after practice. He was in his basketball uniform, jaw tight, expression thunderous. Nancy stood a few feet away, arms folded, eyes glassy, and when she finally turned to leave, she spotted you. There was a flicker of something soft. It looked like pity maybe, or regret, before she disappeared into the crowd. 

By the time the phone rang that night, the sky outside your window was ink-black. You were halfway through an essay when your mom called up the stairs, “It’s for you!” 

You picked up the receiver, notebook still open beside you. There was a small click, then nothing. Just a breath. It was shaky, familiar, like muscle memory. 

“Hey,” Steve said finally, voice low. “Didn’t wake you, did I?” 

Your lips curved before you could stop them. “No. I was studying.” 

You could hear the faint rustle of sheets, the soft drag of fabric. You imagined him sitting cross-legged on his bed, hair still damp from a shower, one hand twisted in the phone cord. 

“Oh,” he said. The word was awkward, small. For a second you could almost see the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can I be honest?” 

“Sure.” 

You stood, tucking the phone against your shoulder as you moved to the window. The air was cool when you cracked it open. Down the street, a few kids were still dressed in leftover Halloween costumes, the kind of stragglers who didn’t know it was already over. The latch on your window was still loose from the night Steve climbed through it. 

“I’m not really sure what to talk about,” he admitted. 

That made you laugh. It was a quiet, surprising sound. “Then why’d you call?” 

There was a beat, and then, “Because I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to you.” His voice dropped lower, softer. “Especially about nothing. With Nancy it was always… serious. Every conversation had to mean something. Made me feel like an idiot half the time.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. You wanted to feel special, but instead it hurt. Like he was reaching for comfort, not you. 

“I don’t really know what to say,” you murmured. 

He exhaled, long and heavy. “Yeah. I didn't blame you. I kind of screwed our friendship up, didn't I?” 

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. It was full of every summer afternoon, every secret whispered between turns at the pool, every Christmas gift that didn’t quite make sense but meant everything. The night he kissed you for the first time. The hundred that followed. 

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “I think we both did.” 

He hummed, a sound so low it barely made it through the line. “Yeah. Maybe.” But you could hear it, the edge of guilt he always carried when he talked about his dad. 

You leaned your forehead against the glass, eyes on the streetlight. You could almost see him, lying back on his bed, eyes unfocused, mouth set in the soft, crooked way he had when he was thinking too hard. 

“You know,” he said quietly, “it’s weird. When Nancy said what she said at the party, I didn’t even feel mad. Not really.I thought I would. But even today, when I found out her and Jonathan skipped school together, I didn’t feel angry. I just…” His voice broke into a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “God, I sound like an asshole. I felt hollow.” 

You rubbed a hand over your face. “Steve, you love her. Of course it hurts. That doesn’t make you a bad person.” 

There was a pause. Then the soft thud of his head hitting the headboard. “That’s the thing,” he said, voice cracking on the edges. “She told me I was pretending to love her too.” 

A breath. A small, unsteady one. 

“I think she was right.” 

Your throat went dry. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. You listened to him breathing, the soft sound of him trying not to cry. 

A tear slipped down your own cheek before you even noticed. You wiped it away quickly, like if you could just erase it, none of this would feel so heavy. You climbed into bed, curling under the covers, the phone pressed close against your ear. 

“I think I’m broken,” he said quietly. 

You stared up at the ceiling, heart hammering, unable to find words that could meet that kind of confession. The line was silent except for his breathing. It was slow and uneven. For a moment, it felt like being fifteen again, whispering secrets through the receiver until one of you fell asleep mid-sentence. 

His voice came aforesaid. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. For what I did. For what I said. But I meant it when I said I’m sorry.” 

“I know, Steve.” Your voice wavered, but you steadied it. “I forgive you.” 

There was a small pause, and you could hear the smile in his exhale. It was quiet, disbelieving. “Do you want to hang out sometime?” 

You bit your thumb, trying not to smile, trying not to give in. “I’m not sure, Steve. I’ll have to see.” 

“Okay.” A beat. Then, gentler, “And if I call again?” 

You laughed, soft and tired and fond. “Guess we’ll find out.”

”Atta girl.” His voice dropped low, the edges warm and teasing in a way that made something inside you ache. “I suppose that’s goodnight then.” 

“I never said yes.” You hated how much you didn’t want to hang up. 

He laughed, really laughed, and it was the first time in what felt like forever that it didn’t sound heavy. Just Steve. Just you and him again, the way it used to be before everything got complicated.

He said your name, and you closed your eyes, the sound of it humming through the line, through you. It made you feel weightless. 

You smiled into the dark. “Goodnight, Steve.” 

The click of the line ending came too soon. You stayed there, phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the soft hum of the dial tone. 

Broken things, you thought, can always be fixed. 

.-.-.-.

You didn’t exactly know how you got roped into a Saturday night involving monsters. 

Or how “monsters” turned out to be something Steve apparently had a history with demogorgons? Demodogs? An alternate universe called the Upside Down? You still weren’t sure. What you did know was that Steve Harrington, your Steve, had shown up bloodied and bruised, and you’d nearly passed out at the sight of him. 

He hadn’t wanted you there. Said it was dangerous. Said you should go back home. You didn’t listen.

Now, the chaos was over. Whatever had been lurking in the dark was gone, at least for now. Everyone had gathered back at the Byers’ house, voices low, the air thick with relief and exhaustion. You were in the kitchen, standing over Steve while he sat slumped in a chair. His face was a patchwork of cuts and purpling bruises. 

“Ouch,” he hissed when you dabbed at the corner of his mouth. 

“Then sit still,” you said, sipping the washcloth back into a bowl of water that had long since turned a murky pink. “If you stopped flinching, it wouldn’t hurt.” 

He gave you a weak grin, the kind that always managed to twist your stomach, even now. “Bossy.” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t answer, focusing instead on cleaning the dried blood off his cheek. His hair was sticking up in every direction, matted with dirt and streaks of red. You reached up, brushing some of it back from his forehead, your fingers lingering a second too long. 

When you followed his gaze, you caught what he was looking at. In the living room, Nancy and Jonathan stood in the corner, whispering. Jonathan handed her a glass of water, and she smiled, soft and small. 

Steve’s voice was rough when he said, “Guess they make a good team.” 

You didn’t trust yourself to answer. The cloth in your hand stilled for a moment before you wrung it out again. The water dropped red into the bowl. 

“How bad does it look?” He asked, trying to catch his reflection in the window beside him. 

You tilted his chin toward you, pretending to study the damage, though your heart squeezed at how tired he looked. “You’ll live,” you said finally. “Might even win some sympathy points from all the moms at the grocery story.” 

That got a laugh out of him. It was real, soft, and a little hoarse. His good eye crinkled at the corner. “Great. Always been my dream.” 

You smiled despite yourself. “Sure it has.” 

For a moment, it was quiet. You could hear the muffled hum of voices in the other room, the tick of the kitchen clock, the steady sound of your own breathing. When you looked back, his eyes were already on you. 

“Maybe you should talk to her,” you said quietly, still pretending to concentrate on the cut on his jaw. “You did get in a fight to protect her brother and his friends. That has to mean something.” 

He licked his split lip, shook his head. “Yeah. No. I think I’m okay.” 

You turned, following his gaze just as Jonathan leaned in, whispering something that made Nancy laugh. 

Steve looked away first. 

You pressed the cloth to his cheek again, gentle this time. He didn’t look at the petite girl again. He just kept watching you. A breath caught in your throat when he reached up and brushed your hair back, fingers skimming over the scratch on your cheek. The touch was feather-light, careful in a way that made your pulse stutter. 

You brushed him off, mumbling, “I’m fine,” before he could turn it into something. 

So you changed the subject. “For what it’s worth,” you said, wringing out the cloth, “I thought it was sweet. You protecting the kids, I mean. Even if I don’t really understand all of it. I’m sure some girl at school will think it’s hot.” 

That pulled a hoarse laugh out of him. “Girls are not gonna find a one-night babysitter attractive.” 

“Oh yea they will.” You smiled faintly, dabbing at a scrape along his jaw. “Seeing a guy take care of kids does something to us. You think your list is long now? Imagine the possibilities if you use this to your advantage.” 

His brow lifted, then immediately furrowed in pain. “Long list?” 

“You know,” you said, clearing your throat, “like… the list of girls you’ve been with.”

”Girls I’ve been with?” The corner of his mouth twitched, half amusement, half challenge. 

You huffed, cheeks burning. “Sex, Steve. The girls you’ve slept with.” You kept your tone clipped, your eyes fixed on the butterfly bandage in your hand. 

He went very still. The pause stretched just long enough to make your stomach twist. You pressed the bandage gently to the cut on his cheek, but your thumb grazed his skin and the air between you shifted, suddenly thicker and charged. 

“There’s only two people on this so-called list,” he said quietly. His tone was soft, teasing, but there was something else underneath. Something like honesty. Like he wanted you to believe him. 

You froze. If there were only two… then that meant Nancy and— 

“What about Sarah? At homecoming? Or Tommy’s cousin that one summer and spring break?” You asked, the words tumbling out faster than you meant. 

He shook his head, wincing as he did. “Never happened.” 

“But you told me—“

”No,” he said, looking up at you. “You assumed.” 

Your lips parted, breath catching. “You never corrected me. You let Tommy and Carol and everyone think—“ 

He shrugged. ‘Guess I didn’t really care.” 

You arched a brow, unconvinced. ‘Sure.” 

A sheepish grin crept over his mouth. “Okay, maybe I cared. But not anymore.” 

You stared at him, the cloth forgotten in your hands. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even know what to feel. Relief, maybe. Or anger, for all the times you’d thought you were second best. 

“Why tell me now?” You asked softly. 

He looked down, shoulders curling in like he was trying to make himself smaller. When his eyes lifted again, there was no smirk left. “I care what you think of me,” he said simply. 

His finger reached out, ghosting over your knuckle. Just a brush, so light it might’ve been imagined. You felt his name rising up your throat, hovering there, unspoken. 

And then—

“Steve!” 

Dustin’s voice slides through the air. The moment scattered, slipping through your fingers before you could hold onto it. 

”Damn,” Dustin said, skidding to a stop in the doorway. “You look even worse than before.” 

You laughed, stepping back as Steve shot him a deadpan look. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice dry as dust. “You come here just to insult me, or was there an actual reason?” 

Dustin grinned, eyes darting between you and Steve. Then he leaned in, whispering something in Steve’s ear. You didn’t catch it, but you saw the way Steve’s jaw clenched, the faint pink creeping up his neck before he gave Dustin a half-hearted shove. 

“Electricity!” Dustin hissed dramatically, stepping just out of reach like he’d been waiting for the retaliation. He was grinning so wide it was almost painful to look at. 

“Shut up, or I’ll kill you,” Steve mumbled, rubbing his temple. 

Dustin wasn’t even a little scared. “Oh sure. Because you’ve got such a great rapport when it comes to winning fights.” 

Steve shot up, snatching the kid’s hat right off his head. Dustin yelped, immediately jumping to snatch it back. 

You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound escaping before you could swallow it. It felt light. Stupidly, wonderfully light. 

“Give it back!” Dustin said, jabbing a finger into Steve’s bruised side. Steve doubled over with a groan, and Dustin plucked the hat from his hand like a magician reclaiming his prize before darting off down the hall. 

Steve straightened up slowly, wincing, muttering a few choice words under his breath. When his eyes flicked up to yours, you were still smiling, too openly, probably. The kind of smile that said more than you wanted it to. 

The kind of smile that said it is attractive being a one-night babysitter. 

He gave you a look that was half warning, half plea. Don’t start.

You bit back another laugh. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.” 

But your eyes said otherwise. 

“I’m gonna take Max home before Billy comes back to give you round two,” you teased, grabbing your jacket from the back of a chair. “See you later?” 

He raked his fingers through his hair, the gesture a little self-conscious, a little too practiced. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounds good.” 

You turned to leave, but your feet hesitated, traitorous, dragging you back around. “For the record,” you said, scratching your arm, eyes skimming the floor. “I’ve only been with one other person too.” 

His good eyebrow lifted. “Was it the carnival guy?” 

You laughed, because of course that’s where his brain went. “No. I left before the fireworks even started.” 

“Then who?”

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands. “Remember when my family went to North Carolina for Thanksgiving? Sophomore year?” 

The corner of his mouth twitched, already smug. “I knew something happened between you and that guy! You wouldn’t shut up about him for like two weeks.” His voice lifted in a terrible impression of yours. “Eric says that smoking is bad for you.” 

“Smoking is bad for you.” You peeked at him through your fingers, shaking your head. “Didn’t realize you were paying attention.” 

He spoke to himself, “Didn’t realize I could hate a guy I’ve never met.” 

You smirked, pulse doing that traitorous flutter thing again. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” 

“Only because I was stuck wearing that ugly turkey sweater my Nan made,” he muttered, pretending to pout. “And my dad spent the whole dinner talking about how I needed to bulk up if I wanted to make varsity. Meanwhile, you were eating lobster with Eric.” 

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t hide the way your laugh cracked through the air. It was light and easy. 

And even after you left the kitchen, even when you were driving Max home through the quiet streets, that stupid smile wouldn’t fade. Your cheeks ached. Your chest buzzed. It was something close, something bright and dangerous and warm, humming under your skin. 

Electricity.

.-.-.-.

The smell of popcorn and pretzels from the food court had gone stale/ Kids ran past clutching strings of arcade tickets, teenagers swung shopping bags from their wrists, and the neon lights bled across the white tile like melted candy. 

You told yourself you were being ridiculous. Still, your stomach had that fluttery, nervous ache anyway. 

You adjusted your grip on the paper bag in your hands, the one holding the new dress you definitely didn’t need, and took a slow breath before walking toward Scoops Ahoy. 

Through the glass, Robin Buckley was leaning against the counter, looking bored out of her mind. You’d made it your unofficial mission all summer to get her to actually smile at you. She never did. Sometimes you wanted to tell her that nothing was happening between you and Steve. That you saw the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching. That you weren’t competition, not really. 

You told yourself it didn’t bother you. That you and Steve were just friends. Just two people who went on a few late-night drives, who talked about nothing and everything like old times. 

When you stepped inside, the smell of waffle cones and sugar hit you. Robin glanced up, clocked you, and her expression shifted from mild boredom to complete exasperation. She didn’t even bother hiding it. 

She turned toward the back, voice flat. “Dingus, she’s here.” 

A second later, the partition to the back swung open and Steve propped his head through, the ridiculous sailor hat slightly crooked on his hair. “Ahoy!” He winced immediately. “Jesus, sorry… hey!” 

You tried not to smile but failed miserably. It didn’t matter how many times you’d seen him in that uniform. It always did something to you. The shorts, the ridiculous collar, the way his sleeves showed off the tan line on his arms. Over the summer, you’d noticed how much hairier he’d gotten. His arms, his legs, and especially his chest. God, his chest. When he stretched or leaned on the counter, his shirt would lift just enough to reveal that line of hair under his navel, and you were always the idiot who noticed.

Whenever he’d invite you to come over and swim, you had to keep your sunglasses on and pretend you weren’t staring at how the golden light melted on his skin. 

He came out from behind the counter, slinging an arm across your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Robin, I’m—”

“Yeah, I know the drill,” Robin cut in, not looking up. “Forty-five minutes. You went over last time.” 

She glanced at you, quick and unreadable. She then turned back around, pretending to clean the counter. 

Steve didn’t even seem to notice. He was grinning at you, his voice softening in that way it did when he talked to you. “Double scoop chocolate chip?” 

You smiled. “Surprise me, sailor.” 

He froze for half a second, like the word hit differently this time. He cleared his throat and ducked back behind the counter. “Go take a seat,” he said, suddenly busying himself with the ice cream scoops. “I’ll be there in a minute.” 

You nodded and found your usual spot by the window, pretending not to notice the way Robin was still very obviously not looking at you. You traced the edge of the table with your fingertip, pretending to look bored. 

You weren’t. 

Your eyes kept wandering, to where Steve was bent over the row of ice cream tubs, his stupid little sleeves hugging his biceps too well as he scooped. The muscles in his arms flexed when he switched hands. You hated that you noticed. 

Then Robin appeared beside him, sliding in like she belonged there. Elbows on the counter, voice low. She whispered something that made his jaw drop. Her grin was sharp, her teeth catching her lip as if to keep the laugh in. You could’ve sworn her eyes flitted toward you for a second. 

You looked away, your pulse jumping. When you glanced back, Steve was pointing his scooper at her like a weapon, pretending to be mad. He wasn’t. You could see it in the wat his shoulders relaxed. It was the kind of ease he only had when he was happy. 

That stupid pathetic thing— something— twisted in your chest again. 

You stared down at your hands. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Like you’d said a hundred time before. It didn’t matter if his touches were longer than necessary, or sometimes, when you were talking, and your hair would fall in your face, he’d be the one to brush it back and act like it was nothing. 

You were just friends. 

A minute later, the seat dipped beside you. Steve slid in, his shoulder brushing yours, holding out a cone. “One Harrington Special.” 

You took it, smiling despite yourself. The first lick told you he’d know exactly what you liked. You made the mistake of telling him that when he first started working, and his smile was crooked, his eyes gleamed mischief, and his tone was dangerous when he answered, “We both know I do.” Then he grinned like he’d won something. He probably had. 

“She doesn’t like me, does she?” You asked suddenly. 

He blinked, spook halfway to his mouth. “Who?” He swallowed, following your gaze toward the counter. “Robin?” 

You didn’t answer, focusing hard on your cone. 

Steve frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about it. She doesn’t like anyone.” 

You let out a small laugh that didn’t should like one. “She seems to like you.” 

He looked genuinely confused. “She’s got this board in the back room. Two columns, You Rule and You Suck. She’s running out of space on the You Suck side.” 

You looked up at him, half-smiling. “That’s mean.”

”She gives me hell all the time,” he said between bites. “Very hyper know-it-all. Tells me I scoop ice cream wrong. Calls me a dinguse especially when I won’t—“ He stopped midsentence, eyes flicking to yours. “Never mind. Point is, you’re fine. She hates everyone equally.” 

“Equal opportunity loathing,” you murmured, your smile loosening. 

“Exactly.” He scooped up another bite. 

You wanted that warmth to settle you, but it didn’t. It just made the ache worse. You’d seen how fast he smiled at Robin. How she made him laugh. How she was bold and funny and painted her nails strange colors. You pictured them closing the shop together, the way he probably walked her to the bus after. You remembered that one night he’d driven her home, and you you’d wondered for days what they’d talked about. 

Steve must’ve felt that shift in you. He tilted his head, his hand finding the small of your back. His touch burned through the fabric. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.” 

He didn’t buy it, but he didn’t push. His hand stayed where it was, warm and steady, thumb tracing lazy circles over your shirt. It was the kind of absentminded gesture that didn’t mean anything. Except it did. 

Your body went still. Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. 

He kept eating his sundae with his free hand, completely unaware, licking whipped cream from his spoon while you sat there, pretending to eat your cone, trying not to melt in the booth beside him. 

You saw it happen, the flicker across his face when he realized what he was doing. His thumb stilled. Then the warmth left your back, replaced by the cool sweep of air as his hand slipped away, fingers grazing you in apology. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, scratching his face with the same hand. “Didn’t mean to…” His throat bobbed. The flush climbing his neck made your stomach twist. You shouldn’t have wanted to kiss him for it, that nervous, pink lipped stutter, but you did. 

You smiled faintly, nudging him with your shoulder. “Relax, Steve. I would’ve said something if I minded.” Then, before you could stop yourself, “You’re kind of cute when you get nervous.” 

His head tilted, skeptical. “Cute?” 

The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been, humming beneath the soft mall soundtrack and the scent of popcorn and sugar. 

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes tracing the collar of his stupid sailor uniform. “Especially in that thing.” 

He looked down at himself, feigning outrage. “In what thing?” 

You gestured lazily. “Your uniform. You pull it off.” 

His mouth twitched. “You making fun of me right now?” 

You held up your fingers, thumb and forefinger a breath apart. “Maybe a little.” 

“Uh-huh.” He leaned in closer, voice dipping low enough that you felt it in your spine. “So just to clarify, you think I’m cute and I look good?” 

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the heat creeping the back of your neck. “I said you pull it off. Don’t let it get to your head.” 

He clutched his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You wound me, sweetheart.” 

The word hit harder than it should have. Sweetheart. He only ever used it to tease, but it still made your pulse stumble. You hid your smile behind your shopping bad, clutching it to your chest like it could muffle your heartbeat. The air between you smelled like vanilla and something else, warm skin, detergent, his aftershave maybe, His knee brushed yours again, another “accident.” 

To your relief, he nodded toward the bag. ‘What’s that?” 

“Oh.” You blinked down. “A dress. Found it in one the stores before I came here.” 

He tried to peek inside, and you swatted his hand away. He grinned, leaning back against the booth with one arm over the top. “What’s it look like?” 

“Blue. Hand stitched white flowers.” You shrugged like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “I dunno, I probably won’t wear it.” 

“Why not?” His gaze flicked between the bag and your face. “I bet you’ll look really pretty in it.” 

The words landed soft but sure, and they stole the air right out of your lungs. You didn’t trust yourself to meet his eyes. “Guess I’ll have to find an excuse to wear it to find out.” 

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing toward Robin behind the counter. She was watching him with that same sharp smirk. Steve caught her look and cleared his throat, the arm behind you brushing the top of your shoulder. 

“I, uh… two weeks is the Fourth of July,” he said. 

“Mhm.” You tried not to think about Robin. About how easy their rhythm looked from the outside. Once upon a time, that used to be you and him. 

“That means the fair’s be going on,” he added. 

“Yeah.” You saw Robin glance over again and, for reasons you didn’t want to name, you scooted an inch away. Purely platonic, you told yourself. 

“I could probably take off that night,” he said. His tone was casual, but his eyes gave him away, nervous, dancing between yours like he was trying to hand you something invisible. 

Your brow furrowed. “Oh, like you want to go?” 

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and missing. “Yeah. It’d be fun. Be nice to go with someone, too.” 

You forced a smile, glancing at Robin. “Right. I’m sure it’ll be easy to ask her. Maybe wait ‘til after your shift, in case she says no. Wouldn’t want to make it awkward.” 

He looked at you like he was trying to read a language he used to know by heart. “What? No—” He leaned forward, earnest and stumbling. “I meant you. I’m asking you.” His voice softened. “If that’s something you’d wanna do. Could be fun. You did say you missed the fireworks last year.” 

Suddenly, you saw the rope. It had been dangling there whole time, invisible until now, and you were painfully aware of how badly you wanted to grab it. Heat flushed through you, bright and reckless. Still, it didn’t have to mean anything. You’d gone to the fair with him before, as only friends. 

You tilted your head, keeping your voice light. “And do you want me to wear the dress then?” 

His brows lifted, and in the light you could still see the faint scar Billy Hargrove had left six months ago. The tips of his ears went pink. He tried for casual, but his voice betrayed him. “If you want. I mean… I won’t complain.” 

You smiled, looking down at your hands. “We haven’t gone to the fair together since the summer before sophomore year.” That summer still lived in your bones, before vacation in Maine, before Nancy, before everything shifted. 

Steve laughed softly, eyes somewhere far away. “Jesus, you’re right. That feels like forever ago. Hey, wasn’t that when you you…uh…” He trailed off, giving you that sheepish half-grin. 

Your face warmed. You already knew where he was going. “Yeah. When I taught you how to make out on the Ferris wheel because you were supposed to take Tommy’s cousin on it.” 

His lip curved, grimacing. “Right. He was pissed at me for running out of tickets.” 

You couldn’t help laughing, clutching your sides. “Because you wasted them all on multiple trips! You were so nervous you were going to get it wrong that you made me go up with you over and over again." 

He was laughing too, head thrown back. People glanced over, even Robin, who paused mid motion behind the counter. Her expression wasn’t jealousy exactly. Curiosity? 

When the laughter died down, Steve blinked away a tear, his grin fading into something softer. “Yeah. I really was an idiot. Should’ve just been honest back then. I wasn’t even nervous.” He hesitated. “I just didn’t want to kiss anyone.” 

You snorted. “Oh, so you just wanted to kiss me?” It came out teasing, sharp enough to make him flustered. 

But he didn’t flinch. “Yeah,” he said simply. 

The air shifted. You froze, breath catching as the noise of the mall blurred into static, the carousel music, the hum of the fountain, a kid shouting down the corridor. It all faded, leaving only him. His freckle dotted throat. The memory of your lips against his skin that summer, or maybe just the wish for it. 

You smiled then, small and trembling, pressing your knee into his. You nudged his hand. “So… is it just going to be us?” 

He hesitated. You saw it happen, that flicker of uncertainty, like he wanted to say something else. But then he blinked, retreating behind the familiar wall of nonchalance. His hand fell to his lap. 

“Oh, uh…Dustin.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Before he left for camp, he said he wanted to go when he got back, so I’ll probably have to drive him. And the other kids.” 

You watched him, searching for something that might still be there. That warmth that had just been between you, the rope you’d been ready to grab. But all you found was the quiet thud of your own pulse. 

Your eyes dropped, your mouth curving faintly. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” 

He shifted beside you, restless. You could tell he knew he’d said the wrong thing. His lips parted like he was about to fix it, but the words never came. He only took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and put it back on like he could hide behind it. 

“Yeah,” he said finally, weak and unsure. “It’ll be fun.” 

You nodded, smiling just enough to keep from unraveling. “Sure.” 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of kids running through the mall filled the silence, the mechanical whir of the cotton candy machine somewhere in the distance. Then, Steve’s watch beeped two short chirps that cut through the air like a reminder that time was up. 

Robin was already watching from behind the counter, arms crossed, the kind of glare that said don’t you dare take another minute. 

He motioned with his head, no words, just that apologetic smile that never quite reached his eyes. You nodded, but before he could slide out of the booth, you caught his wrist. 

“Hey,” you said softly. 

He turned back. That small crease appeared between his brows, threaded with curiosity and hope. 

“You’ve got something,” you murmured. You leaned in before he could react, brushing your thumb across the corner of his mouth. It was quick, hardly anything at all, but it felt like a secret. 

His body went still. His breath hitched. For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes found yours and stayed there, unguarded. 

You pulled back, your thumb glinting under the fluorescent light. You licked the taste from it like it was nothing. ‘Whipped cream.” 

He swallowed, voice barely a whisper. “Thanks.” 

The sound vibrated between you. 

You nodded, the corner of your mouth threatening to betray you. He stood, adjusting his ridiculous sailor top, and you followed, collecting the napkins and empty cups from the table. He tried to take the trash from you, but you shook your head. You told him the bin was on the way out. 

He let you, though you could feel his gaze burn into your back as you walked away. You didn’t turn around, not until you reached the door. Through the glass, you saw him again. Robin had appeared beside him, sliding the window open, marker in hand. You watched as she drew a line beneath the You Suck column. 

Steve dropped his head, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. It shouldn’t have hurt but it did. 

You stepped out into the mall. The air was different out here, colder. You exhaled, the sound lost under the chatter of passing strangers. Maybe you were right all along. Maybe you really were just friends. 

Still, as you walked toward the exit, you licked your lips and tasted the faintest trace of sweetness, the ghost of whipped cream… and him. 

You hadn’t gone to the fair after all. Something in you had felt off like the universe had pulled a thread loose and was waiting for you to notice. That’s how you got roped into the business of the Upside Down once again. You didn’t hesitate. You just followed like it was now your job. 

You were at Chief Hopper’s cabin, watching El use her powers to find the one and only Billy Hargrove, who apparently was a new host to the mind flayer. Sweat and dirt streaked across your face, the tang of burnt ozone still in your mouth. The strange smell of gasoline. Blood. Fear. 

Nancy was in the kitchen, reloading a gun with quiet precision. You hovered near the counter, drinking a glass of water, trying not to notice how her hands didn’t shake. 

For a while, there was only the sound of shells clinking against the wood. Then Nancy glanced up, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re pretty good at staying calm for someone who wasn’t supposed to be involved.” 

You smirked, shrugging, taking another gulp of your water, finishing it. 

Another shell clicked into place. Then, after a pause, “You know… I always wanted you to like me.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

She laughed softly, not meeting your eyes. ‘When Steve and I started dating, there were rumors. That no girl could flirt with him unless you gave the stamp of approval.” 

You laughed outright, shaking your head. “Oh, that’s absurd. Steve’s his own person.” 

“I know,” Nancy said, smiling faintly. “But I still wanted you to like me.” 

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the first aid kit. “I did. I mean, I do. I liked you. I just…” You exhaled, the admission heavy on your tongue. “I wished we could’ve been friends.” 

Nancy looked up from the gun. Her expression softened. “Me too.” 

There was a quiet stretch between you. A truce hanging in the air. Then Nancy’s voice was quieter, careful. “You know, I broke up with Steve because I couldn’t love him the way he wanted me to.” 

You nodded, eyes on your hands. “Yeah. He told me.” 

But Nancy’s next words made you look up. “Did he tell you that I didn’t love him because not all of him could love me? That there was always a part of him that belonged somewhere else?” 

You froze, your mouth parting, pretending you didn’t know what she meant. “No. He didn’t say that.” 

Nancy just watched you. Her gaze wasn’t cruel, just knowing. 

You scoffed lightly, trying to shake it off. “Steve and I are just friends.” 

She almost smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He would always talk about you, you know. He told me everything.” 

You forced a small laugh. “We’ve known each other since grade school. Guess he told all the stories where I pushed his face into mud when we were seven?” 

Nancy’s head tilted slightly. “No, I mean everything. What you two were like before we started dating. And how you two weren’t speaking because of it.” 

The air thinned. You blinked at her, heat rising in your chest. “Oh.” 

She nodded once, as if that explained everything. 

You pretended to mess with some supplies on the counter, acting unbothered. Because, you told yourself, it didn’t bother you. Or maybe it did. Why would Steve tell Nancy about you and him? It was nothing. It meant nothing. 

“He likes you,” she said simply. 

You guffawed, looking up sharply. “Why would you say that?” Your tone came out like it was the most ridiculous, scandalous thing she could ever say.  There was a spark… hope? It traveled from your heart, throughout your veins, electricity buzzing at the thought that Steve Harrington… has a crush on you. Or was it beyond a crush? 

She smiled faintly. “Don’t look at me like that. I remember the fair. The carnival guy. How badly you wanted him to be jealous.” 

Your face fell, an apologetic look. Nancy quickly put a hand up and shook her head, like a silent It’s okay. But it wasn’t okay. “It’s Steve. He’s handsome and charming. He can smile at a brick wall and get what he wants. He isn’t the type to hesitate, with anyone. You’re proof of that.” 

Nancy studied you, tilting her head. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Because there wasn’t anything to lose with the rest of us.” 

The words settled like dust between you, impossible to ignore. 

There was commotion in the living room. You both jumped into action, moving as if the conversation hadn’t just cracked something open. But even as you game planned with the others, the echo of Nancy’s last sentence followed you like a heartbeat. 

You hadn’t expected to end up back at Starcourt Mall, everything was going wrong already. But there you were again, standing in the fluorescent ruin of it all. The place that used to hum with laughter and cheap pop songs was now filled with the scent of smoke and melted plastic. Sirens in the distance, lights flickering like a dying heartbeat. 

You found him sitting on the curb outside, a bag of ice pressed against his face. Robin sat next to him, laughing at something she had said, it was a delirious, adrenaline high way people do when they survive something they shouldn’t have. 

You cleared your throat, standing on the other side of Steve, the two of them, in sync, looking at you. Steve turned to Robin, motioning his head slightly. Robin gave him an awkward tight lipped smile… and you swore… she winked at him. And you swore Steve muttered, “Shut up.” 

He didn’t look back up you, but he scooted over as if it was an invitation. You stood there for a moment before sitting down beside him. You winced at the sight of him. His hair was matted, streaked with blood and only God knows what. One eye was swollen half-shut, his lip split, his uniform torn. You could make a joke that his face can’t catch a break. But he probably knew that already. 

“How are you feeling?” You asked softly. 

He let out a low groan that was almost a laugh. “Like shit,” he said honestly. “I might have to start wearing glasses after this.” 

You didn’t mean to, but your brain immediately conjured the image. Steve Harrington in glasses, looking unfairly handsome. You pressed your lips together, keeping the thought to yourself, unsure what to say that wouldn’t sound too much like what it was. 

He shifted the ice pack, glancing down at the asphalt. “M’sorry about the fair,” he said after a beat. 

You shrugged, keeping your tone light. “I’m sure it wouldn’t have been that fun anyway.” 

He huffed a short laugh. “It would’ve beaten this by a landslide.” 

That pulled a real smile from you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The flashing lights painted his face red, then blue, the red again. You could see every freckle, every scar, every cut. He looked older somehow. 

“We’re you scared?” You asked quietly. 

He shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Yeah,” he admitted. “The entire time I was like— wow, this is it. This is how I go out. Russians beating me and drugging me, with damn ice cream stains on my shorts.” He gave a soft snort, then hesitated. “Then I was scared I’d never see…” His voice trailed off. His eyes flicked toward you for half a second before darting away again. 

Your heart skipped. “Never see what?” 

He shook his head, the wall going up before your eyes. “Nothing. I’m exhausted. Just waiting for my mom to come pick me up. Embarrassing, right?” He gave out a weak laugh. “They said they might be able to recover my car keys in a week.” 

“Let me wait with you,” you said. 

He didn’t even look at you when he answered. “No, go home. I’ll be fine.” 

He was so guarded. So unlike him. But then again, Steve had grown up a lot since you met him. He was notorious for withholding information from you. You wondered if that had changed because of Robin. Was it that he was afraid he’d never see someone again? Was it Robin? Or… was Nancy right? That maybe you were the reason he could never give himself away. 

The thought hurt in a way you couldn’t explain. 

“I lied,” you said suddenly. 

That got his attention. His head tilted, one brow lifting, expression soft but wary. “‘Bout what?” 

You drew in a breath, meeting his eyes. “About not being sad. About the fair.” You forced a small smile. “It would’ve been nice to have gone on the Ferris wheel with you.” 

His gaze lingered on you then, something unreadable flickering behind it. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile or trying not to say something he’d regret. 

You leaned in closer, silently begging him to make the reckless choice to destroy your friendship. If you were to regret anything, it was convincing yourself you only wanted to be his friend. 

But all he said was, “Get home safe, will you?” 

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. You too, Harrington.” 

When you stood, the space between you felt impossibly heavy. You wanted him to stop you, to say something, anything that would let you know you hadn’t imagined all the things that ever lived between you two. But he didn’t. 

You walked toward your car, the air sticky with smoke and sugar. When you glanced back, he was still sitting there under the flashing lights, his head tilted up toward the ruined skylight like he could still see the fireworks through the smoke. Your eyes glossed over, wiping hot tears off your cheeks. You followed his gaze, a silent sob, almost believing he could. 

.-.-.-.

Mrs. Harrington looked startled when she opened the door. Like she wasn’t sure whether to invite you in or pretend she hadn’t heard the bell. Her lipstick was too red for mid-afternoon, her perfume thick and powdery in the air. Still, she smiled politely. 

“He’s out back,” she said, her voice soft and unsure. “Hasn’t really done much since he got home.” 

You nodded, murmured a thank you, and stepped inside. The Harrington house looked the same as it always had. It was too big, too quiet, a place built for hosting parties but not to be lived in. 

When you slid open the back door, sunlight hit you square in the face. It was too bright for how heavy everything felt. The pool shimmered, the water a lazy, perfect blue. And there he was, Steve Harrington, floating on his back, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Bruises still mapped his ribs and shoulders, a fading constellation of purples and yellows. 

You hadn’t seen him since that night. Since Starcourt. You’d thought about calling a dozen times, but every version of hey, how are you felt too small. You felt too small. 

You crossed to the edge of the pool and sat down. The concrete burned lightly against your palms. You slipped off your shoes, rolled up your jeans, and dipped your feet into the water. 

The small disturbance sent ripples across the surface, brushing against him. Steve tilted his head, squinting over the rim of his sunglasses. He didn’t smile or move closer, just let his head fall back again, the water cradling him. 

“Hey,” he said finally, his voice rough, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. 

You looked at him, the cut on his jaw catching a flash of sun. “Hey,” you answered. 

A sprinkler hissed on somewhere nearby. A leaf drifted across the pool. 

You wanted to ask if he was okay. You wanted to tell him you had nightmares every night about fire and glass. Him being dragged into the Upside Down and never seeing him again. You wanted to ask if he did too. 

Instead, you just watched him float, weightless, untethered. The sunlight glimmered across his tanned skin, and for a fleeting second, he looked like he might dissolve into the water entirely. 

The water lapped lazily against the sides of the pool. Cicadas hummed in the trees. Somewhere beneath the deck, the filter ticked and hummed, steady and indifferent. 

Neither of you spoke for a long while. The sun had slipped low enough to paint the yard in gold and shadows before Steve finally moved. The sound of him shifting, the water breaking around him, felt too loud in the stillness. 

He swam to the opposite edge and pulled himself out, the muscles in his arms trembling faintly from the effort. Water rolled off him in thin sheets, splattering the concrete. He sat down a few feet away, elbows braced on his knees, sunglasses still on like a shield. The bruises were worse up close, deep violet along his ribs, soft yellow fading at his collarbone, a healing split at the corner of his mouth. 

You tried for casual. “So… how’s your day been?” The taste of regret already on your tongue. You said you wouldn’t ask that. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, droplets sliding down his arm. “Fine. Me and Robin started looking for new jobs.” 

You tried not to feel the sting in your chest. So, he was hanging out with Robin. “That’s good,” you said softly. He didn’t elaborate. The silence pressed in again, thick and uncomfortable, like something alive between you. 

You tried again. “How are you feeling?” 

He shrugged. “I’m okay.” 

It was the way he said it, empty, too easy, that made something tighten in your chest. You wanted to shake him for pretending, for saying it like it wasn’t a lie. 

You stared at him, his reflection warped in the blue water. ‘Why were you out here by yourself?” 

“I was just thinking.” His tone made it sound like the end of the conversation. 

Frustration crept up your spine. “And you can’t talk to me about it?” 

He turned slightly, the lenses of his sunglasses catching the light. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you could feel them. “I’m not really in the mood to talk about it.” 

You blinked hard, the heat behind your eyes sharper than you wanted it to be. “I’m sure you’re in the mood to talk to Robin about it, though.” 

That earned a small, humorless laugh, one that hurt to hear. He shook his head. “Right. Okay.” 

Then he pushed himself off the edge and dropped back into the water. The splash shattered the quiet. 

“So, you don’t deny it?” You said, your voice rising. “You talk to her about everything now? Are you two—” you can’t finish it, so you don’t. “Are you?” 

Steve turned toward you, arms resting on the pool’s edge. His jaw worked as he swallowed whatever he wanted to say. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but you could hear the strain underneath. “It’s not like that, okay? Why are you even here?” 

You laughed, but it came out brittle. “Because it’s been a month, Steve. You haven’t even called me.” You look down at the water, then at him. “You used to tell me everything.” 

That lands. You can see it, the shift in his shoulders, the quiet sting in the space between breaths. He looks away, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “The phone works both ways,” he says, low. Then, after a long beat. “I don’t know what to tell you right now.” 

You swallow hard, the taste of chlorine thick in your throat. “I just want to understand, that’s all. Did I do something? Did I hurt your feelings again?” 

You want to ask the real thing. Did you move on? Was there even anything to move on from? Yet, the words don’t make it past your teeth. They just sit there, heavy and unsaid. 

He shakes his head, slow, tired. “You didn’t do anything. I just have a lot on my mind. It’s a mess right now.” 

It’s not enough. 

You pull your feet from the water, droplets sliding down your skin and darkening the concrete. You stand, every movement deliberate, like you’re afraid if you don’t keep moving, you’ll fall apart. 

“Right. Okay.” You laugh softly, but it sounds like breaking glass. “So we’re back to to this.” You bend to grab your shoes, the laces slipping through your trembling fingers. “I’ve served my purpose, your confidant, until another pretty girl like Robin comes along? I know you’ve been through hell, Steve, but you don’t get to be an asshole to me just because you’re afraid of your feelings.” 

He flinches. Just barely. Like the words hit someplace you weren’t supposed to touch. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t reach for you. 

“So, I’m gonna go,” you say quietly, forcing the knot in your throat down. “You can call me when you’re ready to talk. Or maybe don’t. It’d save us both from this stupid cycle.” 

You slip your shoes on and straighten, the world too still around you. You can feel his eyes on you as you walk away. You wait for him to say something, like wait, or don’t go, or even I’m sorry. 

But nothing. 

It was all the same sounds from when you arrived. The same sounds as when you thought things might still mean something. 

You gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles ached, trying not to look back at the house. The air inside the car was hot, the kind that made everything feel slow and heavy. You blinked hard, willing your chest to stop tightening. 

You were about to turn the key when you heart it, your name, faint through the glass. 

Then again, louder this time. urgent. 

Through the windshield, you saw Steve, running barefoot across the driveway, shirt half on, dripping wet. The sun caught on the water flying off him, the sound of his feet slapping against the concrete filling the air. 

He stopped in front of your car, both hands pressing flat against the hood like he needed to hold it in place. His chest heaved. When he saw you weren’t moving, he came around to your door, crouching so you could see his face. 

You rolled the window down, pulse thrumming. “What?” 

He was panting, eyes wide, looking at you like you were the only solid thing in the world. “I don’t…” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know how to do this with you.” 

You blinked, throat tight. “So this is it? You don’t want to be my friend?” 

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “Wait— yes! I do. I just… shit.” He rubbed a hand over his face, leaving streaks of water in his hair. “Do you know how nervous you make me?” 

You gave a disbelieving laugh, half scoff, half defense. “I have never made you nervous.” 

He looked up at you through his lashes, lips quirking despite himself. “Yes, you do. All the time. It’s pathetic how nervous I feel.” 

You didn’t know what to say. “I don’t understand.” 

He exhaled sharply, words tumbling out like they’d been waiting too long. “That night at Starcourt, remember I told you I was scared but wouldn’t say what?” 

You swallowed. “Vaguely.” You lied. You remembered. 

“I was scared I’d never see you again.” 

The words hit the air like a spark. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, eyes burning. “So you don’t call me for a month?” 

He looked down, shoulders tense. “Look, I’m sorry. I really am. But like I said, I don’t know how to do this with you.” 

“Communicate?” You said, trying to keep your voice steady. 

He raked a hand through his damp hair. “Ask if you wanna do something together.” 

You frowned. “You don’t know how to ask me to hang out? We hang out all the time.” 

“No!” He groaned, half laughing, half desperate. “I mean… yes, but can you just be quiet for two seconds? I’m trying to ask you out.” 

Everything went still. 

He sighed, tightening his grip on the edge of your window. “They’re playing Fast Time tonight at the drive-in. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty sharp because I know you can never decide what snack you want.” 

You stared at him, words caught in your throat. “Just us?” 

That flicker of confidence finally slid back into place. His mouth curved, that familiar, unfair grin. “Yes. Just you and me. A date. See you tonight.” None of these were questions. It was instructions, a demand. 

He turned to walk back toward the house, water still dripping from his hair, and you say there, frozen. 

“But I never said yes!” You called after him. 

He spun on his heel, walking backward now, grin widening. “Oh,” he said, eyes glinting beneath the late sun, “and wear the dress.” 

.-.-.-.

You wore the damn dress. 

Steve showed up exactly when he said he would. Six-thirty sharp. 

You heard the crunch of tires on the driveway, the soft rumble of his car idling. Through the window, you could see him leaning against the door, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, hair still a little damp from a shower. 

You opened the door before he could knock. 

For a second, he just looked at you, and there was something unguarded in his expression, something that made your stomach twist. His mouth curved slowly. 

“So I was right,” he said, voice low, a little smug. “You do look really pretty in the dress.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t listening. 

He did all the things he always did… the Steve Harrington special. He opened your door with a flourish. He grabbed a box of chocolates from the backseat, knowing well you weren’t a flower person. At the ticket booth, he paid before you could reach for your wallet. He was right, you couldn’t decide which candy you wanted, so naturally, he bought one of everything. 

There was something different in the way he did it this time. The glimmer in his eye when you smiled, the grin that stuck even when you teased him. 

“You know,” you said as he dropped the change into his pocket, “you don’t have to try so hard to impress me.” Mostly because he had impressed you a long time ago. You weren’t ready to admit that just yet. 

He shot you a look over his shoulder, half-smile crooked. “You think this is me trying to impress you? Sweetheart, this is nothing.” 

You laughed, but it came out as a giggle. A giggle. What the hell did you become into? 

When the movie started, everything felt quieter. The giant screen flickered against the windshield, painting the car in pale golds and blues. You could hear the hum of the radio from another car nearby, the crunch of gravel as people settled in. 

It was strange how shy you felt. You’d seen him half dead and bleeding. You’d slept beside him plenty of times, close enough to feel his heartbeat against you. Yet, now, your hands were folded neatly in your lap, and you could barely look at him. 

Steve sat close, one arm draped on the door, fingers trapping along to the movie’s soundtrack. Every now and then, his gaze flicked to you. 

Halfway through, he leaned toward you slightly. “You enjoying it?” 

You nodded, your voice small. “Yeah.” 

He smiled, slow and easy, and for a moment he didn’t look back at the screen. You caught him looking at you, really looking, before he blinked and turned away, his jaw tight. He reached towards you, your heart racing, imagining him grabbing your hand to hold it. Instead, he dipped it in the popcorn between you, shoving a few pieces in his mouth and then dropped his arm back into his lap. 

You frowned, pulse thrumming with something restless. The space between you felt too big. 

You placed your hand on the console between you, your shoulder lightly brushing his. You waited, hoping he’d see the invitation. 

For a while, he didn’t move. Pretended to be focused on the movie, his expression carefully neutral. Then, like it was nothing, he slid his hand over too, resting it on top, casual, practiced. 

The minutes stretched. The world shrank to the faint buzz of the projector and the heat between your palms. 

Your pinkies brushed, barely, and the air shifted. He didn't pull away. Instead, his pinkie rubbed lightly against the side of your hand, once tentative. 

You flipped your hand over, heart pounding. 

And without looking, he interlaced his fingers with yours, a quiet, steady, motion, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen ahead, but his thumb tracing slow, small circles against your skin. 

It was like something finding its place. Like his hand had always belonged in yours. 

The movie had ended. 

The credits rolled, the screen dimmed, and still neither of you moved. The car lights from other rows flickered on one by one, the sound of gravel crunching as engines started up. You felt the ghost of Steve’s thumb against your hand before he pulled away, slow and careful, as if letting go might break something. 

The night hummed around you, windows cracked open, the smell of summer grass, the echo of laughter from cars behind. 

“Do you want to go on a walk before I take you home?” He asked finally. 

You turned to him, surprised. “A walk?” 

He smiled a little. “Yeah. There’s a trail by the lake. it’s nice this time of night.”  

You said yes before you even thought about it. 

The car rolled to a stop near the edge of Lover’s Lake. The water shimmered under the moonlight, still and glassy, the woods breathing slow around it. 

You fell into step beside him on the trail, shoulders brushing, feet scuffing against the dirt. He had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the picture of casual, except for how tightly he kept his jaw clenched, like there were too many words sitting on his tongue. 

You shivered when the wind came off the water. Without missing a beat, Steve slipped off his jacket and settled it around your shoulders. His fingers brushed lightly against your collarbone, a small, almost accidental touch that felt anything but. 

“Thanks,” you said softly. 

He just nodded. 

You walked in silence for a while, until you slipped your arm through his— testing. You leaned into him. His muscles tensed, then eased, and you felt him smile beside you. You swore you felt his nose brush gently into your hair. 

“Does this mean I can ask you what you’re thinking now?” You teased, your voice quiet against the rustle of trees. 

He laughed under his breath. “I’m an open book.” 

“Okay… scared you weren’t going to see me again?” 

Steve exhaled, long and deep. “You start off strong.” 

“I mean, can you blame me?” 

He pulled you a little closer as you walked, his side pressed into your shoulder. “No, I can’t. It’s… self-explanatory, really. I kept thinking about what you were doing, what our last memory together was. And, Jesus… how bad I wanted to take you to the fair. Just us. I shouldn’t have been such a coward. Should’ve been honest.” He paused, his voice softer now. “It was a lot of regrets I didn’t know what to do with.” 

You nodded. “I know you already apologized. But why didn’t you call?” 

He stopped walking. You did too. His hands slipped from his pockets, only to shove right back in, his shoulders tight. 

“I just… couldn’t talk to you without wishing for more,” he said quietly. “You’re my best friend, and you know… after everything that happened, I didn’t know what to do with that. It’s stupid.” 

You tilted your head, eyes searching his face. “So, are you saying you like me?” 

Steve huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Of course I do. For a long time.” 

He started walking again, and you followed. The night seemed to hold its breath around you. 

“So if you like me,” you asked after a beat, “then what’s with all the longing looks? The ones you give Nancy and Jonathan?” 

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “I wasn’t jealous of them. I mean… okay, maybe a little. But not because of Nancy. It was because she was with the person she wanted. And I…” he glanced at you, small smile, sad at the edges. “I was barely even friends with the person I wanted.” 

You were embarrassed how easily the sharp bloom in your chest made you giddy. You let out an involuntary giggle. Your cheeks were warm. You felt full. It was better than what you had dreamed of. Your best friend liked you. Steve Harrington wanted you. 

You kicked at a stone. “I wanted the fair to be a date too,” you admitted your voice small. 

He stopped again, turning toward you. The air seemed to thicken. The moonlight hit his face, soft and silvers and eyes steady, lips parted like was about to say something but didn’t trust himself to yet. 

He looked at you the way people look when they’re trying to memorize something. Like if he blinked, you might vanish. 

Your pulse jumped. 

“What are you thinking now?” You asked, your voice trembling. 

The words landed between you, fragile and bright. 

He took a step closer. Then, for the first time in a long time, he gave you the look. His eyes slowly dragged to your lips and then back to your eyes. “I’m thinking about what you’d say if I asked if I could kiss you.” 

“Yes.” 

For a second, nothing. Just the word hanging in the air, trembling, daring him to move. 

Steve blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it. Like the sound had knocked the breath out of him. 

Then he moved.

It wasn’t gentle. It was everything. 

His hand found your jaw, the other your waist, and the space between you disappeared all at once. The kiss hit hard, teeth, breath, heat. You stumbled back a step, your spine catching the rough bark of a tree, and he followed without hesitation chest pressed to yours, soaking you in. 

You gasped against his mouth and he chased the sound, kissing you deeper. His thumb slid under your chin, tilting you up until there was nowhere left to go but closer. The taste of him, mint, salt, the faintest sweetness from whatever candy he’d eaten at the drive-in. It all made your head spin. 

His mouth was everywhere, your bottom lip, the corner of your mouth, a breath against your cheek before he found you again. It was open mouthed and messy and so full of want it almost hurt. 

You fisted your hands in his hair before you realized you were doing it. He groaned when you tugged, deep and low, the sound shooting through you like a spark. His body pressed harder into yours, the solid weight of him keeping you anchored when everything else felt like it was spinning. 

You felt the scraped of bark through his jacket and your dress, the heat of his palm sliding along your thigh. You hadn’t realized your leg was hiked up until you felt Steve’s hand cup your ass. Fingertips dragging slow, like he needed proof you were really there. Every time you parted for air, he found you again, hungrier, rougher, like he was scared you’d evaporate if he didn’t keep touching you. 

It was dizzying, the way he kissed you. Like he’d been waiting years and didn’t trust he’d get another chance. 

When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because you wanted to, it was because you had to breathe. Your chests brushed with every inhale, and his forehead dropped to yours. You could taste him still, sweet and sharp, and you couldn’t tell whose heartbeat was whose. 

You had pretty much shared a hundred kisses with Steve, but this one carried through your veins and bones. You wanted this kiss to be tattooed onto your lips forever, to remember it when you two were apart. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, voice wrecked, his breath catching on a laugh. “I don’t remember feeling like that on the Ferris wheel.” 

You felt your own laugh tumble out. It was small, shaky, completely undone. 

His hand stayed on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your mouth like he still didn’t believe it. His eyes were darker now, but soft, careful. 

Your lips curved. “Suppose you’ve gotten a lot better.” 

He furrowed his brows, trying not to smile. “You suppose?” 

You shrugged, not answering. Just reached up and pulled him back in. 

It turned into lazy languid kisses. Your hands sneaking under, moving up and down his back until it was time to go. 

You barely made it to the car. 

His hand found yours somewhere between the trees and the parking lot, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist like he couldn’t stop himself.  The air felt electric running underneath every step. When you reached the BMW, he turned like he was going to open your door, the perfect gentleman, but then he didn’t. 

Instead, he caught you. 

Your back hit the car, his mouth already on yours, urgent, messy, like he’d been waiting for this and couldn’t risk losing it. His hands finding your hips, dragging you closer. He groaned against your mouth and it rattled something loose in you. 

He hated his hair being touched but your fingers found them, soft, damp from the humidity, and tugged. His hair wasn’t even your favorite feature of his. His crooked smile, the slight unevenness of his nose from too many fights, his hands. The way his eyes look permanently droopy, soft, and gentle. He kissed you harder for it, that maybe he never wanted you to touch his hair because it made him turn into this. 

You giggled, twirling his locks. “You need a haircut.” 

Steve looked drunk when he pulled back to look at you, his mouth going to your jaw. “…kay, I’ll get it cut tomorrow.” 

You smiled. “Just like that? You’re gonna cut it because I said something?” 

“Yeah,” he muttered. 

He tried to reach for the door handle behind you, fumbling, still half kissing you, his fingers grazing your waist.  When the latch finally clicked, it sounded deafening. 

He pulled back, just barely. His breath hit your cheek. The air between you smelled like his cologne and sweat and something new and fresh. 

You slid into the seat because you had to, because if you hadn’t, you weren’t sure either of you would stop. Steve closed your door gently, taking a long breath before walking around to his side. 

You watched him through the window, the way his hand raked through his hair, the faint lopsided grin that gave him away. He looked like he was seconds away from jumping into a heel-click. He looked flushed, dazed, still catching up to whatever just happened. 

When he got in, he didn’t look at you right away. The car filled with the low hum of the radio, some song too soft to matter, and the silence between you was bright and alive. You were both smiling like idiots, grinning into the dark like there was a secret only you two knew. 

.-.-.-.

The car idled quietly in front of your house. The headlights painted long, soft lines across the driveway. The night felt too calm for how loud your heartbeat was. 

“Goodnight,” you whispered, leaning a little closer, kissing his cheek. 

He smiled that half-smile. “Goodnight.” 

He kissed you back on the lips. Just once. Just a brush of lips, tender, sweet. But then he said it again, quieter this time, almost a dare. “Goodnight.” 

You laughed into his mouth, soft pecks, one after another, each one becoming longer, until the line between goodnight and don’t go blurred completely. His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb tracing lazy circles. 

It started soft. Then it wasn’t. 

It deepened like it had been waiting again, slow burn into something molten. His tongue brushed yours, and you gasped, and he caught it, kissing you through it. 

When your hand slid lower, to where his shirt met his belt, he froze. His hand caught yours gently, his voice barely a whisper. “Hey… wait.” 

You blinked, frowning. “Sorry. I just—“ 

He shook his head, smiling, eyes soft and so, so fond. “Don’t be sorry. Just… let’s not rush, okay?” 

You nodded. 

You kissed him again, slower this time, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, the spot just under his jaw. He exhaled shakily, a sound you felt before you heard. 

When you finally pulled back, he was grinning at you, cheeks flushed, lips pink and swollen. 

“Go inside before I change my mind,” he murmured. 

You wanted to challenge him but instead you only smiled. “Goodnight, Steve.” His name came out endearingly, blooming into a whole new meaning. 

You barely made it to the front steps when you heard him. 

“Hey! Wait!” 

Your name came out somewhere between a breath and a plea, and you turned, pulse stuttering. Steve was jogging toward you, hair a mess. 

“Changed your mind already?” You teased. 

He slowed to a stop in front of you, cheeks flushed. “No,” he said, breathless. “I just…” he gestured vaguely, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Need my jacket back.” 

You were about to laugh, but he was already reaching for it. His fingers brushed your shoulders, slow, deliberate, sliding the denim down your arms inch by inch. 

You were supposed to say goodnight one last time. Instead, you kissed him. 

It started soft, then didn’t stay that way. Your hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer until the back of his legs hit the BMW’s bumper. 

Then you pushed. He let you. 

Steve’s hands landed on your hips as you crowded him against the hood, your body pressed tight to his, your dress skimming his jeans. The metal was warm beneath his palms, the night air heavy around you. You nipped at his bottom lip, pressing yourself into him. He groaned. 

“Backseat,” he said, voice low and wrecked, like it was pulled from somewhere deep. 

Before you could even process it, he was moving, standing, spinning you with a hand firm at your waist, the other on your ribs, thumb brushing the bottom of your breast. Your back hit his chest, his mouth dragging down your neck in a trail of open mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. 

He reached past you, opened the back door, and you turned to face him. The look in his eyes made you weak in the knees, dark, steady, head tipped slightly down as he looked up at you through his long lashes. 

You climbed in first, crawling across the seat, feeling his gaze on your backside, your heart in your throat. Your hands went to the buttons holding the straps of your dress, but his voice stopped you. 

“No.” 

You froze. He leaned in, his words barely brushing your ear. “The dress stays on.” His eyes flitted to the seat. “Lay down.” 

You’d never heard him sound like that before. A demand laced with dangerous inflection. Commanding without trying. 

You obeyed. 

The car’s interior smelled like cedar and sugar and him. He climbed in after you, filling the space instantly. The world outside the fogged windows disappeared. 

When he hovered over you, the low light from the street lamps caught his face. The curve of his jaw, the faint bruise near his temple, the softness in his eyes that didn’t match how desperate he looked. 

You helped him pull off his shirt and your lips kissed his collarbone, your hands ran up and down his chest, feeling the muscles. You kissed him softly but surely. 

He pulled back, his free hand running his thumb on your bottom lip. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. Quiet, like it wasn’t for you to hear. 

You blinked up at him, breath trembling. He had always called you hot or pretty once or twice, but never beautiful. The word seemed to carry a different feeling, swelling in your chest. “You’ve never called me that before.” 

He smiled, small, tender, devastating. “I’m always thinking it.” 

He kissed you. It was reverent and slow and deep and full of an eternity of all the things about the other. More things you both thought of, but never said aloud. 

.-.-.-.

The car had eventually gone quiet again. 

You were still tangled on him, skin damp, heartbeat skipping in the still heat. The faint sweetness of your shampoo, vanilla curling into the corners of the fogged up glass. His arm was heavy over your waist, anchoring you in place. Every few seconds, his thumb moved, tracing idle shapes against your hip like he couldn’t stop touching you. 

His mouth followed the path his hand made. Slow and soft. Your shoulder, your collarbone, the space just below your jaw. Not hungry this time. The kind of kiss that stayed. 

You’d been toying with his hand, the one resting near your stomach, following the veins along his wrist, the fading scab on his knuckle, the soft pulse beneath your fingers. You brought his fingertips to your mouth, kissed them. 

“So,” you muttered, your voice thinner than you meant it to be “What are you doing tomorrow?” 

He smiled against your neck, the words brushing your skin. “Hanging out with Robin.” 

The name hit fast. 

Your fingers froze against his. The air shifted. That same old ache returned. The one that used to live in your chest back when he said he had been talking to Nancy like it didn’t cost him anything. 

You’d think after him confessing he wanted to be with you, that you’d believe him. That you believed him after coming undone together. But, you didn’t. 

You sat up quickly. Hair falling forward. Dress rumpled. 

“Wait— hey,” Steve said, hand dropping to your forearm. He was half sprawled across the seat, skin glowing in the dim light, lips still kiss swollen. “What’re you doing?” 

You shook your head. “I should go in. This was… this was stupid.” 

His face changed. “What? What do you mean, stupid?” You could hear the scratch in the back of his throat. You ignored it. 

You were already fastening the button at your neckline, fingers shaking. “This was a mistake, Steve.” 

He sat up straighter, his voice climbing a notch. “Okay, hold on. Did I do something wrong?” 

“No. Yes. I don’t…” The button snapped into place, the sound like a gunshot. “I don’t know.” 

“You’re not making any sense—“ 

“This was just a quick fuck, right?” The words tore out before you could stop them, mean and wild and trembling. “Just like before Nancy. Just another distraction until someone else came along.” 

He let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, head bowing. His hand flexed against the seat. “Are you fucking serious?” His voice cracked on the edge of disbelief. “You really think that’s what this is?” 

No. But you couldn’t say anything. 

“I thought you wanted this,” he said, shoved his legs through his jeans, every motion clipped, controlled. “I thought you wanted me.” 

Your mouth opened, but no sound. 

“I thought you knew me better than that,” he went on, voice breaking around the edges. “I thought I made it clear this wasn’t just some hookup.” 

Your breath came out in fragments. “You don’t mean it. You’re just…” you were trying to find excuses. “You’re just emotionally vulnerable right now. Everything you’ve been through, the Russians and… you’re just trying to make it mean something.” 

A quiet, bitter laugh came out of him. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You really don’t get it, do you?” 

You blinked. “Get what?” 

“That it’s not me running scared here.” His voice was steady. Every word felt like it scraped its way out. “It’s you.” 

Your jaw twitched. Eyes burned. 

“You don’t want this to mean anything,” he said. “Because if it does, you don’t get to pretend anymore. You don’t get to hide behind your jokes, or your walls, or that thing you do where you look at me like you already know I'm gonna leave. You know, this entire night I’ve been pretty fucking bare to you but not once have you told me you like me too.” 

You were shaking your head, hands twisting in the fabric of your dress. “I— I have… I—“ 

He leaned forward, voice softer but sharper. “Sweetheart,” he said, and the word hurt, “the only one in this car who doesn’t know what they want is you.” 

You stared at him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Yeah?” He asked. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” 

The silence was its own answer. 

Another broken laugh. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I keep doing this because it’s the only way I can fully have you,” he said quietly. “Because you won’t let me any other way.” 

The words landed like a bruise. 

His next came slower, cracking apart halfway though. “Because it’s the only way you’ll let me love you.” 

You went rigid, your jaw slack. 

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, voice raw. “I am so fucking in love with you,” he said, almost whispering. “And I have been since freshman year. You act like I’m the one pretending, but you’re the one who keeps running every time this gets real.” 

You saw the confession curl into the car as it held its breath, sinking into you, the ache blooming behind your ribs. You wish you could take everything back, instant regret, but it was useless, you had already broken something in him. And unlike before, you had no idea if this could be fixed. 

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “But yeah, sure. Tell yourself I’m just vulnerable. That I don’t mean it. That’s easier, right?” 

Your voice barely made it past your lips. “You just love the idea of it all,” you said, shaking. “You don’t love me, Steve. You just think you do.” 

You have never seen Steve angry at you before. Sure, when you two were younger he’d be annoyed. But his eyes never looked fiery like they were now. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. 

You pushed the door open, the night air hitting you in the chest. You stepped out barefoot. The asphalt was warm under your feet, your shoes dangling from your hand. The streetlight painted you both in a wash of orange and shadow. 

Behind you, a thud. 

You turned just in time. 

He’d driven his fist into the back of the passenger seat. Knuckles white, shoulders trembling. 

He stayed like that, head bowed, chest heaving. 

You stood there, caught in the space between apology and escape. 

Then the car door opened. He got out, bare chested, eyes dark, something shattered but defiant in the set of his jaw. He looked at you like there were a thousand things left to say and not a single one would make a difference. 

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved. 

The night hung between you, bare feet, bruised hands. And then you turned. And you ran. 

.-.-.-. 

It had been two months. Two whole months of silence. 

You’d countered every one. Every sunrise that bled into another day you didn’t see him. Every night that ended without his voice on the phone, without the familiar warmth pressed against the edges of your thoughts. 

You missed Steve. God, you missed him so much it made your chest ache. But you couldn’t face him. Not yet. Not until you figured out what this was, what you were. It was pathetic, really, how long you’d been waiting for clarity that refused to come. Because Steve wasn’t wrong. You were the one running. 

You had been the one to tell him it meant nothing junior year. You had been so obsessed with wanting to be in control. You wanted to control how people thought of you, wanting the people in his life to like you, but never giving them an actual chance. You’d wanted him to choose you since before you even knew what that meant. And he had, in all the ways that mattered. But your small, sharp, predictable jealousy had turned something good into something cruel. 

You got word that he and Robin had finally found a new job.

Family Video. 

And of course, that’s where you ended up on a Saturday afternoon in October. 

The bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of plastic cases, popcorn butter, and industrial carpet cleaner. Rows of VHS tapes stretched out like a time capsule. Behind the counter, Robin Buckley. 

She looked up, blinking in surprise. “He’s not here,” she said immediately. 

You froze mid-step. “Good,” you managed, too fast. “I’m not here to see him.” 

Robin’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened a little. “I’m not getting in the middle of whatever’s going on between you two.” 

“I know.” You rubbed your palms against your jeans, nerves humming. “I’m not here to talk about him.” 

Robin tilted her head, skeptical but curious. 

“I’m here because…” you started, then stopped. The words tangled in your throat, coming out softer than you meant. “Because I’ve spent all summer making excuses not to properly talk to you. And that’s shitty. You didn’t deserve that.” 

Her brow furrowed, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. 

“And now that you and Steve are…” you waved a vague hand. “Friends, I think I need to stop being an asshole. So. Hello.” You stuck your hand out, awkward and sincere. 

Robin blinked, then smiled. It was small. She took your hand, her peacock blue nails contrasting against skin. “Hello,” she said, her grip warm. 

You nodded, already stepping back, ready to flee before you ruined the moment. “Okay. That’s all I wanted to say. I’ll… uh, I’ll get out of your hair.” 

Before you reached the door, Robin called out, “Keith, I’m taking my lunch!” 

From somewhere in the back, a groan. “Again?” 

Robin ignored him, grabbing her bag. “Come on,” she said, motioning to the door. “You like turkey sandwiches?” 

You blinked. “Sure?” 

Outside, the heat hit you instantly. The two of you sat on the curb, the pavement warm beneath your jeans. The air smelled like asphalt and cut grass. Neither of you spoke for a while, just the soft crinkle of wax paper. 

Finally, you said, “So. You’re in the band?” 

Robin arched a brow. “How’d you know?” 

You smiled faintly. “Don’t underestimate a jealous woman. I did a lot of yearbook research.” 

Robin laughed, shaking her head. “That’s both flattering and mildly terrifying.” 

“Yeah” you said, grinning despite yourself. 

She took a bite of her sandwich, still smiling. “Well, yeah. I’m in a band. We’re not terrible. I used to be on saxophone until last year I started playing the trumpet. I can pick up most instruments pretty fast. Used to play piano at church when I was a kid.” 

You now understood why Steve said Robin was hyper. She talked fast, and you had to pay attention or you’d missed what she was speaking about. “That’s awesome,” you said, and you meant it. “Do you really love music?” 

She shrugged, offering you some of her chips. “I do. But it’s not what I’m passionate about.” 

You shoved the salty chips in your mouth, motioning for her to go on. 

Robin’s face lit up, almost instantly. Her body turned to you, her shoulders upright, hands dramatically moving. “Linguistics,” she said, the word like a spark. “I love breaking down languages. Patterns, syntax, hidden meaning. I didn’t realize how much until Steve and Henderson roped me into cracking that Russian code.” 

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your mouth. Any type of bitterness, resentment, jealousy, evaporated. “That’s incredible.” 

Robin looked at you for a long moment, then sighed softly. “Look,” she said, gentle but direct. “I know he’s told you a thousand times, but there’s nothing going on between Steve and me.” 

Something inside loosened. The tight knot that had been living in your chest for months started to give. “I know,” you said quietly. “I’m just… scared.” 

Robin picked at the crust of her sandwich, voice low now. “I can’t deny Steve and I are close, but he won’t really let anyone be his best friend except you. He doesn’t even try.” She gave you a look. “You know at Scoop, he refused to take breaks until you showed up?” 

Your head lifted. “What?” 

Robin laughed under her breath. “And now, here, it’s the same thing. Doesn’t matter where he is. If that bell chimes, he’s out front in two seconds flat. Always with this stupid, hopeful look on his face.” She smiled a little. “And when we hang out, he only wants to stay at his house. Says he doesn’t want to ‘miss any important calls.’” 

Your throat tightened. 

“I gave him so much shit about it,” Robin said. “Even before we were friends, I knew he was into you. I just thought he was y’now, King Steve Harrington. Flirting to flirt.” 

You laughed weakly, but unable to say anything. 

“But then you came into Scoops that one time,” Robin went on. “You were upset. You had spilled coffee on yourself before an interview. And when you weren’t looking, he looked like someone had kicked his puppy. Like it physically hurt him to see you sad.” 

Heat climbed your neck. You could picture it too clearly. 

Robin leaned back on her hands, squinting up at the sun. “And don’t even get me started on the number of times you practically threw yourself at him and he didn’t do shit about it. I had an actual board in the back that said You Suck for every time he chickened out.” 

You laughed, really laughed, and Robin joined you, your heads tipping back, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot. 

The air shimmered in the cool breeze. It was that awkward time of year where the air would be cool, but the sun still blared. Robin brushed crumbs from her lap and squinted at you through the sunlight, her hair haloed gold. The silence between you had stretched thin, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. 

Before you could stop yourself, you said. “Are you doing anything next weekend?” 

Robin blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?” 

“Do you wanna hang out?” You asked, trying for casual but tripping over it halfway through. “Is it… lame to ask someone to have a sleepover at our age?” 

Robin stared for a second, then laughed, bright and startled, the kind that cracked open the air. “A sleepover?” 

You winced. “Yeah. I know. I just… I want to get to know you. Like, really know you. Because I kind of have this problem where I want people to like me but won’t let them know me. I’d like to talk about things that aren’t Steve.” 

Robin grinned, her eyes crinkling. “Yeah. I’d really like that.” 

You smiled, a small breath of relief catching in our throat. “Good. Because I think we’d actually be good friends if I wasn’t, you know, perpetually terrible at being one.” 

“You’re not terrible,” Robin said easily. “Just… catastrophically bad at timing.” 

You snorted, because there was no argument there. You bit your lip, voice soft. “But I do want you to promise me something.” 

She made a humming noise, finishing the last of her sandwich. 

“If you ever do end up having feelings for Steve. Please just tell me. Don’t hide it. I can handle that. I just… don’t want to be that jealous person anymore.” 

Robin froze, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face, discomfort, maybe, or amusement. Then she shook her head, smiling faintly. “Trust me,” she said, leaning back on her palms. “Steve is so not my type. No offense.” 

“None taken,” you said, half laughing. 

Robin’s lips parted, probably to make some sarcastic follow up, but her eyes flicked past your shoulder and she went suddenly still. “Oh my god,” she muttered, sitting up straighter, her voice caught somewhere between dread and disbelief. 

You turned just as a red headed girl with soft eyes and an armful of library books crossed the lot. 

“Robin!” She called, her smile bright. “I was hoping you were working today.” 

Robin nearly dropped her soda. “Hey, Vickie! Yeah, I’m uh… working. Yep.” Her voice cracked on working. 

You blinked once. Then again. 

Because the look on her face, the wide eyes, the stammer, the shy, almost smile was unmistakable. 

Vickie’s gaze flicked to you, polite but curious, assessing in that instinctive way. You knew that look, too. You’d worn it more times than you could count, when someone stood too close to the person you were quietly, hopelessly gone for. 

You turned back to Robin, who was doing a spectacular job of pretending she was totally fine. 

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Oh.” 

Robin’s face went scarlet. She gave the smallest shrug, guilty and sheepish at once. 

You stood, brushing crumbs from your jeans. “hi,” you said brightly to Vickie. “We were just catching up, but I should get going. Enjoy the rest of your break, Robin.” 

“Yeah,” Robin said quickly, eyes still wide. “You too.” 

You waved and started for your car. 

Behind you, Vickie’s voice floated across the lot. “Who was that?” 

Robin hesitated for a heartbeat, then said softly, “Oh… she’s a friend of mine.” 

You paused. 

A friend of mine. 

It wasn’t the words. It was the way she said them. It was warm and sure. Like she meant it. 

Your throat went tight. Something inside you cracked open, slow and aching. Because for the first time, it hit you. You’d had it all wrong. All of it. 

You’d spent so long clutching your jealousy like armor, convinced people would leave, that you hadn’t noticed the ones who stayed. Who’d always stayed. 

And suddenly, you could see it, every quiet proof of it. Steve showing up when you called. Steve remembering what you’d forgotten. Steve looking at you like you hung the stars over his stupid BMW. 

Your breath caught. 

The air around you seemed to hum, something electric sparking low in your chest, running through your veins, familiar as your own heartbeat. 

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion. 

It was love. 

And it had been there all along. 

.-.-.-.

The sun was still high when you pulled up to Steve’s house. It looked the same, a little too perfect, a little too lonely. The grass lay in clean stripes, and the air held the kind of heat that didn’t belong to October. You stood on the porch for a moment, listening for footsteps that never came. 

Then you heard it, the low, steady hum of a lawnmower from the backyard. 

You followed the sound, sandals scuffed through dust, the air smelled like cut grass and gasoline. And there he was. 

Steve Harrington. Shirtless. Tanned. Moving slow and methodical behind the wheel of a riding mower. 

The sun caught the line of his shoulders, the shimmer of sweat sliding down his spine. His Walkman hung from the waistband of his shorts, the headphone wire trailing down his chest. He was mouthing words, singing, maybe, lost to whatever song was loud enough to drown out everything else. 

You should’ve called his name. Instead, you watched. 

It was embarrassingly easy to fall back into it, the quiet pull he had, the kind that tugged at the air around him. The gravity of him. The stillness that made you ache. 

When he turned and finally saw you, his brows drew together in confusion. 

He slowed the mower, rolled closer, and cut the engine. The silence that followed made everything louder. Your pulse, the small tick of the cooling metal. 

He climbed off, pulled the headphones down around his neck. A faint song, something old and fast, leaked out. He grabbed a glass from the porch rail, drank deep, then wiped the back of his neck before tugging on a faded T-shirt. 

“Hi,” you swallowed. 

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with effort. 

For a beat, neither of you moved. The air hung heavy. 

He crossed his arms, guarded but not cold. “You, uh… need something?”

”Yeah, uh…” you said, fidgeting. “I came by to tell you… I saw Robin today.” 

Steve’s jaw tensed, unreadable. “Okay.” 

“Oh, uh… we’re having a sleepover next weekend. I think. We’re at least hanging out.” 

“Okay…” He softened a little, his arms still folded across his chest. 

You noticed then, his hair was shorter. You had to fight back the smile tugging at the corner of your lips, thinking about how two months ago you told him he needed a haircut. Did he keep it short because maybe he was waiting for you? 

The faint shadow of facial hair above his upper lip. He looked leaner too, stronger, like summer had burned the softness out of him. 

“Right, okay. Yeah,” you said, nodding too quickly. 

Steve’s mouth twitched. “So you came here after three months of silence to tell you’re singing Kumbaya with my friend, the one, if I recall correctly,” he lifted his finger in the air like a physical lightbulb went off. “Oh, yeah! The one you think I secretly have a thing for?” 

“Yes. Well, no. I never actually thought… I mean, I was jealous. But it’s because…” you groaned, raking a hand through your hair. “Ugh. I realized I hate not being in control, Steve. I hate changes. I get scared when new people enter my life because you’re right… I’m already anticipating them leaving. I have no idea why, but I do.” 

You inhaled shakily, words tumbling faster now. “God, Steve. I’m so sorry. I kept pretending to blame you for everything when really I’m the crazy jealous girl who’s kind of bitchy to everyone and too stubborn to admit how I feel.” 

You ran out of air halfway through it, standing there, breathless. 

Steve just looked at you. Blank expression, unreadable. 

You sighed. “Right. That’s about it. I’ll see you… shit, wait.” 

You drew in a deep breath. 

“Steve, you’re my best friend. Even though I’m a mess, the one thing that’s always made sense to me is you. You’re right. I kept running away. But if you’ll let me, I don’t want to do that anymore. I couldn’t tell you I liked you too, because I love you. I love you that it hurts and saying I only like you felt like a lie.” 

You waited, heart pounding, every second dragging. “Okay, now I’m done.” 

All you got was the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well then,” he said, glancing at his watch, “I should be done mowing in the next hour. Then I could stop by Family Video and be by your house by, let’s say… five?” 

You blinked. ‘You want to come over? Like, just us?” 

“Yeah,” he said easily, the grin growing. “I’d hope my girlfriend would want to hang out with me. Especially after that very declaration of love. You already had me at ‘hi.’”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re an asshole.” Then belatedly, “Wait. Girlfriend?” 

He made a face, shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, my girlfriend. So… what are we thinking tonight? You know we got that new Michael J. Fox movie in. The one where he turns into a werewolf.” 

“Teen Wolf?” You said, shaking your head. “Wait, I never even said yes to being your girlfriend.” 

He ignored you, already grinning. “Right, okay. Teen Wolf at five.” 

You laughed then, a real, hopeless laugh, bubbling up before you could stop it. You were still only a few feet apart when you gave him a playful shove. 

“I do hope you plan on taking a shower,” you teased, wrinkling your nose. 

He grinned. “What, you don’t like the sweat?” 

He hunted toward you, reaching, and you squealed, trying to escape. “No!” You shouted through laughter, running, but he caught you easily, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. He lifted you off your feet, laughing as he shook his damp hair against your cheek. 

You shrieked, breathless, twisting in his hold. “Steve!” 

He laughed harder, then pressed a flurry of quick, ridiculous kisses to your cheek before finally setting you down.

He looked at you, flushed, smiling, alive, and his voice softened. “See you later?” 

You tilted your head, teasing. “Mmm, I think I’m gonna stay and watch my boyfriend mow his lawn.” 

He raised a brow. “Okay. But I’m keeping my shirt on, you perv.”  

You laughed, caught, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, eyes crinkling at the corners, and kissed your nose. 

“I love you,” he murmured. 

You felt it settle somewhere deep. 

Your lips found his, tender and sweet. He had picked you up, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Small chaste pecks between innocent chuckles. 

You loved him too. 

Not just in the summer, when the air was golden and the world felt easy. But in the fall, when the air turned sharp and the leaves browned at their edges. You loved him when he was wrong. When he was tired. When he tied your shoelaces because you never double knotted it right. 

You loved him in every version of the year, when the cicadas fell quiet, when frost crept across the glass, when spring cracked open the cold. 

You loved him when it wasn’t simple. When it wasn’t perfect. 

You loved him when the world changed and he stayed.

[calmspencer]

sooo sweet

[littlesubbyflower]

Written In The Scoreboard - S.H.

Baseball Coach Steve Harrington x AP English Teacher Reader

Written in the Scoreboard is a slow-burn teacher x coach romance set in Hawkins, where long nights, Friday games, and quiet classroom moments turn into something much bigger. What starts as small glances and hesitant conversations grows into a steady rhythm of shared coffee runs, playful banter, and late-night grading sessions. Over the years, their bond deepens through laughter-filled traditions, a small petty argument, and the kind of ordinary magic that makes even the simplest days feel extraordinary. It's not a whirlwind romance-it's a patient one, stitched together with soft touches, awkward beginnings, and the promise of something lasting.

General Warnings: Occasional Cursing, Fluff, Awkward Flirting

Chapter I -> Here

Chapter II -> Here

Chapter III -> Here

Chapter IV -> Here

Chapter V -> Here

Chapter VI -> Here

[keerycoded]

dorm 218 - s.h

series masterlist

summary :: due to a mix up— you get stuck Steve as your roommate, and nothing in your dorm survives intact. between stolen hoodies, loud music, and surprise parties, enemies slowly turn into friends…and maybe more. by the end of the semester, laughter, chaos, and jealousy leads to the most unexpected love story.

pairing :: frat/college! Steve harrington x reader

warnings :: smutt, alcohol consumption, language

chapters

chapter 1 :: unwelcome guests

chapter 2 :: teammates

chapter 3 :: trick or treat

chapter 4 :: long time coming {18+}