cobaincreates @cobaincreates - Tumblr Blog

starlight, calling

pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: 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. you’re both carrying some heavy baggage (you're not calling yours trauma, he's not calling his heartbreak), but whatever's starting to bloom between you... you think it might just change everything. warnings: 18+ mdni, strangers to fwb to lovers, piv sex, handjob/fingering, mild ptsd, trauma bonding, just the sweetest softest steve, post-s4 canon, a little bit of robinxvickie, angst, fluff, happy ending a/n: this one's really special to me—inspired by the s4 ending where robin, steve, and dustin show up to the gym with donation boxes | steve's mixtape ♬.ᐟ

The gym used to be a place for cheering.

Back before the earth split open and swallowed half of Hawkins like a cruel magic trick. Before the stink of old gym socks and half-eaten nachos gave way to drywall dust and antiseptic.

You used to stand right where the crack runs now. Feet planted on scuffed court lines, snare drum strapped to your chest, heart thumping in time with the pep rally countdown. Back then, the loudest thing in the building was the roar of cheers. Sharp blast of buzzer horns and the frantic squeak of sneakers on Saturday mornings.

Laughter. Music. The breathless rhythm of teenage invincibility.

Now, the noise is different.

It hums, low and heavy: tides of exhausted whispers, shuffled footsteps, muffled sobs. It’s the sound of grief, of quiet desperation, clinging to you like a second skin. No matter how many shirts you fold or blankets you pass out, it sticks.

It’s been three days.

Three days since the ground opened up. Since buildings collapsed like sandcastles, and people you used to smile at in grocery store aisles stopped answering their doors. Three days since the sky turned that strange, terrifying color no one wants to talk about, and nothing has felt quite real since.

But people are trying.

There’s still that: the trying. A stubborn spark buried beneath the weight of rubble and loss. Hope, maybe. Or just plain human instinct. Either way, you think some of that has managed to cling to you, too.

You’ve been here since that first awful morning, when the town duct-taped this place together with tarps and folding chairs, transformed a cracked gym into a makeshift lifeboat.

You hand out meals, sort donations, tape signs, draw blood when the Red Cross is short-staffed. Anything to keep your hands moving. Anything to keep the silence from swallowing you whole.

Your back aches like you've aged ten years over a single weekend. Your knuckles are raw from repetition, from the folding and scrubbing and washing. You can’t remember the last time you slept more than four hours.

But it’s better than going home. Whatever that means now. ⟡ It’s mid-morning when they arrive.

The doors creak open, letting in air that’s too sharp for late-March, laced with something burnt and acrid that sticks to your teeth. It’s been that way for a while.

Three figures step through, arms loaded with cardboard boxes.

Robin’s the first one you spot: suspenders, messy hair, that same barely-contained energy she always had in pep band, just now under a layer of obvious sleep deprivation. She’s talking to Melissa at check-in, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands buried in her pockets.

Beside her is a curly-haired kid, maybe a couple years younger. Eyes glassy and distant, clinging to his box like it might float away if he lets go.

And then there’s him.

Standing a step behind the others, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. He’s got this slow, careful way of moving, like one wrong breath might shatter something. He scans the room like he’s bracing for a punch, like just seeing it—the cots, the faces, the quiet—might hurt if he lets it.

He doesn’t say a word when Robin asks Melissa if they can help. Then his eyes land on yours. And he smiles.

Soft. Almost sheepish. Just the barest curve of the lips.

A quiet, hey, you.

You look away first.

⟡

Five minutes later, he’s standing beside you at the sorting station.

No swagger. None of that self-important saunter you remember from years ago, back when the world still made sense. He just thanks the volunteer who pointed him over, then gets to work.

You’re smoothing out a kid’s t-shirt: daisy yellow with a faded cartoon duck, soft with wear but clean. Clearly loved, once. You line up the sleeves carefully, set it on the growing pile of gently used things.

Across the gym, you hear laughter. You glance up to see Robin at the food pick-up station, waving a butter knife around like it’s a prop in a one-woman play. Vickie stands beside her, pink-cheeked and trying not to laugh, spreading peanut butter way too thick on a slice of white bread. They bump elbows, hands brushing. Robin grins, and passes her a jar of grape jelly like it’s some kind of secret.

You smile without meaning to.

And catch him smiling, too.

Something tender settled on his face—fond, a little wistful, like maybe it’s the first good thing he’s seen in days.

It warms something inside you.

“You friends with Robin?” you ask, voice low.

He blinks, like you pulled him out of a daydream. “Yeah. She, uh… kind of dragged me here.”

“She threaten you?”

“Oh yeah. Something about locking me in the trunk.”

You snort. “Sounds about right.”

Across the gym, Robin whispers something close to Vickie’s ear, and both of them dissolve into giggles like teenagers at a sleepover.

“They’re cute,” you murmur. “’Bout time Vicks moved on.”

That gets his attention.

His eyes flick over at you, a spark of curiosity behind the quiet. You don’t meet his gaze—just grab another hoodie and keep folding. But you feel it now, the newfound interest. The quick, sideways glances he sneaks in between sorting, like he’s trying to figure you out in pieces.

Then he picks up a fitted sheet.

And it’s instantly over for him.

He tries, bless him. Really gives it a shot; flipping one corner, tucking another, wrestling with the elastic like it’s a live octopus. But the sheet only laughs, curling back into itself and sagging in a cotton blob of defeat.

You try to stay quiet. Honestly, you do.

But the laugh bubbles up anyway. Bright and unexpected, the first real one in a while.

He looks up, sheepish. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

You nod toward the carnage. “Not your fault. You got assigned to, like, the advanced calculus of folding.”

He smirks. “Didn’t realize I needed a math degree to volunteer.”

You both laugh, and for a second, everything aches a little less.

He steps forward, hesitating for a beat. Then he rumples up the sheet in his arm, wipes his palm on his jeans and extends it toward you.

“I’m Steve, by the way.”

You glance down at his name tag: round, loopy letters scrawled in thick black marker, the ‘e’ curling up like it ran out of room but still had something to say. You smile and give him your name in return.

His grip is warm, steady. He holds on just a second too long.

The gym hums around you: rolling carts, soft voices, the distant wail of a tired baby. Still moving. Still trying.

You eye the sheet between you.

“You want a hand with that, Steve?”

He blinks. Then grins. Wide and a little boyish, like you just offered him a lifeline.

And it does something funny to your chest. Eases the weight for the first time in days.

“Yeah, please,” he says, handing you a corner. “Thanks.”

⟡

After that, it becomes a thing.

No announcements, no “see you tomorrow”s.

He just keeps showing up. Slips on the blue volunteer vest, asks where he’s needed, and gets to work.

More often than not, he ends up beside you.

Some days you’re folding again. Other days, it’s sorting hygiene kits or dragging heavy boxes through the maze of sleeping bags and taped-off walkways. One day, you’re both ankle-deep in freezing water, mopping up a flood in the east hallway after the heater burst. The towels are useless, and within five minutes your socks are soaked straight through your shoes. You end up smacking each other with soggy rags, laughing like idiots as he nearly wipes out trying to skate across the floor on a towel.

It’s stupid. Chaotic. Completely ridiculous.

You can’t stop thinking about it for days.

⟡

The gym is always loud, always moving, but it never seems to wear on Steve.

If anything, he thrives in it. Maybe for the same reasons you do.

And the more time you spend with him, the more you notice the little things.

Like how he always helps the younger kids first. Crouching to their level with juice boxes and fruit snacks in hand, never rushing them, even when things are busy. He knows how to make balloon swords out of rubber gloves. He lets one of the little girls draw all over his arm with a glitter pen—pink and gold stars up to his elbow—and pretends it tickles just to make her laugh. High fives her afterward and promises he’ll “keep it there forever.”

Then there’s the day you come back from lunch and find him trying to stack fifty metal cots by himself. No one asked him to. His clipboard lies abandoned on a crate, next to a half-eaten granola bar. He’s already halfway done—sweat blooming through the back of his shirt, palms scraped raw on the rough edges—when you rush over.

“I’m good,” he pants. “Kinda like the mindless stuff, y’know?”

You do. You really do.

But you help anyway.

⟡

Time gets strange in the gym.

Mornings blur into nights. Days fold into one another like the piles of donations you sort. At some point, you stop keeping track of how many times you look up to find him already there—smiling, handing you gloves or a bottle of water like you were the first person he thought of.

And somewhere between organizing snack bags and arguing over who folds faster, you realize you’ve started watching him.

Not in a romantic way. Just... noticing.

Like the way he double-checks expiration dates, how he hums under his breath when he thinks no one’s listening. How he grabs the heaviest boxes before anyone else can. How he fidgets nervously when someone’s crying, hovering close by but never approaching.

And sometimes, more often than you want to admit, you catch him staring, too.

⟡

It’s late when it happens.

The gym’s quieting down. Most people are asleep or nearly there. You’re alone at the donation table, organizing gauze pads you’ve already counted three times, just to keep your hands busy. Your fingers are cold, your eyes ache.

Then—a crinkled, yellow candy bar slides into view, wriggling in your periphery.

“Guess who charmed the vending machine into giving this up?”

“Wow,” you look up, raising a slow brow. “A fine vintage. Let me guess, circa ‘82?”

Steve drops into the folding chair across from you with a groan; vest gone, shirt streaked with something suspiciously orange. His hair’s a mess, flopping into his eyes in a way he doesn’t bother fixing.

“Off by a year. This baby expired in ‘81.” He plops the candy on the table with a flourish, then slouches back in the chair, hands folded over his stomach.

“And that machine tried to chew my arm off, so. You’re welcome.”

You smirk, already tearing into the wrapper. “Would’ve paid good money to see that.”

“Yeah, well.” He gives you a smug smile, eyes half-lidded. “Just don’t say I never get you anything.”

You break the bar in half, hand him a piece without looking. Your fingers brush, and his smile flickers a little softer.

There’s a familiar lull as you both chew, the kind of quiet that feels earned after a long day.

Then Steve nods toward the Red Cross sign taped to the side of the table. “Hey, they still need donors? For blood?”

You glance at it. “Always. Why?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve got some. Might as well share.”

The simplicity of it hits deeper than it should.

You swallow the flutter in your chest, try to make your smile casual.

“Alright then, Harrington. Roll up your sleeve.”

⟡

Behind the divider, the world softens.

Steve sits on the edge of a cot, rolling up his sleeve. His arms are lean, golden, dusted with freckles and faint scars—some so old they’ve nearly faded to nothing. You spot a jagged one near his elbow, a cleaner line near the bend of his forearm. Too many to ask about. So you don’t.

Instead, you snap on your gloves and wrap the cuff around his bicep. “You done this before?”

“Nope,” he says, eyeing the needle tray. “You?”

You sigh, slow and theatrical. “First time, actually. Super nervous.”

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to see the panic bloom in his eyes.

“I’m kidding,” you add, lips twitching. “Certified and everything. You’re in… let’s say, extremely average hands.”

“Awesome,” he deadpans, letting his head fall back. Golden lamp light hits the curve of his throat, the sharp cut of his jaw. “I’m doomed.”

“You’ll live.”

His skin is warm as your fingers brush over the bend of his arm, searching for a vein.

“This might pinch.”

He nods. Doesn’t flinch when the needle goes in, but his brows pull together in this boyish, slightly petulant way that makes your stomach twist a little.

You tape the tubing in place, and together, you watch the line fill, red and steady.

Then, in a voice so quiet you almost miss it:

“Do you ever feel like you’re just… stuck on autopilot? Like, you're moving so you don’t have to stop and think about why?”

For a moment, your eyes drift to his arm. To the scattered constellation of pink and gold stars: a quiet galaxy etched across his skin. The ink’s faded, worn thin by time and sweat. Yet the glitter holds on, stubborn flecks of stardust catching the light. Shimmering.

“All the time,” you murmur. “It’s why I stay so late. Easier than going home.”

He nods slowly. Doesn’t say more.

⟡

When the bag’s sealed and labeled, you turn back to him.

“Wow. Didn’t even faint. I’m so proud of you, Harrington.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” He smirks, leaning back. “I’m extremely brave. Should write that down in my file.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the supply bin. “Hold still, tough guy.”

You fish around until your fingers land on a strip of pink. You pull it out slowly, trying to keep your face neutral.

It’s a Care Bears Band-Aid.

Cheer Bear—bright pink, rainbow belly and all—looks like she’s seconds away from launching herself into the world’s most violently loving hug.

“Perfect,” you announce, peeling it open with exaggerated care. “For extremely brave men who cry during commercials.”

“That was E.T., and it was one time.”

“Uh-huh. Arm out.”

He sighs like it’s killing him, but does as he’s told, forearm turned as you press the Band-Aid into place. It lands a little crooked, the rainbow slanting to the left, but it holds.

You’re smoothing the edges down with your thumbs, lingering for a moment longer, when you hear his breath hitch.

Barely a sound, so light you could’ve imagined it.

And suddenly, the air between you cinches tight.

It’s a strange little moment, suspended in silence as you start to feel everything at once: the brush of his knee, the clean citrus of his cologne. The heat radiating off his skin, steady and low-burning.

Then he moves.

Lifts his other hand to rest it gently over yours. Not even a full grip, just fingertips across your knuckles.

When you look up, he’s already watching you.

And in his face—his tired eyes, his barely-parted lips—is that same quiet ache you saw weeks ago. The one that bloomed quiet and slow while Robin passed Vickie the jar, and their laughter cracked through the air like sunlight.

Only now, it’s not across the room. It’s right here.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then stops.

You feel it before you realize what’s happening. The hum in your chest, the pull behind your ribs. The kind that makes you move before thought.

He leans forward, knees nudging yours, and you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft. Tentative. Warm.

It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

When you part, you linger. Foreheads nearly touching, sharing air in the narrow space.

His hand is still resting on yours.

And maybe you’re both too tired for this. Or maybe that’s the only reason it’s happening now, because exhaustion has finally worn you down enough to stop holding back.

Whatever the reason, it happens without thinking.

Naturally, inevitably, like it was always meant to be this way—you lace your fingers through his.

⟡

The hallway passes in a blur.

The rushed squeak of your shoes. The soft scuff of his behind you. He holds onto your hand tight, squeezing every few steps like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like now that he’s touched you, he’s afraid to let go.

You tug him through the maze of folding cots and half-empty water bottles, past that old vending machine with the handwritten ‘out of order’ sign.

You round a corner. Your breath quickens.

The supply closet waits.

The same one you ducked into on your first day here, blinking back tears. The one place that didn’t ask anything of you, nothing to keep you company except for the dull groan of old pipes.

You shoulder the door open, smiling before you’ve even stepped inside. He follows you in.

And then it’s just hands. His on your waist. Yours in his hair.

The kiss this time is anything but careful. It’s messy and immediate, all breathless heat and frantic motion, lips parting before you’ve even found the rhythm. Like you’ve been orbiting this moment for weeks and finally, finally, gravity decided to give in.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting all night. Like getting it right doesn’t matter, just getting close. You taste melted chocolate and the golden haze of caramel, sweat and sugar clinging to your skin. Warmth, relief, hunger, all at once—everything you’ve been quietly starving for.

Your back hits the wall, cold cinderblock biting through your shirt, but it barely registers. Not with his mouth on your neck, breath hot, lips dragging down your throat, his tongue catching just beneath your collarbone. He kisses there, then again, slower. Like he means it.

Then—clang. His foot kicks something metal: a mop bucket. It sloshes, spins, then rattles to a halt.

He groans under his breath. “Perfect. Real smooth.”

You’re already grinning. “So much for keeping it quiet.”

He lifts his head, eyes hazy, mouth red and swollen. “Not my fault. You just took, like, a gallon of my blood.”

You laugh, breathless, drunk on heat and him and the way he says the dumbest things like he’s proud of them. “Steve, if I took a gallon of your blood, you’d be dead.”

“Yeah, well,” He shrugs, dips back in, presses a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re kinda killing me now, so…”

You smile into his cheek, hooking your fingers in his collar. “Shut up.”

He does. Kisses you instead.

His hands slide under your shirt, palms rough, warm against your skin. He explores slowly, fingertips skating over your ribs, dipping into the curve of your waist. When you reach for the hem of his jeans, his breath stutters against your lips.

“Hey,” His voice drops. “You sure?”

His thumb brushes your cheek. Eyes wide, searching yours with a gentleness that guts you. A flicker of something that feels like care. It catches in your chest before you can stop it.

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat, and murmur teasingly, “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, smile blooming slow and dazed. “Been sure since the second you kissed me.”

You barely have time to roll your eyes before his mouth is back on yours, hot and hungry, and then his hand is sliding down, slipping past your waistband with a slow, deliberate drag.

You gasp, head tipping back as his fingers find you—already slick, already aching.

“This okay?” he murmurs into your neck, breath skating hot across your skin.

“Yeah,” you whisper, arching into him. “Don’t stop.”

He groans, quiet and rough. “Fuck. You feel—Jesus. You’re soaked.”

You shiver, clutching at his back, fingers digging into warm muscle as he works you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

The closet feels like it’s closing in. Heat pressed against every surface. Sweat beading at the back of your neck. Every pass of his fingers sends another wave rolling through you—deep, steady, inevitable.

You hear yourself whisper, helpless:

“Please, Steve—”

And the sound he makes at that, wrecked, almost pained, sends another knot rising in your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You’re so… you’re so beautif—”

You slam your eyes shut and cut him off with a desperate kiss, fumbling at his jeans. The zipper gives, and your hand slides in, finding him hot, thick, twitching in your palm.

You stroke him slow at first, matching the rhythm of his fingers. He groans, hips bucking, chasing it like he can’t help himself. His grip on your waist tightens, movements stuttering as he loses himself in the rhythm.

Then his fingers slip deeper, hitting just right, and your whole body locks.

“Steve—I’m—”

“I got you,” he whispers, like a promise. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You come hard, clinging to him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, riding the waves as he holds you through every one. Arm locked tight around you, lips grazing your hair, your temple, trailing a soft path down the side of your face—gentle, grounding kisses that make your chest ache in a different way.

And when you stroke him in return, when you twist your wrist and he leans in for a kiss and whispers that he’s close, when he buries his face in your neck and trembles against your skin and spills into your hand—

He breathes out your name.

And you go still.

⟡

Afterward, there’s only silence.

Breath. Sweat. Heartbeat. You’re still tangled up in each other, hands curled in warm places, chests rising and falling in sync.

Then, low and a little hoarse:

“You okay?”

You nod, eyes fluttering open. Your pulse is still kicking hard beneath your ribs, skin humming with heat and something heavier.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Steve huffs a soft laugh, nose brushing your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You think this disqualifies us from ‘Volunteer of the Month’?"

You blink, then push a lazy finger into his chest. “You lost that title the day you stole my granola bar.”

He leans back just enough to stare at you, mouth open like you accused him of felony. “You said I could have that.”

“I said you could have half. You ate the whole thing and licked the wrapper.”

He shrugs, completely unrepentant. “I regret nothing.”

You scoff. “Well I do. Had to listen to a grown man rant about raisins for ten minutes.”

Steve groans like he’s reliving the trauma. “They looked like chocolate chips! Top five betrayal of my life, easy.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself.

He grins at that, like he’s proud of himself for pulling it out of you. Face flushed, hair a mess, lips red and kiss-bitten. He looks wrecked. Boyish and sweet in a way that makes your ribs feel too tight.

You stare, just for a moment longer. Long enough for it to sting. Then quickly cast your eyes away before something stupid like hope can take root.

“Drama queen,” you mutter.

And just when you think maybe the moment will pass—that maybe you’ll both pretend this was nothing but heat and impulse, something you can walk away from—he does it again.

Lifts a hand. Brushes a strand of hair from your face with the back of his fingers, thumb brushing your temple like you’re something fragile. Breakable.

His voice drops, soft enough to catch in his throat.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he says. “Doing this. With me.”

Your breath catches. Something shifts inside you then, something big and irrevocable. Lodges squarely in your chest, right behind your ribs.

He clears his throat a second too late, blinking fast. “I mean the, uh… with the volunteering.”

You try to smile, even as your heart folds in on itself.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me too, Harrington.”

He steps back, tugging his shirt down in a rush, suddenly all elbows and fidgeting. You grab a tissue from the shelf, wipe your hand, fix your vest. Neither of you talks.

But when you look back up, that signature grin is back: crooked and tired, but no less smug.

“So,” he says, bumping your shoulder, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You wanna go split another candy bar? Pretty sure I lost, like, half my bodily fluids tonight.”

You blink, eyebrows shooting up. The emotional whiplash almost knocks you off your feet.

“Jesus, Steve. Don’t call it that.”

“What? It’s a medical word.”

“No, it’s just gross.”

“Yeah, but like… hot gross.”

“Absolutely not.”

You reach for the door, but pause mid-step, glancing at the inside of his elbow. “C’mon then, Care Bear.”

He freezes. Stares at you like you’ve just slapped him.

“…Okay, no. No. You are not calling me that—”

You’re already walking.

“—I’m serious! I’ll rip this thing off, I swear! I’ll bleed out on the floor, I don’t care—wait, no, seriously, please—”

He’s still groaning behind you, throwing dramatic threats over your shoulder, rambling something about Robin and you know she’ll ruin me for this—

But he doesn’t sound all that mad.

And he doesn’t stop following you, either.

⟡

You’re elbow-deep in canned beans when you hear it.

That voice.

Low and lazy, just this side of sleep-soft. Like warm flannel and tangled sheets and a morning that didn’t come soon enough. Even over the creak of rolling carts and early-shift chatter, you can hear the smile in it. That trademark Harrington charm, sugar-dipped and effortless.

You freeze, fingers curling tight around a dented can of Del Monte.

Don’t look up. Don’t be obvious. Don’t be—

You look up.

He’s dressed like always: soft sweater pushed to the elbows, faded Levis, volunteer vest slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. His hair’s still damp—probably rushed a shower—and there’s a pillow-crease on his cheek, pink and soft and stupidly endearing.

His eyes find you fast.

Of course they do.

And it’s not awkward, exactly. Just… loaded. Like walking into a room that still smells like sex and memory.

He stalls halfway across the gym, one hand raised in a sheepish wave.

You return it vaguely, mostly with your eyebrows, then duck your head and pretend the green beans need alphabetizing.

Eventually, he ambles over. Picks up a box cutter and flicks it open.

“Hey,” he says, voice low.

You glance up. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Not quite uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. He slices into a new box and nudges it toward you. You start sorting cans, grateful for the distraction. Anything to keep from thinking about where those hands were last night. How careful they were.

One. Two. Three.

Stop thinking about it

Four.

Don’t think about his mouth.

Five.

His voice.

Six.

The way he said your name right after—

Seven.

You inhale, and the worst part is, you can still smell him. Skin-warm cologne with a citrus edge, fresh from the morning shave.

He shifts a little closer. Close enough that your arms brush when you both reach into the box.

“Hey,” he says again, softer. “You okay?”

You blink over at him. There’s no teasing in his face. Just concern. Real and quiet, resting in the little furrow between his brows.

“Yeah,” you nod, too quickly. Then, slower, “Are you?”

His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “Yeah.”

Then he rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking down, thumb pressing into a tendon.

“I just meant… after last night.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so Steve. Of course he’s worried. As if you didn’t practically shove him into that closet with both hands and a running start.

You shift your weight, keeping your voice even. “Yeah, I mean. It was, you know…”

A pause.

“…fine.”

He blinks. Just once.

“Right,” he nods. “Yeah. Totally.”

He clears his throat and starts arranging cans into an unnecessarily perfect pyramid. You bite your cheek, resisting the grin that tugs at your mouth.

He pauses for a second, mid-stack, and adds quietly:

“As long as you’re okay.”

You purse your lips. Study the label in your hand like it’s deeply fascinating.

Green beans. Low sodium. Riveting.

Then, casually: “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

You glance over again.

He’s still wearing that soft, hopeful look, eyes edged with something uncertain, like he's waiting to be let in or let go. There’s a pink flush across his cheekbones, and it’s definitely not from the cold.

You can’t help it. You smile.

“You wanna come help me grab something from my car?”

⟡

He’s grinning like an idiot when you shove him into the backseat.

His backseat.

The maroon BMW 733i gleams in the early sun like it’s fresh off a dealer lot. Like it’s auditioning for a cologne commercial, the kind with bad jazz music and slow-motion pans. It looks absurd out here, parked behind a half-collapsed gym.

But then again, so does he.

He laughs as you crawl in after him, knees knocking, elbow jamming into the doorframe. You’re both a graceless mess over buttery leather that’s far too nice for what you’re about to do.

“Thought we were getting something from your car,” he teases, breath hot on your collarbone.

You blink down at him, sprawled like he owns the place (he does), arm behind the headrest, the other low on your waist.

“Yeah,” you say, tone flat, shifting your weight to grind against the obvious bulge in his pants. “Then I figured I should check yours first. Pretty sure you left your spine back here, since you couldn’t even look at me this morning.”

He snorts, surprised.

Then lunges.

You yelp, squirming as his fingers dig into your sides. Your elbow knocks the window as you twist, tangled and breathless, laughing too hard to breathe. You end up pinned sideways, his body pressing you into the seat, chest to chest, until he hooks an arm around your waist.

Rolls on top, pins you to the seat with a low grunt.

And just like that, the laughter drains out.

Now he’s above you, arms braced on either side of your head. He’s holding most of his weight off you. Most.

Your chest heaves beneath his. His eyes are locked on yours.

Your throat goes tight.

“Just kiss me already,” you mutter.

He stills. Then slowly, gently, his hand comes up, thumb tracing a slow line along your cheek.

His grin curves, smug as ever.

“Why?” he murmurs. “Thought you said last night was bad.”

You roll your eyes, nose brushing his, lifting your hips so they push pointedly against him.

“No. I said it was fine.”

He hums, low and deliberate, and you feel it settle deep in your chest. Then he leans in, dragging his lips firmly across your jaw. Hot. Possessive. The low-grade warmth in your belly flares into a scorching heat.

“Well,” he murmurs against your skin. “How ‘bout I make it good this time, then?”

You hesitate. Just for a breath, a beat. Long enough to remember this is a terrible idea. That it’s easy in the ways that always come back to hurt.

Then you shove him back, palms to chest.

“Do your worst, Care Bear.”

His grin turns wicked.

And nothing about what happens afterward is fine.

⟡

It becomes a pattern.

Not something you talk about. Not something planned. Just a habit that forms by accident—then sticks like a bruise.

At first, it’s fleeting.

A stolen kiss behind the supply crates, slow and clumsy and electric. Cut short by the slam of a locker, the squeak of sneakers, someone calling for an extra set of hands. You stumble apart like teenagers caught under the bleachers, hearts pounding and lips wet.

Other times, it barely gets that far. Just a lingering glance, the warmth of his hand brushing yours. A too-long pause at your waist. Breathless laughter you muffle into your sleeve. Then someone rounds the corner, and you both vanish into your roles again—two professionals, doing charity work, not about to make out in a janitor’s closet. Definitely not.

And sometimes… sometimes it goes further.

Sometimes it’s the closet again. Musty and cramped, your back pressed against cold shelves, his mouth hot on your neck. Sometimes it’s the backseat of his car, windows fogged, knees jammed against the console, seatbelt buckle digging into your hip.

Always somewhere temporary. Always on borrowed time.

Maybe that’s why you never actually go all the way.

There’s always something. A clipboard-wielding chaperone. A door that won’t lock. Time, space, reality, shoving its way in before you can tip over the edge.

Funny thing, though: Steve’s usually the one who slows it down.

Not because he’s disinterested, no. His mouth is eager. His hands are everywhere.

But he’s never in a rush. He seems content, almost addicted, to that liminal space. Open mouths, wandering hands. Quiet gasps swallowed in the dark. Kisses that leave your knees weak and your breath wrecked. A pressure between your hips that never fully breaks.

Most times, that’s all it is. Making out. Touching. Laughing into each other’s necks like you’re seventeen again. Too much, and nowhere never enough.

But the kissing. God, the kissing.

Steve Harrington kisses like he’s known you forever. Like he’s already read your mind cover to cover and wants to underline his favorite lines. He says your name like a prayer and makes it sound obscene. Makes your bones feel loose. Your lungs feel irrelevant.

And outside those stolen moments? You both get really good at pretending.

You master the casual banter. The shoulder nudges. The nothing-to-see-here grins when someone walks by. You’re still Steve and you: volunteer buddies, glorified shelf-stockers, partners in folding blankets and alphabetizing canned goods.

You learn how to mouth get back to work across the gym with kiss-bruised lips and flushed cheeks. He slips granola bars into your pocket when you forget to eat (raisin-free, obviously) and you stop asking how he always knows.

It’s a strange kind of intimacy. Clumsy, sometimes. Ridiculous, even.

There’s the time he bangs his elbow so hard and swears loud enough to startle an entire volunteer shift. You both double over behind the lockers, hands over your mouths, trying not to wheeze-laugh like you’re thirteen and hiding from a camp counselor.

And then there are moments that are too quiet. Too still.

A look that lingers. His pinky brushing yours as you reach for the same clipboard. Moments when he just… looks at you. Not hungry, not playful. Just steady. Like he’s memorizing something he’s about to lose.

And the worst part? You let him.

It stretches between you, this almost-something. This not-quite-anything.

Stretches and breathes and changes shape, but always lingers.

And somehow, those are the moments you like best.

The ones that ask nothing of you but to exist. To feel.

Because naming something this fragile would make it real.

And real things can break. Real things can leave.

So you don’t talk about it.

Except once.

⟡

It’s late.

You’re parked behind the center, windows cracked because it’s one of those rare days when the air is appropriately warm, for once. Soft and a little sticky, clinging to your skin in that early-spring kind of way that you've missed.

Steve has one hand on the steering wheel, spinning it lazily back and forth. You’re watching the streetlamp through the windshield, both of you quiet. Neither in a rush to go home.

You say it like it’s nothing.

“I can’t really commit to anything. Right now.”

The words taste uncertain. You scramble for a version that won’t sound pathetic.

“I’m still… working through some stuff. From the quake.”

You don’t say the rest. Not the lights you leave on at night. Not the way your stomach drops when a truck hits a pothole. Not how, in silence, you can still hear the earth cracking open underneath you.

You don’t have to.

“I get it,” Steve says softly. “I mean… I’m coming out of something too.”

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask.

And that’s it. That’s The Talk.

A single, raw thread of honesty, weaved between all the ones where your mouths are too busy for words.

Then it’s gone. Folded into the quiet.

Tucked away, like a chapter you both agreed not to finish.

⟡

Nothing really changes after that.

You still show up. Still orbit each other like twin moons. Sometimes crashing, sometimes coasting. Always drifting back together.

Sometimes you wonder what it means, this ache. This comfort.

This strange, almost-thing that feels like safety, even when it shouldn’t.

You don’t call it healing. That would imply something tidy. Something whole.

But it is something.

Even if you never say trauma. Even if he never says heartbreak.

Your bodies say it anyway, in the way you clutch his shirt too tight, in the way he lingers after a kiss.

And maybe it’s not healthy. Maybe it’s not sustainable.

But it makes sense. In the way things often do when you’re hurting.

You don’t call it coping. You don’t call it love. You don’t call it anything.

You just keep showing up.

Letting it happen, letting it last.

Because right now, it’s the only thing that feels solid.

And for a while, that’s enough.

⟡

That all lasts two weeks.

Turns out, you forgot to account for one (1) critical variable in the delicate calculus that is Sneaking Around With Steve Harrington.

Well—two (2), actually.

Two band geeks. Both madly in love. Both absolutely incapable of keeping it subtle.

It’s Friday. You’re halfway through checking expiration dates on soup cans when Vickie slides up beside you, bright-eyed and buzzing with whatever coffee she’s managed to find in a town that runs on bad coffee.

“You excited for tonight?” she chirps, practically vibrating.

You blink. “Tonight?”

She pauses mid-bounce, head tilting. “Wait, he didn’t tell you?”

Your stomach drops half an inch. “Tell me what?”

Your eyes scan the gym, already knowing where they’ll land.

Steve’s ten feet away, flipping through a stapled sign-in sheet with the kind of furrowed brow that reads this should not be this complicated. One hand on his hip, pen tucked behind his ear. Robin’s next to him, mid-rant, waving her arms like she’s leading an aggressive orchestra. Steve just grins at her, lopsided and familiar, like he gave up trying to win arguments years ago.

Then Robin glances over. Sees you. Sees Vickie.

And something in her face shifts.

A flicker of awareness. Something smug.

She’s halfway to crossing the gym when she pivots and calls over her shoulder. “Hey, dingus! What time are we heading to Family Video?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but someone calls his name from across the gym. He lifts a vague hand—later—and wanders off.

You watch him go. Then turn back slowly. “Vicks? What were you saying?”

“Oh! Movie night at Steve’s. He promised pizza. Robin’s picking the movie, thank god.”

“Yeah,” Robin says, suddenly beside you, “because if I have to sit through Caddyshack again, I’m driving to L.A. to personally slap Chevy Chase.”

Vickie giggles, bumping her arm. “You’re coming, right?”

You hesitate. “Steve hasn’t... asked me.”

Robin snorts. “Told you he’d forget,” she mutters to Vickie. Then turns back to you, all raised brows and wise mischief. “Trust me?” she says, hands on your shoulders. “Steve is definitely not gonna mind.”

You squint at her. Robin’s never been your person. That’s always been Vickie.

Still, there’s something... honest in her expression. Sincere. Maybe even knowing.

You glance back at Steve. He’s smiling at an older couple now, hands in his back pockets, laugh catching in his throat like sunshine. Charming. Effortless. Like he’s never had a complicated feeling in his life.

And there it is again. That quiet ache. That heavy, stupid maybe blooming behind your ribs.

Vickie taps your shoulder. “Besides, you don’t wanna make him the third wheel, do you?”

They’re both looking at you now. Robin, sharp and amused. Vickie, glowing with that soft, dreamy kind of love that makes everything feel simpler than it is.

You paste on a smile.

“Fine,” you say. “Only ‘cause I love you two.”

“Love you!” Vickie sings, skipping off with Robin in tow, already mid-argument over snack choices—gummies versus popcorn, sweet versus salty—the kind of playful intimacy that makes your chest ache for reasons you’ve gotten really good at not naming.

You watch them go.

Then you watch him.

Steve laughs at something the old man says, head tipping back, hand ghosting over his chest like it really got him.

He looks light. Unburdened.

You should be happy for him.

Instead, your chest feels like it’s caving in.

And you find yourself wondering, not for the first time, what exactly you are to Steve Harrington.

And whether he’s ever wondered the same.

⟡

Robin answers the door before you can knock.

She’s grinning.

“Told you she’d show,” she calls over her shoulder. “Steve’s in the kitchen. Come in, come in!”

You step inside.

Steve’s house is exactly what you imagined. And nothing like it at all.

You’d always heard the stories. The infamous Harrington house. Back in high school, it was legendary. Big backyard, bigger pool. Perpetually absent parents. Music loud enough to be heard halfway across town.

Now, it’s dead quiet.

Your sneakers sink into a plush welcome mat with flying geese stitched across it. You feel vaguely guilty stepping on them.

A lamp glows from a side table that probably costs more than your rent. The walls are lined with abstract art: cool-toned fog, brushed steel frames, the kind of stuff that screams expensive without actually saying anything.

The whole place feels like a showroom. Like someone tried to make it look lived-in without actually living in it.

“Hey,” comes a voice from the hallway.

Steve pads in barefoot, fingers around a six-pack of Coca Cola. Soft blue crewneck, grey sweats, mussed hair.

He smiles when he sees you.

“Catch,” he grins, and tosses you a can.

⟡

The night turns into a slow-motion dance of avoidance.

You and Steve spend the movie at opposite ends of the sectional. Between you: a canyon of throw pillows, soda cans, and half-empty chip bags. Robin and Vickie are curled up together on the floor, whispering, giggling, feeding each other gummy bears.

You try not to notice how often they glance your way. You try even harder not to care.

Steve flicks popcorn at Robin when she picks another murder mystery.

You laugh. You smile. You play along.

But your eyes drift, again and again, to where he sits. To how his arm rests across the back of the couch. To how his knee shifts, edging slightly closer to yours.

Close, but never quite touching.

⟡

Somewhere around the second pizza box and third on-screen decapitation, Robin jolts upright like she’s had a revelation.

“We need a name,” she declares, gnawing on a bright red Twizzler. “For our little squad. Like, The Four Horsemen of Volunteerism. Or, wait, The Canned Crusaders.”

“Please stop,” Steve says flatly.

“Or Band Together!” she snaps her fingers. “Get it? Band geeks turned band of do-gooders—”

“Uh, I was on the basketball team?” Steve cuts in.

“Yeah, only ‘cause you have the rhythm of a wet sock.”

“You tripped over a pencil last week.”

“Because you distracted me!”

“Sure.”

And just like that, the room explodes. Couch cushions go flying. Popcorn rains down. Steve ducks sticky red ropes to the head while Vickie snorts into her Sprite.

It’s easy, this. Too easy.

Until it isn’t.

⟡

Around 10:30, Robin and Vickie pull the classic we’re definitely not leaving to make out in the car routine.

“We should go,” Vickie says sweetly, all innocent eyes and coy smiles.

“Yeah,” Robin smirks. “Leave you two completely unsupervised. What could possibly go wrong?”

Steve walks them to the door, muttering something about how Vickie shouldn’t let Robin drive, under no circumstances. Robin rolls her eyes and kisses his cheek like she’s his mother.

Then she pulls him into a hug. Tight. Quiet.

They say something you don’t hear. But whatever it is, it makes him smile.

“See you tomorrow?” Robin murmurs, pulling back.

“Yeah,” Steve says, then smirks. “Try to get some sleep, huh?”

“Only if you do,” she sing-songs back.

Vickie lingers a second longer, touching your arm lightly as she passes.

“Don’t overthink it,” she says quietly. “He’s been staring at you all night.”

You don’t know what to do with that.

Because you didn’t notice.

You were too busy staring at the space between you.

Robin waves dramatically as the door clicks shut behind them.

And then it’s quiet again.

⟡

The TV drones on. Another crime scene, another murder. The leftover pizza’s gone cold. Your soda is flat. A single unopened beer sits sweating on the coffee table.

You crack it open, just to give your hands something to do.

The first sip is awful.

“Jesus,” you cough. “How do you drink this crap?”

Steve snorts. “You’re not supposed to sip it like wine.”

“Oh, my bad,” you mutter. “Should I be shotgunning it instead?”

He flashes you a grin, easy and lopsided. “Exactly. I used to do it in under three seconds.”

You raise a brow. “Let me guess—King Steve’s party trick?”

It slips out before you can stop it. Too sharp. Too knowing. You regret it the second his smile falters. Just a flicker, barely there, but enough to shift the weight in the room.

He sets his drink down with quiet precision.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “That was me,” he shrugs. Laughs, but it’s a hollow little thing. “…King Steve.”

The silence that follows is louder than anything else.

You’ve never talked about this.

The Before.

Before supply closets and clipboard duty. Before breathless kisses and granola bars in your pocket. This thing between you has always existed in a safe little bubble. Low-stakes, unnamed. Untouched by memory.

But now you’ve poked a finger through it. Let the past in.

“I was… kind of a different guy back then.” he says finally, voice low. “Used to think being popular meant you were doing something right.” He shrugs, eyes somewhere far off. “Turns out, that’s not really how it works.”

When you glance up at him, he’s not looking back.

Jaw tight. Shoulders drawn. His gaze is fixed on something only he can see: a memory reel running behind his eyes.

And the thing is, you remember that version of him, too. The face you recognized the first day he stepped into the relief center, donation box in hand.

Steve Harrington.

The myth. The golden boy. The name that lived in every hallway and floated over every cafeteria table.

You weren’t friends, not even close. You didn’t orbit the same suns. But back then, his name was a part of the scenery, constant and unshakable.

You glance around the room now. At the plush throw pillows, the untouched beer, the way the quiet has weight here.

You try to picture what it must’ve looked like back then. Loud music. Pool parties. Muddy footprints across kitchen tiles. A crowd to disappear into. People packed in tight like joy was something you could manifest through sheer volume.

It must’ve been easy, then, to confuse noise with meaning. To fill every inch of space with someone else’s laughter and call it your own. To believe that, if enough people showed up, the chaos could become a kind of proof.

Yet now, sitting in this beautiful, hollow house, with its too-soft carpet and cold expensive art, you’re realizing just how lonely that story must have been.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone so surrounded could still end up carrying this kind of quiet.

Even now, with Robin’s constant orbit. Even with all those kids that pop in and out of the center, loyal and rowdy and halfway adopted. There’s still a loneliness here. Something left behind.

You look at him again. Barefoot, sweatshirt gone soft with wear, hair falling into his eyes. He’s staring down at his hands like they’ve done things he’s still apologizing for.

It really is strange, how someone so clearly loved can still look so lonely.

You set your beer down. Lift your fingers from the cold aluminum.

“Well, good,” you say softly. “I like this version better.”

Steve’s head lifts. He looks startled, like he wasn’t expecting kindness. Like maybe he doesn’t know what to do with it when it comes without strings attached

But slowly, something eases in him. He reaches for his beer again, lifts it toward you with a tentative smile.

“To upgrades?”

You tap your can gently against his.

“To upgrades.”

The second sip is worse than the first.

“Nope. Still disgusting.”

Steve huffs a laugh, a real one this time, and it cracks through the quiet like sunlight.

He stands, that familiar glint back in his eyes.

“Okay,” he sighs, stretching. “You ready for something better?”

You narrow your eyes. “Define better.”

He grins. “Trust me.”

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, but don’t question, you do.

⟡

You’re soaked.

Damp. Sticky. Giddy.

The bottle of Dom Pérignon—a dusty, decades-old relic from the back of the Harrington fridge—had popped like a firecracker, unleashing a fountain of foam that sprayed the counters, the cabinets, and half of Steve’s torso in one glorious, sticky arc. The cork had shot off like a boozy comet, ricocheting off a cabinet and vanishing into the shadows.

“Shit!” Steve yells, triumphant.

Champagne geysers from the neck, spilling over his hand, bubbling down the green glass and splattering across the tile. He fumbles for the counter, trying, failing, to cup the foam in his palm. “Quick! Grab the glasses!”

You scramble for the tallest cabinet, wrenching open the creaky doors, and pull down a pair of absurdly delicate crystal flutes—thin-stemmed, dust-rimmed, probably older than either of you. You manage to catch the overflow just in time, the liquid gold fizzing up the sides, shimmering under the soft overhead light.

“Can’t believe they never opened this,” Steve mutters, pouring fast and loose, half of it missing the glasses entirely. “Pretty sure it was an anniversary gift or something.”

“And this,” you said, blinking through the champagne mist speckling your lashes, “was definitely what they had in mind when they bought it.”

He grins, crooked and proud. “Exactly. We’re doing ‘em a favor.”

You clink flutes, then burst into laughter at the ridiculous ping they make.

“Cheers,” Steve grins, eyes sparkling.

“Cheers.” You take a cautious sip. And—

“Holy shit,” you breathe. “This is…”

It hits like starlight. Bright. Cold. Electric. Like citrus and static and expensive mistakes. Sweet at first, then bone-dry. Like soda, if soda came with a trust fund and a château in France.

Steve watches you with a half-smile, his sweatshirt now entirely soaked, clinging to the slope of his chest. The dark stain blooms all the way to the waistband of his grey sweats. His cheeks are pink, flushed with laughter.

He looks like summer. Like a crush you never had the nerve to name.

“Better, right?” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You glance at him over the rim of your glass, throat fizzing with bubbles and something like longing.

“Much better.”

He lifts a finger, suddenly mock-serious. “Hang on. You haven’t even seen the best part.”

You open your mouth to ask what part, but he’s already gone, vanishing around the kitchen island like a man on a mission.

There’s a shuffle. A thunk. The crackle of static.

Then—

A brassy, soul-splitting saxophone explodes into the room, so loud it rattles your glass. The sound fills every corner of the kitchen like a marching band—rich, dramatic, way too loud.

You jump, nearly spilling champagne down your arm. “Jesus!”

Steve skids back into the room in socked feet, flute held like a mic, arms flailing, spinning like he’s headlining the Garden.

Love me or leave me, make your choice but believe me!

He belts it out, off-key and proud, hips shimmying.

You blink. “Is this—is this ABBA?”

“It’s ABBA!” He yells, like that explains everything. “And it rules!” He spins, flailing like a malfunctioning disco ball. “Come on!”

You stare, equal parts horrified and charmed out of your mind.

He leaps, skids through a puddle of champagne, and nearly wipes out into the fridge. But he somehow manages to catch himself, grinning back at you like it’s all part of the choreography.

He’s ridiculous.

He’s glorious.

You’re laughing before you even realize it. Not just a giggle—a full-bodied, helpless, stomach-aching laugh.

I can’t conceal it. Don’t you see, can’t you feel it?

He points at you, faux-accusing. “You’re not even trying!”

“Steve, you’ve had one beer!” you gasp between peals of laughter.

“And?” He stares you down, brow cocked, full sass.

And before you can dodge, he lunges.

You shriek as he grabs your hand, yanking you into the middle of the floor.

Oh, I’ve been dreaming through my lonely past…

“Steve—!”

You laugh as he tries to spin you under his arm. It's not graceful. Your socks slip on the wet floor, your flute nearly launches across the room, and you slam into his chest with a breathless oof.

He catches you easily, hands warm and steady, eyes laughing down at yours.

Now I just made it, I found you at last.

Your heart is pounding.

Not from the spin. Not from the champagne.

From this.

Him.

You feel seventeen again. Giddy. Buzzing. Drunk on sugar and something dangerously close to joy. Barefoot in a boy’s kitchen, dancing like the world’s ending, laughing like it never hurt.

There’s foam on Steve’s chin, and he’s singing again—loud, right into your face. You laugh so hard you double over.

So come on, now let’s try it!

You spin, arms out for balance. The record warbles, the saxophone soars.

And for one shimmering, golden second—you forget.

You forget the way the ground shook beneath you. The tremors under your feet. The silent, unspoken fears.

Right now, there’s only this:

A kitchen full of bad dancing and good champagne. Steve’s hand on your waist. His laugh in your ear.

The ex-king of Hawkins High, twirling you like you’re the crown jewel of some forgotten prom night.

I love you, can't deny it…

He spins you again. You come crashing into him, flute somehow still upright. One hand slides into his hair, and—

You kiss him.

Soft. Dizzy. Smiling. His lips are warm, mouth fizzy with champagne. He tastes like laughter, like something stolen. He pulls you in closer, palms warm against the small of your back.

When you pull back, your foreheads stay pressed together.

ABBA’s still playing in the background, but his singing’s faded enough for the lyrics to slip through:

I love you... I do, I do, I do, I do, I do.

Steve seems to hear it at the same moment.

You laugh, breathless. “You trying to tell me something, Harrington?”

He snorts softly, nose brushing yours. “Honestly? Wasn’t even listening to the lyrics.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah, I just like the…” He makes a vague gesture. “Sax part.”

“Uh huh.”

He grins, a little sheepish, but doesn’t argue.

You pull him down again. Kiss him while the last golden notes of ABBA melt into the quiet.

⟡

You laugh the whole way up the stairs.

Damp footprints trailing behind you, kissing the hardwood in soft, wet plops.

Your shirt is soaked through with champagne, sheer and glinting under the hallway lights. Your chest is tight, bubbling with something that doesn’t have a name. Joy, maybe. Or nerves. Hard to tell the difference when they fizz the same way behind your ribs.

Steve’s behind you, breaths uneven, laughter tumbling from his chest in quiet huffs.

He nudges your ankle with his toes when you pause at the top step, and you squeak like you’re a kid caught sneaking out after curfew.

Upstairs, the house is still. The sounds from the record player reduced to a soft, distant warble. Moonlight pours through the high windows, casting silver puddles along the floor, lighting your way.

Steve’s bedroom door clicks shut behind you.

“Here,” he tosses a towel your way. “Catch.”

You barely do, fumbling it against your chest and letting out a soft laugh. “Thanks.”

You dab absently at your arms and neck, blotting away sticky trails of half-dried champagne. Your fingers hesitate when they reach your collarbone, sugar crackling faintly under your touch.

You don’t look at him. Not yet.

But you hear it, the soft grunt as he peels off his soaked sweatshirt. It clings to him, suctioned tight to his back, and he wrestles with it for a second, arms flexing as he yanks it over his head. The fabric peels away with a wet squelch before he tosses it toward the hamper. It misses, landing halfway on the rug.

You glance up.

You don’t mean to stare.

But you do.

He’s bathed in moonlight—soft golds and gentle shadows, every line of him slick and gleaming. Champagne still hangs in droplets to his skin, catching light in the hollows of his collarbones, trailing down his chest, the sharp cut of his ribs.

One drop clings just beneath his sternum. Tiny. Trembling.

A star, mid-fall.

He reaches for another towel, rubbing absently at his arms, until he notices you watching.

His movements still.

His eyes flick to yours, then away. “You, uh… you want something to change into?” He jerks his chin toward the closet. “I’ve got shirts. And like, sweatpants.”

The offer is casual. Light.

But it lands heavy in the room, humming with something unspoken.

Stay.

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you step forward.

The towel slips from your fingers and puddles soundlessly at your feet. Your breath presses tight behind your ribs, but you don’t touch him. Not yet.

You just stand there, inches away, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to breathe him in: champagne and sweat, sugar and Steve.

Close enough to memorize him all over again.

The scatter of freckles across his shoulders. The raised ridges of scars running down his sides.

Quiet, hidden things you’ve been pretending not to notice.

Your fingers lift, slow and featherlight, and brush that trembling droplet from his chest. His body stills beneath your touch. You trail lower, following the faint shimmer left behind, down the line of his stomach, where the muscle jumps.

“You missed a spot,” you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He huffs out a breath, unsteady. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

His hand hovers near your wrist, not quite touching. Not pulling away either. Just there, waiting. Like he’s afraid to move too fast and ruin this delicate, shining thing you’re both standing inside.

Then he smiles, soft and teasing. “You know you dropped your towel back there, right?”

You smile back. “Got distracted.”

He laughs, low and warm, and glances down at your hand, still resting against his stomach.

You take another step.

Your palm slides up, settling over his heart. It beats hard under your touch, steady and familiar.

Then he leans down.

And this kiss isn’t like the ones that came before.

This time it’s slow. Careful. Measured. Like he’s reading you again for the first time.

You barely notice when your knees hit the mattress. His hands settle on your hips, guiding you back like he’s done it a thousand times—only it’s never felt like this.

This isn’t adrenaline. This isn’t heat stolen in the dark.

It’s something else. Something new.

You whisper, “Steve—”

He stops. Presses his forehead to yours. Breathes you in.

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

He opens his eyes.

And it’s all there.

Not just lust. Not just heat.

Everything else.

Awe. Fear. Wonder. Something terrifyingly close to love.

You’ve seen him bare before. In cars, in closets, against walls that didn’t belong to either of you.

But not like this.

Not in his room. Not in his bed. Not with moonlight painting silver into his hair and the quiet wrapped around you like a second skin.

You watch him roll the condom on. His hands tremble. That alone makes something ache in you. Like he’s doing something fragile. Like it’s sacred, somehow.

In some strange way, it feels like you’re losing your first time to him.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other brushing your hair back from your face. It’s instinctive. Tender. Just Steve—touch before words, affection woven into every small gesture.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. Press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wanna feel you. Inside.”

His breath stutters. His eyes close.

When he pushes in, it’s with his lips pressed to yours. Slow, careful. Still, the stretch burns, blooming through your hips like fire licking down a fuse.

You’ve felt him before, in every other way. But this—this stretch, this heat, this ache—it’s new. Overwhelming. Perfect.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails pressing into his back. His name falls brokenly from your lips.

“Good?” he asks, voice shaky.

You nod, legs tightening around his waist. “Don’t stop.”

His pace is slow, steady. Like he’s trying to remember this for the rest of his life, etch it into the bones of his bed, into the walls, into you. Just this rhythm of slick skin and pleasured breaths.

You bite your lip to keep quiet; old habits from old nights.

Steve notices.

“Hey, you don’t have to do that. I wanna hear you.”

The words break something open in you.

You moan, soft at first, then louder, eyes stinging.

“Steve—” you gasp. His name is a confession.

“Yeah, baby,” he kisses you again, voice thick with feeling. “I got you.”

His hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit, and it’s like the world tips sideways. You cry out, clutching him closer as the pleasure builds, bright and sharp.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Fuck, that’s it. You feel so good. You’re so—god, you’re so beautiful.”

You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. You arch, thighs trembling, heels digging into his back. Your name, your voice, your body—it’s all for him now.

His movements sharpen, urgency bleeding into every thrust, pounding deeper until your whole body clenches and your toes curl tight.

“I think about you,” he gasps, hips pistoning, voice raw against your lips. “All the time. Imagining this—you, here, in my bed—fuck—”

Your orgasm breaks over you like a wave. You cry out, his name falling from your lips in stuttered gasps, over and over.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me. That’s my girl.”

You rise. You soar. You shatter.

And when you fall, he becomes the place you land. ⟡ You don’t fall asleep for a long time.

It’s quiet now, just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the distant murmur of crickets outside the open window. Somewhere down the block, a car rolls by, tires hissing over the asphalt, but the sound fades as quickly as it came.

The sheets are a mess, bunched near the foot of the bed, half spilling onto the floor. Steve’s arm lies draped across your stomach, fingers tracing absent patterns on your skin. You’re both still sticky, sweat and champagne drying in tacky patches, but neither of you moves. You just lie there, bare and boneless.

It’s silent in your body for the first time in weeks. No ache in your chest. No weight behind your ribs. Just a strange, welcome emptiness, like someone drained the panic out of you and left behind warmth. Temporary, maybe. But it’s something.

Eventually, like always, you talk.

Not in any meaningful way. Just stupid, winding stories that don’t go anywhere, laughter bubbling up between every word. You tell him about the time Robin tried to hit a high C during the homecoming pep rally and cracked so hard half the bleachers gasped. Steve cracks up, asks about your part on the snare, and you recount in painful detail the hideous feathered hats you were all forced to wear.

Steve chuckles, eyes closed, smile lazy. “You guys were such geeks.”

“Oh, please.” You jab him in the ribs. “Like you wouldn’t have loved to see me in that getup.”

He cracks one eye open, gives you a slow once-over, and smirks. “Honestly? Yeah. I think I would’ve been into it.”

“Perv.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “What can I say? Guess I have a thing for dorks.”

You roll your eyes and reach up to ruffle his already-destroyed hair. He groans in protest, flailing half-heartedly.

“Jesus, my hair,” he mutters, swatting at your hand. “Have some respect. This is, like, the best thing about me.”

You snort, half-amused, half-surprised. “Steve, your hair is not the best thing about you."

That makes him pause. He cocks his head, brow raised. “Oh yeah? Then what is?”

His eyes are heavy-lidded. His smile is nothing but trouble.

Your heart skips a beat.

Because you know the answer. You’ve known it for a while.

But saying it out loud would be admitting something real. Make it a thing.

So you hesitate. And in that pause, Steve rolls halfway on top of you, bracing on one elbow. His hips press against yours in a slow, suggestive grind.

You roll your eyes, laughing, shoving a hand to his chest. “Down, Harrington.”

He flops back dramatically, arms flung wide. “Rude.”

“It’s not that either,” you mutter. “And I’m not telling you. You’ll get a big head.”

“I already have a big head.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” You jab his side. He lets out a strangled squawk and twists away.

Then, just as the laughter begins to fade, he says something that pulls the ground out from under you.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, eyes wide. “You what?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Yeah. Like… a rule. For myself.”

“A no sex rule?”

“Mhm.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait—since when?”

He breathes out slow, then squints up at the ceiling. You watch him for a moment, the way his fingers twitch against the comforter, picking at a frayed seam.

“Since the quake, I guess?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he shifts, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like I took a vow or anything. I just… I kept ending up in these half-assed relationships, y’know? We’d jump into bed on, like, the second date, and then realize we didn’t even really like each other. I mean, half the time we barely knew each other.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. You go still.

Your mind flickers back to that night. That closet. You remember how it’d felt to kiss him with your heart racing and your hands shaking, to reach for him before you could think too hard about it.

You remember the buckle of his belt between your fingers.

How you had reached first.

“Wow,” you murmur, voice low. “That’s… kind of romantic?”

He scoffs. “Okay, first of all, I’m always romantic.”

“No,” you laugh, “you’re just a walking cliché.”

He mumbles something about how a walking cliché just made you come three times, and you roll your eyes, ignoring him on principle.

“Anyway,” he says, tone softening again, “it wasn’t anything that dramatic. I just wanted to try something different. See if…”

He trails off.

You tilt your head. “See if what?”

“If maybe… knowing someone could come first, for once.”

Your heart stutters. You’re quiet for a long moment.

“So,” you say slowly, “you made a no-sex rule... and then we started hooking up?”

Steve winces, letting out a sheepish breath. “Yeah. That wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

“Kind of undermines your whole system, doesn’t it?”

He smiles, soft. “Yeah, but—I don’t know. It felt different with you. Like, by the time it happened, I already knew you. Not just your favorite song or whatever, but like... you, you know? Better than most people I’ve dated.”

You don’t answer.

And maybe your silence makes him nervous, because he glances away and adds quickly, “Not that we’re dating or anything. I just meant—”

You cut him off, gently. “I know what you meant.”

He nods, fingers still working on a loose thread.

You both feel it. That wall you’ve run up against. This thing neither of you are naming.

You stare at the ceiling, voice quiet. “I still don’t know if I’m in a place to… commit.”

“That’s okay,” he says, without missing a beat. “I just… I like being around you. However it works. Doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”

You glance over at him. At the mess of his hair. The soft crease between his brows. The fading scratch beneath his jaw you’re pretty sure you left.

And for a moment, you wonder what might’ve been different. If you hadn’t kissed him that night. If you’d started with a conversation instead of heat. If you hadn’t been so broken when he found you.

Would he have waited?

Would he still have chosen you?

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, eyes fixed on the slow spin of the ceiling fan.

“Everything’s been weird since the quake,” you say softly.

He doesn’t rush to fill the space. He waits.

“I sleep like shit. I flinch at dumb stuff. Doors slamming. Cars driving by. I know it’s irrational, but my body still… freaks out.”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then, gently: “It’s not irrational.”

You glance over, and catch him brushing absent fingers across the scars along his side. One of many you never found the words to ask about.

“I get it. Different triggers, maybe. But same reflex.”

You turn to face him, brow furrowed.

“Do you ever get nightmares?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates, then nods. “Not every night. But yeah.” A beat. “Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s something under my bed.”

You blink. “What do you mean? Like… a monster?”

He shrugs, a wry little twitch of his mouth. “Something like that.”

And not for the first time, you notice the flicker of exhaustion beneath his easy grin. Something fragile in the honey-brown of his eyes. Like uncertainty. Like fear.

You quietly nudge his shoulder. “Well… maybe Care Bear over there can keep watch tonight.”

You nod toward his nightstand, where a small, stuffed bear sits. Faded brown fur, one ear bent, a blue ribbon tied neatly around its neck.

Steve jerks upright. “Shit—!” He scrambles across the bed, nearly wiping out as he tries to shove it into the dresser. “That’s not—don’t look at that."

You burst out laughing. “Steve, come on. I clocked that thing the second I walked in.”

He flops back beside you, groaning, arm flung over his face. “I got it when I was five, okay? Just never got rid of it.”

You snuggle closer, smiling against his shoulder.

“It’s cute.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Adorable?”

“Worse.”

“Oh, my bad. It’s so incredibly sexy—”

He lunges, fingers diving into your ribs. You shriek, thrashing, laughing until your lungs ache and both of you collapse against the pillows, well and truly spent.

Laughter settles, soft as snowfall.

Eventually, his arms come around you again. His lips press to your forehead. The warmth of him, the weight of him, it pulls you under.

And when sleep finds you, it’s the deepest you’ve had in weeks. ⟡ Even with his mouth open and drool running down his cheek, Steve Harrington looks like something out of a daydream.

You let yourself stare at him. Openly. Shamelessly.

It’s not something you used to let yourself do, never dared to, but now... now it feels necessary.

He must’ve shifted sometime after you both crashed last night. One arm flung wide, the other curled under his chest. His face is half-buried in the mattress, the curve of his nose squished flat against the linen. Hair a disaster, pillow lines pressed deep into one cheek.

He looks younger like this. Softer.

The sunlight spilling through the curtains paints him in gold. Nose. Cheekbone. Shoulders. The long line of his back. The room is quiet except for the lazy whir of the ceiling fan and the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

And you realize, watching the calm rise and fall of his chest, that you hadn’t woken up with a jolt.

No gasping breaths or suffocating panic. Just the slow, steady rhythm of someone breathing next to you. The comfort of warmth that isn’t yours alone.

You shift sightly, careful not to wake him, but even that small movement draws him closer. His brow furrows faintly, lashes fluttering. And then, slowly, his eyes crack open.

They find yours immediately.

There's a pause. A beat of something between awareness and amusement.

Then the laziest, most satisfied smile spreads across his face, crooked and half-asleep. His eyes slip shut again, but the grin stays.

“Creep,” he mutters, voice scratchy with sleep.

You snort, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “Good morning to you, too.”

You make a half-hearted attempt to roll away, but you don’t get far. His arms shoot out instinctively, wrapping around your waist, pulling you back in with one smooth tug.

“Hey—”

“Shh.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck. “Still sleeping.”

“It’s eight,” you whisper, laughing softly as his hair tickles your chin.

“Exactly,” he grunts, like you’ve only proven his point.

You hum, amused, but your fingers find his hair anyway. He melts into the touch, warm and heavy and slotted perfectly beside you. One of his legs tangles with yours under the blankets, and his hand finds the small of your back.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

Then, slowly, his lips brush your neck. Just once. Just enough to let you know he’s awake now.

Another kiss follows, lower. Slower.

“You know,” you murmur, “for someone who claims to be asleep, you're awfully touchy.”

He doesn’t respond, not with words anyway. Instead, he presses another kiss just beneath your ear.

You squirm, caught between a laugh and a breathy sort of gasp. “Steve—”

“Shh,” he whispers, lips curling against your skin. “M’checking something.”

His mouth trails slow, lazy kisses down the side of your neck. His hand slips beneath your shirt, warm palm resting at the dip of your waist. There’s no rush to any of it. Just curiosity. Reverence. Like he’s exploring familiar ground just to see if anything’s changed.

Then, he finds it. That spot just under your jaw that makes your breath catch every time.

He grins into your skin, smug. His teeth graze the spot just enough to make you twitch.

“Found it.”

You roll your eyes, even as your melt into him. “You’re a menace.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, smile soft. He’s all bedhead and sleep-rumpled charm. A secret only you get to keep.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s the first time.

Your heart stumbles.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He frowns, instantly betrayed. “No, not morning.”

He ducks back down, mouth grazing your collarbone now.

“We’re going back to sleep,” he says, clearly lying.

Because his mouth doesn’t stop.

It wanders lower, slow and deliberate. Fingers tugging the comforter down inch by inch, peeling it away like wrapping paper. Cool morning air kisses your bare legs as it slips off, a shiver chasing after the warmth of his mouth.

He pauses when he reaches the hem of your shirt—his shirt, an old Hawkins Phys Ed tee, worn thin from a thousand washes. He noses at it, breath hot through the fabric, and presses a kiss just below your navel.

“I thought we were—” you begin, voice catching as he mouths along the curve of your stomach, “—going back to sleep.”

He hums, noncommittal. Mouth still moving, hands still wandering.

“We are,” he breathes, lips brushing lower. “Right after this.”

The knocking starts just as his fingers dip into the waistband of your panties.

Steve pauses, lips still pressed to your skin.

Then, with almost comic defiance, he moves again. Hands resuming their slow, steady path.

Until the knocking comes again—twice as loud, followed by a very urgent, very boyish shout:

“Steeeve! Open up, man! We gotta move!”

Steve’s head drops to your stomach like a brick.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mumbles.

You blink, dazed. “You expecting company?”

He peels himself off you like it physically hurts. “Not really. Just—hang on.” He glances up apologetically, stumbling for his jeans. “Gimme two minutes?”

You nod, pressing your face into the pillow to hide your laugh as he wrestles into last night’s pants, nearly falling over trying to hop into them one-legged.

“STEVE HARRINGTON!” The knocking is closer to pounding now. “We know you’re in there! Will said it’s starting! Like, starting starting! We gotta go!”

“I’M COMING!” Steve barks back, his voice cracking mid-yell. “For the love of god, one second!”

You trail after him to the hallway, lingering at the top of the stairs as he throws open the front door—shirtless, shoeless, still trying to zip his jeans.

“Dude, what the hell?” The boy in front, Dustin, you think, blurts immediately. “Why aren’t you dressed? We gotta go. Vecn—"

“HEEY, Dustin! Buddy! Pal!” Steve’s voice is borderline hysterical, hitting a pitch that can only be described as ‘frantic kindergarten teacher.’ “What happened to good morning, huh? Would a little ‘Hey, Steve! How’re you doing today?’ kill ya?”

Dustin stares.

“Dude, what?” He snorts, shaking his head. “Where’s your shirt? And what the hell happened to your hair?”

You pad down the stairs to find four boys clustered on the porch, backpacks slung over shoulders, eyes glued to Steve like he owes them money. Steve runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“Okay, first of all, shut up, it’s seven in the morning.”

“Eight-thirty,” a kid interrupts behind Dustin. Tall, sulking, radiating judgment.

“—and second, I thought we weren’t starting ‘til this afternoon.”

“Plans changed,” Dustin says. “We gotta hit the supply stash before the fog rolls back in.”

Steve sighs. “Alright. Just wait in the car. I’ll be ready in ten.”

“Steve, we don’t have ten—”

Dustin’s words cut off mid-sentence as his eyes slide past Steve… and land on you.

His jaw drops to the welcome mat. All the boys go still.

Steve turns slowly, and closes his eyes like he’s praying for death.

Dustin’s brows climb toward the brim of his baseball cap, grin spreading slow. Toothy. Smug.

“Ohhhhhh...”

“Henderson,” Steve growls, dragging a hand down his face. “I swear to god.”

You give a tiny wave, tugging your (Steve’s) shirt lower down your thighs. “Hey, guys.”

There’s a chorus of awkward waves and “hey”s. One of them mutters, “Dude.” Another snickers. One of them clocks the shirt you’re wearing and elbows the others.

Steve slaps the doorframe, loud. “Okay! That’s enough. Show’s over.”

He throws his arms out, herding them backward like unruly sheep. “I’m gonna go shower. And you four are gonna wait in the car. Quietly. Not a word. Not a word. Got it?”

He slams the door in their faces.

Silence.

Then, muffled through the wood:

“Told you. Pay up. Three bucks.”

“He said they were just friends!”

“She’s wearing his shirt, dumbass!” ⟡ You’re gathering your things while Steve scrambles around like a man late for everything.

“How do you know those kids again?” you ask, watching him wrestle a sock onto the wrong foot.

He glances up, hoodie halfway over his head, the collar snagging on his ear. He flails for a minute before tugging it down.

“It’s uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the front of the house. “Kind of a long story. Babysitting, technically. Mostly just driving them around and… stuff.”

You give him a curious look. He gives you a defeated shrug.

You smooth your hands down your thighs, brushing away invisible wrinkles. “Well I should… head out.”

He pauses mid-step, mid-thought, like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. His eyes flick toward the door, then back to you.

“Yeah,” he says, finally. “I’ll walk you out.”

You fall into step beside him, the hallway stretching quiet and soft around you. Your footsteps are light against the old floorboards, every creak a memory from the night before.

Halfway down the stairs, Steve clears his throat. “Oh, by the way. Robin and I might not be at the center for a couple days. We’re, uh, taking a little break.”

You blink. “A break?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Just a little time off. Thought we could use it.”

“Oh.” Your voice comes out too flat, too fast. You try to soften it with a smile. “Sounds good. You guys deserve it.”

He nods, eyes darting away.

Your hand is on the door when he suddenly catches your wrist.

“Hey, wait—just—” He swallows. “Just be safe, okay?”

You blink. Out of everything he could’ve said—goodbye, take care, even just a see you around—he chooses that.

Be safe.

The words hit strange and sharp, right in the pit of your stomach.

And it’s not just what he says. It’s how—like he’s holding back something urgent, something he can’t quite voice. Brown eyes wide and earnest, a little desperate, despite the faint smile.

You nod, caught by the strange pull to say it back. “Yeah. You… you too, Steve.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, and for a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

You’re not sure what you’d do if he did. You’re not sure what it would mean if he didn’t.

But he doesn’t.

His grip tightens on your wrist, just barely, then he lets go.

You open the door. The morning air hits you like a cold splash, bracing and immediate. Too sharp for May.

You start walking.

You don’t look back.

And it's the last time you see him for a long time. ⟡ It’s snowing. Or—it looks like snow, at least. That soft, aimless drift of white outside the windows. But it’s May. Honest-to-god May. The kind of month that should be all short sleeves and sneakers, windows down on the drive home, air thick with blooming wildflowers and fresh grass and the promise of summer. There shouldn’t be anything falling from the sky except pollen and the occasional thunderstorm. Instead, the sky is bleeding white. The specks dust everything in pale layers, delicate as powdered sugar. But it doesn’t melt. Doesn’t dissolve or vanish into slush. It clings. To roofs, to sidewalks, to the back of your denim jacket. Static, dead, silent. The air smells wrong. Tastes worse—bitter and metallic, like the inside of a fuse box after it blows. Like ozone. Like soot. You saw the first flakes that morning from the breakroom window, standing stock-still with a lukewarm paper cup of gas station coffee. You blinked once, twice, watching it drift from the sky. Vickie had been the first to say it out loud, voice pitched somewhere between awe and dread: “…Is that snow?” No one answered right away. The weather reports called it wildfire residue. Atmospheric ash from a burn zone in the Rockies. Something about a cold front pushing east. Like that explained the blood-red sky and the silence. Like it was normal for white powder to fall from a bruised horizon when it should be seventy-two out and sunny. It should’ve felt apocalyptic. Biblical, even. Fire and ash and bad omens. Instead, it just felt... expected. Like another thing that shouldn’t be happening, happening anyway. Now, you watch it swirl past the window—paper-thin and weightless—while Vickie paces in jittery figure-eights, arms crossed tight across her chest. She’s talking fast. Faster than usual. Words toppling like a stack of dominos. “Robin said Chicago. That’s not that far, right?” You nod slowly, not looking away from the window. “Yeah. Not far.” “I mean, that’s like—what, three hours? Four if there’s traffic? That’s basically a day trip. And it’s not like I’m worried or anything, I just think the whole ash-rain thing is super weird, and I mean, thank god they drove and not flew, because you know I don’t trust planes, but with all the earthquakes and sinkholes lately, you really just never know what’s gonna—” “Vicks,” You gently reach for her hand. Her fingers still. Her mouth does not. “—and I’m not worried, okay? I just think it’s a little irresponsible to leave in the middle of all this—" she gestures wildly toward the swirling white haze outside the window, “—when the town’s basically half-a-step away from being The Day After and none of the phones are working right, and—” “Vickie.” You squeeze her hand, firmer this time. “They’re fine. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” She looks at you, startled, like she’s only just registered your voice. Then she nods. Swallows. Her fingers tighten around yours. “...Yeah. Yeah, I know.” But you both know she doesn’t believe it. And neither do you. ⟡ The rest of the day passes in slow, mechanical rhythms. You mop the floors, even though you did it yesterday. Vickie reorganizes the lost-and-found bin for the fourth time this week. You double-check the first aid kits. She unloads the canned food drive. You alphabetize them for no reason and stack the green beans into a small pyramid. Outside, the ash keeps falling. Steady. Soundless. A kid asks you if it's poison. You don't have an answer. ⟡ A week goes by. No word from Steve. Seven days. He’d only said “a couple.” Now, the ash is thicker. Coating the ground and barren tree branches like mold. The sky's turning redder by the hour. And you’re still waiting. But there’s only so many times you can say He’ll be back soon before your voice starts to sound like a lie. ⟡ It happens on a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You’ve stopped bothering to keep track.

You’re staring out the window again, elbows on the check-in desk, pen loose in your hand. The ash falls like it always does, but your eyes have stopped registering it. It’s just there. Like fog. Like rot.

Like the static of the radio behind you. It’s always on these days, more white noise than words, cycling through one stale public service announcement after another.

“…air quality warnings remain in effect across the tri-county area. If you’re experiencing headaches, fatigue, or blurred vision, limit your time outdoors and stay hydrated—”

“Hey, Mel,” you call over your shoulder. “Mind changing the station?”

There’s a shuffle, a twist of the dial. A burst of static, then—

“…kicking it back a few years with this one. Hope it sends a little light your way. Keep your head up out there, folks. Here’s—”

ABBA.

Bright. Sparkling. Joyous.

The synth line lands like a fist to the sternum.

Something seizes, right under the ribs. Your skin goes cold all over. Pressure builds in your chest, tight and awful.

You lurch to your feet. Knock over a stack of files. Mutter something about checking inventory.

You make it to the supply closet before your legs give out. Darkness swallows you whole. Immediate. Suffocating. Like plunging headfirst into Lover’s Lake in the middle of January—nothing but shock and silence and cold so deep it burns. Your hands scrape along the wall, desperate for something solid. You're on your knees. You don't remember dropping. One palm flat against the icy linoleum, the other braced against rough cinderblock. Your breath comes in gasps, vest too tight, like cinched wire around your ribs. Your heart is pounding, thunder in your ears. And still—the music. Distant now. Muffled by walls and insulation, but unmistakable. Drifting in on dust and memory. Tonight the Super Trouper lights are gonna find me, shining like the sun… The melody filters in like smoke. Like memory. Like his voice. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes. You try not to remember. You fail. Steve. You see his face. The way his fingers closed around your wrist that day. The way his mouth parted as if to say something important, then didn’t. The light in his eyes, flickering. The silence that followed. Your vision blurs. But I won't feel blue… You remember the last time you were in this closet. His hand at the back of your neck. His lips warm against yours. That stupid, lopsided smile mid-kiss—like you had all the time in the world. And you’d believed it. You’d let yourself believe that nothing needed to be said. That he knew. Like I always do… You curl inward, folding around the memory. Of his breath against your cheek. The press of his forehead to yours. His heartbeat thudding where your ribs touched. The way you never said goodbye. …'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you. Then, suddenly— The overhead bulb flickers.

Once.

Just once.

A single flash of gold, sharp and fleeting. Dust suspends midair, frozen like glitter in amber.

Your breath catches.

A sudden burst of brilliance. Like a falling star.

Then, with a blink, it’s gone.

Darkness.

Like it never happened.

You sit perfectly still, back against the wall, knees drawn to your chest. Eyes closed. Lips trembling.

“Steve,” you whisper into the dark. To no one. To nothing. “Please come back.” ⟡ You barely notice it at first. Because somewhere between the earthquakes and the sinkholes and the too-frigid air, you’d forgotten what spring looked like. What it felt like. You’d forgotten about soft things. About the gentle, non-violent colors that once bloomed in the world. Forgotten the gold-tinged green of new leaves, the scattered confetti of wildflowers that used to dot the roadside. Forgotten that the world could be alive. You’d forgotten the sky could be blue. But it is, now. Not bruised with smoke. Not streaked with blood-red smears across the horizon. Not coated in the flat, endless gray of ashfall. Just… blue. The grass is coming back too, impossibly fast. Scrappy, sun-drunk blades of green, pushing up through sidewalk cracks. Flowering weeds, thin stems and stubborn petals, clawing their way toward the light. You don’t notice it until you’re driving in your car, halfway to the gym for your shift. When you realize the neon orange signs you used to drive around are gone, fresh pavement over what had once been split open. You roll the windows down without flinching. Breathe deep. There’s no stink anymore. No rot. No burnt copper taste in the back of your throat, no sour tang you never found the name for. The air smells like earth now, wet and clean. You glance up through the windshield, fingers slack on the steering wheel. Still just blue. Still impossibly calm. And for a moment, you believe it. You believe in this strange rebirth, this version of Hawkins that moved on the way it always does, glossing over tragedy like it’s a pothole to be paved. The radio’s on. Some over-earnest DJ laughing about “the freak weather last week” and how real spring has finally arrived. Like it never really happened. And somehow, you almost convince yourself of that, too. Until it happens. ⟡ It’s halfway through your shift when Vickie screams. You jerk upright, the sound slicing straight through you. Your heart stutters in your chest, thudding hard and uneven. Your clipboard slips from your hand, clattering to the floor. And then you see her. Robin. Standing in the doorway like something out of a fever dream. Hair tangled, clothes caked with dirt, a new rip in her sleeve. Her eyes are ringed with dark shadows, like she hasn’t slept in a week. But she’s alive. Vickie doesn’t hesitate. She flies across the room and slams into her in a hug that knocks them both sideways. Robin laughs, wet and shaky, but she doesn’t fall. Doesn’t let go. You watch, frozen. Disbelief and something sharp and bright curling in your lungs. For one long, terrifying heartbeat, your gaze sweeps the doorway, searching for what you barely dare to believe. And then— He’s there. And the rest of the room blurs and slips away. He’s thinner now. Paler. There’s a gash on his forehead, blood dried dark down his temple. Fresh bruises blooming across his jaw. But he’s here. Moving—limping—toward you. And smiling. That smile. Like the very first day. Soft. Almost sheepish. Just the barest curve of the lips. A quiet, hey, you. Your chest tightens to the point of pain. Because even without words, you somehow know. Know that none of this is a coincidence. He limps closer, hands loose at his sides. His eyes flicker over your face, cautious, apologetic, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You just stare at each other for a long, suspended beat. And then, barely above a whisper, you say: “Monster under the bed?” Steve blinks, then lets out a short, stunned laugh. “Yeah,” he nods, incredulous. “Yeah. Something like that.” He’s barely finished saying it before you collide with him. Your arms lock around his neck, too hard, too fast. You hear him grunt, feel the shake of it in his ribs, but he holds you just as tight. Arms around your shoulders, then your waist. His head dips into your neck. He doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s ragged. Barely audible. “I’m so sorry.” ⟡ It’s been three months.

Three months since the earth split open and tried to swallow your town whole.

Since you ran donation hauls out of a high school gym that reeked of antiseptic and grief. Since you shared lukewarm coffee with broken people under flickering fluorescents and learned that, sometimes, the world doesn’t give warnings, it just ends. And you live through it anyway.

Three months since the sky, once the color of a deep bruise, turned back into blue. Clear, bright, impossibly alive.

Three months since Steve Harrington walked into your life.

And now… it’s over.

The relief center is closing.

You’re folding the last of the volunteer vests into a battered cardboard box. The banners are gone. The walls are bare. The quiet is almost eerie now.

Around you, people are saying their goodbyes like it’s the last day of summer camp. Tired hugs. Quiet laughter. Bittersweet, but not quite sad. Not anymore.

You zip up the last supply bag and let out a quiet breath.

Steve’s beside you, helping with the last of the cleanup, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted with tape residue and healing scars. Most of his bruises have yellowed out now, the gash on his forehead just a pale crescent. Faint pink, one of many.

But there’s that one scar, just under his jaw, that you catch yourself staring at sometimes.

Frowning at, if you’re being honest.

“You’re doing it again,” Steve says, not looking up.

You blink. “Doing what?”

“That thing.” He taps under his chin, smirking. “The frown.”

You huff. “It still looks like it hurts.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t. Not anymore.”

You hum, but don’t argue. He knows what you mean anyway.

You know the truth now, after all.

That the earthquake wasn’t just an earthquake. That the ash wasn’t from any wildfire.

And the monster under Steve’s bed… well, it had a name.

There’s no forgetting it. Only moving forward. Healing. Letting the earth hold you again, even after it tried to break you.

“Oh—hey,” he says, suddenly brightening. “Almost forgot.”

You look over as he pulls something from his back pocket.

“Figured we could listen to this on the drive.”

It’s a beat-up cassette. Label faded, plastic scratched to hell.

You raise a brow. “Harrington, is this a mix?”

He grins, proudly. “Obviously. I make the best mixes.”

You snort. “You listen to REO Speedwagon and, like, one Bob Seger song.”

“Who?”

“Old Time Rock and Roll?”

You sigh at his blank expression. “From Risky Business? You know, the one that’s goes—”

“Ohhh!” His whole face lights up. “Love that one! Here listen:” And before you can stop him, he’s holding a roll of duct tape like a mic. “Just take those ooold records off the shelf—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, already laughing. “I didn’t ask you to sing it.”

But he’s shameless. Bopping his head, rolling his shoulders in a move that barely qualifies as dancing as he starts slinking toward you.

“C’mon! I’m good! Admit it!”

Then he lunges.

You shriek as he scoops you up, arms wrapped tight, spinning you in lazy half-circles while you flail.

“Say it!”

“Steve!” you shriek, laughing breathlessly as his fingers dig mercilessly into your sides. “Put me down!”

“Say I’m a good singer!”

“You’re terrible!”

You grab a handful of his hair in retaliation, ruffling it viciously.

“Hey!” he protests, even as his grip tightens. “What’d I tell you about the hair?”

He’s still laughing when he finally sets you down. Still grinning as your hands smooth his hair back into place.

You let your fingertips linger there, just a moment longer.

His smile softens. “What?” he murmurs, tipping his head.

You shake your head, but your hands find their way behind his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Familiar now, but you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the way he sighs softly against your mouth. Or the way he chases your lips when you start to pull away.

When you finally draw back, your heels touch the floor again, steady.

You lift one slow finger between you.

You rest it gently against his chest, over the quiet, steady rhythm of his heart.

“This,” you say, voice quiet. “This is the best thing about you.”

He blinks, grin faltering. Not gone—transformed.

“…I realized I never told you that.”

His mouth opens, then closes again. His eyes go wide and glassy. And then, slowly, he dips back down to kiss you again.

Deep. Steady. Like punctuation.

Somewhere across the gym, Vickie coos. Robin groans, beaming.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours.

And then he whispers something you don't think you'll ever forget. ⟡ When it’s all done—the packing, the folding, the lingering goodbyes—you find yourself standing at the threshold of the gym.

You stand there for a while.

The space feels strange. Empty without all the cots and supply crates, like a stage after the curtain's dropped. The corners that used to hold sleeping bags now gather dust. Old homecoming banners still cling to the rafters, curling at the edges, green and gold glitter faded and sun-warped.

But it's okay. New banners will go up. New cheers will fill the air. This place will go back to being what it was—a gym.

Steve stands beside you, hands on his hips as he takes it all in.

He exhales, long and slow. “Well,” he says, nodding with quiet satisfaction. “I guess that’s it.”

Without a word, you reach out and thread your fingers through his.

Behind you, the air is crisp and sweet. The sky is a soft spring blue. The breeze carries birdsong and fresh-cut grass. Real flowers bloom along the sidewalk, stubborn and bright.

The world is rebuilding. Not quite fixed, but healing. Bit by bit. Day by day.

“You ready?” Steve asks, grinning down at you.

You squeeze his hand. Turn to face the future.

“Ready.”

You step into the sun together.

a/n: I had a lot of fun writing this one! it feels a little sad letting it go but I hope it brought some light to your day ✨ love y'all, catch you on the next one 🫶

steve's mixtape (series playlist) | masterlist

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