aka welcome to my blog! check out my masterlist here :)
about me: j. twenty. i love djo/joe keery, stranger things, supernatural, heated rivalry, perks of being a wallflower, frank ocean, and so so much more (that i couldn't possibly fit into a small about me paragraph)
i've probably been on tumblr for 10 years, but i started writing maybe 5 years ago. i took a longgggg hiatus but i've decided to return to writing because i've honestly missed it so so much.
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right now, i'm back on my steve harrington horse so i will be primarily focused on writing for him at the moment. so feel free to send in any recs for stranger things!
SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! đşđ¸ Iâve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope yâall enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
⊠main masterlist
⊠dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrettâs not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. âDamn straight she is.â Deanâs answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hellâ Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled. Â
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tuckerâs Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuckâs got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautĂŠing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piĂąa colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piĂąa coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
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pope can't help but feel excited when you hurry into the living room. he's sitting on the couch with his brothers, talking about nothing really important, when you emerge from the hallway, a small smile on your lips and wide, excited eyes. you say hi to the guys and hold out your hand, grabbing at pope until he stands and puts his palm snuggly in yours. craig gives a knowing smile as you pull him away and down the hallway to his bedroom. you enter the room first and pope drops your hand for a moment to close the door and lock it behind him. when he turns around, you're already sitting on the bed, patting the covers like you were looking for something. he's already half-hard in his jeans, heart hammering in his chest as his mind races. he loves when you're needy. loves sporting the red scratches and love bites on his skin. from the urgency of your escape, he assumes that tonight will be extremely enjoyable. your brow is slightly furrowed as you move the sheets to the side. pope climbs onto the bed beside you, fingers deftly unbuckling his belt and popping the buttons of his jeans.
you're still not looking at him, so he grabs your chin and pulls your face up, crashing your lips to his. he's needy, whining into your mouth as his tongue breaches the seam. you give a little squeak of surprise as his hand comes up to cup your breast, squeezing the flesh between his fingers. your hands come up to his chest and you push him away gently, separating the kiss. pope sits back a bit, confused and he lets out a little pained whine.
"wh...what're you doing?" he mumbles, desperation clear in his words.
"what are you doing?" you shoot back, eyes wide with surprise.
"i'm..." he gestures vaguely into the air. "you dragged me to the bedroom i thought..." you let out a little laugh and pope felt a pang in his chest.
"yea," you say, fingers finally finding what you were looking for in the covers of the bed. the tv remote. "a new episode of love island came out? we need to watch it?" pope let out a groan of annoyance as his head falls back. fucking love island. the show you had practically forced him to watch every night before bed, cuddling up next to him and arguing with the screen while he just sat there quietly. he didn't really mind it, he loved seeing your dramatic reactions to something as simple as reality tv. it was domestic. it was cute. but it was not what he wanted to do with you in the bed. his fingers trail up your thigh.
"can't we wait a bit?" he mumbles, putting on his best puppy eyes that he knew got you melting in his touch. but not tonight.
"i'm going to pretend you didn't just say that." your eyes narrow and your tone is clipped. you pull back the covers and motion for pope to join you. "get in." pope grumbles, but ultimately succumbs to your request. he takes off his jeans so he can get comfortable and slips into the bed next to you. you nuzzle up against his chest and put on the show. you press a kiss to his cheek. "after." you whisper "i promise." pope gives an unenthusiastic hum and wraps his arm around your shoulders, preparing himself for the next hour of watching other people make out and ignoring the way his body yearned for your attention.
pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader
summary: Dr. Jack Abbot is your closed-off, divorced neighbor across the hallâthe kind of man who fixes what breaks, notices what hurts, and pretends none of it means anything. Then one bad night makes pretending a hell of a lot harder.
wc: 8.3k
a/n: i need this man to come inside more than my apartment. not beta read.
warnings: piv, rough sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, nipple play, possessive language, implied age gap, doctor kink, unwanted touching/pushy date (not from Jack), minor blood/injury, alcohol mention, divorce mention, chronic pain, not beta read
MASTERLIST
In hindsight, the eggs shouldâve been your first warning.
The hallway always smelled faintly of old paint, somebodyâs takeout, and the industrial lemon cleaner the building manager used like he thought enough of it could pass for luxury.
It was quiet tonight. Quiet enough that the soft clink of your keys hitting the floor sounded louder than it should have.
âShit,â you muttered to yourself, balancing a tote of groceries against your hip as you crouched awkwardly to scoop them up before the carton of eggs slid out after them. The paper bag cut into your palm. The handle of the other one was already giving up on life. Youâd had a long day, your shoulder ached, and your front door suddenly seemed determined to humiliate you personally.
A shadow fell over the mess.
A handâbroad, veined, quickâsnagged the egg carton before it hit the floor.
You looked up.
Jack Abbot stood there with that same expression he always seemed to wear in the building: tired enough to look carved down to the bone, not interested in talking, not interested in anything except getting inside his own apartment and shutting the world out. He had on navy scrubs beneath a dark jacket, the collar open at the throat, stethoscope looped carelessly from one pocket like heâd forgotten it was there. His hair looked like heâd run a hand through it a hundred times. There was color high in his cheeks from the cold outside, but it didnât make him look younger. It just made him look worn in a different direction.
And there it was, visible even in the short distance between you: the hitch in his gait. Slight tonight, but there. More obvious the longer he stood still.
He held the eggs out to you.
âThanks,â you said, straightening too fast and nearly dropping your keys again.
His mouth flattened into something that wasnât quite a smile and wasnât quite annoyance either. âYou always this coordinated?â
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. âOnly when thereâs an audience.â
âLucky me.â
His voice was low and rough, like he hadnât used it for anything but clipped instructions all day. He reached down, caught the second grocery bag by one torn handle, and passed it to you before it could split entirely.
You took it, fingers brushing his for half a second. His hand was warm. Yours, embarrassingly, was freezing.
âThank you,â you said again, more steadily this time.
He gave one short nod, like the exchange had already lasted longer than heâd budgeted for, and pulled his own keys from his pocket. Apartment 4B. Yours was 4A. Across the hall. Youâd known that since the first week you moved in, mostly because he came and went at impossible hours and because sometimes, when the building settled late at night, you could hear the low murmur of his television through the wall.
He opened his door, paused, and glanced over once more.
âYou should use both hands with the eggs,â he said.
Then he disappeared inside and shut the door behind him.
You stood there in the hallway with the groceries digging into your fingers and a ridiculous, inconvenient awareness humming under your skin.
Youâd seen him before, obviously. Everyone in the building had. The man who kept strange hours, limped a little after long shifts, and looked like he had no use for small talk or neighbors or anyone elseâs bullshit. You knew he was a doctorâemergency medicine, if the stitched lettering on one of his jackets meant what you thought it did. You knew he was divorced because old Mrs. Larkin downstairs had mentioned it in the same tone she used for broken elevators and weather fronts. Such a shame, sheâd said, as if sheâd personally witnessed the end of his marriage from behind her curtains.
You knew he was handsome in the kind of severe, accidental way that made it worse. Not polished. Not charming. Just unfairly good-looking while looking like heâd slept four hours in the last three days.
And now, apparently, you also knew his hands were warm.
Which was annoying.
It was nearly a week before a dying smoke detector forced the issue.
The thing started chirping at eleven-fifteen on a Thursday night.
At first it was just one high, cruel little beep from the hallway outside your bathroom. Then silence. Then another beep forty seconds later, sharper somehow for giving you time to hope it had stopped. You stood under it in your socks, staring up at the plastic disc like glaring at it might shame it into shutting the hell up.
It did not.
You dragged a kitchen chair beneath it. The chair wobbled. You climbed up anyway, phone flashlight clenched between your teeth, and discovered two things in quick succession: the cover was stuck, and the previous tenant had apparently installed it with the spite of a man sealing a tomb.
âGreat,â you whispered around the edge of your phone.
Another chirp split the air.
You flinched, lost your balance, caught yourself on the wall, and cursed.
A hard knock landed on your front door.
You froze.
Another chirp.
Another knock.
You climbed down, annoyed and embarrassed before you even opened the door.
Jack stood in the hall wearing a faded gray T-shirt and dark sweats, hair damp at the temples like heâd just showered. He looked tired in a deeper, meaner way than usual, like the fatigue had gone past worn and landed somewhere close to hostile.
âThere a reason your apartmentâs screaming?â he asked.
Mortification flashed hot through you. âOh my God.â
âMm.â
âI was literally just trying to fix it.â
âSounded successful.â
âWow. Helpful.â
Another chirp shrieked behind you.
Jackâs eyes lifted past your shoulder. His expression did not change, but something about the stillness of his face suggested the sound had personally offended him.
âBattery,â he said.
âI know it needs a battery.â
âYou have one?â
You hesitated.
His mouth tightened. âOf course you donât.â
âI might.â
âYou donât.â
âI love how much faith you have in me.â
âIâm learning.â
He turned, disappeared into his apartment, and came back ten seconds later with a nine-volt battery in one hand and a small screwdriver in the other. You stepped back automatically, and he moved past you with the kind of brisk certainty that suggested heâd already taken stock of the whole apartment in one sweep.
He glanced at the chair under the detector.
âYou were standing on that?â
âYes.â
âThat chairâs a lawsuit.â
âIt has sentimental value.â
âSo does every bad decision before it breaks your neck.â
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and his mouth did twitch, brief and unwilling.
The smoke detector chirped again.
Jack looked up at it like it had one more chance to live.
âHold the chair,â he said.
âI thought the chair was a lawsuit.â
âIt is. Hold it anyway.â
He stepped onto it before you could object, one hand bracing lightly against the wall as he reached up. The movement was careful. Efficient. But careful.
You noticed the way his weight shifted. The set of his mouth. The slight stiffness in his right leg as he balanced.
He noticed you noticing.
âEyes on the chair,â he said.
âMy eyes are on the chair.â
âTheyâre not.â
âAre you always this bossy?â
âYes.â
He got the cover loose with one sharp twist of the screwdriver. The old battery came free. The new one clicked into place. The next forty seconds passed without a chirp, and the quiet felt almost holy.
âThere,â he said. âTemporary peace.â
âTemporary?â
âItâs a smoke detector. Itâll find another reason to ruin your life.â
He stepped down, and you saw the muscle in his jaw jump before his foot hit the floor. The wince barely registered and wouldâve been easy to miss if you hadnât already been looking at him too closely. He straightened fully a second later like nothing had happened.
âYou okay?â you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes flicked to yours. Cool. Guarded.
âFine.â
It was such a reflexive answer that you almost laughed. Instead you just nodded slowly. âRight.â
He handed you the dead battery like it was evidence.
âYou own a screwdriver?â he asked.
âProbably?â
âHelpful.â
You folded your arms. âYou know, you could just accept that Iâm a disaster and move on.â
âI had,â he said. âThen your smoke detector started screaming across the hall.â
You laughed in spite of yourself, and this time he didnât hide the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
It changed his whole face. Not enough to soften it, exactly. Just enough to make him look less like a man bracing for impact and more like a man who remembered, very reluctantly, how to be human.
He stood there beneath the newly silent detector like he was debating whether you were capable of surviving the next hour unsupervised.
âIâll buy replacement batteries,â you said.
âDo that.â
âThank you.â
He shrugged one shoulder as if gratitude was an unnecessary use of breath, then limpedânot badly, but unmistakably now that you knew to look for itâtoward the front door.
At the door, he paused.
âDonât climb on that chair again,â he said.
âYes, doctor.â
He gave you a look over his shoulder. âCute.â
Then he left.
The smoke detector stayed quiet.
Your problem, unfortunately, did not.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
Not because he was newly visible. Because now he seemed to catch your eye before anything else did.
The laundry room on Sunday morning, standing with one hand braced on the industrial washer while he waited for the machine to unlock, hospital ID clipped crookedly to his waistband.
The lobby on Monday night, expression flat with fatigue as he accepted a takeout bag from the delivery guy and checked the receipt without really seeing it.
The stairwell on Wednesday, stepping aside automatically to let you pass even though he clearly had the right of way.
The sidewalk out front, phone to his ear, saying, âRobby, if youâre calling to ask me to pick up another shift, the answerâs no,â in a tone so dry it bordered on impressive. Heâd glanced up then, caught sight of you coming through the front doors, and ended the call with, âI gotta go.â
That one stuck with you for longer than it should have.
Robby existed, apparently. Robby got calls. Robby got more of Jackâs personality than the rest of the building did. There was something oddly comforting about that, about the fact that he wasnât just a set of locked doors and dark windows across the hall. He had a friend. A life. Someone who knew him well enough to bother him on purpose.
The routine built in pieces after that.
A package left outside your apartment door one rainy afternoon, neatly tucked against the wall where it wouldnât get wet. You opened your own door just as Jack was stepping back across the hall.
âYou didnât have to do that,â you called.
âIt was in the way,â he said.
A lie, probably. But a useful one.
A Thursday evening when you came in carrying an overloaded canvas bag and he held the front door before you could hip-check it open. He didnât say anything, just waited while you awkwardly made it through.
A Tuesday near midnight when he got off the elevator looking worse for wear and you, coming back from the corner store in slippers, held out the extra bottle of sports drink in your hand.
He looked at it. Then at you.
âYou buying those for random neighbors now?â
âI bought two by accident.â
âSure you did.â
But he took it.
The longer it went on, the more you could read him.
You could tell which shifts had been bad by the set of his shoulders. Which nights his leg was bothering him more by the precise, deliberate way he crossed the hall. Which moods meant he might answer with one word and which meantârarely, but sometimesâyouâd get a whole sentence.
You also learned that he noticed more than he let on.
âYour tireâs low,â he said one evening as you both reached the parking lot.
You looked at him blankly. âWhat?â
âFront right.â
You turned to stare at your car. Sure enough, it looked a little sagged at one corner.
âHow did you evenââ
He was already walking away. âYou want air in it, or you wanna keep driving on a rim?â
Another time you came in rubbing absently at the back of one ankle, shoes pinching from a long day, and he glanced down once before saying, âThose are killing you.â
You blinked. âThese are fine.â
âMm.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âIt means youâre limping.â
âI am not.â
He raised an eyebrow, looked meaningfully at your feet, and kept going.
He was an asshole.
A helpful asshole.
A deeply, profoundly inconvenient asshole.
The first time you saw the damage up close, it was by accident.
Not because you knocked. Not because you meant to look. Just because the hallway was narrow, and Jack Abbot had left his door open while he carried pieces of his old life out to the trash.
You came home a little after ten with your keys already in your hand and stopped short at the sight of him half in, half out of 4B, a cardboard box balanced against one hip. He was in sweatpants and a dark long-sleeved shirt, reading glasses low on his nose, his hair mussed like heâd been running his hands through it for the last hour.
That image alone nearly wiped out your ability to form sentences.
âSorry,â you said, because he was blocking just enough of the hall that slipping past him without speaking wouldâve felt stranger. âDidnât mean to interrupt.â
He looked up. For half a beat, his face stayed blank.
Then he shifted the box more securely against his side. âYouâre not.â
The top flaps hadnât been folded all the way down.
Inside was a picture frame, face-up.
You didnât mean to stare. You only saw it for a second. Jack at least fifteen years younger, same mouth, same eyes, the hard lines of him not gone but unfinished. Beside him, a woman stood with her hand hooked at his elbow. Both of them dressed up, both smiling at something out of frame. Wedding clothes, maybe. Maybe not. It didnât matter. The intimacy in the picture was plain enough.
Jack followed your line of sight.
The air changed.
He folded the flap closed with one economical motion.
âSorry,â you said again, quieter this time.
He nodded once. âDonât be.â
That was all. No explanation. No awkwardness offered up for you to smooth over. Just a wall, going back up in real time.
You wanted to say something kind. Something light. Something that acknowledged the sudden, unmistakable bruise in the room without pressing on it.
But heâd already started moving toward the stairwell, the box held tight against his ribs.
âNight,â he said.
âNight.â
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, slow and careful on the first step before forcing the rest into something steadier.
You stood outside your apartment for a while after that, thinking about the photograph you hadnât meant to see. About the ring mark youâd noticed once when he reached for his keys and then pretended you hadnât. About the quiet, sparse feel of his life through the wall. About the way pain could make people meaner at the edges without making them cruel.
The next time you saw him, neither of you mentioned it.
But something had shifted.
Not softness, exactly.
Just awareness.
It was a little after midnight when you knocked on his door for the second time.
This one felt more embarrassing.
You stood there with your hand wrapped in a dish towel and your dignity somewhere back in your kitchen, probably bleeding beside the cutting board. Youâd sliced your thumb trying to open a stupid plastic clamshell of strawberries with a paring knife because apparently you were a woman incapable of learning from obvious danger.
It wasnât deep. Probably. But it was bleeding more than you liked, and after twenty minutes of rinsing, pressing, and muttering at yourself in the mirror, youâd started to feel lightheaded from looking at it.
Which was how you ended up on Jack Abbotâs doormat, knocking with your good hand.
He opened the door wearing a black T-shirt and the same gray sweats as before, one hand still on the knob, the other holding a bourbon glass low against his thigh. He looked tired, but not hospital-tired. At-home tired. The softer kind. His glasses were on again.
His gaze dropped to the towel around your hand.
For once, he didnât make a joke first.
âWhat happened?â
âI may have lost a fight with a strawberry container.â
He stared at you.
âIt had really aggressive plastic.â
He stepped back immediately. âCome in.â
His apartment was warmer than yours. Dim. Quiet. A lamp on in the living room, television muted, coffee table stacked with two medical journals, a half-empty takeout container, and a folded newspaper. The place looked exactly like youâd imagined it would: orderly without being neat, practical without trying to be stylish. There was a cane leaning in the corner by the umbrella standânot hidden, but not exactly displayed either. A pair of shoes lined up neatly by the wall. A kitchen that looked used, not decorative.
âSit,â he said, already moving toward a drawer in the kitchen.
âIâm not dying.â
âDidnât say you were.â
âItâs just a cut.â
âThen youâll survive me looking at it.â
You sat at the kitchen island. He came back with a small first aid kit that looked far too complete to belong to a normal person, snapped it open, and held out his hand.
You placed yours in it.
His palm was warm. Steady.
He unwrapped the towel with a focus that made your throat go a little tight. His face settled into that ER-doctor calm youâd only seen in flashes beforeâassessing without panic, gentle without being soft about it.
âNot bad,â he said.
âSee?â
âStill stupid.â
âI came here for medical care, not emotional violence.â
âThat costs extra.â
You laughed, and his mouth twitched.
He cleaned the cut, ignoring your hiss when the antiseptic stung.
âHold still.â
âI am.â
âYouâre trying to climb out of your skin.â
âIt burns.â
âItâs supposed to burn.â
âAwful bedside manner.â
âIâm off the clock.â
His thumb pressed lightly at the base of yours, keeping your hand open while he bandaged you with swift, practiced movements. The whole thing should have been clinical. It wasnât. Not with your knee brushing the outside of his thigh. Not with him standing close enough that you could smell bourbon under the soap on his skin. Not with the careful way he avoided leaning too much weight on his bad leg even while pretending he wasnât doing it.
A buzzing sound split the quiet.
Jack pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and rolled his eyes with practiced fondness.
âRobby?â you guessed.
His gaze lifted sharply.
You shrugged. âLucky guess.â
He answered. âWhat.â
A beat of silence.
âNo.â
Another beat.
âIâm not coming in tomorrow.â
He leaned back against the counter while Robby, whoever exactly Robby was beyond dry phone calls and night shifts, apparently kept talking. Jack scrubbed a hand over his mouth.
âNo, I heard you. Iâm still not doing it.â
Another pause, then, with a quick glance at you, âNo, Iâm busy.â
Your eyebrows shot up.
His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the corner of his mouth moved.
âGoodnight, Robby.â
He hung up before the response could come through and tossed the phone onto the counter.
âBusy?â you said.
He taped the bandage down with a final, neat press. âDonât flatter yourself.â
âToo late.â
He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a laugh and might have been disbelief.
The quiet that followed was different from the others youâd had with him. Less brittle. Less likely to snap.
âYou always work this much?â you asked.
âPretty much.â
âThat sounds miserable.â
âIt is.â
âAnd yet you keep doing it.â
His shoulders shifted, not quite a shrug. âSomebodyâs gotta.â
There was nothing self-important in the way he said it. No hero complex. Just fact.
You looked around the apartment again. âYou like living here?â
He followed your glance, taking in his own place like he hadnât really looked at it in a while.
âItâs quiet.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
His eyes came back to yours.
âNo,â he said after a second. Honest as a cut. âNot particularly.â
The admission hung there between you, simple and heavier than it should have been.
You looked down at the clean bandage around your thumb. âThanks.â
âMm.â
You didnât go right away. Neither did he ask you to.
For five soft, strange minutes, you sat in his kitchen talking about nothing much at all. The guy in 2C who played piano badly after midnight. The fact that the delivery place downstairs always forgot napkins. The weather getting cold enough to make the windows rattle.
It should have been ordinary.
Instead it felt like discovering a room behind a wall youâd only ever knocked on.
When you finally moved toward the door, he limped just slightly on the turn that took him to open it for you.
You hesitated.
His gaze flicked down to your face. âWhat.â
âYou donât have to pretend it doesnât hurt, you know.â
Everything in him went still.
Then he opened the door and said, not unkindly, âGo throw the strawberries away before they finish the job.â
You left.
But you thought about the look on his face for the rest of the night.
The bad date happened on a Saturday.
It hadnât been a terrible idea in theory. A drink with a guy from work. Casual. Low-stakes. An excuse to wear something better than your usual jeans and to pretend, for two hours, that you were not half in love with a grumpy emergency physician across the hall who barely smiled and definitely did not belong to you.
The problem wasnât the date itself, not exactly.
The problem was the way he got weird at the end of it.
Pushy in that soft, smiling way some men managed. Like they thought they were owed a little more because the evening had gone fine and because youâd laughed at their stories and because it was late and because the hallway outside your apartment door was empty.
âCome on,â he said when you stepped back. âIâm not asking for a kidney.â
You kept your tone even. âI said goodnight.â
His hand landed lightly on your arm.
Every muscle in your body tensed.
âHey,â he said, like you were overreacting already. âDonât be like that.â
Something opened across the hall.
You hadnât even noticed Jack coming home.
One second it was just you, your date, and the stale hallway air. The next, Jack was there in wrinkled hospital blues beneath a dark jacket, keys in hand, expression flat in a way that made your stomach drop and your pulse kick.
His gaze went first to the hand on your arm.
Then to your face.
Then back to the guy.
âProblem?â Jack asked.
It was one word. Calm. Quiet. No raised voice. No chest-thumping nonsense.
The guy straightened, trying to square himself without looking like he was doing it. âNo problem.â
Jack didnât move.
The limp was there, faint under the movement. So was the fatigue. Neither of them made him look smaller.
âThen take your hand off her,â he said.
The guy let go immediately.
A long second passed.
Your dateâformer date, obviouslyâgave a short, awkward laugh. âDidnât realize there was a boyfriend.â
âThere isnât,â you said sharply.
Jack did not look at you.
âYou didnât need one to hear no,â he said to the man. âLeave without embarrassing yourself.â
That landed.
You saw it in the flush that climbed the guyâs neck, in the way he glanced between the two of you and decided, very reasonably, that nothing here was worth pushing further. He muttered something about misunderstanding and turned for the elevator.
The hallway went still.
Only then did Jack look at you properly.
âYou okay?â
âYes,â you said automatically.
His eyes narrowed. âBullshit.â
The adrenaline hit all at once, ugly and shaky and embarrassing. Your fingers wouldnât stop trembling, so you curled them into your palms.
âIâm fine,â you said again.
âYouâre shaking.â
âIâm angry.â
âYeah.â His voice was dry again, but there was something else under it now. Something tighter. âCome inside.â
You stared at him. âJackââ
âInside.â
It shouldnât have worked. The tone. The quiet authority in it. The part of him that was clearly still halfway in doctor mode, assessing, deciding, moving.
But you were tired, and rattled, and your pulse still hadnât come down. So when he unlocked his apartment and stepped back to let you through, you went.
His apartment felt smaller than before.
Not physically. Just because now the air in it was charged enough to take up space.
He locked the door behind you, set his keys in the bowl by the entry, and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, his hospital blues looked even more worn in the low light, sleeves shoved to his forearms, the collar sitting crooked at his throat. There was a faint antiseptic smell clinging to him, clean and sterile and exhausted all at once.
âSit,â he said.
âIâm not hurt.â
âI didnât ask that.â
You stared at him for a second, then sat at the edge of the couch because arguing suddenly felt like more effort than you had.
He went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and held it out until you took it. His eyes skimmed your face, your hands, the line of your shoulders.
âDid he grab you anywhere else?â
The question was clinical in structure. The concern in it wasnât.
âNo.â
âDid he hurt you?â
âNo.â
âYou sure?â
âYes.â
He nodded once, as if logging the answer somewhere internal, then lowered himself into the armchair opposite you. The movement was slower this time. More careful. He was hiding it less, or maybe you were just seeing it more clearly now.
âYou shouldâve said something sooner,â he said.
âTo who?â
âTo him. To me. Somebody.â
A sharp laugh escaped you. âSorry I didnât schedule my hallway ambush more responsibly.â
His mouth tightened. âThatâs not what I meant.â
âI know.â
The edge left the room just enough for the silence after it to feel tired rather than dangerous.
He leaned back in the chair, one forearm braced over his stomach, fingers rubbing once at the line of his thigh like the ache there had finally started demanding attention.
You noticed. Of course you did.
He noticed you noticing.
âDonât,â he said.
âDonât what?â
âLook at me like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm about to break.â
A dozen responses rose to your tongue. The only honest one was, I donât.
So that was the one you said.
Something in his face shifted. Small. Real.
You drank some water because your hands still needed something to do. âI thought you hated me.â
His eyebrows lifted. âI risked my life on that rickety chair of yours.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs evidence.â
âJack.â
His mouth twitched faintly, then settled again.
âNo,â he said. âI donât hate you.â
The apartment was so quiet you could hear the radiator tick.
âCouldâve fooled me,â you said.
His gaze held yours. âYou talk too much.â
A laugh slipped out of you, startled and genuine. He looked at you for another beat longer than necessary, then reached for his own glass on the side table.
âYou were on a date,â he said.
It wasnât a question. It also didnât sound casual.
âSupposedly.â
âHowâd that go.â
You gave him a look. âYou were there for the ending.â
âNot what I asked.â
You swallowed. âIt was fine. Until it wasnât.â
He stared into his drink for a second, jaw flexing. âGuys like that count on you not wanting to make a scene.â
The line came out clipped and bitter, like experience speaking through someone who had seen too much of the world at its ugliest.
âYou see that a lot?â you asked quietly.
His eyes came back to you. Tired. Older suddenly.
âEnough.â
There was so much packed into that one word that you didnât touch it again.
Instead you looked down at the glass in your hands. âThank you.â
âDonât.â
âFor stepping in.â
His voice lowered. âI said donât.â
âWhy?â
Because if he shut this down nowâif he turned this back into one of those careful, spare exchanges in the hallwayâyou thought it might actually hurt.
He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back.
âBecause,â he said, âyou saying it like that makes it sound like I did you some huge favor.â
âYou did.â
âNo. I acted like a decent human being for thirty seconds.â
âYou donât have to downplay everything.â
âAnd you donât have to make a whole thing out of it.â
âIâm not.â
âYou are a little.â
You stared at him.
He stared back, stubborn as stone.
âYouâre very dramatic for someone who lost a fight with a strawberry container.â
âI was wounded.â
His mouth twitched.
âYou needed a band-aid.â
âA medically supervised band-aid.â
Then, without warning, you both laughed.
It broke something open.
Not in a dramatic way. In a tired, human way. The kind that lets the room breathe again after holding too much in its chest.
His gaze dropped to your hand where it tightened around the glass.
âYouâre still shaking,â he said.
âI know.â
He leaned forward, setting his drink aside. âCome here.â
The words were quiet. Not soft exactly. But not something you could mistake for anything else.
You set your water down and stood. He stayed where he was until you were close enough, then reached up and took your wristânot gently, not roughly, just firmly enough to steady. His thumb pressed once against the inside where your pulse was still too fast.
He was only checking. Just checking.
Thatâs what you told yourself.
But the room had narrowed to the feel of his hand on you and the warm concentration in his face. To the fact that he was looking at you the way he looked at things that mattered. To the fact that he wasnât pretending anymore that he didnât see everything.
Your breathing went shallow.
His eyes flicked up to yours.
There it was.
The line.
The one both of you had been circling for weeks.
You saw the moment he recognized it too. In the slight stillness that took over his mouth. In the way his thumb stopped moving against your wrist. In the split second where he could have let go and didnât.
You whispered, âJack.â
His jaw tightened.
âDonât,â he said again.
This time it didnât sound like a warning to you. It sounded like one to himself.
Your free hand came up before you thought better of it, brushing lightly against the angle of his wrist where it held yours.
His breath changed.
Not much. Just enough.
âIâm saying thank you,â you murmured.
âNo, youâre not.â
The truth of it landed warm and dangerous between you.
He stood too fast for his leg to like it, and you saw the brief check in the movement, the flash of irritation across his face at his own body. Then he was right there, close enough that your breath touched his mouth.
âIf youâre gonna do something,â he said, voice low and rough, âdo it.â
You kissed him.
It wasnât graceful. It wasnât tentative. It was mouth and heat and nerve, the kind of kiss built out of too much restraint, too much noticing, too many late-night hallway run-ins and clipped conversations and all the things heâd kept behind his teeth.
For half a second, Jack went still.
Then he made a sound against your mouthâlow, rough, almost unwillingâand kissed you back like restraint had finally become more painful than giving in. One hand caught your jaw. The other found your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to make your breath snag. His mouth moved over yours with sudden, devastating precision, and all at once he was everywhere: the heat of his chest, the scrape of his jaw, the clean bite of hospital soap still clinging to his skin, the rigid tension in his body breaking into want.
The force of it walked you back a step.
Then another.
Until the backs of your knees hit the couch and he broke away just long enough to look at you like he was trying to decide whether this was a terrible idea or merely the worst one heâd had all year.
âTell me to stop,â he said.
You stared at him.
He held your gaze. Waiting. Dead serious now.
You shook your head once.
Something in him gave.
He kissed you again, harder this time, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other dragged up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, pinning you close without asking twice. His tongue pushed past your lips, hot and sure, and the sound it pulled from you seemed to hit him somewhere low. You clutched at his scrub top, felt the heat of him through worn cotton, the hard plane of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength he carried even tired, even hurting, even trying not to.
He kissed like he did everything elseâfocused, unsparing, completely there.
When he pulled back, both of you were breathing harder, a thin string of spit stretching between your mouths for one dizzy second before it snapped.
âThis is a bad idea,â he said.
âProbably.â
His forehead tipped briefly to yours, a rough almost-laugh leaving him. âYouâre not helping.â
âI donât think you want help.â
âNo,â he said, and there was nothing guarded in it at all. âI donât.â
The next kiss was slower. Meaner. His tongue moved against yours, deep and deliberate, and when you tried to chase the pressure of his mouth, he caught your bottom lip between his teeth and pulled until your breath broke. His hand slid to the small of your back, broad and possessive without a word, holding you there like heâd finally stopped pretending he didnât want to.
You tugged him closer. He let you.
The couch caught the back of his leg when he shifted, and he muttered a curse under his breath.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. âYour legââ
âStill attached.â
âJack.â
He looked at you, flushed and breathless and a little furious at the interruption. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.
âIâm fine,â he said.
The automatic answer almost made you smile.
You touched his face instead.
That stopped him.
Your palm against his cheek. Your thumb near the line of his mouth. Something quiet passed through his expression thenâsurprise, maybe. Or maybe just the shock of gentleness.
He turned his head and pressed one brief kiss to the inside of your wrist.
The gesture was so unexpectedly soft it nearly wrecked you.
Then he stepped back just enough to sit, pulling you carefully with him until you were half in his lap, half against the couch cushions. The movement was slower now, measured around the pull in his leg, but no less sure for it.
You kissed him again, and again, and the room seemed to blur at the edges around the two of you.
His fingers found the zipper at the back of your dress and dragged it down slowly, tooth by tooth, until the fabric loosened around you. Then his hand slipped inside, warm and broad, rubbing over the bare skin just beneath the band of your bra like heâd been thinking about touching you there for weeks.
The details after that came in fragments.
Your fingers in his hair.
The scratch of his jaw against your skin when his mouth found the side of your neck.
The low, involuntary sound that left you at the first pull of his hand at your waist.
The way he went still for half a second at hearing it, then cursed softly into your throat like restraint had become physically painful.
âJack,â you breathed.
âYeah.â
There was a question in the word. And an answer. And too much else besides.
You kissed him until the name lost shape between you.
At some point you were in his bedroom. You couldnât have said exactly how. Only that he got there with you in the same deliberate way he did everythingâwithout hurry, but without hesitation either. From the living room, he guided you down the short hall inside 4B, past the half-open bathroom door and into the room at the back of his apartment. Lamp light. Rumpled sheets. The plain dark blue comforter. A book facedown on the nightstand beside a half-empty glass of water, a blister pack of pain relievers, and a pair of reading glasses folded neatly on a small nightstand. Evidence of a real life, interrupted.
He stopped at the edge of the bed and looked at you.
Really looked.
Not rushed. Not hungry in the careless way men sometimes were. Just intent. Taking you in like he wanted to memorize what exactly had changed the night.
You reached for the straps of your dress where theyâd slipped loose on your shoulders. He caught your hand.
âLet me,â he said.
The words sank straight through you.
So you did.
He undressed you with the same focus he brought to everything else, hands steady, eyes on yours often enough that it felt impossible to hide inside the moment. Every movement was attentive. Every pause meaningful. The room filled with heat and the soft sounds of breath and fabric and the unsteady beat of your pulse in your ears.
When you touched him in return, he exhaled sharply, forehead tipping forward for a second like he needed to gather himself.
You smiled, a little shaky. âYou okay, doctor?â
His gaze lifted, dark and direct. âNot even close.â
His hands were still on your shoulders, thumbs tracing the curve of bone where the straps of your dress had been. The air in his bedroom was thick and warm, the fan blade spinning slow overhead, and you could smell himâsweat and coffee and something clean underneath, something that made you want to press your face against his chest and breathe.
"You're shaking," he said. Not a question.
"I'm not."
His thumb found your pulse. Held there. "Yeah, you are."
You wanted to say something clever, something that would break the tension, but your throat was tight and your skin was hot where his hands had been and the dim light caught the gray in his stubble and made him look tired in a way that made your chest ache. So instead you reached for him. Your fingers found the hem of his scrub top, bunched the fabric, pulled.
He let you. Watched you. Didn't help and didn't stop you.
You got it over his head. His arms came up slow, like he was giving you time to change your mind. Then he was bare-chested in front of you and you forgot how to breathe. He was broad, solid, a pale scar curving over his ribs, his skin warm and flushed. You wanted to put your mouth on every inch of him.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his jaw was tight and his breathing had changedâshorter, shallower. He was affected. He was trying not to show it.
"If we do this," he said, slow and low, "I'm not gonna be gentle."
"I don't want gentle."
Something flickered in his eyes. Then his hand was in your hair, fisting the dark strands at the base of your skull, tipping your head back. His mouth found your throatâopen-mouthed, wet, a scrape of stubble that made you gasp. His other hand slid down your spine, pressed you into him, and you felt how hard he was through his scrub pants. Felt the heat of him. The want.
"Bed," he muttered against your skin. "Now."
You moved backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented from where he'd slept last night. He followed you down, one hand braced beside your head, the other finding your hip.
"You on birth control?"
"Yes."
He nodded. A short, sharp motion. "Good. 'Cause I don't have condoms. Been a while."
You should have said something reassuring. Instead you reached between you, palmed him through his pants. He sucked in a breath through his teeth. His eyes closed for half a second, and in that half-second you saw the fight leave him. Saw him stop pretending.
"Fuck," he breathed. Then his mouth was on yours again, harder this time, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand finding your breast and squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple until you arched into him.
He tugged your panties down your thighs. You lifted your hips to help him. Then his hand was between your legs, two fingers sliding through wet heat, and he made a sound low in his throat. "Jesus. You're soaked."
"Jackâ"
"I know." He pushed a finger inside you. Then another. You gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. He watched your face as he worked you open, slow and deliberate, his thumb pressing circles against your clit. "That's it. Take it."
You were trembling, your hips rocking against his hand, and he was still watching you like he was memorizing every sound you made. When he pulled his fingers out, you whimpered. He brought them to his mouth, licked them clean, and your cunt clenched at the sight of it.
He kicked off his pants, pulling the pant leg free from his prosthetic. His cock was hard, flushed, the head slick. He stroked himself once, twice, then he was pushing your thighs apart and positioning himself at your entrance. The head of him pressed against you, and you felt the ache of it, the promise.
He looked at you. His eyes were dark and his breathing was ragged and he looked like a man standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he'd survive.
"Tell me," he said. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you. Please, Jack."
He pushed in. Slow. An inch. Then another. Your body stretched around him, taking him, and you heard yourself make a sound you didn't recognize. He was thick, and he was filling you, and when he was fully seated he stopped, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot on your lips.
"Fuck," he said, the word punched out of him. "You feelâ" He couldn't finish. He pulled out and thrust back in, and the sound you made was raw and desperate.
He fucked you like a man who'd been holding back for months. Each thrust deep and deliberate, his hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his mouth at your throat, your ear, muttering things you could barely hearâ"that's it, take it, take all of it, you feel so fucking good."
You came with your legs wrapped around him, your nails raking his back, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his groan low and broken as he spilled inside you. You felt itâhot and deep, filling youâand you clenched around him, riding it out together.
He stayed inside you for a long moment. His breathing was ragged against your neck. Then he pulled out, slow, and you felt the warmth of him leaking from you, trickling down your thigh.
He looked at it. Looked at you. His thumb found your chin, tilted your face up.
"You're staying," he said. Not a question.
You nodded, ending up sprawled against him beneath the covers, one of his arms heavy around your waist, the lamp still on. His chest rose and fell under your cheek. Your dress was somewhere on the floor.
For a long time neither of you said anything.
Then, against your hair, he murmured, âYou okay?â
The question was so Jack it made your throat tighten.
You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. âYeah.â
He studied you for a second, as if verifying it.
Then he nodded once. Satisfied.
You traced a fingertip lightly along the line of his collarbone. âYou?â
He huffed a tired laugh. âAsk me in eight hours.â
You smiled into his chest.
The light stayed on a while longer. At some point he reached over, switched it off, and settled back with a quiet exhale that sounded more worn out than unhappy.
In the dark, with the city muffled beyond the windows and his warmth surrounding you, it felt dangerously easy to imagine this as something that had always been waiting for you just across the hall.
Morning came pale and cold through the curtains.
For one disorienting second, you forgot where you were.
Then the smell of coffee reached you, and everything came back in a rush.
You sat up in Jackâs bed, tangled in unfamiliar sheets, naked beneath the covers, the bedroom door standing open. Beyond it, soft cabinet sounds came from the kitchen.
Your dress was still a rumpled heap on the floor, half inside out and not worth wrestling with before coffee. One of Jackâs T-shirts had been tossed over the back of a chair instead, soft and worn and easier to reach, so you slipped it on and let it fall down to your legs.
You padded out carefully, one hand skimming the wall, following the short hall from his bedroom back toward the kitchen.
Jack was standing at the counter with his back half-turned to you, already dressed in a t-shirt and sweats, moving with that morning stiffness you were starting to understand. The coffee maker hissed behind him. His phone sat face-down near the sink, buzzing once, then falling silent.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Neither of you spoke for half a second.
Then he said, âMorning.â
The single word held no awkwardness. No retreat. Just the roughness of sleep and coffee not yet fully doing its job.
âMorning,â you echoed.
He nodded toward the mug already waiting on the counter. âThat oneâs yours.â
You walked over and wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat.
âYou always do this?â you asked.
âMake coffee?â
âPretend everythingâs normal.â
He looked at you then, properly. The corners of his eyes lined with fatigue, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, expression unreadable for all of a second before it settled into something drier.
âThis is normal,â he said. âItâs coffee.â
You laughed softly.
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and snorted.
âRobby?â you asked.
âUnfortunately.â
He let it ring out and reached for his own mug instead.
That little choiceâsmall, casual, almost nothingâlodged somewhere deep in your chest.
The kitchen was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Outside, someone in the hall dragged a trash bag toward the chute. Ordinary building noises. Ordinary morning light.
Your eyes dropped to the line of his stance. The careful distribution of weight. The slight pull when he turned.
He caught you looking.
âWhat.â
âYouâre limping.â
âI always limp.â
âMore.â
He took a sip of coffee, unbothered on purpose. âOccupational hazard.â
âYou should take it easy today.â
His eyebrows went up. âTake it easy.â
âYes.â
âAfter you brought chaos into my home?â
You smiled into your mug. âI brought questionable romantic choices and emotional growth.â
âThat was not emotional growth.â
âNo?â
âNo.â He set his mug down. âThat was you bringing home a man who thought âgoodnightâ meant opening negotiations.â
You laughed hard enough that he finally smiledâreally smiled this time, brief but visible and unfairly good on him.
The warmth of it stayed in the room after it faded.
You looked down at your coffee because suddenly the moment felt a little too real in the best and worst way.
When you looked back up, he was watching you.
Not guarded. Not open, exactly. Just present.
âThereâs a spare key with the super,â he said.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âFor your apartment.â He leaned one hip against the counter, face unreadable again in that deliberate way of his. âBut if you keep locking yourself out, or your smoke detector starts screaming, or some idiot follows you home againââ
He stopped there, like the list had already said more than heâd intended.
Your pulse picked up.
âThen what?â you asked quietly.
His gaze held yours.
âThen knock on my door first.â
The words settled between you with more weight than any declaration could have.
Not dramatic. Not polished. Not easy.
Just true.
You swallowed. âOkay.â
He nodded once, as if an agreement had been reached. Then he picked up his mug again and took a sip, looking annoyingly composed for a man who had just changed the shape of your life in one sentence.
You stood there in his kitchen, in his shirt, holding your coffee while the light crept brighter across the floor.
Across the hall, your apartment waited with its new smoke detector battery, dangerous strawberries, and all the ordinary pieces of the life youâd had yesterday.
Here, in 4B, Jack Abbot leaned against his counter, tired and sharp-edged and impossible, looking at you like heâd finally stopped being decent about wanting you.
And that was the trouble with good neighborsâthey only stayed good until you let them in.
summary: November 6th, 1983. Your little brother comes back from his best friends house and seemingly everything is normal. Thatâs until you realize Will Byers is missing, and has been ever since that night. You try and hold out hope that maybe everyone is blowing things out of proportion. But as the day drags on, that seems unlikely.
Steve glanced at the cigarette in your right hand, his eyebrows pulling together slightly. âWerenât you supposed to be quitting?â He gestured towards you.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, smoke trailing with it. âIâm surprised you remember that.â You gave him a drained smirk, not expecting to entertain the conversation for much longer. Something in his expression tightened at that, âWhat, you think Iâm just an asshole?â
pairing: steve harrington x girlnextdoor!sinclair!reader
warnings: swearing
word count: 12.8k
a/n: Hellooooo! Welcome to the first full chapter of my stranger things rewrite series! Iâm actually so happy with how this chapter turned out! This is 100% the longest thing I have ever written. Iâm so excited to continue writing! Enjoy :)
--
November 6th, 1983.
It was a quiet night in Hawkins, Indiana. Almost eerily quiet, as if one wrong blink could shatter everything.
You were unaware, still half asleep in bed, too tired to get under your comforter. Your sweaty practice clothes clung to you.
Your arm cradled your head, your foot hung off the side of your bed, one sock barely holding on.
You stirred slightly as the cold breeze of the night air whistled into your room through your open window. A small chill ran through your body as you slowly felt yourself being pulled from sleep.
But the thing that fully pushed you over the edge was that familiar sound of an engine starting.
Your eyes shot open, startled. The sound of your neighbor, Steve Harringtonâs BMW, starting tore through the peaceful ambience of your room.Â
Everything hit you all at once. The soreness of your muscles, the fogginess of your brain, and the light from your bedside table practically blinding you.Â
You slowly sat up, wiping your mouth of any drool that mightâve escaped during your post-practice nap. The one that your little siblings always refer to as your âdaily coma.âÂ
The sound of tires slowly moving on the pavement encouraged you to sit up. Your window didnât need to be open for you to know that that was the sound of Steve leaving.Â
Everything in you wanted to be nosey, just like your little sister. You wanted to rush over and watch Steve leave his house, maybe even go outside and chastise him for waking up the whole neighborhood at this hour.
But you didnât. Couldnât.Â
The basketball in the corner of your room hovered, almost like a cosmic force watching your every move. Â Sparing a glance at it, you shook the thoughts of Steve Harrington from your mind.
You spared a glance at the clock on your desk. 8:47pm.
âShit,â you sighed. You didnât mean to sleep for that long. Maybe Erica and Lucas were onto something.
Ripping the half-on sock from your left foot, you threw it in your hamper and started downstairs towards the kitchen. You cleared your throat as you approached your fridge, needing just a sip of water before taking a shower.
You opened the fridge, awaiting the light from the bulb to illuminate your face. But it didnât.Â
You sighed. Grabbing a sticky note and a sharpie from the drawer dedicated to junk in your kitchen, you wrote a note for your parents. âLight bulb is broken, needs to be replaced. Can maybe grab one after practice tomorrow.â
You stuck the note on the outside of the fridge before squinting to try to make out the shape of a water bottle, just craving anything to clear the scratching feeling in the back of your throat.
Feeling the crinkle of the water bottle, you grabbed it and immediately opened it. You took a sip and began to head back upstairs towards your room. Before your foot even reached the first step, you heard the faint sound of the television from the living room.
Assuming it was maybe your Mom or Dad, you headed in the direction of the sound. Your parents werenât home when you got back from practice, and you wanted to say goodnight.
Rounding the corner, you first saw the black and white nature documentary on the screen before seeing your little sister, Erica, sitting on the couch, paying extra close attention.
âHey,â You greeted, taking another mindless sip of your water. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed.âYou know youâre supposed to be asleep, right?â
She jumped, just barely, but you noticed. Erica reached for the remote and frantically changed the channel. It flickered, and a moment later, something bright, loud, and aggressively girly was on the television screen.
You narrowed your eyes at her, â... Really?â
Erica stuttered, âI-I was watching this.â She pointed at the screen.
âOkay,â you raised your hands in surrender, âDonât have to convince me, kiddo. Only gotta convince yourself.â You chuckled, taking the opportunity to tease her for once.
Erica pursed her lips, but refrained from saying anything. Just before she had the chance to whip her head around and spit something cruel at you, Lucas came barging through the front door.
The boy was covered in sweat and was clearly out of breath, âWhoo!â he exclaimed, walking up to you and snatching the plastic bottle of water from your hands. Before you even had a chance to protest, he had already finished it.
You swatted at him, âLucas! Thereâs like a million more bottles in the fridge, asshole.â
âUh uh,â He chastised, âYou canât cuss in here.â He took every opportunity to remind you that when your parents were home, you had to be on your best behavior. Itâs not like you sold drugs from your garage when your parents were out of town. You simply just had a loose tongue.
âIâm telling!â Erica chimed in from the couch, standing up and practically bolting upstairs towards your parents' room.
You knew better than that. She wasnât actually going to say anything to your parents, at least thatâs what you hoped. Erica just took the first chance she could to get out of there before you told Lucas about her watching something ânerdy.âÂ
âSorry,â Lucas apologised, still out of breath from his bike ride home.
âItâs whatever.â You shrugged it off, âDid you run a marathon or something?â You turned on your heels and headed back into the kitchen. You opened the fridge for the second time in five minutes to replace the water that Lucas so rudely stole from you.
He stalked after you and started to reach for the bottle in your hand. But you swatted him away.Â
Lucas quickly got the memo and answered your question, âI raced Dustin and Will home.â He admitted.
âYou win?â You raised an eyebrow, curious.
âYeah...â Lucas trailed on, which was a telltale sign that he was lying.
Your eyebrows darted up further into your hairline, urging your little brother to tell the truth. He obliged, âWell... I almost did.â
You huffed a quiet laugh. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â
He leaned against the counter, launching into a half-detailed explanation about turns, shortcuts, and how Dustin âcheated somehow.â You only half listened, grabbing a slice of leftover pizza from the fridge and taking a bite.
You paused mid-chew when Lucas ranted, ââŚand Will wiped out for like, a second. Heâs fine thoughââ
âWait. Did they get home okay?â You questioned.Â
Although Dustin, Mike, and Will werenât related to you, it often felt like they were.
You spent quite a lot of time with the boys, especially when they were over at your house. And you seemed to be the only other older sibling who was easily conned into driving them around town.
When you did, Mike rambled about his campaigns, Dustin would show you a cool comic book he just got, and Will often drew things that always impressed you.
Maybe it was kind of sad that some of your favorite people in town were middle schoolers and not people your age, but you didnât care.
Lucas shrugged, already moving toward the hallway, trying to rid himself of the possibility of being lectured by you. âProbably.â
âLucas.â You warned, hoping heâd pivot back.
âI donât know, Y/N!â he called over his shoulder. âIâm gonna shower.â You heard the rhythmic sounds of his feet trotting up the stairs.
You sighed and took a harsh bite out of the pepperoni pizza in your hand. After finishing it, you restored your kitchen back to normal, double-checking that the sticky note was still on the fridge, and you followed upstairs.
Passing by the bathroom in the hallway, you stopped for a moment to listen for the sound of any movement inside. But you didnât hear any running water, nor did you see a light peaking from underneath the door.
âTake a shower, my ass.â You muttered to yourself, knowing that your little brother was lying.
You opened the door to your room and began gathering your pajamas for the night. Lucas could wait if he was really going to shower; you needed it way more than he did. The sweat from practice still stuck to your body, and it made you cringe.
You desperately needed to rid yourself of that feeling.
Twisting the nob to the faucet, you stepped into the bathroom shower. The heat sliding down your back helped to ease the familiar ache in your muscles that still lingered from basketball practice.
You began your nightly shower routine, rotating every so often to completely wash all of the soap from your body. Thoughts spun in your head, not about anything in particular. Practice, the homework for Honorâs Algebra you had to complete before the weekend, Steve Harrington, and where he could possibly be going at this hour.
You could almost scoff at how pathetic it felt that, naturally, your thoughts drifted to your neighbor. You barely had any interactions with Steve since the summer he caught you outside smoking a cigarette. It wasnât because of any particular reason. You were busy with basketball, and Steve seemed to have made up his mind about what he wanted to do.
It seemed like all the boy did nowadays was leave and come back at odd hours of the night. Youâd see him in the hallways at school, surrounded by Tommy H, Carol, and whatever groupie he was slinging along for the week. Heâd wave, maybe accompanied by a tight-lipped smile, but nothing more than that.
It was hard not to feel some kind of way. You thought that maybe, just maybe, after the honest conversation youâd had over summer, you and Steve Harrington would fall into a comfortable rhythm of friendship.
You were wrong.
Before you could continue basking in your thoughts, the lights in the bathroom began to flicker. Figuring it was just Lucas messing around, you blurted over the sound of the running water, âStop, dude! I really needed the bathroom, Iâm sorry!âÂ
But you were met with silence.
Instinctively, you whipped your head outside of the shower curtain, and your little brother was nowhere to be found.
Maybe it was Erica. You pondered. But there was no way your little sister would merely flicker the lights. Sheâd probably throw a cockroach in the shower, just to prove a point.
Chalking it up to a bizarre electrical issue, you took that as your sign to finish your shower.Â
You exited, enveloped in a towel, and finished your nighttime routine.Â
With every step you completed, you felt the tiredness creep up your spine. Your eyes felt heavier, and every yawn seemed like it was one step away from knocking you straight into rapid eye movement.
Finally, after changing and finishing up in the bathroom, you stalked to your room that was just a few paces up the hallway. Passing by Ericaâs room, then Lucasâ, you peered in to double-check on your little siblings. Sure enough, both of them were wrapped in their blankets, sleeping softly.
You reminisced on a time when you, too, could fall asleep that easily. You discarded your jersey into your laundry hamper, making a mental note that you needed to do laundry this upcoming weekend.
Your bed was now the only thing on your mind. At last, you felt clean, everyone was home, and you didnât have an early morning practice the next day. So, you could sleep in. Sliding in underneath your blanket felt like heaven. The lamp on your bedside table was promptly turned off as you opened your drawer and grabbed your bonnet.
The ambience in your room had been restored to its most peaceful setting, and you were practically foaming at the thought of getting 8 hours of rest.
The house was settled, so quiet and still that it felt warm and inviting. Your eyes traced the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through your curtains before closing, and allowing the foam of your mattress to practically swallow you whole.
But then, almost like clockwork... your mind strayed. It strayed away from the counting of sheep and the soft hum of the streetlight perched outside your window.
It drifted to a different sound. To the sound of that engine.
To Steve, and the question you couldnât quite shake.
Where was he going this late?
You didnât get an answer. Sleep took you before you could.
â
The following morning hit you like a truck.
Sleep came easily the night before, but it didnât stay that way for long. The constant tossing and turning, mixed with the unsettling feeling in the night air, you couldnât seem to find solace in the confines of your bed.Â
The blaring alarm on your bedside table was swiftly met with the palm of your hand, nearly smacking it off. The groan that escaped your lips almost sounded primal. The urge to stay wrapped tightly inside your comforter was fighting with the thought that a school day loomed ahead of you.
Fighting the impulse, you slowly and uncoordinatedly rose from your bed. You stood there, wiping your face, hoping to rid yourself of the remnants of sleep, or lack thereof.Â
Your morning routine went as swiftly as possible, getting dressed, collecting your things for school and basketball practice, and fighting both Lucas and Erica for your allotted five minutes in the bathroom.Â
Heading downstairs, you could hear the sound of what you assumed were your siblings pouring cereal into a bowl. Sure enough, when you rounded the corner into your kitchen, you saw Lucas and Erica sitting in their designated spots at the table.
Lucas was still holding the box of cereal, seemingly searching for the hidden toy inside. He had nearly poured half of the Lucky Charms into his bowl before Erica protested, âMom! Lucas is hogging the cereal again!â
âWhat!â He exclaimed, âThe new G.I. Joe comic book is hidden somewhere in here, I can feel it in my bones.â He said dramatically.
You just scoffed and walked over to him, placing your bags down in a seat. You grabbed a gigantic handful of cereal out of his bowl and ate it. This earned you a swat on the hand from Lucas, but it served as your payback from the night before.
Joining your little siblings at the table, you glanced into the kitchen to see your mother completely preoccupied. The cord to the landline phone was nearly halfway across the kitchen as your mother struggled to reach the final snacks that were meant for Erica and Lucasâ lunches.
You promptly stood up and headed for the kitchen, closing the gap by passing it to her, âI can finish this.â You said quietly so as not to disrupt her conversation on the phone.
She sighed, sending you a quick, âThank you,â while the palm of her hand covered the transmitter.
You didnât want to be nosey, you really didnât. It was something you chastised Erica on a daily basis for. However, you couldnât help but put the pieces together as your mother continued talking.
She was on the phone with Joyce Byers. Due to the way your mother was practically silent on the other end, you assumed it was just Ms. Byers telling your mom about something minuscule. Maybe how Lucas had left his wrist-rocket at the Byers' house the other day.
You smiled at the memory of when Lucas first received it as a gift from your father; he shattered a window in the den. Causing it to be almost be indefinetly confiscated, and a week of him being grounded. You remember the exasperated look on your father's face as he pointed his finger at Lucas, chastising him for playing with it in the house.
That smile immediately faded when you heard your mom say, âThereâs no need to panic, Joyce. Iâm sure Will just spent the night at the Wheelersâ. You know how they are, they get carried away and are then too tired to bike home.â
The sandwich you were putting in Ericaâs lunchbox nearly slipped from your grasp. You could almost feel the anxiety seeping through the phone as the hushed sounds of Ms. Byers' frantic words escaped through.
Your mother continued to try to reassure her, âYeah, Iâll ask Lucas.â She tore her ear away from the phone and asked, âLucas, honey? Did Will spend the night at Mikeâs?â
His head shot up from his bowl of cereal, his mouth almost completely full. Lucas managed to huff out a quick, âUh-uh,â before directing his attention back to his newfound comic book.
Your mom sighed, a look of, well, you couldnât quite tell. It wasnât exactly fear. But it wasnât the most reassuring look youâd want to see on the face of a mom trying to reassure a friend that her kid wasnât lost.
You made eye contact with your mom and watched as all of that was pushed away. She gave you a tight-lipped smile before continuing her conversation with Joyce.
âLook, Joyce,â she began, âI can assure you, Will is just fine. Heâs probably already halfway to school right now.â
âIâm running a bit late for work.â She paused and was seemingly met with something from Ms.Byers. It didnât seem to be exactly what she wanted to hear, but she pressed on, âI know, I know. Iâll let you know if I hear anything, okay?â
The end of the conversation came soon after. Your mother put the phone back in its place and sighed.
âY/N, can you take Erica to school today?â She opened the fridge, where the light already seemed to be miraculously fixed. You were about to ask her if your dad had changed the bulb this morning when the reality of what she said struck you.
âWhat? She canât bike?â You asked, confused.Â
Taking Erica to school would set you back at least 45 minutes. Lucas could afford to be a little late to school, but you, on the other hand, couldnât. Attendance was something that Hawkins Highâs athletic department took very seriously.
Even being late puts you at risk of being benched for a game. So, despite always wanting to help out your parents, the request seemed outlandish.
âIâm sure you heard,â your mom reached over to the coffee pot and poured a glass into her thermos, âBut apparently Will Byers didnât come home last night.â
Of course, you heard. It was hard not to. Joyceâs frantic energy now littered your kitchen, nearly seeping into your skin.Â
You shakily replied, âWhat?â
Will is a sensitive boy. He cries more times than he likes to admit, and heâs definitely the most soft-spoken boy out of everyone in The Party. But heâs responsible and smart enough to know to call home if his plans changed even an inch.
The slight annoyance at your momâs request was washed away. You didnât want to be unhelpful, and your mom was clearly a little shaken due to the phone call. But neither of you had the luxury of getting up in arms right now.Â
âIâll tell you the same thing I told Joyce,â she began, tearing her attention away from her coffee and onto you, âRight now, thereâs no need to worry. Iâm sure he slept at one of the kids' places and forgot to call. But either way, Iâd like you to take her, okay?â
You wanted to tell her everything you just thought. That Will would never do something like that without asking for permission, or at least a fair warning. But you didnât want to say anything to contradict your mother. After all, she was most likely right.
âY-yeah,â you stuttered, nodding your head, âYeah, I can take her.â
She gave you a sincere smile, âThank you, sweetie. It helps a lot.â She placed a kiss on your temple, and gathered the remainder of her things, âOkay, Iâm running behind for work, I gotta run. Iâll see you tonight after practice, yeah?â
âYes, maâam.â You confirmed.
You watched as she exited the kitchen and bade your siblings adieu; a chaste kiss was given to them, too. The sound of the front door closing and her car leaving the driveway signaled that she was gone.
Lucas missed the entire thing; he was so wrapped up in finishing the short comic that he didnât hear anything.Â
Erica, on the other hand, perked up from her breakfast, âWhatâs going on?â she questioned, the same look your mother had on her face earlier was atop hers. She didnât look scared, but she seemed concerned and intrigued.
âNothing,â You gave Erica a smile, and headed back towards the kitchen table, grabbing your bag from its seat, âLooks like Iâm taking both of you to school this morning.â
âShit!â The sudden sound of Lucas slamming his comic book on the table startled you and Erica, causing you both to jump. He instantly noticed this and apologized, âSorry, cliffhanger.â He gestured to the book on the table and immediately started drinking the candied milk in his bowl.
You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, noticing that Erica did the same.
Sighing, you swung your bookbag on your shoulder and clutched your practice bag in your hand, âLetâs go, birdbrains. I donât wanna be late.â
At this, both of your siblings rose from their seats and placed their bowls in the sink. Normally, youâd berate them into washing their dishes, not wanting to add to the mountain of things your Mom had to do when she got home from work.
But this morning already seemed far from normal, and you didnât have the time to even spare a second.Â
Lucas and Erica followed you hurriedly out the door, both of their bookbags barely on their back with the speed at which they were moving to keep up.Â
You entered the driver's seat, quickly double-checking to make sure their seatbelts were on. Twisting to grab yours, you selfishly took a glance at your neighbor's driveway.Â
Steveâs BMW was nowhere to be found. The question of where he went last night still loomed over your head. Followed by two brand new ones:Â
Did Steve even come home last night?
And.
Where the hell is Will Byers?
â
As Erica exited your car, closing the door, you watched as she entered her school, being escorted by her teacher. You waited to watch her safely enter her school doors before pulling off and starting towards Hawkins Middle.
A few beats of silence filled the car as your attention was fully fixed on the road. Lucas was twiddling with his thumbs, almost like he was itching to say something.
âHey, Y/N?â He began.
You hummed in response, not tearing your eyes from the road but wanting to signal to him that you were indeed listening.Â
âWhy was Mom asking me about Will this morning?â The topic you had been avoiding during every car ride slipped from his lips. You were banking on the fact that Lucas was too entranced with his comic book to realize why your mom was asking.
You hoped, and silently prayed that by the time Lucas made it to school, Will was sitting in his usual seat in Mr. Clarkâs class, and your little brother could remain none the wiser.
You were thankful you were driving and didnât have to look Lucas in the eyes. He would immediately sense that maybe something was wrong. Instead, you just said, âItâs probably nothing; no one has seen him this morning.â
Lucas let out a small huff, but you continued, âIâm sure he just got up early for school, or something. Arenât you supposed to be doing that thing with Mr. Clark today? Iâm sure heâs just antsy.â
You were referring to the Heathskit, or something like that. Lucas had been anxiously talking about it for days. Apparently, Mr. Clark had ordered the machine months ago, and it was supposed to arrive in the mail any day now.
âOh yeah!â Lucas perked up, âThe Heathkit is supposed to be here soon. Iâm hoping itâs today.â
You smiled, successfully getting Lucasâ mind off of the small, maybe even microscopic chance that anything bad mightâve happened to Will.
He continued to talk about the machine that Mr. Clark acquired, even lecturing you when you slipped up and called it the Heathskit again. However, you listened intently, piping up whenever you had a question. But overall, you just let your brother talk about what interested him.
It always astonished you how smart your siblings were. Even though Erica tried, and failed, to hide it, you knew they were the brightest kids in any room they walked into. You wished you had been the same at their age. However, sports and helping around the house seemed to plague you way more than academics ever did.
You wanted more for your siblings and were glad that they finally had that.
âYou hear the neighbor's car start last night?â Lucas spoke, abruptly pulling you from your thoughts that undoubtedly wouldâve made you sentimental if you continued down that rabbit hole.
You never, ever told Lucas and Erica, or anyone, about your interaction with Steve last summer. You held it tightly to your chest, hoping no one would ever try to prod at the box. However, Lucas had a way of saying things that sometimes made him seem like he didnât know the weight of his words.
âYeah,â you sighed, giving in to the pivot of conversation. Anything to tear his attention away from Will. âI did, itâs actually what woke me up.â You continued.
Lucas chuckled, âYeah, I noticed your âdaily comaâ was going on for longer than usual. You were still asleep when I left for Mikeâs house.â
âSpeaking of Mike, and our neighbor,â He paused, not sure if he should relay this newfound information or not. The urge to tell you outweighed any slice of guilt, so he pressed on, âMike told me that Nancy⌠you know Nancy, right?â
You scoffed, âOf course I know Nancy. Who else do you think understands how stressed I get running around after all you hooligans?â
You knew Nancy Wheeler, and honestly, quite well. As Mikeâs older sister, you saw her frequently. Sometimes, youâd even eat lunch with her at school when you didnât feel like being bothered by the other girls on your team.Â
âOkay⌠ouch,â He paused, âAnyway, Mike told me that Nancy is dating our neighbor, Steve Harrington. I guess I donât have to ask you if you know who Steve Harrington is?â Lucas finished.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â You bit back, a hell of a lot quicker than you shouldâve.
You released your grip on the wheel, realising that you just snapped at your brother by accident, âSorry, just⌠long morning.â You huffed.
âI just meant, you know, weâve been living next to him for at least my entire life. Donât go reading into it, Y/N.â He squinted, almost knowingly, at you.
But, he dropped it, seeing as how you turned into the parking lot for Hawkins Middle School, which was practically joined with the High School.
Still, you liked to roll up as close as you could in order to watch Lucas go inside before you pulled into your parking spot.Â
âYeah, thatâs where I think he went last night. Mike mentioned how he overheard Nancy on the phone inviting someone over before she slammed the door in his face.â Lucas explained, gathering all of his stuff to prepare to exit the car.
âHmm,â you huffed to yourself, intrigued. Finally, the first question that had been itching at you all night seemed to have been answered. Although it made you far from satisfied.Â
You liked to imagine that Steve was rolling out of bed to drive down to Tommy Hâs house to tip cows or something strange like that. It was hard to believe that Steve Harrington finally decided that he wanted to settle down and get a girlfriend.
âRelax, Y/N, you almost sound bitter.â Lucas teased, sticking his tongue out before flinging open the door to run out before you could hit or berate him.
âYou little-â You started, but were cut off by the sound of your passengerâs side door closing shut. You watched Lucas speedwalk into school, giving you one final wave before disappearing inside.Â
After watching him enter Hawkins Middle, you rolled your car over to the Hawkins High parking lot. It was well past first period, maybe even time for the second period now. Not a single student littered the parking lot like usual in the mornings.Â
You sighed, hoping that helping out your Mother this morning didnât cost you your starting position in the next basketball game. Throwing your car into park, you reached into your backseat and grabbed your bookbag, leaving your practice bag in there for later.
As you started your swift walk towards the building, you didnât realize that, instinctively, your eyes found Steveâs beamer from across the parking lot. It sat in its perfect little spot, looking freshly washed. You wondered what it would feel like to sit in the passenger's seat, to feel the wind blowing through your hair as you drove everywhere with Steve, with no real destination.
Realizing that your mind had wandered, you wanted to rip your hair from your skull. It was so easy for your thoughts to drift to Steve, and you hated that feeling. Your mind used to default to basketball, when the next time youâd see a movie with your team, or if you could enjoy your weekend without Lucas or Erica asking you to drive them somewhere.
Now, your brain always finds a way to land on your neighbor. It made you feel pathetic. You huffed, wanting to curse at yourself, scream as loud as you could to distract yourself from the fact that you couldnât keep your mind off of Steve Harrington, especially after what Lucas had said.
With every step that got you closer to the entrance, you forced your brain to focus on making it to class relatively on time.
By the time you entered the school, the halls were completely empty. You stopped by your locker, which just so happened to be a few rows down from your topic of conversation this morning, Nancy Wheeler. You grabbed the textbooks you needed for the first half of the day, and chucked them into your bag, already feeling how the weight of them took a toll on your back.
You glanced at your watch, and second period had just started. If you walked fast enough, maybe you could get to Honors Algebra without needing a late note.
Sure enough, when you walked in, your teacher didnât even say anything. You assumed that your Mom had called the school and told them that youâd be late. She always had things covered, a logical explanation for everything, and she could talk herself out of damn near any situation.
You took a seat and felt your stomach grumble at the thought of lunch period being next. You only managed to grab a bite of Lucasâ cereal before leaving the house, and that felt like ages ago.
Inevitably, your class came to an end, and you watched as every student, including yourself, rushed through the door with haste, wanting to soak up the entire 45-minute break before their last 2 classes of the day.
Entering the flooded hallway, you tried your hardest to navigate to your locker. You saw a few girls on your basketball team, the Lancaster sisters and Helen, and you gave them a smile and a wave. By the time the hallways cleared enough for you to navigate to your locker, you saw Nancy Wheeler and Barbara Holland standing a few feet away.
Your thoughts pivoted away from getting straight to your locker to talking to Nancy. You wanted to see if she had heard anything about Will from Mike, or maybe even her mother. Walking closer, you clutched the straps of your bookbag, ready to speak when you noticed Barbara and Nancy staring at a piece of paper.
Slyly peering over her shoulder, you got a glimpse at what they were looking at. A very crumpled piece of notebook paper. Lackluster on any given day, but the words scribbled upon it caught your attention.
Meet Me. Bathroom - Steve.
The conversation you had earlier with Lucas came flooding back into your thoughts. His telling you that he believed that Nancy was seeing Steve. The skepticism you felt clearly was wrong because the evidence was plastered right in front of your face. It couldnât have been made any clearer, even if it smacked you right in the head.
Nancy or Barbara mustâve noticed your looming presence, because they both turned around, clearly started, âJesus, Y/N.â Barb gasped, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Nancyâs brown hair whipped, and she turned to face you, clutching the note to her chest, âGosh,â she started, âHey, Y/N. I didnât even hear you come up.â
âYeah,â you laughed, dryly, âLight on my feet, perks of being on the basketball team, I guess.â Your head looked down at your shoes for a second before looking back at the pair of friends.
You feigned ignorance as to why you became so shy all of a sudden. You knew Nancy and Barbara. So, the interaction already seemed a bit weird with you lurking behind their backs like some kind of stalker.
You contemplated for a moment, deciding if it was worth it to question Nancy about the note. On one hand, it was none of your business. The note wasnât left in your locker or tucked between the pages of your textbook. However, you were curious and thought you could release some of the tension in your forehead if you teased her about it.
âWhatâs that you got there?â You raised your eyebrows.
âN-Nothing.â She stuttered, shaking her head.
Your glance shifted to Barbara, who had somewhat of a smirk on her face, âItâs a love note⌠from Steve.â She dragged out the âeâ to give it emphasis.
âOh, quit it, Barb. Itâs not a love note. Iâm sure he just wants to talk.â Nancy turned around to shut her locker, but you didnât miss the pink hue that flushed her cheeks before you lost sight of her face.
âSure, and Iâm not a mathlete. I mean, itâs pretty obvious heâs in love with you.â She rebutted, âI mean, Y/N, you live next to him, donât you? Iâm sure you hear him coming back from sucking faces with Nancy for hours after her parents go to bed.â
At the same time, Nancy said, âBarbara!â Your eyebrows perked up. You finally had a concrete, valid answer as to where Steve had been scurrying off to for the past few nights. You couldnât tell if the feeling in your stomach was acceptance, fully digesting the answer, or jealousy.
You werenât ready to decipher that just yet.
âOh, so youâre the reason why Iâm woken up every single night by the sound of that stupid engine?â You faked a smile, and Nancy returned one.
âWhat? No! Iâm not sure what you two are on about, but you need to stop, okay?â
âAlright, alright,â You raised your hands in surrender, âI actually came over here to ask you a question.â
Your eyes suddenly became serious, and Nancy noticed this. Barbara seemed to still want to talk about Steve, but you swiftly changed the subject, causing her to practically bite off her tongue.
âYeah, whatâs up?â Nancy took a step closer, anticipating the question.
âDid Will spend the night at your house? My Mom talked to Ms. Byers this morning, and she seemed really worried. Apparently, Will didnât come home last night.â
âN-No, I donât think he did. I mean, I wouldâve heard them making all that noise from the basement, Iâm sure of it.â Her eyes strayed from your face and looked around the hallway, thinking, âIs he okay?â
âIâm sure heâs fine. My mom thinks he just went to school early, before everyone else woke up. Apparently, Mr. Clark ordered this really cool science thing for them to look at. Itâs supposed to be coming in todayâŚâÂ
You found yourself rambling just like your brother was earlier, but you steered the conversation back to the topic at hand. âAnyway, I wouldnât worry. Nothing crazy happens in Hawkins.â
âYeah, itâs so boring,â Barb added in from next to Nancy.Â
âYeah,â you both seconded.Â
Before anyone else could say anything, you noticed as Steve Harrington walked right past all of you and towards the girls' bathroom. Inconspicuous wasnât really his thing, because you noticed him almost immediately. Wearing beige khakis and a blue striped shirt, a smirk was on his face.
Apparently, Nancy had noticed him too, because she was looking. Looking might even be an understatement; she was staring. And Steve was staring right back, almost like no one else was in the hallway.
That was until his eyes suddenly flickered to you. He recognized you immediately. Steveâs soft brown eyes almost seemed to still be twinkling from looking at Nancy. They softened even more when he gave you a smile, some of his teeth peeking through, and raised a hand to wave at you.
Before you could even return the gesture, Nancy was bidding both you and Barb adieu, âI-I gotta use the bathroom, powder my nose. Will I see you guys at lunch? Are you sitting with us, Y/N?â
âUh,â you paused, âNo, I saw Helen earlier. I might run some plays by her before practice tonight. Maybe tomorrow?â You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling bad for not sitting with Barbara and Nancy, but you really didnât feel like spending the only 45 minutes you donât have in class hearing about how good a kisser âKing Steveâ is.
âOkay,â she said, not even sparing you a look; her attention was fully on Steve, who had just slipped through the door of the girls' bathroom.Â
After he was out of view, Nancy looked at you and said softly, âI wouldnât worry about Will, okay. Iâm sure heâs fine.â She gave you a tight-lipped smile before closing the gap between her and the bathroom door, looking both ways to âcheck her surroundingsâ before entering.
As soon as the door closed, it hit you that it was now just you and Barbara standing in the hallway. Everyone else is either outside or in the cafeteria.
You spoke before Barb could mutter some sly comment about Nancy and Steve, âSee you later, yeah?â
âYeah! Bye, Y/N.â She waved, and you turned on your heels, totally forgetting about needing to stop at your locker.
Suddenly, your fierce appetite was gone. You knew youâd curse yourself for that later. This was the only time you had to eat before basketball practice after school. But you didnât care about that right now. You lied straight through your teeth when you said you were going to find Helen; you wanted to be alone.
But like always, your wishes never seemed to be granted. You ran into some people you vaguely knew from the yearbook club, some who knew Jonathan Byers, Willâs older brother, because he took photos for the yearbook occasionally.
You didnât want to be rude and walk away, so you indulged in conversation for as long as you could bear. Which just so happened to be almost the entire lunch period. Someone had been nice enough to offer you the remainder of their carrots. You ate a couple before chucking them into your bag, and everyone dispersed.Â
Sitting in your third period felt like absolute agony. Your stomach was rumbling, and your head seemed to be splitting open due to your thoughts racing a million miles per hour. You couldnât even focus on the material because you were too busy thinking.
About three-fourths through the lecture, Mr. Finnick, the kind old gentleman who works at the front desk, walked through the door.
He whispered something to your teacher, who then immediately locked eyes with you, âMs. Sinclair,â she began, âYouâre wanted in the principal's office⌠down at the Middle School.â She specified.
The entire class seemed to be paying attention to you now. You were used to people constantly looking at you, so the feeling wasnât foreign. Only this time, you werenât dribbling a basketball on a court; you were being pulled out of class for a reason completely unbeknownst to you.Â
The eyes of everyone in class seemed to follow you as you gathered your things and exited the classroom. As soon as the door shut, you turned around to speak to Mr. Finnick, âExcuse me, sir.â You cleared your throat, âWhatâs this about?â
He gave you a look that was a mix between pity and comfort, a look you hated. It personified how you seemed to feel every time you missed a basket, or overslept, or did anything that wasnât perfect.
Mr. Finnick simply replied, âIâd get over there as soon as you can, Ms. Sinclair.â
â
The walk to Hawkins Middle seemed to last forever, as if your legs were moving in slow motion.Â
You had a feeling deep within your stomach that this had to do with Will. You were hoping that Will was in class this morning, as everyone had expected. And that Lucas told Will that you were worried, so, to ease your anxiety, you were called over to the Middle School to see Will Byers with your own two eyes.
Oh, how that was the furthest thing from the truth.
When you finally reached the principal's office, your worst fears seemed to be imagined. Lucas, Mike, and Dustin were sitting on a couch, talking to a deputy and the chief of police, Jim Hopper.
When you opened the door, the frantic overlapping of the boys' voices was heard. Everyone in the room seemed to be confused and annoyed with their behavior.
âHey, hey,â The chief leaned forward in his seat, âOne at a damn time.â He said, clearly fed up with listening to the boys bantering.
âAhem,â you cleared your throat, which signaled everyone to snap their heads at you. The boys on the couch seemed to perk up at your entrance. Dustin sent you a gummy smile, while Lucas and Mikeâs shoulders visibly relaxed at seeing you.
The lead officer, on the other hand, sighed, âAnd who the hell is this?â He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, clearly irritated at everyone and everything in the room.
âMy sister.â Lucas said matter-of-factly at the same time Mike and Dustin proclaimed, âY/N.â
The principal perked up from his chair and continued to explain, âThis is Y/N Sinclair. Her mother requested that she sit with the boys if they were to be questioned. No one seemed to be able to get a hold of Mikeâs sister, Nancy.â
Great. Nancyâs somewhere getting hot and heavy with Steve while Iâm ushered out of class in some goddamn spectacle. You thought, but didnât dare say.
âAlright, have a seat, kid.â Chief Hopper motioned to the sofa in front of him. You walked around the chairs and took a seat on the arm next to Lucas.
âAs I was saying,â Hopper paused, âWhat the hell is Mirkwood?â
You smiled lightly, knowing all too well the boys' clever nicknames for places around town. âMirkwood. Itâs a real road. Itâs just the name thatâs made up. Itâs where Cornwallis and Kerly meet.â Mike explained.
The sheriff now leaned back in his chair, seemingly understanding, âAlright, I think I know that place.â He directed his gaze to the deputy sitting to his right.
âWe can show you if you want!â Mike perked up, eager as ever.
âI said that I know it.â The chief squawked. You could only imagine how much he had to listen to the boys bicker before you arrived. If you werenât so tense right now, you wouldâve told him to cut them some slack, but you stayed silent, not wanting to make his irritation any worse.
âWe can help look!â Mike announced, followed by an enthusiastic, âYeah,â from Dustin.
âNo.â You and Hopper started at the same time.
âIf I may,â you directed your attention to the officers. Hopper gestured his hand out, giving you the floor, âI know you guys wanna help. Hell, I do too.â You paused.
âBut, we canât interfere, okay? We want to find Will, not give them more kids to look for.â You explained as gently as possible.
Lucas, Mike, and Dustin seemed to deflate at this. The last thing you wanted to do was watch more people that you cared about go missing. So as far as you were concerned, they could be as disheartened as possible, as long as they were safe.
Hopper sighed loudly, âWhere were you 15 minutes ago?â He questioned to himself. He was surprised at how easily you reigned in the boys. They couldnât seem to give a direct answer before you entered the room.
âAfter school, you three are to go home immediately. That means no biking around, looking for your friend. No investigating, no nonsense. This isnât some Lord of the Rings book.â He finished, looking rather sternly at the boys.
âThe Hobbit.â Dustin corrected, challenging the chief.
You closed your eyes gently, anticipating that Hopper was about to rise from his chair and wring all of your necks out.Â
Instead, Lucas bit, âShut up!â reaching across Mike to slap Dustin on the leg. Naturally, a squabble ensued. Dustin and Lucas went back and forth while you and Mike sat there, utterly helpless.
âHey!â You spat, âListen to the man.â You threw your arms in the direction of Hopper and his deputy. Hopper had risen from his chair and took a few paces towards you all sitting on the couch.
âDo I make myself clear?â He asked, but was met with no response.
âAnswer him.â You instructed, to which they promptly replied, âYes, sir.â
However, the chief of police didnât seem too convinced. He turned his attention towards you, âCâmon, outside.â He started towards the door, and you swiftly followed.
Exiting the principalâs office, you and Hopper stood in the quiet hallway. The same hallway that you were supposed to see Will in when you entered the building. The urge to cry suddenly overtook you, but you couldnât. Not yet.
âI assume youâll be more cooperative than those 3?â Hopper asked, humorously. Although there were no signs of joking on his face.
âYes.â You replied simply.
He let out a deep sigh before starting, âThose boys seem to listen to you. A hell of a lot more than they listened to me.â
You smiled, âDidnât always used to be that way.â
You thought back to when the boys were younger, maybe Ericaâs age. They wouldnât even glance in your direction when you told them to do something. âI think the only reason why they listen is that theyâd have to bike miles every weekend if I didnât drive âem.â You explained.
Hopper hummed, acknowledging what you had said before continuing, âWhatever the reason, they listen. I can barely handle one concerned mother, let alone three, alright? I need you to make sure they donât do anything stupid, okay. At least til I can get a handle on things.â He directed.
âY-yeah, I can do that.âÂ
âAlright, now get back to class, okay.â He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a curt nod before turning and heading back into the office.Â
You spared one last look through the glass window, watching as the Chief seemingly continued to bark orders at them.
The walk back to the High School seemed just as long, and hellish as the walk from. The deep pit in your stomach had grown deeper with every step taken, your worst fears imagined.
Will was missing.
He hadnât gotten to school early as you had assumed. No one could find him. The thought of someone seeing Will biking home last night and deciding to snatch him made you want to vomit everywhere. He is kind and quiet. And such a sweet, young, talented boy.
You agreed with the chief. Of course, no one should be out looking for Will right now. But you also felt exactly what Mike, Dustin, and Lucas mustâve been feeling. The intense urge to just drop everything and find Will your damn self.
You all knew him well. A lot better than anyone in that police station. Youâd know exactly where to look, exactly where he might be if he were hiding, or maybe even lost.
Entering the school doors, the hallway felt louder than usual.
Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped. Shoes squeaked against the linoleum like nothing had changed, like a boy hadnât vanished into thin air the night before.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you walked toward your next class, your mind still stuck in that small room at the middle school. Hopperâs questions. The boyâs eagerness to help.
Your stomach twisted in agony. It was the lack of food, mixed with the frantic feeling that things werenât going to resolve themselves as you had hoped.
You barely noticed where you were going until you almost smacked right into someone.
âWhoa,â the voice exclaimed, âWatch it, Y/N.â
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Carol Perkins stood in front of you, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest as if youâd just assaulted her. Tommy H leaned against the lockers beside her, already smirking like heâd been waiting for this exact moment.
You blinked, pulling yourself back into the present. âDidnât run into you, did I?â
âAlmost,â Carol said, smoothing down her hair. âWouldâve been tragic.â
Tommy snorted. âYeah, Hawkins High loses its star athlete before the season really starts. Real headline material.â
You gave a humorless chuckle, âNow that wouldâve been tragic.â
Carol gave a tight smile, although it was laced with pure judgment and venom, âWe heard you got pulled out of class.â She prodded, wanting to hear more about your trip to the middle school.
Of course they did.
You didnât have the time or energy to indulge their antics right now. The weight of everything still rested heavily atop your shoulders. And you still had one final class and basketball practice ahead of you.
âEveryoneâs heard,â Tommy added, pushing off the lockers and stepping a little closer. âPolice and everything. Whatâd you do? Finally snap?â
You stared at him, unimpressed. âYouâre not funny, not even a little bit, Tommy.â You shot at him.
âOuch,â he mocked, placing a hand over his heart as if youâd stabbed him. âY/Nâs got claws today.â
âShe always does,â a voice cut in.
All three of you turned.
Steve Harrington.
He stepped into the space as if he owned it, like he always did. Hands in his khaki pockets, posture loose, that familiar confidence wrapped around him as it had never left.
He was the last person you wanted to see right now. His face was about to be the thing that pushed you over the edge and caused you to scream right here, in this hallway.
âTommy,â he said, nodding once. âCarol.â
Then those brown eyes flicked to you. If you werenât so lost in your own thoughts, you wouldâve noticed how they were sparkling in almost the same way they were when he was looking at Nancy earlier.
âHey, Sinclair.â Steve greeted.
Something in your chest shifted. Just slightly. You didnât want to give Steve the satisfaction of knowing that he had an effect on you. However, even just a few seconds of being in his presence seemed to soothe you in a way you hadnât expected just a few brief moments earlier. Assuming acknowledging him would make you actually vomit.Â
Tommy smirked, breaking the silent tension, âWeâre just talking.â He shruggedÂ
âAhh, Carolâs favorite activity,â Steve replied, teasingly.
Carol glanced between the two of you, picking up on the fact that in his own peculiar way, Steve was trying to get them to lay off. âWe didnât mean anything by it.â
âYeah,â Tommy added, though his tone still had an edge. âJust curious.â He smirked and leaned forward towards you, emphasising your presence.
Steve tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he shrugged. âLetâs be curious somewhere else.â
It wasnât aggressive. Not at all, actually.
But it was said with just enough force that they both got the hint.Â
Tommy scoffed under his breath, throwing his hands up like it wasnât worth it. âAlright.â He conceded, taking a few steps back. Carol looped her arm through his, shooting you one last pithy look before they walked off down the hall.
âIâll see yâall in a second,â Steve called after them, haphazardly as they continued their journey to their next class. A silence settles in their wake.
You crossed your arms, glancing at Steve. The urge to scream reappeared in your body. It had already felt like the longest day of your life, and that was before Steve had swooped in.
âDidnât know you were into charity work now.â You stated, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the onset of screams.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, âNo, not charity work. Just thought Iâd save you from Tommyâs stand-up routine.â He tilted his head in the direction they had just walked, his hair nearly falling into his eyes.
âI donât need saving, Steve. I had it handled.â You defended.
âI know.â He replied, although you could tell he didnât fully believe you.Â
It didnât take a detective to see that you were clearly shaken up, your hands resting around your elbows, almost as if to cradle yourself. The typical âcalm and focused athleteâ demeanor had been replaced with pure anxiety and adrenaline.
Just as Steve was examining you, you studied him as well. The way he stood. The way he spoke. It was familiar, but not in the same way as before. There was something almost rehearsed about it. Like heâd slipped back into a version of himself that fit better around other people.
âAlright, then,â you said finally, though it came out flatter than you intended.
He simply nodded, just once, like he wanted you to say more, but that was enough. âYeah.â
Another pause. Then, just as quickly as heâd appeared, he stepped back. âWell, Iâve got class,â Steve stated the obvious.Â
The emptiness of the hallway reminded you that you had missed one class entirely, been late to the other, and was pulled out abruptly from your previous one.
âRight, me too.â You gripped the straps of your bookbag so tightly that your fingers had almost lost their feeling.
âSee you around, Sinclair.â Steve gave you his signature smile and turned around, heading in the direction of where Tommy H and Carol had stalked before.
For a moment afterwards, you werenât thinking about Will.
You were thinking about the boy from the summer, the one who sat next to you under fireworks and talked like he didnât have everything figured out.
This version of him felt⌠different. You remember telling Steve that he had a choice. That he could choose what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be.Â
And you had a sneaky feeling that maybe, he chose wrong.
â
Similar to the rest of your day, practice was a hot mess.
Not the kind of mess you could laugh off, and definitely not the kind you could fix with one good play and a reset. It was the kind that clung to you, following you up and down the court like a shadow you couldnât outrun.
âSinclair! Focus!â Coach Mooreâs voice cut through the gym, sharp and unforgiving, echoing off the high ceilings and polished floors.
It snapped your head up, but not nearly fast enough. The ball hit your hands a second too late. Your fingers barely grazed it before it slipped clean through, smacking against the hardwood with a hollow, embarrassing echo.
A couple of girls on your team groaned, while Helen seemed to mutter something underneath her breath that you couldnât quite catch. Although you didnât care to.
âAgain!â Coach barked.
Your jaw tightened as you jogged back into position, wiping your palms against your shorts. Sweat clung to your skin, dampening the fabric, making everything feel heavier than it should. The squeak of sneakers filled the space. The sharp bounce of the ball echoed in a steady rhythm.
Usually, that was enough. Usually, you could lose yourself in it.
The repetition of every play, the movement of your sneakers on the court, and the control of the basketball. It was the one place your brain finally shut up, drawing your thoughts away from everything you longed to escape.
But not today. Today, every dribble felt off, every pass felt a second too slow. Every movement you made felt sugglish. Almost like your body was there, but your mind was stuck somewhere else entirely.
Will. His name hit you like a missed step.
Christina Lancaster called out to you, signaling that she was about to pass the ball. You snapped back just in time to pivot, cutting across the court, but you were too slow. You felt it all before it even happened.
The pass flew right by you, just out of reach. Your fingertips lightly grazed the ball, but it was just out of reach.
âSinclair!â Coach Mooreâs harsh voice almost reverberated off the bleachers, speaking its way into your eardrums.Â
âI know,â you muttered under your breath, already turning, and resetting, trying to catch up. But you couldnât⌠not really. Your chest felt tight, uberly tight. And today, it wasn't from running or doing constant drills.
It was from the weight of everything else pressing down on you. You shook your head, trying to focus, hoping to successfully complete the next play. You bent your knees, ready to spring into action.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, your mind drifted.Â
To Steve. The thought of him in the hallway earlier, coming to your defense like he was a firefighter saving a cat from a tree. His calling you âSinclair,â like it meant something, like your name held some weight. And how he was looking at you, almost as if he were there, but in reality, he might as well have been on the moon.
Where the hell did that one version of him go?
You exhaled sharply, catching the ball this time, but you gripped it harder than necessary, causing it to slip from your grasp.
Now, your assistant Coach, Coach Elizabeth, was fed up, âAgain!â she shouted. You listened, moving, then passing, then running.
But it all felt mechanical and forced. You were playing a version of yourself instead of actually being in it.
âOkay, okay,â Coach Moore ran a tired hand over her face, âTake five!â she called, her voice cutting through the chaos.
You wasted absolutely no time. You took long, angry strides towards the bleachers to grab your water bottle hidden deep within your bag. Your hands braced against your knees, taking in a breath that didnât feel like it filled your lungs enough, while sweat dripped down your temples.
Your heart was beating so fast, you felt like you couldâve gone into cardiac arrest. You tried to gather yourself, look at five things you could see, four things you hear, so on and so forth.
After taking another breath to yourself, a voice cut through the rampage, âWhat the hell, Sinclair?!â It was Dana Lancaster, the other half of the Lancaster sisters.
You straightened slowly, dragging a hand down your face, bracing yourself for the lecture that was looming, âWhereâs your head at, dude?â She questioned, her permed hair pulled into a ponytail, emphasizing the harsh features on her face.
âSave it, D. I know, Iâm playing like shit, my feet are too slow, my hands arenât catching any passes. I know.âÂ
âSave the pity party for someone who actually gives a shit.â She deadpanned.
This caught you off guard. Your relationship with the Lancasters, Dana specifically, was picture-perfect. Especially on the court. You found a rhythm within each other that outshone any song you could possibly listen to. Every practice, and every game, you reached a perfect harmony with each other.
Today was the exception. Nothing about the day you had felt normal. It was like you were living in some twisted, sick universe. An episode of the Twilight Zone where Rod Sterling narrated your life. Something like, âFor Y/N Sinclair, this isnât just a bad day. Itâs something else entirely. The Twilight Zone.â
Danaâs voice cut through your imagination, âYou are one of the best players on this team, easily. So, why arenât you acting like it? What the hell is wrong?â
You sighed heavily, âW-Will Byers is missing. And ever since I found out, Iâve been a wreck. Nothing seems to be going my way, andâŚâ You paused.
âGo on.â She encouraged.
âIâm worried. W-worried that something bad, like really bad, happened to him. Heâs just a kid, you know. Iâm just hoping Hopper finds him somewhere. Hoping he just got lost in the woods on his way home, and he held up in Castle Byers for the night, like he does sometimes, you know?â You explained.
Frusturated tears began to well in your eyes. But you didnât dare let any one of them slip. Dana noticed this and put a comforting hand on your shoulder, âNo, I totally get it. Youâre scared about your friend. Shit, if one of the kids I babysat went missing, I think Iâd pull my hair out.â
You giggled at this, not even wanting to imagine what she looked like without her signature perm, âBut you canât do anything. At least not right now, okay? Practice is almost over today; whatâs done is done. But you canât let these feelings, this-this mindset seep into tomorrow.â
It seemed like Dana was the only person with some sense you had talked to all day. She made an excellent point, âThanks. I-I really needed to hear that.â
âOf course,â she took a beat, âNow letâs finish strong, alright?â
You nodded in response.Â
The rest of the practice carried off without a hitch. As the sun slowly set into the evening, with every pass made, you caught it. Every jigsaw seemed to fall into place for the last 30 minutes. The tempo you had with your team was found again, and Coach Moore seemed to have fewer notes for everything you did.
By the time you stepped outside afterward, the sky had turned that dull gray, signaling rain. Shortly accompanied by the sound of thunder. The air felt thick, like it was pressing in on you from all sides.
You adjusted your grip on your bag, starting towards your car in the parking lot.
Just a bad day. You repeated it in your head like a mantra, hoping it would stick.
But as thunder rumbled faintly in the distance on your drive, you couldnât help the thought that slipped in anyway.
What if it wasnât?
Completely unbeknownst to you, your brother was halfway across town, back home. He was talking on his walkie-talkie with Dustin and Mike, âGuys, Iâm serious,â Lucas whispered into the walkie as he paced back and forth across the room. âWe canât just wait like sitting ducks, we gotta look for him.â
Static crackled from his end, then Dustin spoke, âYou heard what Hopper said,â his voice came through, uneven but trying to sound steady. âThe police are handling it.â
Lucas stopped pacing just long enough to scoff.
âThey donât know Will like we do!â He exclaimed, trying to convince Dustin that theyâd be doing the right thing.
He was met with another pause and silence from both Dustin and Mike. But it was longer this time, almost like they were both contemplating. He could practically hear the hesitation through the walkie-talkie.
Then Mike cut in, his voice lower, more urgent than usual, âWe go out. Tonight.â
Lucasâ head snapped up, internally cheering that he had convinced his friends.
There was silence, the kind that sat heavy in your chest.
Lucas tightened his grip on the walkie, his knuckles paling. His mind was already made up.
ââŚYeah,â he said finally.
Quieter. But firmer.
âYeah, we do.â
â
By the time you got home, the night sky was already clear. The storm had passed, but it left its mark behind.
You took the long route, deciding you needed some time to yourself. Hopefully, either your Mom or Dad wouldâve left the remnants of dinner out so that you could finally put something concrete in your stomach.
Rainwater clung to the pavement, pooling in small dips along the street, reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights above. The air smelled damp, but it was still thick enough to feel when you breathed in. You shut your car door a little harder than necessary, grabbing your bags from the passenger seat.
Everything hurt; your shoulders ached, your legs felt like lead, and your brain still didnât seem to want to shut up.
You stepped inside, the quiet of your house hitting you immediately. Your parents had probably long since gone to bed. You assumed maybe Lucas and Erica as well.
âErica? Lucas?â you whisper-yelled, your voice echoing slightly through the house.
âIn here!â You heard your sister call back. You followed the sound into the living room.
She was sprawled across the couch, flipping lazily through a magazine, one leg kicked over the armrest like she didnât have a care in the world. You watched her for a second. She looked normal, completely unaffected by the events of today.
You envied that.
âWhereâs Lucas?â You questioned, eyes scanning the living room for him.
âI dunno, Iâm not his keeper.â She replied sassily, not tearing her eyes away from her magazine.
âErica.â Your voice was silent and steady. As steady as it had been since you left for school this morning. You didnât have time for her pithy remarks or sass. You wanted an answer.
âHeâs in his room.â She caved, staring at you, almost remorseful of her previous comment.
Satisfied with her answer, you sauntered over to where she sat on the couch and wiggled the top of her head. Strangely, she didnât fight it, âDonât stay up too late,â you said, your voice softer now.
âYeah, yeah,â she muttered. Thatâs typical Erica.
You lingered for half a second longer before turning away, heading upstairs towards Lucasâ room. When you reached the top of the stairs, you could see that his door was closed. You approached, hesitantly.
Attempting to push it open, you were met with the stiffness of his doorknob. Locked. You knocked slightly, hoping heâd realize it was you and open up, but you were met with nothing.
You exhaled, âI love you, birdbrain.â Of course, he didnât want to talk. If today had been unbearable for you, you could only imagine what it had been for him. If it werenât so late, you wouldâve picked up the phone and called the Byers to check on them.
You frowned at the thought of Joyce or Jonathan right now, releasing your grip on the door handle and stepping back.
Heading towards your room at the end of the hall, you dropped all of your stuff on the floor and immediately dove into your bed. Your fingers brushing against your pillows as all the physical exhaustion seemed to leave your body at once.
Your stomach rumbled, and you grabbed it. The thought of eating seemed nearly impossible. You were sure whatever you ingested would come right back up, a lot less pretty than how it went down.
Suddenly, a thought popped into your head. To do something you hadnât done since the summer Steve caught you, embarrassingly, outside. You already knew what you wanted to do before you even rose from your bed.
â
Outside, the night air had settled into something calmer. The rain had stopped completely, leaving behind only the faint drip of water from rooftops and trees.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out the cigarette. For a second, you just held it there, triple-checking your surroundings. And internally praying that Erica had gone to sleep and wasnât about to come searching for you.
Finally, you lit the cigarette, the flame flickering briefly before catching. You brought it to your lips and inhaled. The burn hit immediately. It was sharp, familiar. A sense of familiarity you hadnât felt all day.
Good. You needed that.
You leaned back against the side of the house, letting your head fall lightly against the siding as you exhaled. Smoke curled into the night air, dissolving into nothing.
For one brief moment, everything felt quiet and still. Your sense of panic almost felt manageable. You continued to take slow hits, watching as the smoke escaped from between your lips. It was peaceful.
But then, the damn sound of that engine cut through the night, followed by headlights.
Your eyes flicked up instinctively as Steveâs BMW rolled into the driveway next door, tires crunching softly against it.
Of course.
You let out a quiet, humorless huff, exhaling another puff of smoke as the engine cut off.
He opened the driver's side door and stepped out. He was still clad in his outfit from earlier, and his hair was still perfect, like he hadnât spent the entire day in the same world as everyone else. Steve noticed you immediately, probably seeing you the second he pulled into his driveway.
There was a flicker of something in his expression; surprise, maybe. Possibly even curiosity. He wanted to approach you and take a seat like he had the summer before. But the look on your face stopped him. You looked like you were seconds away from either sobbing or screaming.
Steve opted for a simple, âSinclair,â as his greeting.
You lifted the cigarette slightly, tilting your head. âNancy, huh?â
He blinked, caught off guard. âWhat?â
âYouâre dating Nancy Wheeler?â
He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly didnât know where to put his hands. âWell⌠weâre not exactly dating yet, I guess, but... I mean⌠yeah.â
You nodded once before taking another drag, refusing to say anything. It wouldnât have been productive. You didnât want to shame Nancy; she was a nice girl from an even nicer family. She was a great student and a great friend, even to you, considering you werenât very close.
But something about her with Steve Harrington didnât seem right. She wasnât the type of girl to give it up easily. But neither were you.
Steve glanced at the cigarette in your right hand, his eyebrows pulling together slightly. âWerenât you supposed to be quitting?â He gestured towards you.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, smoke trailing with it. âIâm surprised you remember that.â You gave him a drained smirk, not expecting to entertain the conversation for much longer.
Something in his expression tightened at that, âWhat, you think Iâm just an asshole?â
You looked at him then, really looked at him. He seemed to revert to that same Steve he had been last summer when no one else was watching. Less theatrical, and a hell of a lot more authentic and real.
Still, you couldnât even throw him a bone, âIâve had a long fucking day, Steve,â you said, your voice quieter now, but heavier. âJust let me sit here in peace, please.â
That shut him up, almost immediately. His mind drifted back to what he learned from Tommy H and Carol when he finally got to class. Will Byers was presumably missing; no one had seen him since about 8pm the night before. He knew you had little siblings, and he recalled seeing you at the pool with him last summer.
He remembered how selflessly you gathered their things, how you watched them as they played in the pool, not allowing yourself a second to soak up the sun. He knew how badly you cared for those kids, and he shouldâve figured how terribly it was tearing you up inside.
He spoke softly, âYou worried about the Byers kid?â
You scoffed at how nonchalantly he said it. Like, kids went missing every other second in Hawkins. But then your head tilted slightly, wondering how he figured it out, Â âYou hear about that?â
He shrugged. âWhole townâs talking. Heard you got pulled out of class.â
You let out a dry, tired laugh. âFuck. How fast does shit spread in this damn town?â You shook your head, dragging your thumb along the filter before bringing it back to your lips. The cigarette was done, you ashed it and then chucked it as hard as you could, hoping it landed far away from your property.
âI couldnât focus in practice,â you continued. âCompletely screwed up a play. Lucas is locked in his room, and Iâm sure his friends are freaked out too.â Your voice faltered, just barely. But loud enough for Steve to hear it and send you an apologetic look.
You swallowed it down, for the third time today, you denied yourself the catharsis of getting to cry.
âSo yeah,â you finished, quieter now, âI just needed a  cigarette.â
Silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable. Just⌠heavy.
You glanced at him, and there it was again. The difference between Steve from last summer and Steve in the hallways at Hawkins High. He stood there, standing right in front of you, looking, sounding, and moving exactly the same. But there was a difference, and it was palatable.
âIâm really sorry about Will,â he said finally. âI mean that, Y/N. Theyâre gonna find him. Just try not to worry.â
Now it was you who wished he were sitting next to you. You wanted the conversation to last longer. You didn't necessarily have to keep talking about Will; it could be about anything. Your favorite movies, songs, and things you like to do in your spare time.
But that wasnât possible. You figured Steve was tired and didnât want to comfort his neighbor in the odd hours of the night. If only you knew that was the furthest thing from the truth.
Instead of inviting him to sit, you nodded once. âThanks.â
Steve shifted his weight, then added, a little lighter, âHey⌠if you decide not to quit just yet, I still owe you that cigarette.â
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it, âWhat a gentleman.â
âGoodnight.â
âLater, Sinclair.â
He didnât look back as he entered his house.
â
After your interaction with Steve outside, you entered your house for one final time today. Erica had since retired to her room, leaving the living room empty. You sank onto the couch, pressing your palms into your eyes. You needed a second to breathe.
Your house was quiet, not the typical, everyone is asleep quiet. No, it was the kind of quiet that made your thoughts even louder. That allowed you to replay and over-analyze the conversation you just had with Steve, over and over again.
You thought about how delicately he spoke to you after realizing the severity of your mood. How sweet he could be if he really wanted to. But then you remembered, he confirmed that he was indeed seeing Nancy Wheeler. You werenât jealous; there was no need for you to be. You didnât like Steve; you barely even knew him aside from stolen moments on the side of your house or in the hallways.
Suddenly, the sound of the front door creaking open caused your body to tense up. Your hands dropped from their place, cradling your eyes as you sat up straight.
Every muscle pulled tight as you slowly stood, your heartbeat thudding hard against your ribs, âHello?â You called out. It was stupid. Of course, someone breaking into your house at night wouldnât respond to someone's call.
Sure enough, you heard nothing. You stepped forward carefully, your footsteps soft against the floor. You got closer to the sound, and the breath in your throat caught, trying not to make any noise. Internally, you were planning how you could make it into the kitchen for the phone to call 911 while also signaling to your Father upstairs to grab his rifle.
âDude.â You heard a familiar voice say.
You jumped, like actually jumped. Your heart dropped into your stomach as you whipped around, seeing Lucas standing there. He was damp and breathing quite heavily. His eyes were wide with something that definitely wasnât calm.
You stared at him, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.
đĽđđđ§đđŁđ: steve harrington x fem!henderson!reader
đ¨đŞđ˘đ˘đđ§đŽ: A prank war between you and Steve backfires when a thunderstorm washes away your paint, leaving behind an accidental love confession scribbled across his car.
đđ¤đŁđŠđđŁđŠ: fluff, with a side of making out. a little bit of cussing. Steve and reader are college age. 3.8k words
âSon of a bitch.â Dustin mutters beside you.Â
âLanguage,â you remind him, but the reprimand falls flat. Youâre too busy staring at rainbow grenade parked in your driveway.Â
Your entire car is filled with balloons. Rubber blues, oranges, greens, and pinks packed so tightly they press into the windows, completely blocking the interior.Â
And you know exactly who to blame.Â
Your watch beeps, sending a thread of panic through you. âGod! Iâve got to get to my test!â You hitch your backpack higher and start toward the car. âWhy does it have to be today? Of all the days!â
The morning sun throws your reflections across the grey-blue paint, warping you to look shorter than you are. As you approach, you eye the driverâs side door handle suspiciously, as if it might succumb to all that internal pressure and pop off before you can reach it.Â
âWell it is April Fools today,â Dustin offers unhelpfully. âSoâŚat least heâs punctual.â
âNot helping,â you grit out, finally wrenching open the door.Â
 A shriek catches in your throat as an avalanche of balloons spills out, bouncing across the ground in every direction.
âHow did he even do this?â Dustin says in awe, kicking at a pink balloon drifting past. âItâs kind of impressive. It mustâve taken him forever.â
âGod, I hope heâs stumbling all over campus right now, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Oh my Godâlook! Theyâre all over the street. Dustin, go catch them.â
âHey, Iâve got to get to school, too!â he says, gesturing towards his backpack. âBetter drive fast.â
You check the time on your watch, batting a ballon from your face. âAh, shit, thereâs no time. Okay, listen, go call Nancy. Sheâs student-teaching the freshmen at your high school now, right? If you ask her right now, sheâll probably have enough time to swing by and pick you up.â
âNo,â Dustin groans. âI donât want to call Nancy! Her car smells like a perfume bomb went off, and sheâll just lecture me the whole way about turning in my homework on time.â
You ignore his complaints, attempting to forge your way into the driverâs seat. Balloons slide over your head as you push through, the static promptly ruining your fresh blowout.Â
âAnd to think all I was going to do to him this year was tape over his mixtapes,â you mutter, glancing back to meet your brotherâs eyes. âDustinâŚthis means war.â
âOh, shit!â He grins, readjusting his hat like heâs gearing up for the battle ahead. âWhat are you gonna do to him?â
âI donât know,â you say, shoving your backpack into the passenger seat with all your might. âBut I swear, if I miss this test, Steve Harrington is going to pay.â
âDo you know how long it takes to get rid of a hundred balloons?â You complain to Robin later that afternoon.Â
The cart squeaks along the carpet as you push the next pile of videos over for re-shelving. Robin waits at the end of the row for you, wearing a green Family Video vest that matches yours.Â
âYou canât justâŚtake them out,â you continue. âOh, no. Because then they all fly away in the wind, absolutely littering the road. And it takes so long to chase them downâdonât ask me how I know. And then only, like, six of them fit inside a trash bag. Six! Which means you have to pop them all first, and then stuff them in a bag, I mean seriously, Robin. I think my ears are still ringing.â
She grimaces, picking up Alien 2 and sliding it into its place.Â
 âI had to drive to the college with all my windows blocked by the damn things. Huge safety hazard, by the way. And of course, my professor wouldnât even let me in the testing room by the time I got there.â
Robinâs eyes widen with every word until sheâs simply staring at you. âWow, that isâŚwait. Where is Steve today, anyway?âÂ
âI swapped shifts with him because sometimes he has an afternoon class that runs late on Mondays.â
She looks at you for another moment. âThat wasâŚnice of you.â
You shrug. âIt wasnât a big deal. But now, Iâm done playing nice.â
A smile twists her lips as she moves down a row. ââŚOkay.â
âIâm serious, Robin!â You say, flipping your hair over your shoulder in exasperation. âThis year, Iâm going to do it. Iâm gonna cross the uncrossable line.â
She freezes, then slowly turns to face you. âOh my God. You wouldnât.â
âMark my words, Buckley. This is the year I go for the Beamer.â You point Footloose at her. âAnd Iâm going to need your help.â
The plan sounded pretty badass in theory.Â
You were going to be a ninja in the night, leaving a message for your enemy. Noâa promise.Â
You could almost picture yourself tossing back your hood under the full moon and licking the knife of victory, letting revenge bloom sweet on your tongue as you put an end to the prank wars.Â
But in realityâŚit looks like you crouching in the bushes with bugs crawling down your shirt, and cringing every time a carâs headlights sweep past.Â
Even though the sun went down hours ago, itâs still not dark enough for your taste. Gone are your visions of being an alluring silhouette against the stars, because the Harrington house sits in a neighborhood that believes in the HOA, twenty-four-hour police watch, and lots and lots of streetlights.Â
Which is why you brought your lookout.Â
âYouâre positive this stuff will wash off?â You ask Robin for the thousandth time, smuggling the paint can out of your jean jacket and holding it close to read the label again.Â
âI mean, you heard the guy at the storeâshitââ she ducks, spitting out a twig, ââhe said it comes off with water. Itâs likeâŚliquid kidâs chalk or something.â
Steveâs Beamer sits in front of you, maroon and silver glinting in the light. Look at it. Oblivious. Unassuming.Â
The streetlights buzz above your head, blending with the croaks of nearby frogs. Theyâre probably breeding in Steveâs pool. Thereâs always, like, a gigillion of them every time you come over to swim in the summer.Â
Itâs a warm night for early April, but a cool breeze stirs your hair, carrying that earthy, bitter smell of water in the air.Â
âWaitâis it supposed to rain?â you whisper.
âShit, I donât know,â Robin replies. âI wasnât really tracking the weather, I was more focused on us not getting arrested. Or killed by Steve if he finds us. What are you going to write, anyway?â
With one last look around the empty street, you shake the bottle and pop the lid. âI thought Iâd just let the spirit guide me.âÂ
âThe spirit of what?â she asks, but youâre already creeping toward the car.Â
This product isnât like normal spray paint. The bottle hisses the same, and sort of sputters if you go too fast, but it writes smoothlyâalmost like a gel pen but in paint form.Â
The whole thing has your pulse pounding in your throat, your body wired, ready to run. Itâs kind ofâŚreally fun.Â
You write two words. Attention ladies. Thatâs good.Â
You pause, shake the bottle, glance around, then go again.Â
By the end of the first sentence, youâre adding little flourishes to the ends of your letters.This paint is amazing. Your knees ache from bending over this long, and youâre a little lightheaded from the fumes. But when youâre finally running out of space, you stand back to admire your work.Â
From the trunk, all the way to the hood, in bright white letters, it reads:Â
ATTENTION LADIES: STEVE IS A TERRIBLE LOVER. YOU DONâT WANT TO KISS HIM.
âWow,â Robin says, appearing at your side.Â
You jump. âGod! Donâtâsneak like that.â
âThat isâŚâ She trails off, shaking her head, gaze pinned to the car.Â
âWhat?â you ask. âPetty?â
She shrugs, her white T-shirt glowing under the streetlight. âWell, yeahâŚâÂ
You tuck the can into your jean jacket. âChildish?âÂ
âAbsolutely.â After a moment she adds, âHow do you know heâs a terrible lover?â
You freeze.âW-what?â
Sheâs still staring at your words, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, waiting for your reply.Â
âI donât! I justâitâs a prank, Robin!â
She holds her hands out in defense. âOkay! Okay, I was just curious. You know. If youâve had, like, firsthand experience or something.â
 âGod! What? No! I justâyou know how big his ego is,â you whisper, unsure of exactly why youâre still explaining yourself. âIâm just trying toâŚknock it down a little.â
Truth is, you donât really know why you wrote that. All that went through your mind was him rolling up to a red light, doing a stupid double take at the girl next to him in her shiny red convertible. Putting on his sunglassesâthe ones he thinks make him look coolâand rolling down his window. Sheâd take one look at that hair, that smile, and start fluttering her lashes. Maybe reapply her lipstick in the mirror, purposely parting her mouth in a pretty O, just to get his thoughts to run rampant and dirty.
And thenâŚ
Something on his car would catch her eye. Words. Sheâd read themâŚand then sheâd drive off before the light turned green.Â
Itâs brilliant. Or, you thought it was. And anyway, itâs not like itâs going to last forever. Steve Harrington can go a few days without another date.Â
âOkay, sorry, and whatâs the kissing part supposed to mean?â Robin asks, drawing you from your thoughts.Â
You sigh, exasperated. âWhat do you mean, what does it mean? I think itâs pretty self-explanatoryâcar!âÂ
You both dive into the bushes just as headlights sweep over the driveway. The car passes, the engine rattling off into the distance. You press a hand over your racing heart.Â
âSo youâve kissed him then?â Robin says once youâve both caught your breath.
âWhat? No!â You practically shriek. It echoes down the silent street and you smack your forehead, wincing at the sound.Â
Robin stifles a laugh with her knuckles to her lips. âOkay, so if you havenât slept with him, and you havenât kissed him, then thisââ she gestures through the bushes at your work, ââlooks like it came from some petty-ex girlfriend.â
âOh my God,â you turn back to the car. âYouâre right. Wait here.â
You ignore Robinâs hiss to be careful as you creep forwards again. When youâre close enough, you sign your name on the right-hand sign with a little heart, like you always do.Â
There. Now heâll know.Â
But as you step back to admire your work a second time, your stomach sinks.Â
What are you doing? You just wroteâŚthat⌠on his car. And signed it.Â
There your name sits right under the words lover, and kiss, and SteveâŚ
A light flicks on in the neighboring house. It might as well be the heavens cracking open with the way you take off.Â
Thankfully, Robin takes the hint, and scampers across the yard after you.Â
âWhy did I do that?â you whisper as you near the car. The grass swishes under your sneakers, mixing with Robinâs raspy chuckle. âYou made me do it!â
âYou know heâs going to be pissed right?â Robin says, slamming the door behind her and throwing her car into gear. âLikeâcompletely off his rocker, pissed.â
âGreat,â You deadpan, checking over your shoulder one more time. âMaybe heâll get so mad, heâll declare me the official winner and we can stop this war altogether.â
Robin scoffs. âYouâre telling me this time next year, youâre just gonna be like âwow, I really donât miss that extremely flirtatious prank war we used to have goingâ? Because I donât believe that for a second.
You donât answer right away, your brain still short-circuiting over the word flirtatious.Â
She glances over and catches your expression. âOh, donâtâseriously? Iâm stuck in that video store with the two of you. I know exactly how you look at each other.â
âWe donât look at each other any certain way! We donât look at each otherâŚat all, actually! Our eyes justâŚneverâŚconnectâGod, Robin.â You huff, turning to watch the streetlights blur past. âAre you just choosing to ignore all the times he comes in with some girl-of-the-week draped on his arm? Or all the times he rushes closing because heâs late for some hot new date?â
Robin looks over at you for a long moment. Her blinker clicking fills the silence.Â
âYouâre jealous,â she says abruptly.Â
âAm not.Â
âAre too.â
You give up, pressing your forehead to the cool glass and letting out a miserable groan. You are.
You have been for a very, very long time.
âHey, look at it this way,â she says, jutting a thumb back the way you came. âIf that stuff actually is as water-soluble as the guy said, thereâs like a solid chance this whole thing is gone by morning.â
Your face rolls into your palms. âThis was such a terrible idea.â
âEh, I donât know,â Robin says, a smile in her voice. âSometimes, those are the best kind.â
Itâs late afternoon the next day, and youâre almost done with your shift when a familiar voice echoes through the quiet Family Video store.Â
âIs this your idea of a prank, Henderson? âCause itâs not fucking funny!â
Shit.Â
The knot of anxiety in your stomach had been easing with the gentle click of video cases as you checked the returnsâand because you talked to your professor again this morning. Thankfully, after a mortifying amount of pleading, heâs letting you retake the test in his office this afternoon.
But now, hearing Steve angrily stomp into workâŚ.itâs back.Â
You barely slept last night. Lightning crashed outside, rain pelted your roof, and louder than all of it was the worry about what Steve would do when he saw his car this morning.Â
You sort of let yourself believe Robin for a moment. That there might not be anything left for him to see.Â
But, of course. things canât be that easy.
The second you step out of the backroom, Steveâs eyes lock onto you. Heâs standing just inside, breathing hard under a yellow crewneck, hair raked through.Â
You risk a glance over at Robin. Sheâs leaned back on the counter, a smirk tugging on her mouth. Whatâs she so happy about?Â
âWeâve done a lot of shit to each other over the years,â Steve says, drawing your eyes back to him. âand I get that. But this? This is too far.â
Guilt spears through your gut. You did this to him.Â
âI know, I know itâs your car,â you mumble, eyes dropping to your shoes. âBut I missed my test and I was angry andââ a sudden thought occurs to you. âOh, God, please tell me the paint washes off!â
Steve squints down at you, hands on his hips. âYes, it washes off,â he says, âYou think thatâs not the first thing I checked?â His eyes soften a little as he finally processes your words. âWaitâyou missed your test?â
Oh. Well, then, it must be the message itself that has him so worked up. That, you can deal with.
âThen why are you so mad?â You ask, crossing your arms. âSo you canât go on a date for one day. Big deal. Canât go to the drive-in movie with a car looking like that? Prank accomplished.â
âWhat?â His lips curl in confusion.Â
You frown and look to Robin. When your eyes meet she gives a small shrug, and with how much she looks like sheâs enjoying this, you half expect her to pull out popcorn.Â
âOutside,â Steve barks. âNow.â
The glass door slams behind you as you step out into the parking lot. The afternoon sun has heated the still-wet asphalt, making ripples across the ground.Â
Steve crosses his arms beside you, gesturing for you to look. His Beamer is parked in the closest space, giving you a clear view ofâŚwhat theâ
Looks like Robin was right about the rain. Itâs smeared your message into streaks, leaving only white fragments and a few choppy words behind.Â
ATTENTION, it reads. The next word, âladiesâ, is gone. STEVE is clear as day, and the rain has taken the word âterribleâ, leaving just the I. Followed by a pristine LOVE YOU. And conveniently, the words, WANT TO KISS, made the cut as well.Â
Your jaw drops.Â
Pulse racing, you scramble for something to say. Anything. âT-thatâsâŚH-how do you know I evenwrote that?âÂ
âThatâs still your name, isnât it?â Steve says, pointing above the wheel rim. There it is, your name, perfectly preserved down to the little heart next to it.
Wow.
Mother Nature is a bitch.Â
You stand there, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. A shadow falls over you, cooling your skin. Suddenly, your vision fills with warm chocolate eyes, and sunlight splicing through messy hair.Â
âYou donât mean it. Right?â Steve asks, voice achingly soft. âBecauseâŚthatâsâ I need to hear you say it. OrâŚâ
Your breath hitches. âOr what?âÂ
His hand finds your waist, the warmth bleeding through the fabric of your vest. That one touch nearly sets you aflame.Â
âGodâjust say April fools right now before I do something thatâs gonna make me look like one,â he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips.Â
You should say it. Or tell him the truth. But as he stands there holding you in his arms, sun-warmed, smelling like mints and hairspray, you justâŚcanât.Â
When his nose bumps yours, your heart nearly beats out of your chest. Your chin tilts to meet him, but he stops just shy.Â
âAre you sure?â he whispers. âBecause if this is just some prankââ
You donât let him finish. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you drag him down the last inch and meet his mouth with yours.Â
A low groan spills from his chest as he pulls you into him, hands slipping under your vest like he canât get close enough. His lips are soft and warm, and you sink into this kiss, threading his soft hair between your fingers.Â
Your lips meet and part in a pattern so familiar, yet so new. Your head spins at the heat of his hands, the minty sweet taste of his tongue, and most of all, the fact that this Steveâyour Steve.Â
Dustinâs going to kill you. Both of you.Â
You donât even register youâre moving until your back hits the car. Steveâs lips donât leave yours, the kiss growing eager and desperate.Â
A bell chimes above the door. Footsteps echo somewhere in the parking lot.
You donât open your eyes. You canât.Â
Steve is a fantastic kisser. You expected that, given his platinum playboy status, but experiencing his skill is another thing entirely. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, tilting your face as he kisses you deeper, slower. The scorching glide of his tongue against yours makes your knees go weak. As his thumb brushes down your throat, a soft sound slips out, like he drew it out himself. Like he just played your body like an instrument.Â
Damn.
Steve pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, a quiet laugh stuck in his chest.Â
âI love you, too,â he whispers. âHave for a long time, I just thoughtâŚwell, I thought you didnât want me like that, andââ
Your heart soars at his confession, but words wonât come to you right now. Theyâre plastered across his car instead. Heâs breathing hard under your palms, and you canât do anything but close the gap between your lips again, needing him to know you feel the same.Â
The bell chimes again, and someone clears their throat loudly.Â
You break apart and spin to see Robin leaning out the door. The AC spills past her, cooling your flushed cheeks. Sheâs holding your navy backpack out to you.Â
âOh shit!â You smack your forehead. âIâve got to get to my test!â
âIâll drive you!â Steve offers instantly.Â
âNo, but you have to work!âÂ
âGuys,â Robin interrupts, âIâve got it. Itâs dead in here today. Go.âÂ
âI owe you, Buckley,â Steve says, pointing his car keys at her as he jogs over to the driverâs side door.Â
You swipe the backpack from her and turn to leave, but she pinches your vest, a silent reminder you still have it on.
 âNo, seriously, youâre an angel,â you add, shrugging off your vest and placing it in her outstretched palm.Â
âYeah, well, someoneâs got to attend to the customers. Am I right?â She winks before disappearing back in the store.Â
Steve looks so good sitting next to you in the driverâs seat, hair falling over his brow as he turns the ignition. He has to actually remind you to put on your seatbelt when he catches you staring.Â
He pulls off onto the main road, one hand flung over the wheel.Â
How are you actually expected to focus on anything right now? Let alone taking a test in twenty minutes?Â
Because one look at those eyes falling down to your lips, his knuckles brushing across his mouth like he canât get the taste of you out of his head. The way your hands find each other over the console, leaning towards each other like some unseen manger is pulling you together.Â
Steve clears his throat, a smile tugging at his mouth. âYou got plans after this?âÂ
âActually, yeah I do.â
His face falls but he recovers quickly. âOkay, yeah! Sorry. Last minuteââ
âItâs just that Iâve got to wash this guyâs carâŚâ
He grins, and your heart flutters at the sight. âDamn right you do. And what about after that?â
âDepends,â you bite your lip. âWhat are you suggesting?â
He shrugs one shoulder, the very picture of confidence, even if you see the way his fingers drum the steering wheel. âWhat was it you were saying about drive-in movies earlier?â
You smile. âJust that⌠I love âem.â
âAnd thatâs curtain, ladies and gents.â Robin mutters to herself, closing the glass door as she watches the two of you speed off. The dust motes floating through the sunbeams are her only audience as she takes a bow.Â
âRoses? For me? You shouldnât have.â She flicks her hand, waving off imaginary applause as she tucks her bucket of soapy water and sponge into the backroom.Â
Robin doesnât do early mornings. But today, she made an exception.Â
There she was at sunrise, crouched beside the Beamer, scrubbing off very specific words the rain barely touched the night before.Â
Because this whole bitâwhere the two of you pretend not to be in loveâwas just going on a bit too long for her taste.
ἍáĄ
a/n: robin is a real one. idk man, holidays just inspire me lol so here you go.
summary: Itâs the Fourth of July 1983, and you keep running into your neighbor, Steve Harrington. Maybe itâs just a coincidence. But is it a coincidence that every single time, it feels like heâs watching you?
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a lot less like the confident King Steve everyone knew. âNot like⌠all the time. Just, you know. Around.â
You narrowed your eyes slightly. âAround? Sounds like youâre the one lurking, Harrington.â
pairing: steve harrington x sinclair!reader
warnings: none!
word count: 5.6k
a/n: welcome to the first "chapter" of just across the driveway! i decided to include a prologue for shits and giggles. chapter one should be out (hopefully) soon!
--
Swish.Â
The sound of your basketball gliding seamlessly through the net filled the driveway. Accompanied by the scuffing of your shoes and the steady metronome of the basketball falling to the pavement.
Walking over, you picked it up and placed it underneath your arm in one effortless motion. Underneath the peak July 4th heat, sweat was beading across your forehead.Â
Deciding to take a well-deserved break from thoroughly practicing your jump shot, you grabbed your water and drank the last drops from your bottle. Protesting against littering, you sauntered over to your dumpster at the end of your driveway. Lifting it up, you placed the plastic contents into the can.Â
Right after the lid closed, you were staring straight at your little brother.Â
âShit!â You exclaimed, letting the basketball fall from its place underneath your arm.
You clutched your chest, âLucas?! Where the hell did you come from?â He practically materialized in front of you.Â
Running from around the trash can, re-lifting the lid, Lucas spoke, âThis goes in the recycling. Not the trash can.â He chastised. Fixing your environmentally unconscious mistake.Â
Heâs been spending entirely too much time with Dustin. You thought.
âWhatever, dude.â You lightly pushed his head out of the way, rolling your eyes.
Lucas got a kick out of correcting you. If it were a full-time job, heâd be on his way to making six figures.
Turning around to resume your basketball practice, you almost tripped on your untied shoelace. The small mistake prompted a snicker out of Lucas, which you chose to ignore.
You bent down to tie your shoe, whilst your little brother stalked closer. Blocking the beaming heat of the sun with his body, you could barely make out what he was wearing.
If it werenât for the vibrant neon of his swim trunks, you might not have even noticed it. A visor lay atop his head, and the white cast of the SPF smeared across his face and arms. He looked like he was ready to fly to Hawaii.
âAnd what are you so dressed up for?â You tried to contain your smile, not wanting to embarrass him.Â
Raising his eyebrows and giving you a smirk, you felt a small feeling in your stomach that Lucas was about to ask you for something.
Before even giving him a chance to get a word out, you proclaimed, âNo.â
âWhat!â he sighed in a high-pitched tone, âYou donât even know what I was gonna say!â
âYouâre gonna ask me to take you and the rest of your little friends somewhere, and the answer is no. I have to keep working on my jumpshot.â
âSchool doesnât even start for another 2 months, Y/N.â He pleaded, âJust take The Party to the pool, please.â Lucas begged, hoping heâd have some magical effect that swayed you. Unfortunately for him, he didnât.
âI know you want to hang out with your friends. Trust me⌠having you out of my hair for one afternoon sounds great,â Lucas scoffed at that.
âBut I canât afford to miss out on practice time because Iâm running around with half the kids of Hawkins.â
Before Lucas could offer another rebuttal, the sound of the front door opening captured both of your attentions.
Standing on the porch, your little sister Erica stood there with her PJâs and scarf still atop her head, clearly having just woken up.
âYou know⌠Mom and Dad did say you had to take us wherever we want while theyâre gone.â Erica stated, smirking.
Your Dad had a work conference somewhere in California. Your parents opted against a full-time babysitter, considering you were almost seventeen. And being the eldest Sinclair child, you were left in charge of the youngest two.
They told you to keep them busy for the week. However, that did not include you succumbing to their beck and call like some kind of chauffeur.
âNo, they did not,â You paused, pondering for a moment, âAnd stop eavesdropping!â You pointed a warning finger at her.
âY/N, please. Even Erica wants to go to the pool. Câmon! Itâll be so much fun.â Lucas gave you his signature puppy dog eyes.Â
Ever since you were younger, it worked like magic. He knew exactly what to say and how to convince you to do anything. After all, he was your baby brother.
âUgh,â You relented, âFine! We can go to the pool.âÂ
Lucas immediately jumped up and engulfed you in a hug, âThank you, thank you, thank you!â He exclaimed.
âAlright, get off me, weirdo. Youâre getting all your sunscreen on me.â You giggled, pushing his sweaty body away from you.
Lucas had a point. There was quite some time until the new semester started; you had more than enough time to continue practicing your skills for the upcoming basketball season.
Plus, even at 9 oâclock in the morning, the sun was melting your shoes into the concrete. Any longer like this and youâd be rolled out of your neighborhood in the back of an ambulance.
âOkay, Iâll call the boys and tell them!â Lucas shouted, running into the house, speeding by Erica.
âGood choice.â She said ominously before stalking back inside, staring at you for every second until the door closed, hiding her from your view
You stood there, looking around, confused and dumbfounded, âWhatever that means.âÂ
You shook your head, deciding not to read into Ericaâs subliminal messaging. Last time, it caused you to overthink for a week before offering her a banana split to explain what she meant.
You began to gather your belongings. First, the sweat towel that you discarded once it became clear that it wasnât doing anything, followed by your half-finished Gatorade bottle.
Your eyes scanned the pavement for your basketball, but it was nowhere in sight.
Turning around frantically, you walked over to the trash can, thinking it may have fallen behind it after Lucas morphed into Michael Myers.
Its signature orange hue was nowhere to be found. You tried not to panic. That basketball was given to you by Coach Moore after you made the buzzer-beating half-court shot last season. It won Hawkins High the Womenâs Varsity Basketball Championship title.
The sound of a whistle from behind you pulled you from the start of what wouldâve been a full meltdown.
âThis yours?â Steve Harrington, dressed in red swim trunks, a white tank top, and a whistle tied around his neck, called from his neighboring driveway.
He looked like a clichĂŠ straight from a teen girl's dream. One where a cute lifeguard comes to the rescue.
You blink a few times, attempting to spare your pride from letting âKingâ Steve Harrington know you were openly ogling him.
Jogging over, you began, âThanks. Donât wanna lose this thing.âÂ
As you got closer, Steve extended his hand, palming the basketball.
You raised your eyebrows, impressed, âYou play?â You asked, using your hands to shield your eyes from the sun.
Steve shrugged and fixed his hair, âYeah, sometimes. But Iâve been focused on swimming as of late.â He gestured to his outfit.
Looking closer, you could see on the side of his shorts that read âHawkins Community Pool Head Guard.âÂ
Of course, heâs the head guard. You bit your tongue, although it fought to escape.Â
You knew who Steve was. Youâd have to be living under a rock to go to Hawkins High School and not know the elusive King Steve. Even more so after his legendary Sophomore year.
However, it wasnât in your nature to be swooned. Trusting and being easily impressed didnât come easily.
But you recognize that Steve didnât just appear out of thin air. You learned how to read, write, and do math just a few classrooms down from him in Elementary School.
So, instead of saying anything pithy or snarky, you opted to stay silent.
Steve could practically hear the cogs turning in his own head, making the silence even more awkward. Heâd be playing coy if he pretended like he hadnât been watching you before he saw your basketball roll into his driveway.Â
At first, he noticed how scandalously you were dressed. Wearing probably the shortest shorts he had seen all summer long.
But he quickly shook those thoughts from his head, not wanting to be some typical âPeeping Tomâ watching his neighbor.
He had every intention of getting into his car and driving to his shift at the pool. But then he noticed that your jumpshot form was perfect.Â
Before he could even move an inch closer to his car, he saw you jump out of your skin when a little boy startled you. Your basketball then promptly rolled right in front of his feet.
With every beat that passed, Steve became even more unsure of what to say. Â He figured you were about to walk away, so he had to say something else if he wanted to keep the conversation going.Â
âI saw you earlier,â he gestured to your driveway, âYour jump shotâs not half bad.â He smoothly placed his arm on top of his car, leaning on it nonchalantly.
You scoffed, unimpressed at his half-assed version of a compliment. âAre you watching me?â
The sweat pooling on Steveâs arm, mixed with the candidness of your comment, was the perfect combination to make him lose all his balance.
If his window wasnât cracked open enough for him to slip his hand through to recover, he wouldâve eaten the searing hot pavement.
âHuh?â he stuttered, âNo, nothing weird, or anything like that. I just⌠I noticed. Iâm a big basketball fan and all.â
This entire interaction was unorthodox for Steve. Typically, girls your age wouldâve sported heart eyes if he admitted heâd been watching them.Â
You, on the other hand, seemed far from typical.
âThatâs fair,â You cleared your throat, âYeah, Iâm on Womenâs Varsity,â You admitted.Â
During the first semester of your Freshman year, you were captain of your JV team. After impressing Coach Moore, she threw you headfirst into varsity.
You completely drowned. Not able to keep up with the fast-paced nature of it all. Everything looked like it was falling apart for you.
That was until you made a risky half-court shot that paid off and won Hawkins High School the championship title.Â
Although that was something to be proud of, you were still hesitant to admit your place on the team. Your track record wasnât necessarily something worth bragging over. You were rather tight-lipped about your performance.
You vowed to spend every second this summer perfecting your craft. So, having Steve complement your form meant that something mustâve been working.
Steve, however, knew of none of this. âOh,â He began, âI donât really go to the Womenâs games, but Iâve heard theyâre the place to be. Some chick made a crazy half-court shot last season. You know her?â
You scoffed at what you assumed was his attempt at being funny, âYeah⌠ironically that was me.â
His mouth turned into a soft smile, nodding his head, âNo shit. Mustâve earned you a lot of respect âround here.â
âTook a risk, it paid off.â You shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
If he asked you about any of your highlights from the season, youâd be at a loss for words. There werenât any.
Unless you count accidentally elbowing one of the girls from a rival team straight in the face. You wouldâve felt bad, but sheâd been making fouls the entire game.
âYou donât need to be so humbleâŚâ He craned his neck to subtly get a better look at your mailbox, â...Sinclair. Iâm sure it was a great moment.â
Your eyes squinted at him, noticing how he emphasized your last name.Â
A part of you was somewhat offended. For the past decade, at least, the Harringtons had been your neighbors.
Sure, his parents werenât necessarily the nicest people ever. Every year, they turned down Mrs. Lincolnâs invitation to her neighborhood Christmas party. They were the only house on the entire block that didnât come.
But, you always figured Steve to be the complete opposite of his reclusive parents, considering his monumental reputation.
Almost as if the universe had heard your thoughts, Steveâs Father came barreling outside, a fresh cup of coffee still in his hands.
âSteve?â He questioned, clearly aggravated, âDonât you have to be at work in 15 minutes?â He chastised. The harshest lines overtook his forehead, and his lips were in straight line.
Instinctively, you took a step back from Steve, scared that his father would snap at you, too.Â
Opting to stay quiet, Steve whispered under his breath, âYeah, yeah, Iâm goinâ.â He roughly grabbed the whistle from around his neck and threw it through the open window of his car, followed by his water bottle and string backpack.
âGotta go.â Steve kept his head down and entered his driver's seat.
âThank you for returning my-â before you could even finish thanking him, Steve closed his car door.Â
â-basketballâŚâ You trailed off.
You turned on your heels and started back towards your house. You watched as Steveâs BMW drove right past you.Â
From his rearview mirror, Steve watched you bouncing your basketball on the pavement as you slowly trotted back towards your house. He had to squint to stop the morning sun from going straight into his eyes.
Selfishly, he wanted to keep conversing with you. He had to admit, it wasnât of much substance, but it was one of the most interesting conversations heâd had all summer.
Speaking to you, if only for a few moments, breathed somewhat of fresh air into him for the first time in weeks. Now, he had to stalk to Hawkins Community Pool and yell at kids not to run for hours.Â
You, on the other hand, walked into the cool air conditioning of your house and pondered over the interaction you just had.
It stung that Steve didnât know your name, but realistically, you couldnât fully blame him.
You werenât the most unknown person at school by any means. But it wasnât like you were this super popular Basketball player that everyone knew.
You coast by, floating from person to person, but you didnât have a set group of friends.
Half of the time, it felt like The Party was the only people you saw in a week. And that was because they were running through your house, keeping you up at all hours of the night.
You were somewhat close to Nancy Wheeler. And youâd always wave and engage in small conversation with Willâs older brother whenever you saw him in the halls. But it wasnât like you were getting matching tattoos with them anytime soon.
âAre you done flirting with our neighbor?â Erica teased, pulling you from your thoughts. She was sitting at the dining room table. It just so happened to look directly towards the Harrington's driveway. A devious smirk adorned her lips.
âI wasnât flirting with him. He found my basketball.â You defended, walking behind her to open the fridge and grab an ice-cold water bottle.
The immediate wave of coolness sent a shock through your nervous system, releasing some of the tension that had built up throughout your shoulder blades and arms.Â
However, Erica was hellbent on disrupting that small semblance of peace.
âSure, your basketball just so happened to magically roll into the protective arms of Steve Harrington.â Erica chucked, fixing her scarf that was sliding off her head.
You saw your opportunity, swatting her hand away and pulling it straight from her head.
âY/N!â She exclaimed. Remorse slowly entered your body. Sometimes you forget how young your little sister was. Gently, you fixed her scarf and left a gentle kiss on the top of her head.
âAlright, I want you ready for the pool in 30 minutes, or else youâre getting left.â You pointed at her, âAnd stop being nosy.â
She pouted, then whispered, âNo promises.â
â
At the pool, Steve Harrington sat atop the lifeguard stand.
He had abandoned his shirt hours ago. The intense heat of the July sun was steaming on his traps.
The tinted hue of his sunglasses adjusted his vision so that he could see everyone from his vantage point without interference from the sun.
All of the kids were swimming and playing, and their parents or babysitters lounged on a chair, not even sparing one glance.
All of them except for you.
Steve knew that he shouldnât be paying this much attention to you. Right now, sitting on guard, he was responsible for every single person in the pool.
But every look and every glance was protected by his sunglasses. He told himself that you wouldnât notice. And he was right. Your attention was entirely fixed on the group of kids you showed up with as they played in water that was at least 6 feet deep.Â
Every single time one of the kids went below the surface for longer than a few seconds, he noticed how your posture raised, and how you leaned forward to watch. But like clockwork, the kids would come up from underneath the water, and you would relax.
It took a few seconds of observing you to realize that you could be a great lifeguard. At least that was the excuse Steve kept telling himself for why his eyes found you almost every few minutes.Â
Iâm just scouting for new guards. He thought, ignoring the honest truth.
He was watching you, and not because he needed new employees on his staff. But because he was intrigued by you.Â
The conversation you had earlierâŚalthough brief, proved to strike a nerve within Steve.
He tried to play it cool. He feigned ignorance, and acted like he hadnât spent years living next to you⌠noticing.
Heâd be a liar to claim otherwise.Â
Steve watched as the fleet of kids surrounded your lounge chair.
The little boy he saw scare you earlier opted out of using a towel. He chose to whip his body back and forth, soaking you in the water.
The other boys followed suit, laughing as they watched you fold into yourself, serving as a protective barrier. You said something that Steve couldnât quite make out, but assumed was some attempt at a threat. A deep smile lay atop your face, ridding you of any threatening nature.Â
Steve watched the interaction intently before he noticed a little girl still in the pool, watching him looking at you. He played it off with a cough and forced himself to look away.
You had him behaving in a way that not even Steve could quite put his finger on.Â
Shortly after you were attacked by the small gaggle of middle schoolers, you gathered all of their belongings while they headed towards the locker room.Â
It was now your turn to survey your surroundings, making sure you had everything. Dustinâs hat, Lucasâ toys, Mikeâs snacks, Will's crayons, and Ericaâs magazine.Â
Checking everything off the list, you gathered your towel, sunglasses, and the book you never opened.
Turning on your heel, you saw a familiar face on the lifeguard stand.
Steve.Â
A pair of Ray-Bans sat on the bridge of his nose, and the same whistle he threw in his car earlier that morning hung from his mole-littered neck.
Although you werenât entirely sure, due to his sunglasses, you couldâve sworn Steve was looking at you just a mere second before. The perfect swoop of his hair had jolted the second you turned around.
This heat is getting to me. You thought.Â
There was no way in heaven, hell, or anywhere in between that Steve Harrington was staring at you. That wouldâve been the second time in less than twelve hours.
Shaking all the thoughts from your head, you walked towards the locker rooms, clutching the mountain of items in your arms.
You sat on the bench outside, waiting for everyone to meet you. Shortly after, all the boys came bustling through the doors of the boys' locker room.
âAlright,â You started, âI got all your stuff. Make sure itâs everything.â You pointed next to you on the bench.
All the boys took inventory of the things you grabbed, not noticing anything missing.
Lucas spoke, âWhereâs Erica?â He sounded congested, probably due to all the chlorine heâd ingested in just a few hours.
You pointed towards the bathroom. As soon as he turned his head, the door opened, and your little sister stalked out. The visor Lucas let her borrow was still on her head, shielding her face from the rays of the sun.
She walked over, looking exhausted.
But, despite that, she couldnât resist making a comment on what she noticed, âOur neighbor just loves to stare.â She muttered.
You squinted, this time not because of the sun, but because of confusion, âWhat?â
She elaborated, âSteve Harrington was staring at you. He'd better be lucky, we all know how to swim, or else someone couldâve drowned.â Erica scoffed.
This caused all the boys to snicker.
You shot them a warning look, no smile on your face this time. They all bristled and looked away, pretending not to hear what Erica said.
âHis job is to look around, Erica,â You rolled your eyes, âAnd what have I told you about being nosy?â You gently grabbed her arm and turned her towards the exit of the pool.Â
âGet in the car⌠all of you.â They listened to your command, strolling out of the gate that led to the parking lot.
You hopped in the driverâs seat and started driving back towards town. With every building that passed and every mile that was closer to home, you thought about what Erica said.
She was nosy and always managed to be in everyone's business but her own. But one thing you had to give your sister was that she was rarely ever wrong.
And if she was right about Steve Harrington watching you for the second time in one day, maybe she was right about the fact that you had been flirting with him earlier.
You just kept driving, focusing on the road. You took everyone home one by one until all that was left in the car were Sinclairs.
The house was quieter than usual when you finally pulled into the driveway.
Lucas had dragged himself inside, still damp, muttering something about Mike cheating during their underwater breath-holding contest. Erica trailed behind him, already halfway to her room before the car door had shut.
You lingered, just for a moment. Sitting in the driverâs seat, hands still on the wheel. You stared straight ahead at nothing in particular.
The sky had softened into that deep summer blue, the kind that only showed up after a long, hot day.
Fireworks were already starting somewhere in the distance. The faint pops and crackles echoed through Hawkins.
You exhaled, finally pushing the car door open. Praying your thoughts would slow as the night continued.Â
â
Later that evening, your neighborhood continued to buzz with celebration.
Families gathered in backyards, radios played too loudly, and every so often, a firework burst lit up the sky just enough to cast shadows across the houses.
You sat on the side of your house, tucked just out of view from the street. It was the spot you always came to when you were overthinking.
The only place where you didnât have to worry about Erica peeking through her window or Lucas clinging to you like a lost puppy.Â
You brought a cigarette to your lips, inhaling slowly. It wasnât a habit you were proud of. You were a varsity athlete and the eldest daughter of a well-respected man in town.
Everything about the habit screamed âirresponsible.â
But it helped take the edge off. The pressure. The expectations. The constant feeling that you had to prove something.
And you thought if you made the conscious decision to smoke, at least it was a choice that you made.
Something no one else could take credit for.
You exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the humid night air. You closed your eyes, feeling the exhaustion from the entire day creep up your spine.
You couldnât wait for your parents to get back. You missed them, almost as much as you missed practicing.
Selfishly, it felt nice to take a day for yourself. But you couldnât shake the feeling that it was the wrong thing to do.Â
Before you could continue down the rabbit hole of self-pity, you heard your last name cut through the silence.
âSinclair!â
You jumped so hard the cigarette slipped right out of your fingers.
âShit,â You scrambled, crushing it under your sneaker before whipping your head toward the voice.Â
It was Steve Harrington.
He was dressed differently from the last time you saw him. Gray sweatpants and a Hawkins Pool T-shirt.
You couldnât even muster up a sly comment about why the hell he was wearing sweatpants even in the nighttime heat.Â
All you could muster was a measly, âWhat is wrong with you?!â
He stood a few feet away, halfway between your yard and his, hands raised like he hadnât expected that reaction.
âRelax,â he whisper-yelled, glancing toward both houses. âYouâre gonna alert the whole neighborhood.â
You clutched your chest, still catching your breath. âYeah, and my siblings!â
You took a deep breath, releasing the grasp over your heart, âYou just took ten years off my life.â
Steve wanted to give you some sly comment. Something about how the cigarette was doing that all by itself. But who is he to chastise you for something he occasionally partakes in as well.
So, he simply shrugged and said, âYeah, well, maybe donât lurk in the shadows.â He took a few steps closer, closing the gap between your lawns so he was officially on your property.
You shot him a look. âIâm not lurking.â
You reached behind you, searching for your pack of Marlboro Golds, when you realized that was your last one. You sighed, defeated.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced that you werenât lurking. His eyes flicked briefly to the ground where youâd stomped out the cigarette.
âYou smoke?â he asked, nodding toward it.
You hesitated for half a second before crossing your arms. âYeah.â You admitted, âNot proud of it. Iâm trying to quit.â
Steve nodded slowly, like he respected that answer more than he expected to. âWell, good luck,â he said simply.
You nodded, not sure what else to say. A beat of silence settled between you.
It wasnât awkward this time around, just unfamiliar.
Steve shifted his weight, glancing up at the sky as another firework cracked in the distance. âSo⌠basketball.â
You let out a small huff of laughter. âYou want to talk about Basketball right now?â
âItâs a solid topic,â he defended. âYouâre pretty decent.â Steve raised his eyebrows, extending the compliment.
You studied him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was being genuine.
ââŚThanks,â you said, quieter this time.
He nodded, then kicked lightly at the grass. âI meant what I said earlier.â
You tilted your head, not entirely sure what he was referring to, âAbout what? You said a lot earlier.â You snickered.
He glanced at you, attempting at being offended but, there wasnât enough seriousness in his gaze.
âYour shot.â He leaned forward slightly, giving emphasis to his words.
Another pause.
Then, almost like he didnât mean to say it out loud, he said, âIâve seen you play before.â
That caught your attention. Your brows furrowed. âWhat?â
This wouldâve been the third time today you realized that Steve had been watching you.
It shouldâve creeped you out. If it were Randyâs son from down the street, you wouldâve run back inside. But you didnât.Â
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a lot less like the confident King Steve everyone knew. âNot like⌠all the time. Just, you know. Around.â
You narrowed your eyes slightly. âAround? Sounds like youâre the one lurking, Harrington.â
He sighed, realizing heâd dug himself into something. âNot much else to do when Iâm home but lurk.â
He stopped, but then continued, âItâs nice to not have to notice myself for once.â
You blinked.
That wasnât what you had expected. Twenty four hours ago, you werenât convinced Steve could have a conversation with a girl without trying to shove his tongue down her throat.Â
Now, you were talking like youâd been friends for years and werenât just neighbors.
âDo you even know my name, Steve Harrington?â For a second, he didnât say anything.
If it werenât so dark, you mightâve noticed the small flush of red that took over his face. All of a sudden, he felt himself getting shy.
He opened his mouth to respond, but you cut him off.
âY/N,â you said, matter of factly. Seemingly sparing him the embarrassment of getting it wrong.
Steve smiled a little; he already knew that. But, he pretended not to.
âYeah, I figured I should probably learn that at some point.â Steve cleared his throat.
You glanced back up at him. âYeah⌠itâs not like weâve been neighbors for years or anything.â
âHey,â he held his hands up again, âIâm working on it.â
A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Another firework lit up, briefly illuminating both of you in soft gold. Steve glanced up, admiring the beautiful color that adorned the night sky.
âIâm shocked youâre not throwing some big rager today. You know⌠to celebrate the fourth.â
âCanât.â He said, simply, âMy parents are home. I think my Dad would put my head on a stick if he knew I was planning to have people over.âÂ
This reminded you of the interaction you had that morning.
His Dad, stalking out of the house, looking disappointed. Steve took merely 2 seconds to talk to someone on his way to work, and Mr. Harrington acted as if someone had pissed in his morning cup of coffee.Â
Noting the silence, Steve looked at you again. This time, more seriously. He hesitated before finally asking, âYou ever think about playing after high school?â
The question caught you off guard. You decided to indulge him with basketball talk.
âAll the time,â you admitted. âThatâs kind of the point.â
He nodded slowly. âYeah.â Steveâs thoughts seemed to trail off.
You studied him, noticing how he was so engaged in conversation, yet he couldnât tear his eyes away from the blade of grass his shoe was touching. âWhat about you?â
He let out a quiet laugh and looked up, but there wasnât much humor in his eyes. âMy dad thinks I should be doing⌠everything.â
Steve sighed and stalked even closer, deciding to take a seat right next to you.
âEverything?â You shifted a little to the left, allowing him some more room on the seat.
âBasketball. Baseball. Swimming. Whatever looks good on paper.â He shrugged. âDoesnât really matter what I actually like.â
You leaned your head back against the siding. âSo what do you like?â
He hesitated. âIâŚ,â he stopped. Thoughts raced through his head.
âThatâs the funny thing,â he paused, âI donât really know.â
That made you frown a little. The perception you had of Steve before slowly started to crumble. You felt⌠sad for him.Â
âWell,â you began, âthatâs not necessarily a bad thing.â
He just stared at you, not quite sure what you meant, âMe not knowing what I want for my future is a good thing?â He asked, genuinely confused about the point you were trying to make.
âDonât put it like that,â you smiled.
âI just mean⌠youâre what, seventeen? About to be a Junior in High School? You donât have to have it all figured out right now. You canâŚyou knowâŚtake some time to figure out what you want.â
He scoffed lightly. âYeah. Itâs not that simple.â
âIt kind of is,â you shot back. âYou either do what you want,â you poked his shoulder, causing him to chuckle, âOr you spend your life doing what someone else wants.â
Steve looked at you like that answer surprised him. Like no one had ever said something that direct to him before. He rarely talked to a person who possessed enough emotional intelligence to provide comfort. Almost all the âfriendsâ he had in his life dismissed him.
He was well off, got moderately good grades, and drove a BMW at seventeen. All his problems seemed minuscule in comparison.
He never got the reassurance that maybe he didnât have to have the next 10 years of his life planned out to the tee.
He smiled, sincerely, âAre you always like this?â he asked, just staring at you.
âLike what?â You looked away, preferring to look into the night sky rather than share eye contact with Steve.
âHonest.â He deadpanned.
You shrugged, like it was nothing. âSaves time.â
He laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head, âNoted. Maybe Iâll try it,â he admitted.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no bite to it this time. Just simple amusement.
Another comfortable silence settled in. You two sat there for a few more moments. Not saying anything, just taking comfort in the othersâ presence.
Steve then glanced toward your house and the cigarette in the grass, then back at you.
âIâll replace that,â he said, nodding toward where the cigarette had been.
You shook your head immediately. âYou donât have to, seriously.â
âYou sure?â He questioned.
âIâm actually trying to quit,â you said, more firmly now. âAnd if Erica finds out, Iâm dead.â
âThat your sister?â he questioned, thinking back to the little girl he saw while he was watching you at the pool.Â
You nodded in response.Â
âYeah⌠she seems terrifying.â He chuckled, although he was being dead serious. He saw the way she stared at him, almost straight through his sunglasses.
You let out a laugh that you didnât mean to let escape. âYou have no idea.â
Steve stood up and slid his hands into his pockets. âAlright. No replacement then. Although you can change your mind.â
You nodded once.
He turned slightly toward his house, then paused.
ââŚY/N,â he said, almost to himself.
Still, you responded, âYeah?â
He looked back at you, a small grin forming. âEh, Sinclair has a better ring to it.â He admitted, clearly teasing to get a reaction out of you.
You stared at him for a second. Then smile, despite yourself. âGoodnight, Steve.â
âLater, Sinclair.â He walked back toward his house, disappearing inside with one final wave to you before the door shut behind him.Â
You stayed where you were for a moment longer.
Thinking.
You leaned your head back, looking up at the sky as another firework burst overhead.
And for the first time that day, you werenât thinking about basketball.
âyou always watch your neighbors like that, harrington, or am i special?â
in the fall of 1983, things start off rather normal. youâre captain of the womenâs varsity basketball team, and things are looking up. but thatâs until will byers goes missing, and everything you know as normal gets flipped on its head.
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
epilogue
an: i am so excited to start this fic! please please please be sure to comment and reblog :) id would adore to hear your feedback and thoughts <3
Stranger Things Rewrite (Steve Harrington x GirlNextDoor!Sinclair!Reader)
started: april 2026
âyeah well⌠if you ever need me, iâm just across the driveway.â
In the fall of 1983, youâre focused on basketball, your responsibilities, and keeping your little brother and his friends alive for the time being. But Steve Harrington, your neighbor, is determined to screw all that up.
season one
season two
season three
season four
season five
an: hellooooo! i am so excited to be writing again! for years, i've been wanting to write a stranger things rewrite and this idea popped into my head a few months ago, and i decided to see it through! i really hope you guys enjoy it!
