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.
read my stranger things rewrite here
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!
pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x fem!reader
summary: Dr. Jack Abbot is your closed-off, divorced neighbor across the hall—the 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 should’ve been your first warning.
The hallway always smelled faintly of old paint, somebody’s 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.
“Shit,” 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. You’d 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 hand—broad, veined, quick—snagged 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 he’d forgotten it was there. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times. There was color high in his cheeks from the cold outside, but it didn’t 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.
“Thanks,” you said, straightening too fast and nearly dropping your keys again.
His mouth flattened into something that wasn’t quite a smile and wasn’t quite annoyance either. “You always this coordinated?”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop yourself. “Only when there’s an audience.”
“Lucky me.”
His voice was low and rough, like he hadn’t 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.
“Thank you,” you said again, more steadily this time.
He gave one short nod, like the exchange had already lasted longer than he’d budgeted for, and pulled his own keys from his pocket. Apartment 4B. Yours was 4A. Across the hall. You’d 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.
“You should use both hands with the eggs,” 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.
You’d 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 else’s bullshit. You knew he was a doctor—emergency 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, she’d said, as if she’d 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 he’d 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.
“Great,” 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 he’d 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.
“There a reason your apartment’s screaming?” he asked.
Mortification flashed hot through you. “Oh my God.”
“Mm.”
“I was literally just trying to fix it.”
“Sounded successful.”
“Wow. Helpful.”
Another chirp shrieked behind you.
Jack’s 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.
“Battery,” he said.
“I know it needs a battery.”
“You have one?”
You hesitated.
His mouth tightened. “Of course you don’t.”
“I might.”
“You don’t.”
“I love how much faith you have in me.”
“I’m learning.”
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 he’d already taken stock of the whole apartment in one sweep.
He glanced at the chair under the detector.
“You were standing on that?”
“Yes.”
“That chair’s a lawsuit.”
“It has sentimental value.”
“So does every bad decision before it breaks your neck.”
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.
“Hold the chair,” he said.
“I thought the chair was a lawsuit.”
“It is. Hold it anyway.”
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.
“Eyes on the chair,” he said.
“My eyes are on the chair.”
“They’re not.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
“Yes.”
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.
“There,” he said. “Temporary peace.”
“Temporary?”
“It’s a smoke detector. It’ll find another reason to ruin your life.”
He stepped down, and you saw the muscle in his jaw jump before his foot hit the floor. The wince barely registered and would’ve been easy to miss if you hadn’t already been looking at him too closely. He straightened fully a second later like nothing had happened.
“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
His eyes flicked to yours. Cool. Guarded.
“Fine.”
It was such a reflexive answer that you almost laughed. Instead you just nodded slowly. “Right.”
He handed you the dead battery like it was evidence.
“You own a screwdriver?” he asked.
“Probably?”
“Helpful.”
You folded your arms. “You know, you could just accept that I’m a disaster and move on.”
“I had,” he said. “Then your smoke detector started screaming across the hall.”
You laughed in spite of yourself, and this time he didn’t 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.
“I’ll buy replacement batteries,” you said.
“Do that.”
“Thank you.”
He shrugged one shoulder as if gratitude was an unnecessary use of breath, then limped—not badly, but unmistakably now that you knew to look for it—toward the front door.
At the door, he paused.
“Don’t climb on that chair again,” he said.
“Yes, doctor.”
He gave you a look over his shoulder. “Cute.”
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, “Robby, if you’re calling to ask me to pick up another shift, the answer’s no,” in a tone so dry it bordered on impressive. He’d glanced up then, caught sight of you coming through the front doors, and ended the call with, “I gotta go.”
That one stuck with you for longer than it should have.
Robby existed, apparently. Robby got calls. Robby got more of Jack’s personality than the rest of the building did. There was something oddly comforting about that, about the fact that he wasn’t 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 wouldn’t get wet. You opened your own door just as Jack was stepping back across the hall.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you called.
“It was in the way,” 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 didn’t 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.
“You buying those for random neighbors now?”
“I bought two by accident.”
“Sure you did.”
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 meant—rarely, but sometimes—you’d get a whole sentence.
You also learned that he noticed more than he let on.
“Your tire’s low,” he said one evening as you both reached the parking lot.
You looked at him blankly. “What?”
“Front right.”
You turned to stare at your car. Sure enough, it looked a little sagged at one corner.
“How did you even—”
He was already walking away. “You want air in it, or you wanna keep driving on a rim?”
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, “Those are killing you.”
You blinked. “These are fine.”
“Mm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re limping.”
“I am not.”
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 he’d been running his hands through it for the last hour.
That image alone nearly wiped out your ability to form sentences.
“Sorry,” you said, because he was blocking just enough of the hall that slipping past him without speaking would’ve felt stranger. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He looked up. For half a beat, his face stayed blank.
Then he shifted the box more securely against his side. “You’re not.”
The top flaps hadn’t been folded all the way down.
Inside was a picture frame, face-up.
You didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Sorry,” you said again, quieter this time.
He nodded once. “Don’t be.”
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 he’d already started moving toward the stairwell, the box held tight against his ribs.
“Night,” he said.
“Night.”
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 hadn’t meant to see. About the ring mark you’d noticed once when he reached for his keys and then pretended you hadn’t. 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. You’d 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 wasn’t deep. Probably. But it was bleeding more than you liked, and after twenty minutes of rinsing, pressing, and muttering at yourself in the mirror, you’d started to feel lightheaded from looking at it.
Which was how you ended up on Jack Abbot’s 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 didn’t make a joke first.
“What happened?”
“I may have lost a fight with a strawberry container.”
He stared at you.
“It had really aggressive plastic.”
He stepped back immediately. “Come in.”
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 you’d imagined it would: orderly without being neat, practical without trying to be stylish. There was a cane leaning in the corner by the umbrella stand—not hidden, but not exactly displayed either. A pair of shoes lined up neatly by the wall. A kitchen that looked used, not decorative.
“Sit,” he said, already moving toward a drawer in the kitchen.
“I’m not dying.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“It’s just a cut.”
“Then you’ll survive me looking at it.”
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 you’d only seen in flashes before—assessing without panic, gentle without being soft about it.
“Not bad,” he said.
“See?”
“Still stupid.”
“I came here for medical care, not emotional violence.”
“That costs extra.”
You laughed, and his mouth twitched.
He cleaned the cut, ignoring your hiss when the antiseptic stung.
“Hold still.”
“I am.”
“You’re trying to climb out of your skin.”
“It burns.”
“It’s supposed to burn.”
“Awful bedside manner.”
“I’m off the clock.”
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 wasn’t. 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 wasn’t 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.
“Robby?” you guessed.
His gaze lifted sharply.
You shrugged. “Lucky guess.”
He answered. “What.”
A beat of silence.
“No.”
Another beat.
“I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
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.
“No, I heard you. I’m still not doing it.”
Another pause, then, with a quick glance at you, “No, I’m busy.”
Your eyebrows shot up.
His eyes narrowed a fraction, but the corner of his mouth moved.
“Goodnight, Robby.”
He hung up before the response could come through and tossed the phone onto the counter.
“Busy?” you said.
He taped the bandage down with a final, neat press. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
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 you’d had with him. Less brittle. Less likely to snap.
“You always work this much?” you asked.
“Pretty much.”
“That sounds miserable.”
“It is.”
“And yet you keep doing it.”
His shoulders shifted, not quite a shrug. “Somebody’s gotta.”
There was nothing self-important in the way he said it. No hero complex. Just fact.
You looked around the apartment again. “You like living here?”
He followed your glance, taking in his own place like he hadn’t really looked at it in a while.
“It’s quiet.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His eyes came back to yours.
“No,” he said after a second. Honest as a cut. “Not particularly.”
The admission hung there between you, simple and heavier than it should have been.
You looked down at the clean bandage around your thumb. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
You didn’t 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 you’d 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. “What.”
“You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt, you know.”
Everything in him went still.
Then he opened the door and said, not unkindly, “Go throw the strawberries away before they finish the job.”
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 hadn’t 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 wasn’t 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 you’d laughed at their stories and because it was late and because the hallway outside your apartment door was empty.
“Come on,” he said when you stepped back. “I’m not asking for a kidney.”
You kept your tone even. “I said goodnight.”
His hand landed lightly on your arm.
Every muscle in your body tensed.
“Hey,” he said, like you were overreacting already. “Don’t be like that.”
Something opened across the hall.
You hadn’t 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.
“Problem?” 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. “No problem.”
Jack didn’t move.
The limp was there, faint under the movement. So was the fatigue. Neither of them made him look smaller.
“Then take your hand off her,” he said.
The guy let go immediately.
A long second passed.
Your date—former date, obviously—gave a short, awkward laugh. “Didn’t realize there was a boyfriend.”
“There isn’t,” you said sharply.
Jack did not look at you.
“You didn’t need one to hear no,” he said to the man. “Leave without embarrassing yourself.”
That landed.
You saw it in the flush that climbed the guy’s 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.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” you said automatically.
His eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”
The adrenaline hit all at once, ugly and shaky and embarrassing. Your fingers wouldn’t stop trembling, so you curled them into your palms.
“I’m fine,” you said again.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m angry.”
“Yeah.” His voice was dry again, but there was something else under it now. Something tighter. “Come inside.”
You stared at him. “Jack—”
“Inside.”
It shouldn’t 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 hadn’t 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.
“Sit,” he said.
“I’m not hurt.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
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.
“Did he grab you anywhere else?”
The question was clinical in structure. The concern in it wasn’t.
“No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
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.
“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said.
“To who?”
“To him. To me. Somebody.”
A sharp laugh escaped you. “Sorry I didn’t schedule my hallway ambush more responsibly.”
His mouth tightened. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
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.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to break.”
A dozen responses rose to your tongue. The only honest one was, I don’t.
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. “I thought you hated me.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I risked my life on that rickety chair of yours.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s evidence.”
“Jack.”
His mouth twitched faintly, then settled again.
“No,” he said. “I don’t hate you.”
The apartment was so quiet you could hear the radiator tick.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you said.
His gaze held yours. “You talk too much.”
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.
“You were on a date,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. It also didn’t sound casual.
“Supposedly.”
“How’d that go.”
You gave him a look. “You were there for the ending.”
“Not what I asked.”
You swallowed. “It was fine. Until it wasn’t.”
He stared into his drink for a second, jaw flexing. “Guys like that count on you not wanting to make a scene.”
The line came out clipped and bitter, like experience speaking through someone who had seen too much of the world at its ugliest.
“You see that a lot?” you asked quietly.
His eyes came back to you. Tired. Older suddenly.
“Enough.”
There was so much packed into that one word that you didn’t touch it again.
Instead you looked down at the glass in your hands. “Thank you.”
“Don’t.”
“For stepping in.”
His voice lowered. “I said don’t.”
“Why?”
Because if he shut this down now—if he turned this back into one of those careful, spare exchanges in the hallway—you thought it might actually hurt.
He exhaled through his nose. Looked away. Then back.
“Because,” he said, “you saying it like that makes it sound like I did you some huge favor.”
“You did.”
“No. I acted like a decent human being for thirty seconds.”
“You don’t have to downplay everything.”
“And you don’t have to make a whole thing out of it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, stubborn as stone.
“You’re very dramatic for someone who lost a fight with a strawberry container.”
“I was wounded.”
His mouth twitched.
“You needed a band-aid.”
“A medically supervised band-aid.”
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.
“You’re still shaking,” he said.
“I know.”
He leaned forward, setting his drink aside. “Come here.”
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 wrist—not 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.
That’s 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 wasn’t pretending anymore that he didn’t 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 didn’t.
You whispered, “Jack.”
His jaw tightened.
“Don’t,” he said again.
This time it didn’t 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.
“I’m saying thank you,” you murmured.
“No, you’re not.”
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.
“If you’re gonna do something,” he said, voice low and rough, “do it.”
You kissed him.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t 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 he’d kept behind his teeth.
For half a second, Jack went still.
Then he made a sound against your mouth—low, rough, almost unwilling—and 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 he’d had all year.
“Tell me to stop,” 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 else—focused, 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.
“This is a bad idea,” he said.
“Probably.”
His forehead tipped briefly to yours, a rough almost-laugh leaving him. “You’re not helping.”
“I don’t think you want help.”
“No,” he said, and there was nothing guarded in it at all. “I don’t.”
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 he’d finally stopped pretending he didn’t 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. “Your leg—”
“Still attached.”
“Jack.”
He looked at you, flushed and breathless and a little furious at the interruption. Beautiful in a way that made your chest ache.
“I’m fine,” 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 then—surprise, 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 he’d 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.
“Jack,” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
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 couldn’t have said exactly how. Only that he got there with you in the same deliberate way he did everything—without 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 they’d slipped loose on your shoulders. He caught your hand.
“Let me,” 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. “You okay, doctor?”
His gaze lifted, dark and direct. “Not even close.”
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 him—sweat 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 changed—shorter, 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 throat—open-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."
"Jack—"
"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 feel—" 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 hear—"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 it—hot and deep, filling you—and 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, “You okay?”
The question was so Jack it made your throat tighten.
You tilted your face up just enough to look at him. “Yeah.”
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. “You?”
He huffed a tired laugh. “Ask me in eight hours.”
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 Jack’s 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 Jack’s 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, “Morning.”
The single word held no awkwardness. No retreat. Just the roughness of sleep and coffee not yet fully doing its job.
“Morning,” you echoed.
He nodded toward the mug already waiting on the counter. “That one’s yours.”
You walked over and wrapped both hands around it, grateful for the heat.
“You always do this?” you asked.
“Make coffee?”
“Pretend everything’s normal.”
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.
“This is normal,” he said. “It’s coffee.”
You laughed softly.
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen and snorted.
“Robby?” you asked.
“Unfortunately.”
He let it ring out and reached for his own mug instead.
That little choice—small, casual, almost nothing—lodged 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.
“What.”
“You’re limping.”
“I always limp.”
“More.”
He took a sip of coffee, unbothered on purpose. “Occupational hazard.”
“You should take it easy today.”
His eyebrows went up. “Take it easy.”
“Yes.”
“After you brought chaos into my home?”
You smiled into your mug. “I brought questionable romantic choices and emotional growth.”
“That was not emotional growth.”
“No?”
“No.” He set his mug down. “That was you bringing home a man who thought ‘goodnight’ meant opening negotiations.”
You laughed hard enough that he finally smiled—really 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.
“There’s a spare key with the super,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“For your apartment.” He leaned one hip against the counter, face unreadable again in that deliberate way of his. “But if you keep locking yourself out, or your smoke detector starts screaming, or some idiot follows you home again—”
He stopped there, like the list had already said more than he’d intended.
Your pulse picked up.
“Then what?” you asked quietly.
His gaze held yours.
“Then knock on my door first.”
The words settled between you with more weight than any declaration could have.
Not dramatic. Not polished. Not easy.
Just true.
You swallowed. “Okay.”
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 you’d had yesterday.
Here, in 4B, Jack Abbot leaned against his counter, tired and sharp-edged and impossible, looking at you like he’d finally stopped being decent about wanting you.
And that was the trouble with good neighbors—they 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. That’s 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. “Weren’t you supposed to be quitting?” He gestured towards you.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, smoke trailing with it. “I’m surprised you remember that.” You gave him a drained smirk, not expecting to entertain the conversation for much longer. Something in his expression tightened at that, “What, you think I’m just an asshole?”
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! I’m actually so happy with how this chapter turned out! This is 100% the longest thing I have ever written. I’m 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 Harrington’s BMW, starting tore through the peaceful ambience of your room.
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.
You slowly sat up, wiping your mouth of any drool that might’ve escaped during your post-practice nap. The one that your little siblings always refer to as your “daily coma.”
The sound of tires slowly moving on the pavement encouraged you to sit up. Your window didn’t need to be open for you to know that that was the sound of Steve leaving.
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 didn’t. Couldn’t.
The basketball in the corner of your room hovered, almost like a cosmic force watching your every move. 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.
“Shit,” you sighed. You didn’t 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 didn’t.
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. “Light bulb is broken, needs to be replaced. Can maybe grab one after practice tomorrow.”
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 weren’t 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.
“Hey,” You greeted, taking another mindless sip of your water. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed.“You know you’re supposed to be asleep, right?”
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, “... Really?”
Erica stuttered, “I-I was watching this.” She pointed at the screen.
“Okay,” you raised your hands in surrender, “Don’t have to convince me, kiddo. Only gotta convince yourself.” 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, “Whoo!” 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, “Lucas! There’s like a million more bottles in the fridge, asshole.”
“Uh uh,” He chastised, “You can’t cuss in here.” He took every opportunity to remind you that when your parents were home, you had to be on your best behavior. It’s not like you sold drugs from your garage when your parents were out of town. You simply just had a loose tongue.
“I’m telling!” Erica chimed in from the couch, standing up and practically bolting upstairs towards your parents' room.
You knew better than that. She wasn’t actually going to say anything to your parents, at least that’s what you hoped. Erica just took the first chance she could to get out of there before you told Lucas about her watching something “nerdy.”
“Sorry,” Lucas apologised, still out of breath from his bike ride home.
“It’s whatever.” You shrugged it off, “Did you run a marathon or something?” 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.
Lucas quickly got the memo and answered your question, “I raced Dustin and Will home.” He admitted.
“You win?” You raised an eyebrow, curious.
“Yeah...” 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, “Well... I almost did.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He leaned against the counter, launching into a half-detailed explanation about turns, shortcuts, and how Dustin “cheated somehow.” You only half listened, grabbing a slice of leftover pizza from the fridge and taking a bite.
You paused mid-chew when Lucas ranted, “…and Will wiped out for like, a second. He’s fine though—”
“Wait. Did they get home okay?” You questioned.
Although Dustin, Mike, and Will weren’t 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 didn’t care.
Lucas shrugged, already moving toward the hallway, trying to rid himself of the possibility of being lectured by you. “Probably.”
“Lucas.” You warned, hoping he’d pivot back.
“I don’t know, Y/N!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m gonna shower.” 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 didn’t hear any running water, nor did you see a light peaking from underneath the door.
“Take a shower, my ass.” 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 Honor’s 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 wasn’t 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. You’d see him in the hallways at school, surrounded by Tommy H, Carol, and whatever groupie he was slinging along for the week. He’d 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 you’d 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, “Stop, dude! I really needed the bathroom, I’m sorry!”
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. She’d 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.
You exited, enveloped in a towel, and finished your nighttime routine.
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 Erica’s room, then Lucas’, 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t quite shake.
Where was he going this late?
You didn’t get an answer. Sleep took you before you could.
—
The following morning hit you like a truck.
Sleep came easily the night before, but it didn’t stay that way for long. The constant tossing and turning, mixed with the unsettling feeling in the night air, you couldn’t seem to find solace in the confines of your bed.
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.
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.
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, “Mom! Lucas is hogging the cereal again!”
“What!” He exclaimed, “The new G.I. Joe comic book is hidden somewhere in here, I can feel it in my bones.” 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 Lucas’ lunches.
You promptly stood up and headed for the kitchen, closing the gap by passing it to her, “I can finish this.” You said quietly so as not to disrupt her conversation on the phone.
She sighed, sending you a quick, “Thank you,” while the palm of her hand covered the transmitter.
You didn’t want to be nosey, you really didn’t. It was something you chastised Erica on a daily basis for. However, you couldn’t 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, “There’s no need to panic, Joyce. I’m sure Will just spent the night at the Wheelers’. You know how they are, they get carried away and are then too tired to bike home.”
The sandwich you were putting in Erica’s 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, “Yeah, I’ll ask Lucas.” She tore her ear away from the phone and asked, “Lucas, honey? Did Will spend the night at Mike’s?”
His head shot up from his bowl of cereal, his mouth almost completely full. Lucas managed to huff out a quick, “Uh-uh,” before directing his attention back to his newfound comic book.
Your mom sighed, a look of, well, you couldn’t quite tell. It wasn’t exactly fear. But it wasn’t the most reassuring look you’d want to see on the face of a mom trying to reassure a friend that her kid wasn’t 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.
“Look, Joyce,” she began, “I can assure you, Will is just fine. He’s probably already halfway to school right now.”
“I’m running a bit late for work.” She paused and was seemingly met with something from Ms.Byers. It didn’t seem to be exactly what she wanted to hear, but she pressed on, “I know, I know. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, okay?”
The end of the conversation came soon after. Your mother put the phone back in its place and sighed.
“Y/N, can you take Erica to school today?” 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.
“What? She can’t bike?” You asked, confused.
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, couldn’t. Attendance was something that Hawkins High’s 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.
“I’m sure you heard,” your mom reached over to the coffee pot and poured a glass into her thermos, “But apparently Will Byers didn’t come home last night.”
Of course, you heard. It was hard not to. Joyce’s frantic energy now littered your kitchen, nearly seeping into your skin.
You shakily replied, “What?”
Will is a sensitive boy. He cries more times than he likes to admit, and he’s definitely the most soft-spoken boy out of everyone in The Party. But he’s responsible and smart enough to know to call home if his plans changed even an inch.
The slight annoyance at your mom’s request was washed away. You didn’t 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.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Joyce,” she began, tearing her attention away from her coffee and onto you, “Right now, there’s no need to worry. I’m sure he slept at one of the kids' places and forgot to call. But either way, I’d like you to take her, okay?”
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 didn’t want to say anything to contradict your mother. After all, she was most likely right.
“Y-yeah,” you stuttered, nodding your head, “Yeah, I can take her.”
She gave you a sincere smile, “Thank you, sweetie. It helps a lot.” She placed a kiss on your temple, and gathered the remainder of her things, “Okay, I’m running behind for work, I gotta run. I’ll see you tonight after practice, yeah?”
“Yes, ma’am.” 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 didn’t hear anything.
Erica, on the other hand, perked up from her breakfast, “What’s going on?” she questioned, the same look your mother had on her face earlier was atop hers. She didn’t look scared, but she seemed concerned and intrigued.
“Nothing,” You gave Erica a smile, and headed back towards the kitchen table, grabbing your bag from its seat, “Looks like I’m taking both of you to school this morning.”
“Shit!” 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, “Sorry, cliffhanger.” 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, “Let’s go, birdbrains. I don’t wanna be late.”
At this, both of your siblings rose from their seats and placed their bowls in the sink. Normally, you’d 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 didn’t have the time to even spare a second.
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.
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.
Steve’s 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:
Did Steve even come home last night?
And.
Where the hell is Will Byers?
—
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.
“Hey, Y/N?” He began.
You hummed in response, not tearing your eyes from the road but wanting to signal to him that you were indeed listening.
“Why was Mom asking me about Will this morning?” 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. Clark’s class, and your little brother could remain none the wiser.
You were thankful you were driving and didn’t have to look Lucas in the eyes. He would immediately sense that maybe something was wrong. Instead, you just said, “It’s probably nothing; no one has seen him this morning.”
Lucas let out a small huff, but you continued, “I’m sure he just got up early for school, or something. Aren’t you supposed to be doing that thing with Mr. Clark today? I’m sure he’s just antsy.”
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.
“Oh yeah!” Lucas perked up, “The Heathkit is supposed to be here soon. I’m hoping it’s today.”
You smiled, successfully getting Lucas’ mind off of the small, maybe even microscopic chance that anything bad might’ve 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.
“You hear the neighbor's car start last night?” Lucas spoke, abruptly pulling you from your thoughts that undoubtedly would’ve 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 didn’t know the weight of his words.
“Yeah,” you sighed, giving in to the pivot of conversation. Anything to tear his attention away from Will. “I did, it’s actually what woke me up.” You continued.
Lucas chuckled, “Yeah, I noticed your ‘daily coma’ was going on for longer than usual. You were still asleep when I left for Mike’s house.”
“Speaking of Mike, and our neighbor,” 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, “Mike told me that Nancy… you know Nancy, right?”
You scoffed, “Of course I know Nancy. Who else do you think understands how stressed I get running around after all you hooligans?”
You knew Nancy Wheeler, and honestly, quite well. As Mike’s older sister, you saw her frequently. Sometimes, you’d even eat lunch with her at school when you didn’t feel like being bothered by the other girls on your team.
“Okay… ouch,” He paused, “Anyway, Mike told me that Nancy is dating our neighbor, Steve Harrington. I guess I don’t have to ask you if you know who Steve Harrington is?” Lucas finished.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You bit back, a hell of a lot quicker than you should’ve.
You released your grip on the wheel, realising that you just snapped at your brother by accident, “Sorry, just… long morning.” You huffed.
“I just meant, you know, we’ve been living next to him for at least my entire life. Don’t go reading into it, Y/N.” 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.
“Yeah, that’s 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.” Lucas explained, gathering all of his stuff to prepare to exit the car.
“Hmm,” 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.
You liked to imagine that Steve was rolling out of bed to drive down to Tommy H’s 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.
“Relax, Y/N, you almost sound bitter.” Lucas teased, sticking his tongue out before flinging open the door to run out before you could hit or berate him.
“You little-” You started, but were cut off by the sound of your passenger’s side door closing shut. You watched Lucas speedwalk into school, giving you one final wave before disappearing inside.
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.
You sighed, hoping that helping out your Mother this morning didn’t 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 didn’t realize that, instinctively, your eyes found Steve’s 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 you’d 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t even say anything. You assumed that your Mom had called the school and told them that you’d 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 Lucas’ 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 couldn’t have been made any clearer, even if it smacked you right in the head.
Nancy or Barbara must’ve noticed your looming presence, because they both turned around, clearly started, “Jesus, Y/N.” Barb gasped, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Nancy’s brown hair whipped, and she turned to face you, clutching the note to her chest, “Gosh,” she started, “Hey, Y/N. I didn’t even hear you come up.”
“Yeah,” you laughed, dryly, “Light on my feet, perks of being on the basketball team, I guess.” 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 wasn’t 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.
“What’s that you got there?” You raised your eyebrows.
“N-Nothing.” She stuttered, shaking her head.
Your glance shifted to Barbara, who had somewhat of a smirk on her face, “It’s a love note… from Steve.” She dragged out the “e” to give it emphasis.
“Oh, quit it, Barb. It’s not a love note. I’m sure he just wants to talk.” Nancy turned around to shut her locker, but you didn’t miss the pink hue that flushed her cheeks before you lost sight of her face.
“Sure, and I’m not a mathlete. I mean, it’s pretty obvious he’s in love with you.” She rebutted, “I mean, Y/N, you live next to him, don’t you? I’m sure you hear him coming back from sucking faces with Nancy for hours after her parents go to bed.”
At the same time, Nancy said, “Barbara!” 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 couldn’t tell if the feeling in your stomach was acceptance, fully digesting the answer, or jealousy.
You weren’t ready to decipher that just yet.
“Oh, so you’re the reason why I’m woken up every single night by the sound of that stupid engine?” You faked a smile, and Nancy returned one.
“What? No! I’m not sure what you two are on about, but you need to stop, okay?”
“Alright, alright,” You raised your hands in surrender, “I actually came over here to ask you a question.”
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.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Nancy took a step closer, anticipating the question.
“Did Will spend the night at your house? My Mom talked to Ms. Byers this morning, and she seemed really worried. Apparently, Will didn’t come home last night.”
“N-No, I don’t think he did. I mean, I would’ve heard them making all that noise from the basement, I’m sure of it.” Her eyes strayed from your face and looked around the hallway, thinking, “Is he okay?”
“I’m sure he’s 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. It’s supposed to be coming in today…”
You found yourself rambling just like your brother was earlier, but you steered the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Anyway, I wouldn’t worry. Nothing crazy happens in Hawkins.”
“Yeah, it’s so boring,” Barb added in from next to Nancy.
“Yeah,” you both seconded.
Before anyone else could say anything, you noticed as Steve Harrington walked right past all of you and towards the girls' bathroom. Inconspicuous wasn’t 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. Steve’s 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, “I-I gotta use the bathroom, powder my nose. Will I see you guys at lunch? Are you sitting with us, Y/N?”
“Uh,” you paused, “No, I saw Helen earlier. I might run some plays by her before practice tonight. Maybe tomorrow?” You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling bad for not sitting with Barbara and Nancy, but you really didn’t feel like spending the only 45 minutes you don’t have in class hearing about how good a kisser ‘King Steve’ is.
“Okay,” 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.
After he was out of view, Nancy looked at you and said softly, “I wouldn’t worry about Will, okay. I’m sure he’s fine.” She gave you a tight-lipped smile before closing the gap between her and the bathroom door, looking both ways to “check her surroundings” 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, “See you later, yeah?”
“Yeah! Bye, Y/N.” 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 you’d curse yourself for that later. This was the only time you had to eat before basketball practice after school. But you didn’t 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, Will’s older brother, because he took photos for the yearbook occasionally.
You didn’t 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.
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 couldn’t 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, “Ms. Sinclair,” she began, “You’re wanted in the principal's office… down at the Middle School.” 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 wasn’t foreign. Only this time, you weren’t dribbling a basketball on a court; you were being pulled out of class for a reason completely unbeknownst to you.
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, “Excuse me, sir.” You cleared your throat, “What’s this about?”
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 wasn’t perfect.
Mr. Finnick simply replied, “I’d get over there as soon as you can, Ms. Sinclair.”
—
The walk to Hawkins Middle seemed to last forever, as if your legs were moving in slow motion.
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.
“Hey, hey,” The chief leaned forward in his seat, “One at a damn time.” He said, clearly fed up with listening to the boys bantering.
“Ahem,” 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 Mike’s shoulders visibly relaxed at seeing you.
The lead officer, on the other hand, sighed, “And who the hell is this?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, clearly irritated at everyone and everything in the room.
“My sister.” Lucas said matter-of-factly at the same time Mike and Dustin proclaimed, “Y/N.”
The principal perked up from his chair and continued to explain, “This 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 Mike’s sister, Nancy.”
Great. Nancy’s somewhere getting hot and heavy with Steve while I’m ushered out of class in some goddamn spectacle. You thought, but didn’t dare say.
“Alright, have a seat, kid.” 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.
“As I was saying,” Hopper paused, “What the hell is Mirkwood?”
You smiled lightly, knowing all too well the boys' clever nicknames for places around town. “Mirkwood. It’s a real road. It’s just the name that’s made up. It’s where Cornwallis and Kerly meet.” Mike explained.
The sheriff now leaned back in his chair, seemingly understanding, “Alright, I think I know that place.” He directed his gaze to the deputy sitting to his right.
“We can show you if you want!” Mike perked up, eager as ever.
“I said that I know it.” The chief squawked. You could only imagine how much he had to listen to the boys bicker before you arrived. If you weren’t so tense right now, you would’ve told him to cut them some slack, but you stayed silent, not wanting to make his irritation any worse.
“We can help look!” Mike announced, followed by an enthusiastic, “Yeah,” from Dustin.
“No.” You and Hopper started at the same time.
“If I may,” you directed your attention to the officers. Hopper gestured his hand out, giving you the floor, “I know you guys wanna help. Hell, I do too.” You paused.
“But, we can’t interfere, okay? We want to find Will, not give them more kids to look for.” 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, “Where were you 15 minutes ago?” He questioned to himself. He was surprised at how easily you reigned in the boys. They couldn’t seem to give a direct answer before you entered the room.
“After school, you three are to go home immediately. That means no biking around, looking for your friend. No investigating, no nonsense. This isn’t some Lord of the Rings book.” He finished, looking rather sternly at the boys.
“The Hobbit.” 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.
Instead, Lucas bit, “Shut up!” 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.
“Hey!” You spat, “Listen to the man.” 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.
“Do I make myself clear?” He asked, but was met with no response.
“Answer him.” You instructed, to which they promptly replied, “Yes, sir.”
However, the chief of police didn’t seem too convinced. He turned his attention towards you, “C’mon, outside.” He started towards the door, and you swiftly followed.
Exiting the principal’s 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 couldn’t. Not yet.
“I assume you’ll be more cooperative than those 3?” Hopper asked, humorously. Although there were no signs of joking on his face.
“Yes.” You replied simply.
He let out a deep sigh before starting, “Those boys seem to listen to you. A hell of a lot more than they listened to me.”
You smiled, “Didn’t always used to be that way.”
You thought back to when the boys were younger, maybe Erica’s age. They wouldn’t even glance in your direction when you told them to do something. “I think the only reason why they listen is that they’d have to bike miles every weekend if I didn’t drive ‘em.” You explained.
Hopper hummed, acknowledging what you had said before continuing, “Whatever the reason, they listen. I can barely handle one concerned mother, let alone three, alright? I need you to make sure they don’t do anything stupid, okay. At least til I can get a handle on things.” He directed.
“Y-yeah, I can do that.”
“Alright, now get back to class, okay.” He placed a hand on your shoulder and gave you a curt nod before turning and heading back into the office.
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 hadn’t 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 must’ve 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. You’d 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 hadn’t 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. Hopper’s questions. The boy’s eagerness to help.
Your stomach twisted in agony. It was the lack of food, mixed with the frantic feeling that things weren’t going to resolve themselves as you had hoped.
You barely noticed where you were going until you almost smacked right into someone.
“Whoa,” the voice exclaimed, “Watch it, Y/N.”
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Carol Perkins stood in front of you, one hand pressed dramatically to her chest as if you’d just assaulted her. Tommy H leaned against the lockers beside her, already smirking like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
You blinked, pulling yourself back into the present. “Didn’t run into you, did I?”
“Almost,” Carol said, smoothing down her hair. “Would’ve been tragic.”
Tommy snorted. “Yeah, Hawkins High loses its star athlete before the season really starts. Real headline material.”
You gave a humorless chuckle, “Now that would’ve been tragic.”
Carol gave a tight smile, although it was laced with pure judgment and venom, “We heard you got pulled out of class.” She prodded, wanting to hear more about your trip to the middle school.
Of course they did.
You didn’t 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.
“Everyone’s heard,” Tommy added, pushing off the lockers and stepping a little closer. “Police and everything. What’d you do? Finally snap?”
You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re not funny, not even a little bit, Tommy.” You shot at him.
“Ouch,” he mocked, placing a hand over his heart as if you’d stabbed him. “Y/N’s got claws today.”
“She always does,” 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.
“Tommy,” he said, nodding once. “Carol.”
Then those brown eyes flicked to you. If you weren’t so lost in your own thoughts, you would’ve noticed how they were sparkling in almost the same way they were when he was looking at Nancy earlier.
“Hey, Sinclair.” Steve greeted.
Something in your chest shifted. Just slightly. You didn’t 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 hadn’t expected just a few brief moments earlier. Assuming acknowledging him would make you actually vomit.
Tommy smirked, breaking the silent tension, “We’re just talking.” He shrugged
“Ahh, Carol’s favorite activity,” 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. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah,” Tommy added, though his tone still had an edge. “Just curious.” He smirked and leaned forward towards you, emphasising your presence.
Steve tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a second. Then he shrugged. “Let’s be curious somewhere else.”
It wasn’t aggressive. Not at all, actually.
But it was said with just enough force that they both got the hint.
Tommy scoffed under his breath, throwing his hands up like it wasn’t worth it. “Alright.” 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.
“I’ll see y’all in a second,” 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.
“Didn’t know you were into charity work now.” You stated, biting the inside of your cheek to stop the onset of screams.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, “No, not charity work. Just thought I’d save you from Tommy’s stand-up routine.” He tilted his head in the direction they had just walked, his hair nearly falling into his eyes.
“I don’t need saving, Steve. I had it handled.” You defended.
“I know.” He replied, although you could tell he didn’t fully believe you.
It didn’t 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 “calm and focused athlete” 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 he’d slipped back into a version of himself that fit better around other people.
“Alright, then,” 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. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, he stepped back. “Well, I’ve got class,” Steve stated the obvious.
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.
“Right, me too.” You gripped the straps of your bookbag so tightly that your fingers had almost lost their feeling.
“See you around, Sinclair.” 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 weren’t 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 didn’t 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.
And you had a sneaky feeling that maybe, he chose wrong.
—
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 couldn’t outrun.
“Sinclair! Focus!” Coach Moore’s 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 couldn’t quite catch. Although you didn’t care to.
“Again!” 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.
“Sinclair!” Coach Moore’s harsh voice almost reverberated off the bleachers, speaking its way into your eardrums.
“I know,” you muttered under your breath, already turning, and resetting, trying to catch up. But you couldn’t… 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.
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 “Sinclair,” 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, “Again!” 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.
“Okay, okay,” Coach Moore ran a tired hand over her face, “Take five!” 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 didn’t feel like it filled your lungs enough, while sweat dripped down your temples.
Your heart was beating so fast, you felt like you could’ve 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, “What the hell, Sinclair?!” 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, “Where’s your head at, dude?” She questioned, her permed hair pulled into a ponytail, emphasizing the harsh features on her face.
“Save it, D. I know, I’m playing like shit, my feet are too slow, my hands aren’t catching any passes. I know.”
“Save the pity party for someone who actually gives a shit.” 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, “For Y/N Sinclair, this isn’t just a bad day. It’s something else entirely. The Twilight Zone.”
Dana’s voice cut through your imagination, “You are one of the best players on this team, easily. So, why aren’t you acting like it? What the hell is wrong?”
You sighed heavily, “W-Will Byers is missing. And ever since I found out, I’ve been a wreck. Nothing seems to be going my way, and…” You paused.
“Go on.” She encouraged.
“I’m worried. W-worried that something bad, like really bad, happened to him. He’s just a kid, you know. I’m 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?” You explained.
Frusturated tears began to well in your eyes. But you didn’t dare let any one of them slip. Dana noticed this and put a comforting hand on your shoulder, “No, I totally get it. You’re scared about your friend. Shit, if one of the kids I babysat went missing, I think I’d pull my hair out.”
You giggled at this, not even wanting to imagine what she looked like without her signature perm, “But you can’t do anything. At least not right now, okay? Practice is almost over today; what’s done is done. But you can’t let these feelings, this-this mindset seep into tomorrow.”
It seemed like Dana was the only person with some sense you had talked to all day. She made an excellent point, “Thanks. I-I really needed to hear that.”
“Of course,” she took a beat, “Now let’s finish strong, alright?”
You nodded in response.
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 couldn’t help the thought that slipped in anyway.
What if it wasn’t?
Completely unbeknownst to you, your brother was halfway across town, back home. He was talking on his walkie-talkie with Dustin and Mike, “Guys, I’m serious,” Lucas whispered into the walkie as he paced back and forth across the room. “We can’t just wait like sitting ducks, we gotta look for him.”
Static crackled from his end, then Dustin spoke, “You heard what Hopper said,” his voice came through, uneven but trying to sound steady. “The police are handling it.”
Lucas stopped pacing just long enough to scoff.
“They don’t know Will like we do!” He exclaimed, trying to convince Dustin that they’d 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, “We go out. Tonight.”
Lucas’ 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.
“…Yeah,” he said finally.
Quieter. But firmer.
“Yeah, we do.”
—
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 would’ve 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 didn’t 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.
“Erica? Lucas?” you whisper-yelled, your voice echoing slightly through the house.
“In here!” 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 didn’t 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.
“Where’s Lucas?” You questioned, eyes scanning the living room for him.
“I dunno, I’m not his keeper.” She replied sassily, not tearing her eyes away from her magazine.
“Erica.” Your voice was silent and steady. As steady as it had been since you left for school this morning. You didn’t have time for her pithy remarks or sass. You wanted an answer.
“He’s in his room.” 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 didn’t fight it, “Don’t stay up too late,” you said, your voice softer now.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. That’s typical Erica.
You lingered for half a second longer before turning away, heading upstairs towards Lucas’ 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 he’d realize it was you and open up, but you were met with nothing.
You exhaled, “I love you, birdbrain.” Of course, he didn’t want to talk. If today had been unbearable for you, you could only imagine what it had been for him. If it weren’t so late, you would’ve 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 hadn’t done since the summer Steve caught you, embarrassingly, outside. You already knew what you wanted to do before you even rose from your bed.
—
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 wasn’t 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 hadn’t 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 Steve’s 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 hadn’t 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, “Sinclair,” as his greeting.
You lifted the cigarette slightly, tilting your head. “Nancy, huh?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“You’re dating Nancy Wheeler?”
He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly didn’t know where to put his hands. “Well… we’re not exactly dating yet, I guess, but... I mean… yeah.”
You nodded once before taking another drag, refusing to say anything. It wouldn’t have been productive. You didn’t 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 weren’t very close.
But something about her with Steve Harrington didn’t seem right. She wasn’t 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. “Weren’t you supposed to be quitting?” He gestured towards you.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, smoke trailing with it. “I’m surprised you remember that.” You gave him a drained smirk, not expecting to entertain the conversation for much longer.
Something in his expression tightened at that, “What, you think I’m just an asshole?”
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 couldn’t even throw him a bone, “I’ve had a long fucking day, Steve,” you said, your voice quieter now, but heavier. “Just let me sit here in peace, please.”
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 should’ve figured how terribly it was tearing you up inside.
He spoke softly, “You worried about the Byers kid?”
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, “You hear about that?”
He shrugged. “Whole town’s talking. Heard you got pulled out of class.”
You let out a dry, tired laugh. “Fuck. How fast does shit spread in this damn town?” 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.
“I couldn’t focus in practice,” you continued. “Completely screwed up a play. Lucas is locked in his room, and I’m sure his friends are freaked out too.” 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.
“So yeah,” you finished, quieter now, “I just needed a cigarette.”
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.
“I’m really sorry about Will,” he said finally. “I mean that, Y/N. They’re gonna find him. Just try not to worry.”
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 wasn’t possible. You figured Steve was tired and didn’t 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. “Thanks.”
Steve shifted his weight, then added, a little lighter, “Hey… if you decide not to quit just yet, I still owe you that cigarette.”
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it, “What a gentleman.”
“Goodnight.”
“Later, Sinclair.”
He didn’t look back as he entered his house.
—
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 weren’t jealous; there was no need for you to be. You didn’t 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, “Hello?” You called out. It was stupid. Of course, someone breaking into your house at night wouldn’t 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.
“Dude.” 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 wasn’t calm.
You stared at him, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins.
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 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.
𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩: fluff, with a side of making out. a little bit of cussing. Steve and reader are college age. 3.8k words
“Son of a bitch.” Dustin mutters beside you.
“Language,” you remind him, but the reprimand falls flat. You’re too busy staring at rainbow grenade parked in your driveway.
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.
And you know exactly who to blame.
Your watch beeps, sending a thread of panic through you. “God! I’ve got to get to my test!” You hitch your backpack higher and start toward the car. “Why does it have to be today? Of all the days!”
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 driver’s side door handle suspiciously, as if it might succumb to all that internal pressure and pop off before you can reach it.
“Well it is April Fools today,” Dustin offers unhelpfully. “So…at least he’s punctual.”
“Not helping,” you grit out, finally wrenching open the door.
A shriek catches in your throat as an avalanche of balloons spills out, bouncing across the ground in every direction.
“How did he even do this?” Dustin says in awe, kicking at a pink balloon drifting past. “It’s kind of impressive. It must’ve taken him forever.”
“God, I hope he’s stumbling all over campus right now, dizzy from lack of oxygen. Oh my God—look! They’re all over the street. Dustin, go catch them.”
“Hey, I’ve got to get to school, too!” he says, gesturing towards his backpack. “Better drive fast.”
You check the time on your watch, batting a ballon from your face. “Ah, shit, there’s no time. Okay, listen, go call Nancy. She’s student-teaching the freshmen at your high school now, right? If you ask her right now, she’ll probably have enough time to swing by and pick you up.”
“No,” Dustin groans. “I don’t want to call Nancy! Her car smells like a perfume bomb went off, and she’ll just lecture me the whole way about turning in my homework on time.”
You ignore his complaints, attempting to forge your way into the driver’s seat. Balloons slide over your head as you push through, the static promptly ruining your fresh blowout.
“And to think all I was going to do to him this year was tape over his mixtapes,” you mutter, glancing back to meet your brother’s eyes. “Dustin…this means war.”
“Oh, shit!” He grins, readjusting his hat like he’s gearing up for the battle ahead. “What are you gonna do to him?”
“I don’t know,” you say, shoving your backpack into the passenger seat with all your might. “But I swear, if I miss this test, Steve Harrington is going to pay.”
“Do you know how long it takes to get rid of a hundred balloons?” You complain to Robin later that afternoon.
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.
“You can’t just…take them out,” you continue. “Oh, no. Because then they all fly away in the wind, absolutely littering the road. And it takes so long to chase them down—don’t 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.”
She grimaces, picking up Alien 2 and sliding it into its place.
“I 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 wouldn’t even let me in the testing room by the time I got there.”
Robin’s eyes widen with every word until she’s simply staring at you. “Wow, that is…wait. Where is Steve today, anyway?”
“I swapped shifts with him because sometimes he has an afternoon class that runs late on Mondays.”
She looks at you for another moment. “That was…nice of you.”
You shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal. But now, I’m done playing nice.”
A smile twists her lips as she moves down a row. “…Okay.”
“I’m serious, Robin!” You say, flipping your hair over your shoulder in exasperation. “This year, I’m going to do it. I’m gonna cross the uncrossable line.”
She freezes, then slowly turns to face you. “Oh my God. You wouldn’t.”
“Mark my words, Buckley. This is the year I go for the Beamer.” You point Footloose at her. “And I’m going to need your help.”
The plan sounded pretty badass in theory.
You were going to be a ninja in the night, leaving a message for your enemy. No—a promise.
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.
But in reality…it looks like you crouching in the bushes with bugs crawling down your shirt, and cringing every time a car’s headlights sweep past.
Even though the sun went down hours ago, it’s 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.
Which is why you brought your lookout.
“You’re positive this stuff will wash off?” 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.
“I mean, you heard the guy at the store—shit—” she ducks, spitting out a twig, “—he said it comes off with water. It’s like…liquid kid’s chalk or something.”
Steve’s Beamer sits in front of you, maroon and silver glinting in the light. Look at it. Oblivious. Unassuming.
The streetlights buzz above your head, blending with the croaks of nearby frogs. They’re probably breeding in Steve’s pool. There’s always, like, a gigillion of them every time you come over to swim in the summer.
It’s a warm night for early April, but a cool breeze stirs your hair, carrying that earthy, bitter smell of water in the air.
“Wait—is it supposed to rain?” you whisper.
“Shit, I don’t know,” Robin replies. “I wasn’t 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?”
With one last look around the empty street, you shake the bottle and pop the lid. “I thought I’d just let the spirit guide me.”
“The spirit of what?” she asks, but you’re already creeping toward the car.
This product isn’t like normal spray paint. The bottle hisses the same, and sort of sputters if you go too fast, but it writes smoothly—almost like a gel pen but in paint form.
The whole thing has your pulse pounding in your throat, your body wired, ready to run. It’s kind of…really fun.
You write two words. Attention ladies. That’s good.
You pause, shake the bottle, glance around, then go again.
By the end of the first sentence, you’re adding little flourishes to the ends of your letters.This paint is amazing. Your knees ache from bending over this long, and you’re a little lightheaded from the fumes. But when you’re finally running out of space, you stand back to admire your work.
From the trunk, all the way to the hood, in bright white letters, it reads:
ATTENTION LADIES: STEVE IS A TERRIBLE LOVER. YOU DON’T WANT TO KISS HIM.
“Wow,” Robin says, appearing at your side.
You jump. “God! Don’t—sneak like that.”
“That is…” She trails off, shaking her head, gaze pinned to the car.
“What?” you ask. “Petty?”
She shrugs, her white T-shirt glowing under the streetlight. “Well, yeah…”
You tuck the can into your jean jacket. “Childish?”
“Absolutely.” After a moment she adds, “How do you know he’s a terrible lover?”
You freeze.“W-what?”
She’s still staring at your words, lips pursed, head cocked to the side, waiting for your reply.
“I don’t! I just—it’s a prank, Robin!”
She holds her hands out in defense. “Okay! Okay, I was just curious. You know. If you’ve had, like, firsthand experience or something.”
“God! What? No! I just—you know how big his ego is,” you whisper, unsure of exactly why you’re still explaining yourself. “I’m just trying to…knock it down a little.”
Truth is, you don’t 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 sunglasses—the ones he thinks make him look cool—and rolling down his window. She’d 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 then…
Something on his car would catch her eye. Words. She’d read them…and then she’d drive off before the light turned green.
It’s brilliant. Or, you thought it was. And anyway, it’s not like it’s going to last forever. Steve Harrington can go a few days without another date.
“Okay, sorry, and what’s the kissing part supposed to mean?” Robin asks, drawing you from your thoughts.
You sigh, exasperated. “What do you mean, what does it mean? I think it’s pretty self-explanatory—car!”
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.
“So you’ve kissed him then?” Robin says once you’ve both caught your breath.
“What? No!” You practically shriek. It echoes down the silent street and you smack your forehead, wincing at the sound.
Robin stifles a laugh with her knuckles to her lips. “Okay, so if you haven’t slept with him, and you haven’t kissed him, then this—” she gestures through the bushes at your work, “—looks like it came from some petty-ex girlfriend.”
“Oh my God,” you turn back to the car. “You’re right. Wait here.”
You ignore Robin’s hiss to be careful as you creep forwards again. When you’re close enough, you sign your name on the right-hand sign with a little heart, like you always do.
There. Now he’ll know.
But as you step back to admire your work a second time, your stomach sinks.
What are you doing? You just wrote…that… on his car. And signed it.
There your name sits right under the words lover, and kiss, and Steve…
A light flicks on in the neighboring house. It might as well be the heavens cracking open with the way you take off.
Thankfully, Robin takes the hint, and scampers across the yard after you.
“Why did I do that?” you whisper as you near the car. The grass swishes under your sneakers, mixing with Robin’s raspy chuckle. “You made me do it!”
“You know he’s going to be pissed right?” Robin says, slamming the door behind her and throwing her car into gear. “Like—completely off his rocker, pissed.”
“Great,” You deadpan, checking over your shoulder one more time. “Maybe he’ll get so mad, he’ll declare me the official winner and we can stop this war altogether.”
Robin scoffs. “You’re telling me this time next year, you’re just gonna be like ‘wow, I really don’t miss that extremely flirtatious prank war we used to have going’? Because I don’t believe that for a second.
You don’t answer right away, your brain still short-circuiting over the word flirtatious.
She glances over and catches your expression. “Oh, don’t—seriously? I’m stuck in that video store with the two of you. I know exactly how you look at each other.”
“We don’t look at each other any certain way! We don’t look at each other…at all, actually! Our eyes just…never…connect—God, Robin.” You huff, turning to watch the streetlights blur past. “Are 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 he’s late for some hot new date?”
Robin looks over at you for a long moment. Her blinker clicking fills the silence.
“You’re jealous,” she says abruptly.
“Am not.
“Are too.”
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.
“Hey, look at it this way,” she says, jutting a thumb back the way you came. “If that stuff actually is as water-soluble as the guy said, there’s like a solid chance this whole thing is gone by morning.”
Your face rolls into your palms. “This was such a terrible idea.”
“Eh, I don’t know,” Robin says, a smile in her voice. “Sometimes, those are the best kind.”
It’s late afternoon the next day, and you’re almost done with your shift when a familiar voice echoes through the quiet Family Video store.
“Is this your idea of a prank, Henderson? ‘Cause it’s not fucking funny!”
Shit.
The knot of anxiety in your stomach had been easing with the gentle click of video cases as you checked the returns—and because you talked to your professor again this morning. Thankfully, after a mortifying amount of pleading, he’s letting you retake the test in his office this afternoon.
But now, hearing Steve angrily stomp into work….it’s back.
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.
You sort of let yourself believe Robin for a moment. That there might not be anything left for him to see.
But, of course. things can’t be that easy.
The second you step out of the backroom, Steve’s eyes lock onto you. He’s standing just inside, breathing hard under a yellow crewneck, hair raked through.
You risk a glance over at Robin. She’s leaned back on the counter, a smirk tugging on her mouth. What’s she so happy about?
“We’ve done a lot of shit to each other over the years,” Steve says, drawing your eyes back to him. “and I get that. But this? This is too far.”
Guilt spears through your gut. You did this to him.
“I know, I know it’s your car,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your shoes. “But I missed my test and I was angry and—” a sudden thought occurs to you. “Oh, God, please tell me the paint washes off!”
Steve squints down at you, hands on his hips. “Yes, it washes off,” he says, “You think that’s not the first thing I checked?” His eyes soften a little as he finally processes your words. “Wait—you missed your test?”
Oh. Well, then, it must be the message itself that has him so worked up. That, you can deal with.
“Then why are you so mad?” You ask, crossing your arms. “So you can’t go on a date for one day. Big deal. Can’t go to the drive-in movie with a car looking like that? Prank accomplished.”
“What?” His lips curl in confusion.
You frown and look to Robin. When your eyes meet she gives a small shrug, and with how much she looks like she’s enjoying this, you half expect her to pull out popcorn.
“Outside,” Steve barks. “Now.”
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.
Steve crosses his arms beside you, gesturing for you to look. His Beamer is parked in the closest space, giving you a clear view of…what the—
Looks like Robin was right about the rain. It’s smeared your message into streaks, leaving only white fragments and a few choppy words behind.
ATTENTION, it reads. The next word, ‘ladies’, is gone. STEVE is clear as day, and the rain has taken the word ‘terrible’, leaving just the I. Followed by a pristine LOVE YOU. And conveniently, the words, WANT TO KISS, made the cut as well.
Your jaw drops.
Pulse racing, you scramble for something to say. Anything. “T-that’s…H-how do you know I evenwrote that?”
“That’s still your name, isn’t it?” 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.
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.
“You don’t mean it. Right?” Steve asks, voice achingly soft. “Because…that’s— I need to hear you say it. Or…”
Your breath hitches. “Or what?”
His hand finds your waist, the warmth bleeding through the fabric of your vest. That one touch nearly sets you aflame.
“God—just say April fools right now before I do something that’s gonna make me look like one,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips.
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 just…can’t.
When his nose bumps yours, your heart nearly beats out of your chest. Your chin tilts to meet him, but he stops just shy.
“Are you sure?” he whispers. “Because if this is just some prank—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you drag him down the last inch and meet his mouth with yours.
A low groan spills from his chest as he pulls you into him, hands slipping under your vest like he can’t get close enough. His lips are soft and warm, and you sink into this kiss, threading his soft hair between your fingers.
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 Steve—your Steve.
Dustin’s going to kill you. Both of you.
You don’t even register you’re moving until your back hits the car. Steve’s lips don’t leave yours, the kiss growing eager and desperate.
A bell chimes above the door. Footsteps echo somewhere in the parking lot.
You don’t open your eyes. You can’t.
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.
Damn.
Steve pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, a quiet laugh stuck in his chest.
“I love you, too,” he whispers. “Have for a long time, I just thought…well, I thought you didn’t want me like that, and—”
Your heart soars at his confession, but words won’t come to you right now. They’re plastered across his car instead. He’s breathing hard under your palms, and you can’t do anything but close the gap between your lips again, needing him to know you feel the same.
The bell chimes again, and someone clears their throat loudly.
You break apart and spin to see Robin leaning out the door. The AC spills past her, cooling your flushed cheeks. She’s holding your navy backpack out to you.
“Oh shit!” You smack your forehead. “I’ve got to get to my test!”
“I’ll drive you!” Steve offers instantly.
“No, but you have to work!”
“Guys,” Robin interrupts, “I’ve got it. It’s dead in here today. Go.”
“I owe you, Buckley,” Steve says, pointing his car keys at her as he jogs over to the driver’s side door.
You swipe the backpack from her and turn to leave, but she pinches your vest, a silent reminder you still have it on.
“No, seriously, you’re an angel,” you add, shrugging off your vest and placing it in her outstretched palm.
“Yeah, well, someone’s got to attend to the customers. Am I right?” She winks before disappearing back in the store.
Steve looks so good sitting next to you in the driver’s 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.
He pulls off onto the main road, one hand flung over the wheel.
How are you actually expected to focus on anything right now? Let alone taking a test in twenty minutes?
Because one look at those eyes falling down to your lips, his knuckles brushing across his mouth like he can’t 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.
Steve clears his throat, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You got plans after this?”
“Actually, yeah I do.”
His face falls but he recovers quickly. “Okay, yeah! Sorry. Last minute—“
“It’s just that I’ve got to wash this guy’s car…”
He grins, and your heart flutters at the sight. “Damn right you do. And what about after that?”
“Depends,” you bite your lip. “What are you suggesting?”
He shrugs one shoulder, the very picture of confidence, even if you see the way his fingers drum the steering wheel. “What was it you were saying about drive-in movies earlier?”
You smile. “Just that… I love ‘em.”
“And that’s curtain, ladies and gents.” 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.
“Roses? For me? You shouldn’t have.” She flicks her hand, waving off imaginary applause as she tucks her bucket of soapy water and sponge into the backroom.
Robin doesn’t do early mornings. But today, she made an exception.
There she was at sunrise, crouched beside the Beamer, scrubbing off very specific words the rain barely touched the night before.
Because this whole bit—where the two of you pretend not to be in love—was just going on a bit too long for her taste.
ᥫ᭡
a/n: robin is a real one. idk man, holidays just inspire me lol so here you go.
summary: It’s the Fourth of July 1983, and you keep running into your neighbor, Steve Harrington. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. But is it a coincidence that every single time, it feels like he’s watching you?
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a lot less like the confident King Steve everyone knew. “Not like… all the time. Just, you know. Around.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Around? Sounds like you’re the one lurking, Harrington.”
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.
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.
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.
Right after the lid closed, you were staring straight at your little brother.
“Shit!” You exclaimed, letting the basketball fall from its place underneath your arm.
You clutched your chest, “Lucas?! Where the hell did you come from?” He practically materialized in front of you.
Running from around the trash can, re-lifting the lid, Lucas spoke, “This goes in the recycling. Not the trash can.” He chastised. Fixing your environmentally unconscious mistake.
He’s been spending entirely too much time with Dustin. You thought.
“Whatever, dude.” 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, he’d 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 weren’t 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.
“And what are you so dressed up for?” You tried to contain your smile, not wanting to embarrass him.
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, “No.”
“What!” he sighed in a high-pitched tone, “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”
“You’re 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.”
“School doesn’t even start for another 2 months, Y/N.” He pleaded, “Just take The Party to the pool, please.” Lucas begged, hoping he’d have some magical effect that swayed you. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t.
“I know you want to hang out with your friends. Trust me… having you out of my hair for one afternoon sounds great,” Lucas scoffed at that.
“But I can’t afford to miss out on practice time because I’m running around with half the kids of Hawkins.”
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 PJ’s and scarf still atop her head, clearly having just woken up.
“You know… Mom and Dad did say you had to take us wherever we want while they’re gone.” 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.
“No, they did not,” You paused, pondering for a moment, “And stop eavesdropping!” You pointed a warning finger at her.
“Y/N, please. Even Erica wants to go to the pool. C’mon! It’ll be so much fun.” Lucas gave you his signature puppy dog eyes.
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.
“Ugh,” You relented, “Fine! We can go to the pool.”
Lucas immediately jumped up and engulfed you in a hug, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He exclaimed.
“Alright, get off me, weirdo. You’re getting all your sunscreen on me.” 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 o’clock in the morning, the sun was melting your shoes into the concrete. Any longer like this and you’d be rolled out of your neighborhood in the back of an ambulance.
“Okay, I’ll call the boys and tell them!” Lucas shouted, running into the house, speeding by Erica.
“Good choice.” 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, “Whatever that means.”
You shook your head, deciding not to read into Erica’s 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 wasn’t 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 Women’s Varsity Basketball Championship title.
The sound of a whistle from behind you pulled you from the start of what would’ve been a full meltdown.
“This yours?” 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 cliché 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 “King” Steve Harrington know you were openly ogling him.
Jogging over, you began, ”Thanks. Don’t wanna lose this thing.”
As you got closer, Steve extended his hand, palming the basketball.
You raised your eyebrows, impressed, “You play?” You asked, using your hands to shield your eyes from the sun.
Steve shrugged and fixed his hair, “Yeah, sometimes. But I’ve been focused on swimming as of late.” He gestured to his outfit.
Looking closer, you could see on the side of his shorts that read ”Hawkins Community Pool Head Guard.”
Of course, he’s the head guard. You bit your tongue, although it fought to escape.
You knew who Steve was. You’d 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 wasn’t in your nature to be swooned. Trusting and being easily impressed didn’t come easily.
But you recognize that Steve didn’t 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. He’d be playing coy if he pretended like he hadn’t been watching you before he saw your basketball roll into his driveway.
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 ‘Peeping Tom’ 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.
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. He figured you were about to walk away, so he had to say something else if he wanted to keep the conversation going.
“I saw you earlier,” he gestured to your driveway, “Your jump shot’s not half bad.” 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. “Are you watching me?”
The sweat pooling on Steve’s arm, mixed with the candidness of your comment, was the perfect combination to make him lose all his balance.
If his window wasn’t cracked open enough for him to slip his hand through to recover, he would’ve eaten the searing hot pavement.
“Huh?” he stuttered, “No, nothing weird, or anything like that. I just… I noticed. I’m a big basketball fan and all.”
This entire interaction was unorthodox for Steve. Typically, girls your age would’ve sported heart eyes if he admitted he’d been watching them.
You, on the other hand, seemed far from typical.
“That’s fair,” You cleared your throat, “Yeah, I’m on Women’s Varsity,” You admitted.
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.
Although that was something to be proud of, you were still hesitant to admit your place on the team. Your track record wasn’t 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 must’ve been working.
Steve, however, knew of none of this. “Oh,” He began, “I don’t really go to the Women’s games, but I’ve heard they’re the place to be. Some chick made a crazy half-court shot last season. You know her?”
You scoffed at what you assumed was his attempt at being funny, “Yeah… ironically that was me.”
His mouth turned into a soft smile, nodding his head, “No shit. Must’ve earned you a lot of respect ‘round here.”
“Took a risk, it paid off.” You shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
If he asked you about any of your highlights from the season, you’d be at a loss for words. There weren’t any.
Unless you count accidentally elbowing one of the girls from a rival team straight in the face. You would’ve felt bad, but she’d been making fouls the entire game.
“You don’t need to be so humble…” He craned his neck to subtly get a better look at your mailbox, “...Sinclair. I’m sure it was a great moment.”
Your eyes squinted at him, noticing how he emphasized your last name.
A part of you was somewhat offended. For the past decade, at least, the Harringtons had been your neighbors.
Sure, his parents weren’t necessarily the nicest people ever. Every year, they turned down Mrs. Lincoln’s invitation to her neighborhood Christmas party. They were the only house on the entire block that didn’t 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, Steve’s Father came barreling outside, a fresh cup of coffee still in his hands.
“Steve?” He questioned, clearly aggravated, “Don’t you have to be at work in 15 minutes?” 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.
Opting to stay quiet, Steve whispered under his breath, “Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’.” 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.
“Gotta go.” Steve kept his head down and entered his driver's seat.
“Thank you for returning my-” before you could even finish thanking him, Steve closed his car door.
“-basketball…” You trailed off.
You turned on your heels and started back towards your house. You watched as Steve’s BMW drove right past you.
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 wasn’t of much substance, but it was one of the most interesting conversations he’d 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.
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 didn’t know your name, but realistically, you couldn’t fully blame him.
You weren’t the most unknown person at school by any means. But it wasn’t like you were this super popular Basketball player that everyone knew.
You coast by, floating from person to person, but you didn’t 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 you’d always wave and engage in small conversation with Will’s older brother whenever you saw him in the halls. But it wasn’t like you were getting matching tattoos with them anytime soon.
“Are you done flirting with our neighbor?” 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.
“I wasn’t flirting with him. He found my basketball.” 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.
However, Erica was hellbent on disrupting that small semblance of peace.
“Sure, your basketball just so happened to magically roll into the protective arms of Steve Harrington.” 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.
“Y/N!” 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.
“Alright, I want you ready for the pool in 30 minutes, or else you’re getting left.” You pointed at her, “And stop being nosy.”
She pouted, then whispered, “No promises.”
–
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 shouldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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.
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.
I’m 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.
The conversation you had earlier…although brief, proved to strike a nerve within Steve.
He tried to play it cool. He feigned ignorance, and acted like he hadn’t spent years living next to you… noticing.
He’d be a liar to claim otherwise.
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 couldn’t quite make out, but assumed was some attempt at a threat. A deep smile lay atop your face, ridding you of any threatening nature.
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.
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.
It was now your turn to survey your surroundings, making sure you had everything. Dustin’s hat, Lucas’ toys, Mike’s snacks, Will's crayons, and Erica’s magazine.
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.
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 weren’t entirely sure, due to his sunglasses, you could’ve 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.
There was no way in heaven, hell, or anywhere in between that Steve Harrington was staring at you. That would’ve 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.
“Alright,” You started, “I got all your stuff. Make sure it’s everything.” You pointed next to you on the bench.
All the boys took inventory of the things you grabbed, not noticing anything missing.
Lucas spoke, “Where’s Erica?” He sounded congested, probably due to all the chlorine he’d 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 couldn’t resist making a comment on what she noticed, “Our neighbor just loves to stare.” She muttered.
You squinted, this time not because of the sun, but because of confusion, “What?”
She elaborated, “Steve Harrington was staring at you. He'd better be lucky, we all know how to swim, or else someone could’ve drowned.” 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.
“His job is to look around, Erica,” You rolled your eyes, “And what have I told you about being nosy?” You gently grabbed her arm and turned her towards the exit of the pool.
“Get in the car… all of you.” They listened to your command, strolling out of the gate that led to the parking lot.
You hopped in the driver’s 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 driver’s 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.
–
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 didn’t have to worry about Erica peeking through her window or Lucas clinging to you like a lost puppy.
You brought a cigarette to your lips, inhaling slowly. It wasn’t 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 “irresponsible.”
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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the wrong thing to do.
Before you could continue down the rabbit hole of self-pity, you heard your last name cut through the silence.
“Sinclair!”
You jumped so hard the cigarette slipped right out of your fingers.
“Shit,” You scrambled, crushing it under your sneaker before whipping your head toward the voice.
It was Steve Harrington.
He was dressed differently from the last time you saw him. Gray sweatpants and a Hawkins Pool T-shirt.
You couldn’t even muster up a sly comment about why the hell he was wearing sweatpants even in the nighttime heat.
All you could muster was a measly, “What is wrong with you?!”
He stood a few feet away, halfway between your yard and his, hands raised like he hadn’t expected that reaction.
“Relax,” he whisper-yelled, glancing toward both houses. “You’re gonna alert the whole neighborhood.”
You clutched your chest, still catching your breath. “Yeah, and my siblings!”
You took a deep breath, releasing the grasp over your heart, “You just took ten years off my life.”
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, “Yeah, well, maybe don’t lurk in the shadows.” He took a few steps closer, closing the gap between your lawns so he was officially on your property.
You shot him a look. “I’m not lurking.”
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 weren’t lurking. His eyes flicked briefly to the ground where you’d stomped out the cigarette.
“You smoke?” he asked, nodding toward it.
You hesitated for half a second before crossing your arms. “Yeah.” You admitted, “Not proud of it. I’m trying to quit.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he respected that answer more than he expected to. “Well, good luck,” he said simply.
You nodded, not sure what else to say. A beat of silence settled between you.
It wasn’t awkward this time around, just unfamiliar.
Steve shifted his weight, glancing up at the sky as another firework cracked in the distance. “So… basketball.”
You let out a small huff of laughter. “You want to talk about Basketball right now?”
“It’s a solid topic,” he defended. “You’re pretty decent.” Steve raised his eyebrows, extending the compliment.
You studied him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was being genuine.
“…Thanks,” you said, quieter this time.
He nodded, then kicked lightly at the grass. “I meant what I said earlier.”
You tilted your head, not entirely sure what he was referring to, “About what? You said a lot earlier.” You snickered.
He glanced at you, attempting at being offended but, there wasn’t enough seriousness in his gaze.
“Your shot.” He leaned forward slightly, giving emphasis to his words.
Another pause.
Then, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, he said, “I’ve seen you play before.”
That caught your attention. Your brows furrowed. “What?”
This would’ve been the third time today you realized that Steve had been watching you.
It should’ve creeped you out. If it were Randy’s son from down the street, you would’ve run back inside. But you didn’t.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking a lot less like the confident King Steve everyone knew. “Not like… all the time. Just, you know. Around.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Around? Sounds like you’re the one lurking, Harrington.”
He sighed, realizing he’d dug himself into something. “Not much else to do when I’m home but lurk.”
He stopped, but then continued, “It’s nice to not have to notice myself for once.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t what you had expected. Twenty four hours ago, you weren’t convinced Steve could have a conversation with a girl without trying to shove his tongue down her throat.
Now, you were talking like you’d been friends for years and weren’t just neighbors.
“Do you even know my name, Steve Harrington?” For a second, he didn’t say anything.
If it weren’t so dark, you might’ve 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.
“Y/N,” 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.
“Yeah, I figured I should probably learn that at some point.” Steve cleared his throat.
You glanced back up at him. “Yeah… it’s not like we’ve been neighbors for years or anything.”
“Hey,” he held his hands up again, “I’m working on it.”
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.
“I’m shocked you’re not throwing some big rager today. You know… to celebrate the fourth.”
“Can’t.” He said, simply, “My parents are home. I think my Dad would put my head on a stick if he knew I was planning to have people over.”
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.
Noting the silence, Steve looked at you again. This time, more seriously. He hesitated before finally asking, “You ever think about playing after high school?”
The question caught you off guard. You decided to indulge him with basketball talk.
“All the time,” you admitted. “That’s kind of the point.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” Steve’s thoughts seemed to trail off.
You studied him, noticing how he was so engaged in conversation, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blade of grass his shoe was touching. “What about you?”
He let out a quiet laugh and looked up, but there wasn’t much humor in his eyes. “My dad thinks I should be doing… everything.”
Steve sighed and stalked even closer, deciding to take a seat right next to you.
“Everything?” You shifted a little to the left, allowing him some more room on the seat.
“Basketball. Baseball. Swimming. Whatever looks good on paper.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter what I actually like.”
You leaned your head back against the siding. “So what do you like?”
He hesitated. “I…,” he stopped. Thoughts raced through his head.
“That’s the funny thing,” he paused, “I don’t really know.”
That made you frown a little. The perception you had of Steve before slowly started to crumble. You felt… sad for him.
“Well,” you began, “that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
He just stared at you, not quite sure what you meant, “Me not knowing what I want for my future is a good thing?” He asked, genuinely confused about the point you were trying to make.
“Don’t put it like that,” you smiled.
“I just mean… you’re what, seventeen? About to be a Junior in High School? You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You can…you know…take some time to figure out what you want.”
He scoffed lightly. “Yeah. It’s not that simple.”
“It kind of is,” you shot back. “You either do what you want,” you poked his shoulder, causing him to chuckle, “Or you spend your life doing what someone else wants.”
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 “friends” 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 didn’t have to have the next 10 years of his life planned out to the tee.
He smiled, sincerely, “Are you always like this?” he asked, just staring at you.
“Like what?” You looked away, preferring to look into the night sky rather than share eye contact with Steve.
“Honest.” He deadpanned.
You shrugged, like it was nothing. “Saves time.”
He laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head, “Noted. Maybe I’ll try it,” 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 others’ presence.
Steve then glanced toward your house and the cigarette in the grass, then back at you.
“I’ll replace that,” he said, nodding toward where the cigarette had been.
You shook your head immediately. “You don’t have to, seriously.”
“You sure?” He questioned.
“I’m actually trying to quit,” you said, more firmly now. “And if Erica finds out, I’m dead.”
“That your sister?” he questioned, thinking back to the little girl he saw while he was watching you at the pool.
You nodded in response.
“Yeah… she seems terrifying.” 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 didn’t mean to let escape. “You have no idea.”
Steve stood up and slid his hands into his pockets. “Alright. No replacement then. Although you can change your mind.”
You nodded once.
He turned slightly toward his house, then paused.
“…Y/N,” he said, almost to himself.
Still, you responded, “Yeah?”
He looked back at you, a small grin forming. “Eh, Sinclair has a better ring to it.” He admitted, clearly teasing to get a reaction out of you.
You stared at him for a second. Then smile, despite yourself. “Goodnight, Steve.”
“Later, Sinclair.” He walked back toward his house, disappearing inside with one final wave to you before the door shut behind him.
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 weren’t thinking about basketball.
“you always watch your neighbors like that, harrington, or am i special?”
in the fall of 1983, things start off rather normal. you’re captain of the women’s varsity basketball team, and things are looking up. but that’s 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
“yeah well… if you ever need me, i’m just across the driveway.”
In the fall of 1983, you’re 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!
SYNOPSIS : Steve can’t help his clinginess after sex
A/N : Thank you to this anon omg
WARNINGS : Fluff, implied smut (it happened just before)
The fan in Steve’s room blows cool air on your skin in contrast to his skin against you. See, Steve was naturally clingy, so after sex plus sleepy? Turn that dial up to 100. Not that you minded, you loved it, actually.
His skin was clammy due to sweating from your previous activities, face buried in your chest, arm slung over your torso, leg hiked to sit in between yours. You look down at Steve’s sleeping form before slowly trying to pull yourself from his grasp.
You barely move a few inches before he stirs, eyebrows furrowing instinctively before mumbling. “Where ‘re you goin’?” he says, his voice slurred and laced with the sleep he was just pulled from. He was still mostly asleep, you could tell.
“I need to pee, babe.” You say, voice quiet, hand coming up to smooth some of his hair back. The action causing his face to relax slightly before his eyebrows furrowing again. Your words sounded like gibberish to his barely awake brain. “What?” He finally cracks his eyes open.
You can’t help the giggle that escapes you. “I said I need to pee.” You repeat, hand still paused on his head. Steve hesitates for a good minute, thinking. “Fine.” He says, letting you leave his grasp. You get up, taking a few steps before hearing movement, causing you to turn.
You’re met with the sight of Steve, swinging his legs over the bed to get up, hair messy and eyes droopy. “Where are you going?” You ask, now it’s your turn to be confused. “With you.” He says like it’s obvious.
Okay, it’s not like Steve hasn’t seen you pee or visa versa. You two are ‘way more comfortable than you should be’ according to Robin. But he was sleeping.. whatever. You let him follow, his footsteps heard close behind you.
He stands against the counter as you pee, hugging you from behind and kissing your shoulder while you wash your hands before lazily following you back to the room. “Finally, that took forever..” he says, flopping down beside you and scooting close, resuming his previous position. He places small loving kissing along your chest and shoulder.
A hint of a smile is on your sleeps. “You follow me like a lost puppy.” You chuckle sleepily, closing your eyes for a minute. He hums against your skin before finally resting his cheek on you, face in your neck.
A comfortable silence follows before finally.. “can you play with my hair how I like..” he mumbles against you. A real smile pulls at your lips this time as your hand comes up to his hair.
synopsis: steve realizes what it’s like to take it slow.
warnings: fluffy smut! first time!smut, steve might have corruption kink but like in a sweet way?, lover boy steve, eventual bf steve, tit sucking, pussy eating, pinv sex, no condom (reader is on birth control), not really proofread
a/n: i wrote this in a trance lowkey like i opened tumblr and wrote like half of it and then finished the other half today. anyways please enjoy! please like comment or reblog if you enjoyed this, it really motivates me to write more ❤️
steve harrington knew what he was getting into the moment he decided to pursue you. he had been with many girls before you, and yeah he might have slowed down after nancy but that didn’t change the fact that steve harrington, had been with a lot of girls.
girls who pushed themselves onto him, kissed him hotly, sliding their tongues into his mouth before he could even say anything. and in no shape or form is he complaining, steve always liked it when he got to kiss a girl. even more when he got to fuck them.
but steve had realized with you, that he had to take things slow. and he’s only done that once, with nancy. the same girl he couldn’t get over of for years.
but when you entered his life, his feelings came crashing unexpectedly. he didn’t know until he made you laugh for the first time, the rarity of your laughter sparked something in his heart he had quite never felt before.
steve knew you didn’t like him much from the start, you mostly avoided him, didn’t acknowledge him around town when steve made eye contact, like you guys didn’t just almost die in the same room twelve hours ago. it actually really stressed him out.
“robin! she hates my guts. how am i supposed to work with her on a crawl?” he groaned into his hands, landing in his chair.
“steve, she doesn’t hate you. i’ve told you this hundreds of times, and every time you don’t believe me!” robin had said, barely paying any attention to steve’s stare.
“how do you know that? it’s like i’m her sworn enemy and i don’t even know her that well!”
“and what are your reasons steve?”
“well…”
robin quirks her eyebrow, unconvinced already.
“she doesn’t say hi to me! she only says hi to you and nance and then she does her thing. am i chopped liver?”
“well she also doesn’t say hi to johnathan, or will or mike, or literally anyone else and i don’t see them complaining.”
“but-“
“look steve. she’s just not comfortable around you yet. me and nance? we’ve known her since middle school. you were too wrapped up in king steve stuff, and you were an asshole. she doesn’t like assholes steve.”
“but what about us? you didn’t like me either.” steve pouts this time, looking up from his hands to look at robin.
“steve we were tortured by russians together. that stuff like has to bring people together.”
steve chucked, suddenly feeling much better.
so he took a chance and took the time to get to know you. he went out of his way to greet you, to help you, no matter how awkward it was.
steve wasn’t really sure why he went to all this effort either, there was definitely other people in the group that he did not know well, like murray, or el. and maybe that was the sign that his feelings for you were there all along.
but it worked. two months later you regularly greeted him, teased him when he did something stupid, laughed with robin at him. all these things made steve a giddy man, happy to have your attention. and he hated it when it wasn’t on him.
he would get jealous of derek. derek, a middle schooler for making you laugh, for just being a stupid kid around you.
robin had started giving him a look now. a look that steve didn’t realize meant “you like her idiot!”
so when steve finally made you laugh all by himself in his car during a crawl, he realized the weight of his feelings. he was in deep, and had been for months.
he asked you out on the spot.
“why are you looking at me like that? is my laugh weird or something…?” you looked away, self conscious.
steve immediately disproves that, his mind as clear as it ever been. “would you go on a date with me?”
“what?”
steve still thinks of that memory, especially when he misses you.
you accepted his invitation, and steve took you on a picnic on top of the WSQK building, then he kissed you.
not anything sexual, just a long press of his lips to your cheek that he immediately apologized for when he did it. steve had watched how your cheeks flushed, how you smiled brightly after and the way you averted your gaze after.
it was cute. so cute that steve nearly exploded on the spot.
you were shy. shy over a kiss on the cheek.
and god, even though you were blushing a storm, you asked steve to kiss you like that again, and again.
as you and steve’s relationship grew, he had to come to realize that was his favorite place to kiss you. it had always made you the most shy, a stuttering mess instantly at the slightest press of his lips on your cheek. and he could always feel it instantly too, the smile on your face as you immediately screwed your eyes shut.
steve might be obsessed with you. especially obsessed with your shy nature, and how easily you get flustered with him. you hide your face in steve’s chest when he tells you how much he loves you, and you can’t quite make eye contact with him after he kisses you.
it makes steve go all soft in a way he’s never been before, but it also makes him aware of his growing desire for you.
late nights when you held him to sleep, your body pressed against him and your breath softly hitting his neck, he felt like he might go insane.
he thought filthy things always at times like that.
what your moans would sound like as he fucks into you, if you would cry, how your face would look like screwed with pleasure, things like that.
but the one thing that filled his head was the act of being your first, the first to have you like this. the thought that you would want him so intimately, for your first time.
he wanted to treat you good so much. kiss you to distract you from the pain, let you claw his back as he fucked you slow and deep. god he’d do anything for you, anything to make his girl feel good.
he had waited for you to initiate something for months, not waiting to make you uncomfortable. you had been painfully inexperienced (in your words), and steve taught you everything you knew so far. which was just making out and leaving hickeys.
and for steve, unbeknownst to him, was getting closer to you doing so.
the heat that flooded your stomach everytime the two of you would kiss was too much to ignore now. the way his hands would wrap you tight against him, accidentally pulling you against his crotch and making you feel the thick weight of him against your pussy. and god you could really couldn’t get over his kisses.
steve was a hungry man, hungry for kisses that is, and fuck. you loved that. he kissed you always, no matter where or when, or who was around. neck kisses, pecks to your cheek, long drawn kisses to your mouth, literally anything. steve loved physical touch and he somehow always found a way to put his mouth and hands on you.
that’s what you were dreaming of when you woke up from your nap at steve’s. his mouth. all over. licking your pussy, teasing you. and just when you were getting to dream steve getting ready to fuck you, you woke up.
your eyes fluttered open, your head laid on steve’s chest. you looked up to see steve watching the tv, and felt his arms around you tight. how long had he been there like that?
steve felt you stirring and looked down at you like you hung the stars themself.
“hi pretty.”
“how long was i out for?” you ask, rubbing your eyes. steve loosened his grip on you, letting you adjust yourself to sit up in his bed.
“uh—“ he looks over to the alarm clock next to his bed. “two hours.”
“you held me for two hours?”
“yeah—you were snoring and everything. i didn’t wanna wake you.” steve bends over, stretching his legs after not moving an inch for the past two hours.
“thanks stevie.”
steve coos, holding your face with his hands and putting a loose hair behind your ear.
“of course. anything for you.”
anything? you thought to yourself
god steve would do anything for you. what would he do if you asked so nicely? would he do what he did to you in the dream? suck your clit, make you cum, make you whine and moan on his cock?
the heat from the dream caught up to you, and you quickly bury yourself back in his chest.
steve laughs at your endeavors. “what’s going on? you all right?”
you let a mumbled uh huh, wrapping your hands tight around steve’s middle.
“okay something’s up.”
you look up, meeting steve’s curious eyes then immediately bury yourself back in his chest. “no! nothing!”
“you’re blushing.”
you scoff. “you don’t know that.”
“i do know that.” steve’s hand gently reaches for your head, lifting it slightly so he can take a look at your flushed state. “see? knew it.”
you groan, defeated. “do you really wanna know?”
“yes? i have to know now if you’re being shy about it.”
“no judgement?”
“promise.” steve’s gaze turns genuine, and you know he’s no longer teasing you anymore.
“i had a dream—where we had sex. and i want to uh—do it with you.” you busy yourself with a loose thread on steve’s shirt, unable to keep his eyes.
“do it with me?” steve laughs at your word choice.
“hey! no judgement!” you pout at steve before he quickly apologizes, putting away his grin. “okay—i want to have sex with you steve harrington.”
“you’re so formal—“
“steve!”
before you could say anything else steve promptly stops you, kissing you on the lips.
“i want to have sex with you too.”
“oh god it really does sound ridiculous when you say it like that.” you say, groaning in embarrassment.
steve mumbles something before leaning in to kiss you again. this time he moves his lips against yours, hands finding solace in your hair. he tugs you closer to him, hooking your leg over his and putting you on his lap.
you pull away, your lips kiss bitten. “wait—“ you try to pull away to no avail because steve keeps tugging you closer. you put your hand on his chest to stop him. “what were you saying you say before you kissed me stevie?”
steve looks away, this time he’s the one nervous. “hmm?” you quirk an eyebrow.
“hah—“ he lets out a huff of laughter. “i said you could just ask me to fuck you.”
you go silent. “oh.”
“please?” steve asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief. you sigh at his tactics.
you sigh before giving in. “fuck me stevie?” the words come out fast, ears burning at the vulgarness of your words.
steve’s lips immediately lock onto yours, pulling away to bite and suck at your neck. you’re falling apart on top of him, grounding yourself with a tight grip on his shoulders. he’s licked and left marks like this before, but not with this kind of fervor, like he was a man starved of a meal.
he easily unravels you with his lingering touches, biting your lip to make you open your mouth for him. his tongue enters and you’re already whining for him.
his fingers dance under the hem of your shirt pulling away from you to pull it off. but before he does he stops. “you sure about this? i don’t want you to feel pressured or—“
you cup steve’s face with your palm. “i’m sure stevie. i wanted this for a while.” you peel off your shirt yourself, showing your willingness to steve.
his eyes are hungry, there’s no lie to that. his eyes look your torso up and down, stopping at the bra that perks your tits up.
“you’re beautiful baby.” steve says, stripping off his shirt immediately. his hands travel up your chest, stopping at the peak of your breasts. he looks up at you, silently asking for permission. you give a nod in response.
greedy hands cup your tits, squeezing the material of your bra. steve’s mouth finds a path around your chest, biting occasionally to make you gasp. “steve…”
“just hold on sweet girl. i wanna touch you like this.” steve’s breathless, his eyes heavy. “ever been touched like this before?”
you hold back a moan. “mm—no…only my own hands.”
steve groans at your words. “i’m gonna take such good care of you baby. can i?” his hands brush your clothed nipples, making your back arch toward him.
“oh god—yes steve. please.”
his hands skillfully unclip your bra. steve is so incredibly enamored with your body, worshipping you in a way that you didn’t know was capable.
the clear devotion steve was showing you had your hand reeling. and you could feel the way steve hardened underneath you, and you held every urge to roll your hips against it.
steve’s mouthing your tits. groping them, licking and sucking on your buds. “all mine…” he groans before going back to kiss them. you’re moaning arching your back so they can fall perfectly in his mouth.
steve groans again before he flips you over on the bed. your head hits his pillows, making you giggle. steve settles in between your legs.
“gonna open your legs for me sweetie?” you part your legs slowly, reaching for the hem of your sweats. lifting your hips you slide them off, steve helping you to take the rest of it off.
you close your legs when steve tugs your pants off. when he notices this he tuts at you disapprovingly and pulls your knees apart.
your panties are nothing special, just blue with a floral design decorating it. but steve swears he’s in heaven right now, blue is his favorite color on you.
he presses a kiss to your knee before laying down in between your legs. your breath hitches in response.
he’s agonizingly slow, kissing the seam where your panties and thigh meets. then finally kissing your clit softly, and licking your folds through the soaked fabric of your underwear. a pained whine leaves your mouth, catching his attention.
“you want more?” you nod your head urgently. steve laughs before continuing, faster this time. “sorry baby—didn’t wanna go too fast on you.”
he gives one more open mouth kissed to your swollen clit before hooking the blue fabric off of you. your hips immediately arch up, searching for his mouth, pressure, anything at this point. steve settles you with two hands on your hips.
“gonna help you baby. i promise.” then he dives. first he’s slow, licking a strip up the length of your pussy before settling a kiss to your folds. he backs away slightly, spreading your pussy wide for him.
just watching steve be so absorbed in eating you out is enough to bring you to orgasm already. and you feel like you might die when steve decides to lock eyes with you, watching you as you fall apart for him.
your eyes roll to the back of your head when he fucks his tongue into you. he stays like that for a moment before capturing your clit with his mouth, sucking softly.
“holy shit—steve!”
the fucker is smiling against your pussy.
steve takes his tongue out of you, moving it to kitten lick your clit. he’s putting his fingers in his mouth before he slowly inserts one into you.
“hah…oh my god..” you whine.
steve chuckles at you. “what is it? too much or?”
“nonono—it’s just that your fingers are so—fuck—so big stevie.”
he’s steadily fucking his fingers in you. smiling in glee at your moans. “ever fingered yourself before?”
“ngh—i have… but it’s never enough—never feels good unless i touch my clit.”
“don’t worry baby, i’ll make you feel good.” steve presses a kiss to your thigh.
truthfully, steve’s on a high right now. the fact he gets to show you what real pleasure, what a good fucking orgasm feels like for the first time, is driving him insane. god he can’t wait to make you cum.
steve puts his mouth on your clit, adding another finger inside you. he builds up the pressure on your clit, starting with just kissing it before taking it in mouth and sucking it.
the two feelings at once are divine. steve’s mouth is so gentle and he sucks on your clit so well that you feel yourself unraveling. instinctively, your hands reach for steve’s hair, tugging his mouth closer to your clit.
steve groans in surprise, sucking and fucking into you faster. you roll your hips against his face, using him to chase your orgasm. with one last roll of your hips you cum, steve’s name leaving your mouth.
“so good….soso good steve…” it’s so quiet, steve can barely hear it but it drives him insane.
steve doesn’t let up, licking every last drop of your pussy until you stop riding his face and let go of his hair. when he comes off he’s smiling and immediately pecking a kiss on yours cheek.
you laugh breathlessly. “you’re really good at that stevie.”
he pecks your lips. “if you ask nice enough i’ll do it to you every night.” he’s giving that shit eating smile, and you know he’s really asking for his enjoyment and not yours.
you give him one more kiss, reveling in your taste on his lips before asking him what you’ve been wanting all night. “m’ want you to fuck me now stevie.”
he smiles sweetly. “of course sweet girl.”
steve gets off the bed, tugging his pants off before you. when he goes to take his boxers off he almost teases you, his eyes sparkling at the way you watch him undress.
“take it off stevie…wanna see you.” you pout, rubbing your thighs together.
“god stop saying stuff like that, i won’t be able to go so gentle if you don’t.” he says, tugging off his boxers while he approaches you on the bed.
steve tugs you to him, laughing at your yelps. when he’s flush with your core he kisses you softly again.
“i love you.”
your heart feels all fuzzy at his proclamation, returning the gesture with red cheeks. “i love you too stevie. always.”
steve reaches for the condoms in his nightstand, but you stop him.
“im on birth control. i—i wanna feel you.”
“god baby.” steve huffs in disbelief. “you’re gonna drive me insane. letting me fuck you raw like this for the first time. you sure?”
‘’mhm…please steve. please.”
steve lines himself up with you, pushing into your dripping cunt.
“oh god…..“ you say, closing your eyes.
steve immediately worries. “hey hey hey, look at me.” you open your eyes barely, squinting at steve.
“you okay?” steve strokes your head. “i’ll be gentle on you baby. always.”
“i know. it just hurts.” steve frowns. “focus on me kissing you instead okay?”
he kisses you soft, hands running over your tits. he’s pushing in farther for what seems like hours. fuck how big is he? it’s like he’s splitting you open.
steve bottoms out with a groan, kissing up your neck.
you can feel steve in your tummy, the imprint of him makes sure you can see it too. steve rolls his hips, and the drag of his cock on your walls makes you whine.
the two of you are breathing heavily, lost in pleasure. you begin rolling your hips too, moaning at the feeling of steve deep inside you. he takes a hand to the imprint of his cock through your tummy, pressing down on it. he’s delighted when you whine loud, begging for him to move more.
he thrusts shallowly, trying to get you used to his size. he sets a steady pace, and you’re moaning uncontrollably.
“steve..please don’t stop..please! feels so good!” you say, burying your face into his neck.
“fuck—never will baby.” he thrusts in deeper this time, and fuck steve is gonna cum soon. you’re too pretty like this, your hair tousled and your mouth agape. you’re moaning so prettily, begging for more, begging to cum, begging him to make you feel good.
there is no need for words to be exchanged, steve can tell you’re close. your moans are getting higher and higher, and when steve flimsily rubs your clit you’re cumming around his cock.
you tighten around steve, and he’s letting his load into you, cumming with a groan of your name. you pull steve towards you, kissing him roughly as the two of you shake in the aftershocks of each others orgasm.
the two of you come to a calm, stopping to meet each others eyes. you’re giggling and press a chaste kiss to steve’s nose.
“thank you stevie.”
“anytime pretty girl.”
steve laughs when you cover your face, ears turning red.
“i was seriously balls deep into you seconds ago and you’re shy now?”
“hey! don’t be mean!” you playfully slap his chest before pulling him in for a longer kiss.
