pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 3.2k
tags/tw/cw: threats of violence
MASTERPOST//all chapter links
&&
Chapter 7: Broken
The moment you heard the keys jingling outside your door, you hurriedly tucked the towel with the kitten wrapped up in it next to the radiator in the bathroom, since that would at least keep her warm when you weren't around to take care of her.
You were still clad in the coveralls, boots beside the door, jacket tossed onto the couch, and you walked out of the short hall to find Karen in the living room, waiting for you.
“Shower before dinner,” she said, gesturing to the jacket and tossing a pair of tennis shoes at your feet. They looked new—or at least, maybe lightly used, and you picked them up to slip them on, tying them quickly, before shrugging on the jacket and following Karen outside.
The late afternoon air had the same chill as the morning had, and while you trudged behind her to the main residence, you asked, “If I'm staying in there, why doesn't Roy just get the shower fixed for me?”
Karen sighed, long past reprimanding you for not calling her husband “Sheriff” like he'd told you to, like she'd told you to, like everyone had told you to ad infinitum. “He hasn't decided if you're staying there long term,” she replied. “But he does like not having you in his hair all the time.”
“You could just let me go home,” you suggested, though you knew it would be met with either silence or discipline, based on previous utterances of the same sentence.
Today's response was silence. Karen simply kept walking, with you in tow, up onto the porch and then inside the main house. She showed you to the bathroom, like if she let you out of her sight, you'd make a break for it—and you probably would.
“You can dress in your old bedroom,” she said, pointing down the hall to the room you'd occupied for the first few nights you were on the ranch. “I have clothes set out for you.”
You chose silence and just stepped into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you. The shower didn't get much warmer than the sink, and you washed yourself as quickly as possible while still being thorough, shampooing the odor of hay out of your hair, scrubbing the smell of sweat and labor and several days' sleep off your skin. You couldn't stand staying under the cold spray for longer than you had to, and so you shut the water, dried off, then wrapped the towel around yourself and opened the door just a crack, expecting to see Karen standing there, waiting for you—or worse, Gator or Roy. You hadn't seen either of them since the incident (or the morning after, in Gator's case), and you'd prefer to keep it that way until you were forced to be with them again at dinner.
Padding quietly down the hall, past Gator's bedroom door which was, thankfully, closed (and hopefully unoccupied), you returned to the room you'd spent several nights in. Your phone was still on the bedside table where you'd left it, but there was a floral dress left out on the bed, with a white cardigan to layer over it. You frowned, because why the fuck would you wear something like that to dinner when the only other person who ever wore anything similar was Karen herself and, sometimes, some of the other wives, if and when they joined the group for dinner. You weren't aware that you'd transcended being a prisoner and were starting to be treated as a guest. They could've fooled you.
Your other clothes had been removed, and while you might have considered it another time, you had just showered—you really didn't want to put the clothes in which you'd mucked out horse stalls. So you picked up the dress, holding it up and frowning. You dropped it back onto the bed in a rumpled pile, turned and closed the bedroom door behind you, rolling your eyes at the loud squeak as you did, and then set about readying yourself to cook dinner downstairs. You put on the undergarments that Karen had provided as well, feeling a little uncomfortable at who, if anyone, they might have belonged to before you, but they were clean and smelled like detergent, so. You dressed in silence, stepping into the flowy dress. It had a line of buttons all down the front, which you fastened in order from bottom to top. The skirt was longer than you'd normally choose for yourself, and you almost were grateful. You were already uncomfortable enough in the dress to begin with, so a shorter skirt would have made things even worse.
Karen hadn't provided you with any shoes, so you decided to pull on a pair of socks and the boots that you'd been wearing when you'd arrived at the ranch, which would look particularly ridiculous with the dress but might provide you with a sense of comfort and home, especially since you were still feeling a little out of sorts after your foray into feeling normal again the previous night when you were heating up your spaghetti.
Maybe that wasn't so bad. Maybe it was a way for your anxious, constantly zooming mind to cope with everything that was going on.
You tightened the laces of your boots and tied them, then pulled on the cardigan you'd been given as well, and trudged downstairs.
Karen was waiting for you with an apron, so as not to dirty your dress, and you dutifully tied it on in silence, trying not to speak to her more than you had to as you followed her instructions, stirring rice and dumping frozen vegetables into a pan to heat up and cook through.
Without her yelling at you, even with her scolding you about wearing more “respectable shoes” and snapping orders about how much butter to mix in with the vegetables and how much seasoning to add to the pan, it was almost peaceful in terms of your experience with the Tillman ranch. Karen was dealing with the roast while you simply manned the burners, watching the rice and vegetables until she came over to inspect everything and instructed you to go set the table.
You'd long since learned where everything was, and since the amount of food you were making was clearly for far more people than just you and the Tillman family, you pulled out enough plates to set place settings at the full table, followed by cutlery. You were setting out glasses when the ranch hands started filtering in, some with their wives and some without, and Karen disappeared for a moment to go grab Jessica and Maude. You felt what seemed like every pair of eyes in the room on you, in your floral dress and combat boots, as you scraped the rice into a serving dish and carried it over to the table. Just as you were returning to do the same to the vegetables, a heavy set of footsteps, the gait of which you recognized, entered the room, and most of the conversation stopped. You glanced over your shoulder to see Roy standing in the kitchen doorway, his eyes settled perfectly on you.
“Well, now,” he said, gesturing to his staff to take their seats. They did, and the chatter started again as Roy clomped over to you. You busied yourself with spooning the peas and carrots into a bowl, trying to hold the pot steady as Roy approached you. He walked right up to your side and leaned over the counter, enough that you saw him clearly, not just in your periphery.
“Quite a bruise you got there, little miss,” he said, and you swallowed, said nothing. “I gotta say. I, for one, would hate to see a beautiful girl like you all... marked up like that a second time.” You just spooned more of the vegetables into the bowl, taking your time so as not to spill, but in hopes that maybe he would leave you alone and you could finish what you were doing in peace. “Now, I need you to understand something.” You didn't react, just kept on transferring the vegetables from the pot.
With no warning, Roy's thumb was pressing against your jaw, his other fingers tucking beneath your chin to grab it, and you dropped the spoon into the serving bowl, almost dropping the pot too. You weren't sure if the kitchen quieted down or if it was just your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you could hear only it and Roy's voice, low enough that you had to pay rapt attention to hear him clearly. “I said I need you to understand something. If you misspeak, misbehave, or mistreat any more of my family or my staff, you won't be answering to me. Any of them know they can treat my livestock as they need to, to calm them down or get them back in line.” His thumb brushed across your lower lip and you felt the insane urge to bite his finger. He leaned closer to you. “Is that understood?”
You nodded—or tried to, but he was holding you so tightly you couldn't.
“I'm getting' real tired of asking you questions more than once,” he said. “Is. That. Understood?”
“Yes,” you said, clipped.
Roy didn't release your chin, nor did he move.
“Yes, Sheriff,” you said, because that had to be what he wanted.
His eyes shone with something like victory, but he released you and let you get back to what you were doing. Shaking, you glanced over your shoulder to see that everyone else at the table was waiting for you—Karen had returned with the girls and placed the roast in the center of the table, and as Roy took his seat, you saw that Gator was present too, looking over at you. As your eyes met his, he looked away, answering something that Roy had asked him in hushed tones.
You upended the pot over the serving bowl, scraped the last few stubborn carrots out of the pot, and carried them over to the table, dropping them unceremoniously and earning yourself a glare from Karen that you simply couldn't bother caring about. You lowered yourself into the seat beside Gator, not missing the way his eyes swept over you in the dress, the way your skirt fluttered up a little higher on your thigh than you'd have liked, and thankfully you had enough time to smooth it down before you had to take his hand for grace.
It was cold, like it always was, but this time when you held it, it didn't feel like he was doing it just because it was mandatory, because he had to. He cradled your palm in his gently, and that alone made you want to pull away from him prematurely, want to rid yourself of his contact because there was nothing he could do to make you believe that he really was, in his own words, trying to help you.
Once Roy finished leading the table in prayer—during which you remained silent and stone-faced—Karen began serving the roast to the men first, while you helped pass around the side dishes. You ate in silence, like you always did, listening and observing. Or, you tried to.
The story about the barn cat had spread amongst the hands, and suddenly, you were the focal point of the evening, with men you'd never spoken to before asking you questions about the kittens, where you'd found them, how many there were—which you could answer—and what had happened to the stillborn babies—which you couldn't.
You answered them as best you could, trying not to meet their eyes because you wanted to keep distance from as many of these motherfuckers as you could, and looking at them while speaking to them was a surefire way to make a connection that you did not want. Nor did you want them to somehow glean that there weren't only seven kittens, there were eight, and you had the sole survivor hidden in the carriage house at this exact moment.
Thankfully, while the conversation stayed on the cat—they were no longer engaging with you, and you were able to continue your meal without distractions from what you actually sort of wanted to listen to: Roy and Gator.
It sounded like a lot of the same shit: Looking for “her”—with no new leads, and it sounded to you like a waste of time. It was clear that this was a repetitive topic because Karen had turned away and was talking to her girls, while Roy seemed frustrated with Gator's lack of news.
“If you're not going to get it done,” Roy was saying, “I'll send Bowman.”
“I can do it,” Gator implored him. “She—” he looked at you, saw you watching their conversation, and turned back to his father. “She ain't gonna stay hidden forever.”
“Enough,” Roy said, silencing him, then looking past Gator to you. Gator turned to look at you as well, the two of them studying you, though Gator's stare felt less intense. Roy held your gaze, saying nothing, until you averted your eyes and looked back down at your plate. You'd listened to them talk before, yes, but never so brazenly, never so clearly paying attention to what they were discussing.
Their conversation continued after that, just going over regular policework now, things that had come across Roy's desk that he was handing off to Gator, having him and the other deputies follow up. It didn't hold your interest—not the way that this mystery woman who they were desperately trying to find did. Part of you wondered if it might be Gator's mother, but you'd never ask, and you'd definitely never get an answer if you did.
The table emptied gradually, some of the workers leaving before Roy dismissed them, and it was only when Maude threw a handful of rice at Jessica did Roy decide it was time for the girls to get their bath before bed. Karen took hold of Maude's wrist, wiping the residual grains that were sticking to her palm with a napkin, and then ushered both of them down from their chairs, parading them upstairs to the bathroom.
You stood from the table and began clearing the empty places, piling dishes in the sink and scraping the vestiges of meals into the trash, before you heard Roy snapping his fingers at you and you turned to look.
“Kid's gonna take ya back to the carriage house. Get goin',” Roy said, nodding to Gator.
You hesitated, placing the dish you were holding in the sink. Normally—at least for the four days you'd been present at dinner—you cleaned up afterward. You didn't want to question Roy, but you felt like this was a trap.
“Don't I... need to clean up?” you asked, gesturing at the sink and the table.
“You'll be doing plenty'a cleaning tomorrow,” Roy said cryptically, leaving you to wonder what he was talking about, and then he stood from the table.
Gator did as well, watching blankly as Roy picked up both of their plates and crossed the kitchen to reach you where you were standing in front of the sink. You backed away as Roy neared you, but all he did was put the plates on top of the others and then look at his son.
“Get goin', boy,” he said, and Gator looked plaintively at you, jerking his head to the side for you to follow.
“But I—” you said, cutting yourself off as Roy lifted an arm, clearly intending to backhand you across the face. You shrank back, pressing against the counter and flinching in anticipation, but he only lowered his hand and chuckled.
“See that?” he asked, and you weren't sure if he was speaking to you or to Gator or to the other ranch hands in the room. “That's a smart woman. Who knows what's comin' when she sees it and shuts up when she realizes she doesn't want it.” He leaned in closer to you. “I told you before, if you misbehave, it's free rein to straighten you out. Think on that.”
You took a shaky breath in, your eyes flicking to Gator, who was watching with that same blank expression that he had used when he had you cornered in the carriage house bathroom. But that wasn't what caught you up—it was that Roy had used the same phrase Gator had, though Gator's was much less of a threat. Or at least, a threat in a different way.
You stepped around Roy, the soles of your boots scuffing the kitchen tile, and you staggered to Gator's side and past him, not bothering to go up to the bedroom for your jacket, just making your way to the front door. Gator's shuffling footsteps followed you, hurrying to keep pace as you fumbled with the doorknob and let yourself out into the cold evening air. The sudden chill had you worried for Aidy, but you didn't want to give anyone cause to suspect that things were anything other than the status quo.
“Y'ok?” Gator asked, like his father hadn't just raised a hand to you. You remained silent, clutching your arms in each opposite hand, crossed in front of you to try and stay warm against the late winter air.
“Just—he ain't kiddin', about that... free rein shit. He told 'em all, if ya put a toe outta line, they can crack ya one if they want. He wants—wants ya, I dunno.” He hesitated. “Ta listen.”
Obedient, is what he should have said. Pliant. You supplied the words that he wouldn't or couldn't think of. Broken.
“It'd be better fer you, fer all of us, if you just—did what he said. Quit talkin' back 'nd shit. And especially don't swing on 'im again.” He cleared his throat, then spat a mouthful of saliva onto the dirt. “Lucky ya only got one back. Never stopped at one fer me.”
You looked over at him, eyes narrowed, as you reached the front steps of the carriage house. Whatever he was trying to do—connect with you, or make you trust him, form some kind of a bond—you weren't falling for it.
You took a breath to speak, and Gator looked to you with such anticipation that you almost stayed quiet, but you didn't want to stand out here any longer in the frigid air, with Aidy waiting to be fed just feet away from you. “Can you let me in? I'm freezing.”
Gator huffed a sigh, hesitating just another beat, but pulled a keyring out of his pocket and unlocked the door for you, opening it and holding it for you as you stepped up and inside.
The cold air continued to seep in as he held the door open, and you turned to look back, still hugging yourself to try and keep warm, the night time wind blowing in past him and ruffling your skirt around your legs.
Gator opened his mouth, eyes tracing down over your body from your face, and then just as quickly, shut the door, the lock clicking as it turned back into place. You stood still, waiting for him to leave, but you didn't see him move past the window for a long few moments, until you caught sight of him trudging away in the moonlight.
His attempts to be kind to you only made you hate him more.
a million little times (that's the things about illicit affairs)
prologue: "born from just one single glance"
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
chapter summary: when you first met steve harrington, you had no interest in him, but once you get to know him, you can't help but form a bit of a crush on him, and as the years go on, that crush seems to grow into something more. the only issue? steve is four years older than you.
chapter tags/warnings: there are no romantic interactions between steve and the reader in this chapter other than her crush on him. age gap (4 years), stranger things seasons 1-5, mentions of blood and violence and death, unrequited love, underage drinking, alcohol, hospitals, lil childhood crush, references to bad relationships with parents, uhh monsters and kidnappings and basically everything that happens in the show butttt a few things change. el lives!! references to henderhop and byler (which will be canon later idgaf).
steve has no romantic interest in the reader when she is a minor. that’s weird as fuck.
word count: 19.4k
series masterlist , spotify playlist
–
The first time you met Steve Harrington was in Hawkins Memorial Hospital.
It was July 1976, you were five years old, almost six, he had just turned 10. He had fallen off of his bike and broken his arm, and you were waiting for your dad to come pick you up while your mom started her shift as a nurse.
You and Steve had been sitting next to each other in the Emergency Room, his arm in a brand new cast, and you swinging your legs over the edge of your seat.
You had spoken to him, asking if his arm hurt or what happened, and Steve had told you.
Neither of you remembered that moment, but when you think about the first time you met Steve Harrington you still think about Hawkins Memorial Hospital, but for a different reason.
The night of November 12th, 1983, or maybe it was the early hours of November 13th, your friend Will Byers had finally been found after spending a week trapped in a dark, alternate dimension you and your friends had dubbed ‘The Upside Down’.
You were 13 now, the oldest of the party (beating Lucas by a whole 4 months), and Steve was 17.
After you had spent the night chased by government agents, and evil scientists and literal monsters, and after you had watched your new friend Eleven – El – die.
You and your friends had been cramped into the hospital waiting room, hoping to see Will when he woke up. Lucas and Dustin had been passed out, leaning on each other, and your head was on Dustin’s shoulder as you slept too.
Steve Harrington was also in the waiting room, sitting between a snoring Ted Wheeler and the door. His face was bloody and bruised as he stared at a blank spot on the floor ahead of him.
At this point in time, you didn’t know Steve. You knew of him, that he was a douchebag high schooler, that people called him ‘King Steve’, and that he was dating your friend Mike’s older sister, Nancy.
That night is when you think you met Steve Harrington for the first time.
You didn’t see him very often after that, maybe a few times at the Wheeler household when he was hanging out with Nancy and you were there to play D&D in the basement with your friends, sometimes you’d both be seated at the dinner table, but that was about it.
You didn’t really care about Steve then, he was just some guy – an asshole – who was dating Nancy, and nothing else.
That is, until the beginning of November, 1984. Just days after Halloween, after meeting Max Mayfield for the first time, and after Will’s episode on the field at the school.
You’ve always been closer with Dustin and Lucas than you have been to Mike and Will. In fact, out of all of them, you always considered Dustin to be your best friend.
That might be why you answered his code red that morning, while Lucas went out to try and recruit Max, the new girl, into your party. You were all for Max joining your party, you thought she was cool, and it would’ve been nice to have another girl around.
You ended up helping Dustin scrub blood out of the shag carpet in his bedroom, and helped him bury his now-dead cat after Dart, the slug-like creature Dustin had found in his trash, had turned out to be a baby Demogorgon.
Nobody else was answering the call, so you and Dustin headed to the Wheeler house to try and find Mike, or maybe even Nancy, but neither of them were home.
And when the two of you turned away from the front door to head back to your bikes, Dustin muttering obscenities under his breath, you watched a familiar BMW pull up outside the house.
Enter Steve Harrington. Again.
A bouquet of roses in one hand, running the other through his perfectly styled hair, now walking across the Wheelers’ front lawn and towards the door.
Was it fate? No, just convenient timing, but the next night your perception of Steve Harrington would entirely change for the rest of your life.
You had watched him walk down the steps to Dustin’s cellar, nail bat gripped in his hands, and your first thought was that you hadn’t realized how brave Steve Harrington actually was.
And the next day you had followed him down a set of old rail road tracks, dropping chunks of raw meat onto the ground and listening to him giving Dustin horrible advice on girls. At one point, he had even turned back and asked for your opinion, only for you to totally disagree with what he was saying, but he brushed you off like it was nothing.
Soon, once Lucas and Max had joined you in the junkyard, the five of you set up an old bus as your base of operations, and after that you were hiding inside.
Lucas and Max were up on the roof, keeping watch, Dustin was pacing angrily; he was mad about Lucas telling Max everything and letting her tag along, and you were sitting on one of the old bus seats with your arms crossed to your chest, watching Steve flick his lighter open and closed.
He was cool, you could admit that now. Sure, he still seemed like a douchebag, but after spending literally all day with him, you had come to find Steve wasn’t as bad as you had thought.
And he was kind of… cute. He had nice eyes, and a nice nose, and the moles littering his face were just the cherry on top. And not to mention his ridiculous, but somehow attractive hair that you had recently learned he styled with Farrah Fawcett’s hairspray. Plus, he was charming.
He looked up at you, catching you staring, and gave you a smile. Your eyes darted down immediately, face heating up quickly out of embarrassment of being caught.
“You good over there, kid?” He asked, calling out across the bus. You just nodded in response, avoiding his eyes.
That nickname would stick around much longer than you’d have liked.
And once Dart and the other Demo-dogs had started to arrive, and they weren’t taking the bait, Steve tossed his lighter to Dustin, telling him to “get ready,” and you watched him go outside with that nail bat, using himself as bait.
“He’s insane.” Max had stated, and you had silently agreed.
“He’s awesome.” Dustin had said with an awestruck expression, and for some reason you agreed with that too.
Dustin had clearly begun to admire Steve as a kind of role model, while in that moment, as you watched a number of Demodogs surround him swing at the monsters after you and your friends, you were beginning to admire Steve in a different way.
When he had run back to the bus, several Demo-dogs were right on his tail, and you had all screamed at him to run faster until he was eventually launching himself into the bus.
He pushed you all to the back of the bus, away from the monsters clawing at the door, and you were the one to make it to the ladder at the back of the bus, and the moment you looked up at the hole and saw a Demogorgon looking down at you, you screamed loudly.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” Steve had yelled and Max yanked you back with her own shriek of fear, having seen the monster for the first time. Steve forced his way in front of you all, pushed you behind him, and raised the bat threateningly, ready to swing at the Demogorgon again. “You want some?! Come get this!”
And in that moment, right there in that rusty old bus, you fell in love with Steve Harrington.
He had jumped in front of you with nothing but that nail-studded baseball bat to protect you all, he had pushed you behind him like it was nothing, like it was easy.
For the rest of that night you were practically glued to his side, not close enough for him to notice, but lingering close enough that he was always nearby. Whatever room he was in, you weren’t far behind him.
From your walk to the lab, where you met up with Nancy and Jonathan, and soon after Chief Hopper, Joyce, Mike and Will, all the way to the Byers’ house, where you discovered that Will was possessed by the shadow monster he had seen and was somehow connected to the monsters, like a hive mind.
You and your friends made the connection between the shadow monster and the Mind Flayer, which Dustin then explained to the rest of the group, and soon after you, Dustin, Lucas, Max, Steve and Nancy waited inside while the others tried talking to Will in the newly disguised shed.
You sat on the couch, watching Steve as he practiced swinging his bat in the middle of the living room. You tried not to stare, really, but your newfound crush was hard to ignore. But then, awkwardly, you glanced over to Nancy.
Right, she was Steve’s girlfriend. Or… ex-girlfriend now? You weren’t sure, but all you knew was that you immediately felt guilty and you cast your eyes down to stare at your shoes instead.
When the Byers’s phone rang not once, but twice, and Nancy ripped it from the wall and threw it across the room, everything got hectic immediately.
The others came rushing back inside from the shed, weapons were distributed, and as Steve raised his nail bat, he pushed you behind him again so you were standing beside Dustin.
When the dead Demo-dog came flying through the window, shattering the glass, you all jumped back, and when El walked through the front door, relief flooded through your body immediately.
Her hair that had once been shaved was now slicked back, she was wearing dark clothes, converse and cuffed jeans, and had dark eye makeup on her face.
And when Hopper took a yelling Mike down the hallway to Will’s room after it came out that the Chief had known where she was for the entire last year and hadn’t said a thing to anyone.
But then she walked over to you, Dustin and Lucas, hugging the boys first and even touching Dustin’s teeth, which had only just grown in, before she walked over to hug you next.
“I’ve missed you so much.” You told her and she hugged you tighter.
“I missed you too.” She said before pulling back and smiling.
Max stepped forward to introduce herself, giving a polite smile and holding out her hand, but instead of greeting her back, El brushed her off and walked away, towards Joyce.
Max turned to look at you, hurt evident on her features, and you watched El walk away.
“Did I do something wrong?” Max whispered to you and you frowned.
“I don’t… No, I don’t think so.” You told her and pat her shoulder.
Then soon after Hopper and El left to close the gate, and Will was taken by the Byers’ and Nancy to try and separate him from the hive mind, which left you and the rest of your friends alone with Steve once more, which was fine until Billy showed up.
Billy Hargrove was Max’s older step-brother, and he was a total piece of shit. Steve had gone outside to try and get him to leave, and Billy had just shoved him to the ground before bursting through the door, but instead of going for Max, he went for Lucas.
You and your friends were all shouting at Billy to stop as he slammed Lucas against the wall, threatening him, telling Lucas he was “So dead.”
And that’s when Steve stepped in and punched Billy, and for a moment things were looking up. Until they weren’t and Steve ended up getting his face pummeled in by Billy, who Max knocked out a moment later with a needle of whatever Hopper had used to knock Will out earlier.
“Shit, shit, shit, what do we do?” Dustin exclaimed, looking down at the two unconscious 18-year-old boys lying in the middle of Joyce Byers’s living room.
“We have to get to the tunnels,” Mike decided immediately. “To help El.”
“What about Steve?” You spoke up, gesturing down to him and his swollen face.
“What about Steve?” Mike repeated, giving you an unbothered look.
“Well, we can’t just leave him here, Mike, look at him.” You pointed out, and the five of you stared down at his bloody face, bruises already blooming on his skin beneath the red liquid.
“She’s right.” Dustin backed you up immediately. “Besides, he just saved Lucas, we can’t just leave him here for Billy to probably murder when he wakes up. Or what if he chokes on his own blood or some shit?”
Mike groaned loudly, rolling his eyes and looking down at his older sister’s ex? boyfriend. “Fine, whatever, we can bring him.”
“Yeah, but how are we even going to get there? It’s not exactly like we can just walk to the farm.” Lucas asked and Max spun on her heels quickly, walking over to Billy and digging through the pockets of his jeans before pulling out his car keys.
“I’ll drive.” Max said, holding the keys up and dangling them from her fingers.
“What? No!” Mike scoffed. “You can’t drive!”
“I’ve driven in a parking lot before, and I can guarantee that’s more than any of you.” She pointed around at the rest of you. “Besides, Steve clearly can’t drive because he’s practically dead.”
Dustin took off running down the hallway.
“Dude, where the hell are you going?” Lucas yelled after him.
“I’m getting medical supplies!” Dustin had shouted back.
You and Dustin were stuck cleaning up Steve’s face to the best of your abilities while the others scrambled around the house, collecting items they said you needed to go into the tunnels and light the ‘hub’ on fire.
Mike made a map based on the drawings taped to the walls, you all put pairs of gloves and masks in the trunk of Billy’s Camaro before you and Dustin hauled Steve into the backseat.
The car was extremely cramped, Max taking the driver’s seat, much to Mike’s chagrin, and Lucas took the passenger seat beside her to navigate with a map of Hawkins.
You, Dustin and Mike squashed into the backseat, and Steve was pulled between you and Dustin, though he was mostly lying on your laps due to the lack of space. At the time you had been extremely thankful that the car was dark, because your face was burning just due to the minimal contact.
After that, the night faded into a blur of chaos. Steve woke up, screaming frantically about Max driving, sounding so terrified that you were surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, while Mike snapped at her from the backseat. Dustin was doing his best to comfort Steve while Lucas shouted directions at Max over the noise, screaming at how sharply she turned the corner into the farm.
You were frozen in your seat, stiff as a board, because in his panic Steve had grabbed a hold of your arm and now your heart was beating a mile a minute.
Then came the tunnels, dark, slimy, filled with spores from the Upside Down, and monsters from the very same place. Once you had made it to the hub with little-to-no trouble and doused it in gasoline, Steve tossed in his lighter and lit the place up.
You all raced back to the exit while Demo-dogs chased you all down the tunnels. Steve had lifted Max, Lucas and Mike up and out of the hole before the monsters came bounding around the corner, heading right towards you.
Steve’s arms wrapped around you and Dustin instinctively, and you had squeezed your eyes shut out of fear for your life.
The Demo-dogs just ran right by the three of you, and once they were gone, you all let out relieved breaths.
“You okay, Henderson?” Steve asked, patting Dustin on the shoulder and he nodded. Then he looked at you. “You good?”
Steve hoisted Dustin up first, and Mike and Lucas pulled him up and out of the hole. Then Steve turned to face you.
“Alright, your turn, kid.” He had said, and all you could do was nod before Steve was grabbing your hips to help lift you out of the hole, and butterflies had swarmed in your stomach.
You felt ridiculous. All this for some stupid crush on Steve Harrington? You had to be out of your mind.
Surely it must’ve just been because of the situation over the last few days, and once everything went back to normal, you’d see Steve less and this crush would fade, right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, Steve was everywhere. Since his breakup with Nancy (which you had confirmed a couple weeks later when Will mentioned something about her and Jonathan definitely being together) Steve clearly had a lot of time on his hands, because now he was always hanging out with Dustin.
And because Dustin was your best friend, that meant you saw Steve a lot more than you would’ve liked. And that crush didn’t fade, not even a tiny bit.
By the time December of 1984 rolled around, Hawkins Middle School’s annual winter dance, the Snow Ball, was here.
You had been excited for the dance for weeks, it was an excuse to go out and dress up with your friends for a night, and maybe you hoped a boy would ask you to dance.
You had seen Lucas and Max grow closer, and Mike and El seemed to have something going on, and you wanted something like that too. And, besides, a boy your age asking you to dance might’ve helped you get rid of this stupid crush on him.
But it turned out that the boys at the dance weren’t the people you should’ve been worried about, because not even five minutes after you had arrived, feeling good about yourself and excited to see your friends, Stacey Albright cornered you.
–
Steve watched Dustin walk into the gym with an unfamiliar sense of pride; the smile that sneaks its way onto his face shows as much. He watched Dustin talking with Mr. Clarke, like a proud big brother, before his eyes betrayed him, his gaze slipping past Dustin and landing on Nancy.
Nancy, his now ex-girlfriend, was inside the gym, volunteering at the middle school dance because that’s the kind of person she was.
Steve’s eyes softened, but the smile he had had already disappeared from his face. He only stared for a moment, just a couple of seconds, before he forced himself to start the car and drive away so he could spend the next couple of hours alone before he had to come back and pick Dustin up.
But Steve only drove a few feet away before he stopped again, because as he turned to drive around the side of the gym, he spotted you.
You were sitting on the curb in your dress, knees brought up to your chest, and from where Steve was it looked like you were crying. Steve’s brows scrunched at the sight, why aren’t you inside with the others?
Steve parked not too far away before exiting his car, brushing his hands on the front of his red sweater, before he approached you.
Your eyes were glued to the ground in front of you, your shoulders shaking as your body was wracked with sobs, your chin buried in your arms that sat atop your knees. The sight made Steve frown.
“Hey, kid.” Steve spoke up and you jumped, your head snapping up so quickly Steve thought you were going to get whiplash. “Sorry– didn’t mean to scare you. What are you doing out here?”
You shrug half-heartedly, looking away from Steve and down at the ground, sniffling as you brought a hand up to your face, rubbing your eyes.
“I’m fine.” You told him and Steve let out a snort.
“Yeah, I’m not buying it.” He dropped down onto the curb to sit beside you, and your eyes went wide as you watched him do so. “What’s going on?”
“It’s dumb.” You muttered, still avoiding his eyes.
“It can’t be that dumb if it’s got you out here crying instead of being inside and having fun with your friends.” Steve pointed out and you sighed, still not looking at him. “Come on, kid, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Just… some girls.” You mumble, and Steve’s frown etched itself deeper into his face. “They were saying stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
You didn’t reply, instead you crossed your arms across your chest and curled further into yourself.
“Sometimes I just wish I was normal.” You said, and Steve paused.
“You are normal.” Steve said and you scoffed.
“No, I’m not.” You stated. “I’m a weird nerd and I’m ugly, and my dress looks ugly and no boys are gonna dance with me, I shouldn’t have even come to this stupid dance.”
For a moment, Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew how to talk to the boys, because he used to be a 13-year-old boy, but you? That was some new territory for him. But he found the words soon enough.
“Don’t listen to those other girls, they’re just jealous.” Steve stated. You immediately opened your mouth to protest, but Steve cut you off. “You’re way cooler than those other girls. You’ve fought interdimensional monsters.”
“You did most of the fighting.” You mumbled, but Steve waved you off.
“That’s besides the point.” He said. “If those other girls are being mean to you, they’re just lame.”
“This dress is lame.” You muttered back, flicking at your skirt.
“No, it’s not. You look pretty.” Steve complimented and you finally looked over at him.
“You really think so?” Your voice was quiet, but your eyes were wide and locked onto Steve as your tear-stained cheeks flushed.
“Very pretty.” He told you with a nod. “Too pretty to be sitting out here and crying while all of your friends are inside and probably wondering where you are.”
“But what if nobody wants to dance with me?” You asked Steve, tears still brimming in the corners of your eyes. “That’s what Stacey said would happen.”
“Well Stacey sounds like a bitch.” Steve stated bluntly, causing a giggle to escape your lips. “And if no boys want to dance with you, it’s because middle school boys are dumb.”
“I can’t wait to go to high school.” You said, and Steve chuckled.
“Yeah, well, high school boys are pretty dumb, too.” He said with an exhale, gesturing to himself. “But trust me, kid, one day you’re gonna find some guy who loves you for all those things you don’t like about yourself, and those girls are probably never gonna find something like that.”
“What makes you so sure?” You asked Steve, more curious than anything, but still soaking in every word.
Steve just shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”
You stared at him for a moment. You had stopped crying by now, and Steve took that as a small victory as you gave him a small smile.
“Thanks, Steve.” You sighed and Steve stood up, offering you his hand.
“Come on, let’s get you inside to your friends.” Steve said and you took his hand and let him lift you to your feet. You brushed off your skirt, frowning as you wiped your cheeks, and you nodded.
But you didn’t even make it around the corner before you froze at the sound of Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time flooding out from the gym.
You spun around to face Steve again.
“I can’t do it. Nobody’s gonna dance with me.” You stated. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
“It’s easy.” Steve shrugged, then he offered you his hand again. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Steve, you don’t have to.” You told him, eyes full of panic, but he brushed it off.
“I need practice before prom anyway, if anything you’re doing me a favor.” He said, making you chuckle. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders.”
That night Steve Harrington became the first boy you had ever danced with, in the dark Hawkins Middle School parking lot in the middle of a cold December night.
That night you also knew you were completely screwed, and no boy your age would ever stand a chance, because you were absolutely head-over-heels obsessed with Steve Harrington.
–
The new year came quickly after that, and with 1985 came a brand new mall in Hawkins called Starcourt Mall, and after you and your friends officially finished middle school you were all spending almost every day of the summer there.
Well, all except Dustin, who went off to summer camp in the beginning of June. But the rest of you were spending your days outside riding your bikes or going swimming in the day before heading to the mall in the evenings.
And your favorite part of each trip to Starcourt, by far, was when you’d visit the little ice cream shop, Scoops Ahoy. Sometimes it was just for a snack, and sometimes it was to sneak into the movie theater for free.
The reason didn’t matter to you, because you were just happy to see Steve. He had gotten a job at Scoops Ahoy for the summer, which meant every time you went there, he was standing behind the counter in a cheesy sailor’s costume that he somehow still looked good in, hat and all. You were sure your face had flushed with heat the first time you had noticed his chest hair peeking out from beneath the shirt of his uniform.
There’s only one thing you didn’t like about seeing Steve at Scoops Ahoy, and that’s when he flirted with almost every girl his age who crossed the counter. He didn’t score a single date, not in that uniform, but it still hurt.
It made you wish that you were just a few years older. It made you think, if I was his age maybe he’d actually return your feelings.
And the thing was, Steve didn’t have a clue.
He greeted you casually, smiling at you or rolling his eyes like he did with all of your friends. A part of you was upset, but another part of you knew it was for the better.
Steve had just turned 19 that June, and you were turning 15 in September. He had graduated high school, and you were only just about to start when the summer was over.
Realistically, you knew it wouldn’t work, and you knew it would be just weird if Steve actually liked you back at that point, but it still felt like a curse.
–
The night before Dustin came home from Camp Knowhere, you and your friends wanted to go see Day of the Dead, which meant you had to sneak in. And sneaking in meant seeing Steve.
It’s not that you purposefully dressed up just because you’d be seeing Steve for what was probably one minute at most, but you might’ve been dressed just a little bit nicer than usual for a trip to the movies with your friends.
Of course, you, Lucas, Max and Will all ended up waiting outside the mall for Mike to arrive from his usual daily visit to El at Hopper’s cabin, which meant your friends had plenty of time to analyse your outfit–specifically Max.
“Why are you dressed up?” She asked you suddenly, cutting off Lucas and Will’s complaining about Mike’s tardiness, and you scoffed.
“I’m not, these are my regular clothes.” You weren’t exactly lying, but you weren’t telling the whole truth either.
Max’s eyes narrowed at you, but Lucas shrugged from beside her. “I think she’s dressed normally.”
“Thank you.” You said to Lucas, but Max just raised an eyebrow.
“Right.” She nodded slowly, and a moment later Mike arrived.
“You’re late.” Lucas had stated with crossed arms as Mike jumped off off his bike.
“Sorry!” Mike replied, but he didn’t seem to mean it.
“Again.” Lucas emphasised.
“We’re gonna miss the opening.” Will added.
“Yeah, if you guys keep whining about it.” Mike said as he put his bike in the bike rack. “Let’s go!”
“‘If you guys keep whining about it. Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh.’” Lucas imitated Mike and you had snickered.
Then as you walked through the mall, Lucas complained about and mocked Mike for spending so much time with El and not the rest of you. It made you and Will laugh.
As you and your friends pushed your way down the escalator and towards the food court, bumping into a bunch of people as you went, your stomach began to flip with excitement.
You all made it to Scoops Ahoy and Steve was nowhere to be seen, instead his co-worker Robin was behind the counter. You thought Robin seemed cool, from what you had seen she was funny, sometimes a little blunt, but you liked her. You just hoped Steve didn’t.
Mike smacked his hand down on the bell on the counter several times, despite the fact that Robin was right there. She sighed and called out, “Hey, dingus, your children are here!”
And then the window on the back wall slid open and there was Steve in his sailor uniform with a scowl on his face as he looked over your group.
“Again? Seriously?” He asked, but instead Mike just rang the bell once more. He groaned, but ushered you all over.
He held the door to the back room open for you all, Mike and Will entering first, then Lucas and Max, and you were pulling up the rear. You smiled up at him as you passed him.
“Hi, Steve.” You greeted quietly and he sighed, but put on a smile.
“Hey, kid.” He said, letting the back door swing shut before he headed to the front of the group to open the door to the delivery tunnel out the back. He peered out through the peephole to make sure nobody was around before ushering you all out the door and into the hallway. “Come on. Come on.”
While your friends all pushed in and walked ahead, you gave Steve an appreciative smile. He didn’t pay any mind, instead just looked pretty stressed out as he called out after you all.
“I swear, if anyone finds out about this–” He would say the same thing almost every time, because he was worried about losing his job, but he knew your friends wouldn’t give up until he let them through.
“We’re dead!” You all chorused and you waved to Steve before following your friends down the hallway.
Steve closed the door with a heavy sigh and walked through the Scoops Ahoy back room before he made it behind the counter again, only to find his co-worker Robin already staring at him with an amused smile.
“Oh, what now?” He groaned and she chuckled.
“That little girl has a crush on you.” Robin stated and Steve stopped in his tracks, his blue Adidas sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor.
“What? Who, Max?” He asked, confused. “I’m pretty sure she’s actually with Lucas again right now, so you’re definitely wrong.”
“Is Max the redhead?” Robin asked and when Steve nodded she sighed. “Well, I’m not talking about her, I’m talking about the other girl.”
Steve said your name, and now looked even more puzzled, his brows drawing inwards as he looked at Robin. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Uh, yes, she totally does, dingus.” Robin chuckled, shaking her head. “God, you really are oblivious.”
“Um, no, those kids all see me as, like, I don’t know… A babysitter, older brother type, you know? I’m their friend.” Steve explained, like Robin was maybe just missing something. She was completely unaware of the trauma bond that had formed between the group over the last two falls. “She doesn’t have a crush on me, okay? She probably just thinks I’m cool.”
But, of course, Steve was wrong and Robin was absolutely right, because you did have a crush on Steve, which is what Max had been making fun of you for quietly as you walked through the delivery tunnels.
“You totally have a crush on Steve!” She had whisper-shouted to you at the back of the group with a giggle and your cheeks flushed with warmth.
“No, I don’t.” You lied. “Shut up.”
“That’s why you got all dressed up!” She realized and you shot her a glare.
“Shut up, Max, before the others hear you.” You hissed and she snickered.
“I knew it.”
When you had successfully made it into the theatre, you had split off to the few empty seats in the room. Max and Lucas ended up in the row in front of you, Mike and Will
The movie had been fine, except for the fact the power had cut out completely only a few minutes in. But it wasn’t just in the cinema, it wasn’t even just Starcourt Mall, it was the entire town of Hawkins.
When the power came back and the movie continued to play, the entire theater cheered before falling back to a regular silence and the rest of the night went on just fine. Completely normal, unlike the rest of the week would turn out to be.
–
The next day you and your friends surprise Dustin at his house once he returns from camp, and Lucas ended up with hairspray in his eyes.
Finding out that Dustin had somehow scored a girlfriend he deemed ‘hotter than Phoebe Cates’ in his three-week-long science camp was a shock to not only you, but the rest of your friends too.
But that wasn’t as much of a shock as what you and Dustin heard on his super radio, which he had named Cerebro in a true X-Men fan fashion.
You had all spent the entire afternoon lugging Dustin’s radio equipment up the tallest hill in Hawkins, one your friends called Weathertop, because he wanted to introduce you all to his girlfriend, Suzie.
But as the day turned into night and Suzie was nowhere to be heard, your friends had slipped away one-by-one. First Mike and El, who had ditched you before even making it up the hill, then Lucas and Max who left once nightfall had hit. Will stayed the longest, but once it started to get too late he left too, suggesting you all play Dungeons and Dragons the next day.
You stuck around, mostly because you had noticed the way Dustin had seemed to deflate as each of your friends left, and you wanted to know if his girlfriend was real or not.
“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” Dustin had said and you just nodded at him in the dark as he repeated the prase, “Suzie, do you copy?”
By the end of the night you still hadn’t heard from Suzie, but you and Dustin had somehow intercepted what sounded like a secret Russian communication. Which led you to Scoops Ahoy the next day.
Dustin, of course, had wanted to see Steve and complain about how everyone else had ditched him the night before, but he also wanted to recruit him because overnight he had somehow gotten the idea that if you were to translate the Russian phrases he had recorded off the radio, you’d all become ‘American Heroes’.
The thing is, though, Dustin wanted to tell Steve all of this alone, which meant while they were talking in a booth in the back corner, you were leaning against the front corner, shooting them glances.
Robin was behind the counter, serving customers and wiping down benches, while also watching you. And after calling out to Dustin, making fun of Steve, she turned to you.
“So…” She said your name and you looked up. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You replied and she nodded.
“Cool. So, uh, how long have you had a crush on Harrington over there?” She asked and your cheeks immediately flushed with warmth. Your fingers pinched at the chain of the necklace hanging from your neck, fiddling with the charm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You lied. 13-year-olds aren’t the best at lying, and Robin very clearly saw right through you. “He’s, you know, old. And dumb. And hairy.”
Robin snickered and you looked down at your shoes. “Right.”
“I would never like him, okay?” You defended weakly.
“Like who?” Steve’s voice came from behind you and you froze, eyes going wide.
“Nobody.” You muttered and he raised his eyebrows. Dustin’s eyes locked onto yours and he stared you down like he was trying to read your mind. “Seriously, nobody.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid.” Steve teased and Robin glanced at you with amusement evident on her features. Then he nodded for you to follow him and Dustin to the backroom of Scoops Ahoy.
That’s where you spent the rest of the day, translating Russian phrases that seemed to be utter nonsense. Not a single word seemed to correlate with one another, and yet you had ended up translating a few sentences anyway.
Then, as you left Scoops Ahoy that night, you had all debated whether or not ‘The week is long, the silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west,’ was a secret code of some kind.
And then Steve worked out that the music in the background of the recording, something the rest of you had chosen to ignore, was in fact coming from a mechanical horse from inside of Starcourt Mall.
Then Robin left on her bike, while Steve waited in his car, watching to make sure you and Dustin were alright riding your bikes home.
When you were gone, riding your bikes side by side, Dustin spoke up. He offered for you to stay the night at his. He knew you didn’t want to go home, not to your parents who fight every night. You took him up on the offer.
The next day, you and Robin sat around at Scoops Ahoy trying to crack the entire code you had finished translating while Steve and Dustin searched the mall for any signs of ‘secret Russians’.
You sat cross legged on a countertop in the back room, the straw of a milkshake between your lips while Robin mumbled the same words over and over, staring down at a notepad.
Robin cracked the code that same day, and that night was the night you found the secret room in the back of the mall, guarded by what your group had now confirmed to be ‘Evil Russians’.
But, of course, finding the room wasn’t enough and then you needed to find a way in, and after Robin bought blueprints to the mall and roped Erica Sinclair into the mix, you made it into the secret room the next night.
Upon opening a box that was labelled for the mall’s Chinese restaurant, you all found something that absolutely wasn’t Chinese food. Once Steve had pulled out a glass cylinder of some kind of mysterious, green liquid, the secret room had began to move.
That was when you found out the room was an elevator.
The next couple of days were a blur. You were all stuck in that elevator overnight, you had to spend the night listening to Steve and Robin talking the entire time while your chest burned with jealousy.
But the rest of your time in that dark, underground base was worse. So much worse.
You had spent almost all day walking down a painfully long hallway, arguing about the design of the base, who was and wasn’t a nerd, and whatever the hell that mysterious, green and acidic liquid was. There was even one small moment where you, Dustin and Steve had all shared looks and debated quietly whether or not the Russians knew about the Upside Down.
Then you made it to the main part of the bunker which was crawling with soldiers and scientists. You made it up to the comms room and watched Steve fight and successfully knock out one of the Russian soldiers.
While Dustin celebrated and Steve smiled proudly, pushing some of his floppy hair away from his face, you had struggled to tear your eyes away from him. That was, until Robin found something at the top of a set of stairs.
It was a giant machine, and that machine was opening a gate. A gate to the Upside Down.
You couldn’t even explain anything to Robin or Erica because a moment later the five of you were sprinting down hallways and running around corners while Russian soldiers chased you until Steve and Robin had yelled for the three of you to leave them behind and escape into the vents.
You, of course, had been extremely hesitant. You didn’t want to leave them, and neither did Dustin, but they were busy trying to hold a door shut and get the rest of you out of there to follow you.
Erica went in first, then you had forced yourself to follow her before Dustin joined you in the vents and you crawled away having to listen to the sound of yelling in Russian behind you, because Steve and Robin had been caught.
Your time in the vents might’ve been worse than the elevator or the hallway, because now you were terrified. You had no idea if Steve and Robin were okay, or even alive. You had no idea where you were or how to get out of the bunker.
While Dustin explained everything to Erica, about when Will went missing and the Upside Down, and the two had an entire long conversation about My Little Pony, you were silent, only chiming in a few times to add to Dustin’s story. Erica had believed it all, except for the fact that Lucas was there, which was apparently hard for her to believe.
Once you had made it out of the vents and found Steve and Robin, they weren’t in the best condition at all.
You had gasped upon running into the room to find his face beaten black and blue, blood coated his face and his uniform and his eye was swollen shut. Robin looked better, shaken but unharmed for the most part.
Dustin had taken out the doctor in the room and the three of you had hurried to untie the older teens. The only issue was that Steve and Robin weren’t acting right.
They were giggling, a little hyperactive, whispering to one another, laughing hysterically at things that weren’t even funny, and just acting nothing like themselves.
You were the one to come to the conclusion that they were drugged once you were all back in the elevator, this time heading up. You had just watched Steve tumble to the ground after pretending he was surfing on some kind of delivery cart.
Dustin had checked and found his pupils were dilated and his eyes were a bright red. Though neither of them would give any of you a straight answer.
After getting out of the elevator, you had made it maybe ten feet away from the doors before two Russian guards were running towards you.
“Shit!” You and Dustin had yelled and shared a look before ushering Steve and Robin towards a door by your side.
“Why are we running?” Steve questioned and you had grabbed onto his arm to pull him into the delivery tunnels you would use to sneak into the cinema, and despite everything going on your stomach had fluttered at the contact.
Hiding in the cinema was easy. There was a late night showing of Back to the Future playing and you had forced Steve and Robin down into front row seats. You, Dustin and Erica had found more seats, but a moment later you and Dustin had headed up to the projection room with his walkie to try and get into contact with any of the others.
Luckily, you had managed to get into contact with Mike.
Unluckily, you had barely been able to tell him anything before the audio cut out and Dustin’s walkie ran out of battery.
He turned to face you with a desperate expression.
“Do you have yours?” He asked and you shook your head before pausing. “What about more batteries?”
“Wait–” You had realized and your face lit up as you met Dustin’s eyes. “I think my walkie is still in the backroom at Scoops.”
“Does it have battery?” He questioned you.
“I mean, it should do. It hasn’t been used in like a day.” You pointed out and Dustin shrugged. “Do you think we’d be able to get down to Scoops without getting caught?”
“Do you know the way through the tunnels?” He asked and you nodded.
“You have no idea how many movies Steve has sneaked us into, dude. Yeah, I know the way.” You stated before you both jumped up and hurried back down to the front row to find Erica.
The only issue was that now Steve and Robin weren’t in their seats.
After some searching, you had found them in the women’s bathroom, sitting on the dirty floor of the same stall, facing each other and laughing.
While Dustin scolded the pair for running off, you were trying your best to push down that disgusting feeling of jealously that swirled in your stomach.
The rest of the night was a mix of running from both Russian soldiers and a giant flesh-like version of the Mind Flayer, arguing with the rest of the group once you had all reconvened and shared what you had each discovered.
There was blood, you had to hold El’s hand tight while Jonathan had sliced her leg open looking for something that had been moving inside it. There had been singing, when Dustin had somehow come into contact with his girlfriend Suzie and you and Erica just had to sit on the grass beside him and watch. There had been fire, after the others had used fireworks to attack the Mind Flayer they had unintentionally set the entire mall on fire.
And there had been tears, because when they were down in that Russian bunker to close the gate that had been opened, Hopper had died. And Max’s step-brother Billy had been killed by the Mind Flayer right in front of her.
But, for the most part, everyone was okay. Some bloodier than others, some suffering a little more trauma than before, but okay.
Once he had gotten his keys back, some American soldiers had recovered them from the Russian base, Steve had driven you, Dustin and Robin back to his place.
The Harrington house was large, and empty. Steve had made some excuse saying it was to make sure the drugs wouldn’t kill him and Robin in their sleep, saying something else about how he had accidentally given the Russians Dustin’s full name, but you had a feeling he just didn’t want to be alone, not after everything that had happened.
The four of you had crashed in his living room, Steve covering the sofas and large wooden floor in a collection of pillows and blankets before you all practically passed out, sleeping in until late the next afternoon.
–
El and the Byers’ moved three months later, not long after you all started high school. Saying goodbye to your friends before they moved to California wasn’t easy for any of you, especially not for Mike, but you all pushed through.
High school was different. You, Dustin, Lucas and Mike had a rough start, but soon you joined a D&D club called the Hellfire Club, led by a senior named Eddie Munson.
Eddie was great, despite being older than most seniors due to being held back for several years. He was cool, he was funny, he had a band and he loved D&D.
Steve, unlike the rest of you, didn’t like Eddie very much. He would make vague comments here and there whenever Dustin mentioned him in passing, or when Mike talked about Hellfire, or when Lucas told him a story while the two practiced basketball.
High school was very different from middle school. While, at first, you and your friends had fallen into your usual places at the bottom of the food chain, that didn’t last long for some of you.
Lucas had made it onto the basketball team, though he had been riding the bench all year, which had already given him a bit of a boost when it came to terms of friends.
Mike and Dustin didn’t seem to care about popularity, rather embracing the fact that you were all nerds and geeks thanks to Eddie’s ‘guidance’.
Max still sat with you guys sometimes, hung out occasionally, but she had started to isolate herself from everyone. She had been struggling mentally, mostly due to her step-brother’s death, something she only ever told the school therapist and, well, you.
You weren’t quite sure what had happened to you in high school, or what had happened to your peers, because the bullying from other girls had diminished, and now they actually talked to you in the hallways, or sat with you in class, or paired up with you for projects.
It was different, but it was nice.
Though, sure, there were still times where they’d judge your friends, or some of your interests, like D&D, but you’d much prefer they make fun of the fantasy game you played with your friends than make fun of you.
Your first year of high school started off fine, great even, up until Spring break.
That’s when shit really hit the fan.
The last day of school before break was the last day of the Hellfire Club’s D&D campaign against the cult of Vecna, but it had coincided with Lucas’s basketball game. You had wanted to go and watch, but Eddie was already pissed enough that Lucas would be missing Hellfire, and you didn’t want to get on his bad side.
So you instead recruited Erica to be his substitute for the night, though you felt bad for missing your friend’s game, especially when you found out he not only actually had a chance to play, but had scored the team’s winning shot.
But the break itself was worse.
Mike had gone to California to visit El and Will, while you, Dustin and Max spent the first day of your break finding out that a Hawkins High student, Chrissy Cunningham, was found murdered at the trailer park Max lived in – specifically in Eddie’s trailer.
But Eddie himself was nowhere to be found, Max had seen him fleeing the scene in fear the night before, speeding out of the trailer park faster than she had ever seen him drive before.
So, of course, you, Dustin and Max had ended up in Family Video, where Steve and Robin had been working since about October, since the Byers’ had left town.
Your group debated on whether or not Eddie was capable of murder, Steve being the only person to really think he was, while proceeding to use the three phones inside the video store to call Eddie’s friends in an attempt to track him down.
You were helping your friends, of course you were, but you couldn’t help but sneak longing stares over at Steve as he ‘attended to the customers’, and flirted with any girl his age that walked through those glass doors.
But you pushed down those feelings of jealousy and disappointment you had grown familiar with and did your best to focus on the task at hand.
Still your eyes would betray you and flick towards Steve every so often, taking him in. The way his green vest stretched over his shoulders, the chest hair sticking out from the open top buttons of his polo shirt.
You’d watch him drag his hands through his hair in some kind of pathetic attempt to impress a girl who turned out to have a boyfriend and mourned the fact that you’d never be able to have him.
Eventually your friends managed to track Eddie down to the house of a drug dealer named ‘Reefer Rick’, and once you found him there, wide-eyed, shaking and terrified, Eddie told you all about what had happened with Chrissy.
How she seemed to be in a trance, how she floated into the air with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. How each of her limbs snapped and broke violently before her eyes popped from her skull and her body crumpled to the ground right in front of Eddie.
You, Dustin and Eddie then noticed the similarities between Chrissy’s trance and being under a spell or a curse. Specifically, Vecna’s curse. The same dark wizard you had just finished fighting in your Hellfire campaign.
You and your friends spent the next days doing your best to keep Eddie hidden from the police, bringing him food deliveries when you could, while also doing whatever research you could to find out what, or who, Vecna was, and why he was going after Hawkins High students.
After the second murder, a boy from the school paper named Fred, Nancy Wheeler joined your small group and you had to pretend you weren’t jealous whenever Steve looked her way, his eyes softening. When he practically jumped at the opportunity to go with her to follow a potential lead, only to end up pissed off when Robin went with her and he was stuck ‘babysitting’ you, Dustin and Max.
But then you found out Vecna was going after Max next, and suddenly everything was scarier. When you watched her float into the air just moments after Lucas had slipped her headphones over her ears, you thought she was going to die.
You had grabbed onto Steve’s arm out of fear, staring up at your friend as you all screamed her name, begging for her to come back down to the ground and out of that trance she was stuck in.
And she did, Max fell to the ground with the rest of you and Lucas cradled her shaking body in his arms, holding her close to his chest as she struggled to catch her breath.
After Nancy and Robin found out that Victor Creel’s family might’ve also been killed by Vecna, and Max had seen an old, broken house when she was in Vecna’s mind, your group went to the old abandoned Creel home to search for clues.
After Max found an old grandfather clock identical to the one she had seen in her visions, and Steve had suggested that Vecna could’ve been a clockmaker, you all split off into groups to explore. Robin and Nancy went together, Max and Lucas, which left you with Dustin and Steve.
Steve didn’t seem too thrilled, letting out a loud sigh and complaining about always being grouped with Dustin.
It made you frown, disappointment flooding your body. First you had been watching him make eyes and flirt with Nancy for the last couple of days, and now he was acting like being grouped with you and Dustin was a chore.
You were quiet as the two boys argued, Dustin quoting Sherlock Holmes and Steve not understanding a word before Dustin wandered off, and you followed behind.
Nobody really found anything in the house, but at one point while crossing the upstairs hallway you caught a glimpse of Steve and Nancy standing a little too close together while she smiled up at him. That was enough to dampen your mood for the rest of the night.
You knew it shouldn’t have mattered, there were more pressing issues going on at the time – like the fact Max had almost died and Eddie was being framed for murder – but you just couldn’t shake the jealous feeling away.
That night, after your flashlights had all blown up, you spent the night staring at the ceiling and replaying the way Steve had looked at Nancy over and over again.
It had just made you feel ridiculous. You needed to move on, find someone your own age, someone who could actually return your feelings and give you that love you craved so much. So you decided that you would, that tonight was the last night you would care about Steve Harrington and after that he would go back to being nothing more than a friend.
And then you saw him the next day, wearing that yellow sweater with a wide smile on his face, offering you Pringles in the back of Nancy’s station wagon, and you tried so hard to ignore the way your stomach fluttered when his big, brown puppy dog eyes met yours.
The fact that Vecna had killed another teenager – a boy from the basketball team named Patrick – the night before helped keep you distracted, but when you and your friends were walking through the woods in search of Eddie, following Steve and Dustin as they argued while leading you all to ‘Skull Rock’, you were left alone with your thoughts.
Of course, it wasn’t that long before Steve had found Skull Rock and began rubbing it in Dustin’s face that he was right and your best friend was wrong and you had found Eddie.
While Eddie ate the food you had all brought for him and he recounted the previous night’s events, including when Patrick was lifted into the air in the middle of Lover’s Lake and had each of his limbs snapped one by one, Dustin paced back and forth while staring down at his compass.
That was, until he yelled out a very loud, “Boom!” That echoed through the woods before he pointed at Steve. “Bada boom.”
Steve, naturally, was confused, as were the rest of you, before Dustin began spouting off about how Skull Rock was North once more, which made Steve roll his eyes before he started to argue back.
Then Dustin told you all that Skull Rock in fact was North, and his compass had been leading him in the wrong direction, which then made him point towards you and Lucas, making you recall a piece of information you had learned back when you were 13 and had just learned about El and the lab for the first time.
“Do you guys remember what can affect a compass?” Dustin had asked, and it was like a lightbulb had gone off in your head.
“An electromagnetic field.” You and Lucas both answered, like the memory of that information had just resurfaced for the first time in years.
While the others in the group were confused, you were starting to understand what Dustin was getting at. There was likely a gate somewhere nearby, much like when your compasses had deflected towards the lab back in 1983.
The rest of the afternoon was spent following Dustin and his compass through the woods as the sun set and darkness fell over Hawkins, and eventually his compass had started going totally beserk and he started running.
Eddie managed to grab him by the shoulder and stop Dustin from falling right into Lover’s Lake, which was where the compass had led him, which meant the gate was likely somewhere… inside of it.
The older teens all ended up on a rowboat with Dustin’s compass, leaving you, Dustin, Lucas and Max on the shore, watching them with a pair of binoculars.
“Wait, wait, wait. They’re stopping.” Lucas said suddenly, holding the binoculars to his eyes while hitting Dustin in the chest. “What are they stopping for?”
Dustin scrambled for his walkie. “Guys, what’s going on? Come on, guys, talk to me, what’s going on?”
You and Max had been standing off to the side, a little further back, whispering to each other, but your attention had been stolen once the boys had started to speak.
“Uh, Dustin, your compass has gone from wonky to wonky with a capital, ‘ahh!’” Robin’s voice crackled through and you had sighed, disappointed that you were all sidelined and forced to stay on the shore.
A few more silent moments passed before Lucas let out a disgusted groan.
“Ugh. When’d Steve get so hairy?” He asked and Max’s head snapped towards you with a wide smirk on her face, making your cheeks heat up as you whispered for her to stop.
“Right? I keep telling him he needs to tame that jungle, but he claims the ladies dig it.” Dustin explained and the boys each made a face before you stepped forward and reached for the binoculars around Lucas’s neck.
“Pass me those.” You said and he shot you a confused look before you took them right from his hands and peered through them yourself, getting a look at a very shirtless Steve Harrington in all his glory.
Lucas and Dustin shared confused looks for a moment before Dustin made a sound that was half a scoff, half a surprised yelp before asking, “Dude! What the hell?”
You just gave a shrug and watched as Steve dove into the lake, disappearing beneath the cold, dark water, and you handed the binoculars back to Lucas.
However, you and your friends didn’t get to see the outcome of the dive, because only a few moments after Steve dove in, you and your friends were lying on the ground and hiding behind a log because the cops had arrived.
Robin’s voice crackled through on Dustin’s walkie, saying Steve found the gate, but none of you paid any mind as he switched the walkie off and you stayed hidden for a moment more. And in order to keep the cops away from Eddie, Max jumped up and yelled for the cops to follow her.
Of course, you all got caught, and an hour later the four of you were cramped onto the couch in the Wheelers’ living room, surrounded by cops and your parents.
You had shrunk into the sofa at the sight of both your mother and father in the same room, but this time their anger was directed at you and not each other.
After some questioning, where you all lied in response to almost every question, you explained everything that had been going on to Erica, and she was the one who noticed the blinking light in the dining room, morse code that Dustin translated spelling out S.O.S..
Communicating with Steve, Nancy, Robin and Eddie in the Upside Down using Holly Wheeler’s lite-brite seemed crazy, but what was crazier was sneaking out of Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom window and running away from the cops, Erica popping the tires of the police cruiser before the now five of you rode your bikes across town to Eddie’s trailer.
There was a gate on the ceiling, and Dustin used a broom to break open the red, fleshy gateway to reveal the Upside Down on the other side. A moment later, Steve appeared above you, standing in the same place you were, looking up – or down – at the rest of you. Nancy, Robin and Eddie followed suit and you all waved happily, chuckling at the absurdity of the situation, before you were dragging Eddie’s mattress out of his bedroom to use as a landing pad to help the others through the gate and back to your world.
Except that proved difficult when after Robin and Eddie had crossed over, Nancy ended up in a trance much like Max and the rest of you searched Eddie’s trailer for any music that could help her while Steve stayed with her in the Upside Down, cupping her face and shouting for you all to hurry.
But Nancy got out of the trance on her own, and once she explained to you all what had happened, what she had seen, what Vecna – or Henry Creel, Number One – had shown her, to say you were terrified would be an understatement.
The end of the world. Hawkins on fire, everyone dying. Four gates opening up and spreading across Hawkins, splitting the Earth open.
Hearing that was enough to stop you from thinking about how Steve was sitting just a couple of feet away from you, completely shirtless except for Eddie’s denim vest he had started wearing at some point in the Upside Down.
So your group started coming up with a plan, Vecna wanted to kill four people, so Max would offer herself up as bait. Then, you’d strike.
Naturally, Eddie suggested getting weapons and gear from an army surplus store known as ‘The War Zone’, but it was too far for you to bike there. So Eddie hotwired his neighbors’ motor home and had Steve drive the damn thing there.
Halfway there, you had been sitting at a table in the back with Dustin, but your eyes kept drifting over to Steve driving the RV, and Nancy in the passenger seat talking to him with a soft smile. And Steve would turn and look at her with an expression you could only describe as pure longing, maybe even love.
And he told her a story about his dream for the future, about driving around in a Winnebago with five or six kids of his own, and then he looked at Nancy again. Suddenly you wanted to sink into the floor and never come back.
At the War Zone, you had to stay in the RV with Eddie, Dustin and Lucas as members of the Hellfire Club who were currently being hunted like the Salem Witch Trials, and obviously one of you had been framed for several murders in town. All of Hawkins believed you to be devil worshippers of some kind.
After your friends bought half of the store and then had a brief run in with Jason, Chrissy’s boyfriend, and the other members of the basketball team who were currently hunting you all down – especially Eddie – Steve, now dressed in a leather jacket and a camo shirt, pulled the RV off onto a field where you all began preparing your weapons.
You sat beside Max and Nancy on some old milk crates as Nancy sawed off the end of her new shotgun. Max asked her if it was legal for her to do so, and Nancy replied with something about it being a felony. You were distracted, yet again, by your overwhelming crush on Steve.
He was sitting with Robin in front of the Winnebago, filling bottles with kerosene to make their own flaming molotovs. And you kept glancing his way, then practically staring.
Then, at one point, he looked up and glanced your way. Your eyes darted away immediately and you turned your body to face Max, unaware that Steve hadn’t even noticed you staring because he had been looking at Nancy.
Max chuckled at you and immediately began with the teasing again, some comment about you drooling or making ‘heart eyes’ at Steve. You shushed her, but it was too late because Nancy, Steve’s ex-girlfriend who he had been flirting with over the last several days straight, had heard her.
Your face flushed with warmth and you looked down at your shoes on the grass, then shot Max a harsh glare when you thought Nancy wasn’t looking. But, of course, she still was, and even huffed out a little laugh.
“It’s okay,” She told you, her lip quirking up slightly as she said your name, and your attention was all hers a moment later. “I mean, I was the same once upon a time. Had a big crush on Steve, obviously you knew that because we…”
“Nancy.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands out of embarrassment, and Max had immediately started saying something about you being ‘in love with Steve for like two years’.
You should’ve been used to her teasing by now, it was stupid and you knew it. It was just some dumb teenage crush. But you had slowly began curling into yourself, your arms wrapping around your body as your thoughts and insecurities took over.
You weren’t sure if it was about Steve, or just about craving that kind of attention. Craving love and a relationship, much like you had seen and heard from your friends.
Max and Lucas, Mike and El, Dustin and his long distance girlfriend Suzie, hell, even seeing Nancy with Jonathan. It felt like you were missing out on something that everyone else was allowed to have.
Your friends were all growing up and getting these experiences you could only dream of, like having a first kiss, or dancing with a boy who actually liked you and wasn’t just trying to comfort you when he found you crying on the curb outside the Middle School gymnasium.
So you lived vicariously through teen romcoms and stories from other girls in school, fantasizing about the moment a boy would actually show that kind of interest towards you. To want you, to love you.
And Steve… Steve was older. He was cool, he was good looking, he was funny, he had that charm you had seen him use to ask girls out on dates at Family Video while you were browsing for the closest thing you’d ever get to a relationship, aka. Star Wars, where you’d watch Han and Leia and sigh to yourself, or some cheesy movie where the guy pines after a girl for years and then finally wins her heart.
But Steve was also the first boy who had ever said that you looked pretty, and he was the first boy who had ever danced with you. And he was the first boy you had ever had a crush on that had lasted longer than a couple weeks.
All of it together was just enough to make you crave it so badly. Crave that experience of a relationship and that feeling of love.
And of course the only boy you had ever really liked had absolutely no chance of liking you back. Not in a million years.
“Can we just drop it please?” You asked and while Max nodded, Nancy gave you a sympathetic look that made you want to crawl into a hole and die.
So that night you were dropped off at the Creel House with Max, Lucas and Erica, and after stepping off of the dead silent Winnebago, you turned back and looked at Steve, eyes full of fear. He was watching you all as you left, and when he saw you looking back, he nodded at you, telling you to go on.
You did. You followed your friends into the creaky, old, crumbling house as the sun set, unaware of just how badly the night would end.
It started off okay, walking around the house only in socks, using lanterns as light and communicating using notepads to avoid making any noise that could potentially alert Vecna to your positions, and soon you and Erica had been hurrying outside as phase 2 initiated, to signal to the others in the Upside Down when you were going into phase 3.
That’s when shit went downhill, because then Jason and his jock friends showed up. One of the basketballers, Andy, chased you and Erica away from the playground before he tackled you to the ground and pinned your arms behind your back.
You had been struggling against his grip until Erica managed to push him off of you and kicked him right in the balls, and Andy curled into himself, his hands grabbing at his crotch as he groaned in pain.
Then you and Erica had sprinted back into the Creel House, where Jason had headed when Andy went after you. The attic door had been locked once you reached it, but the two of you had managed to break it open and make it up to where Lucas and Max had been.
“Lucas!” Erica called out her brother’s name and you froze at the top of the stairs because Lucas was sobbing on the ground with Max pulled into his lap. Her limbs were snapped, twisted abnormally out of place and sticking out in directions that they shouldn’t, and her eyes were glazed over in a pure white, blood dripping down her cheeks.
Lucas had spun around immediately to face you both, screaming out, “We need a doctor! Call an ambulance! Hurry! Call an ambulance!”
And when Erica had rushed back downstairs, likely to find a neighbor or the closest possible phone, but you were completely stuck in place, staring at the girl you had grown up with, one of your best friends, as she sobbed in her boyfriend’s arms telling him that she was scared and that she wasn’t ready to die.
You were crying, your body shaking uncontrollably as you stumbled over to them, trembling as you dropped to your knees and practically begged her not to slip away.
“Erica, help!” Lucas shouted out, his voice so full of pain that you couldn’t breathe as you sobbed, gripping Max’s hand in yours as you pleaded with her to stay. But it didn’t work. Max died in his arms.
And then the Earth split open, a gate forming and growing. Lucas pulled Max away and you both scrambled to the side, watching as the gate ripped Jason in two and continued to spread further away from the Creel House and through Hawkins.
Then, after over a minute had passed, Max’s heart had started beating again, just enough that she was still alive. But Eddie wasn’t so lucky, he had died in the Upside Down, sacrificing himself to save Dustin.
Three days later, Max was in a coma in Hawkins Memorial Hospital, Mike, Will, El and Jonathan all arrived in Hawkins again, and you were helping Dustin, Robin and Steve volunteering in the post ‘earthquake’ aid and suddenly not having a boyfriend, or your crush not liking you back, didn’t feel like as a big of a deal as it had before.
And, somehow, life managed to return to normal after that. Well, something close to normal.
Hawkins was now under a government mandated quarantine, where the military crawled around every inch of the town, keeping you blocked off from the rest of the world.
You and your friends were starting your junior year in high school, except for El, who was hiding from the military, and Max was still in a coma and had been for the entire 18 months that had passed.
The crawls were new. Every couple of weeks Hopper would sneak into the Upside Down with the military through the massive gate in the middle of Hawkins, right at the library, and would search for Vecna while Dustin and Steve tracked him from your side and Mike and Lucas kept watch from the nearby church.
But after 18 entire long months, you found nothing. Not even the slightest hint that Vecna was anywhere near, and after over 30 crawls it was like the entire Upside Down had been searched from top to bottom and absolutely nothing was found.
Not until what would be later known as your last crawl, the one where Dustin didn’t show up and you were thrown into the Squawk van with Steve and had to practically beg for Jonathan to come along for ‘help’ when really you didn’t want to be left alone with Steve.
Your crush hadn’t faded, despite the fact that you didn’t see him as often as you used to. Not when Dustin was acting differently and seemed to be avoiding him half of the time. But you listened to the WSQK radio broadcasts every day, mostly for Robin’s DJ-ing and to listen out for any hidden codes about crawls, but also because you knew Steve was the one behind the station’s many sound effects in the background of the broadcasts.
You were now 17 years old, almost an adult, and you hadn’t gotten over the crush on the guy who was basically your best friend’s older brother that had formed back when you were 14. You still had absolutely no experience in anything even slightly romantic, and it was killing you.
But the crawl in the Squawk van had been even more awkward with Jonathan around, because then they argued about Nancy, of course they had, while you sat in the back of the van awkwardly while thinking about Hopper’s signal, which you had lost when the van broke down.
At one point, Steve had spun around to face you, gesturing to Jonathan and asking why you had brought him along because, “Byers is a total buzzkill’. Jonathan had rolled his eyes and called Steve a name, and Steve had mumbled a bland insult back, and it almost felt like you were at home, listening to your parents doing anything but getting a divorce.
Just seconds after Steve had managed to get the van running again, finally, Dustin showed up. His face was completely busted and he had blood leaking from his nose and down his chin.
That just resulted in another argument, this time between Steve and Dustin, while you searched for Hopper’s signal again, only to come up with nothing, other than a strange noise Dustin had brushed off as nothing important because it wasn’t Hopper.
That same night, Holly Wheeler had been taken from her own home by a Demogorgon and her parents had been attacked and had almost died. El had followed the monster into the Upside Down to try and catch up to them and save Holly.
Sometime early the next morning, long after the sun had risen, you had arrived back at the Squawk, where Will then explained that he had a connection to the hive mind again, and to Vecna, and he knew that Vecna was going after another kid from Holly’s class next, a boy named Derek Turnbow.
Mike and Nancy shared the information they had learned at the hospital, that Vecna had stalked Holly long before she was taken, but had appeared as Henry and pretended to be her friend, not someone to be afraid of.
So then you were all coming up with a plan to try and save Derek, and this plan involved drugging and kidnapping the kid and his entire family.
Lucas and Mike recruited Erica, because her best friend Tina was Derek’s older sister, meanwhile you were on the McCorkle farm watching Dustin destroy Steve’s car by affixing the telemetry tracker to the top of the Beamer and crushing Steve’s heart.
You couldn’t help feel bad for him and the way he frowned for the rest of the afternoon, wincing every time he caught a glimpse of the car.
That night, the plan went well. The Turnbow family were all successfully knocked out by the pie Erica made using benzos that Robin and Will stole from the hospital, and while Joyce, Robin, Will and Erica took the family away to the farm, the rest of you set up traps around the house in preparation.
Watching Steve use a chainsaw to cut open a giant hole in the living room floor might’ve been the highlight for you, well, until you had helped him set up a trap outside Derek’s bedroom door using some wood planks, nails and a trip wire. Once the trap had been set, Steve had given you a high five that had genuinely sent a jolt of electricity through your body and a smile etched itself onto your face.
When the Demogorgon arrived in Derek’s room, only to find a dummy in his bed instead, it was your and Lucas’s job to pelt the thing with water balloons filled with acetone so it was guaranteed to catch a flame once Jonathan threw a flare at it.
Once the Demogorgon flipped using a small gate it had made in the living room, Nancy and Jonathan rushed outside to join Steve and Dustin in the Beamer as they chased the Demogorgon, hoping it would lead them to Holly.
Later, when you, Mike and Lucas made it to the farm on your bikes, telling the others about how you saw soldiers loading Debbie Miller and a bunch of other kids Holly’s age onto a bus, Dustin, Steve, Nancy and Jonathan were nowhere to be found because Steve drove his car through a gate and right into the Upside Down.
Will told you all about what he had learned in the hive mind, how many kids Vecna wanted to take, and now the military had all of those kids in one place in an attempt to protect them. But you and your friends knew the only way to really protect them was to get them out of Hawkins and out of Vecna’s reach, which meant it was time to make a new plan.
This time, Robin made it, basing her entire plan on the film The Great Escape. But there were a few key pieces of information you needed. How would you know where the washroom was to know where to dig up from the tunnels below Hawkins? How would you know which kids were even being targeted by Vecna?
Mike’s solution was to send Derek Turnbow, the kid you had managed to save, into the MAC-Z and into the barracks with the other kids.
And the plan had almost worked, until a burst pipe led to you all getting caught before you had gotten all of the kids out and into the tunnels. Robin and Lucas took half the kids to Murray, but the rest of you were captured by the military.
Of course there was arguing, a fight started to break out after one soldier hit Derek on the back of the head, both you and Mike immediately jumping in to defend him, but everything stopped when Will fell to the ground.
Joyce rushed over immediately while you and Mike stayed with the kids, who were absolutely terrified. Will could sense the hive mind. Demogorgons were coming for the kids.
They burst through the plates and immediately began attacking the soldiers, who were shooting at them left and right. Gunshots filled the air, echoing through what should’ve been a quiet night, and flames burst around the military base.
You hadn’t really realized how much you had grown up over the last few years until you and Mike were leading the group of kids around the base, protecting them from the monsters, shielding them the same way Steve, Nancy and Jonathan used to do with you and your friends.
But it was all for nothing, because the Demogorgons took the kids in the end. Vecna himself had come through the gate in the MAC-Z and when a blast of flames sent you, Mike and the kids flying back, you were knocked out.
When you came to, Mike was pulling you to your feet, only for you both to flinch back when a Demogorgon jumped towards you.
You had raised your arms to cover your face in a weak attempt at a shield, but no impact was made. The Demogorgon had frozen midair, and how? Will had his arm outstretched towards it, keeping it frozen in the air, using his own powers to stop the Demogorgon.
You were absolutely bewildered, your mouth falling open in surprise, having to blink a few times just to confirm you weren’t still unconscious and that this was actually happening. Mike, on the other hand, was staring at Will in absolute awe.
Will lifted the Demogorgon into the air and snapped its limbs one by one before snapping its neck, similar to the way Vecna had killed Chrissy and the other teens, and had almost killed Max the year before. When its body crumpled to the ground, Will fell to his knees and wiped the trickle of blood that had formed under his nose.
Beside you, Mike had started to smile. The look on his face wasn’t something you quite knew how to describe at the time, but looking back later, you knew that was a look of love.
Back at the Squawk, the group had to come up with yet another plan to be able to find the others in the Upside Down and come up with a plan, because Lucas was sure Vecna’s plan to end the world was going to take place on November 6th, and that was just a day away.
Both Lucas and Erica came up with two separate plans, Erica’s involved creating a new telemetry tracker and finding Mr. Clarke and getting him to help, while Lucas wanted to Frankenstein one of the dead Demogorgons to link Will back to the hive mind.
You ended up going with Erica and Murray to find and recruit Mr. Clarke to help you, and it didn’t take much once you told him Dustin was in trouble and you needed his help.
The four of you spent all night recreating the telemetry tracker until you tracked Dustin’s location to Hawkins Lab, though, in the Upside Down. Of course, Mr. Clarke didn’t know that and assumed he had left or something similar.
The others had arrived not long after, and when you saw El, you moved forward to hug her, glad that she was home safe and no longer in the Upside Down, even if Dustin and the others were still stuck.
“Mr. Clarke, thanks for the assist.” Mike spoke, walking forward to shake your former teacher’s hand as you stood by his side again.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Mr. Clarke had replied. “We successfully trilaterated Dustin’s position here, to precisely where I stand now.”
“But by the time we arrived, he was MIA.” Erica continued.
“Well, he wouldn’t be precisely here. He’d be under.” Robin pointed out, crossing her arms, and you nodded along.
Mr. Clarke tilted his head in confusion as he looked at Robin. “Sorry?”
Mike’s head then snapped towards you. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Told me what?” Mr. Clarke asked you.
“It… slipped my mind?” You excused, speaking to Mike, but your attention was stolen a moment later. “Oh, my god.”
“Holy shit.” Erica spoke from beside you as her gaze also landed on Max, who was being wheeled towards you all in a wheelchair, but she was very much alive and no longer in her coma.
“Holy shit.” Max echoed and your face lit up as you let out a surprised chuckle.
“Max!” You hurried over and she grinned as you crouched down to hug her, but the moment was cut short by Murray yelling that he got Dustin’s signal on his walkie and you all rushed down to his level.
After a brief conversation about Holly was shared between Mike and Dustin over the walkies, El ripped up one of the plates covering the rifts in the ground and you all, except for Lucas and Max, went into the Upside Down.
You were all calling out the names of your missing friends while you were trying to take in the fact that you were in the Upside Down for the very first time before you heard Dustin calling out your name, and then Mike’s. You both rushed towards him as he barrelled over.
“Jesus, it’s good to see you guys.” He sighed in relief, throwing his arms around you both and hugging you tight.
As you hugged him though, your eyes drifted to Steve as he approached behind him, standing off to the side from Nancy and Jonathan. It took a moment for you to notice how miserable they looked, and another moment for you to realize that Holly wasn’t with them like you had thought.
Turns out Vecna had pulled her into the literal sky and she had disappeared into the clouds. And you and your friends needed to save her before Vecna likely ended the world on that very same night.
So you all went back to the Squawk to share new information and come up with the final plan to defeat Vecna.
Dustin stood in front of you all with a black marker in hand, drawing on the glass windows of the recording booth as he explained something he had learned in the Upside Down version of Hawkins Lab.
“We’ve always the Upside Down was another dimension opened by Brenner, but it turns out it’s actually a bridge.” Dustin added two long lines to his diagram, representing the bridge. “More specifically, an interdimensional bridge that rips through space-time. It is wildly unstable, but held together by exotic matter, which we found dead center right above the lab. In theoretical physics, they call this type of bridge a–”
“Wormhole.” Both Erica and Mr. Clarke finished in sync, and Dustin pointed at them. You shared a glance with Max, who was sitting beside you in her wheelchair.
“And this wormhole connects Hawkins to here, another world that I’ve coined the Abyss.” Dustin explained.
“Any particular reason?” Robin asked and Mr. Clarke leaned forward in his seat.
“A realm of pure chaos and evil.” He spoke and Robin looked towards him.
“I’m sorry?”
“D&D.” You, Mr. Clarke, Erica, Mike, Will, Lucas and Dustin all answered at once.
“Jesus Christ.” Hopper groaned.
Dustin went on to explain how he believed the Abyss was the true home to the Demogorgon and the Mind Flayer and all of the monsters, and that Henry Creel had been sent there by Eleven years ago, before Dr. Brenner had her find him and created the bridge between the two worlds.
That had explained a lot over the last few years, like why every single crawl had come up empty, because Vecna hadn’t been in the Upside Down, he had been in the Abyss.
Will came up to the conclusion that the reason he was taking kids like Holly into the Abyss was because the minds of children were weaker and easier to mold, like he had done with Will himself, and he was going to use them to amplify his abilities and move worlds. To draw the Abyss and Hawkins closer and merge them together.
Will jumped forward to draw something on Dustin’s diagram and you shifted your body away from Max, who had just been talking, to then face him. In doing so, your arm brushed against Steve’s leg, and you muttered a quiet apology but didn’t look up at him where he was sitting on the back of the couch you were seated on.
Then you were working out a plan to get up to the Abyss to try and stop Vecna before he could draw the worlds together.
After Hopper’s first suggestion of a helicopter, which then resulted in the rest of you telling him that it wouldn’t work, and a rather crude comment about Steve made by Robin that made your eyes go wide, Steve himself was the one to come up with the plan.
He had jumped up from his place on the couch beside you and you had watched him as he walked a few steps away, then stopped, his brain clearly moving faster than his mouth could before shouting that you wouldn’t need a magic bean to make a beanstalk and climb up to the Abyss like some fairytale.
His idea was to use the Squawk radio tower in the Upside Down as a way into the rifts, letting Vecna draw your worlds together just enough that you could all make it inside before El would stop him from drawing them closer.
It was genius, and while the others added a few more small details to help, Dustin was the one who finalized it, suggesting for you all to leave a bomb at the exotic matter that would detonate when you left the Upside Down and destroy the bridge for good.
Then everyone was gearing up, dressing in old combat gear, gathering weapons, and Mike built the detonator for the bomb using a record player and a minifigurine.
You sat with Lucas on a table in the basement as he adjusted his giant slingshot, a great improvement from his old Wrist Rocket he used against the Demogorgon when you were younger.
You were filling more water balloons for him with the flammable liquid inside the unlabelled canister you had found in the Squawk basement, but every so often you’d glance over to Steve in that same leather jacket he had worn the first time, the material stretching along his shoulders, and a backwards cap on his head, a small tuft of hair sticking out from the front, as he walked away from the cabinet in the corner that usually held the weapons, specifically the guns.
He held a small handgun until Nancy approached him, questioning whether or not he had used a gun before. Of course, he hadn’t, and you forced yourself to look away, only to find Lucas smirking at you.
“What?” You asked.
“You’re, like, in love with Steve.” He whispered with an amused laugh and you shushed him.
“Shut up, no I’m not.” You scoffed, then glanced towards Steve again, watching him follow Dustin through the basement before you met Lucas’s eyes again and saw he was still smirking. “Shut up.”
Getting into the Upside Down was the easiest part of the plan. Murray’s huge Bradley’s Big Buy truck was large enough to hold all of you as it charged into the MAC-Z right through the front gate, and Hopper took down any soldiers shooting at you from the inside, having sneaked in through the tunnels like he would before a crawl.
Nancy and her rifle climbed up the ladder in the middle of the truck and stuck out the hole at the top, where a Demogorgon had ripped the metal open, only to rain fire on any other soldiers around trying to stop you.
Once Hopper was inside the truck and the truck had successfully made it through the MAC-Z gate, the ride got a little bumpier.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve wobbled on his feet a little from beside you.
“Everybody alright? Everybody okay? You alright?” He asked Steve, who nodded, before looking around and asking the others. “Everybody alright?”
Steve looked down at you, where you looked a little shaken as you blinked a few times, and his face scrunched into one of concern.
“You sure you’re okay, kid?” He asked and you looked up, eyes going wide when you realized he was talking to you, as if it were something out of the ordinary.
You nodded before forcing yourself to speak. “Yeah. Thanks, Steve.”
Then he had reached over and patted your shoulder for just a moment before leaning back against the wall. He smiled at you, and you returned the gesture, though you had a feeling you were blushing before you looked to your other side and reached for El’s hand.
Once you reached the lab, Hopper, El, Murray, and El’s ‘sister’ Kali all left the truck, and Steve moved to the front to drive the rest of the way to the Squawk.
You hated the climb up the ladder on the tower, you weren’t the biggest fan of heights, and once you had made it up to the top, you, Lucas and Dustin all stood together and stared out at the Upside Down Hawkins skyline.
“It’s pretty damn spectacular.” Dustin had commented, bumping your shoulder with his.
“Yeah,” You agreed breathlessly, staring out at the dark, yet amazing parallel to your hometown. “It is.”
“It’s almost too bad we have to blow it all up.” Lucas added and you had glanced his way.
“Is it though?”
It wasn’t long after that when you could hear, and see, the Abyss as it descended towards you all, and the plan seemed to be going okay until Lucas noticed that the top of the tower wasn’t lining up with the rifts, which only meant bad news.
El wasn’t able to stop the Abyss fast enough and the planet above you came into contact with the needle, snapping it off.
You all jumped out of the way as it fell, gripping onto the edges and each other. The needle broke off one end of the tower’s railing, and it took Steve with it.
Both you and Dustin shouted his name, watching as he dangled from the edge of the tower, only gripping on with one hand. If he slipped, he would fall and die.
And then he did slip, and he fell. But not far enough, because Jonathan caught him. He grabbed onto Steve’s hand and pulled him back up onto the tower, saving his life.
The moment he was back on the platform, Dustin charged forward and pulled Steve into a hug. You had almost wanted to follow him, but instead hugged Robin, who was sobbing in relief that she hadn’t just watched her best friend fall to his death.
The Abyss was strange, it was almost like a desert. A vast, empty desert. It seemed too empty, and too quiet, but eventually you found where Vecna was keeping the kids, inside of a ginormous spider-like monster. The Mind Flayer in a much larger, physical body.
And while El fought Vecna inside of the thing, you and your friends attacked the monster from the outside, shooting it, stabbing it, lighting it on fire, until it eventually collapsed to the ground.
Nancy was the first to rush inside in search of Holly, and the rest of you joined her a moment later, Mike rushing forward to reunite with his sisters. The rest of you helped the other 11 kids from where they were up in the spires on the wall. They were all confused, and dirty, covered in some kind of slimy residue as Mind Flayer particles expelled themselves from their mouths.
As you helped a young girl brush herself off, telling her you would help get her home, you could hear gurgling coming from somewhere nearby. You turned to see Vecna, though impaled on a sharp spike of some kind, was still alive.
Joyce dealt with him, decapitating him with her axe. The moment you watched his head tumble to the ground, rolling for a moment before coming to a stop, it felt like a weight was lifted from your shoulders immediately.
Soon you were all heading back home, having climbed back down the radio tower and all cramped into the back of the bus. Steve and Robin were in the front, and you were squashed between Dustin and El as you all talked, almost celebrating the fact that you had won.
Everything descended into chaos when you returned through the gate. The tires of the truck were flattened by spikes and everyone was hauled from the vehicle by soldiers in a flurry of chaos.
You were pressed against the side of the truck, El to your left and Mike to your right, as soldiers surrounded you all. There was yelling, arguing as soldiers patted you all down and searched you all.
Dr. Kay approached El, who glared in response, wincing at the loud radio feedback sound coming from the speakers around the base.
But then the bomb went off inside the Upside Down, and everyone watched the wind whipping around inside as the buildings collapsed and then… it was gone. The gate disappeared, leaving nothing but the crumbling destruction of the library.
After that, you and your friends were all brought in for hours of questioning by the military and Dr. Kay, asking about Henry, El, Kali, the Upside Down, the Demogorgons, why you had taken the kids, why you had gone into the Upside Down. They asked you about everything from the moment Will went missing and you found El in the woods to that point in time where you were being interrogated.
And, eventually, you were all let go and expected to go on with your lives like normal. With the Upside Down gone and Henry dead, El had lost her powers again and now the military had no reason to be after her, not after everything had gone down and she had stopped Vecna.
While it did take a long time, eventually things did get back to normal, as much as they could’ve at least.
–
The morning of your high school graduation you woke up with more energy, and more anxiety, than you had had in a long time.
You went through your morning routine like normal, waking up to a silent house because neither of your parents liked being around each other, or you, before getting dressed.
You had nothing to do all day before graduation, no boyfriend to celebrate with, no family around who wanted to take photos of you. You had the day to yourself.
So you turned on the radio and sat down on the couch with a book, listening as Robin Buckley presented the Squawk’s morning broadcast for the first time since Jimmy ‘Fast Hands’ Lee had returned to Hawkins and she had gone off to college.
At least that was something you could look forward to – college. You couldn’t wait to get out of Hawkins, to do more with your life. You were going to study to become a teacher, something you had wanted to do probably since middle school when you and your friends had all idolized Mr. Clarke.
A burp sound effect playing at the wrong time caused you to look up at the radio for a moment, brows furrowed before a whip cracking sound effect played and Robin’s voice came in.
“There we go. Sorry about that. My partner in crime ditched me.” Robin explained and your face fell for a moment. “But, well, as far as excuses go, he had a pretty good one.”
She was, of course, talking about Steve, who now coached the middle school baseball team. He was the only one of the older teens that hadn’t left Hawkins to go to college when the quarantine had been lifted.
At the mention of Steve, your stomach had flipped uncomfortably. 18 months had passed, and while your crush hadn’t faded, something had happened that now just made you feel guilty for liking him.
Steve had a girlfriend now, a woman named Kristen who he had been dating for a couple of months by this time, and it killed a part of you every time you thought about it.
But that was another reason why you were excited to get out of Hawkins, you would leave Steve behind, maybe meet a guy at college and finally move on from your dumb crush and have a relationship of your own.
That afternoon after you made it to the graduation, everything felt too real. You stood with your friends, dressed in your orange caps and gowns as guests all took their seats, and then the music played, queuing you all to take your seats so the ceremony could begin.
As you walked to your seats, lined up alphabetically like you had rehearsed, you looked around the bleachers to see who you could recognize.
There was Jonathan filming the event off to the side, Joyce, Hopper and El, the Wheelers (including Nancy), Lucas’s parents, Dustin’s mom, Mr. Clarke and Murray, Robin, and Steve.
He was dressed in a suit with a pair of sunglasses on, but as you all walked out, his head turned away from Robin to watch you all. You raised a hand and gave a small return, and he grinned, both him and Robin waving back and you smiled, looking down at your shoes before taking your seat.
Dustin’s valedictorian speech started off normal, he mentioned how he had wanted a normal childhood, but that didn’t really happen, due to obvious reasons. He went on to mention D&D, talking about bad chaos and good chaos. He mentioned making friends with people who were never supposed to be his friends, and how he had seen the same happen to others. He talked about how he was now a better person because of his friends.
But then, towards the end of his speech, something shifted. He called Principal Higgins a square, took off his robe and ripped open his shirt to reveal a t-shirt reading ‘Hellfire Lives’. You cheered loudly for your friend, and so did the others as he went on to say, “Screw the school. Screw the system. Screw conformity. Screw everything and everyone trying to hold you back and tear us apart, because this, this is our year!”
And as you all cheered for him, Dustin snatched his diploma from Principal Higgins and flipped the old man off, just like Eddie had said he would your freshman year.
After the ceremony, you and your friends ran through the sea of orange robes to find him.
“Dustin!” You all called out upon spotting him and the four of you hugged him tight.
“You’re a madman. You’re an absolute madman.” Mike said first as Dustin shook his shoulders with an excited laugh.
“Higgins totally shit his pants.” Lucas added with a laugh.
“Yeah, what’s he gonna do, expel me?” Dustin asked.
“You’re crazy.” Lucas told him, but before the conversation could continue, a voice cut in.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Stacey Albright, the same girl who had once teased you at the Snow Ball, approaching you, Dustin, Lucas, Mike and Will.
“Hey, Stacey.” Dustin greeted her with a grin and an attempt at speaking casually, but your smile fell just a little.
“I just wanted to say what you did up there was pretty badass.” She complimented Dustin, and for a moment you thought she wasn’t going to be serious. But, then again, everyone had matured since middle school.
“Oh. Thanks. I was kind of just going for like a bit of like a Belushi thing. But if he was like in a Hughes film.” Dustin scratched his eye and you shared a glance with Will, who was standing to your left. “But I don’t know. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. No, totally.” She told him and there was a bit of an awkward pause where she went to turn around and walk away.
“Why did I say that?” Dustin whispered to you and you shrugged, but then Stacey had turned back.
“Hey, so I’m having a party later tonight. You guys should come.” She told you all, then made direct eye contact with you and smiled. Not in a teasing way, but more genuine. You did your best to smile back before she walked away.
“Did that just happen?” Dustin asked Will the moment she left, and the boy chuckled in response.
“Should we go?” Will asked, looking around the group, his eyes lingering on Mike.
“Is that rhetorical?” Lucas asked back, because the answer was obvious.
“No. Screw that. I got a better idea.” Mike stated.
His better idea had been a D&D campaign, and so the seven of you – You, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, El and Max – all cramped around the table in Mike’s basement to play D&D until dinner, laughing and reminiscing about the last six years of your lives and the chaos you had all survived.
But after dinner?
“We still have time to go to Stacey’s party after this.” Lucas had said first, checking his watch by the Wheeler family’s front door.
“Oh, my god, please.” Dustin clamped his hands together and gave Mike his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, dude, let’s go.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Come on, Mike, don’t be a party pooper.” Max had teased, making El giggle from where she stood by Dustin’s side.
El and Dustin had gotten closer over the last year or so, after she and Mike had finally broken up for good. She had, obviously, been very behind on school, and was currently a grade behind you all, having to take summer school to catch up, but Dustin had been tutoring her and helping her with any subjects she had been struggling with, and now sometimes she hung out with Dustin more than you did.
Another recent development had been with Will and Mike. About a year ago, Will told you, Dustin, Lucas, Max and El that he was gay. He said he had only told his mom, his brother, Mike and Robin before that. Now, Mike hadn’t told you anything, but sometimes you caught the two of them sending each other glances across the room like they were the only two people around.
Will turned to face Mike. “Yeah, Mike, come on. It’ll be fun.”
Then Mike sighed, dropping his head back with a groan before throwing his arms up in the air in front of himself. “Fine.”
You had all walked to the party at Stacey’s house, and once you arrived she, as well as many others, were happy to see you all there.
It was like years of bullying and cliques and labels in school didn’t matter anymore, and that felt weird. It looked like the entire senior class was there.
Kids were high-fiving Dustin as they passed him, complimenting him on his speech loudly, raising their voices to be heard over the thumping bass of the music practically vibrating the house.
You and your friends decided to just let go and have fun; talking to people you usually wouldn’t, drinking alcohol, drinking a lot of alcohol. At one point you and Dustin had started teasing Lucas and Max as they made out in the corner of the room, only for Lucas to let go of Max and start chasing Dustin through the house, leaving you, Max and El bursting into a fit of laughter in the corner.
But the later into the night you got, the more drunk you had all become, and eventually you were all collapsed onto a couch together, El giggling as she played with Dustin’s curls while Max rested her head on your shoulder, her legs thrown across Lucas’s lap. Mike and Will were sitting just a little too close for it to not mean anything by your other side.
Then someone mentioned being tired, someone else started to get sad about the fact you would all be going away to separate colleges soon, and then you were all debating who to call to pick you up.
Will called Jonathan first, who said he could come pick up his brother and sister and one other person, which ended up being Mike.
You, Dustin, Lucas and Max had to find a different ride home, so Dustin went to make a call.
–
Steve had gotten home a couple of hours earlier after making plans to meet up with his friends in Robin’s weird uncle’s house in Philadelphia once a month, and he had been stretched out on the sofa, his arm around Kristen, his girlfriend, as the two of them watched a movie together.
When his phone rang, he furrowed his brows in confusion before getting up and crossing the room to pick it up, assuming that maybe Robin had left something behind in his truck earlier.
Instead he found Dustin on the other end, his words slurred slightly as he asked for Steve to come pick him up.
“Are you drunk, Henderson?” Steve asked, crossing one arm around his torso as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. Kristen had poked her head out of the living room to see what was going on, and he waved her off.
“Pfft, not even. Just, like, a little.” Dustin replied, though his words said otherwise.
“Alright, bud.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Where are you?”
“What’s the address?” He could hear Dustin ask someone else on the other end before he recited Stacey’s address. “Oh, and can you pick up the others too?”
Of course, Steve couldn’t fit four teenagers into his truck, which meant he had to borrow Kristen’s car to go pick you all up, and when he arrived at the address he found the four of you seated on the curb, the party still going on in the house behind you.
Dustin was already half passed out, leaning against Lucas, but he grinned when Steve approached.
“Steve!” He cheered before nudging you and tugging on Lucas’s arm. “Guys, Steve’s here!”
“Steve!” The rest of you chorused the cheer, your face lighting up immediately, and Steve laughed before offering Dustin a hand to lift him up.
While Dustin, Lucas and Max all piled into the backseat, you were left with the passenger seat. And while your friends passed out almost immediately, all leaning against each other as they snored softly in the backseat, you were wide awake.
Something by Queen played on the radio, faint but still clear enough for you to understand every word Freddie Mercury sang as Steve tapped along to the beat on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for picking us up, Steve.” You spoke, half mumbling, as you shifted in your seat, no longer staring out the window and now facing him.
Steve shrugged. “No problem. You know I’d do anything for you guys.”
You hummed before looking around the car. “This isn’t your truck.”
“Nope.” Steve agreed, taking a look around himself. “It’s, uh, my girlfriend’s car.”
“Right.” You had replied, then sunk back into your seat, your eyes fluttering shut a moment later. Steve exhaled out his nose lightly in a gentle laugh.
He glanced over at you, then to your other friends in the rearview mirror before you spoke again.
“I love you, Steve.” You stated, still half-asleep, but your voice was clearer than it had been before.
He smiled, flicking on his blinker as he turned a corner on the dark, empty streets of Hawkins. “I love you too, kid.”
“No.” You had sighed, and Steve glanced your way again, watching how each street lamp illuminated your face for a few seconds as he passed them. “I mean, I love you like… like how you love Kristen.”
He stopped completely, the car slowing slightly, and he frowned as he looked your way again, one eyebrow raised. You what?
“You love her, right?” You asked and Steve coughed awkwardly.
“Well, yeah.”
“Good. She’s nice.” You mumbled. “You deserve that.”
Steve didn’t know how to reply. He had never felt so awkward in his life as he glanced your way.
“You don’t love me.” He told you, like he could decide that. Like saying that erased any feelings you might’ve had for him.
“Yes, I do.” You sighed again, turning to face the window again. “But, it’s fine. I get it. And I’m glad you’re happy, and once I go to college I’m gonna find a boy and he’s gonna love me and I’m gonna forget all about you, so it’s fine.”
And then you went silent for the rest of the car ride. When Steve pulled up outside of Dustin’s house, you shot him a kind smile, thanked him, and left the car like nothing had happened, waking Dustin up before the two of you headed off to the front door with nothing more than a goodbye.
And Steve sat there for a moment, watching the two of you make it into the house before he just stopped, thinking over the interaction he just had with you, extremely confused, because you were in love with him? Since when had you loved him?
The next time he saw you was a week later at one of his baseball games when you and your friends had all shown up to watch.
You were acting like nothing had happened, teasing him with Max like normal, laughing with your friends, acting like you hadn’t drunkenly confessed your love to him a week earlier.
Naturally, Steve assumed you were too drunk to remember the interaction. Hell, he assumed the entire interaction had only happened because you were drunk, because Steve didn’t think you loved him.
But you did love him, and you didn’t forget about the interaction.
Neither did Steve.
–
a/n: holy shit this was wayyyy longer than i had anticipated uhhh no wonder it took me literal months to write omfg. anyway the rest of the series is set in 1993, and the next chapters will be shorter i swear. um, i hope you liked this and the few changes i made lol. i’m excited for this series!!
Description: she spent two years loving him and a year trying to convince herself she was over it, until a weekend home from college dumps her right back into his orbit her little brother's best friend turns out to be Mike Wheeler, which means the boy behind the counter at Family Video is the same one who let her walk out of his driveway without a word to stop her and every time she gets close to the truth behind his year of silence, it dissolves into the same maddening line, “it's not what you think, I just can't tell you”leaving her to piece together a version of events out of half-confessions and misread glances in a town too small to hide anything for long. Secrets kept to protect rather than to hurt, lies told out of pride and fear, and a past that refuses to stay buried.
Warnings: 18+,smut to come along, so much angst, exes to enemies to enemies with benefits to something more, self confidence issues, allusions to unrequited love, if you love them let them go, mentions of cheating, mentions of bullying . Takes place during season 4 Steve is a yearning mess
a million little times (that's the things about illicit affairs)
prologue: "born from just one single glance"
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
chapter summary: when you first met steve harrington, you had no interest in him, but once you get to know him, you can't help but form a bit of a crush on him, and as the years go on, that crush seems to grow into something more. the only issue? steve is four years older than you.
chapter tags/warnings: there are no romantic interactions between steve and the reader in this chapter other than her crush on him. age gap (4 years), stranger things seasons 1-5, mentions of blood and violence and death, unrequited love, underage drinking, alcohol, hospitals, lil childhood crush, references to bad relationships with parents, uhh monsters and kidnappings and basically everything that happens in the show butttt a few things change. el lives!! references to henderhop and byler (which will be canon later idgaf).
steve has no romantic interest in the reader when she is a minor. that’s weird as fuck.
word count: 19.4k
series masterlist , spotify playlist
–
The first time you met Steve Harrington was in Hawkins Memorial Hospital.
It was July 1976, you were five years old, almost six, he had just turned 10. He had fallen off of his bike and broken his arm, and you were waiting for your dad to come pick you up while your mom started her shift as a nurse.
You and Steve had been sitting next to each other in the Emergency Room, his arm in a brand new cast, and you swinging your legs over the edge of your seat.
You had spoken to him, asking if his arm hurt or what happened, and Steve had told you.
Neither of you remembered that moment, but when you think about the first time you met Steve Harrington you still think about Hawkins Memorial Hospital, but for a different reason.
The night of November 12th, 1983, or maybe it was the early hours of November 13th, your friend Will Byers had finally been found after spending a week trapped in a dark, alternate dimension you and your friends had dubbed ‘The Upside Down’.
You were 13 now, the oldest of the party (beating Lucas by a whole 4 months), and Steve was 17.
After you had spent the night chased by government agents, and evil scientists and literal monsters, and after you had watched your new friend Eleven – El – die.
You and your friends had been cramped into the hospital waiting room, hoping to see Will when he woke up. Lucas and Dustin had been passed out, leaning on each other, and your head was on Dustin’s shoulder as you slept too.
Steve Harrington was also in the waiting room, sitting between a snoring Ted Wheeler and the door. His face was bloody and bruised as he stared at a blank spot on the floor ahead of him.
At this point in time, you didn’t know Steve. You knew of him, that he was a douchebag high schooler, that people called him ‘King Steve’, and that he was dating your friend Mike’s older sister, Nancy.
That night is when you think you met Steve Harrington for the first time.
You didn’t see him very often after that, maybe a few times at the Wheeler household when he was hanging out with Nancy and you were there to play D&D in the basement with your friends, sometimes you’d both be seated at the dinner table, but that was about it.
You didn’t really care about Steve then, he was just some guy – an asshole – who was dating Nancy, and nothing else.
That is, until the beginning of November, 1984. Just days after Halloween, after meeting Max Mayfield for the first time, and after Will’s episode on the field at the school.
You’ve always been closer with Dustin and Lucas than you have been to Mike and Will. In fact, out of all of them, you always considered Dustin to be your best friend.
That might be why you answered his code red that morning, while Lucas went out to try and recruit Max, the new girl, into your party. You were all for Max joining your party, you thought she was cool, and it would’ve been nice to have another girl around.
You ended up helping Dustin scrub blood out of the shag carpet in his bedroom, and helped him bury his now-dead cat after Dart, the slug-like creature Dustin had found in his trash, had turned out to be a baby Demogorgon.
Nobody else was answering the call, so you and Dustin headed to the Wheeler house to try and find Mike, or maybe even Nancy, but neither of them were home.
And when the two of you turned away from the front door to head back to your bikes, Dustin muttering obscenities under his breath, you watched a familiar BMW pull up outside the house.
Enter Steve Harrington. Again.
A bouquet of roses in one hand, running the other through his perfectly styled hair, now walking across the Wheelers’ front lawn and towards the door.
Was it fate? No, just convenient timing, but the next night your perception of Steve Harrington would entirely change for the rest of your life.
You had watched him walk down the steps to Dustin’s cellar, nail bat gripped in his hands, and your first thought was that you hadn’t realized how brave Steve Harrington actually was.
And the next day you had followed him down a set of old rail road tracks, dropping chunks of raw meat onto the ground and listening to him giving Dustin horrible advice on girls. At one point, he had even turned back and asked for your opinion, only for you to totally disagree with what he was saying, but he brushed you off like it was nothing.
Soon, once Lucas and Max had joined you in the junkyard, the five of you set up an old bus as your base of operations, and after that you were hiding inside.
Lucas and Max were up on the roof, keeping watch, Dustin was pacing angrily; he was mad about Lucas telling Max everything and letting her tag along, and you were sitting on one of the old bus seats with your arms crossed to your chest, watching Steve flick his lighter open and closed.
He was cool, you could admit that now. Sure, he still seemed like a douchebag, but after spending literally all day with him, you had come to find Steve wasn’t as bad as you had thought.
And he was kind of… cute. He had nice eyes, and a nice nose, and the moles littering his face were just the cherry on top. And not to mention his ridiculous, but somehow attractive hair that you had recently learned he styled with Farrah Fawcett’s hairspray. Plus, he was charming.
He looked up at you, catching you staring, and gave you a smile. Your eyes darted down immediately, face heating up quickly out of embarrassment of being caught.
“You good over there, kid?” He asked, calling out across the bus. You just nodded in response, avoiding his eyes.
That nickname would stick around much longer than you’d have liked.
And once Dart and the other Demo-dogs had started to arrive, and they weren’t taking the bait, Steve tossed his lighter to Dustin, telling him to “get ready,” and you watched him go outside with that nail bat, using himself as bait.
“He’s insane.” Max had stated, and you had silently agreed.
“He’s awesome.” Dustin had said with an awestruck expression, and for some reason you agreed with that too.
Dustin had clearly begun to admire Steve as a kind of role model, while in that moment, as you watched a number of Demodogs surround him swing at the monsters after you and your friends, you were beginning to admire Steve in a different way.
When he had run back to the bus, several Demo-dogs were right on his tail, and you had all screamed at him to run faster until he was eventually launching himself into the bus.
He pushed you all to the back of the bus, away from the monsters clawing at the door, and you were the one to make it to the ladder at the back of the bus, and the moment you looked up at the hole and saw a Demogorgon looking down at you, you screamed loudly.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” Steve had yelled and Max yanked you back with her own shriek of fear, having seen the monster for the first time. Steve forced his way in front of you all, pushed you behind him, and raised the bat threateningly, ready to swing at the Demogorgon again. “You want some?! Come get this!”
And in that moment, right there in that rusty old bus, you fell in love with Steve Harrington.
He had jumped in front of you with nothing but that nail-studded baseball bat to protect you all, he had pushed you behind him like it was nothing, like it was easy.
For the rest of that night you were practically glued to his side, not close enough for him to notice, but lingering close enough that he was always nearby. Whatever room he was in, you weren’t far behind him.
From your walk to the lab, where you met up with Nancy and Jonathan, and soon after Chief Hopper, Joyce, Mike and Will, all the way to the Byers’ house, where you discovered that Will was possessed by the shadow monster he had seen and was somehow connected to the monsters, like a hive mind.
You and your friends made the connection between the shadow monster and the Mind Flayer, which Dustin then explained to the rest of the group, and soon after you, Dustin, Lucas, Max, Steve and Nancy waited inside while the others tried talking to Will in the newly disguised shed.
You sat on the couch, watching Steve as he practiced swinging his bat in the middle of the living room. You tried not to stare, really, but your newfound crush was hard to ignore. But then, awkwardly, you glanced over to Nancy.
Right, she was Steve’s girlfriend. Or… ex-girlfriend now? You weren’t sure, but all you knew was that you immediately felt guilty and you cast your eyes down to stare at your shoes instead.
When the Byers’s phone rang not once, but twice, and Nancy ripped it from the wall and threw it across the room, everything got hectic immediately.
The others came rushing back inside from the shed, weapons were distributed, and as Steve raised his nail bat, he pushed you behind him again so you were standing beside Dustin.
When the dead Demo-dog came flying through the window, shattering the glass, you all jumped back, and when El walked through the front door, relief flooded through your body immediately.
Her hair that had once been shaved was now slicked back, she was wearing dark clothes, converse and cuffed jeans, and had dark eye makeup on her face.
And when Hopper took a yelling Mike down the hallway to Will’s room after it came out that the Chief had known where she was for the entire last year and hadn’t said a thing to anyone.
But then she walked over to you, Dustin and Lucas, hugging the boys first and even touching Dustin’s teeth, which had only just grown in, before she walked over to hug you next.
“I’ve missed you so much.” You told her and she hugged you tighter.
“I missed you too.” She said before pulling back and smiling.
Max stepped forward to introduce herself, giving a polite smile and holding out her hand, but instead of greeting her back, El brushed her off and walked away, towards Joyce.
Max turned to look at you, hurt evident on her features, and you watched El walk away.
“Did I do something wrong?” Max whispered to you and you frowned.
“I don’t… No, I don’t think so.” You told her and pat her shoulder.
Then soon after Hopper and El left to close the gate, and Will was taken by the Byers’ and Nancy to try and separate him from the hive mind, which left you and the rest of your friends alone with Steve once more, which was fine until Billy showed up.
Billy Hargrove was Max’s older step-brother, and he was a total piece of shit. Steve had gone outside to try and get him to leave, and Billy had just shoved him to the ground before bursting through the door, but instead of going for Max, he went for Lucas.
You and your friends were all shouting at Billy to stop as he slammed Lucas against the wall, threatening him, telling Lucas he was “So dead.”
And that’s when Steve stepped in and punched Billy, and for a moment things were looking up. Until they weren’t and Steve ended up getting his face pummeled in by Billy, who Max knocked out a moment later with a needle of whatever Hopper had used to knock Will out earlier.
“Shit, shit, shit, what do we do?” Dustin exclaimed, looking down at the two unconscious 18-year-old boys lying in the middle of Joyce Byers’s living room.
“We have to get to the tunnels,” Mike decided immediately. “To help El.”
“What about Steve?” You spoke up, gesturing down to him and his swollen face.
“What about Steve?” Mike repeated, giving you an unbothered look.
“Well, we can’t just leave him here, Mike, look at him.” You pointed out, and the five of you stared down at his bloody face, bruises already blooming on his skin beneath the red liquid.
“She’s right.” Dustin backed you up immediately. “Besides, he just saved Lucas, we can’t just leave him here for Billy to probably murder when he wakes up. Or what if he chokes on his own blood or some shit?”
Mike groaned loudly, rolling his eyes and looking down at his older sister’s ex? boyfriend. “Fine, whatever, we can bring him.”
“Yeah, but how are we even going to get there? It’s not exactly like we can just walk to the farm.” Lucas asked and Max spun on her heels quickly, walking over to Billy and digging through the pockets of his jeans before pulling out his car keys.
“I’ll drive.” Max said, holding the keys up and dangling them from her fingers.
“What? No!” Mike scoffed. “You can’t drive!”
“I’ve driven in a parking lot before, and I can guarantee that’s more than any of you.” She pointed around at the rest of you. “Besides, Steve clearly can’t drive because he’s practically dead.”
Dustin took off running down the hallway.
“Dude, where the hell are you going?” Lucas yelled after him.
“I’m getting medical supplies!” Dustin had shouted back.
You and Dustin were stuck cleaning up Steve’s face to the best of your abilities while the others scrambled around the house, collecting items they said you needed to go into the tunnels and light the ‘hub’ on fire.
Mike made a map based on the drawings taped to the walls, you all put pairs of gloves and masks in the trunk of Billy’s Camaro before you and Dustin hauled Steve into the backseat.
The car was extremely cramped, Max taking the driver’s seat, much to Mike’s chagrin, and Lucas took the passenger seat beside her to navigate with a map of Hawkins.
You, Dustin and Mike squashed into the backseat, and Steve was pulled between you and Dustin, though he was mostly lying on your laps due to the lack of space. At the time you had been extremely thankful that the car was dark, because your face was burning just due to the minimal contact.
After that, the night faded into a blur of chaos. Steve woke up, screaming frantically about Max driving, sounding so terrified that you were surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, while Mike snapped at her from the backseat. Dustin was doing his best to comfort Steve while Lucas shouted directions at Max over the noise, screaming at how sharply she turned the corner into the farm.
You were frozen in your seat, stiff as a board, because in his panic Steve had grabbed a hold of your arm and now your heart was beating a mile a minute.
Then came the tunnels, dark, slimy, filled with spores from the Upside Down, and monsters from the very same place. Once you had made it to the hub with little-to-no trouble and doused it in gasoline, Steve tossed in his lighter and lit the place up.
You all raced back to the exit while Demo-dogs chased you all down the tunnels. Steve had lifted Max, Lucas and Mike up and out of the hole before the monsters came bounding around the corner, heading right towards you.
Steve’s arms wrapped around you and Dustin instinctively, and you had squeezed your eyes shut out of fear for your life.
The Demo-dogs just ran right by the three of you, and once they were gone, you all let out relieved breaths.
“You okay, Henderson?” Steve asked, patting Dustin on the shoulder and he nodded. Then he looked at you. “You good?”
Steve hoisted Dustin up first, and Mike and Lucas pulled him up and out of the hole. Then Steve turned to face you.
“Alright, your turn, kid.” He had said, and all you could do was nod before Steve was grabbing your hips to help lift you out of the hole, and butterflies had swarmed in your stomach.
You felt ridiculous. All this for some stupid crush on Steve Harrington? You had to be out of your mind.
Surely it must’ve just been because of the situation over the last few days, and once everything went back to normal, you’d see Steve less and this crush would fade, right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, Steve was everywhere. Since his breakup with Nancy (which you had confirmed a couple weeks later when Will mentioned something about her and Jonathan definitely being together) Steve clearly had a lot of time on his hands, because now he was always hanging out with Dustin.
And because Dustin was your best friend, that meant you saw Steve a lot more than you would’ve liked. And that crush didn’t fade, not even a tiny bit.
By the time December of 1984 rolled around, Hawkins Middle School’s annual winter dance, the Snow Ball, was here.
You had been excited for the dance for weeks, it was an excuse to go out and dress up with your friends for a night, and maybe you hoped a boy would ask you to dance.
You had seen Lucas and Max grow closer, and Mike and El seemed to have something going on, and you wanted something like that too. And, besides, a boy your age asking you to dance might’ve helped you get rid of this stupid crush on him.
But it turned out that the boys at the dance weren’t the people you should’ve been worried about, because not even five minutes after you had arrived, feeling good about yourself and excited to see your friends, Stacey Albright cornered you.
–
Steve watched Dustin walk into the gym with an unfamiliar sense of pride; the smile that sneaks its way onto his face shows as much. He watched Dustin talking with Mr. Clarke, like a proud big brother, before his eyes betrayed him, his gaze slipping past Dustin and landing on Nancy.
Nancy, his now ex-girlfriend, was inside the gym, volunteering at the middle school dance because that’s the kind of person she was.
Steve’s eyes softened, but the smile he had had already disappeared from his face. He only stared for a moment, just a couple of seconds, before he forced himself to start the car and drive away so he could spend the next couple of hours alone before he had to come back and pick Dustin up.
But Steve only drove a few feet away before he stopped again, because as he turned to drive around the side of the gym, he spotted you.
You were sitting on the curb in your dress, knees brought up to your chest, and from where Steve was it looked like you were crying. Steve’s brows scrunched at the sight, why aren’t you inside with the others?
Steve parked not too far away before exiting his car, brushing his hands on the front of his red sweater, before he approached you.
Your eyes were glued to the ground in front of you, your shoulders shaking as your body was wracked with sobs, your chin buried in your arms that sat atop your knees. The sight made Steve frown.
“Hey, kid.” Steve spoke up and you jumped, your head snapping up so quickly Steve thought you were going to get whiplash. “Sorry– didn’t mean to scare you. What are you doing out here?”
You shrug half-heartedly, looking away from Steve and down at the ground, sniffling as you brought a hand up to your face, rubbing your eyes.
“I’m fine.” You told him and Steve let out a snort.
“Yeah, I’m not buying it.” He dropped down onto the curb to sit beside you, and your eyes went wide as you watched him do so. “What’s going on?”
“It’s dumb.” You muttered, still avoiding his eyes.
“It can’t be that dumb if it’s got you out here crying instead of being inside and having fun with your friends.” Steve pointed out and you sighed, still not looking at him. “Come on, kid, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Just… some girls.” You mumble, and Steve’s frown etched itself deeper into his face. “They were saying stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
You didn’t reply, instead you crossed your arms across your chest and curled further into yourself.
“Sometimes I just wish I was normal.” You said, and Steve paused.
“You are normal.” Steve said and you scoffed.
“No, I’m not.” You stated. “I’m a weird nerd and I’m ugly, and my dress looks ugly and no boys are gonna dance with me, I shouldn’t have even come to this stupid dance.”
For a moment, Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew how to talk to the boys, because he used to be a 13-year-old boy, but you? That was some new territory for him. But he found the words soon enough.
“Don’t listen to those other girls, they’re just jealous.” Steve stated. You immediately opened your mouth to protest, but Steve cut you off. “You’re way cooler than those other girls. You’ve fought interdimensional monsters.”
“You did most of the fighting.” You mumbled, but Steve waved you off.
“That’s besides the point.” He said. “If those other girls are being mean to you, they’re just lame.”
“This dress is lame.” You muttered back, flicking at your skirt.
“No, it’s not. You look pretty.” Steve complimented and you finally looked over at him.
“You really think so?” Your voice was quiet, but your eyes were wide and locked onto Steve as your tear-stained cheeks flushed.
“Very pretty.” He told you with a nod. “Too pretty to be sitting out here and crying while all of your friends are inside and probably wondering where you are.”
“But what if nobody wants to dance with me?” You asked Steve, tears still brimming in the corners of your eyes. “That’s what Stacey said would happen.”
“Well Stacey sounds like a bitch.” Steve stated bluntly, causing a giggle to escape your lips. “And if no boys want to dance with you, it’s because middle school boys are dumb.”
“I can’t wait to go to high school.” You said, and Steve chuckled.
“Yeah, well, high school boys are pretty dumb, too.” He said with an exhale, gesturing to himself. “But trust me, kid, one day you’re gonna find some guy who loves you for all those things you don’t like about yourself, and those girls are probably never gonna find something like that.”
“What makes you so sure?” You asked Steve, more curious than anything, but still soaking in every word.
Steve just shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”
You stared at him for a moment. You had stopped crying by now, and Steve took that as a small victory as you gave him a small smile.
“Thanks, Steve.” You sighed and Steve stood up, offering you his hand.
“Come on, let’s get you inside to your friends.” Steve said and you took his hand and let him lift you to your feet. You brushed off your skirt, frowning as you wiped your cheeks, and you nodded.
But you didn’t even make it around the corner before you froze at the sound of Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time flooding out from the gym.
You spun around to face Steve again.
“I can’t do it. Nobody’s gonna dance with me.” You stated. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
“It’s easy.” Steve shrugged, then he offered you his hand again. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Steve, you don’t have to.” You told him, eyes full of panic, but he brushed it off.
“I need practice before prom anyway, if anything you’re doing me a favor.” He said, making you chuckle. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders.”
That night Steve Harrington became the first boy you had ever danced with, in the dark Hawkins Middle School parking lot in the middle of a cold December night.
That night you also knew you were completely screwed, and no boy your age would ever stand a chance, because you were absolutely head-over-heels obsessed with Steve Harrington.
–
The new year came quickly after that, and with 1985 came a brand new mall in Hawkins called Starcourt Mall, and after you and your friends officially finished middle school you were all spending almost every day of the summer there.
Well, all except Dustin, who went off to summer camp in the beginning of June. But the rest of you were spending your days outside riding your bikes or going swimming in the day before heading to the mall in the evenings.
And your favorite part of each trip to Starcourt, by far, was when you’d visit the little ice cream shop, Scoops Ahoy. Sometimes it was just for a snack, and sometimes it was to sneak into the movie theater for free.
The reason didn’t matter to you, because you were just happy to see Steve. He had gotten a job at Scoops Ahoy for the summer, which meant every time you went there, he was standing behind the counter in a cheesy sailor’s costume that he somehow still looked good in, hat and all. You were sure your face had flushed with heat the first time you had noticed his chest hair peeking out from beneath the shirt of his uniform.
There’s only one thing you didn’t like about seeing Steve at Scoops Ahoy, and that’s when he flirted with almost every girl his age who crossed the counter. He didn’t score a single date, not in that uniform, but it still hurt.
It made you wish that you were just a few years older. It made you think, if I was his age maybe he’d actually return your feelings.
And the thing was, Steve didn’t have a clue.
He greeted you casually, smiling at you or rolling his eyes like he did with all of your friends. A part of you was upset, but another part of you knew it was for the better.
Steve had just turned 19 that June, and you were turning 15 in September. He had graduated high school, and you were only just about to start when the summer was over.
Realistically, you knew it wouldn’t work, and you knew it would be just weird if Steve actually liked you back at that point, but it still felt like a curse.
–
The night before Dustin came home from Camp Knowhere, you and your friends wanted to go see Day of the Dead, which meant you had to sneak in. And sneaking in meant seeing Steve.
It’s not that you purposefully dressed up just because you’d be seeing Steve for what was probably one minute at most, but you might’ve been dressed just a little bit nicer than usual for a trip to the movies with your friends.
Of course, you, Lucas, Max and Will all ended up waiting outside the mall for Mike to arrive from his usual daily visit to El at Hopper’s cabin, which meant your friends had plenty of time to analyse your outfit–specifically Max.
“Why are you dressed up?” She asked you suddenly, cutting off Lucas and Will’s complaining about Mike’s tardiness, and you scoffed.
“I’m not, these are my regular clothes.” You weren’t exactly lying, but you weren’t telling the whole truth either.
Max’s eyes narrowed at you, but Lucas shrugged from beside her. “I think she’s dressed normally.”
“Thank you.” You said to Lucas, but Max just raised an eyebrow.
“Right.” She nodded slowly, and a moment later Mike arrived.
“You’re late.” Lucas had stated with crossed arms as Mike jumped off off his bike.
“Sorry!” Mike replied, but he didn’t seem to mean it.
“Again.” Lucas emphasised.
“We’re gonna miss the opening.” Will added.
“Yeah, if you guys keep whining about it.” Mike said as he put his bike in the bike rack. “Let’s go!”
“‘If you guys keep whining about it. Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh.’” Lucas imitated Mike and you had snickered.
Then as you walked through the mall, Lucas complained about and mocked Mike for spending so much time with El and not the rest of you. It made you and Will laugh.
As you and your friends pushed your way down the escalator and towards the food court, bumping into a bunch of people as you went, your stomach began to flip with excitement.
You all made it to Scoops Ahoy and Steve was nowhere to be seen, instead his co-worker Robin was behind the counter. You thought Robin seemed cool, from what you had seen she was funny, sometimes a little blunt, but you liked her. You just hoped Steve didn’t.
Mike smacked his hand down on the bell on the counter several times, despite the fact that Robin was right there. She sighed and called out, “Hey, dingus, your children are here!”
And then the window on the back wall slid open and there was Steve in his sailor uniform with a scowl on his face as he looked over your group.
“Again? Seriously?” He asked, but instead Mike just rang the bell once more. He groaned, but ushered you all over.
He held the door to the back room open for you all, Mike and Will entering first, then Lucas and Max, and you were pulling up the rear. You smiled up at him as you passed him.
“Hi, Steve.” You greeted quietly and he sighed, but put on a smile.
“Hey, kid.” He said, letting the back door swing shut before he headed to the front of the group to open the door to the delivery tunnel out the back. He peered out through the peephole to make sure nobody was around before ushering you all out the door and into the hallway. “Come on. Come on.”
While your friends all pushed in and walked ahead, you gave Steve an appreciative smile. He didn’t pay any mind, instead just looked pretty stressed out as he called out after you all.
“I swear, if anyone finds out about this–” He would say the same thing almost every time, because he was worried about losing his job, but he knew your friends wouldn’t give up until he let them through.
“We’re dead!” You all chorused and you waved to Steve before following your friends down the hallway.
Steve closed the door with a heavy sigh and walked through the Scoops Ahoy back room before he made it behind the counter again, only to find his co-worker Robin already staring at him with an amused smile.
“Oh, what now?” He groaned and she chuckled.
“That little girl has a crush on you.” Robin stated and Steve stopped in his tracks, his blue Adidas sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor.
“What? Who, Max?” He asked, confused. “I’m pretty sure she’s actually with Lucas again right now, so you’re definitely wrong.”
“Is Max the redhead?” Robin asked and when Steve nodded she sighed. “Well, I’m not talking about her, I’m talking about the other girl.”
Steve said your name, and now looked even more puzzled, his brows drawing inwards as he looked at Robin. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Uh, yes, she totally does, dingus.” Robin chuckled, shaking her head. “God, you really are oblivious.”
“Um, no, those kids all see me as, like, I don’t know… A babysitter, older brother type, you know? I’m their friend.” Steve explained, like Robin was maybe just missing something. She was completely unaware of the trauma bond that had formed between the group over the last two falls. “She doesn’t have a crush on me, okay? She probably just thinks I’m cool.”
But, of course, Steve was wrong and Robin was absolutely right, because you did have a crush on Steve, which is what Max had been making fun of you for quietly as you walked through the delivery tunnels.
“You totally have a crush on Steve!” She had whisper-shouted to you at the back of the group with a giggle and your cheeks flushed with warmth.
“No, I don’t.” You lied. “Shut up.”
“That’s why you got all dressed up!” She realized and you shot her a glare.
“Shut up, Max, before the others hear you.” You hissed and she snickered.
“I knew it.”
When you had successfully made it into the theatre, you had split off to the few empty seats in the room. Max and Lucas ended up in the row in front of you, Mike and Will
The movie had been fine, except for the fact the power had cut out completely only a few minutes in. But it wasn’t just in the cinema, it wasn’t even just Starcourt Mall, it was the entire town of Hawkins.
When the power came back and the movie continued to play, the entire theater cheered before falling back to a regular silence and the rest of the night went on just fine. Completely normal, unlike the rest of the week would turn out to be.
–
The next day you and your friends surprise Dustin at his house once he returns from camp, and Lucas ended up with hairspray in his eyes.
Finding out that Dustin had somehow scored a girlfriend he deemed ‘hotter than Phoebe Cates’ in his three-week-long science camp was a shock to not only you, but the rest of your friends too.
But that wasn’t as much of a shock as what you and Dustin heard on his super radio, which he had named Cerebro in a true X-Men fan fashion.
You had all spent the entire afternoon lugging Dustin’s radio equipment up the tallest hill in Hawkins, one your friends called Weathertop, because he wanted to introduce you all to his girlfriend, Suzie.
But as the day turned into night and Suzie was nowhere to be heard, your friends had slipped away one-by-one. First Mike and El, who had ditched you before even making it up the hill, then Lucas and Max who left once nightfall had hit. Will stayed the longest, but once it started to get too late he left too, suggesting you all play Dungeons and Dragons the next day.
You stuck around, mostly because you had noticed the way Dustin had seemed to deflate as each of your friends left, and you wanted to know if his girlfriend was real or not.
“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” Dustin had said and you just nodded at him in the dark as he repeated the prase, “Suzie, do you copy?”
By the end of the night you still hadn’t heard from Suzie, but you and Dustin had somehow intercepted what sounded like a secret Russian communication. Which led you to Scoops Ahoy the next day.
Dustin, of course, had wanted to see Steve and complain about how everyone else had ditched him the night before, but he also wanted to recruit him because overnight he had somehow gotten the idea that if you were to translate the Russian phrases he had recorded off the radio, you’d all become ‘American Heroes’.
The thing is, though, Dustin wanted to tell Steve all of this alone, which meant while they were talking in a booth in the back corner, you were leaning against the front corner, shooting them glances.
Robin was behind the counter, serving customers and wiping down benches, while also watching you. And after calling out to Dustin, making fun of Steve, she turned to you.
“So…” She said your name and you looked up. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You replied and she nodded.
“Cool. So, uh, how long have you had a crush on Harrington over there?” She asked and your cheeks immediately flushed with warmth. Your fingers pinched at the chain of the necklace hanging from your neck, fiddling with the charm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You lied. 13-year-olds aren’t the best at lying, and Robin very clearly saw right through you. “He’s, you know, old. And dumb. And hairy.”
Robin snickered and you looked down at your shoes. “Right.”
“I would never like him, okay?” You defended weakly.
“Like who?” Steve’s voice came from behind you and you froze, eyes going wide.
“Nobody.” You muttered and he raised his eyebrows. Dustin’s eyes locked onto yours and he stared you down like he was trying to read your mind. “Seriously, nobody.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid.” Steve teased and Robin glanced at you with amusement evident on her features. Then he nodded for you to follow him and Dustin to the backroom of Scoops Ahoy.
That’s where you spent the rest of the day, translating Russian phrases that seemed to be utter nonsense. Not a single word seemed to correlate with one another, and yet you had ended up translating a few sentences anyway.
Then, as you left Scoops Ahoy that night, you had all debated whether or not ‘The week is long, the silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west,’ was a secret code of some kind.
And then Steve worked out that the music in the background of the recording, something the rest of you had chosen to ignore, was in fact coming from a mechanical horse from inside of Starcourt Mall.
Then Robin left on her bike, while Steve waited in his car, watching to make sure you and Dustin were alright riding your bikes home.
When you were gone, riding your bikes side by side, Dustin spoke up. He offered for you to stay the night at his. He knew you didn’t want to go home, not to your parents who fight every night. You took him up on the offer.
The next day, you and Robin sat around at Scoops Ahoy trying to crack the entire code you had finished translating while Steve and Dustin searched the mall for any signs of ‘secret Russians’.
You sat cross legged on a countertop in the back room, the straw of a milkshake between your lips while Robin mumbled the same words over and over, staring down at a notepad.
Robin cracked the code that same day, and that night was the night you found the secret room in the back of the mall, guarded by what your group had now confirmed to be ‘Evil Russians’.
But, of course, finding the room wasn’t enough and then you needed to find a way in, and after Robin bought blueprints to the mall and roped Erica Sinclair into the mix, you made it into the secret room the next night.
Upon opening a box that was labelled for the mall’s Chinese restaurant, you all found something that absolutely wasn’t Chinese food. Once Steve had pulled out a glass cylinder of some kind of mysterious, green liquid, the secret room had began to move.
That was when you found out the room was an elevator.
The next couple of days were a blur. You were all stuck in that elevator overnight, you had to spend the night listening to Steve and Robin talking the entire time while your chest burned with jealousy.
But the rest of your time in that dark, underground base was worse. So much worse.
You had spent almost all day walking down a painfully long hallway, arguing about the design of the base, who was and wasn’t a nerd, and whatever the hell that mysterious, green and acidic liquid was. There was even one small moment where you, Dustin and Steve had all shared looks and debated quietly whether or not the Russians knew about the Upside Down.
Then you made it to the main part of the bunker which was crawling with soldiers and scientists. You made it up to the comms room and watched Steve fight and successfully knock out one of the Russian soldiers.
While Dustin celebrated and Steve smiled proudly, pushing some of his floppy hair away from his face, you had struggled to tear your eyes away from him. That was, until Robin found something at the top of a set of stairs.
It was a giant machine, and that machine was opening a gate. A gate to the Upside Down.
You couldn’t even explain anything to Robin or Erica because a moment later the five of you were sprinting down hallways and running around corners while Russian soldiers chased you until Steve and Robin had yelled for the three of you to leave them behind and escape into the vents.
You, of course, had been extremely hesitant. You didn’t want to leave them, and neither did Dustin, but they were busy trying to hold a door shut and get the rest of you out of there to follow you.
Erica went in first, then you had forced yourself to follow her before Dustin joined you in the vents and you crawled away having to listen to the sound of yelling in Russian behind you, because Steve and Robin had been caught.
Your time in the vents might’ve been worse than the elevator or the hallway, because now you were terrified. You had no idea if Steve and Robin were okay, or even alive. You had no idea where you were or how to get out of the bunker.
While Dustin explained everything to Erica, about when Will went missing and the Upside Down, and the two had an entire long conversation about My Little Pony, you were silent, only chiming in a few times to add to Dustin’s story. Erica had believed it all, except for the fact that Lucas was there, which was apparently hard for her to believe.
Once you had made it out of the vents and found Steve and Robin, they weren’t in the best condition at all.
You had gasped upon running into the room to find his face beaten black and blue, blood coated his face and his uniform and his eye was swollen shut. Robin looked better, shaken but unharmed for the most part.
Dustin had taken out the doctor in the room and the three of you had hurried to untie the older teens. The only issue was that Steve and Robin weren’t acting right.
They were giggling, a little hyperactive, whispering to one another, laughing hysterically at things that weren’t even funny, and just acting nothing like themselves.
You were the one to come to the conclusion that they were drugged once you were all back in the elevator, this time heading up. You had just watched Steve tumble to the ground after pretending he was surfing on some kind of delivery cart.
Dustin had checked and found his pupils were dilated and his eyes were a bright red. Though neither of them would give any of you a straight answer.
After getting out of the elevator, you had made it maybe ten feet away from the doors before two Russian guards were running towards you.
“Shit!” You and Dustin had yelled and shared a look before ushering Steve and Robin towards a door by your side.
“Why are we running?” Steve questioned and you had grabbed onto his arm to pull him into the delivery tunnels you would use to sneak into the cinema, and despite everything going on your stomach had fluttered at the contact.
Hiding in the cinema was easy. There was a late night showing of Back to the Future playing and you had forced Steve and Robin down into front row seats. You, Dustin and Erica had found more seats, but a moment later you and Dustin had headed up to the projection room with his walkie to try and get into contact with any of the others.
Luckily, you had managed to get into contact with Mike.
Unluckily, you had barely been able to tell him anything before the audio cut out and Dustin’s walkie ran out of battery.
He turned to face you with a desperate expression.
“Do you have yours?” He asked and you shook your head before pausing. “What about more batteries?”
“Wait–” You had realized and your face lit up as you met Dustin’s eyes. “I think my walkie is still in the backroom at Scoops.”
“Does it have battery?” He questioned you.
“I mean, it should do. It hasn’t been used in like a day.” You pointed out and Dustin shrugged. “Do you think we’d be able to get down to Scoops without getting caught?”
“Do you know the way through the tunnels?” He asked and you nodded.
“You have no idea how many movies Steve has sneaked us into, dude. Yeah, I know the way.” You stated before you both jumped up and hurried back down to the front row to find Erica.
The only issue was that now Steve and Robin weren’t in their seats.
After some searching, you had found them in the women’s bathroom, sitting on the dirty floor of the same stall, facing each other and laughing.
While Dustin scolded the pair for running off, you were trying your best to push down that disgusting feeling of jealously that swirled in your stomach.
The rest of the night was a mix of running from both Russian soldiers and a giant flesh-like version of the Mind Flayer, arguing with the rest of the group once you had all reconvened and shared what you had each discovered.
There was blood, you had to hold El’s hand tight while Jonathan had sliced her leg open looking for something that had been moving inside it. There had been singing, when Dustin had somehow come into contact with his girlfriend Suzie and you and Erica just had to sit on the grass beside him and watch. There had been fire, after the others had used fireworks to attack the Mind Flayer they had unintentionally set the entire mall on fire.
And there had been tears, because when they were down in that Russian bunker to close the gate that had been opened, Hopper had died. And Max’s step-brother Billy had been killed by the Mind Flayer right in front of her.
But, for the most part, everyone was okay. Some bloodier than others, some suffering a little more trauma than before, but okay.
Once he had gotten his keys back, some American soldiers had recovered them from the Russian base, Steve had driven you, Dustin and Robin back to his place.
The Harrington house was large, and empty. Steve had made some excuse saying it was to make sure the drugs wouldn’t kill him and Robin in their sleep, saying something else about how he had accidentally given the Russians Dustin’s full name, but you had a feeling he just didn’t want to be alone, not after everything that had happened.
The four of you had crashed in his living room, Steve covering the sofas and large wooden floor in a collection of pillows and blankets before you all practically passed out, sleeping in until late the next afternoon.
–
El and the Byers’ moved three months later, not long after you all started high school. Saying goodbye to your friends before they moved to California wasn’t easy for any of you, especially not for Mike, but you all pushed through.
High school was different. You, Dustin, Lucas and Mike had a rough start, but soon you joined a D&D club called the Hellfire Club, led by a senior named Eddie Munson.
Eddie was great, despite being older than most seniors due to being held back for several years. He was cool, he was funny, he had a band and he loved D&D.
Steve, unlike the rest of you, didn’t like Eddie very much. He would make vague comments here and there whenever Dustin mentioned him in passing, or when Mike talked about Hellfire, or when Lucas told him a story while the two practiced basketball.
High school was very different from middle school. While, at first, you and your friends had fallen into your usual places at the bottom of the food chain, that didn’t last long for some of you.
Lucas had made it onto the basketball team, though he had been riding the bench all year, which had already given him a bit of a boost when it came to terms of friends.
Mike and Dustin didn’t seem to care about popularity, rather embracing the fact that you were all nerds and geeks thanks to Eddie’s ‘guidance’.
Max still sat with you guys sometimes, hung out occasionally, but she had started to isolate herself from everyone. She had been struggling mentally, mostly due to her step-brother’s death, something she only ever told the school therapist and, well, you.
You weren’t quite sure what had happened to you in high school, or what had happened to your peers, because the bullying from other girls had diminished, and now they actually talked to you in the hallways, or sat with you in class, or paired up with you for projects.
It was different, but it was nice.
Though, sure, there were still times where they’d judge your friends, or some of your interests, like D&D, but you’d much prefer they make fun of the fantasy game you played with your friends than make fun of you.
Your first year of high school started off fine, great even, up until Spring break.
That’s when shit really hit the fan.
The last day of school before break was the last day of the Hellfire Club’s D&D campaign against the cult of Vecna, but it had coincided with Lucas’s basketball game. You had wanted to go and watch, but Eddie was already pissed enough that Lucas would be missing Hellfire, and you didn’t want to get on his bad side.
So you instead recruited Erica to be his substitute for the night, though you felt bad for missing your friend’s game, especially when you found out he not only actually had a chance to play, but had scored the team’s winning shot.
But the break itself was worse.
Mike had gone to California to visit El and Will, while you, Dustin and Max spent the first day of your break finding out that a Hawkins High student, Chrissy Cunningham, was found murdered at the trailer park Max lived in – specifically in Eddie’s trailer.
But Eddie himself was nowhere to be found, Max had seen him fleeing the scene in fear the night before, speeding out of the trailer park faster than she had ever seen him drive before.
So, of course, you, Dustin and Max had ended up in Family Video, where Steve and Robin had been working since about October, since the Byers’ had left town.
Your group debated on whether or not Eddie was capable of murder, Steve being the only person to really think he was, while proceeding to use the three phones inside the video store to call Eddie’s friends in an attempt to track him down.
You were helping your friends, of course you were, but you couldn’t help but sneak longing stares over at Steve as he ‘attended to the customers’, and flirted with any girl his age that walked through those glass doors.
But you pushed down those feelings of jealousy and disappointment you had grown familiar with and did your best to focus on the task at hand.
Still your eyes would betray you and flick towards Steve every so often, taking him in. The way his green vest stretched over his shoulders, the chest hair sticking out from the open top buttons of his polo shirt.
You’d watch him drag his hands through his hair in some kind of pathetic attempt to impress a girl who turned out to have a boyfriend and mourned the fact that you’d never be able to have him.
Eventually your friends managed to track Eddie down to the house of a drug dealer named ‘Reefer Rick’, and once you found him there, wide-eyed, shaking and terrified, Eddie told you all about what had happened with Chrissy.
How she seemed to be in a trance, how she floated into the air with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. How each of her limbs snapped and broke violently before her eyes popped from her skull and her body crumpled to the ground right in front of Eddie.
You, Dustin and Eddie then noticed the similarities between Chrissy’s trance and being under a spell or a curse. Specifically, Vecna’s curse. The same dark wizard you had just finished fighting in your Hellfire campaign.
You and your friends spent the next days doing your best to keep Eddie hidden from the police, bringing him food deliveries when you could, while also doing whatever research you could to find out what, or who, Vecna was, and why he was going after Hawkins High students.
After the second murder, a boy from the school paper named Fred, Nancy Wheeler joined your small group and you had to pretend you weren’t jealous whenever Steve looked her way, his eyes softening. When he practically jumped at the opportunity to go with her to follow a potential lead, only to end up pissed off when Robin went with her and he was stuck ‘babysitting’ you, Dustin and Max.
But then you found out Vecna was going after Max next, and suddenly everything was scarier. When you watched her float into the air just moments after Lucas had slipped her headphones over her ears, you thought she was going to die.
You had grabbed onto Steve’s arm out of fear, staring up at your friend as you all screamed her name, begging for her to come back down to the ground and out of that trance she was stuck in.
And she did, Max fell to the ground with the rest of you and Lucas cradled her shaking body in his arms, holding her close to his chest as she struggled to catch her breath.
After Nancy and Robin found out that Victor Creel’s family might’ve also been killed by Vecna, and Max had seen an old, broken house when she was in Vecna’s mind, your group went to the old abandoned Creel home to search for clues.
After Max found an old grandfather clock identical to the one she had seen in her visions, and Steve had suggested that Vecna could’ve been a clockmaker, you all split off into groups to explore. Robin and Nancy went together, Max and Lucas, which left you with Dustin and Steve.
Steve didn’t seem too thrilled, letting out a loud sigh and complaining about always being grouped with Dustin.
It made you frown, disappointment flooding your body. First you had been watching him make eyes and flirt with Nancy for the last couple of days, and now he was acting like being grouped with you and Dustin was a chore.
You were quiet as the two boys argued, Dustin quoting Sherlock Holmes and Steve not understanding a word before Dustin wandered off, and you followed behind.
Nobody really found anything in the house, but at one point while crossing the upstairs hallway you caught a glimpse of Steve and Nancy standing a little too close together while she smiled up at him. That was enough to dampen your mood for the rest of the night.
You knew it shouldn’t have mattered, there were more pressing issues going on at the time – like the fact Max had almost died and Eddie was being framed for murder – but you just couldn’t shake the jealous feeling away.
That night, after your flashlights had all blown up, you spent the night staring at the ceiling and replaying the way Steve had looked at Nancy over and over again.
It had just made you feel ridiculous. You needed to move on, find someone your own age, someone who could actually return your feelings and give you that love you craved so much. So you decided that you would, that tonight was the last night you would care about Steve Harrington and after that he would go back to being nothing more than a friend.
And then you saw him the next day, wearing that yellow sweater with a wide smile on his face, offering you Pringles in the back of Nancy’s station wagon, and you tried so hard to ignore the way your stomach fluttered when his big, brown puppy dog eyes met yours.
The fact that Vecna had killed another teenager – a boy from the basketball team named Patrick – the night before helped keep you distracted, but when you and your friends were walking through the woods in search of Eddie, following Steve and Dustin as they argued while leading you all to ‘Skull Rock’, you were left alone with your thoughts.
Of course, it wasn’t that long before Steve had found Skull Rock and began rubbing it in Dustin’s face that he was right and your best friend was wrong and you had found Eddie.
While Eddie ate the food you had all brought for him and he recounted the previous night’s events, including when Patrick was lifted into the air in the middle of Lover’s Lake and had each of his limbs snapped one by one, Dustin paced back and forth while staring down at his compass.
That was, until he yelled out a very loud, “Boom!” That echoed through the woods before he pointed at Steve. “Bada boom.”
Steve, naturally, was confused, as were the rest of you, before Dustin began spouting off about how Skull Rock was North once more, which made Steve roll his eyes before he started to argue back.
Then Dustin told you all that Skull Rock in fact was North, and his compass had been leading him in the wrong direction, which then made him point towards you and Lucas, making you recall a piece of information you had learned back when you were 13 and had just learned about El and the lab for the first time.
“Do you guys remember what can affect a compass?” Dustin had asked, and it was like a lightbulb had gone off in your head.
“An electromagnetic field.” You and Lucas both answered, like the memory of that information had just resurfaced for the first time in years.
While the others in the group were confused, you were starting to understand what Dustin was getting at. There was likely a gate somewhere nearby, much like when your compasses had deflected towards the lab back in 1983.
The rest of the afternoon was spent following Dustin and his compass through the woods as the sun set and darkness fell over Hawkins, and eventually his compass had started going totally beserk and he started running.
Eddie managed to grab him by the shoulder and stop Dustin from falling right into Lover’s Lake, which was where the compass had led him, which meant the gate was likely somewhere… inside of it.
The older teens all ended up on a rowboat with Dustin’s compass, leaving you, Dustin, Lucas and Max on the shore, watching them with a pair of binoculars.
“Wait, wait, wait. They’re stopping.” Lucas said suddenly, holding the binoculars to his eyes while hitting Dustin in the chest. “What are they stopping for?”
Dustin scrambled for his walkie. “Guys, what’s going on? Come on, guys, talk to me, what’s going on?”
You and Max had been standing off to the side, a little further back, whispering to each other, but your attention had been stolen once the boys had started to speak.
“Uh, Dustin, your compass has gone from wonky to wonky with a capital, ‘ahh!’” Robin’s voice crackled through and you had sighed, disappointed that you were all sidelined and forced to stay on the shore.
A few more silent moments passed before Lucas let out a disgusted groan.
“Ugh. When’d Steve get so hairy?” He asked and Max’s head snapped towards you with a wide smirk on her face, making your cheeks heat up as you whispered for her to stop.
“Right? I keep telling him he needs to tame that jungle, but he claims the ladies dig it.” Dustin explained and the boys each made a face before you stepped forward and reached for the binoculars around Lucas’s neck.
“Pass me those.” You said and he shot you a confused look before you took them right from his hands and peered through them yourself, getting a look at a very shirtless Steve Harrington in all his glory.
Lucas and Dustin shared confused looks for a moment before Dustin made a sound that was half a scoff, half a surprised yelp before asking, “Dude! What the hell?”
You just gave a shrug and watched as Steve dove into the lake, disappearing beneath the cold, dark water, and you handed the binoculars back to Lucas.
However, you and your friends didn’t get to see the outcome of the dive, because only a few moments after Steve dove in, you and your friends were lying on the ground and hiding behind a log because the cops had arrived.
Robin’s voice crackled through on Dustin’s walkie, saying Steve found the gate, but none of you paid any mind as he switched the walkie off and you stayed hidden for a moment more. And in order to keep the cops away from Eddie, Max jumped up and yelled for the cops to follow her.
Of course, you all got caught, and an hour later the four of you were cramped onto the couch in the Wheelers’ living room, surrounded by cops and your parents.
You had shrunk into the sofa at the sight of both your mother and father in the same room, but this time their anger was directed at you and not each other.
After some questioning, where you all lied in response to almost every question, you explained everything that had been going on to Erica, and she was the one who noticed the blinking light in the dining room, morse code that Dustin translated spelling out S.O.S..
Communicating with Steve, Nancy, Robin and Eddie in the Upside Down using Holly Wheeler’s lite-brite seemed crazy, but what was crazier was sneaking out of Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom window and running away from the cops, Erica popping the tires of the police cruiser before the now five of you rode your bikes across town to Eddie’s trailer.
There was a gate on the ceiling, and Dustin used a broom to break open the red, fleshy gateway to reveal the Upside Down on the other side. A moment later, Steve appeared above you, standing in the same place you were, looking up – or down – at the rest of you. Nancy, Robin and Eddie followed suit and you all waved happily, chuckling at the absurdity of the situation, before you were dragging Eddie’s mattress out of his bedroom to use as a landing pad to help the others through the gate and back to your world.
Except that proved difficult when after Robin and Eddie had crossed over, Nancy ended up in a trance much like Max and the rest of you searched Eddie’s trailer for any music that could help her while Steve stayed with her in the Upside Down, cupping her face and shouting for you all to hurry.
But Nancy got out of the trance on her own, and once she explained to you all what had happened, what she had seen, what Vecna – or Henry Creel, Number One – had shown her, to say you were terrified would be an understatement.
The end of the world. Hawkins on fire, everyone dying. Four gates opening up and spreading across Hawkins, splitting the Earth open.
Hearing that was enough to stop you from thinking about how Steve was sitting just a couple of feet away from you, completely shirtless except for Eddie’s denim vest he had started wearing at some point in the Upside Down.
So your group started coming up with a plan, Vecna wanted to kill four people, so Max would offer herself up as bait. Then, you’d strike.
Naturally, Eddie suggested getting weapons and gear from an army surplus store known as ‘The War Zone’, but it was too far for you to bike there. So Eddie hotwired his neighbors’ motor home and had Steve drive the damn thing there.
Halfway there, you had been sitting at a table in the back with Dustin, but your eyes kept drifting over to Steve driving the RV, and Nancy in the passenger seat talking to him with a soft smile. And Steve would turn and look at her with an expression you could only describe as pure longing, maybe even love.
And he told her a story about his dream for the future, about driving around in a Winnebago with five or six kids of his own, and then he looked at Nancy again. Suddenly you wanted to sink into the floor and never come back.
At the War Zone, you had to stay in the RV with Eddie, Dustin and Lucas as members of the Hellfire Club who were currently being hunted like the Salem Witch Trials, and obviously one of you had been framed for several murders in town. All of Hawkins believed you to be devil worshippers of some kind.
After your friends bought half of the store and then had a brief run in with Jason, Chrissy’s boyfriend, and the other members of the basketball team who were currently hunting you all down – especially Eddie – Steve, now dressed in a leather jacket and a camo shirt, pulled the RV off onto a field where you all began preparing your weapons.
You sat beside Max and Nancy on some old milk crates as Nancy sawed off the end of her new shotgun. Max asked her if it was legal for her to do so, and Nancy replied with something about it being a felony. You were distracted, yet again, by your overwhelming crush on Steve.
He was sitting with Robin in front of the Winnebago, filling bottles with kerosene to make their own flaming molotovs. And you kept glancing his way, then practically staring.
Then, at one point, he looked up and glanced your way. Your eyes darted away immediately and you turned your body to face Max, unaware that Steve hadn’t even noticed you staring because he had been looking at Nancy.
Max chuckled at you and immediately began with the teasing again, some comment about you drooling or making ‘heart eyes’ at Steve. You shushed her, but it was too late because Nancy, Steve’s ex-girlfriend who he had been flirting with over the last several days straight, had heard her.
Your face flushed with warmth and you looked down at your shoes on the grass, then shot Max a harsh glare when you thought Nancy wasn’t looking. But, of course, she still was, and even huffed out a little laugh.
“It’s okay,” She told you, her lip quirking up slightly as she said your name, and your attention was all hers a moment later. “I mean, I was the same once upon a time. Had a big crush on Steve, obviously you knew that because we…”
“Nancy.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands out of embarrassment, and Max had immediately started saying something about you being ‘in love with Steve for like two years’.
You should’ve been used to her teasing by now, it was stupid and you knew it. It was just some dumb teenage crush. But you had slowly began curling into yourself, your arms wrapping around your body as your thoughts and insecurities took over.
You weren’t sure if it was about Steve, or just about craving that kind of attention. Craving love and a relationship, much like you had seen and heard from your friends.
Max and Lucas, Mike and El, Dustin and his long distance girlfriend Suzie, hell, even seeing Nancy with Jonathan. It felt like you were missing out on something that everyone else was allowed to have.
Your friends were all growing up and getting these experiences you could only dream of, like having a first kiss, or dancing with a boy who actually liked you and wasn’t just trying to comfort you when he found you crying on the curb outside the Middle School gymnasium.
So you lived vicariously through teen romcoms and stories from other girls in school, fantasizing about the moment a boy would actually show that kind of interest towards you. To want you, to love you.
And Steve… Steve was older. He was cool, he was good looking, he was funny, he had that charm you had seen him use to ask girls out on dates at Family Video while you were browsing for the closest thing you’d ever get to a relationship, aka. Star Wars, where you’d watch Han and Leia and sigh to yourself, or some cheesy movie where the guy pines after a girl for years and then finally wins her heart.
But Steve was also the first boy who had ever said that you looked pretty, and he was the first boy who had ever danced with you. And he was the first boy you had ever had a crush on that had lasted longer than a couple weeks.
All of it together was just enough to make you crave it so badly. Crave that experience of a relationship and that feeling of love.
And of course the only boy you had ever really liked had absolutely no chance of liking you back. Not in a million years.
“Can we just drop it please?” You asked and while Max nodded, Nancy gave you a sympathetic look that made you want to crawl into a hole and die.
So that night you were dropped off at the Creel House with Max, Lucas and Erica, and after stepping off of the dead silent Winnebago, you turned back and looked at Steve, eyes full of fear. He was watching you all as you left, and when he saw you looking back, he nodded at you, telling you to go on.
You did. You followed your friends into the creaky, old, crumbling house as the sun set, unaware of just how badly the night would end.
It started off okay, walking around the house only in socks, using lanterns as light and communicating using notepads to avoid making any noise that could potentially alert Vecna to your positions, and soon you and Erica had been hurrying outside as phase 2 initiated, to signal to the others in the Upside Down when you were going into phase 3.
That’s when shit went downhill, because then Jason and his jock friends showed up. One of the basketballers, Andy, chased you and Erica away from the playground before he tackled you to the ground and pinned your arms behind your back.
You had been struggling against his grip until Erica managed to push him off of you and kicked him right in the balls, and Andy curled into himself, his hands grabbing at his crotch as he groaned in pain.
Then you and Erica had sprinted back into the Creel House, where Jason had headed when Andy went after you. The attic door had been locked once you reached it, but the two of you had managed to break it open and make it up to where Lucas and Max had been.
“Lucas!” Erica called out her brother’s name and you froze at the top of the stairs because Lucas was sobbing on the ground with Max pulled into his lap. Her limbs were snapped, twisted abnormally out of place and sticking out in directions that they shouldn’t, and her eyes were glazed over in a pure white, blood dripping down her cheeks.
Lucas had spun around immediately to face you both, screaming out, “We need a doctor! Call an ambulance! Hurry! Call an ambulance!”
And when Erica had rushed back downstairs, likely to find a neighbor or the closest possible phone, but you were completely stuck in place, staring at the girl you had grown up with, one of your best friends, as she sobbed in her boyfriend’s arms telling him that she was scared and that she wasn’t ready to die.
You were crying, your body shaking uncontrollably as you stumbled over to them, trembling as you dropped to your knees and practically begged her not to slip away.
“Erica, help!” Lucas shouted out, his voice so full of pain that you couldn’t breathe as you sobbed, gripping Max’s hand in yours as you pleaded with her to stay. But it didn’t work. Max died in his arms.
And then the Earth split open, a gate forming and growing. Lucas pulled Max away and you both scrambled to the side, watching as the gate ripped Jason in two and continued to spread further away from the Creel House and through Hawkins.
Then, after over a minute had passed, Max’s heart had started beating again, just enough that she was still alive. But Eddie wasn’t so lucky, he had died in the Upside Down, sacrificing himself to save Dustin.
Three days later, Max was in a coma in Hawkins Memorial Hospital, Mike, Will, El and Jonathan all arrived in Hawkins again, and you were helping Dustin, Robin and Steve volunteering in the post ‘earthquake’ aid and suddenly not having a boyfriend, or your crush not liking you back, didn’t feel like as a big of a deal as it had before.
And, somehow, life managed to return to normal after that. Well, something close to normal.
Hawkins was now under a government mandated quarantine, where the military crawled around every inch of the town, keeping you blocked off from the rest of the world.
You and your friends were starting your junior year in high school, except for El, who was hiding from the military, and Max was still in a coma and had been for the entire 18 months that had passed.
The crawls were new. Every couple of weeks Hopper would sneak into the Upside Down with the military through the massive gate in the middle of Hawkins, right at the library, and would search for Vecna while Dustin and Steve tracked him from your side and Mike and Lucas kept watch from the nearby church.
But after 18 entire long months, you found nothing. Not even the slightest hint that Vecna was anywhere near, and after over 30 crawls it was like the entire Upside Down had been searched from top to bottom and absolutely nothing was found.
Not until what would be later known as your last crawl, the one where Dustin didn’t show up and you were thrown into the Squawk van with Steve and had to practically beg for Jonathan to come along for ‘help’ when really you didn’t want to be left alone with Steve.
Your crush hadn’t faded, despite the fact that you didn’t see him as often as you used to. Not when Dustin was acting differently and seemed to be avoiding him half of the time. But you listened to the WSQK radio broadcasts every day, mostly for Robin’s DJ-ing and to listen out for any hidden codes about crawls, but also because you knew Steve was the one behind the station’s many sound effects in the background of the broadcasts.
You were now 17 years old, almost an adult, and you hadn’t gotten over the crush on the guy who was basically your best friend’s older brother that had formed back when you were 14. You still had absolutely no experience in anything even slightly romantic, and it was killing you.
But the crawl in the Squawk van had been even more awkward with Jonathan around, because then they argued about Nancy, of course they had, while you sat in the back of the van awkwardly while thinking about Hopper’s signal, which you had lost when the van broke down.
At one point, Steve had spun around to face you, gesturing to Jonathan and asking why you had brought him along because, “Byers is a total buzzkill’. Jonathan had rolled his eyes and called Steve a name, and Steve had mumbled a bland insult back, and it almost felt like you were at home, listening to your parents doing anything but getting a divorce.
Just seconds after Steve had managed to get the van running again, finally, Dustin showed up. His face was completely busted and he had blood leaking from his nose and down his chin.
That just resulted in another argument, this time between Steve and Dustin, while you searched for Hopper’s signal again, only to come up with nothing, other than a strange noise Dustin had brushed off as nothing important because it wasn’t Hopper.
That same night, Holly Wheeler had been taken from her own home by a Demogorgon and her parents had been attacked and had almost died. El had followed the monster into the Upside Down to try and catch up to them and save Holly.
Sometime early the next morning, long after the sun had risen, you had arrived back at the Squawk, where Will then explained that he had a connection to the hive mind again, and to Vecna, and he knew that Vecna was going after another kid from Holly’s class next, a boy named Derek Turnbow.
Mike and Nancy shared the information they had learned at the hospital, that Vecna had stalked Holly long before she was taken, but had appeared as Henry and pretended to be her friend, not someone to be afraid of.
So then you were all coming up with a plan to try and save Derek, and this plan involved drugging and kidnapping the kid and his entire family.
Lucas and Mike recruited Erica, because her best friend Tina was Derek’s older sister, meanwhile you were on the McCorkle farm watching Dustin destroy Steve’s car by affixing the telemetry tracker to the top of the Beamer and crushing Steve’s heart.
You couldn’t help feel bad for him and the way he frowned for the rest of the afternoon, wincing every time he caught a glimpse of the car.
That night, the plan went well. The Turnbow family were all successfully knocked out by the pie Erica made using benzos that Robin and Will stole from the hospital, and while Joyce, Robin, Will and Erica took the family away to the farm, the rest of you set up traps around the house in preparation.
Watching Steve use a chainsaw to cut open a giant hole in the living room floor might’ve been the highlight for you, well, until you had helped him set up a trap outside Derek’s bedroom door using some wood planks, nails and a trip wire. Once the trap had been set, Steve had given you a high five that had genuinely sent a jolt of electricity through your body and a smile etched itself onto your face.
When the Demogorgon arrived in Derek’s room, only to find a dummy in his bed instead, it was your and Lucas’s job to pelt the thing with water balloons filled with acetone so it was guaranteed to catch a flame once Jonathan threw a flare at it.
Once the Demogorgon flipped using a small gate it had made in the living room, Nancy and Jonathan rushed outside to join Steve and Dustin in the Beamer as they chased the Demogorgon, hoping it would lead them to Holly.
Later, when you, Mike and Lucas made it to the farm on your bikes, telling the others about how you saw soldiers loading Debbie Miller and a bunch of other kids Holly’s age onto a bus, Dustin, Steve, Nancy and Jonathan were nowhere to be found because Steve drove his car through a gate and right into the Upside Down.
Will told you all about what he had learned in the hive mind, how many kids Vecna wanted to take, and now the military had all of those kids in one place in an attempt to protect them. But you and your friends knew the only way to really protect them was to get them out of Hawkins and out of Vecna’s reach, which meant it was time to make a new plan.
This time, Robin made it, basing her entire plan on the film The Great Escape. But there were a few key pieces of information you needed. How would you know where the washroom was to know where to dig up from the tunnels below Hawkins? How would you know which kids were even being targeted by Vecna?
Mike’s solution was to send Derek Turnbow, the kid you had managed to save, into the MAC-Z and into the barracks with the other kids.
And the plan had almost worked, until a burst pipe led to you all getting caught before you had gotten all of the kids out and into the tunnels. Robin and Lucas took half the kids to Murray, but the rest of you were captured by the military.
Of course there was arguing, a fight started to break out after one soldier hit Derek on the back of the head, both you and Mike immediately jumping in to defend him, but everything stopped when Will fell to the ground.
Joyce rushed over immediately while you and Mike stayed with the kids, who were absolutely terrified. Will could sense the hive mind. Demogorgons were coming for the kids.
They burst through the plates and immediately began attacking the soldiers, who were shooting at them left and right. Gunshots filled the air, echoing through what should’ve been a quiet night, and flames burst around the military base.
You hadn’t really realized how much you had grown up over the last few years until you and Mike were leading the group of kids around the base, protecting them from the monsters, shielding them the same way Steve, Nancy and Jonathan used to do with you and your friends.
But it was all for nothing, because the Demogorgons took the kids in the end. Vecna himself had come through the gate in the MAC-Z and when a blast of flames sent you, Mike and the kids flying back, you were knocked out.
When you came to, Mike was pulling you to your feet, only for you both to flinch back when a Demogorgon jumped towards you.
You had raised your arms to cover your face in a weak attempt at a shield, but no impact was made. The Demogorgon had frozen midair, and how? Will had his arm outstretched towards it, keeping it frozen in the air, using his own powers to stop the Demogorgon.
You were absolutely bewildered, your mouth falling open in surprise, having to blink a few times just to confirm you weren’t still unconscious and that this was actually happening. Mike, on the other hand, was staring at Will in absolute awe.
Will lifted the Demogorgon into the air and snapped its limbs one by one before snapping its neck, similar to the way Vecna had killed Chrissy and the other teens, and had almost killed Max the year before. When its body crumpled to the ground, Will fell to his knees and wiped the trickle of blood that had formed under his nose.
Beside you, Mike had started to smile. The look on his face wasn’t something you quite knew how to describe at the time, but looking back later, you knew that was a look of love.
Back at the Squawk, the group had to come up with yet another plan to be able to find the others in the Upside Down and come up with a plan, because Lucas was sure Vecna’s plan to end the world was going to take place on November 6th, and that was just a day away.
Both Lucas and Erica came up with two separate plans, Erica’s involved creating a new telemetry tracker and finding Mr. Clarke and getting him to help, while Lucas wanted to Frankenstein one of the dead Demogorgons to link Will back to the hive mind.
You ended up going with Erica and Murray to find and recruit Mr. Clarke to help you, and it didn’t take much once you told him Dustin was in trouble and you needed his help.
The four of you spent all night recreating the telemetry tracker until you tracked Dustin’s location to Hawkins Lab, though, in the Upside Down. Of course, Mr. Clarke didn’t know that and assumed he had left or something similar.
The others had arrived not long after, and when you saw El, you moved forward to hug her, glad that she was home safe and no longer in the Upside Down, even if Dustin and the others were still stuck.
“Mr. Clarke, thanks for the assist.” Mike spoke, walking forward to shake your former teacher’s hand as you stood by his side again.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Mr. Clarke had replied. “We successfully trilaterated Dustin’s position here, to precisely where I stand now.”
“But by the time we arrived, he was MIA.” Erica continued.
“Well, he wouldn’t be precisely here. He’d be under.” Robin pointed out, crossing her arms, and you nodded along.
Mr. Clarke tilted his head in confusion as he looked at Robin. “Sorry?”
Mike’s head then snapped towards you. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Told me what?” Mr. Clarke asked you.
“It… slipped my mind?” You excused, speaking to Mike, but your attention was stolen a moment later. “Oh, my god.”
“Holy shit.” Erica spoke from beside you as her gaze also landed on Max, who was being wheeled towards you all in a wheelchair, but she was very much alive and no longer in her coma.
“Holy shit.” Max echoed and your face lit up as you let out a surprised chuckle.
“Max!” You hurried over and she grinned as you crouched down to hug her, but the moment was cut short by Murray yelling that he got Dustin’s signal on his walkie and you all rushed down to his level.
After a brief conversation about Holly was shared between Mike and Dustin over the walkies, El ripped up one of the plates covering the rifts in the ground and you all, except for Lucas and Max, went into the Upside Down.
You were all calling out the names of your missing friends while you were trying to take in the fact that you were in the Upside Down for the very first time before you heard Dustin calling out your name, and then Mike’s. You both rushed towards him as he barrelled over.
“Jesus, it’s good to see you guys.” He sighed in relief, throwing his arms around you both and hugging you tight.
As you hugged him though, your eyes drifted to Steve as he approached behind him, standing off to the side from Nancy and Jonathan. It took a moment for you to notice how miserable they looked, and another moment for you to realize that Holly wasn’t with them like you had thought.
Turns out Vecna had pulled her into the literal sky and she had disappeared into the clouds. And you and your friends needed to save her before Vecna likely ended the world on that very same night.
So you all went back to the Squawk to share new information and come up with the final plan to defeat Vecna.
Dustin stood in front of you all with a black marker in hand, drawing on the glass windows of the recording booth as he explained something he had learned in the Upside Down version of Hawkins Lab.
“We’ve always the Upside Down was another dimension opened by Brenner, but it turns out it’s actually a bridge.” Dustin added two long lines to his diagram, representing the bridge. “More specifically, an interdimensional bridge that rips through space-time. It is wildly unstable, but held together by exotic matter, which we found dead center right above the lab. In theoretical physics, they call this type of bridge a–”
“Wormhole.” Both Erica and Mr. Clarke finished in sync, and Dustin pointed at them. You shared a glance with Max, who was sitting beside you in her wheelchair.
“And this wormhole connects Hawkins to here, another world that I’ve coined the Abyss.” Dustin explained.
“Any particular reason?” Robin asked and Mr. Clarke leaned forward in his seat.
“A realm of pure chaos and evil.” He spoke and Robin looked towards him.
“I’m sorry?”
“D&D.” You, Mr. Clarke, Erica, Mike, Will, Lucas and Dustin all answered at once.
“Jesus Christ.” Hopper groaned.
Dustin went on to explain how he believed the Abyss was the true home to the Demogorgon and the Mind Flayer and all of the monsters, and that Henry Creel had been sent there by Eleven years ago, before Dr. Brenner had her find him and created the bridge between the two worlds.
That had explained a lot over the last few years, like why every single crawl had come up empty, because Vecna hadn’t been in the Upside Down, he had been in the Abyss.
Will came up to the conclusion that the reason he was taking kids like Holly into the Abyss was because the minds of children were weaker and easier to mold, like he had done with Will himself, and he was going to use them to amplify his abilities and move worlds. To draw the Abyss and Hawkins closer and merge them together.
Will jumped forward to draw something on Dustin’s diagram and you shifted your body away from Max, who had just been talking, to then face him. In doing so, your arm brushed against Steve’s leg, and you muttered a quiet apology but didn’t look up at him where he was sitting on the back of the couch you were seated on.
Then you were working out a plan to get up to the Abyss to try and stop Vecna before he could draw the worlds together.
After Hopper’s first suggestion of a helicopter, which then resulted in the rest of you telling him that it wouldn’t work, and a rather crude comment about Steve made by Robin that made your eyes go wide, Steve himself was the one to come up with the plan.
He had jumped up from his place on the couch beside you and you had watched him as he walked a few steps away, then stopped, his brain clearly moving faster than his mouth could before shouting that you wouldn’t need a magic bean to make a beanstalk and climb up to the Abyss like some fairytale.
His idea was to use the Squawk radio tower in the Upside Down as a way into the rifts, letting Vecna draw your worlds together just enough that you could all make it inside before El would stop him from drawing them closer.
It was genius, and while the others added a few more small details to help, Dustin was the one who finalized it, suggesting for you all to leave a bomb at the exotic matter that would detonate when you left the Upside Down and destroy the bridge for good.
Then everyone was gearing up, dressing in old combat gear, gathering weapons, and Mike built the detonator for the bomb using a record player and a minifigurine.
You sat with Lucas on a table in the basement as he adjusted his giant slingshot, a great improvement from his old Wrist Rocket he used against the Demogorgon when you were younger.
You were filling more water balloons for him with the flammable liquid inside the unlabelled canister you had found in the Squawk basement, but every so often you’d glance over to Steve in that same leather jacket he had worn the first time, the material stretching along his shoulders, and a backwards cap on his head, a small tuft of hair sticking out from the front, as he walked away from the cabinet in the corner that usually held the weapons, specifically the guns.
He held a small handgun until Nancy approached him, questioning whether or not he had used a gun before. Of course, he hadn’t, and you forced yourself to look away, only to find Lucas smirking at you.
“What?” You asked.
“You’re, like, in love with Steve.” He whispered with an amused laugh and you shushed him.
“Shut up, no I’m not.” You scoffed, then glanced towards Steve again, watching him follow Dustin through the basement before you met Lucas’s eyes again and saw he was still smirking. “Shut up.”
Getting into the Upside Down was the easiest part of the plan. Murray’s huge Bradley’s Big Buy truck was large enough to hold all of you as it charged into the MAC-Z right through the front gate, and Hopper took down any soldiers shooting at you from the inside, having sneaked in through the tunnels like he would before a crawl.
Nancy and her rifle climbed up the ladder in the middle of the truck and stuck out the hole at the top, where a Demogorgon had ripped the metal open, only to rain fire on any other soldiers around trying to stop you.
Once Hopper was inside the truck and the truck had successfully made it through the MAC-Z gate, the ride got a little bumpier.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve wobbled on his feet a little from beside you.
“Everybody alright? Everybody okay? You alright?” He asked Steve, who nodded, before looking around and asking the others. “Everybody alright?”
Steve looked down at you, where you looked a little shaken as you blinked a few times, and his face scrunched into one of concern.
“You sure you’re okay, kid?” He asked and you looked up, eyes going wide when you realized he was talking to you, as if it were something out of the ordinary.
You nodded before forcing yourself to speak. “Yeah. Thanks, Steve.”
Then he had reached over and patted your shoulder for just a moment before leaning back against the wall. He smiled at you, and you returned the gesture, though you had a feeling you were blushing before you looked to your other side and reached for El’s hand.
Once you reached the lab, Hopper, El, Murray, and El’s ‘sister’ Kali all left the truck, and Steve moved to the front to drive the rest of the way to the Squawk.
You hated the climb up the ladder on the tower, you weren’t the biggest fan of heights, and once you had made it up to the top, you, Lucas and Dustin all stood together and stared out at the Upside Down Hawkins skyline.
“It’s pretty damn spectacular.” Dustin had commented, bumping your shoulder with his.
“Yeah,” You agreed breathlessly, staring out at the dark, yet amazing parallel to your hometown. “It is.”
“It’s almost too bad we have to blow it all up.” Lucas added and you had glanced his way.
“Is it though?”
It wasn’t long after that when you could hear, and see, the Abyss as it descended towards you all, and the plan seemed to be going okay until Lucas noticed that the top of the tower wasn’t lining up with the rifts, which only meant bad news.
El wasn’t able to stop the Abyss fast enough and the planet above you came into contact with the needle, snapping it off.
You all jumped out of the way as it fell, gripping onto the edges and each other. The needle broke off one end of the tower’s railing, and it took Steve with it.
Both you and Dustin shouted his name, watching as he dangled from the edge of the tower, only gripping on with one hand. If he slipped, he would fall and die.
And then he did slip, and he fell. But not far enough, because Jonathan caught him. He grabbed onto Steve’s hand and pulled him back up onto the tower, saving his life.
The moment he was back on the platform, Dustin charged forward and pulled Steve into a hug. You had almost wanted to follow him, but instead hugged Robin, who was sobbing in relief that she hadn’t just watched her best friend fall to his death.
The Abyss was strange, it was almost like a desert. A vast, empty desert. It seemed too empty, and too quiet, but eventually you found where Vecna was keeping the kids, inside of a ginormous spider-like monster. The Mind Flayer in a much larger, physical body.
And while El fought Vecna inside of the thing, you and your friends attacked the monster from the outside, shooting it, stabbing it, lighting it on fire, until it eventually collapsed to the ground.
Nancy was the first to rush inside in search of Holly, and the rest of you joined her a moment later, Mike rushing forward to reunite with his sisters. The rest of you helped the other 11 kids from where they were up in the spires on the wall. They were all confused, and dirty, covered in some kind of slimy residue as Mind Flayer particles expelled themselves from their mouths.
As you helped a young girl brush herself off, telling her you would help get her home, you could hear gurgling coming from somewhere nearby. You turned to see Vecna, though impaled on a sharp spike of some kind, was still alive.
Joyce dealt with him, decapitating him with her axe. The moment you watched his head tumble to the ground, rolling for a moment before coming to a stop, it felt like a weight was lifted from your shoulders immediately.
Soon you were all heading back home, having climbed back down the radio tower and all cramped into the back of the bus. Steve and Robin were in the front, and you were squashed between Dustin and El as you all talked, almost celebrating the fact that you had won.
Everything descended into chaos when you returned through the gate. The tires of the truck were flattened by spikes and everyone was hauled from the vehicle by soldiers in a flurry of chaos.
You were pressed against the side of the truck, El to your left and Mike to your right, as soldiers surrounded you all. There was yelling, arguing as soldiers patted you all down and searched you all.
Dr. Kay approached El, who glared in response, wincing at the loud radio feedback sound coming from the speakers around the base.
But then the bomb went off inside the Upside Down, and everyone watched the wind whipping around inside as the buildings collapsed and then… it was gone. The gate disappeared, leaving nothing but the crumbling destruction of the library.
After that, you and your friends were all brought in for hours of questioning by the military and Dr. Kay, asking about Henry, El, Kali, the Upside Down, the Demogorgons, why you had taken the kids, why you had gone into the Upside Down. They asked you about everything from the moment Will went missing and you found El in the woods to that point in time where you were being interrogated.
And, eventually, you were all let go and expected to go on with your lives like normal. With the Upside Down gone and Henry dead, El had lost her powers again and now the military had no reason to be after her, not after everything had gone down and she had stopped Vecna.
While it did take a long time, eventually things did get back to normal, as much as they could’ve at least.
–
The morning of your high school graduation you woke up with more energy, and more anxiety, than you had had in a long time.
You went through your morning routine like normal, waking up to a silent house because neither of your parents liked being around each other, or you, before getting dressed.
You had nothing to do all day before graduation, no boyfriend to celebrate with, no family around who wanted to take photos of you. You had the day to yourself.
So you turned on the radio and sat down on the couch with a book, listening as Robin Buckley presented the Squawk’s morning broadcast for the first time since Jimmy ‘Fast Hands’ Lee had returned to Hawkins and she had gone off to college.
At least that was something you could look forward to – college. You couldn’t wait to get out of Hawkins, to do more with your life. You were going to study to become a teacher, something you had wanted to do probably since middle school when you and your friends had all idolized Mr. Clarke.
A burp sound effect playing at the wrong time caused you to look up at the radio for a moment, brows furrowed before a whip cracking sound effect played and Robin’s voice came in.
“There we go. Sorry about that. My partner in crime ditched me.” Robin explained and your face fell for a moment. “But, well, as far as excuses go, he had a pretty good one.”
She was, of course, talking about Steve, who now coached the middle school baseball team. He was the only one of the older teens that hadn’t left Hawkins to go to college when the quarantine had been lifted.
At the mention of Steve, your stomach had flipped uncomfortably. 18 months had passed, and while your crush hadn’t faded, something had happened that now just made you feel guilty for liking him.
Steve had a girlfriend now, a woman named Kristen who he had been dating for a couple of months by this time, and it killed a part of you every time you thought about it.
But that was another reason why you were excited to get out of Hawkins, you would leave Steve behind, maybe meet a guy at college and finally move on from your dumb crush and have a relationship of your own.
That afternoon after you made it to the graduation, everything felt too real. You stood with your friends, dressed in your orange caps and gowns as guests all took their seats, and then the music played, queuing you all to take your seats so the ceremony could begin.
As you walked to your seats, lined up alphabetically like you had rehearsed, you looked around the bleachers to see who you could recognize.
There was Jonathan filming the event off to the side, Joyce, Hopper and El, the Wheelers (including Nancy), Lucas’s parents, Dustin’s mom, Mr. Clarke and Murray, Robin, and Steve.
He was dressed in a suit with a pair of sunglasses on, but as you all walked out, his head turned away from Robin to watch you all. You raised a hand and gave a small return, and he grinned, both him and Robin waving back and you smiled, looking down at your shoes before taking your seat.
Dustin’s valedictorian speech started off normal, he mentioned how he had wanted a normal childhood, but that didn’t really happen, due to obvious reasons. He went on to mention D&D, talking about bad chaos and good chaos. He mentioned making friends with people who were never supposed to be his friends, and how he had seen the same happen to others. He talked about how he was now a better person because of his friends.
But then, towards the end of his speech, something shifted. He called Principal Higgins a square, took off his robe and ripped open his shirt to reveal a t-shirt reading ‘Hellfire Lives’. You cheered loudly for your friend, and so did the others as he went on to say, “Screw the school. Screw the system. Screw conformity. Screw everything and everyone trying to hold you back and tear us apart, because this, this is our year!”
And as you all cheered for him, Dustin snatched his diploma from Principal Higgins and flipped the old man off, just like Eddie had said he would your freshman year.
After the ceremony, you and your friends ran through the sea of orange robes to find him.
“Dustin!” You all called out upon spotting him and the four of you hugged him tight.
“You’re a madman. You’re an absolute madman.” Mike said first as Dustin shook his shoulders with an excited laugh.
“Higgins totally shit his pants.” Lucas added with a laugh.
“Yeah, what’s he gonna do, expel me?” Dustin asked.
“You’re crazy.” Lucas told him, but before the conversation could continue, a voice cut in.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Stacey Albright, the same girl who had once teased you at the Snow Ball, approaching you, Dustin, Lucas, Mike and Will.
“Hey, Stacey.” Dustin greeted her with a grin and an attempt at speaking casually, but your smile fell just a little.
“I just wanted to say what you did up there was pretty badass.” She complimented Dustin, and for a moment you thought she wasn’t going to be serious. But, then again, everyone had matured since middle school.
“Oh. Thanks. I was kind of just going for like a bit of like a Belushi thing. But if he was like in a Hughes film.” Dustin scratched his eye and you shared a glance with Will, who was standing to your left. “But I don’t know. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. No, totally.” She told him and there was a bit of an awkward pause where she went to turn around and walk away.
“Why did I say that?” Dustin whispered to you and you shrugged, but then Stacey had turned back.
“Hey, so I’m having a party later tonight. You guys should come.” She told you all, then made direct eye contact with you and smiled. Not in a teasing way, but more genuine. You did your best to smile back before she walked away.
“Did that just happen?” Dustin asked Will the moment she left, and the boy chuckled in response.
“Should we go?” Will asked, looking around the group, his eyes lingering on Mike.
“Is that rhetorical?” Lucas asked back, because the answer was obvious.
“No. Screw that. I got a better idea.” Mike stated.
His better idea had been a D&D campaign, and so the seven of you – You, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, El and Max – all cramped around the table in Mike’s basement to play D&D until dinner, laughing and reminiscing about the last six years of your lives and the chaos you had all survived.
But after dinner?
“We still have time to go to Stacey’s party after this.” Lucas had said first, checking his watch by the Wheeler family’s front door.
“Oh, my god, please.” Dustin clamped his hands together and gave Mike his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, dude, let’s go.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Come on, Mike, don’t be a party pooper.” Max had teased, making El giggle from where she stood by Dustin’s side.
El and Dustin had gotten closer over the last year or so, after she and Mike had finally broken up for good. She had, obviously, been very behind on school, and was currently a grade behind you all, having to take summer school to catch up, but Dustin had been tutoring her and helping her with any subjects she had been struggling with, and now sometimes she hung out with Dustin more than you did.
Another recent development had been with Will and Mike. About a year ago, Will told you, Dustin, Lucas, Max and El that he was gay. He said he had only told his mom, his brother, Mike and Robin before that. Now, Mike hadn’t told you anything, but sometimes you caught the two of them sending each other glances across the room like they were the only two people around.
Will turned to face Mike. “Yeah, Mike, come on. It’ll be fun.”
Then Mike sighed, dropping his head back with a groan before throwing his arms up in the air in front of himself. “Fine.”
You had all walked to the party at Stacey’s house, and once you arrived she, as well as many others, were happy to see you all there.
It was like years of bullying and cliques and labels in school didn’t matter anymore, and that felt weird. It looked like the entire senior class was there.
Kids were high-fiving Dustin as they passed him, complimenting him on his speech loudly, raising their voices to be heard over the thumping bass of the music practically vibrating the house.
You and your friends decided to just let go and have fun; talking to people you usually wouldn’t, drinking alcohol, drinking a lot of alcohol. At one point you and Dustin had started teasing Lucas and Max as they made out in the corner of the room, only for Lucas to let go of Max and start chasing Dustin through the house, leaving you, Max and El bursting into a fit of laughter in the corner.
But the later into the night you got, the more drunk you had all become, and eventually you were all collapsed onto a couch together, El giggling as she played with Dustin’s curls while Max rested her head on your shoulder, her legs thrown across Lucas’s lap. Mike and Will were sitting just a little too close for it to not mean anything by your other side.
Then someone mentioned being tired, someone else started to get sad about the fact you would all be going away to separate colleges soon, and then you were all debating who to call to pick you up.
Will called Jonathan first, who said he could come pick up his brother and sister and one other person, which ended up being Mike.
You, Dustin, Lucas and Max had to find a different ride home, so Dustin went to make a call.
–
Steve had gotten home a couple of hours earlier after making plans to meet up with his friends in Robin’s weird uncle’s house in Philadelphia once a month, and he had been stretched out on the sofa, his arm around Kristen, his girlfriend, as the two of them watched a movie together.
When his phone rang, he furrowed his brows in confusion before getting up and crossing the room to pick it up, assuming that maybe Robin had left something behind in his truck earlier.
Instead he found Dustin on the other end, his words slurred slightly as he asked for Steve to come pick him up.
“Are you drunk, Henderson?” Steve asked, crossing one arm around his torso as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. Kristen had poked her head out of the living room to see what was going on, and he waved her off.
“Pfft, not even. Just, like, a little.” Dustin replied, though his words said otherwise.
“Alright, bud.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Where are you?”
“What’s the address?” He could hear Dustin ask someone else on the other end before he recited Stacey’s address. “Oh, and can you pick up the others too?”
Of course, Steve couldn’t fit four teenagers into his truck, which meant he had to borrow Kristen’s car to go pick you all up, and when he arrived at the address he found the four of you seated on the curb, the party still going on in the house behind you.
Dustin was already half passed out, leaning against Lucas, but he grinned when Steve approached.
“Steve!” He cheered before nudging you and tugging on Lucas’s arm. “Guys, Steve’s here!”
“Steve!” The rest of you chorused the cheer, your face lighting up immediately, and Steve laughed before offering Dustin a hand to lift him up.
While Dustin, Lucas and Max all piled into the backseat, you were left with the passenger seat. And while your friends passed out almost immediately, all leaning against each other as they snored softly in the backseat, you were wide awake.
Something by Queen played on the radio, faint but still clear enough for you to understand every word Freddie Mercury sang as Steve tapped along to the beat on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for picking us up, Steve.” You spoke, half mumbling, as you shifted in your seat, no longer staring out the window and now facing him.
Steve shrugged. “No problem. You know I’d do anything for you guys.”
You hummed before looking around the car. “This isn’t your truck.”
“Nope.” Steve agreed, taking a look around himself. “It’s, uh, my girlfriend’s car.”
“Right.” You had replied, then sunk back into your seat, your eyes fluttering shut a moment later. Steve exhaled out his nose lightly in a gentle laugh.
He glanced over at you, then to your other friends in the rearview mirror before you spoke again.
“I love you, Steve.” You stated, still half-asleep, but your voice was clearer than it had been before.
He smiled, flicking on his blinker as he turned a corner on the dark, empty streets of Hawkins. “I love you too, kid.”
“No.” You had sighed, and Steve glanced your way again, watching how each street lamp illuminated your face for a few seconds as he passed them. “I mean, I love you like… like how you love Kristen.”
He stopped completely, the car slowing slightly, and he frowned as he looked your way again, one eyebrow raised. You what?
“You love her, right?” You asked and Steve coughed awkwardly.
“Well, yeah.”
“Good. She’s nice.” You mumbled. “You deserve that.”
Steve didn’t know how to reply. He had never felt so awkward in his life as he glanced your way.
“You don’t love me.” He told you, like he could decide that. Like saying that erased any feelings you might’ve had for him.
“Yes, I do.” You sighed again, turning to face the window again. “But, it’s fine. I get it. And I’m glad you’re happy, and once I go to college I’m gonna find a boy and he’s gonna love me and I’m gonna forget all about you, so it’s fine.”
And then you went silent for the rest of the car ride. When Steve pulled up outside of Dustin’s house, you shot him a kind smile, thanked him, and left the car like nothing had happened, waking Dustin up before the two of you headed off to the front door with nothing more than a goodbye.
And Steve sat there for a moment, watching the two of you make it into the house before he just stopped, thinking over the interaction he just had with you, extremely confused, because you were in love with him? Since when had you loved him?
The next time he saw you was a week later at one of his baseball games when you and your friends had all shown up to watch.
You were acting like nothing had happened, teasing him with Max like normal, laughing with your friends, acting like you hadn’t drunkenly confessed your love to him a week earlier.
Naturally, Steve assumed you were too drunk to remember the interaction. Hell, he assumed the entire interaction had only happened because you were drunk, because Steve didn’t think you loved him.
But you did love him, and you didn’t forget about the interaction.
Neither did Steve.
–
a/n: holy shit this was wayyyy longer than i had anticipated uhhh no wonder it took me literal months to write omfg. anyway the rest of the series is set in 1993, and the next chapters will be shorter i swear. um, i hope you liked this and the few changes i made lol. i’m excited for this series!!
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: much more yearning. tension. steve really drives reader crazy in this one. is not a warning but be prepared for some fluff
words: 14k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: hihi hey hey !! hru guys ?? i really hope this chapter gives you butterflies in your stomach and makes you blush cause he's too sweet... although we know how difficult it is with these two so be aware. anyways, thank u so much for all your kind messages and all your interactions !! enjoy !!
(ps: i changed my layout, and steve's pic for this specific fic, tell me what u guys think)
chapter five: for nobody else gave me a thrill
The air outside is still the kind of cold that seeps through the seams of your coat and turns your nose a permanent shade of pink. You huddle deeper into your scarf, the wheels of the metal shopping cart rattling over the uneven floor of the small market located around the block from your apartment building.
Beside you, Robin is a whirlwind of frantic energy and academic indignation. She is currently mid-gesture, waving a carton of eggs dangerously close to a display of cereal boxes as she recounts the latest tragedy of her university life.
"And then — get this — Professor Walton, who I am convinced feeds on the tears of sleep-deprived students, looks us dead in the eye and says the essay is due Monday. Monday!" Robin’s voice rises an octave, echoing off the narrow aisles. "Can you believe the audacity? The sheer, unadulterated hubris! It’s Literature of the Romantic Era, not a grocery list. Does he think I can just conjure fifty pages of insightful analysis on Shelley’s “Ozymandias” in forty-eight hours? Honestly, he can kiss my ass. Actually, no, he’d probably like that, fucking bastard.
You can’t help the soft chuckle that escapes your lips as you toss a bag of pretzels into the cart.
"You always say that, Robin. Every single time. And yet, somehow, by Sunday at 11:00 PM, you’re sitting there with a finished draft, three empty cans of soda, and a look of absolute triumph."
"That’s not the point!" she counters, though her lips twitched with a reluctant smile. "The point is the stress of it all. My brain feels like it’s being put through a paper shredder."
You reach out, patting her shoulder reassuringly. You know Robin’s rhythm by now. She’s a creature of kinetic movement; she can’t sit still for more than an hour without feeling like she is vibrating out of her skin. But beneath that chaotic surface is a core of pure, unyielding responsibility. When it comes to her studies, she’s like a ship anchored in a storm — tossed around, sure, but she never lets go of the rope because she truly, deeply cares about what she is learning.
"Well," you say, steering the cart toward the dairy section, "the good news is that it’s Friday. No Walton, no Shelley, just us. So, what’s the official movie selection for tonight? Since you decided to pivot from board games to cinema."
Robin pauses, her hand hovering over the popcorn. She looks torn between the buttery classic and the sweet caramel. "When Harry Met Sally," she announces with a definitive nod, finally grabbing both bags.
You groan, though there is no real heat in it.
"Robin, come on. We’ve seen it at least eight times since it came out last year. I could probably recite the deli scene from memory at this point."
"Yes, but Vickie hasn’t seen it," Robin argues, her eyes brightening at the mention of her girlfriend. "And besides, it was either a classic rom-com or whatever experimental French New Wave film Jonathan brought over last time. I love the guy, really, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to spend three hours reading subtitles while a man stares at a cigarette and contemplates the void. I need Nora Ephron. I need Meg Ryan’s hair. I need a happy ending where people actually talk about their feelings."
You laugh, conceding the point.
"Fair enough. Meg Ryan it is."
You grab a milk carton, the material cold and damp against your palm, and add it to the pile of snacks. As you both head toward the checkout, a familiar feeling of Friday-night relief begins to wash over you. It doesn’t matter that you are likely to end up like the "fifth wheel" on the couch while your friends and their couples cuddle up; the apartment is home, and the people inside it are your world.
The walk up the stairs is a struggle of plastic bags and heavy breathing, while you swear Arthur under your breath because the man never fixes the damn elevator. But the moment you push open the door to the apartment, the world changes. The biting chill of the hallway is replaced by a wave of warmth and the mouth-watering aroma of toasted garlic, melting butter, and slow-simmering herbs.
Your stomach gives a traitorous growl.
"Oh, thank god," you whisper, kicking your shoes off. During the week, you and Robin live like scavengers. Between your job and your own classes, dinner usually consists of a sad, wilted salad eaten over college books, or a bland sandwich bought from a vending machine. Sometimes, you can be so exhausted that you skip the meal entirely, falling into bed with an empty stomach because the effort of chewing seems too monumental.
But the weekends are different. The weekends mean real food.
You follow the scent into the kitchen, expecting to see Nancy meticulously following a recipe or Vickie tossing a salad. Instead, you find a scene that makes you pause in the doorway.
Jonathan is standing by the counter, looking uncharacteristically intense as he minces garlic. Next to him, leaning over the stove with a wooden spoon in hand, is Steve.
He looks... different. He is wearing a soft, beige cable-knit sweater that makes him look approachable and warm, but over it, he has tied a small, floral-patterned apron that clearly doesn’t belong to him. It is several sizes too small, the strings straining around his waist, making his broad shoulders look even wider.
"I didn't know you cooked," you say, leaning against the doorframe as you begin to peel off your coat. Your fingers are still numb from the walk, but the sight of him brings a sudden, localized heat to your cheeks.
Steve doesn’t turn around immediately, but you see his shoulders drop an inch, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He looks at you over his shoulder, his hair perfectly coiffed in waves despite the steam rising from a large pot of boiling water.
"You know, at some point, you’re going to have to stop being surprised by my hidden talents," he teases, his voice low and melodic. "I’m beginning to think you had a very low opinion of me when we met."
You laugh, moving into the kitchen to set the groceries on the table.
"Not low, Steve. Just... specific. I didn't peg you for a “homemade sauce” kind of guy. I figured you were more of a “order three pizzas and call it a night” person."
"Usually, yes," he admits, finally turning to face you fully. He gestures to the bubbling pot with his spoon. "But it’s Valentine’s week. I felt like being a bit more... sophisticated."
"What are you making?" you ask, stepping closer to peer into the pot.
"Pasta," he says.
"Seriously? I love pasta. It’s literally my favorite food." Your eyes light up for a second.
Steve’s expression softens. His eyes catch yours, and for a split second, the playful banter vanishes, replaced by something much heavier.
"I know," he says softly.
The weight of those two words hang in the air. He knows. The realization sends a flutter through your chest that has nothing to do with hunger.
The moment is shattered by Robin bursting into the kitchen, dumping her bags on the counter with a loud thud.
"Ha! “I know,” he says!" she mimics in a high-pitched, mocking tone. "Like he hasn't been harassing me every day for the last week asking me what your favorite noodle shape is and if you prefer red sauce or white sauce."
Steve’s face turns a spectacular shade of crimson.
"Shut up, Robin!" He grabs a nearby kitchen towel and flicks it at her.
"Ow! See? Violence! Don’t let him fool you!" Robin yells, sticking her tongue out at him before grabbing a bag of chips and retreating toward the living room.
Steve turns back to the stove, muttering under his breath about "unreliable friends."
Jonathan, who has been silently working this whole time, finally clears his throat. He points proudly to a pile of garlic on his cutting board.
"And that, Steve, is how you mince garlic. Perfect, uniform pieces."
Steve leans over, squinting at the board. He shakes his head with a look of mock disappointment.
"It’s wrong, Byers."
Jonathan lets out a strangled sound of disbelief.
"Wrong? How can garlic be wrong? It’s cut. It’s small. It goes in the pan."
"It’s bruised," Steve insists, taking the knife out of Jonathan’s hand. "Look at this. You’re hacking at it like you’re clearing brush in the woods. You have to be delicate. If you crush the fibers too much before they hit the oil, it gets bitter."
"That is literally the most pretentious thing I have ever heard you say," Jonathan groans, throwing his hands up. "And I’ve heard you talk about hairspray for twenty minutes straight."
"Quality matters!" Steve shouts after him as Jonathan retreats toward the living room to find Nancy.
Before Jonathan can retort, Nancy appears in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks between the two men with the weary patience of a primary school teacher.
"If I have to listen to one more minute of your guys’ bullshit, I’m going to jump out that window. Steve, let him live. Jonathan, come help me move the coffee table."
The kitchen falls silent as the two of them disappear. Steve sighs, shaking his head.
"None of my students are any good," he mutters, though there is a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
You step forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
"I can be a good student. What do you need me to do, Professor Harrington?"
Steve looks at you, his gaze lingering on your face for a beat longer than necessary. He holds out the knife, handle-first.
"Well, for starters, I can't use this “bruised” mess Jonathan left behind. If you want to prove your worth, you can start on a fresh clove."
You nod, stepping into the space Jonathan has vacated. You pick up a fresh bulb of garlic, feeling Steve’s eyes on you as you begin to peel it. You are conscious of your every move — the way your hands move, the sound of the knife against the wood. You want to impress him, which is a dangerous thought to have about a friend.
You start to chop, trying to be as precise as possible, but your hands are still a bit stiff from the cold.
"Wait, wait," Steve says. He doesn’t just tell you what to do; he moves.
He steps up behind you. You feel the sudden presence of his body, a wall of warmth that seems to radiate through his sweater. He is so close that you can smell him — a mix of expensive cologne, clean laundry, and the faint, savory scent of basil.
He doesn’t touch you at first, just leans over your shoulder.
"You're holding it too tight," he whispers. His breath tickles your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
Then, his hands reach out. He places his right hand over yours on the handle of the knife, his palm large and warm. His left hand settles gently on your other hand, guiding your fingers to tuck the garlic cloves into a "claw" shape to protect your tips.
"If you cut it like this," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rhythmic hum, "it doesn't burn as easily. The flavor stays locked in until it hits the heat."
He moves your hand in a slow, rocking motion. The knife slides through the garlic like it is butter. You aren’t even looking at the garlic anymore; you are hyper-aware of the feeling of his chest pressing against your back. You can feel the steady thrum of his heart, or maybe it is yours, beating so fast you think it might bruise your ribs.
"See?" he murmurs. "Smooth. Consistent."
"Where did you learn to cook like this?" you ask. Your voice comes out breathier than you intend. You need to talk, to break the spell of his proximity before you do something reckless, like lean back into him.
Steve pauses the movement of the knife but doesn’t pull away. He stays right there, his chin nearly resting against you. He lets out a soft, dry laugh.
"Pure survival," he says. There is a note of something in his voice you haven’t heard before — a quiet, old loneliness. "When I was a kid and my parents were gone a lot, at first, they left me with a nanny, but by the time I hit thirteen, I... I don't know. I got tired of the small talk. Tired of having a stranger in the house just so I didn't have to be alone."
He shifts slightly, his grip on your hand tightening just a fraction.
"So I told them I didn't need one anymore. I sent her packing and figured if I was going to be alone, I might as well learn how to feed myself. I spent a lot of nights in this exact position, just me and a cookbook, trying not to set the kitchen on fire."
Your heart sinks. You picture a young Steve, long before the "King Steve" persona, standing in a massive, silent kitchen in a house that was too big for one person. You imagine him eating dinner at a mahogany table meant for twelve, the only sound being the ticking of a clock and the scrape of a fork against a plate.
"I'm sorry, Steve," you whisper.
He finally pulls back, though he stays close enough that the heat remains. He shrugs, trying to regain his usual easygoing demeanor.
"Don't be. It made me who I am. And hey, now I can make the hell of a marinara, so it wasn't all bad, right?"
He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You turn around to face him, the knife forgotten on the counter. In the dim light of the kitchen, with the steam curling around his head like a halo, he looks vulnerable.
"It's a great marinara," you say softly. "And for what it's worth? I think you're a much better teacher than Professor Walton."
Steve grins, a real one this time, his eyes crinkling at the corners, understanding the comment.
"Yeah? Well, don't tell Robin. She'll start asking me to grade her essays, and I draw the line at English Lit."
He reaches out, his thumb brushing a stray flake of garlic skin off your cheek. The contact is brief, barely a second, but it feels like an electric shock.
"Come on," he says, his voice regaining its playful edge. "The water’s boiling. If we don't get this pasta in now, Robin’s going to start eating the couch cushions."
As you turn back to help him, the tension in the room doesn’t disappear; it just shifts, becoming something warm and hopeful. Outside, the winter wind continues to howl, but inside the small kitchen, surrounded by the scent of garlic and the sound of your friends laughing in the next room, it feels like spring is already beginning to bloom.
You watch him work, his hands sure and practiced, and you realize that maybe Robin is right. Maybe Valentine's week isn’t just about the couples. Maybe it is about the moments where the people you care about showed you exactly who they were — and you realized you liked what you saw.
"Hey, Steve?" you ask, as he drops the pasta into the pot.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you sent the nanny away."
He looks at you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "Yeah," he says. "Me too."
—
"That is a bold-faced lie! That woman was absolutely head-over-heels in love with you, Steve!" Robin’s voice cracks with the sheer force of her exasperation. She gestures wildly with a fork, nearly flinging a stray bit of marinara across the table. Her eyes are wide, glowing with the delight of someone who has held onto a truth for years and is finally letting it breathe.
Steve sits opposite her, his expression a comical mask of offended dignity. He freezes with a piece of garlic bread halfway to his mouth, his eyebrows shooting up. Around them, the table erupts. Nancy tilts her head back, her laughter ringing out clear and bright, while Jonathan leans over, clutching his stomach, a rare, wide grin breaking through his usual stoic demeanor.
The scene is one of domestic chaos. The dining room table is a battlefield of empty pasta plates, stacked haphazardly in the center, and half-drained glasses of wine. You are all in that heavy, comfortable stupor that follows a massive meal — the "gathering strength" phase before anyone actually dared to stand up and deal with the dishes.
"So, let me get this straight," Steve says, finally putting the bread down. He leans back, pointing a thumb at his own chest. "In your twisted version of reality, it’s not that I was a reformed, diligent student who finally grasped the nuances of Literature? It’s just that she gave me A’s because of this?" He circles his face with a hand, a playful, arrogant smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You’re saying my intellect had nothing to do with it? It was just the 'pretty boy' tax?"
"The “pretty boy” tax was at an all-time high during high school, Steve, don't pretend you didn't know it," Robin shoots back, her tone dripping with mock cynicism. She turns to you, her eyes searching for an ally. "You have to understand the level of delusion we’re dealing with here. There was this one time — one specific time — where he handed in an essay that was so incomprehensible, so fundamentally broken, that the teacher actually pulled him aside."
"She was giving me feedback!" Steve interjects, though he is fighting a smile.
"She was holding back tears, Steve!" Robin counters, leaning over the table. "She told him, in the kindest, most pitiful voice I have ever heard, “Steve, honey, I think you should try this again. Maybe use some periods this time?” And he walked back to his desk looking like he’d just won a Pulitzer. He leaned over to me and whispered, “She thinks I have a unique voice”. For the love of God."
You can’t help it. A burst of laughter escapes you, and soon you are wiping tears from your eyes with a crumpled paper napkin. The image of a younger, confident, and utterly confused Steve Harrington is too much to bear.
"I swear, I can actually see him doing that," you manage to choke out. "I can see the exact look on his face."
Steve clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he stands up. The legs of his chair scrape against the hardwood floor. He begins gathering the plates with a practiced, rhythmic clatter.
"You’re all just jealous. It’s pure envy. Robin, you’re just bitter because she didn't like you. Probably because you were an annoying little know-it-all who corrected her facts every Tuesday."
Robin gasps, a hand flying to her chest in mock offense as she rises to follow him into the kitchen, her hands full of silverware.
"Maybe I was a “know-it-all,” but at least my grades were earned through blood, sweat, and tears, and not pulled directly out of my ass!"
Their bickering fades into the kitchen, followed by the sound of rushing water and the clinking of porcelain. You stay at the table for a moment, catching your breath.
"They’re never going to stop, are they?" you ask Nancy, who is brushing crumbs off the tablecloth.
Nancy catches your eye and gives a slow, knowing shake of her head. A small, tired smile plays on her lips.
"Not a chance. They’ve been having this specific argument for years.. Come on, let’s go set up the snacks before they start throwing sponges at each other."
The transition to the living room is a ritual you all know by heart. Jonathan is on his knees in front of the TV, his brow furrowed in concentration as he manages to get the VCR running. Robin and Vickie hover over him, offering "helpful" suggestions that mostly involve tapping the top of the machine.
You take your usual spot. It is the corner of the large, slightly sunken sofa, right against the armrest. It is your sanctuary — a place where you can observe the room without being the center of it. You begin to stretch your legs out, intending to claim the cushions for yourself, when the weight of the sofa shifts.
The cushion beside you sinks significantly. Before you can even look up, his scent hits you.
"Mind if I crash here?" Steve asks. It isn’t really a question; he is already settled, his shoulder inches from yours.
"Go ahead," you mumble, the words feeling small in your throat. You give a stiff nod and instinctively pull your knees toward your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible in your corner. The sudden proximity feels like an electric hum beneath your skin.
"Okay, listen up!" Vickie announces, standing up and dusting off her jeans. She holds a bowl of popcorn like a sacred offering. "I know most of you have seen this a thousand times, but this is my first viewing. If anyone spoils the ending, or even talks too loud during the good parts, I am authorized to use lethal force and throw cushions at you."
There is a chorus of light laughter. There is something about Vickie’s inherent sweetness that makes her threats utterly adorable, like being threatened by a particularly fluffy kitten.
The room dims as Jonathan finally hits “Play”. The screen flickers to life, and the opening chords of Harry Connick Jr. 's "It Had to Be You" begins to swell through the speakers. The jazzy, romantic brass notes fill the air, setting a tone that feels dangerously intimate for the tension currently coiling in your chest.
You try to focus. You really do. You stare at the screen, watching Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan argue in a car, trying to recite the lines in your head before they say them. You try to analyze the cinematography, the lighting, the fashion — anything to distract yourself from the literal heat radiating from the guy sitting next to you.
Steve is sitting close — closer than he needs to be. Every time he shifts, his denim-clad thigh brushes against your leg. Every time he breathes, you can hear the slight whistle of it.
Minutes pass. Or maybe an hour. Time has lost its linear quality, replaced by a hyper-awareness of space. You find your gaze drifting away from the television, landing instead on the bowl of caramel popcorn Robin has placed on the coffee table. It looks delicious, but you can’t bring yourself to reach for it.
On screen, a particularly witty exchange prompts a wave of laughter from the group. Steve lets out a soft, low chuckle. It isn’t a loud laugh; it is private, genuine. The sound of it seems to vibrate right through your ribs.
Against your better judgment, you turn your head.
The light from the kitchen provides a soft, golden backlighting to his profile, while the flickering blue and white light from the TV dances across his features. He looks... ethereal. Your eyes trace the familiar terrain of his face — the small moles on his cheek that formed a tiny constellation leading down toward his jawline, the way his nose has a perfect bridge. You watch the way his skin crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and how his nose slightly scrunches when he finds something endearing or cringeworthy on screen.
Suddenly, as if sensing the weight of your stare, he turns.
In any other circumstance, you would have snapped your head back toward the TV, your cheeks flaming. But the air in the room feels thick, like honey, and your muscles refuse to move. You are caught.
Steve doesn’t look away either. Instead, a slow, soft smile spreads across his face. He leans in toward you, his movement slow and deliberate, until his breath hitches against the shell of your ear.
"It’s actually really good," he whispers, his voice a low rumble. "I finally get why you and Robin watch it on a loop."
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes again, giving a small, conspiratorial nod before returning his gaze to the screen. You feel a smile tugging at your lips, a momentary release of the pressure in your chest. You think, “Okay. We can do this. The ice is broken. We’re just friends watching a movie.”
But then, it happens.
Steve reaches up, ostensibly to adjust his position, but his arm doesn't go back to his side. Instead, he drapes it across the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders. His hand comes to rest on the curve of your far shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing against your sweater. It is done with such casual ease, such "Harrington" confidence, that for a second you wondered if he even realizes what he is doing.
You stop breathing. Your entire universe narrows down to the point of contact where his hand meets your shoulder. You can feel the steady vibration of his chest when he laughs again, a rhythmic thrum that makes your own heart skip beats in response.
As if drawn by a magnetic force, your eyes drift across the room and land on Robin. She is perched on the edge of an armchair, a handful of popcorn frozen halfway to her mouth.
She is looking directly at you.
You haven’t told her anything. Not about your conversations with Steve, nothing about the “almost” kiss, not even about the guy that intercepted your path the other night and seemed to know him well.
But Robin knows.
She always knows. It is her superpower and her curse.
Her expression is a complex tapestry of emotions — part warning, part resignation, and a tiny sliver of something that looks like pity. She has seen this movie before — not the one on the screen, but the one playing out on the sofa. She has watched Steve navigate his way through a dozen different versions of himself, always destroying everything in his path.
You feel a flash of sudden, uncharacteristic defiance. You are tired of the silent "don't go there" looks. You are tired of the unspoken rule that Steve is off-limits because he is "complicated" or because you “won’t handle it”
“I’m not a kid, Robin”, you think, staring back at her until she is the one to blink and look away. “I can handle my own heart.”
"The soundtrack is incredible, too," Steve whispers again, drawing you back into his orbit.
You bite the inside of your cheek, nodding. You shift slightly, trying to find a comfortable position, but every movement feels amplified. The friction of your clothes, the sound of your own heartbeat — everything is too loud.
"Are you cold?" he asks softly.
Before you can even formulate a "No, I'm fine," Steve is already moving. He leans forward, reaching down to the floor to grab a knitted throw blanket. As he moves, his sweater rides up just an inch, revealing the dark line of his boxers and the smooth skin of his lower back. You quickly avert your eyes, your throat suddenly dry, your pulse hammering in your ears.
He sits back, spreading the blanket over your lap with a gentle, protective motion.
"There," he whispers.
You look at him, offering a small, breathless "Thank you."
Without thinking, you take the edge of the blanket and drape it over his legs as well. Now, you are tucked together under a single layer of wool, a private tent in the middle of a crowded room. Steve doesn’t say anything, but you see him bite his lower lip, his eyes fixed firmly on the television, though you doubted he is seeing a single frame.
Your hand rests on the small place that has formed between you, just inches from his thigh. The tension is no longer a hum; it is a roar. On screen, the characters are finally realizing they were in love, and the room is filled with the soft sounds of your friends' reactions.
Then, you feel it.
The smallest, most tentative ghost of a touch. Steve’s pinky finger slides across the fabric of the sofa and brushes against the side of your hand.
The world seems to tilt. Your heart doesn’t just skip a beat; it performs a full acrobatic routine. You don’t pull away. You don’t move an inch. Instead, with a courage you didn’t know you possessed, you shift your hand just a fraction of a centimeter.
Slowly, your finger found his, sliding over his skin in a soft, lingering caress. The contact is electric, a silent confession whispered in the dark, more powerful than any dialogue Harry or Sally could ever hope to deliver. Under the safety of the blanket, hidden from Robin’s watchful eyes and the glow of the 80s rom-com, the world narrows down to the heat of his hand against yours.
Steve’s fingers begin to move. They aren’t in a hurry. He moves with the patient curiosity of someone trying to memorize a map in the dark. He slides his hand fully under yours, lifting your palm slightly so that your fingers can drape over his knuckles. The contrast is staggering. His skin is warm, slightly roughened, while yours feels cool and sensitive, every nerve ending firing at once.
He begins to trace the lines of your palm with his thumb. It is a slow, rhythmic motion — a circular sweep that starts at the base of your thumb and spirals outward toward your wrist. The sensation sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity up your arm, settling in the base of your throat. You find yourself struggling to keep your breathing rhythmic. You don’t want the rise and fall of your chest to give you away, but the air in the room seems to have been replaced by something much heavier.
On the screen, the dialogues are sharp and witty, and periodically, Jonathan or Vickie let out a quiet chuckle. To them, it’s just a movie night. But for you, the movie is nothing more than white noise. You are hyper-focused on the way Steve’s thumb moves over your knuckles, the way he occasionally applies a tiny bit of pressure, as if checking to see if you are still there, still willing.
Suddenly, you feel him shift. He doesn’t move away; he leans closer. The arm he has draped over the back of the sofa tightens almost imperceptibly, drawing you an inch deeper into his personal space. You can feel the rough texture of his sweater against your shoulder, and then, the heat of his face near yours.
"Your hands are cold," he whispers into your ear.
His voice is a low, grainy vibration that seems to bypass your ears and go straight to your spine. His breath is warm, smelling faintly of the wine he’d been drinking and the mint he must have popped in after dinner. It is so close that you can feel the slight moisture of his lips against the very edge of your earlobe.
You swallow hard, your eyes fixed on a blurry image of a New York skyline on the TV.
"I'm fine," you breathe back, the words barely a ghost of a sound.
"Liar," he whispers.
Under the blanket, he finally interlaces his fingers with yours. He squeezes your hand — not hard, but firmly — as if anchoring you to the spot. Then, he begins a new type of exploration. He uses his free thumb to trace the delicate skin between your fingers, sliding up and down in a way that feels impossibly intimate. It is a touch that feels more scandalous than a kiss, a secret language spoken in the dark.
You decide to be brave. You let your hand relax in his, and then you begin to return the favor. You trace the prominent veins on the back of his hand, following the path they take toward his wrist. You feel the slight callouses at the base of his fingers. You feel a small, jagged scar near his thumb; and touching it feels like being allowed into a private gallery of his history.
Steve lets out a breath — a long, shaky exhale that ends in a tiny catch. If you weren’t sitting so close, you wouldn’t have heard it. It is the sound of his composure slipping, just a fraction.
Across the room, the floorboards creak. Robin shifts in her chair, reaching for the bowl of popcorn. In the dim light, you see her eyes dart toward the sofa. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trap bird. You are certain she can see the way the blanket is draped, certain she can see the slight tension in your shoulders.
Steve notices your sudden rigidity. Instead of pulling away, he does something that makes your heart stop entirely. He brings your joined hands up slightly, still hidden beneath the blanket, and rests them directly on his thigh.
The heat of his muscles through his jeans is intense. You can feel the power in his leg, the solid reality of him. It is a claim — a quiet, forceful statement that he isn’t going anywhere, and he doesn’t want you to either.
"Relax," he whispers, his lips grazing your temple this time. "She’s not looking at us. She’s watching the movie."
"She’s Robin," you whisper back, your voice trembling. "She sees everything."
"Not this," Steve says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, that classic Harrington confidence returning. "This is just for us."
He begins to move his hand again, but this time, he doesn’t stay on your palm. He starts to trace the underside of your wrist, where the skin is thinnest and the pulse is strongest. He moves his fingertips in slow, deliberate circles over the spot where your heart is racing. He is literally feeling the effect he is having on you, counting the beats of your attraction to him.
You feel a surge of heat crawl up your neck and into your cheeks. You are grateful for the darkness, for the way the TV light casts long shadows that hide your reaction. You lean your head back, letting it rest against the sofa, and —almost by accident — your head brushes against his shoulder.
Steve doesn’t move away. He tilts his head slightly so that it’s leaning against yours. It is a simple gesture, but it feels like a monumental shift. You are no longer just two people sitting next to each other; you are a unit, a closed circuit of heat and tension.
The movie reaches the scene where Harry and Sally are in the museum, doing the silly voices. Everyone laughs, the sound filling the room and providing a temporary shield for your privacy. Steve uses the moment to lean even closer.
His hand gives yours another squeeze, a rhythmic pulse that matches the thumping in your chest. You feel a sudden, overwhelming urge to turn your head, to close the few inches of distance between your face and his, to see if the tension will finally snap into something more.
But you don’t. The risk is too high, the audience too close. Instead, you allow yourself to sink into the sensation. You focus on the way his thumb is now tracing the cuff of your sweater, occasionally dipping beneath the fabric to touch the bare skin of your forearm.
The touch is light, almost feather-soft, but it feels heavy with everything he isn’t saying. It feels like an apology for the pain, a promise for the days to come, and a desperate plea for the present moment to never end.
As the movie progresses toward its climax, the atmosphere in the room changes. The humor begins to give way to the inevitable romantic tension on screen. The "will they, won't they" that has sustained the plot is finally coming to a head.
You feel Steve’s hand tighten around yours. His thumb is now resting still against your pulse point, but his fingers are curled tightly around the back of your hand. He is focused on the screen now, his jaw set in a hard line.
"He's an idiot," Steve mutters under his breath, so quiet you almost miss it.
"Who?" you ask.
"Harry. For waiting that long. For almost letting her go because he was scared of changing things."
He turns his head then, looking at you in the dark. The blue light of the TV reflects in his eyes, making them look deep and infinite. In that look, you could swear there’s no secrets, no bravado, no jokes to avoid the tension. There is just Steve — and you don’t really know how to describe him yet. But what you do know is that there’s a guy who’s currently holding your hand under a blanket as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
You reach out with your other hand, the one that isn’t trapped under the wool, and tentatively trace the moles on his cheek. You don’t say anything; you don’t have to. The look you give him is enough.
Steve’s expression softens. He leans in one last time, his nose brushing against yours for a fleeting, heart-stopping second.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. But before you can ask, he lets go of your hand and sits straight, right when the credits start to roll, and everyone starts to yawn and talk about the movie as Jonathan turns the light on; leaving you with the exact same deep feeling of emptiness that he has left you with so many times before; but this time is even worse.
—
"Ready?" Jonathan’s voice is playful, but his eyes hold that competitive glint he only gets when he is trying to prove a point.
You shift on the edge of the armchair, your lower back screaming in protest. It has been a long week. Between the fourteen-hour stretches in the library and the final, frantic details for your radio documentary project, your body feels like it’s been held together by caffeine and sheer stubbornness. All you want is a bed. A real bed.
But you and Jonathan, stubborn as ever, decided that the one that wins, gets to sleep on the bed along with Nancy, who clearly claimed the comfort of the mattress without even thinking about fighting for it like a child.
"Prepare for the couch, Byers." You muttered, shaking out your hand.
"In your dreams," he grins.
Nancy sits on the arm of the sofa, watching with a tired but amused smile. Robin is sprawled on the floor near the record player, her head resting on Vickie’s shoulder, her eyes darting between you and Jonathan like she is watching a high-stakes poker match. Steve is leaning against the doorframe, a glass of wine dangling loosely from his fingers, his gaze fixed entirely on you.
"Rock... Paper... Scissors... shoot!"
Your fingers form the 'V' of the scissors. Jonathan’s hand is a solid, immovable rock.
The silence lasts for exactly one second before Jonathan lets out a triumphant "Ha!" and does a ridiculous, wine-fueled little shuffle in place.
"No," you groan, dropping your head into your hands. "No, no, no. The universe is a cruel, indifferent void."
"The universe wants you on the sofa," Jonathan gloats, reaching out to ruffle your hair. You push his hand away, though there is no real heat in it. "A deal’s a deal. Nancy and I get the bedroom, you get the springs in your ribs. It’s the law of the land."
"You’re a monster," you say, grabbing a pillow and hurbing it at his chest. He catches it with a laugh, tossing it back with just enough force to make you stumble back onto the cushions.
"Hey! A deal is a deal," he says, his voice bright with victory. “You’ll have to experience what I experience every time I have to take the couch when I come here.”
You roll your eyes, sinking into the sofa and crossing your arms tightly. You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over you.
"Nobody talk to me. I am dead. I am a corpse on an island. Goodnight."
"You know," a voice drifts through the room, cutting through your mock-drama. It is lower, smoother, and it makes the hair on your arms stand up. "You could just come to my place."
The sound of a zipper being pulled up echoes in the sudden quiet. You open one eye. Steve is standing there, tugging his jacket closed, his expression unreadable. The offer hangs in the air, heavy and unexpected.
The silence that follows is deafening. You feel the heat crawling up your neck, blooming across your cheeks like a wildfire. You don’t look at him. Instead, you look at Robin.
She’s already looking at you. Then she looks at Steve. Then back to you. But her expression is still as neutral as a rock. You know what she’s trying to say: she’s warning you, as she has done so many times before.
But this time, you don’t settle with her warning. Your jaw tenses, and you can feel the unspoken argument you are having with her right now. But you’re tired. Tired of pretending you’re fine with the excuses. Tired of her treating you like a child that can handle herself, or the truth, or anything at all.
Even then, you clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, still refusing to meet Steve’s eyes.
"It’s fine, really. The couch is... it’s fine. I can—"
"Come on," Steve interrupts. He steps closer, his voice softening. He has that small, crooked smile on his face — the one that usually means he’d already won the argument. "There’s plenty of room. You’re not sleeping on this rock-hard piece of junk. Not after the week you’ve had."
He shoves his hands into his pockets, waiting.
Your mind is a chaotic mess of "yes" and "absolutely not." If you both were just friends, there wouldn't be an issue. But is Steve just a friend? Not with the way his hand lingers on your waist when he walks past next to you. Not with the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching. Not after the "almost" moments that have been piling up over the last few weeks.
Being alone with him in his apartment, in the middle of the night... you aren’t sure you can trust the barriers you have been trying to build so carefully.
"I’m heading over to Gabriela’s anyway," Steve adds casually.
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath hitches. The vein in your neck throbs.
"Fine," you say, the word coming out sharper than intended and even before you can think them through. You stand up abruptly, grabbing the small bag of overnight essentials you’ve grabbed from your bedroom knowing there was a huge possibility you could lose your bed against Jonathan. You don’t give yourself much time to overthink it. "Let's go."
There’s no need to look at him to know he is smiling. You do, however, catch Robin’s gaze one last time. She rolls her eyes, shaking her head in a way that said you’re hopeless, before grabbing Vickie’s hand and disappearing down the hallway.
The walk to his apartment is a study in controlled breathing. The hallway air is crisp, biting at your skin, but the heat inside you hasn’t dissipated. Steve walks a half-step ahead, the jingle of his keys the only sound in the quiet of the building.
You want to scream. You want to ask him a thousand questions. Why are you doing this? Why do you pull me in so close one minute and then push me away like it’s nothing? Why are you turning my brain into mush, and why can’t I seem to stop you? Why am I even here?
Since the moment you’ve met him, your life has become a series of unanswered questions. He is a lighthouse you were constantly crashing into, seeking a harbor that feels both impossible and inevitable.
When you reach his door, he unlocks it with a practiced flick of the wrist and steps aside, ushering you in.
"Thanks," you mutter, nodding as you pass him.
The moment the door closes, his scent wraps around you entirely . The apartment is different from the first — and last time — you’d seen it. It feels lived-in, curated. The layout is identical to yours and Robin’s, but unlike you girls’ place, which is cluttered with textbooks and half-finished coffee mugs, his is… nice.
There are framed prints on the walls that look artistic without being pretentious. The record player now sits on a polished wooden console, surrounded by a neatly organized collection of vinyl jackets that show actual care. A deep, comfortable-looking navy blue sofa anchors the living room, and every object seems to have been placed with an eye for balance. It is clean, stylish, and unexpectedly mature. It is exactly him.
Steve moves past you, his shoulder lightly brushing against your chest as he sheds his heavy jacket and tosses it over the back of a barstool.
“Don’t worry,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye as he looks back at you. “I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch, even though mine is objectively ten times better than that torture device you have across town.”
You let out a soft laugh, surprised by how easily his banter can dismantle your defensive walls.
“Honestly, looking at this place, even your rug looks more comfortable than my mattress right now.”
It is true. You can see glimpses of the luxury lifestyle Robin always teases him about — the high-quality materials, the premium finishes — but it doesn’t feel cold or boastful. It feels lived-in. Warm.
Steve walks down the short hallway, his boots padding hard against the hardwood. When you don’t immediately follow, staying glued to the entryway, he pokes his head back around the corner, an amused expression on his face.
“Are you coming, or are you planning on guarding the front door all night?”
You clear your throat, walking to him.
“Right. Yeah...”
You follow him down the hall. He stops outside the bedroom door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.
“Alright, obviously I don’t need to give you the grand tour. You know where the bathroom is, since your place is identical,” he says playfully, tossing a hand toward the door on the left. “But just in case…” He reaches out, twisting the handle and pushing the bedroom door open, reaching inside to flick on the light switch. “This is the bedroom”
The room is bathed in a soft, warm glow. The dominant theme is deep navy blue, matching the living room — the comforter, the curtains, the accent wall. You start to realize that it’s a color that suits him perfectly, dark and calming, yet possessing a certain depth. Everything is immaculate. The bed is neatly made, the pillows fluffed, and a small stack of books sit on the nightstand.
But your eyes don’t stay on the bed. They drift to the far corner of the room, where a beautiful, polished acoustic guitar rests on a wooden stand.
You blink, your eyebrows furrowing as you point a finger toward the instrument.
“I didn’t know you played.”
Steve follows your gaze, and for a moment, a rare flash of self-consciousness crosses his features. He rubs the back of his neck, letting out a soft, embarrassed laugh.
“Oh. Yeah. Nah, I don’t really play. I just… mess around with it sometimes when I’m bored. It’s nothing.”
He turns his eyes back to you, his gaze softening.
“I definitely don’t play like you do. I heard you in your room the other day when I went to hang out with Robin. You’re really good.”
The compliment feels unexpected, a sudden drop in the playful atmosphere that leaves you feeling exposed. The sincerity in his voice sends a strange, fluttering sensation through your chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly feeling very small in the center of his bedroom.
“Steve, look, you really don’t have to do this. I can take the couch out there. Seriously, it’s not an issue. I don't want to kick you out of your own bed, I–”
“Stay here.”
The words cut you off instantly. His tone isn’t loud, but it carries an absolute, unyielding weight. He takes a step closer, looking down at you, and your eyes catch the slight, unconscious movement of his tongue tracing his lower lip. The air between you grows instantly thick, the space shrinking until you can feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Seriously,” Steve repeats, his voice dropping to a low murmur that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “I want you to stay here.”
“You want me to stay, but you’re about to leave”, you think bitterly. The reminder of Gabriela flares up again, a sharp ache in your chest. You want to say it out loud. You want to demand to know why he is looking at you with so much intensity if he isjust going to walk out the door and spend the night with someone else. But you clamp your jaw shut. You don’t have the right to demand answers. You aren’t his girlfriend. You are just his… friend.
Steve breaks the spell, turning around and walking over to his tall wooden wardrobe. He opens the doors, rummaging through the neatly folded stacks of clothes while humming a faint, unrecognizable tune under his breath. After a few seconds, he pulls out a shirt and turns back to you, holding it out.
“You can use this one,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
You look at the fabric, your brow furrowing in confusion.
“I’m not wearing your clothes to bed, Steve.”
Steve raises a single, mocking eyebrow.
“And why not, exactly?”
“Because it’s weird. And besides, I brought my own—” You stop mid-sentence, your eyes dropping down to the bag clutched in your hands.
A horrific realization washes over you. In your rush to escape the living room before Robin pierced you with her eyes, you grabbed everything you needed except your actual pajamas. They are still sitting on the chair in your bedroom.
You let out a quiet groan, closing your eyes and resisting the urge to bang your head against the wall.
When you open your eyes, Steve is looking at you with an expression of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. He shakes his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he tosses the shirt onto the edge of the mattress. He sits down right next to it, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking up at you.
“Fell out of your bag, did they?” he teases.
You glare at him, crossing your arms.
“Shut up.”
Steve laughs out loud this time, bringing his hands up to cover his face, his fingers splaying slightly.
“Alright, alright. Look, I’m covering my eyes. I swear, I won't look. Change into the shirt, get into bed, and stop stressing.”
You stare at him for a long moment, verifying that his eyes are truly covered. He keeps his hands firmly over his face, though you can see the wide grin stretching his lips.
With a frustrated sigh, you step over to the side of the bed. There is something terrifyingly electric about the atmosphere in the room. The sheer absurdity of the situation — slipping out of your clothes in Steve Harrington’s bedroom while he sits three feet away — makes your heart hammer against your ribs. Your fingers tremble slightly as you unbutton your jeans, sliding them off, followed by your heavy sweater.
Every rustle of fabric feels incredibly loud in the quiet room. You feel a strange, thrilling urge to take your time, driven by a sudden spike of boldness you didn’t know you possessed. What are you doing? Why are you letting him affect you like this? The knowledge that he is supposed to leave hangs over you like a shadow, making this moment feel precious, temporary, and incredibly fragile. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You know that tomorrow morning, the walls will go back up, the jokes will return, and you’ll be left with the same empty, unresolved questions.
You reach down and grab the shirt he has given you. As you pull it over your head, you realize what it was. It is a thick, faded white cotton t-shirt with a large black crest printed across the front. Hellfire Club.
A small, genuine smile broke across your face. You can’t picture Steve using it. It’s oversized, the shoulder seams settle under your collarbone, the hem falling just below your hips, barely covering your underwear. It smells entirely of him, although you can smell another cologne that you can’t quite guess who it belongs to.
You quickly slide beneath the heavy navy blue comforter, the cool, crisp sheets instantly soothing your tired muscles. The blanket pools around your hips as you sit on the mattress, and you let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.
“Okay,” you mutter, your voice small. “You can look.”
Steve drops his hands from his face. His eyes instantly finding you in the bed. His gaze sweeps over your exposed collarbone peeking out from the oversized collar of the shirt, and for a fraction of a second, his expression changes completely. The playful smirk vanishes, replaced by a heavy, dark intensity. His jaw tightens, and you distinctly see his throat bob as he swallows hard. He lets out a low, rough sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to clear his thoughts.
“Why do you do this to me?” he growls softly, his voice thick.
You blink, lifting your eyebrow. “Do what?”
“Don’t act oblivious,” he says, his eyes locking onto yours, refusing to let you look away.
“You’re the one who told me to come sleep in your bed, Steve. I was perfectly content on that terrible couch.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think it through,” he mutters.
Instead of standing up to leave, instead of grabbing his keys and heading out to Gabriela’s apartment, Steve shifts his weight. He swings his legs up onto the mattress, lying down flat on his back right next to you, on top of the comforter.
Your heart stops.
He locks his fingers together, placing them behind his head to cradle his neck. As he does that, the hem of his dark knit sweater pulls upward, exposing a sharp, defined strip of skin above his waist. You can see the clean, dark grey line of his boxers, and the faint, tantalizing trail of dark hair that disappears downward.
He stares fixedly at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths.
You stay frozen beneath the sheets, your eyes locked onto his profile. The proximity is overwhelming. You can hear the sound of his breathing; the subtle shift of the mattress every time he moves.
“Steve,” you say quietly, your voice trembling slightly. “I thought you had to go.”
Steve doesn’t turn his head. He just lets out a soft, low breath, his eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling structure above.
“Shhh,” he whispers, the sound gentle but final.
The single syllable hangs in the quiet space between you, thick with unspoken promises, boundaries pushed to their absolute limits, and a heavy, suffocating wave of desire that neither of you is ready to name.
The silence that settles over the bedroom is dense, a thick, palpable thing that seems to press against the walls, yet it lacks the sharp edges of discomfort. It is the kind of silence that accumulates over weeks and weeks of unexpressed thoughts, of glances held just a fraction of a second too long across a crowded room, of words swallowed back at the very last moment.
You are afraid to move.
Even the slightest shift of your weight against the mattress feels like a risk, a potential catalyst that can shatter the fragile, impossible reality of the moment.
You hold your breath, listening to the rhythmic, quiet sound of his breathing beside you. It is hard to fully process the geometry of the situation: you are here, in his bedroom, sitting on his bed, wrapped in a t-shirt that belongs to him, while he lay just inches away. And yet, despite the overwhelming proximity, nothing happens. The space between your bodies feels both microscopic and infinitely wide.
As the silence stretches, the narrative begins to creep back into your thoughts, each warning working its way into your chest like a slow, dull ache. “Don’t get tangled up in that,” the group whispered in various ways, their voices a collective chorus of caution. “He’s not what he seems. He carries too much baggage, too many old habits. It’s a bad idea.” They have drawn a line in the sand, painting a picture of a guy who is dangerous to your peace of mind, a perpetual heartbreaker disguised as a changed man. They tell you that getting close to him was like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands.
Yet, those very warnings have produced the exact opposite effect.
With every passing day, every shared shift at the store, and every encounter in the hallway, Steve becomes a riddle you are desperate to solve. You want to peel back the layers of the high school myth, the lingering reputation, and the quiet sadness he tries so hard to hide behind an easy smile.
But there is a terrifying flip side to that curiosity.
With every step you take toward him, you can feel yourself solidifying into a specific, painful category in his life: the almost something.
You are the person he keeps close enough to touch but far enough to protect. It is an agonizingly beautiful purgatory. He leans on you, he confides in you, he looks at you with an intensity that makes your hands shake, but he refuses to cross the line.
He isn’t willing to risk the “friendship”, which means he isn’t willing to risk you.
And that realization brings its own dark, swirling cloud of doubts: Do you actually want him? Do you truly desire the real, complicated, flawed man lying next to you? Or are you merely infatuated with the challenge? Are you just captivated by the simple, frustrating fact that you can’t read him from head to toe, breaking through his defenses the way you have so easily done with everyone else in your life?
“Where did you meet her?”
The question slips from your lips quietly, the soft words cutting through the stillness of the room before you can fully think them through. The sound of your own voice surprises you, sounding smaller and more vulnerable in the quiet air than you have intended.
Steve doesn’t turn his head to look at you. He remains exactly as he was, his eyes fixed on some arbitrary point on the ceiling, but you notice the subtle, telltale shift in his jaw. The muscle tightens, and he bites the inside of his cheek — a nervous habit he only displayed when he is caught entirely off guard or trying to buy himself time to construct a lie.
“Meet who?” he asks, his tone perfectly flat, feigning an innocent ignorance that is entirely unconvincing.
You roll your eyes, a small, humorless smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You can hear the faint, defensive edge of mockery in his voice, the classic Harrington defense mechanism of playing dumb when a conversation veers too close to territory he wants to avoid.
“Don’t make me say her name, Steve,” you reply, your voice dropping an octave, holding his ground even if your heart is hammering against your ribs.
Steve lets out a soft, dry laugh that sounds more like a sigh. He shifts slightly, adjusting his head where it rests against his folded arms, his messy hair spilling over his wrists. The movement brings him just a fraction closer, though his eyes remain resolutely detached from yours, staring upward into the shadows.
“At the store,” he says finally.
The answer hits you like a sudden, unexpected drop in temperature. It sends a sharp, distinct jolt through your chest.
Ever since you have first found out about her existence, your mind has been spinning endless, exhausting scenarios about where a guy like Steve would encounter someone like her.
Your imagination has automatically supplied the usual backdrops: a dimly lit bar on the edge of town, a loud, chaotic party thrown by people you don’t care to know, or perhaps through some mutual friends from his past that you have never met. You have prepared yourself for those answers. They are distant; they belong to a world outside of your shared reality.
What you haven’t prepared for is a place so close to home.
The record store isn’t just a workplace; it is your sanctuary. It is the place where the two of you have spent countless hours sorting through dusty vinyl, arguing over the tracklists of obscure albums, and hiding from the rest of the world behind the counter. It is a space where you have built a private, insular language of inside jokes and shared glances over the past few weeks.
To hear that he has met her there, under the very same roof, feels like a quiet, sudden breach of contract. It feels like a betrayal, sharp and sudden, as if a piece of land you thought belonged entirely to the two of you has been casually handed over to a stranger.
But a colder, more logical voice in your head immediately checks you. You have no right to call it a betrayal, you reminded yourself sharply. You have no right to anything when it comes to him. You are a friend. You are a coworker. You are the person wearing his shirt on his bed, but you aren’t his. You haven’t earned the right to be jealous, which somehow makes the burning sensation in your throat even worse.
“Well,” you say, forcing a light, mocking tone to mask the sudden ache in your throat, trying your best to match his casual energy. “It turns out Roy was right about that putting your face near the front display would bring in the cute girls.”
You try to keep your expression carefully blank, desperately fighting down the hot wave of jealousy that threatens to break through your composure. You need to keep things light, to keep the armor firmly intact.
He has told you before — dozens of times already, usually without you even asking — that it isn’t anything serious. He has insisted she is just someone he sees occasionally, a distraction, a casual acquaintance. But logic doesn’t matter in the dark.
The reality is simple and devastating: whoever she is, she is allowed to be a part of his life in a way you aren’t. She doesn’t carry the weight of something that can be broken. She is a risk he is allowed to take.
Steve’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile.
“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, his tone dripping with that familiar, playful arrogance. “I can’t help it if I’m good for business.”
Then, slowly, he tilts his head, his gaze shifting away from the ceiling to find your eyes. The eye contact is sudden and intense, pulling the air right out of your lungs. You manage to hold his gaze for a single, agonizing second, offering a small, tight smile, before the sheer weight of his attention becomes too much to bear.
You looked away quickly, focusing intently on a poster on the far wall, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of his blanket.
The room plumes back into silence, but the comfort from before has evaporated, replaced by a restless, charged energy. The air feels charged, thick with the unspoken admission that both of you are hiding behind a wall of words. This time, however, the quiet doesn’t last long. Steve seems to feel the shift, the rising tension that threatens to make the space between you unbearable.
“Have you actually thought about what you want to do?” he asks softly. His voice has lost its playful edge, dropping into a quiet, genuine register. He has turned his face back to the ceiling, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering through the window. “You know... after you graduate? After all of that is over?”
You let out a dramatic, exaggerated groan, throwing your head back against the wall, deliberately leaning into a playful reaction to avoid the sudden gravity of the question. “Wow. That is officially the worst question you could have possibly asked me right now.”
Steve lets out another laugh, but this one was different — it is warm, genuine, and completely uncovered. The sound resonates in the quiet room, causing a sudden, violent flutter in the pit of your stomach. It’s a sound you like too much, a sound that always manages to dismantle your defenses completely.
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning his body slightly toward you, his eyes locking onto your profile with a sudden, focused intensity. “But I had to ask eventually. I’ve known you for almost two months, talking about literally everything else, and you always dodge it whenever someone brings it up.”
You let out a long, slow sigh, the playful facade dropping away as the reality of your own anxieties catches up with you. The weight of sitting up feels suddenly immense, so you finally shift your position. You slide down the wall, moving slowly, intentionally, until you are lying flat on your back right next to him.
Your body is tucked safely beneath the heavy layers of his comforter, while he lay casually on top of them, a thick barrier of fabric separating your skin.
Yet, despite the insulation, you can swear you feel the heat radiating from him. The warmth of his body feels like a physical presence, an invisible current running between you.
You force your mind away from it, staring straight up at the ceiling, trying to anchor yourself to the conversation.
“Honestly?” you confess, the words slipping out with a raw sincerity that makes you instantly uncomfortable. You hate being this transparent, especially with him. “I don’t have a single clue.”
You pause, your eyes tracing the faint patterns of light on the plaster above.
“Everything in this city feels incredibly stuck right now. Finding a job that doesn’t make me want to claw my eyes out feels impossible. And honestly, I don’t want to just leave Roy out to dry without warning. I’ve actually grown to love the record store. I’ve gotten attached to the place, and—”
“But what do you want to do?”
Steve cuts you off mid-sentence. The interruption isn’t rude; it is sharp, precise, and delivered with a quiet intensity that stops your breath.
The underlying weight of his words is impossible to miss. He isn’t asking about your obligations, or your safety nets, or your loyalty to an old shopkeeper. He’s asking about you.
You turn your head slowly on the pillow, finding him already staring down at you. He has shifted his weight, his brown eyes searching yours with an earnestness that makes you feel entirely exposed.
“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, trying to buy yourself another moment to rebuild the walls he keeps tearing down.
“I mean exactly what I said,” Steve replies, his gaze unwavering. “Forget about Roy. Forget about the town, or what’s easy, or what’s realistic. What is it that you actually want to do with your life? If you could choose anything.”
You hold his gaze for a few long, terrifying seconds. The intensity in his eyes is overwhelming, a demand for truth that you aren’t sure you are ready to give. The honesty in his face is beautiful and terrifying.
Unable to handle the sheer vulnerability of the moment, you break the connection, looking away toward the far corner of the dark room. You let out a short, nervous laugh, a defense mechanism to deflect the weight in your chest.
“I don’t know, Steve. It’s a stupid question.”
Steve makes a sharp clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a gesture of pure, affectionate frustration. He shifts his weight entirely, pushing himself up onto his elbow. The movement causes the mattress to dip, rolling your body slightly closer to his. He hovers there, almost leaning over you, his gaze locked onto your face, refusing to let you escape the conversation.
“Come on,” he urges, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “Don’t do that. Don’t hide. There has to be something. Everyone has that one thing they dream about when they’re stuck in a place like this. Even if it’s massive. Even if it sounds completely impossible to anyone else. Tell me.”
You fall into a deep, heavy silence, your mind racing against the pressure of his proximity.
You don’t know what to blame for the sudden, terrifying urge to be completely honest. Maybe it’s the lingering effect of the cheap glasses of red wine you have drunk down in the kitchen earlier that evening. Maybe it’s the heavy, suffocating intimacy of the dark bedroom, or perhaps it’s just the late hour, that specific time of night where the filters of human defense naturally begin to degrade.
Whatever the reason, you suddenly feel a desperate, unprecedented need to lay your soul bare to him, to hand him a piece of yourself that you have never shared with another living person. It’s a terrifying impulse, a total surrender of your armor.
“I want to open my own studio,” you say softly. The words feel incredibly small, almost like a confession of a crime, whispered into the narrow space between your faces.
You keep your eyes resolutely fixed on your own hands, watching your fingers nervously trace the raised seam of his bedsheet, completely avoiding his reaction. But even without looking directly at him, you can see the shift through the edge of your vision. You see the tension leave his shoulders, and you see the slow, genuine warmth that spreads across his face.
“Seriously?” he asks. There isn’t a hint of mockery in his voice. It’s filled with a quiet, surprised wonder.
You let out a sharp, self-deprecating sigh, already regretting the admission.
“Yeah. I know it’s completely unrealistic and stupid—”
“It’s not stupid,” Steve interrupts smoothly, his voice firm, shutting down your self-doubt before it can take root. He shifts his weight slightly, leaning in closer, his attention entirely consumed by you. “Tell me more about it. Where?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting back the instinct to shut down, before finally gathering the courage to turn your head and look him in the eyes.
The genuine interest radiating from him gives you a sudden, intoxicating rush of confidence, and the words begin to spill out of you, faster and more fluent than before.
“There’s this old building on Fifth Avenue,” you begin, your eyes lighting up with the vivid memory of a vision you have kept locked away for years. “It’s this ancient, beautiful restobar that’s been abandoned since before I arrived in the city. During my first year working at the record store, Roy used to send me down that block every single morning to pick up shipping stamps from the old post office. Every single day, I would walk right past that building.”
You pause, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety as the picture formed perfectly in your mind.
“And every time I looked at it, I couldn't see the broken glass or the boarded-up doors. All I could see was a studio. A real, living space. One morning, curiosity got the better of me, and I actually crept up to the side window. There’s this tiny gap between the wooden planks they used to seal it up, and I peeked inside. God, the architecture there is incredible. The high ceilings, the brickwork hiding under the old plaster, the way the morning light hits the floor... it’s perfect.”
As you speak, your gaze remains locked onto his, completely trapped by the expression on his face. He’s listening to you with an intensity that feels almost holy. His eyes are wide, clear, and utterly captivated, tracking every movement of your lips, every shift in your expression.
There is a look in his eyes that you can’t quite define — perhaps it’s a slight haze from the wine, or simple exhaustion from the long day, or maybe, just maybe, he’s completely spellbound by the passion in your voice.
But the sheer weight of that look becomes too intense, too heavy with a meaning you aren’t allowed to decipher. Your eyes flick away nervously, dropping back down to your fingers, which are now restlessly pulling at a loose thread on the comforter.
You need to break the spell before you do something reckless, like reaching out to touch his face.
“Let’s buy it.”
The words come out of his mouth quickly, entirely without hesitation, cutting through the air like a sudden crack of thunder.
You freeze, your fingers stopping mid-motion against the fabric. You snap your head back toward him, your brow furrowing as you lift a single, deeply skeptical eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
Steve lets out a soft, low chuckle, but there’s no hint of a joke in his expression. His face is entirely serious, a sudden, stubborn determination settling into the lines of his jaw. He leans down a fraction closer, his eyes burning into yours.
“I said, let’s buy it. You and me. Let’s do it.”
You let out a loud, highly sarcastic laugh, shaking your head against the pillow as you tried to diffuse the sudden, dangerous fantasy he’s spinning.
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Let me just reach into my back pocket and pull out the millions of dollars I’ve been casually hoarding from my minimum-wage shifts at the record store. Don’t worry, Steve, I’ve got it totally covered.”
You shake your head again, a bitter smile touching your lips as you look away from him.
“Aside from the minor detail of us being completely broke, I don’t even know if the property is actually for sale. The city probably owns it, or it’s tied up in some endless legal battle. It’s a pipe dream.”
The room falls into another brief, heavy silence. The playful energy has vanished, leaving behind the stark, cold reality of your life. Steve doesn't move. He remains propped up on his elbow, his eyes never leaving your profile, watching the way the shadows dance across your face.
“It’s going to be yours,” he says softly, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable conviction that sends a strange, painful ache through your chest. “I just know it will. You're going to make it happen.”
You turn your head back to him, offering a soft, melancholy smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
“You really need to stop being so incredibly optimistic, Harrington. It’s genuinely exhausting.”
“And you need to stop being so deeply negative,” he counters instantly, a small, familiar smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes remain entirely soft.
“I’m not being negative, Steve. I am being a realist,” you say, your tone dropping its playful armor, becoming heavy and serious despite your best efforts to keep it light.
The weight of your actual life, the limitations of your circumstances, and the unspoken boundaries between the two of you come crashing back into the room, suffocating the beautiful fantasy he has tried to build.
“Have you actually looked at my life?” you ask quietly, your voice trembling just a fraction as you look him in the eyes. “Do you honestly think a person like me just gets to buy a massive building on Fifth Avenue out of nowhere? Do you think I have the kind of life where I can just breathe life into an old ruin and make a dream come true? Do you think the world works that way for people like us?”
You shake your head slowly, the bitter taste of reality settling heavy on your tongue. “No,” you whisper, your gaze dropping away from his intense, searching eyes as you look back toward the dark, empty space of the room.
“It doesn’t. It’s just a nice story.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. The weight of your words seem to hang in the air between you, cooling the warmth he has tried so hard to cultivate.
The silence returns, but it isn’t the comfortable stillness from before, nor is the charged tension of a few weeks ago. It’s a heavy, grounding silence that smells of old wood furniture, cold night air, and the reality of a city that cares too little about people’s dreams.
He slowly lowers himself from his elbow, shifting his weight until he’s lying flat on his back again, his shoulder resting just an inch away from yours.
The proximity is agonizing. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest, a steady, calm rhythm that stands in stark contrast to the frantic racing of your own pulse.
"You do that a lot," Steve says quietly, his voice tracing a line through the dark toward you.
"Do what?" you ask, your eyes still fixed on the ceiling, where the pale moonlight draws long, ghostly rectangles across the white plaster.
"You pull the plug," he replies. You can hear the faint rustle of his head moving against the pillow as he turned to look at your profile. "The second things get a little bit real, or a little bit big, you just... shut it down. You drop this heavy weight on it and pretend it was never there."
A defensive spark flares up in your chest, a welcome distraction from the vulnerability that has been hollowing you out. "It's called survival, Steve. Some of us don't have the luxury of living in a world where everything just magically works out because we want it to; like you."
The words come out sharper than you intend, carrying a bitter edge that you haven't meant to bring into his bedroom.
You instantly regret the bite in your tone, waiting for him to pull away, to match your sharpness with his own defensive anger. That is how most people react when you push them. They push back, and the walls go back up, and everyone is safe inside their own separate fortresses again.
Instead, you feel a sudden, light pressure against your hand.
Steve hasn’t moved his body, but his arm has shifted slightly along the comforter. The edge of his pinky finger is now resting against yours, a tiny, microscopic point of contact through the fabric that feels like a sudden jolt of electricity.
It isn’t a handhold, like the one you shared downstairs an hour ago. It isn’t an embrace. It's an anchor. A quiet, unspoken declaration that he isn’t going to run away just because you are trying to scare him off.
"I know my life looks a certain way," Steve says, his voice dropping into a register so low and honest it makes your throat ache. "I know what people say. I know what Robin tells you, and I know what the rest of them think. They think I'm just some guy who had everything handed to him in high school and now I'm just floating around, trying to find another party to go to."
He pauses, and the tiny point of contact between your fingers tightens just a fraction, a steadying pressure.
"But I know what it feels like to look at the future and see absolutely nothing. I know what it's like to realize that the version of yourself you thought you were going to be doesn't exist, and the version you are right now is just... stuck. So when I see you look at something the way you look at that old building, with actual life in your eyes, I don't care if it's realistic. I just want it to be real."
Your breath catches in your throat. You turn your head slowly, your eyes wide in the darkness, finding him already looking at you. The distance between your faces feels entirely insignificant now, erased by the raw honesty of his words.
This is part of the mystery you had been trying to solve, the hidden depth beneath the easy smiles and the careless charm. It’s a quiet, fierce loyalty, a desperate desire to protect the things that still have value in a world that feels increasingly empty. And it’s directed entirely at you.
The tension in the room shifts again, tightening until it’s almost impossible to breathe. The warnings from the group, Robin's frantic stories, your own deep-seated fears about being the almost something — all of it seems to dissolve under the heat of his gaze.
He wants more. You can see it in the way his eyes trace the line of your jaw, in the slight, hesitant parting of his lips, in the way his hand seems to tremble against yours through the heavy blanket. He wants to cross that line just as badly as you did.
But he doesn’t move.
The restraint is still there, a thick, invisible barrier built out of a profound, terrifying fear of loss. He cares about you too much to risk the one good thing he has found in this city. He’s willing to live in the purgatory of almost if it means he never has to face the reality of losing you completely.
"Steve," you whisper, his name a soft, broken sound in the quiet space between you. You don’t know what you were asking for — a confession, a promise, a mistake. You just need to hear him say something, anything, to break the agonizing pressure of the unsaid.
He closes his eyes for a long, slow second, his jaw tightening again as he lets out a ragged breath. When he opens them, the intense, burning focus has been replaced by a soft, melancholy warmth that is somehow even more devastating.
"You should get some sleep," he murmurs gently, his fingers slowly pulling back from yours, breaking the tiny point of contact and leaving your hand suddenly, intensely cold against the fabric.
“I’ll leave the keys on the counter. Just take them with you tomorrow and I’ll go get them in the afternoon, yeah?”
He offers you a small, tired smile, a perfect imitation of the easygoing friend he’s supposed to be, before getting up from the bed, leaving your body feeling completely cold.
You lay there for a long time, listening to his steps through the apartment until he closes the door behind him.
The silence settles back over the bedroom, heavy and comfortable once more, but the rectangles of moonlight on the plaster have shifted, leaving you entirely in the shadows.
You pull his comforter tighter around your chest, breathing in the scent of his clothes, completely trapped in the beautiful, agonizing reality of being almost everything to someone who can’t risk losing you.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: some fluff at the beginning. but then more tension. mutual pining. angst. violence description. wounds description. injuries description. alcohol use. smut (+18). dirty talk. p in v. orgasm (i think nothing else omg i'm so bad at this)
words: 27k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: HEY. hi... so... a few things. first of all, i know, i've created a monster. i sat down to write and by the time i realized how long the chapter had gotten it didn't make much sense to split it in half, so here we are. i'm sorry (not really).
i'm also leaving you with a longer chapter cause my exams are coming up, and there's a good chance i won't be updating next week.
and finally, i have to admit i'm so bad at writing smut, but i promise i'll try to get better at it.
again, thank u so much for all the lovely interactions and support. it really means a lot to me. now, enjoy !!
chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world
The silence of the downtown public library is only punctuated by the occasional, rhythmic ticking of the grand clock on the far wall and the soft, agonizing sound of pages turning.
On Wednesday afternoon, you have finally hit your breaking point. You have practically begged Roy for the rest of the week off, your voice bordering on desperate as you explained that the week of midterms is actively draining the life force out of your body.
Roy, surprisingly sympathetic for once, waved you off with a grunt, muttering something about the youth being unable to handle a little stress. You didn't care what he thought; you just knew that if you had spent one more hour staring at the shelves instead of your notes, you were going to lose your mind.
But now, sitting in the dimly lit corner of the library’s second floor, you aren’t sure this is any better.
Of all your career electives you could have chosen to take this semester, you have somehow managed to pick the absolute worst, most notoriously unforgiving class in the entire syllabus. The one that sounds impressive on paper, but in reality, it’s a walking nightmare.
You are currently barricaded behind a fortress of heavy, dust-smelling textbooks, surrounded by endless sheets of loose-leaf paper covered in frantic, barely legible diagrams of connections, frequency response charts, signal flow paths, and God knows what else.
The harsh, fluorescent lighting above is doing nothing to help the throbbing headache building behind your eyes.
The information simply isn’t entering your brain anymore. The black text on the glossy pages blurred together, looking more like an army of disorganized ants than actual words. You are acutely aware that if you tried to force your exhausted neurons to process one more paragraph about impedance matching or balanced audio cables, your brain is going to literally short-circuit and explode.
Thankfully, you aren’t suffering in complete isolation.
It’s midterm season for everyone, a collective misery that hangs over the student body like a dark cloud, so Robin is sitting directly across from you. Her side of the table is in a similar state of chaotic disarray, though hers is covered in massive, daunting anthologies of literature rather than technical manuals.
Earlier that morning, after spending the entire day cooped up in your cramped, stuffy apartment — breathing in recycled air and driving each other crazy with nervous pacing — the two of you reached a mutual agreement: you needed a change of scenery; and the downtown library, with its high ceilings, stained-glass windows, and strict noise policies, seemed like the perfect sanctuary.
Robin also had to pull strings to get the afternoon off, though her situation is slightly different, because Stella is calling her from the library's front desk every half hour to ask her how to reboot the computer system or how to find a specific French novel in the foreign section.
You let out a long, heavy sigh that ruffles the edges of your notebook paper. Defeated, you close your eyes, letting your heavy head drop forward until your forehead rests against your crossed arms on the cool wood of the table.
"It's impossible," you mumble into your sleeves, your voice muffled but dripping with absolute exhaustion. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail, and I'll have to drop out, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box behind the diner."
Across the table, the sharp thud of a heavy book snapping shut echoes slightly in the quiet room. Robin stretches her arms high above her head, leaning back in her wooden chair until it groans in protest.
"Tell me about it," she groans, rubbing her tired eyes. "I am in my senior year. My senior year, and I still cannot, for the life of me, tell you the fundamental differences between the literary epochs. Classical, Romanticism, Modernism… don’t get it”
You lift your head just enough to peek at her with one eye.
"At least your dead people speak in English. My book is trying to convince me that electricity has a personality, and I'm supposed to know how to fix its mood swings."
Robin snorts, a sharp, ungraceful sound that earns a harsh "Shh!" from a student three tables away. She waves an apologetic hand in the girl’s direction before leaning in over her literary anthologies, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper.
"Look, we just need to survive until Friday. Once Friday at four p.m. hits, we are officially on Spring Break, and I’m not looking at a single word printed on a page for a solid week. I might even forget how to read."
Before you can agree with her brilliant plan, a sudden, heavy thud makes you jump in your seat.
A worn, olive-green canvas backpack has just been dropped onto the empty space at the end of your table. You startle, sitting up straight, your heart doing a quick, nervous stutter in your chest. Your eyes snap up to meet the newcomers.
Nancy and Jonathan are standing there. Nancy’s offering a sympathetic, knowing smile, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, while Jonathan gives a tired but friendly wave.
They promised to come by and keep you both company during the grueling final hours of your study session, bringing the promise of moral support and, hopefully, caffeine.
But your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach plummets into a cold, terrifying free-fall.
You hadn't expected to see him.
Following closely behind Jonathan, stepping out from behind the towering bookshelf, is Steve.
Your heart does a violent, painful flip against your ribcage. The air in your lungs suddenly feels too thick to breathe.
You haven’t seen him properly since that weekend.
You can’t stop the memory hit you like a physical blow, flashing behind your eyes with terrifying clarity: the warmth of his room, the way the moonlight spilled across his bedsheets, the feeling of being entirely, completely wrapped up in him, believing that maybe, finally, things were shifting between you two.
But then he left.
And although you have seen him here and there since then — the times he left the store, or hearing his voice while he talks with Robin in your apartment — you have to admit you have been spending the last four days actively avoiding him, ignoring his attempts to start a conversation, dodging his smiles and gazes, trying to build your walls back up.
Yet, looking at him now — standing in the middle of the dusty library, wearing a simple gray sweater that hugs his shoulders perfectly, his hair effortlessly brushed — something inside you involuntarily softens.
Despite the hurt, despite the messy, unresolved chaos swirling in your head, seeing him here feels... good. Dangerously comforting. It’s a twisted, pathetic realization of just how much power he holds over you with just his presence.
Jonathan and Nancy pull out chairs, their quiet laughter blending into the hushed atmosphere as they begin whispering with Robin. Jonathan asks about her thesis, and Nancy immediately starts organizing her own pristine, color-coded notes.
Steve steps closer to the table. He moves toward Robin first. Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he leans down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. Robin instantly scrunches up her face in feigned disgust, aggressively rubbing the top of her head as if to wipe the kiss away.
"Ew, germs. Get away from me, dingus," she hisses playfully.
Steve just rolls his eyes, a fond smirk playing on his lips, and gives the back of her head a gentle, teasing smack. "Show some respect to your elders, Buckley."
Then, he turns. And he starts walking toward you.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to look down. To stare at the intricate diagram of a mixing console until your eyes bleed. To look anywhere but at him. But you are paralyzed. You can’t tear your gaze away from the way his eyes lock onto yours, pinning you in place.
He pulls out the wooden chair directly to your right. It scraps loudly against the floor, and he winces apologetically, murmuring a quick "sorry" to the glaring student before sinking into the seat next to you.
He’s close. Too close. You can feel the subtle, radiating heat of his body cutting through the drafty chill of the library.
He turns his head to look at you, his expression softening into a gentle, slightly tentative smile. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the heavy, unspoken tension lingering between you since… God knows how long.
"Hey," he whispers. His voice is low, a smooth rasp that sends a traitorous shiver down your spine.
You swallow hard, forcing your throat to work, fighting desperately to keep your tone completely neutral. "Hi."
It comes out in the exact same quiet register, cautious and guarded.
Steve doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. He points with his chin toward the massive, intimidating textbook open in front of you.
"Looks intense," he notes quietly. "Too difficult?"
You let out a shaky sigh, the exhaustion of the day momentarily overriding the complicated knot of feelings in your chest. You slowly shake your head, staring down at the pages.
"It's killing me," you admit, the frustration bleeding into your voice. "I feel like I'm trying to read ancient Greek. None of these signal flow paths make any logical sense."
"Let me see," Steve murmurs.
Before you can react, he shifts his weight, sliding his chair an inch closer to yours and leaning his upper body into your space. He angles his head to look down at your textbook, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, freezing you in place.
He’s staring at the complex diagrams of audio interfaces and transducer mechanisms with an expression of intense concentration, as if Steve Harrington — a guy who barely survived high school chemistry — could suddenly decipher senior-year sound engineering acoustics.
But you aren’t looking at the book anymore. You’re completely overwhelmed by his proximity. His cologne completely floods your senses. It’s the same scent that had been buried in the pillows you woke up alone in that morning.
Your breath hitches, and you find your eyes fixed on the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheekbones under the harsh overhead lights.
You are so entirely, hopelessly absorbed in his profile that you completely tune out the world around you. You don’t even register that someone has been calling your name until a hand suddenly waves wildly in front of your face, breaking your trance.
"Hello? Earth to whoever is there?"
You blink rapidly, startled, snapping your head up and pulling back from Steve slightly.
You look across the table. Robin is staring at you, her eyebrows raised so high they are practically disappearing into her messy bangs. She has a distinctly unimpressed, knowing look on her face.
"Mmh?" you manage to hum intelligently, your cheeks burning with a sudden, fiery flush. You pray the dim library lighting hides your blush. "What?"
Robin sighs, leaning her chin on her hand.
"I asked, are you going to the party this weekend?"
You blink, trying to force your brain to reboot and switch from “panicking over Steve's proximity” to “casual social conversation.”
"Oh. Mmh. I don't know..." you trail off, genuinely unsure. You haven’t even thought about the weekend. You are barely surviving Wednesday.
Next to Robin, Nancy rolls her eyes playfully, tapping her neat pile of flashcards on the table to align them perfectly.
"Oh, come on. You have to go. If you don't go, you're going to leave Jonathan and me alone with this crazy person," she says, gesturing to Robin with a fond smile. "You know how she gets at these things. She'll spend the whole night over-analyzing interactions and trying to psychoanalyze the frat boys."
"If I wasn't so deeply intimidated by your terrifying competence, Wheeler, I would kick you under this table right now," Robin shoots back without missing a beat.
You can’t help but laugh softly at their dynamic. The tension in your shoulders eases just a fraction.
"I really don't know, guys. It depends on how I feel that day. If this exam actually destroys my soul on Friday, I might just hibernate until Monday."
Robin isn’t having it. She immediately launches into a rapid-fire spiral of conversation, passionately detailing exactly why this party is going to be the event of the semester. She explains how several guys from the university's upper-level art and business departments have pooled their funds to rent out a massive warehouse to kick off the break. She talks about the bands they have booked, the supposed elaborate lighting setup, and how it’s mandatory for their mental health to attend and just let loose for one night.
You try to concentrate on what she’s saying. You really, genuinely try to nod along and offer the appropriate reactions. But it’s an impossible task.
Steve's body is still pressed agonizingly close to yours. While the girls talk, he hasn’t moved away. In fact, he seems to have settled into the position, his arm brushing yours every time he breathes.
He hasn’t stopped staring at your textbook, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The sheer, magnetic pull of his presence right beside you is so distracting, so entirely disconcerting, that Robin's words begin to sound like they’re coming from underwater.
Suddenly, Steve sits up a little straighter.
"I think I get it," he announces, his voice slicing through Robin’s monologue and immediately capturing your full attention.
You turn your head slowly, staring at him in disbelief. "Get what?"
He turns to look at you, and that signature, devastatingly confident smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile that usually means trouble.
"This," he says, tapping a long finger against a particularly complex schematic of a multi-band compressor. "I think I actually understand it."
You furrow your brow, a skeptical, incredulous laugh bubbling up in your throat. "Excuse me? You, out of nowhere, just casually understand a senior-year acoustic engineering module just by looking at the pictures?"
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and leans even closer to you, closing the meager distance you have tried to put between yourselves. The scent of him envelopes you again, making your pulse race.
"Maybe it's just not as difficult as you're making it out to be," he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.
If it were literally any other person sitting in that chair — some arrogant frat boy or a condescending classmate who had the absolute audacity to question your intelligence and belittle your major — you would have been furious. You would have slammed the book shut, stood up, delivered a blistering lecture on misogyny and likely stormed out of the library, but not before giving them a piece of your mind.
But it’s Steve.
And as he looks at you, that soft, teasing smile playing on his lips, the affection in his eyes completely neutralizing the arrogance of his words, anger is the furthest thing from your mind. All you can focus on is the way the library lights caught the amber flecks in his eyes.
You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back slightly and raising an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? Alright, Harrington. Enlighten me, then. Explain the mechanism."
Steve doesn’t back down. To your absolute shock, he clears his throat, points at the page, and actually begins to explain the mechanism.
"Okay, so look. The audio signal comes in here, right?" he starts, tracing the input line with his finger. "And it hits this... this splitter thing. The crossover network. And that divides the frequencies into your lows, mids, and highs."
You blink, genuinely taken aback.
"Then, each of those separate bands goes into its own independent compression circuit," he continues, his tone turning surprisingly earnest. He stumbles slightly over the technical jargon, but he’s pushing through. "So, you can, like, squash the bass without affecting the vocals in the mid-range. And then this part here," he taps the output stage, "sums it all back together at the end."
He keeps going, elaborating on the attack and release times, using clumsy but surprisingly accurate metaphors about water flowing through pipes to explain the electrical current.
Of course, you don’t stop him. You don’t interrupt to tell him that you already know exactly how a multi-band compressor works. You don’t confess that you have spent four hours the previous nights memorizing every single component of this exact diagram until you could draw it in your sleep. You haven’t been trying to learn it today; you were just exhaustedly reviewing it.
But you can’t bring yourself to shut him down.
Listening to him explain it to you — hearing those heavy, technical terms slipping past his lips, watching the way his brow furrows in deep, genuine concentration as he searches for the right words to make it easier to understand — leaves you completely captivated. You are utterly entranced.
If any other guy tried to “mansplain” your own degree to you, you would have slapped him. But watching Steve try so hard, just to engage with you, just to share this moment, melts the icy walls you have spent the past days building.
Your eyes wander freely over his face, tracking the movement of his lips as he speaks, counting the freckles across his nose, noting the moles on his cheek. You watch the way his expressions shift, the earnest desire to help you radiating from him.
Suddenly, Steve stops talking. He turns his head to look at you, catching you staring intently at his lips.
"Right?" he asks, his voice suddenly much softer, lacking the bravado from a moment ago.
You blink, dragging your eyes up to meet his. You can’t stop the fond, genuine smile from breaking across your face. You nod slowly.
"Right," you whisper.
He watches your face carefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens, transforming into something entirely knowing and slightly wicked.
"You're laughing at me," he accuses gently, dropping his voice to a whisper so only you can hear.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head.
"No, I'm not. Not at all. Why would you think that?"
Steve tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the rest of the library completely fade away. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin — they’re all gone. It’s just the two of you, suspended in this tiny, electrified bubble.
"You already know all of this, don't you?" he asks quietly.
You bite your lower lip, fighting a grin, and slowly nod your head.
Steve lets out a dramatic, frustrated huff, though the smile never leaves his eyes. He leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.
"Then why did you let me keep going?! I was sitting here sweating, trying to remember what a transducer is!"
"Because," you reply softly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, "I wanted to see how far you would take it."
The air between you instantly changes. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by something incredibly heavy and thick with the unspoken tension.
"Did I take it too far?" he asks.
His voice is barely a rasp now, incredibly low and intimate. As he speaks, his eyes dart down to your lips for just a fraction of a second — a millisecond, barely perceptible, but you catch it. It sends a wild flutter of panic and desire straight to your stomach.
You hold his gaze, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You think about the way he held your hand that night. But you also think about the empty bed. The confusion. The sting of his absence.
"You always take everything too far," you whisper back.
Your voice is trembling slightly, fragile. You speak the words as if they’re made of glass, terrified that if you say them too loudly, they would shatter. Terrified that he won’t understand the double meaning, the underlying accusation, and the desperate plea hidden within them.
Steve doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He absorbs the weight of your words, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth.
"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, matching your hushed, fragile tone.
The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. He’s asking about the textbook, yes, but he’s asking about so much more.
He’s asking about boundaries, about pushing lines, about the shared but unfinished moments that happened between you two in the shadows and what they mean in the harsh light of day.
You open your mouth to answer, to finally address the elephant in the room, to tell him that you don’t know if it is a bad thing, but that it terrifies you—
SLAM.
The violently loud sound of a thick book slamming shut echoes like a gunshot through the silent library.
You and Steve both jump, violently ripped from your private bubble. You spin your head around.
Robin has closed her book with unnecessary, aggressive force. She’s already pushing her chair back and standing up, her posture rigid.
"Well, I think that is more than enough studying for one day," Robin announces, her voice entirely too loud for the setting. Her tone is sharp, clear, and undeniably pointed. "My brain is fried. We should probably get out of here, shouldn't we?"
She looks directly at you, her eyes wide and commanding. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a rescue mission. Or an intervention. You can hear the underlying accusation in her voice. She has been watching. She has seen the whispering, the leaning in, the tension. And her interruption is entirely, unapologetically on purpose.
You clear your throat softly, suddenly painfully aware of how hot your face feels and how close Steve still is to you. The spell is broken.
"Yeah," you stammer, awkwardly pushing your chair back and breaking the physical proximity to Steve. "Yeah, sure. I'm... I'm done."
You stand up on shaky legs and immediately begin gathering your scattered papers, shoving the acoustic diagrams into your folders with far less care than they deserve. As you zip your pencil case and reach for your heavy textbook, you pause.
Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice the silent, intense exchange happening beside you.
Robin is staring down at Steve. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is fiercely protective, almost glaring at him. It’s a look of pure accusation. What are you doing? her eyes seem to scream. Don't mess with her.
Steve is looking back up at her. He doesn’t look angry, just caught. He offers a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head — a silent denial, a plea for her to back off, an insistence that he isn’t doing what she thinks he is doing.
You can’t decipher exactly what the silent argument is about, but you know it’s about you. The weight of the unspoken, of Robin's fierce loyalty to you and her complicated best-friendship with Steve, all hangs heavily in the air.
Feeling like an intruder in your own life, you quickly tear your eyes away from them. You grab your heavy textbook, shoving it roughly into your backpack. You pull the zipper shut with a sharp, final zip, slinging the bag over your shoulder, leaving the heavy tension completely unresolved as you prepare to walk out into the cool air. Spring has arrived already, but the cold afternoons still hang around.
After hours trapped in the stagnant, paper-scented purgatory of the study halls, the crisp breeze is an absolute salvation. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting the chill settle into your lungs, hoping it would somehow cool the frantic, nervous heat still radiating just beneath your skin.
The transition from the suffocating silence of the library to the ambient noise of the city streets is jarring. Cars rumble past, their headlights cutting through the fading twilight, and the distant hum of evening commuters create a steady backdrop of white noise.
The sky above is bruising into deep shades of purple and indigo, the streetlights flickering one by one in a cascade of hazy yellow glows.
The five of you huddle on the concrete steps for a brief, somewhat awkward moment as everyone adjusts their bags and jackets. The tension from the table has followed you outside, clinging to the group like a heavy, invisible fog.
Robin is standing rigidly closest to you, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized corduroy jacket. She’s still shooting subtle, sharp glares at Steve out of the corner of her eye, practically vibrating with the urge to say something. But Nancy, blessedly oblivious to the radioactive energy crackling between the three of you — or perhaps highly aware of it and tactfully choosing to diffuse it — steps right into the middle of the dynamic.
"So," Nancy begins, adjusting the collar of her neat cardigan and turning her bright, focused gaze onto Robin. "About this party. Are they actually bringing in proper sound equipment, or is it going to be another disaster where they just hook up a blown-out speaker to a cassette deck? Because if it's the latter, I'm bringing my own earplugs."
Robin blinks, torn away from her staring contest with Steve. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, glancing back at you as if to check if it is safe to leave your side, before her natural enthusiasm for complaining about frat-boy incompetence takes over.
"Oh, it's supposedly a full setup," Robin scoffs, falling into step beside Nancy as they begin walking down the wide pavement. "But you know how these business majors are, Nance. They think throwing money at a problem fixes the fact that they don't know how to plug in an amp."
Jonathan chuckles softly, falling in quietly beside Nancy. He offers you a brief, polite smile over his shoulder before turning his attention to the girls’ conversation, occasionally chiming in with a dry, sarcastic comment that makes Robin snort with laughter.
And just like that, the natural rhythm of the sidewalk forces the group to split. Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan take the lead, their shoulders brushing as they navigate the evening foot traffic.
Which leaves you trailing a few paces behind.
With Steve.
You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the worn heels of Robin’s boots, walking at a brisk pace in a desperate attempt to close the gap between you and the trio ahead. But your apartment is still five blocks away, and Steve’s long legs easily match your frantic, nervous stride.
He walks on your right, positioned between you and the street. It’s a subtle, protective gesture that you have noticed he always does without thinking, and realizing he’s doing it now sends a fresh, sharp ache straight through your chest.
For the first block, neither of you say a word. The silence between you is agonizingly loud, thick with the weight of the library, the unresolved questions, and the terrifying words you have exchanged just minutes prior.
“You always take everything too far.”
“ Is that a bad thing?”
The words echo in your mind with every step you take. You hug your arms across your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed despite your heavy sweater.
“How is your project going?” Steve’s voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, deep and resonant in the chilly night air. He breaks the silence like the hull of a massive ship breaking through a frozen sea, sudden but oddly comforting.
You instinctively wrap your arms tighter around your torso, burying your chin into the thick wool of your scarf. It’s a defensive gesture, a way of protecting yourself — though from the freezing wind or from the sudden warmth of his attention, you aren’t entirely sure.
“Good. It’s going really great, actually,” you reply, your voice muffled at first before you lower the scarf. “This week I already managed to interview two people. My professor told me that with two more solid interviews, I’d be completely set. So, the radio show is going to end up being a three-episode mini-series, which is honestly pretty good for a final project.”
You glance at him from the corner of your eye. A spark of genuine surprise flares in your chest. You hadn't expected him to remember your radio project. But lately, you are beginning to realize a quiet truth about Steve Harrington: he pays far more attention to the small details than you ever gave him credit for.
“That sounds awesome,” Steve says, slowing his pace just a fraction so he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with you. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, turning his head to look at you. The amber glow of a passing streetlight catches the rich, brown tones of his eyes. “What kind of interesting story did you get told this time?”
A soft, irrepressible smile touches your lips as you think back to the afternoon you spent in the dusty, vinyl-scented backroom of the record store. You remember the makeshift interview you conducted with Roy. He told you all about what it was like growing up in New York. How he scraped together every penny he had to found the record store, the crazy gigs he worked, and how he literally had to carve out a place for himself in the music industry just to get the right contacts.
It’s a story built on so much blood, sweat, and tears. There were some really dark moments he shared, times when he almost lost everything. It walks this perfect line between being deeply interesting and incredibly inspiring
“It was incredible, honestly,” you say, your voice brightening with sudden passion. “But I can’t share it with you yet”
Steve watches your face intently as you speak, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his own lips.
“What? Not even the highlights?"
“Nope, sorry,” you tease, a playful lilt entering your tone. You look up and meet his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. “You’ll just have to wait until the episodes are edited and done, just like everyone else.”
He laughs softly, a warm, rich sound that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks down at his boots, shaking his head slightly before his eyes find yours again, crinkling at the corners.
“Alright, alright. I’ll be waiting patiently, then,” he concedes, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a promise.
You both continue walking in silence, but the atmosphere has shifted entirely. The heavy, suffocating tension has melted away, leaving behind a comfortable, shared quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a warm blanket, safe and familiar.
After crossing another block, Steve’s pace slows even further. He clears his throat, a sudden nervous energy radiating from him.
“You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”
His words hang in the air, fragile and full of weight, but before he can finish the sentence, a voice calls out from across the street.
“Hey! We’re heading out!”
You both flinch slightly, the spell broken instantly. Nancy and Jonathan are standing by the corner, shivering under the awning of a closed bakery.
“Jonathan has a shift in the darkroom, so we have to go,” Nancy explains, pulling her coat tighter around her slender frame. She offers a polite, albeit strained, smile.
“Yeah, nice seeing you guys,” Jonathan mumbles, offering a brief wave, his hands immediately returning to his pockets to fight off the chill.
“Get home safe!” Steve calls out, stepping back into his usual, easy-going persona so quickly it almost gives you whiplash.
You offer a quiet wave as Nancy and Jonathan turn the corner, their figures disappearing into the dark of the night. Their departure leaves you alone with Steve — and, of course, Robin.
Robin drops back to join the two of you. She doesn't waste a single second reading the room. Instead, she immediately launches into a rapid-fire monologue about her upcoming exams.
“I swear to God, Steve, if Professor Walton asks me to analyze one more piece of post-modern French drivel, I am going to throw myself off the campus library roof,” Robin groans, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s impossible. It’s literally designed to make us fail. I was staring at my notes for three hours today and the words literally started rearranging themselves into a mocking, demonic language.”
You watch as Steve seamlessly redirects his attention to her. He listens patiently, nodding at all the right moments, interjecting with a sympathetic hum or a quiet laugh.
A wave of complicated emotions washes over you. On one hand, a profound sense of tenderness swells in your chest as you witness the care he gives her. The platonic affection they share is beautiful, a deep-rooted bond that they try to mask with sarcasm and bickering.
You know Robin well enough by now to understand her. You know she cares deeply for both of you. You know exactly why she sometimes gets abrasive or blunt with the things she says, or how she says them — it’s her defense mechanism, her way of fiercely protecting the few people she has allowed into her inner circle. She is incredibly careful with you and Steve, even if her delivery is a bit rough around the edges.
But despite knowing all of this, despite loving Robin in your own way, you can’t completely suppress the tiny flare of annoyance that sparks in your chest.
Every time Steve gets close, every time the conversation between you two brushes against something real and raw, an interruption occurs. Usually, it’s Robin. But what can you realistically do about it? You can’t fault her for caring about you, and you certainly can’t fault Steve for caring about his best friend.
As they continue to bicker about French literature, your steps naturally fall a little slower, letting you trail slightly behind them. You use the distance to simply admire them under the glow of the streetlamps.
Robin says something wildly exaggerated, throwing her hands in the air, and Steve bursts into genuine laughter. He reaches out, wrapping a heavy, affectionate arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walk. Robin swats at him, but she leans into the embrace anyway.
The sight of it makes you smile.
It’s a pure, unadulterated display of love. But as Steve’s eyes briefly flick back over his shoulder to check on you, catching your gaze, you feel a sudden, intense rush of heat flood your cheeks.
You quickly bury your face back into the thick wool of your scarf, pretending that the sudden wind has made you colder than you actually are, hoping the darkness hides your blush.
When the three of you finally reach the old brick apartment building, the blast of the lobby’s forced-air heating hits you like a physical wall.
Steve walks in first, shaking the evening chill from his shoulders. He throws a casual wave toward the front desk.
“Evening, Arthur.”
Arthur gives Steve a curt nod — of course. However, as you and Robin step through the doors behind him, Arthur’s eyes instantly narrow, and he actively looks away, blatantly ignoring the two of you.
Robin rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about Arthur’s lack of manners, while you just sigh, used to the routine.
You walk past the front desk and head down the poorly lit hallway toward the elevator. Miraculously, the heavy doors are opened, and the light is illuminated. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the piece of shit is actually working.
Steve hits the call button, and the doors slide open with a terrifying, metallic screech. The three of you step inside the small, wood-paneled box. It’s meant to fit four people, but with heavy winter coats, it feels suffocatingly intimate.
Steve reaches up and pulls his beanie off his head, shaking out his thick hair. The movement releases the faint familiar and specific brand of cologne into the enclosed space, making your heart skip a beat.
Trying to distract yourself, you begin to unwind the heavy scarf from your neck, sighing in relief as the stifling heat of the elevator begins to get to you. You reach up, attempting to smooth down the static mess your hair has become from the wind and the scarf.
Before you can fix it, Steve reaches over. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he intentionally ruffles his hand through your hair, messing it up far worse than it was before.
“Hey!” you gasp, laughing as you playfully smack his arm.
He chuckles, a low, breathy sound, and doesn't pull his hand away immediately. For a fraction of a second, his knuckles graze the side of your cold cheek. The air in the elevator suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.
You both turn your heads at the exact same time, only to find Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows are raised high, her expression a mix of knowing amusement and exhausted exasperation. She doesn't say a word, but her face screams, “Really?”
Caught in the spotlight of Robin’s piercing gaze, Steve quickly clears his throat. To deflect, he reaches out and aggressively ruffles Robin’s hair too, trying to mask the thick tension with chaotic sibling energy.
“Don't touch the hair, Harrington!” Robin yelps, slapping his hand away and desperately trying to smooth down her messy bob.
The elevator shudders to a violent halt, the bell dinging as the doors slide open to your floor.
Robin doesn't waste a second. She storms out of the elevator, but not before turning around and delivering a swift, precise flick to the center of Steve’s forehead.
“Ow!” Steve complains, rubbing his brow.
“That’s for the hair,” Robin calls out over her shoulder, already marching down the hallway toward the apartment. “See you tomorrow, weirdo.”
And just like that, she’s gone, leaving you and Steve alone in the elevator once more. You step out into the hallway, your boots quiet against the old floor. Steve holds the door open with his hand, standing right on the threshold between the elevator and the hall.
You hesitate. You stand a few feet away, fiddling with the fringe of your scarf, your eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The silence returns, but the comfortable warmth from the street is gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttering anticipation.
“Do you… want to come in?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “We have some leftovers from lunch. We could heat it up.”
Steve’s lips curve into a soft, tired smile. He leans against the doorframe, looking at you with an expression that is painfully gentle.
“Tempting,” he murmurs.
He steps just a fraction closer. He reaches out, and this time there is no teasing, no playful ruffling. His fingers are careful, incredibly gentle, as he tucks a stray strand of your hair securely behind your ear. His fingertips linger against your skin for a heartbeat too long, tracing the curve of your earlobe before pulling back.
“But I can’t,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a heavy note of regret. “I have things to do.”
You swallow hard, nodding your head slowly. Things to do.
It’s always the same vague excuse, the same sudden departures into the night. Weeks ago, hearing those words would tie your stomach into painful knots of anxiety and suspicion.
But now? Now the knots are gone. The doubt still quietly gnaws at the back of your mind, a persistent ache, but… you are slowly beginning to accept that this is simply who Steve Harrington is. You are beginning to accept his secrets. You are learning to live with the shadows that constantly seem to pull at his heels, the mysterious bruises, the exhaustion he can’t explain.
You realize, as you look up into his sad, beautiful eyes, that if this complex, guarded version of him is the one who is willing to look at you the way he does, if he’s willing to risk his own guarded heart for you in whatever broken way he can… you are willing to accept the shadows. You are willing to take all of him, secrets included.
But you don’t know if he’s willing to let you in.
“Bye, then,” you say softly, forcing a small smile to reassure him.
His shoulders relax slightly, relieved that you aren’t pushing for answers he can’t give. He smiles back, a genuine, blinding thing that makes your breath catch.
“Bye.”
He steps back into the elevator, letting his hand drop from the door. The heavy panels begin to slowly slide shut.
Panic suddenly seizes you. The realization that he is leaving, that the moment is slipping through your fingers, overrides your common sense.
You spin around.
“Steve, wait!”
He immediately throws his arm out, catching the heavy door before it can close, forcing it back open. He looks at you, surprised, his chest heaving slightly.
“Yeah?”
You take a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you until you are standing just inches from the elevator threshold. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“You… you were going to tell me something,” you stammer, the confidence fleeing you the moment the words leave your mouth. “Earlier. While we were walking back, right before Robin and the others interrupted us. You said you’d been meaning to tell me something...”
Steve blinks, staring at you for a long moment. Then, realization dawns on his face. He lets out a short, breathy exhale, running a hand nervously through his hair.
“Oh. Right,” he says, his voice suddenly thick. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a rare display of true awkwardness from him. “I was going to say… my shirt—”
Your heart drops into your stomach, plummeting so fast it makes you dizzy.
The shirt.
That next morning, you had worn the shirt he gave to sleep under your sweater, taking it home with you without a second thought. You had sworn to yourself that you would wash it and return it immediately. But the truth was, you hadn't. The shirt was still sitting, perfectly folded, hidden away in the very back of your bottom dresser drawer. It still smelled faintly of him. You hadn't even worked up the courage to pull it out and look at it, terrified that admitting how much comfort it brought you would make the reality of your feelings undeniable.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other in your panic. Your face is burning hot now, an absolute inferno of embarrassment. “I swear I was going to give it back! I literally meant to bring it today, but between the radio project and studying for midterms, it completely slipped my mind, and—”
“Keep it.”
His voice cuts through your frantic rambling. It isn't loud, but it is steady and incredibly firm.
You freeze, the words dying in your throat. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and thick. You stare at him, your brain short-circuiting as it tries to process what he just said.
“What?” you whisper, entirely sure you must have misheard him.
Steve smiles. It’s not his usual cocky grin, and it’s not the tired, gentle smile from earlier. It’s a slow, devastatingly fond smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. He steps right up to the edge of the elevator, bridging the gap so completely you can feel the heat radiating off his chest.
“I said, keep it,” he repeats softly, his voice a low, raspy murmur. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, intensely locked onto yours. “You looked really cute in it.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You can’t stop the furious blush from spreading across your cheeks, down your neck, burning hot under your collar.
You quickly drop your gaze to the tips of your boots, desperately trying to hide the sheer, overwhelming joy and embarrassment washing over you. But it’s a useless effort. A massive, foolish smile breaks across your face, ruining any chance of playing it cool.
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to compose yourself as you slowly lift your head to look at him. He’s still watching you, his expression open and incredibly soft, waiting for your reaction.
You take a deep breath, the scent of him and the old hallway air filling your lungs.
“Goodnight, Steve,” you whisper, the words practically glowing with unspoken affection.
Steve’s eyes soften even further. He doesn’t look away.
“Goodnight…” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around your name like a physical caress, gentle and deeply intimate.
You take a single, slow step back into the hallway, yielding the space. Steve lets his hand drop from the door frame. Slowly, with an agonizing finality, the heavy doors of the elevator begin to slide closed. You stand rooted to the spot, watching his face until the very last second, until the doors finally meet with a loud, echoing clack, leaving you alone in the quiet hallway with a racing heart and a secret tucked safely in your bottom drawer.
—
When the clock on the wall finally clicks to the top of the hour and the professor’s gruff voice announces that it’s time to hand in the final exam, a profound, almost intoxicating wave of relief washes over you. It is the kind of relief that sinks deep into your bones, loosening muscles you didn’t even realize you were clenching.
At this exact moment, you genuinely couldn’t care less if your exam went perfectly or if it was an absolute disaster. If you confused the impedance of Cable A with the frequency output of Cable B? So be it.
To hell with sound engineering.
To hell with acoustic physics, mixing consoles, and late-night study sessions fueled by terrible, lukewarm coffee.
Even if it is just for one short, fleeting week of spring break, you can finally just lie on your bed, stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling, and do absolutely nothing.
Well, perhaps nothing is an exaggeration.
Ever since you and Robin first bumped into each other — literally colliding in the campus dining hall and sending a tray of questionable macaroni flying — she has been relentless.
For years, she has been begging, pleading, and using every weapon in her chaotic arsenal of persuasion to get you to visit Hawkins with her. And because it’s your last spring break together before graduation scatters everyone to the winds, you finally caved. You promised her you would go.
Now, sitting in the hard wooden chair of the lecture hall, you are feeling a healthy mix of deep regret and undeniable, gnawing curiosity.
Hawkins. The way Robin talks about it, it sounds less like a town and more like a myth.
You’ve heard endless stories about its dense, sprawling woods, the eerily quiet lake, the small-town diner, and the video store where she and Steve used to work. You want to see the exact places where this bizarre, fiercely loyal makeshift family first collided. You want to meet "the kids" they are always endlessly complaining about yet fiercely protecting.
But mostly, if you are being entirely honest with yourself in the quiet confines of your own mind, you want to see where Steve grew up.
A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity courses through your veins just at the thought of his name.
It always happens.
The prospect of finally putting real, physical images to all the stories they’ve told you is thrilling. But the idea of seeing Steve in his natural habitat? Of peeling back another layer of the former high school "King" that you haven't yet been privy to? It is both incredibly exciting and terrifying at the same time.
You know the city version of Steve — the one who is surprisingly tender, fiercely protective, and hides a startling amount of emotional depth and secrets behind his perfectly styled hair and a cocky smirk.
But the Hawkins version of him? That is uncharted territory.
Shaking the thoughts from your head, you gather your things. You sling the strap of your backpack over your shoulder, the weight of your textbooks serving as a final reminder of the half semester you are leaving behind.
Pushing open the heavy double doors of the engineering building, you step out onto the campus grounds. The crisp spring air hits your face, a welcome contrast to the stuffy lecture hall.
You start the familiar, tedious trek toward the bus stop, keeping your eyes on the cracked pavement.
"HEY! OVER HERE! HEY!"
You flinch, your train of thought completely derailed. You frown, blinking against the afternoon sun. Even through the ambient noise of hundreds of students leaving class, you can instantly decipher that loud, chaotic, and entirely un-self-conscious voice.
It’s undeniably Robin. But what on earth is she doing on this side of campus at this hour?
You scan the busy street, your eyes finally catching a flurry of frantic movement. There she is, standing on the opposite sidewalk, aggressively waving both of her arms in the air like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.
As your eyes adjust and focus past Robin's flailing limbs, your breath catches slightly in your throat. She isn't standing at the bus stop. She’s standing next to a vintage burgundy BMW. And leaning casually against the hood of that car, looking like he just stepped out of an achingly cool 1980s catalog, is Steve.
He’s wearing his favorite worn-in Levi’s, a blue t-shirt that fits him entirely too well, and his signature sunglasses. One arm is crossed over his body, while his other hand holds a cigarette, and even from across the street, you can see the cocky, fond smile playing on his lips as he watches Robin make a fool of herself to get your attention.
Confusion battling with sudden, sharp intrigue, you check for traffic and walk across the street.
"Uhm... hi?" you say as you approach, fixing your backpack. You point your chin toward the gleaming vehicle. "And what exactly is this?"
Steve’s smile widens into something incredibly genuine and overwhelmingly boyish. He turns slightly, giving the rich burgundy hood of the car two affectionate, rhythmic pats.
"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar, warm rasp that always seems to settle directly in your stomach. "I brought my baby up the time I went back to Hawkins. I haven't wanted to use her until now, because honestly? I don't trust the absolute maniac taxi drivers in this city not to sideswipe her. But…" he pauses, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you directly in the eyes, "considering we are heading out to the outskirts of the city tonight to celebrate a little bit, I figured it was finally time to take her out for a proper spin."
You try — and completely fail — to hide the complicated expression on your face. It’s a ridiculous mixture of mild disgust at how dramatically he talks about a piece of machinery, and undeniable admiration for how ridiculously good he looks leaning against it.
"Right. Of course," you say, a dry, sarcastic edge to your voice that you know he loves. "Your baby."
Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound.
"Come on, get in. Your chariot awaits."
Robin, vibrating with her usual excess of caffeine and nervous energy, immediately sprints around to the passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells, throwing the door open.
You roll your eyes affectionately, opening the heavy, solid back door, you toss your bag onto the leather seats and slide in after it.
The drive from the campus back to the apartment building isn't incredibly long — certainly much shorter and infinitely more pleasant than the cramped, sweaty city bus.
The interior of Steve's car smells like old leather, a hint of expensive cologne, and something distinctly him. You have to admit, begrudgingly, that it’s a beautiful car. The engine purrs smoothly, gliding over the city streets with an effortless grace.
And then there is the driver.
Good Lord. Seeing Steve drive shouldn't be a spiritual experience, but somehow, it is. You hadn't realized that watching him casually steer with one hand resting lightly on the bottom of the wheel, the other arm propped casually on the window sill, was something you needed to witness in your lifetime. The muscles in his forearm shift under his skin every time he takes a turn.
You try to look out the window.
You try to focus on the blur of passing coffee shops and brick buildings. But time and time again, as if pulled by some inescapable magnetic force, your eyes drift back to his reflection in the rearview mirror.
You watch the way his brow furrows slightly in deep concentration as he navigates a tricky intersection.
You watch the way the corner of his eyes crinkle when Robin launches into a rapid-fire, breathless rant about a pretentious guy in her class.
For a few blissful minutes, you think you are getting away with your secret staring. Until suddenly, the car idles at a red light. Steve shifts his gaze up to the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes lock perfectly, undeniably, with yours.
The air in the car seems to instantly evaporate. Steve’s lips part slightly, the teasing smirk completely melting away into something much softer, much more intense. He holds your gaze, unapologetically, for three agonizingly long seconds. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Panic setting in, you violently snap your head to the side, staring intently out the passenger window at a perfectly unremarkable fire hydrant, pretending that you had been looking at it the whole time.
You can hear Steve let out a soft, knowing exhale from the front seat, but he mercifully says nothing.
A few hours later, the apartment is a scene of absolute, concentrated chaos. The air is thick with the suffocating scent of aerosol hairspray, floral perfumes, and the faint smell of a curling iron that has been left on just a minute too long.
You and Robin are darting back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom, tossing clothes over chairs and stepping over discarded shoes. Vickie and Nancy are here too. Even though they came over already "ready" for the party, they have somehow been sucked into the vortex of anxiety, entirely second-guessing their carefully curated outfits and hastily attempting new, elaborate hairstyles in the cramped bathroom mirror.
"Do these earrings say “I’m fun and approachable” or “I will aggressively critique your music taste”?" Robin yells, holding up two massive geometric shapes against her ears.
"The second one, definitely," Vickie laughs, standing behind her and gently adjusting the collar of Robin’s jacket. "But I think that’s why I like them."
Meanwhile, amidst the hurricane of female preparation, Steve and Jonathan are the eye of the storm. They are both slouched low on the worn-out living room sofa. Their arms are crossed defensively over their chests, staring blankly at the dark screen of the television, clearly having dissociated from reality at least forty-five minutes ago in complete silence.
Finally, miraculously, consensus is reached. Clothes are chosen. Eyeliner is applied perfectly.
"Alright," Nancy announces, clapping her hands together with her usual authoritative efficiency. "We’re ready. Let's move out before someone changes their mind about their shoes again."
Everyone practically herds toward the front door, grabbing keys and jackets. As you step out into the hallway of the apartment building, the group naturally stretches out into a line heading toward the stairwell.
Without anyone saying a word, as if bound by some unspoken, gravitational pact, you and Steve simultaneously slow your pace. Within seconds, you naturally fall into a rhythm, walking side-by-side, lingering just a few feet behind the chaotic, chattering mass of the rest of the group.
The hallway is quiet, the only sound the muffled thud of footsteps on the old floor. Steve walks with a lazy, athletic grace. He turns his head to look at you, really look at you, taking in the outfit you spent entirely too long agonizing over.
His eyes slowly drag from the hem of your clothes up to your face. He looks away for a split second to ensure the rest of the group is out of earshot, and then leans his tall frame slightly toward you, invading your personal space just enough to make your pulse spike.
"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant strictly for your ears.
The heat is instantaneous. A furious blush violently invades your cheeks, burning hot against your skin. You swallow hard, forcing your legs to keep moving, willing yourself not to stumble over your own feet or fall completely behind.
You glance up at him through your eyelashes, deciding to fight fire with fire.
"You don't look too bad yourself, Harrington."
Steve smiles. It isn't his usual, practiced charm. It’s the genuine, slightly shy smile that he usually reserves for moments when he’s completely caught off guard. He bites down hard on his lower lip, turning his head to look straight down the hallway again, clearly trying to suppress his grin.
But you can't let him win that easily. You decide to pluck the string.
"So," you start, your voice feigning casual indifference. "Are you meeting up with Gabriela there tonight?"
You know exactly what you are doing. You know that simply putting that girl's name on your lips is going to drive him absolutely insane.
Steve’s step falters for a fraction of a second. He turns to look at you, his jaw clenching slightly. He shakes his head, his eyes darkening with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"No," he says, his voice completely stripped of its previous playfulness. "No Gabriela tonight." He holds your gaze, making sure you understand the subtext,
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a victorious smile. You don't want to be too mean, but the rush of adrenaline is intoxicating. You simply give a small, nonchalant nod.
"Good to know."
When the group finally spills out of the stairwell and into the cool night air of the parking lot, the brief bubble of intimacy shatters. Chaos reigns once more as the battle for car seats commences.
"I'm riding with Vickie!" Robin shouts, immediately grabbing her girlfriend's hand. She practically drags Vickie toward the car, aggressively claiming the back seat by throwing herself into it.
"There is absolutely no chance in hell I’m riding in the trunk again," Jonathan deadpans, moving with surprising speed. "You guys pull this on me every single time, and my knees can't take it." Without waiting for an argument, he wedges his way into the back, unceremoniously pushing Robin and Vickie flush against the far door so that Nancy has enough room to slide in beside him.
You stand on the pavement, watching the ridiculous clown-car routine with a mix of amusement and exasperation. You feel a presence beside you.
You turn your head to see Steve standing by the passenger door. He has it pulled wide open. He offers you a slow, devastatingly charming smile, gesturing with his free hand toward the empty leather seat.
"I guess you'll be my co-pilot this time," he says softly.
You press your lips together tightly, trying desperately to hide the massive smile threatening to break across your face. You nod, stepping past him. As you slide into the low seat, his chest brushes briefly against your shoulder. The scent of him is dizzying.
"Thank you, Harrington," you whisper.
He shuts the heavy door behind you with a solid thud, and within seconds, he’s sliding into the driver's seat next to you.
The drive to the party is pure, unadulterated chaos. Steve cranks the radio up loud, the heavy, synth-driven baseline of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears for Fears vibrates through the floorboards.
Nobody in the car stops talking for a single second. Robin is shouting an unfinished story from the back, Jonathan is arguing with her about a movie director, Nancy is trying to organize the timeline of the night, and Vickie is laughing at all of them. They are constantly talking over each other, voices rising and falling in a cacophony of overlapping jokes and sudden bursts of loud, uninhibited laughter.
But sitting there in the passenger seat, surrounded by the deafening noise, you feel a profound, settling wave of tranquility.
You rest your hands on your lap, feeling Steve’s eyes on you from time to time. In the midst of all this noise, you are exactly where you are supposed to be. You are with your people. You are safe, you are grounded, and the crushing weight of the semester feels a million miles away.
When Steve finally navigates the BMW down a dark, winding road on the edge of the city, the destination comes into view. You sit up straighter, peering through the windshield.
It looks like an entirely abandoned industrial building. The brickwork is crumbling, the massive windows are either boarded up or shattered, and there is a rusty chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. However, it’s immediately clear that the post-apocalyptic exterior is merely a facade for tonight. The place is glowing with lights spilling from the cracks in the doors, and the deep, rhythmic thumping of heavy bass is literally shaking the gravel beneath the tires. It’s thoroughly equipped to host a massive, unsanctioned college rager.
As Steve parks the car in a muddy makeshift lot, you look at the massive crowds of people filtering through the heavy doors. At least from the outside, it seems Robin wasn't exaggerating. The senior class had clearly pooled a ridiculous amount of money and pulled every string they had to secure a professional sound system and a live band.
You all pile out of the car, the chill of the night air immediately replaced by the radiating heat of hundreds of bodies. The group begins to slowly carve a path toward the entrance, pushing through a sea of people. It’s a wild, eclectic mix — frat guys in polos, art students in ripped denim, townies who clearly don't go to the university, all blending together under the flashing lights.
The sheer volume of people is overwhelming. You are suddenly pushed hard by a guy stumbling backward with a plastic cup in his hand. You lose your balance slightly on the uneven gravel.
Before you can even attempt to catch yourself, you feel it.
A large, incredibly warm hand settles firmly, immovably, onto the small of your back. The touch burns right through the fabric of your shirt. The long, strong fingers grip your waist just tight enough to steady you, pulling you slightly backward against a solid chest. You don't even have to turn around. You don't have to guess. You would know the weight and the warmth of that hand anywhere.
Steve guides you forward, acting as a physical shield between you and the crushing tide of drunk college students. The tension that has been simmering between you in the car suddenly boils over, the physical contact sending sparks shooting up your spine.
"I’m going to look around the warzone and get us some drinks!" Jonathan screams at the top of his lungs, barely audible over the roaring bass of the band that is currently shredding on the makeshift stage inside. Without waiting for a response, Jonathan grips Nancy’s hand like a lifeline and physically drags her into the crowd.
You feel Steve lean down, the side of his face pressing so close to yours that his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck.
"I'll be right back," he talks directly into your ear. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sends a shiver down your entire body. "Don't move."
You turn to nod, but before you can even formulate a response, the crowd surges. The pressure of his hand vanishes from your lower back, leaving a cold, empty space in its wake. You watch his broad shoulders disappear into the suffocating mass of jumping, sweating bodies.
You stand on your tiptoes, trying to keep track of him, but it's useless. You let out a breath, turning back to where Robin and Vickie were just standing.
"Hey! Robin!"
A tall guy with a shaggy mop of hair suddenly materializes from the crowd, throwing a heavy, friendly arm around Robin’s shoulders, pulling her into a brief, aggressive hug. You recognize him instantly. It’s a guy from one of your seminars. He’s usually the one hauling amps and managing the mixing boards at these parties.
"I haven't seen you in forever!" He yells, grinning widely. "Hey, I heard through the grapevine that you guys are heading back to Hawkins this week. That's awesome." He pauses, taking a swig from his red cup. "Hey, do me a favor? Tell that absolute bastard Eddie to make a trip out here to the city someday, huh? Tell him we actually miss his crazy ass."
Because the music is vibrating so violently through the floorboards, you can't hear a single word of Robin’s response. Just then, two girls giggling hysterically shove past you, forcing you to step sideways and turn your back to the conversation. Slightly irritated, you adjust your jacket and turn back around.
In the five seconds you were distracted, the music guy has completely vanished into the ether.
You step closer to Robin, having to practically shout over the wailing guitar solo tearing through the speakers.
"Who is Eddie?" you ask, your curiosity genuinely piqued. You know almost all the names in their Hawkins lore, but that one is entirely new.
Robin freezes. It’s subtle, but you catch it. Her eyes widen fractionally, a flash of something unreadable — surprise? panic? grief? — flickering across her features. But almost instantly, the mask slams down. She aggressively furrows her brow, leaning in close and cupping her hand over her ear, playing the oldest trick in the book.
"WHAT?!" she screams, looking at you with exaggerated confusion.
"I SAID, WHO IS EDDIE?!" you yell louder, annoyed by her sudden theatricality.
You can literally see Robin’s mouth open. You can see her brain scrambling, trying to formulate a lie or an explanation. But before a single syllable leaves her lips, a hand reaches out from the crowd, grabbing her wrist. One of her many chaotic college friends pulls her backward, and with a helpless shrug that looks entirely too practiced, she lets herself be dragged away onto the makeshift dance floor.
You let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. You cross your arms securely over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold air drifting in from the broken windows.
You look around. The flashing lights illuminate hundreds of faces, none of them familiar. Steve is gone. Jonathan and Nancy are swallowed by the crowd. Robin has fled the scene of an uncomfortable question.
You are entirely alone in the very center of a deafening, throbbing party, armed with a brand new, glaringly obvious secret about the town you are about to visit. Another one to the list.
You look toward the dark corners of the warehouse, waiting for one of your friends to reemerge.
It’s going to be a very, very long night.
—
After half an hour of standing practically rooted to the exact same sticky spot on the floor, waiting for your friends to finally show up, you are on the verge of completely losing your mind.
They have vanished entirely into the ether of the college party, swallowed whole by the pulsating sea of bodies. With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are inching closer together. More and more people keep pouring through the front door of the warehouse, laughing loudly, spilling cheap beer, and crowding the already suffocating space.
Even though the place is massive you can’t help but calculate the structural integrity of the floorboards. How much weight can this place actually take? You look up at the ceiling, already telling that the top floor is full of people as well.
The bass from the oversized speakers vibrates up through your sneakers, rattling right into your ribcage. The thought of a crowd crush, of a sudden panic where people trample each other to reach the single visible exit, begins to spiral in your mind, painting a terrifying picture of catastrophe.
No, stop it. Enough. You mentally scold yourself, taking a sharp breath of the stifling air. Don't be ridiculous. You're just spiraling.
Desperate for a distraction and a change of scenery, you slowly begin to murmur apologies, gently but firmly pushing your way through the dense throng of sweaty college students.
You navigate the maze of dancing bodies and drunken conversations until you finally reach the drinks island, or at least, the sticky wooden surface that is currently serving as a makeshift bar. Behind it stands a guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a stained fraternity shirt, haphazardly pouring liquids into red plastic cups. College parties are always exactly like this: everyone casually adopts whatever role seems fun in the moment, only to completely shed it and become someone else by the next weekend’s blowout.
You ask him for a drink, pointing vaguely at a bottle of clear liquor. He slides a generously filled cup across the counter. Offering him an appreciative, exhausted smile, you take a long, desperate sip of the cold beverage. The liquid burns slightly on its way down your throat, but almost immediately, you can feel the warmth of the alcohol begin to spread through your tense muscles. The loud thumping of your anxious heart slows down just a fraction. You lean against the edge of the counter, closing your eyes for a brief second to just exist in the noise without letting it overwhelm you.
“Of all the places in the world, I never thought I’d find you here.”
The sudden, familiar voice cuts through the booming bass and the chaotic chatter, startling you so badly that you physically jump. You spin around so quickly that a splash of your drink sloshes over the plastic rim, landing with a wet splat on your shoes and the grimy floor.
But the spilled drink instantly vanishes from your mind. When your eyes travel upward and connect with those striking, unmistakable green eyes, you swear you can feel your soul violently detach and leave your body. Your fingers go numb. The red plastic cup almost slips entirely from your weakened grasp, plummeting to the floor and spilling the rest of its contents over there.
“D-Dylan…”
Your voice breaks. It’s barely a whisper, a fragile sound entirely swallowed by the loud music, but he reads your lips. You can't help the stutter; your brain has completely short-circuited.
He smiles. It’s that same, perfectly crafted, devastating smile that used to completely disarm you. Deep dimples form on both sides of his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He tilts his head down slightly, and that familiar, messy lock of brown hair falls perfectly into his eyes. Just like he always used to do, he casually sweeps it back with his fingers, his gaze never once leaving yours.
“It’s like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he says, his voice a smooth, melodic hum that instantly transports you back to cramped dorm rooms and late-night acoustic guitar sessions.
Well, in a way, I have, you think to yourself, your mind racing, but you force the words down, swallowing the lump in your throat.
“Sorry, it’s just… I didn’t expect…” You stumble over your words, desperately trying to regain your composure. You wipe your damp palms on your jeans. “When did you get back to the city?”
You can feel the heat slowly creeping back into your cheeks, the color returning to your pale face, even though your heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribcage. It’s not a panic attack anymore; it’s the sheer shock of confronting unresolved history.
He shakes his head lightly, the smile turning a bit more wistful.
“It’s just for a couple of days. My band and I are doing a mini-tour of the state.” He nods his head toward the far corner of the massive living room, right next to the makeshift stage where instruments are set up. You follow his gaze and spot several guys — his bandmates — laughing loudly, drinking, and flirting with a group of girls.
“I didn’t know you were back together with the band.” You say, genuinely surprised.
His smile widens into something incredibly proud, and his green eyes hyper-fixate on you, glowing with an eager, boyish excitement.
“We finally signed the contract.”
Your eyes widen in genuine shock. All the bitterness, all the complicated feelings temporarily take a back seat to the monumental news.
“Dylan! That’s incredible!”
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit shy despite his rockstar aura.
“Yeah, well, it’s with a small indie label for now, but it’s exactly what we needed. It gets our foot in the door. We’re playing a couple of venue shows in different cities, and since we were passing through town anyway, I figured I’d do a favor for the guys at the university. You know how it is.”
You nod slowly, lowering your head as a wave of heavy nostalgia washes over you. Dylan and his band had always been the staple entertainment at these university parties. That was exactly how you met him. He was the charming lead singer with the raspy voice; you were the girl who spilled beer on his setlist. That was the spark that ignited the intensely complicated, emotionally draining relationship that followed — a relationship defined by incredibly high highs and agonizingly lonely lows.
Suddenly, the space between you evaporates. His hand reaches out, his warm fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through your system. His index finger lightly hooks under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction. You feel a sudden, intense heat flush across your cheeks, and your eyes lock onto his once more.
In a fraction of a second, thousands of memories crash into you. Memories you had spent the last eight grueling months actively trying to bury, repress, and forget since the day he packed up his guitar and left town without saying goodbye. They hit you now like a train crashing everything in its path: the way he smelled like leather and cigarette smoke, the sound of his laughter against your neck, the crushing disappointment of waiting for him at dinners he never showed up to, the realization that he was always too cowardly to fully commit.
But as you stand there, physically close enough to feel his body heat, a strange revelation washes over you.
It doesn’t feel the same.
It feels intensely nostalgic, yes, but almost like watching a movie of someone else's life. It feels like an old, worn-out sweater that no longer fits. It just doesn't make sense anymore. Because while Dylan's fingers are on your skin, in the deepest, most guarded corners of your mind, another name is echoing.
Your skin silently protests, craving the heavier, more demanding touch of someone else. Your lips, pressed in a thin line, are quietly yearning for another pair of lips — a pair you know are infinitely more dangerous, and a pair you know you absolutely cannot have.
“It’s really good to see you again,” Dylan says softly, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with an unspoken question, a lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, you might still be waiting for him.
But your eyes betray him. Instead of staying focused on his perfectly green eyes, your gaze instinctively drifts away, drawn by an invisible, magnetic pull toward the front door of the building.
And there he is.
Steve.
He’s standing by the open doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, smoking. One hand is tucked deep into the pocket of his perfectly fitted denim jeans, while the other holds a cigarette with an effortless, almost arrogant professionalism.
You watch, utterly transfixed, as he takes a drag, the glowing amber tip illuminating the sharp contours of his face in the dim light. He nods at someone standing just out of your line of sight, exchanging a few brief words with a person you can't identify. He looks entirely aloof, dangerously handsome, and entirely untouchable.
“I gotta let you go, we’re up next.”
Dylan’s voice breaks your trance. He casually slips his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, forcing your attention back to him. You blink, suddenly feeling guilty for getting caught looking away.
“We’re only going to play a couple of songs tonight, so don’t miss them, okay?” Dylan adds, flashing you a hopeful, familiar wink that used to make your knees weak.
You offer him a polite, practiced nod and a smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your lips press together into a thin, tight line.
“I wouldn't miss it.”
As Dylan turns and weaves his way through the cheering crowd toward the stage, you take a deep, shaky breath. You tell yourself to stay put. You tell yourself to go to the bar, get another drink, and watch your ex-situationship perform the songs he probably wrote about you. You try to suppress the burning, clawing curiosity in your chest. You really, genuinely try.
Over the heads of the crowd, you manage to watch Dylan hop onto the stage. You see him grab the microphone stand, confidently introducing himself and the band to the roaring crowd. You hear the drummer tap the sticks — one, two, three, four — and the first familiar, melancholy chords of their opening song ring out through the massive speakers.
But before your rational mind can fully process what is happening, you are already moving. You leave the remnants of your spilled drink by the bar, and your feet begin taking autonomous, unconscious steps forward.
You are weaving through the crowd, your eyes locked on the front door, pushing past dancing couples and shouting frat boys, making a beeline for the exit.
When you finally push through the heavy wooden door, the biting chill of the night air smacks you right in the face. The sudden drop in temperature makes you curse under your breath but it doesn’t even slow you down. You wrap your bare arms around your chest, shivering violently in your thin top, and frantically scan your surroundings.
There are plenty of people out here on the massive front lawn, too. Groups are huddled around the entrance, sitting on the hoods of parked cars, smoking, chatting, and laughing loudly into the dark night.
But as your eyes dart from face to face, your stomach plummets. There is absolutely no trace of the person your eyes are so desperately searching for.
Steve is gone.
Behind you, muffled by the heavy walls of the house, the band’s song hits its first chorus. You can hear the crowd cheering, the collective joy vibrating through the air. You should be in there. You shouldn't be out here freezing, chasing a ghost of a man who barely acknowledges your existence outside of the strange, domestic moments you’ve shared in private.
But you swear you saw him turn to the right as he flicked his cigarette away.
Without giving yourself a second to think, to talk yourself out of this incredibly stupid idea, your feet start moving. You step off the entrance and begin to walk down the side of the building, your steps determined and fast.
Where are you going? your brain screams at you. What are you going to say if you find him?
You don't have an answer. You just know you need to see him.
You push past a group of guys shotgunning beers, navigating around tightly parked cars sitting on the overgrown grass. Slowly, you approach the dark corner of the massive warehouse. The front is bathed in the warm, yellow light of the streetlamps, but as you near the side alley, the light cuts off sharply, swallowed by thick, impenetrable shadows.
Your feet come to a sudden halt at the edge of the darkness.
No, you tell yourself, staring into the almost pitch-black pathway that leads behind the building. It’s way too dark down there. There’s absolutely no way he went this way. Why would he?
You try to rationalize. He probably walked back inside through the side door, and you just missed him in the chaos. Or maybe he walked down the street to his car, heading in the opposite direction, and you simply didn't notice.
Yes, that makes sense.
You should just turn around. You are entirely certain he went to the right, but you are also certain that if you had crossed paths out here, you would have seen him.
It is physically impossible to not notice Steve Harrington. His presence demands attention; it shifts the gravity in a room.
You let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You turn around, looking back toward the brightly lit front where a group of people are laughing at a joke you can't hear. You take a step back toward the light, toward safety, toward the loud, uncomplicated college party.
But there is something — a primal, inexplicable tug in your gut, an instinct you can’t quite name or understand — that screams at you to turn back around and keep walking into the dark.
From inside the house, the muffled music shifts. The tempo slows down.
Dylan had told you they were only playing a "couple" of songs, which means this melancholic ballad is probably their last one before they pack up and leave town, before you lose the chance to see him again for who knows how many more months or years.
You stand frozen in the freezing night air, listening to the muffled sound of Dylan's voice.
You realize, with a striking sense of clarity, that you genuinely don't care.
Perhaps two months ago, you would have traded your own life just for a chance to look back into those bright green eyes that used to keep you awake until 4:00 AM. You would have given anything for him to play you those songs, to whisper sweet, empty promises against your collarbone. But the harsh reality was that the bond was never official. He was always, inherently, too cowardly to call you his girlfriend. He loved the idea of you, but he loved his freedom more. You realize now that you shouldn't have spent so much of your life waiting for his leftover crumbs of affection.
Besides, it’s not his green eyes that keep you tossing and turning in your bed at night anymore. It’s not Dylan's acoustic songs that make your heart hammer against your ribs, and it’s certainly not his whispers that make the hair on your arms stand up.
It’s the dark, brooding, impossible mystery of Steve. It’s the way Steve cooks pasta for you and your friends on a Friday night. Is the way you can be around each other in complete, comfortable silence. It's the heavy, intense way Steve looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.
Taking a deep, resolute breath, you turn your back to the party. Before you can fully process the danger of your own curiosity, you are turning the corner, stepping fully into the oppressive darkness of the alleyway behind the building.
And then, you stop dead in your tracks.
You brake so hard your sneakers squeak faintly against the damp concrete. You instinctively press your back flat against the cold, rough brick wall of the building, shrinking into the shadows as if your body knows, long before your brain does, that you are absolutely not supposed to be witnessing the scene unfolding in front of you.
The alley is dimly lit by a single, flickering security bulb hanging over a rusted back door.
You immediately recognize Steve. He’s standing with his back rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his posture radiating an intimidating, coiled tension.
Standing right beside him is a figure that makes the blood in your veins run ice-cold. Your skin instantly erupts in goosebumps. It’s him. The absolute scumbag who had aggressively stopped you and Steve on the street a few weeks ago. The guy who had harassed Steve, getting up in his face, while Steve had aggressively pushed you behind him, refusing to tell you who the guy was or what he wanted.
And standing directly across from Steve and the thug is a younger guy. You don’t recognize him at all. He doesn’t look like he belongs on campus; he looks young, terrified, wearing a cheap, oversized hoodie. He’s probably just a random kid from town who heard about the college party through friends of friends and wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.
Your heart pounds furiously in your ears, making it difficult to hear over the distant thumping of the bass from the party inside. You strain your ears, holding your breath, but you can’t quite make out the exact words being exchanged. The voices are low, sharp, and aggressive.
But you don't need to hear the words to understand the severity of the situation.
You watch, eyes wide with mounting horror, as the terrified guy reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie with trembling hands. He pulls out a thick, brown paper package. He extends it toward Steve, his hands shaking so violently you can see it from where you are hiding.
Steve doesn't even uncross his arms. He merely tilts his head, and the scumbag beside him — the thug from the street— steps forward and snatches the package from the boy's hands. The guy rips the top of the paper open, pulling back the flap. Even in the dim, flickering amber light, the contents are unmistakable.
It’s a massive stack of cash.
The man who seems to be Steve’s associate, or friend, or muscle, or whoever the hell he is — you are so incredibly sick and tired of constantly guessing who the people in Steve’s life are — flips through the bills with his thumb. After a few seconds, he stops. He looks up at Steve, his face twisting into a nasty scowl, and shakes his head sharply.
Steve lets out a heavy, visible sigh. He uncrosses his arms, running a single, frustrated hand down his face, tilting his head back to look up at the starless night sky.
It’s a deeply cinematic image, one that, in a completely different context, would have probably made your heart skip a beat with pure attraction. His sharp, prominent jawline is highlighted by the flickering bulb. The dark jacket stretches tight across his shoulders and biceps as he moves. The collar of his shirt shifts, revealing the familiar, delicate smattering of moles on the side of his neck that you had caught yourself staring at over too many times to count.
But right now, standing in the cold, oppressive darkness of this isolated alleyway, surrounded by the stench of garbage and impending violence, that same image doesn't make your heart flutter. Instead, it sends a jagged shard of ice dragging slowly down your spine.
You have absolutely no idea what is happening, but every survival instinct in your body is screaming at you to run.
The low murmur of voices suddenly spikes into a loud, vicious argument. You still can't decipher the exact words — the thumping bass from the frat house and the distant roar of a passing car muffle the dialogue — but the tone is unmistakably violent.
Suddenly, Steve takes a slow, deliberate step to the side, allowing the other guy — the thug — to step directly into the younger's personal space.
The young guy immediately crumbles into a state of complete, pathetic vulnerability. He drops to his knees, raising both of his hands in a desperate gesture of begging. He’s pleading for his life. The sheer terror in the boy's posture hits you like a physical punch to the gut, tying your stomach into a nauseating knot.
Do something, Steve, you plead in your mind. Stop him. Tell him to back off.
Inside the house, Dylan’s song reaches its dramatic climax. The muffled sound of a heavy, distorted guitar chord rings out loudly through the walls.
And at that exact, horrible second, the thug pulls his arm back and unleashes a brutal, full-force punch directly into the kneeling guy’s face.
The sickening CRACK of knuckles hitting bone echoes sharply against the brick walls of the alley. The poor guy is sent sprawling backward, his head snapping to the side as he hits the dirty asphalt with a heavy thud.
You violently flinch. Both of your hands fly up to clamp over your mouth, stifling the scream that tries to rip its way out of your throat. Your eyes are wide, unblinking, brimming with shock, profound anguish, and an all-consuming, paralyzing fear. You are trembling so hard your knees threaten to buckle.
“Please! Please, man, I swear to God I’ll have the rest of the cut by next week—” the guy begs, spitting blood onto the pavement as he scrambles to push himself up on his elbows.
His desperate sentence is viciously cut short by a second, even harder kick to the ribs from the thug. The younger guy groans in agony, collapsing back onto the ground, curling into a tight fetal position.
“We already gave you an extra week, you little prick! Did you just magically forget the terms of the deal when we made it in the first place?!” The thug’s voice is a venomous snarl. He raises his heavy boot, preparing to stomp down on the boy’s head.
“Enough.”
Steve’s voice cuts through the alleyway like a blade. It isn’t a yell. It isn’t a scream. It’s a low, quiet, profoundly cold command that carries an incredible amount of authority.
The thug freezes mid-motion, his boot hovering in the air.
Steve steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the bleeding, trembling guy. He looks down at him, his face completely devoid of any emotion. It’s an expression you have never seen on his face before, an expression you never, in your wildest dreams, believed he was capable of making. It’s absolute, chilling apathy.
“One week,” Steve says, his voice devoid of any warmth, cutting sharply through the cold air.
The thug behind him scoffs, dropping his foot and glaring at Steve with frustrated disbelief.
“Come on, Harrington! Are you kidding me? Your father is going to completely lose his mind and kill us both! You heard what he said, he said that we—”
In a flash of movement so fast it makes you blink, Steve pivots and shoves the thug squarely in the chest with one arm. The force of the push is massive, sending the guy stumbling backward until his back slams hard against a metal dumpster with a loud crash.
“Shut your damn mouth, Tommy,” Steve snarls, his voice dripping with lethal warning.
He doesn't even wait to see Tommy's reaction. He slowly turns his attention back to the younger guy, who is currently trembling violently and wiping a thick smear of dark blood from his split lip.
“Get up,” Steve commands quietly.
The boy hesitates, letting out a whimper of pain, but the sheer terror in Steve's presence forces his body to obey. Slowly, painfully, he drags himself up from the asphalt until he is standing, hunched over and favoring his ribs.
When they are standing face-to-face once again, Steve looks at him. And the look in Steve’s eyes — even from twenty feet away in the shadows — radiates a profound, terrifying darkness that is utterly impossible to hide.
“One. Week.” Steve repeats, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.
Before the guy can even nod in terrified agreement, before he can even open his mouth to gasp out a 'thank you', Steve's leg snaps out. With brutal, calculated efficiency, he delivers a devastating kick directly to the side of the boy's kneecap.
The sickening sound of the joint popping echoes off the brick walls. The boy lets out a blood-curdling shriek of pure agony, instantly collapsing back onto the pavement, clutching his ruined leg and sobbing hysterically.
This time, it is physically impossible for you to contain the reaction. A sharp, loud gasp escapes your throat, a sound of pure horror that cuts through the night air. You clamp your hands over your mouth a second too late.
Steve freezes.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he turns his head toward the entrance of the alley.
For one agonizing, suspended millisecond, his dark, dead eyes lock onto yours through the shadows.
The man staring back at you is not the Steve you know.
It’s not the sweet, goofy Steve who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. It’s not the Steve who slow danced with you some nights ago. It’s not the Steve that stands in the kitchen and annoys you and Robin about which movie to rent next.
It’s not even the Steve you had only ever caught fleeting glimpses of in your worst, most paranoid imaginations. It’s not even the Steve that Robin had sometimes — very rarely, and always after a few too many drinks — alluded to in hushed, frightened tones when she spoke about the dark side of Hawkins.
No. Your mind races, rejecting the comparison entirely. Not even close.
This Steve is so much worse than anything Robin had ever implied. This Steve is a monster, a ruthless, violent enforcer capable of shattering a guy’s leg without batting an eye. This Steve is entirely unimaginable, even in the absolute darkest depths of your worst nightmares.
Before he can utter a single word, before the shock can fully register on his handsome, terrifying face, your survival instinct entirely overrides your paralyzed brain.
You spin on your heels, your sneakers slipping for a frantic second on the damp floor, and you launch yourself forward. You are running blindly, sprinting away from the alley, tearing back toward the noise and the lights of the party as if the devil himself is chasing you.
Your chest heaves, your lungs burning as you drag in desperate gulps of the freezing air. Behind you, over the thumping rhythm of your own panicked heartbeat, you think you hear his voice shout your name.
Or maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your terrified mind just imagined his voice calling out to you in the dark. You don't look back to find out. You don't dare. If you turn around and see him chasing you with that same dead, violent look in his eyes, you know your heart might actually stop beating.
You round the corner of the building, practically throwing yourself back into the crowded front entrance. You push violently through a group of bewildered students, ignoring their angry shouts of protest as you blindly stumble toward the street. Your vision is entirely blurred by unshed tears of sheer terror and catastrophic heartbreak.
Suddenly, your body slams hard against something solid.
You let out a cry of panic, stumbling backward. Two strong, familiar arms shoot out and wrap securely around your waist, catching you firmly before you can hit the ground.
“Woah, hey! Careful there!”
Your breath catches in your throat. You flinch aggressively, expecting the smell of his perfume, cigarette smoke, and violence. But instead, the scent of cheap cologne and old leather fills your senses.
You quickly tilt your head up, your wide, tear-filled eyes scanning the face of the person holding you. An overwhelming, pathetic wave of relief crashes over you, and it actually makes you angry to admit how glad you are to see who it is.
Dylan has his guitar case strapped to his back, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed by your erratic state.
“Take me home,” you gasp out instantly, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate, breathless rush.
Dylan furrows his eyebrows, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. He looks down at you, clearly confused by the sheer panic radiating from your trembling body.
“What? Are you okay? What happened—”
You don't let him finish. You reach out, your cold, shaking hands desperately grabbing onto his forearm. Your grip is painfully tight, your knuckles turning white.
“Please.” Your voice breaks into a pathetic, terrified sob that you can't suppress. “Please, Dylan. Just take me home. Right now.”
Dylan’s casual, laid-back demeanor evaporates instantly. He looks at your tear-streaked face, sees the raw, unadulterated terror swimming in your eyes, and his jaw sets. He glances up, his green eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the house, looking toward the shadows you just emerged from. For a second, he looks like he wants to go investigate, to fight whatever it is that put this look on your face.
But you yank on his arm again, snapping his attention back to you. The desperation in your gaze is all the answer he needs.
“Come on. Let's go,” he says firmly.
He shifts his grip, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around yours, squeezing it tight. Without asking another question, he quickly leads you away from the house, guiding you swiftly down the street toward where his battered sedan is parked.
You don't look back. You keep your eyes fixed on the pavement, letting Dylan pull you toward safety, leaving the thumping music, the crowded party, and the terrifying, shattered reality of Steve Harrington far, far behind you in the dark.
—
The sharp, metallic slam of the car door shatters the heavy, suffocating silence of the night. It is a violent sound that echoes down the empty street, yet it barely registers over the ringing in your ears.
Silence is all that had accompanied you during the agonizingly long drive from the blinding lights of the party to the shadowed entrance of your apartment building. Not a single song on the radio. Not a single whispered word.
Dylan walks beside you, his footsteps a steady, grounded rhythm against the concrete, a stark contrast to the chaotic, erratic thumping of your own heart. You walk until you reach the main glass doors of the building, the cool glow of the streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.
You turn around. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your own torso, hands gripping your elbows in a desperate, physical need to keep yourself from falling apart. At the very least, the tears had stopped flowing a few miles back, leaving your face tight and your eyes burning with a dry, exhausted ache.
And thank God — thank whatever merciful force exists — that Dylan hasn't asked a single question. He hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t demanded to know why you came running out of that party looking like you’d just seen a ghost.
You stand there, turned away from the glass doors, your posture screaming defense. Your arms wrap your body like a protective shield against the biting chill of the night air, and your eyes are stubbornly glued to the cracked pavement beneath your feet.
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in your throat, and finally gather the courage to look up at him.
"Thank you," your voice is barely more than a raspy whisper, fragile in the cold air. "For bringing me back, I mean."
Dylan nods slowly. His posture is relaxed but guarded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He looks at you with a mixture of pity and lingering affection that makes your stomach twist with guilt.
"It's no problem," he says softly.
A few heavy seconds of silence stretch between you, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic. He shifts his weight, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Are you sure you're—"
"I'm fine," you cut him off quickly, the words tumbling out of your mouth before he can finish the question. You can't let him dig. If he digs, the dam will break again. "I'm fine, I swear. I'm just... I'm so tired. Midterm week completely ran me over."
You force a smile. It feels completely unnatural, a tight, plastic stretching of your lips, but you offer it up anyway, praying it’s enough of a mask to make him believe the lie.
He nods, his jaw setting. He’s clearly not convinced. His eyes search yours, looking for the cracks in your facade, but he is kind enough — or perhaps just tired enough — not to press the issue.
"Right," he murmurs, clearing his throat. The awkwardness hangs in the space between you, thick and palpable. "Do you think I could..." He gestures toward the brightly lit lobby of your building with his chin, a silent request to come up. To come in.
You instantly understand what he is asking. And for a fleeting, desperate second, a loud, rational voice in your head screams at you to say yes. Let him in, it whispers. Have a quiet, normal night with him, just like you used to. Let him hold you. Let him erase the nightmare you witnessed in that alleyway barely an hour ago.
It would be so easy to fall back into the comfort of Dylan. It would be safe.
But as you look at his hopeful face, something visceral and absolute stops you. It feels wrong. The very idea of pretending everything is okay, of letting him touch you when your skin still feels branded by the ghost of someone else, makes you feel physically ill.
You shake your head slowly, keeping your focus locked on his eyes, offering him the most genuine apology you can muster without words.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Dylan."
He nods, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he presses his lips together in a tight, disappointed line.
"Right..." he sighs, looking down at his boots before meeting your gaze again. "Listen, the band is coming back to town to wrap up the tour here. I'd really like to see you, yeah? Maybe we could actually talk? Even just for a coffee?"
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding you in the present moment. You nod your head, a jerky, automatic motion, not even truly processing the implications of agreeing to see him. You just want to be alone. You just want to escape.
A soft, relieved smile touches his lips. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, and slowly leans in.
You freeze as his face nears yours, his lips brushing softly against your cheek. Your stomach does a sudden, violent flip, but it isn't butterflies. It's a harsh, immediate rejection from your own body, because the lips pressing against your skin don't feel right. They aren't the ones you actually, desperately want kissing you.
"Dream of me, yeah?" he murmurs, pulling away and taking a step backward into the shadows of the street.
You can't even manage to fake another smile. You simply turn on your heel, pushing through the heavy doors and rushing into the empty, fluorescent-lit lobby.
Your feet hit the stairs with frantic urgency, taking them two at a time. You don't wait for the elevator; you need the physical exertion, you need to burn the adrenaline that is suddenly spiking through your veins.
You reach your floor breathless, your hands trembling violently as you fumble with your keys. You jam the metal into the lock, twist, and shove the door open, slipping inside and slamming it shut behind you with a deafening bang.
You lean your back against the solid wood of the door, chest heaving, gasping for air as if you’ve been drowning. You don't give yourself a second to think. You can't think. If you stop moving, the images will catch up to you.
You violently shrug off your jacket, tossing it onto the floor. You march straight into the kitchen, the hardwood cold through your feet. Your arms reach up, blindly yanking open the cabinet above the fridge — the designated spot for the liquor you and Robin save for house parties, or for those rare, quiet nights when you just want to sit on the counter and talk about life until the sun comes up.
You aren't even fully conscious of your own movements. Your hands grab the first bottle they find. You don't bother with a glass. You uncap it and bring it directly to your lips, tipping your head back and swallowing the burning liquid in large, desperate gulps. You drink as if the alcohol possesses some magical, corrosive property that can burn away your memories.
You want to erase the desperate, visceral need you have for Steve. You want to scrub away the phantom sensation of his large, calloused hands on your body. You want to obliterate the memory of his crooked, intoxicating smile that has somehow embedded itself permanently in your mind.
But no matter how much it burns going down, it isn't working. The scent of him seems to cling to the very air of your apartment, wrapping around you even when he is miles away.
You slam the bottle down onto the granite counter, the loud clink echoing in the empty kitchen. You brace your forearms on the edge of the counter and drop your head down, burying your face in your arms. You close your eyes, desperately trying to stabilize your ragged breathing and force your racing heart to slow its frantic, terrified rhythm.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself. He's not here. You're safe. It's over.
Suddenly, three sharp, authoritative knocks rap against your front door.
You physically jump, a startled gasp escaping your lips. You spin around, your eyes locking onto the door.
You let out a frustrated, angry sigh. A sudden, hot flare of irritation ignites in your chest. You are instantly annoyed that Dylan, even after you explicitly told him no, has the nerve to come upstairs and insist. Who does he think he is?
He was the one who left the city first, wasn't he? He packed up and went away without even giving you a proper chance to say goodbye. He left you stranded, standing in the emotional wreckage of your “relationship”, holding all your stupid, unrequited feelings in the palms of your hands. Why the hell does he think he can just waltz back into your life tonight and demand your time?
These angry, bitter thoughts swarm in your head like angry hornets as you stomp down the short hallway. You reach the door and rip it wide open, a rejection already locked and loaded on your tongue.
"Dylan, I said—"
The words die instantly in your throat. You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as your eyes meet a pair of deep, frantic brown ones.
It isn't Dylan.
Without a single second of conscious thought, survival instinct takes over. Your hand grips the edge of the door, and you violently shove it forward to slam it in his face.
But Steve is faster.
His large hand shoots out, his forearm hitting the wood with a heavy thud, effortlessly stopping the door's momentum.
"Steve, leave." Your voice is trembling, betraying the sheer panic bubbling up inside you.
"Please..." he breathes out.
He says your name so softly, with such raw, unadulterated desperation, that it makes your chest ache. You look at his face. His hair is a wild, disheveled mess. His lips are bleeding a little bit but you're sure it is because he has been nervously biting it for the past hour.
But his expression... his expression is completely shattered. It looks absolutely nothing like the cold, terrifyingly violent mask you saw him wearing in that dark alleyway just an hour ago.
"Steve..." your voice cracks, the tough exterior crumbling instantly. Tears immediately well up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. "Steve, leave. Please, just go."
"Please," he whispers again, his voice breaking.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowers his arm from the door. But instead of backing away, he steps over the threshold. He takes one slow, deliberate step into your apartment, the sheer presence of him forcing you to stumble backward in retreat.
You can feel a massive, suffocating knot forming in your throat. It’s a sickening mixture of profound heartbreak, sheer terror, and the harsh burn of the alcohol threatening to come back up.
He takes another step, crossing fully into the entryway, and uses his free hand to gently push the door shut behind him. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. He looks at you, his eyes silently pleading, and slowly shakes his head.
"Don't be afraid of me," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please. Not you."
A sound rips its way out of your throat. You couldn't describe it if you tried — it is a horrific, broken noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a strangled sob.
You shake your head wildly, backing up until you are standing dead in the center of your living room, putting as much distance between you as the space allows.
"I can explain—" he starts, taking a half-step toward you, his hands raised in surrender.
"No!" You shake your head violently, throwing your hands up to stop him. "I don't want to hear it, Steve! I don't want to listen to you!"
Steve stops. He looks up at the ceiling, jaw clenching tight as he rests his hands on his hips, letting out a long, ragged sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.
The sensations invading your body are entirely contradictory, and it terrifies you. You should be afraid. You just saw him beat a guy as if it was usual business. You should be running for the fire escape. You should be locking yourself in your bedroom and dialing the police. You should be screaming for help until your lungs give out.
And yet... the sight of him, standing and broken in the middle of your living room, brings an inexplicable wave of calm over you. His presence floods your system with a bizarre, twisted sense of safety that is completely devoid of logic and entirely removed from fear.
You hate yourself for it.
He drops his head, dragging a heavy, shaking hand down his face.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he mutters, his voice thick with shame.
You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. The sound is sharp and biting.
"Oh, really?" you snap, the anger finally overriding the shock. "Yeah. Sure. I shouldn't have seen that. Just like I shouldn't have seen anything else, right? Just like I shouldn't have seen you completely battered and bleeding out on my doorstep that night two months ago! Just like I shouldn't have ever met that other guy — what's his name? Oh, right, Tommy! The one who looked at me like I was a whore! Just like I shouldn't have heard every single person in my life whispering behind my back that I shouldn't get close to you!"
You step forward, closing the distance you just created, driven by a furious, blinding need for answers. You can feel the heat flushing your cheeks, your blood boiling beneath your skin.
All the agonizing questions, all the crippling insecurities, all the silent doubts you have swallowed down and choked on for months are suddenly erupting from your throat like a volcanic release. You couldn't stop the words now even if you tried.
"Tell me, Steve! What are you?" you scream, your voice bouncing off the walls. "Are you a thug? Is that what you are? A grown man who spends his time harassing college kids? Bullying people for money in dark alleys? Extorting people? Is that it?!"
Steve’s jaw ticks. The muscles in his neck jump as he grits his teeth, his eyes darting away from yours, unable to hold your furious gaze. He stares at the wall, his chest heaving.
"I can't... I can't tell you everything—"
"Then get out!" you shriek, launching yourself at him. You cross the room in two strides, closing the gap completely. "Get out! Leave me alone!"
You raise your hands and shove him hard against his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall; he barely stumbles back an inch, but you keep going, fueled by pure, unadulterated heartbreak.
"Stop pulling me toward you!" you cry out, hitting his chest again. "Stop confusing me! Stop saying all the beautiful, perfect things you say to me! Stop looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, stop touching me the way you touch me, just to violently push me away and shut me out the next second!"
You grab handfuls of his shirt, shaking him, demanding he look at you.
"Stop ruining my life without even letting me see half of the person you truly are!"
You let go of him, taking a step back and raking your trembling hands through your hair, pulling at the roots in absolute desperation. You are hyperventilating, the tears finally spilling over your lashes and streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.
"You know what you are?" you spit, stepping forward to push him again. "You're a coward."
You shove him harder this time, putting your entire body weight into it.
"You are a fucking coward, Harrington!"
The words tear out of your mouth without a filter, meant to wound, meant to make him feel a fraction of the agony tearing you apart inside.
You raise your hands to shove him a third time, but as your palms hit his chest, his hands shoot up. His large, warm fingers wrap securely around your wrists, stopping your momentum instantly. His grip is firm, inescapable, but surprisingly gentle.
"Stop," he pleads, his voice low and urgent. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself."
"I don't care!" You thrash against his hold, trying desperately to yank your wrists free. "Why would I care, Steve?! Nothing I do to myself will ever hurt me more than you do! My God, I've only known you for a few months, and I already feel like you have completely and utterly ruined my life! Don't you understand that?!"
A violent sob rips through your chest, breaking your voice into a pathetic whimper. You stop fighting him, your body suddenly going entirely limp as the fight drains out of you. He doesn't let go of your wrists; instead, he pulls you a fraction of an inch closer, supporting your weight as your knees threaten to buckle.
"I have never felt like this with anyone," you sob, looking up into his tortured eyes, letting all your vulnerability bleed out onto the floor between you. "I have never yearned so deeply just to know a person. It's making me crazy! There are days when you won't even look in my direction, when you walk right past me like I'm a stranger, and then... then there are moments where you look at me like you would give me the entire world."
"I would give you the world."
His voice is sudden. It isn’t a whisper; it is a firm, heavy, absolute declaration that rings through the quiet apartment like a vow.
The absolute certainty in his tone makes you freeze. You stop crying. You stop breathing. Your eyes snap up to his, wide and searching, desperately trying to comprehend the magnitude of his words.
"What—"
Before you can formulate a sentence, he moves. He lets go of your left wrist. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, and his long fingers tangle deep into the hair at the nape of your neck. He grips you firmly, holding you in place, making it impossible for you to look away from him.
"Whatever you saw in that alley tonight," he speaks in a low, vibrating whisper, stepping so close that his chest brushes against yours. "Whatever you heard people saying about me. Whatever you saw that night I showed up bleeding..."
He ducks his head, closing the final inch of space between you, and rests his forehead heavily against yours.
The contact is electric. It sends a blinding shockwave through your entire nervous system. The warmth of his skin, the frantic, jagged rhythm of his breathing mingling with yours, the heavy, intoxicating scent of him — it entirely short-circuits your brain.
For a terrifying, beautiful second, you completely forget everything. You forget the violence. You forget the secrets. You forget the rumors, your fears, and your crushing anxiety. You forget that the foundation of whatever this is between you is built entirely on secrets rather than answers. All that exists is the pressure of his forehead against yours, and the thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"None of it changes anything," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I would give my life for you."
You let out a broken gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, rubbing your forehead against his as you make a monumental, agonizing effort to stop the fresh wave of tears from falling.
"Don't say that," you whisper back, your voice cracking with heartbreak. "Don't say that to me when you can't even tell me half of the things that have happened in your life. Don't say you'd die for me when every single day you become more of a complete stranger to me."
Slowly, tenderly, he turns his head. The tip of his nose brushes softly along the curve of your cheek, a ghost of a touch that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, digging your nails into your own palms, desperately trying to maintain whatever tiny shred of willpower remains inside you.
"That guy... out there," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "That's not me."
"It clearly was," you whisper back, a tear escaping and tracking a hot path down your face. "The man I saw standing there, watching someone get beaten into the pavement... that was you, Steve."
He shakes his head against your cheek. His hand tightens slightly in your hair, holding you closer, like he is terrified you will evaporate into thin air if he lets go.
"You don't understand."
You shake your head, stepping back just an inch, breaking the contact of your heads so you can look at him. Your chest heaves. Another tear falls, then another, a silent cascade of absolute defeat.
"No," you say, your voice hollow and completely devoid of hope. "Sadly, I don't understand at all."
He stares down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your tear-stained face. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the jagged rocks below, knowing he has to jump.
Slowly, he leans in again. This time, his lips don't brush your ear. They graze lightly, agonizingly slowly, across the tear-streaked skin of your cheek. He kisses the salt away, a gesture so impossibly tender it makes your knees weak.
You let out a long, trembling sigh, your hands coming up instinctively to rest flat against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matches your own.
"Please..." he breathes against the corner of your mouth.
He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You don’t need to ask what he wants, or what he’s begging for. You understand it with perfect, terrifying clarity, because the ache in your own chest is identical to the one in his. You need exactly the same thing. You need to bridge the gap. You need to feel him, to know that beneath the secrets and the violence, the guy who looks at you like you hung the moon is still there.
Slowly, you tilt your head up. You open your eyes, and his are already waiting. You lock gazes, the remaining inches between your faces charged with a static electricity that makes the air crackle.
It’s a silent, profound surrender. In that single, drawn-out look, souls connect, communicating a desperate, undeniable truth that words could never capture.
You don't know if it is the alcohol buzzing warmly in your veins, the sheer adrenaline crash of the night, or the overwhelming, suffocating tension that has been building between the two of you for months. But suddenly, your mind goes completely, blessedly blank.
The world drops away.
The next conscious sensation you register is the impossibly soft, warm press of his lips against yours.
The kiss starts slow. It’s tentative, a fragile, trembling question. He presses his lips to yours with a reverence that breaks your heart all over again, testing the waters, deciphering just how much you want this. His free hand drops down, coming to rest with warm, solid possession flush against the curve of your waist. His other hand remains buried in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tightening slightly, tilting your head to the perfect, agonizing angle to deepen the connection.
You let out a soft, involuntary whimper against his mouth.
That tiny sound is the spark that ignites the powder keg.
When he realizes you aren't pulling away — when he feels your hands slide up from his chest to wrap tightly around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him flush against you — the hesitation shatters.
The kiss explodes.
It surges from a tender question into a desperate, hungry demand. Steve groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and his mouth opens over yours, urgent and commanding. You gasp, welcoming the slide of his tongue, meeting his fierce passion with a desperate hunger of your own. The taste of him is intoxicating. It acts like a drug, instantly addicting, making you crave more, making you pull him closer until there isn't a millimeter of space left between your bodies.
His arm tightens like a vice around your waist, lifting you slightly onto your toes, completely enveloping you in his warmth. His mouth is everywhere, devouring yours, angling his head to deepen the kiss until you are entirely breathless. It’s no longer just a kiss; it is a battle for dominance, a physical manifestation of all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, and the profound, terrifying yearning that has been festering in the dark.
Your hands move frantically, sliding up into his messy hair, gripping the thick strands tightly to anchor yourself in the storm. You kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, pouring every ounce of your frustration and desire into the collision of your mouths.
He takes a sudden, staggering step forward, forcing you to step backward to keep your balance. The momentum is unstoppable. He walks you backward through the living room, neither of you breaking the kiss for even a fraction of a second. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and desperate, gasping breaths.
Your leg violently clips the edge of the wooden coffee table. You don't even feel the bruise blooming; you don't care. Steve's hand immediately drops from your waist, his arm wrapping around your lower back to catch you, his grip bruising and possessive as he hoists you up, preventing you from falling.
He spins you, the world blurring in a chaotic swirl of colors, and the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch.
With a breathless, ragged gasp, you tumble backward onto the soft cushions, pulling him down with you. He follows you instantly, seamlessly, his heavy body caging you in, pressing you deep into it. He catches his weight on his forearms, hovering just inches above you, his chest heaving against yours.
He breaks the kiss, but only to drag his mouth roughly down your jawline, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his lips press open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of your neck. You let out a breathless, shattered sigh, your head falling back against the armrest, arching into his touch.
"Steve..." you pant, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the hard shift of his muscles beneath his jacket.
"Tell me to stop," he mutters fiercely against your skin, his teeth lightly grazing your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. "Tell me to get out. Tell me to leave right now, and I will."
His voice is entirely devoid of its usual arrogant confidence. It’s raw, shaking with a violent restraint. He lifts his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his dark eyes blazing with an unholy mixture of lust and desperate adoration as he stares down at you, waiting for your verdict.
You look up at him. You see the guy who hides in the shadows, the guy who is terrified of his own darkness, the guy who just confessed he would die for you.
You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone.
"Don't you dare stop," you whisper.
A ragged breath tears from his lungs. The last thread of his control snaps completely. He crushes his mouth to yours again, hotter, harder, and infinitely more passionate than before, consuming you entirely as the rest of the world fades into absolute nothingness.
In this exact moment, you can’t think of a single rational thing. You don’t even have a fraction of a second to catch your breath, let alone process the sheer magnitude of what is happening.
The realization of just how agonizingly long you have been waiting for this exact moment — months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between you — is entirely lost in the haze of the present.
It’s finally happening.
After all the near-misses and all the quiet moments where you both pretended not to stare at each other, it is happening right here, right now, in the dimly lit living room of your apartment.
Your hands, moving entirely on their own volition, slide frantically beneath the heavy fabric of his jacket. Your fingers grip the material, desperate to pull it off, to eliminate any barrier between the two of you.
Steve senses your urgency. He breaks the kiss for just a few agonizing seconds — seconds that leave your lips feeling cold and needy — just long enough to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. He tosses it blindly, not caring where it lands, the fabric hitting some unseen piece of furniture in the shadows of the living room. Before you can even open your eyes, his hands are framing your face again, pulling you back in, and his lips crash against yours with a renewed, desperate hunger.
Your fingers find their way into his hair. You tangle them in the thick strand, messing it even more. You tug at the roots, a little harder than you intended, pulling his head closer to yours. The sudden friction draws a low, rough sound of deep satisfaction from the back of his throat. The vibration of that groan travels directly from his chest into yours, sending a wild, electric thrill straight down your spine.
Suddenly, as if communicating through some silent, primal frequency, you both pull apart just enough to kick off your shoes. They hit the hardwood floor with heavy thuds that echo briefly in the quiet apartment. Steve’s hands move to the waistband of your jeans, gripping the denim tightly. With a firm, decisive pull, he drives you backward until your shoulders hit the back of the sofa again with a soft, muffled thud. He follows you down instantly, slotting himself firmly between your thighs, pinning you in place with a weight that feels both grounding and intoxicating.
His hands, large and gentle, slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, yet as they slide upward over your ribs, they leave a trailing path of undeniable goosebumps in their wake. Your breath hitches, the sensation so sharp it borders on painful.
His lips abandon your mouth, tracing a hot, wet path along the edge of your jawline before diving into the crook of your neck. If your mind wasn’t so entirely clouded by the intoxicating scent of him you might have the presence of mind to warn him. You might playfully tell him to be careful, to watch out for leaving marks that you’ll inevitably have to hide tomorrow. But you can’t think. You really, truly cannot form a coherent thought.
It’s utterly impossible for either of you to ignore the fundamental, magnetic need to press your bodies together, seeking friction even through the thick layers of your clothes.
Steve shifts his weight, his hands gripping your waist to tilt your hips upward, aligning yours perfectly with his. When he presses down, a sound escapes your mouth — a soft, breathy whine that instantly makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You want to swallow it back, but you can’t stop it. The sound only seems to encourage him, his breath ghosting hot against your collarbone as his grip on your hips tightens and he grinds down again.
Seeking out that same skin-on-skin contact, your hands begin to blindly map his chest through his shirt. You grab the hem of it, intending to pull it up and off, to finally feel the bare heat of him against you.
But instantly, the atmosphere shifts.
Steve’s hands shoot down, his reflexes terrifyingly fast, and his fingers wrap around your wrists like iron bands. He stops you dead in your tracks.
The abrupt halt sends a jolt of confusion through you. He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the sudden, intense vulnerability swimming in his dark brown eyes.
You look up at him, the fog of desire clearing just enough for understanding to dawn.
You know exactly why he stopped you.
You understand that he doesn’t want you to see his torso. He doesn’t want you to see the scars. It doesn’t matter that he’s already shown them to you once before. In this context, in the intimacy of a dimly lit room where the air is thick with desire, exposing them makes him feel bare. It makes him feel entirely vulnerable, and he has spent the last years building walls so high and so thick that vulnerability terrifies him more than anything could.
And looking at the hesitation in his eyes, a sudden, intrusive thought pierces your mind. You can’t help but wonder if the other girls have seen them. The other girls in Hawkins. The girls he has been with briefly in the city as he tries to run away from his past. Gabriela.
There’s a selfish, possessive part of you that desperately hopes they haven't. A part of you that prays he kept the lights off, that he kept his shirt on, that he never let them see the true, broken extent of what he has survived. You want to be the only one who gets to see all of him.
But there is another, much larger part of you — the part that feels for him entirely — that absolutely breaks at the thought of Steve walking through the world feeling so incredibly exposed and ashamed. It shatters your heart to think of him feeling like he can’t trust anyone enough to just be himself, to show the roadmap of his survival etched into his skin. To show the scars on his body, and by extension, the deep, jagged scars on his soul.
The silence between you stretches, heavy and thick with unspoken fears. He’s waiting for you to pull away. He’s waiting for you to decide if it’s too much work, too much baggage.
"Steve..." you whisper into the quiet space between you.
"I…" he mutters, his voice thick, his gaze dropping.
"Look at me," you say gently, refusing to let him hide. When he finally drags his eyes back to yours, you hold his gaze steadily. "Please..." you whisper softly.
Slowly, deliberately, you test his grip. Your hands turn slightly within his grasp, and your fingertips brush against the skin of his forearms.
Steve lets out a long, shaky sigh. It sounds like a physical surrender. The iron grip on your wrists loosens, his fingers uncurling, letting you go.
Your hands immediately resume their upward journey. You slide your palms under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up slowly. As your hands travel upward, your fingertips brush over the raised, uneven textures of his skin. You feel the jagged lines into his sides, the marks, every scar tells a story of him bleeding God-knows-why.
But while your hands read the braille of his past, your eyes never leave his face. You stay completely locked onto his deep brown eyes, watching the emotions flicker across them: fear, anticipation, and an overwhelming, desperate relief.
You push the shirt all the way up to his chest. Steve swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His jaw clenches so tightly you can see a muscle feathering beneath his skin.
Then, with a sudden, fluid movement that speaks of a sudden burst of courage, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it aside to join his jacket on the floor.
He sits back on his heels, entirely exposed to you.
Finally, you allow your eyes to drop down to his torso. It doesn’t matter that you have seen it before. The sight of it still makes your chest ache with a profound, twisting tenderness. Your heart physically squeezes at the sight of every silver line of scar tissue, some old and faded, others still terrifyingly pink and recent.
He looks like a battlefield.
He looks like a boy who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and taken the hits so no one else had to.
You raise your hand, intending to press your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his racing heart, to ground him. But before you can make contact, his hand shoots out again. This time, however, he doesn't push you away. He catches your wrists gently, his large hands encompassing your delicate bones.
You look up at him, questioning.
Without ever breaking eye contact, Steve brings your wrists to his mouth. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your left wrist, right over your pulse point. Then your right. He maps his way up your forearms, his lips soft and warm, leaving a trail of reverent kisses along your skin. He moves closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours once again.
For a split second, you see his lips part. You see a terrifying sincerity in his eyes, and you think he’s going to say it. You think he is going to say something profound, something that will shatter the fragile glass house you’ve both been living in, maybe even a confession.
But just as quickly as the moment arrives, you see him swallow the words down. He stops himself, the walls coming back up just a fraction of an inch.
Instead, he leans his forehead against yours.
"Can I...?" he whispers against your lips, his voice barely a breath. As he asks, his hands drop from your wrists and catch the bottom edge of your t-shirt, giving it a gentle, questioning tug. He’s asking for permission. He’s giving you the choice to stop, to keep your own armor on.
You nod, not trusting your voice. You begin to sit up, lifting your back off the cushions to give him more room to maneuver the shirt over your head.
But suddenly, something shifts inside you. A sudden, inexplicable surge of confidence — a fierce, burning need to take back control, to show him that he isn’t the only one who wants this with an overwhelming desperation — possesses your body.
Instead of just sitting up, you push your hands firmly against his shoulders. You use his surprise to shift your weight, sliding forward until you are straddling his lap entirely. You drop your knees onto the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, towering over him slightly.
Steve lets out a sharp intake of breath, clearly startled by the sudden change in dynamics. But the surprise quickly melts into a dark, heated gaze of approval. He accepts the new position instantly. His large hands immediately drop from the hem of your shirt down to your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. He grips you firmly, pulling you downward, pressing you flush against him so that your bodies meet again in that exquisite, maddening friction.
You bite your lower lip hard. Usually, when you do it around him, it’s a nervous habit — a telltale sign that he has flustered you. But this time, it’s purely instinctual. You bite down to keep from crying out because you honestly have no idea how to react to the sheer sensory overload of straddling him, of feeling the hard planes of his body beneath yours.
Determined, your hands find the hem of your own shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you pull it up and over your head, tossing it over your shoulder.
The cool air of the apartment hits your bare skin. Your shirt had been so tight, almost like a second skin, that you had made the bold decision not to wear a bra to the party tonight, knowing the underwire would just dig into you uncomfortably all evening. When you had looked in the mirror hours ago, you wondered if it was a terrible idea. But right now, seeing the way Steve is looking at you? It might have been the best idea you’ve ever had.
For Steve, it is unequivocally the best idea in the history of the world. He stops breathing. His hands freeze on your hips. His brown eyes go impossibly wide, filled with a mixture of absolute awe and raw, unfiltered hunger. His gaze drops, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your chest, and slowly, deliberately tracking back up to your flushed face. He looks at you as if you are something divine, something he has no right to touch but can’t possibly stay away from.
"Christ," he breathes out, his voice hoarse, sounding like he’s in physical pain. "You can't be... you can't be this fucking beautiful. It's not fair."
Your cheeks instantly flood with heat. You blush a deep, dark red — a reaction that is completely, annoyingly inevitable whenever Steve Harrington looks at you like that, let alone when he speaks to you with such profound, undisguised adoration.
Before you can formulate a response, Steve drops his head back against the backrest of the couch. One of his hands leaves your hip, traveling up your back to tangle deeply into the hair at the nape of your neck. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he pulls your face down to his.
The kiss is different this time. It’s no longer just frantic; it’s deep, consuming, and territorial. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside.
Unconsciously, your hips lift just a fraction of an inch, seeking relief from the building tension.
Steve groans into your mouth. His free hand immediately snaps back to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he forces you back down, flush against him.
"Keep going, please..." he whispers frantically against your lips between open-mouthed kisses. "Don't stop."
This time, the sensation of his hard bulge pressing against the seam of his jeans is much more prominent beneath you. Driven by your own escalating need, you begin to move your hips, grinding down against him in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. It’s a delicious, mind-melting friction, but with every passing second, the barrier of your denim jeans turns the pleasure into a torturous ache.
Steve lets out a ragged, stuttering breath.
"God, I need you so much," he gasps, breaking the kiss to look up at you. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so much there is barely any brown left. He looks at you with absolute, puppy-dog desperation.
He leans forward. His lips pressing wet kisses over your left chest, while his thumb softly brushes over your right nipple. You can’t stop the moan that leaves your mouth.
But suddenly, loud noise from the hallway outside your apartment door cuts through the heavy air like a knife.
You jump violently, a squeak of absolute panic escaping your throat. It’s as if your soul has instantly slammed back into your body. The haze of lust vanishes in a heartbeat. You scramble backward, instantly crossing your arms over your bare chest to cover yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Oh my God," you gasp, staring wide-eyed at the apartment door. "Robin is—"
Steve is faster. He doesn’t even flinch at the noise. He reaches up, his large hand gently but firmly gripping your jaw, forcing you to look away from the door and back down at him.
"Hey," he says, his voice remarkably steady, though his chest is still heaving. "Hey, relax. Look at me."
You blink down at him, still vibrating with adrenaline.
"Robin is not out there," he assures you, a small, amused glint returning to his eyes. "She told me she was crashing at Vickie's tonight. It's just a neighbor."
You let out a massive, shaky sigh of relief, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Your arms, however, remain crossed tightly over your chest, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you now that the immediate spell has been broken.
"Are you sure?" you mumble into his skin.
Steve bites his lower lip, trying to suppress a smile, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"I'm sure," he says softly.
He uncrosses your arms gently, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. Then, his arms wrap entirely around your waist. With a sudden shift and a display of strength that seems to require zero effort on his part, he stands up from the couch, lifting you entirely off it.
You let out a loud noise of surprise, your legs instinctively flying up and wrapping tightly around his waist to keep from falling. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping his bare skin tightly.
"Steve!" you yelp, your heart skipping a beat.
"What?" he chuckles, his voice rumbling against your cheek. He adjusts his grip, holding your thighs securely as he walks effortlessly down the short hallway toward your bedroom. "I figure you'll be a little more relaxed in a room with a door we can lock, right?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He kicks your bedroom door open with his foot and, once you are both inside, kicks it shut behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place feels incredibly definitive.
Instead of just dropping you onto the mattress, he walks right up to the edge of the bed and lets himself fall forward, taking you down with him. You bounce against the mattress, a gasp escaping you. Steve hovers over you, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, slotting his legs perfectly between yours once again.
He wastes no time. He leans down, reconnecting his lips with yours, swallowing your laughter. The kiss is slower this time, sweeter, lacking the frantic panic from the living room but replacing it with a deep, simmering intent.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy. His hands move to the button of your jeans. He pops it open with practiced ease, slowly pulling down the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and begins to pull them down your hips.
There is something utterly indescribable in his gaze. It’s intense, focused, and completely reverent. Usually, being looked at like this would make you want to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort. You've never liked being perceived so intensely. But with Steve, nothing about this makes you feel uncomfortable. It’s strange, the absolute safety you feel under his heavy, heated stare.
As he pulls your pants completely off, discarding them onto the floor beside the bed, he doesn't immediately move back up to your lips. Instead, he ducks his head down. He begins to leave a slow, agonizingly soft trail of kisses starting from your knee, moving up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, stopping just agonizingly short of the edge of your underwear.
Your breath stutters violently in your chest. Your hands grip the bedsheets on either side of your body, your knuckles turning white. You look down at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your entire body trembling with anticipation.
Before he can make his next move, before his lips can go any deeper, reality crashes over you again. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his messy hair, and gently but firmly pull his head up.
"Wait..." you pant, your voice breathless.
He stops immediately, looking up at you with slightly glassy eyes.
"What is it? Are you okay?"
"I..." you swallow hard, a flush creeping up your neck. "I don't have any condoms."
Steve freezes for a singular, terrifying second. Then, slowly, a devastatingly arrogant, deeply amused smile spreads across his handsome face. He shifts his weight, reaching down into the pocket of his jeans for a moment before bringing his hand back up, holding a small, square, metallic blue packet between his index and middle finger.
He holds it up like a trophy.
The realization hits you like a physical weight in your stomach. Your eyebrows knit together, a sudden flare of indignation cutting through the haze of lust.
"Do you always carry a condom with you?" you ask, your tone a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
His smile only widens.
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”
There’s something about his words that, although playful, unsettles you for a second, and there’s a voice in the back of your head suddenly telling you how wrong it is to be doing this with him after what you saw tonight.
But you roll your eyes shoving the feeling away, so hard they almost hurt.
"You are absolutely impossible, Harrington."
Steve lets out a soft, breathy laugh. His head is still positioned low, and the puff of air from him hits your underwear directly. The hot breath sends an involuntary shudder wracking violently through your entire frame.
Before he can take advantage of your distraction and lean down to replace that breath with his lips, you grab his chin firmly. You pull him up, dragging his body back up the mattress until he is face-to-face with you again. The sudden spike of irritation has vanished, replaced entirely by the all-consuming, desperate need to simply have him. You cannot wait another second. You need him.
He reads the urgency in your eyes instantly. The playful arrogance drops from his face, replaced by a dark, serious hunger. He moves with startling speed, pulling down his jeans and boxers at the same time and kicking them away, not giving your brain a single second to catch up or overthink the reality of what is about to happen.
The sight of his prominent length twitching against the air of the room sends a shiver through your entire body. But when he tears open the small packet, you instinctively turn your head away, staring at the ceiling. A sudden wave of intense shyness washes over you, making you feel as though you are intruding on something incredibly private, something you shouldn't be watching.
Then, you feel his hands. They wrap around your waist, large and warm, pulling you physically closer to him on the center of the mattress. His thumbs press into your skin, a silent demand for your attention. He makes you look at him again.
Steve moves over you, a shadow blocking out the dim bedroom light. He lowers himself, his lips returning to your skin. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, lingering over your ribs, trailing up between your breasts, tracing the line of your collarbone, and finally pressing a tender kiss against the pulse beating frantically in your neck.
He moves up, his face hovering right above yours. His lips are swollen and red from kissing you, slightly parted as he breathes heavily into your mouth. His brow is slightly furrowed with concentration and restraint, and a thick lock of brown hair has fallen across his forehead, clinging to a sheen of sweat.
He looks into your eyes, searching them deeply.
His hand wraps around himself, brushing the head of his throbbing cock against your folds, testing the waters. He bites his lips noticing how ready your body is for him.
"Tell me if this is okay, alright?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Tell me to stop if you need me to."
You nod frantically. You bite your bottom lip, your hands reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. You are anxious, yes, but you are absolutely desperate to feel him, to finally cross this line that has been drawn in the sand between you for months.
Steve lifts his hand. His thumb gently brushes over your lower lip, coaxing it out from between your teeth. He leans down, connecting his lips with yours in a deep, slow kiss.
And then, before you can even brace yourself, before your mind can catch up with the physical reality, he’s pressing forward, sliding inside of you.
It’s impossible to hold back the sound that tears from your throat. A loud, shocked gasp that quickly turns into a deep, sustained moan. The sensation is entirely overwhelming — a feeling of being stretched and filled completely. You have to break the kiss, turning your head sharply to the side to bury your face in his shoulder, biting down on his skin to muffle the groan vibrating through your chest.
Steve freezes instantly. His muscles lock up, his arms trembling as he holds himself perfectly still above you.
"Shh, shh, hey," he whispers frantically into your hair, his voice laced with sudden panic. "Are you okay? I can pull out if—"
You silence him instantly, shaking your head vigorously against his shoulder. You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and filled with a profound, aching longing.
"No," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "Don't stop. Please, Steve. Keep going."
He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he slowly begins to move.
His movements, at first, are agonizingly slow. They are deliberate, firm, and incredibly careful, giving your body the time it needs to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him.
But you realize he isn’t completely in yet, so you wrap your legs around his hips, sinking him deeper, showing him you can take him all.
“Oh, f—,” your curse gets stuck on your throat. It isn't just the physical reality that it has been months since you were last intimate with anyone. It is the startling, profound realization that Steve seems to fit you in a way no one else ever has. He seems to fill not just the physical space, but an emotional void you didn't even know you were carrying. It feels terribly, wonderfully right.
Before you even realize the shift, the slow, agonizing pace changes. His restraint finally snaps. His hips begin to move faster, the gentle rhythm replaced by deeper, more urgent thrusts. His body collides against yours with a heavy, rhythmic sound that echoes in the quiet room.
One of his hands drops from your waist, gripping your hip bone with a bruised, desperate strength to anchor you to him. His other hand reaches up, tangling fiercely in the bedsheets right beside your head, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.
"Fuck... God..." The words are torn from his throat, soft but strained with intense effort.
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his brow furrowed so deeply it looks painful. Watching his face contort, a sudden, fleeting stab of insecurity pieces through your haze of pleasure.
You find yourself wondering, in the back of your dizzy mind, if there is some part of him that is regretting this. If, through the haze of adrenaline and lust, the reality of the situation is settling in and he's wishing he was somewhere else, with someone else. Someone less complicated. Someone who didn't know all his ghosts.
But every single one of your doubts is violently shattered by the low, guttural growl that rips from his chest.
The hand that was tangled in the sheets beside your head drops down, sliding down the back of your thigh. He grips the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher, hooking it over his forearm to open you up even further, pulling you flush against him so he can sink impossibly deeper.
"You feel so fucking good, God..." he grits out, throwing his head back toward the ceiling, the cords in his neck straining. His thrusts become rapid, completely uncontrolled. He looks back down at you, his eyes blazing. "Are you okay?" he demands again, needing reassurance.
You can't form words. The sheer sensory overload has short-circuited your brain. You can only nod your head frantically against the pillow, letting out small, broken gasps with every thrust.
The sensation is too much to process coherently. You act entirely on instinct. Your hands slide down from his shoulders, tracing the hard, sweat-slicked muscles of his back. You let your fingertips glide over the raised skin of his scars, tracing the lines of his trauma.
In the back of your mind, a quiet, desperate prayer forms: you hope that somehow, through this profound union of your bodies, you can offer him some measure of healing. You want to absorb his pain. You want to love the broken pieces of him until they don't hurt anymore.
Your hands continue their exploration, moving over his arms, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle of his body. He’s wound tight as a spring, but you know, with a thrilling sense of power, that this tension is born entirely of pleasure, of a desperate need to hold on for just a little longer.
"God, I’m gonna..." Steve gasps out, his voice cracking, his rhythm stuttering as he loses the battle against his own body.
You look up at him, your vision blurred with tears of overwhelming pleasure, and you understand perfectly. You understand because, for the last several minutes, every time he thrusts forward, he has been hitting a spot deep inside you that sends electric, blinding shockwaves through your entire nervous system. It has been building and building, rising higher and higher like a tidal wave, and it’s entirely impossible to stop it from crashing.
Steve's hand moves from your leg, sliding up your chest until his fingers gently wrap around the front of your throat. It's not tight, just a firm, possessive grounding pressure. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours once more, swallowing your moans. Your hand immediately flies to the back of his head, your fingers burying into his thick hair, pulling him flush against you as you brace yourself for the edge.
For one long, suspended minute, the only sounds existing in the universe are the wet, obscene sounds of your desperate kisses, the heavy, rhythmic slap of your sweat-slicked bodies colliding, and the ragged sound of your shared breathing. In this suspended bubble of time, it feels as though the act is systematically burning away the rest of the world. It incinerates the fears, the deeply rooted insecurities, the anxiety of tomorrow. There is nothing left but him, you, and the heat.
"F-fuck."
The curse breaks from his lips against yours. He doesn't need to say another word; his body telegraphs everything.
Suddenly, every single muscle in Steve’s back goes rigid under your hands. He lets out a loud, breathless groan, a sound of absolute defeat and profound release, and thrusts forward one final, deep time. He holds himself there, trembling violently.
The sheer intensity of his release is the final push you need. The tension inside you snaps violently, sending wave after blinding wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashing through your body. You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the mattress as you follow him over the edge, entirely consumed by the sensation.
Slowly, as the shockwaves begin to subside, his strength gives out. He collapses forward, his heavy, damp weight pressing you deep into the mattress.
You lie there, tangled together in the messy sheets. Both of your bodies are violently trembling, your chests heaving in perfect synchronization as you fight to pull oxygen back into your lungs. His face is buried deep in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your damp skin.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms wrapped tightly around his back, trying desperately to process what has just happened, how entirely your world has shifted on its axis.
After a few seconds, when his breathing finally begins to slow to a somewhat normal rhythm, Steve shifts. He presses his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, slowly pushing himself up on his arms to look down at you.
He looks exhausted, thoroughly wrecked, and breathtakingly handsome. He has a soft, incredibly goofy, completely unguarded smile plastered across his face. He lifts one hand, gently brushing a damp piece of hair off your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple.
You look up at him and can't help the soft, breathless laugh that escapes your lips.
"God..." you whisper, your voice hoarse.
"Yeah..." Steve replies, his voice equally rough, filled with a quiet kind of awe. He stares at you for a moment longer before asking, softly, "Are you okay?"
You hesitate. You don’t even know why. But you nod, a genuine smile breaking across your face.
"Never better."
His smile widens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. His thumb drops from your temple, tracing the curve of your cheek down to your lips. He leans in and presses a soft, incredibly tender kiss to your mouth. It’s the polar opposite of the frantic, teeth-clashing kisses from the living room, but somehow, the gentle reverence of it makes your heart hammer even harder, making you blush all over again.
Reluctantly, he pulls away. He pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully pulling out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest, a soft sound you try to bite back too late.
Steve just smirks at you, tossing the used condom into the small trashcan beside your nightstand with a terrifyingly accurate throw that you don't even have the energy to roll your eyes at.
You are utterly drained. Your limbs feel like lead. You simply lay there, spread out on your mattress, staring blankly up at the ceiling above you. You don't move a muscle until you feel the soft weight of a blanket being pulled up over your bare chest.
A second later, the mattress dips, and you feel the solid, radiating heat of Steve’s body as he slides under the covers and lays down flat on his back right next to you.
You turn your head to look at him. He’s staring up as well, his hands resting on his stomach.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely different. The adrenaline has faded, the lust has been satiated, and what remains in its wake is a heavy, complicated silence. It’s as if, in this quiet aftermath, you have both simultaneously crashed back down to reality.
You both realize the massive, irrevocable implications of what you have just done, of the line you have crossed, but neither of you has the slightest idea what the consequences will be.
Slowly, seeking comfort, you roll onto your side. You slide across the mattress and rest your head flat against his bare chest, right over his patch of hair, where you can listen to his heartbeat.
Steve reacts instantly. He lifts his arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rests on your bare back, his fingers lazily tracing idle circles against your skin. It’s comforting. It’s intimate. But neither of you speaks a single word.
It’s as though you both know the truth without having to vocalize it. You both know that even though you have finally satiated this massive, consuming need that has been chasing you for months; even though the physical act managed to completely obliterate the rest of the world and silence the demons for a few fleeting minutes; it didn’t cure anything.
There’s still something fundamentally, deeply broken inside him. And you still have absolutely no idea how to fix it.
As your eyes begin to droop shut, the exhaustion finally claiming you, you find yourself being lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the strong, comforting sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Ironically, it feels like the safest place in the world.
But deep, very deep down in the recesses of your tired mind, as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, a flash of memory violently intrudes.
You see the dark alleyway behind the building. You see the terror in that guy's eyes.
And you see Steve.
His jaw tense while he saw the guy getting beat up, his face unreadable as the younger one begged for mercy. You see him kick on the guy’s knee until he could stand up again.
You squeeze your eyes tighter, burrowing closer to his warmth, desperate to chase the memory away.
But as you drift off to sleep in the arms of the guy that has you completely wrapped around his finger, you realize with a cold — sinking dread — that perhaps you will never be able to forget it all.
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: not much. some nausea mention. a little bit of angst. tension.
words: 12.7k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining. between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid. turns out, it isn't.
a/n: hi everyone !! im back with a new chapter.
this one doesn't reveal a ton of new information, but it will probably leave your head spinning just as much as the others. these two never give us a break.
consider this chapter the calm before the storm.
thank u all so much for the lovely messages and support. hope you enjoy it !!
chapter seven: wicked game
The first thing that pulls you back from the heavy, suffocating depths of sleep is the sound of Robin’s laughter echoing through the thin walls of the apartment. It cuts through the quiet morning air, followed closely by the rich, comforting aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans.
Ordinarily, it would be a perfect way to wake up.
Today, however, it feels like an assault.
A low, guttural groan escapes your lips before you can stop it. You try to bury your face deeper into the pillow, but the movement sends a violent, throbbing spike of pain straight through your temples. Your head feels impossibly heavy, as if it had been systematically crushed under the tires of a truck, leaving a rhythmic, pounding agony directly behind your eyes.
You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your eyelids together so tightly that bursts of frantic, multicolored static dance across your vision.
You lie there, perfectly still, breathing in shallow gasps, praying for the nausea to subside.
And then, it hits you
Piece by piece, fragments of the previous night begin to flood your fragile consciousness, tearing through the haze of your hangover. The flashing, chaotic strobe lights of the party. The heat of a hundred bodies packed in the room. The sharp, burning taste of cheap alcohol burning the back of your throat.
Then, the memories become more specific.
You remember Dylan. You remember his hand resting entirely too low on your waist as he shouted over the deafening bass of the speakers, his breath smelling of stale beer and mint gum. You remember the polite, strained smile you kept plastered on your face because you didn’t want to cause a scene, but lowkey freaking out by his sudden return to the city.
And then… you remember Steve.
Suddenly, the fragmented puzzle pieces of the night snap together with terrifying, electrifying clarity. It’s as if your soul is violently shoved back into your physical body. The tension that had been simmering between you and Steve for months — the lingering touches, the prolonged stares, the unspoken, terrifying pull — had finally boiled over.
The desperate need to go back to your apartment. The way he pushed your door opened when you tried to close it on his face. The argument about what you saw in the hallway. And then…
Oh, god.
Pure, unadulterated panic shoots through your veins, instantly clearing the fog of the hangover. Your eyes snap open.
Robin is in the house.
Robin is out there, making coffee, completely unaware that her best friend is in your bed.
You spin around wildly, the adrenaline kicking your heart rate up to a frantic rhythm. You reach out, your mouth already forming the panicked words — Steve, you have to go, Robin’s awake, she’s right outside, get up — but the words die instantly in your throat.
Your arm sweeps across the mattress, expecting to hit the solid, warm expanse of his chest. Instead, your fingers graze nothing but the flat, wrinkled surface of the fitted sheet.
The other side of the bed is completely empty.
You freeze, your hand hovering over the mattress. You press your palm flat against the fabric. It’s ice-cold. There is no lingering body heat. It’s as if he was never there at all.
Moving with agonizing slowness, you push yourself up into a sitting position, your shaking hands instinctively grabbing the edge of the blanket and pulling it tightly against your naked chest. Your wide, bloodshot eyes scan the chaotic mess of your bedroom, desperately looking for a sign, an anchor to reality.
Nothing.
His clothes are gone.
You lean over the side of the bed, peering into the small wire trash can next to your nightstand.
Empty.
The foil wrapper and the condom that you explicitly remember him throwing away in the heat of the moment are simply not there.
If it weren’t for the unmistakable, lingering trail of his expensive cologne hanging heavy in the stagnant air of the room you would absolutely swear to yourself that you were having a stress-induced, alcohol-fueled hallucination.
But you know you aren’t. You couldn’t be.
Even amidst the overwhelming adrenaline, the blur of the alcohol, and the chaotic storm of conflicting, terrifying feelings that had consumed you, nothing could ever make you forget the visceral reality of what happened last night.
You remember the desperate, bruising pressure of his mouth. You remember the exact texture of his hair tangled in your fingers, the sound of his breathing, the way he had whispered your name against the skin of your neck like it was a prayer he had finally been allowed to say out loud.
Every single detail is permanently seared into your brain.
He was here.
He was yours, for a few stolen hours.
And then, he vanished like a coward.
A heavy, suffocating knot of betrayal and embarrassment forms in the pit of your stomach. You force yourself to move, swallowing past the lump in your throat. You carefully gather your clothes from the floor, clutching them against your chest. You crack your bedroom door open, wincing as the hinges squeak slightly, and peer into the hallway. The coast is clear. The laughter is coming from the kitchen.
You slip out of your room, moving with the practiced silence of a ghost, crossing the short hallway as rapidly as you can until you reach the safety of the bathroom at the far end. You slip inside, lock the door, and let out a long, shaky breath.
You turn on the shower, letting the water run until steam begins to fog the small mirror above the sink. You step under the spray, turning the dial until the water is scalding hot, almost painfully so. The heavy droplets cascade over your shoulders and stream down your back.
You close your eyes, leaning your forehead against the cold, damp tile of the shower wall, and wish, with a desperate, pathetic intensity, that the water could wash it all away.
You want to wash away the smell of him. You want to wash away the memory of his hands. You want to erase the intoxicating high of the good parts, and the sickening, hollow low of waking up alone.
You want to scrub away the complicated, messy reality of whatever you had just done, because you know, deep down, that you have just ruined everything.
You broke the unspoken rule. You crossed the line, and the realization that he bolted before sunrise tells you exactly how he feels about it.
And while there’s a part of you that wants to wash away what you saw in that alleyway, there’s this voice inside your head telling you that you need to keep that image of him printed in your memory, almost as if to protect yourself… from God-knows-what.
After what feels like an eternity, but is likely only ten minutes, you turn off the water. You step out, wrapping a worn, fluffy towel securely around your body, and wipe a small circle in the condensation covering the mirror to look at yourself.
You let out a harsh, bitter breath, the curse slipping past your lips in a quiet whisper. "Shit..."
Your trembling fingers slowly rise, gently tracing the line of your neck and collarbone. There, blooming vividly against the pale canvas of your skin, is a cluster of freshly done bruises. The marks from his lips. They look angry and undeniable.
You stare at them, your reflection staring back with a mixture of regret and quiet awe. You knew this was going to happen. Even in the dim, chaotic darkness of the living room last night, blinded by desire and adrenaline, you were acutely aware of what his mouth was doing to your skin. You knew he was leaving a mark, and in the heat of the moment, you didn’t care. You hadn’t thought about the consequences. You hadn’t thought about the morning.
Now, staring at the physical proof of your indiscretion, reality sets in. You are going to have to spend the entire week constantly adjusting your collars and hiding your skin so Robin doesn’t ask questions you can’t possibly answer.
Yet, as your fingertips lightly brush over the tender skin, a traitorous thrill shoots down your spine. Despite the mess, despite the undeniable sting of waking up to an empty bed, there is something profoundly beautiful about it.
It feels as though he had deliberately used you as his personal canvas, meticulously leaving his art behind to ensure that, even in his absence, you would feel him. He had branded you.
You force yourself to look away from the mirror. You quickly dry off and pull on the clothes you brought in: a simple, unassuming long-sleeved gray shirt that perfectly covers the evidence, and a pair of faded denim jeans.
You don’t bother drying your hair, simply letting the wet strands fall heavily around your shoulders.
You take one last, steadying breath. You unlock the bathroom door and step out into the hallway, mentally preparing yourself for the absolute worst, ready to face whatever domestic reality is waiting for you in the kitchen.
You walk softly toward the living area, the sound of their voices growing louder with every step. When you turn the corner into the kitchen, the scene before you is so painfully, heartbreakingly normal that it makes your stomach churn.
Robin and Steve are sitting casually on the edge of the kitchen counter, their legs dangling, a steaming mug of coffee gripped in each of their hands. The morning sunlight is streaming through the small kitchen window, catching the golden highlights in Steve’s perfectly tousled hair. He’s leaning back on one hand, laughing a deep, rich laugh while Robin wildly gesticulates with her free hand, animatedly recounting something from the night before.
They look like normal best friends. They look like nothing in the world is wrong.
You stand on the threshold for a brief moment, observing the man who had been tangled in your sheets just hours ago. He looks entirely unbothered. His t-shirt is perfectly crisp, his posture relaxed. It makes you want to scream.
"Good morning..." you finally say, your voice coming out softer than you intended, carrying a slight edge of feigned embarrassment, as if you are the one awkwardly interrupting their private moment.
Robin’s head snaps toward you, her face instantly lighting up with a massive grin.
"Ah! Good morning! If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty herself! Or, wait, should I say Cinderella?" She points an accusing, but entirely playful, finger at you. "Since when do you just vanish and leave the party without saying a single word to anyone? I spent almost an hour looking for you!"
You force the corners of your mouth to pull up into a convincing smile, leaning casually against the doorframe to hide the slight trembling in your knees.
"Sorry, Robs. I honestly was just completely exhausted from exams week. The alcohol hit me way harder than I expected, and I just needed my bed."
As you speak, your eyes inevitably drift from Robin to lock onto Steve.
"Hi," you say to him. It’s a single syllable, spoken softly, but it carries the heavy, unspoken weight of the entire night. It’s a question, a plea, and a challenge all rolled into one. Look at me. Acknowledge what we did.
Steve finally looks up.
His dark eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second. His expression is completely unreadable, heavily guarded. Then, the corners of his mouth twitch up into a polite, sickeningly gentle smile — the kind of smile you give an acquaintance you pass in the grocery store. He raises his coffee mug slightly in silent greeting, takes a slow sip, and deliberately looks away, shifting his gaze out the window.
The casual, dismissive nature of the gesture feels like a physical blow to your chest. The nausea returns, violently churning your stomach. You don't know exactly why it hurts so much — whether it’s the fact that he fled, or the fact that he can sit here in your kitchen, drinking your coffee, and pretend that nothing happened.
"Well," Robin sighs, oblivious to the suffocating tension thick enough to cut with a knife, "I didn’t see you for the entire second half of the night. And Steve didn’t see you either, right?"
Robin turns to look at him, seeking confirmation. Steve doesn’t speak. He just slowly shakes his head “no,” keeping his eyes meticulously focused on his mug.
That tiny, silent gesture is all it takes. It’s the final nail in the coffin.
That single shake of his head tells you exactly how today is going to go.
It tells you how tomorrow will go.
It dictates the dynamic for the weeks that follow.
He’s going to bury this. He’s going to deny it, repress it, and pretend that the frantic, breathless hours in your bedroom never existed. You don't know how to process that. You don’t want to think about the agonizing reality of reverting back to purely platonic friends after knowing the taste of his skin.
"Anyway," Robin continues, completely unfazed by Steve’s silence, a mischievous, teasing glint suddenly appearing in her eyes. "A little birdie told me that before you mysteriously vanished, you were seen getting awfully close with Dylan..."
Robin sings the words playfully, wiggling her eyebrows at you. You keep your face entirely impassive, refusing to look at Robin. Instead, you keep your gaze firmly locked on Steve.
The change is instantaneous. The relaxed posture vanishes. His broad shoulders instantly stiffen. The muscles in his forearms jump, and a deep, dark frown immediately etches itself across his forehead, his brows pulling together in a sharp V.
"Who is Dylan?" Steve asks. His tone is perfectly casual, desperately trying to sound bored and distracted, but you can hear the forced, tight control beneath the words.
"Oh, Dylan is..." Robin starts eagerly, more than happy to supply the gossip.
But you refuse to let her finish. The sheer audacity of Steve sitting there, playing dumb, pretending nothing happened sparks a sudden, fiery flare of anger in your chest.
"And where did you sleep last night?" you cut in sharply, your voice ringing out loud and clear, severing Robin’s sentence in half.
You look directly at Steve. You don’t blink. Your eyes are dark, challenging, and filled with a dangerous, reckless energy.
Go ahead, your eyes dare him. Lie to her.
The kitchen falls dead silent. Robin looks back and forth between the two of you, blinking in mild confusion at the sudden, sharp shift in the atmosphere.
Steve’s gaze locks onto yours. You can see the panic flash briefly behind his eyes. You watch as his jaw clenches so tightly that a muscle ticks violently in his cheek. He holds your gaze for one, agonizingly long second, communicating a silent plea. Don’t do this.
Then, he hides. He lifts the ceramic mug to his mouth, taking a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of his coffee to buy himself time, masking his expression behind the rim.
When he lowers the cup, his face is a mask of cool indifference.
"At my apartment," he says, his voice incredibly steady, incredibly smooth. "The party was getting pretty dead, so I headed back and crashed early too."
The lie hangs in the air, heavy and toxic.
The nausea that had been simmering in your stomach suddenly violently boils over. It twists your insides into painful knots, making you feel physically ill. You don’t know if it’s the lingering effects of the cheap alcohol, the exhaustion, or the soul-crushing disappointment of listening to him lie so effortlessly to Robin’s face — and by extension, to yours.
It takes every single ounce of self-control you possess not to roll your eyes dramatically. It takes a monumental effort to suppress the burning, destructive urge to just scream the truth right then and there. You want to point to the hallway, point to your bedroom, and declare exactly where he had been at 3:00 AM. You want to shatter the perfect, pristine illusion he’s trying so desperately to maintain.
But you don’t.
Why would you?
You know you have to lie. You know there’s no way Robin can find out what happened between you two. And you aren’t even sure you want her to know anyway.
The problem is, you can’t tell whether the anger simmering beneath your skin comes from his refusal to accept the reality of what happened the night before, or if it’s your mind’s way of protecting itself from the horrifying images of that dark alley that won't stop invading your thoughts.
You’re afraid you won’t be able to see any version of Steve other than that one.
You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you almost taste blood. You let out a long, heavy sigh through your nose.
You push off the doorframe and walk right past him. You move into the kitchen space, stepping so close to him that you can feel the warmth radiating off his body, but you don’t look at him. You reach for the coffee maker, grabbing a spare mug from the drying rack, and begin to pour the dark liquid, focusing entirely on the task to keep your hands from shaking.
The silence stretches, tense and uncomfortable. Steve shifts his weight on the counter, clearly agitated by your proximity and your silence.
"So, who is Dylan?" Steve asks again.
This time, the question isn’t directed at Robin. He’s looking at the side of your head, his voice lower, harder, insisting on an answer. He’s pushing. He’s trying to regain control of the narrative, trying to redirect the uncomfortable spotlight off of his own actions and back onto your supposed indiscretions.
You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the counter. You don’t turn around.
"No one," you cut him off instantly, your voice utterly dry, devoid of any warmth or emotion. "You don't care."
The finality in your tone leaves no room for argument. It shuts him down completely. Steve opens his mouth to speak, a defensive retort already forming on his lips, but before he can utter a single syllable, a series of rapid, cheerful knocks echo from the front door.
"That’s Vickie!"
Robin shrieks with sudden delight, completely oblivious to the radioactive fallout happening in her own kitchen. She hops down from the counter with an energetic bounce, her face beaming with joy. She practically sprints out of the kitchen, her footsteps thudding rapidly toward the front door to greet her girlfriend.
As soon as Robin disappears around the corner, the remaining air in the kitchen evaporates. You are left completely alone with him, and the polite facade drops.
Steve shifts off the counter, landing softly on his feet. He takes a half-step toward you, closing the already minimal distance between you. He leans in, lowering his head so his face is only inches from yours.
"And what if I do care?" he says.
His voice is no longer casual. It is a soft, raspy whisper, practically vibrating with a raw, terrifying intensity. The tone sends a sudden, involuntary shiver shooting straight down your spine. He turns his body fully toward you, cornering you against the counter, his eyes searching your face desperately, trying to find a crack in your armor. He wants you to give him something. He wants you to validate him, even after he was the one to leave you alone by morning.
You slowly turn your head to face him. You look into his dark, conflicted eyes, remembering the way they looked when he was looking down at you in the dark. But the vulnerability is gone. Now, all you feel is the cold, hard sting of his rejection.
"Well," you say, your voice dripping with sharp, biting ice, slicing through the tension like a razor blade. "It certainly doesn't seem like it."
You don’t give him a chance to respond. You don’t give him a chance to explain, to apologize, or to spin another web of lies. You simply turn on your heel and walk away.
As you step past him, you deliberately don’t adjust your path. You let your shoulder collide hard against his arm, physically bumping him out of your way. The impact is solid, a physical manifestation of your anger, of your hurt, your confusion.
Steve stumbles slightly, his breath catching in surprise, but you don’t look back.
You march straight down the hallway, your coffee abandoned on the counter. You walk into your bedroom, the faint smell of his cologne still haunting the air, and you slam the heavy wooden door shut behind you, the loud, definitive crack echoing through the apartment, leaving him alone in the kitchen with nothing but the silence of his own choices.
You know why he did it. You know that there’s no other option than to pretend nothing happened, at least in front of everyone.
But deep down inside, even in the smallest place of your heart, you were hoping he was going to choose to fight for you this time.
Seems like you were wrong. Again.
—
The morning air is thick, clinging to your skin with the promise of an unforgiving, humid day. Your bag hits the asphalt with a dull thud, coming to rest beside an already formidable mountain of luggage. A few feet away, Steve is engaged in a silent, intense battle of spatial geometry, wrestling with the gaping trunk of his car.
Thank God Vickie had decided to head out on her own yesterday afternoon. Her early departure is the only saving grace of this logistical nightmare, leaving exactly one extra sliver of breathing room in the vehicle. Even with her gone, and even with the surprisingly generous dimensions of Steve’s trunk, the car is packed to the absolute brim. It’s bursting at the seams with the accumulated debris of five people preparing to spend a week away from their apartments, venturing back home, for some of them.
The energy radiating from the rest of the group is palpable. It’s an infectious, buzzing excitement that you would normally find endearing, but right now, it’s grating against your frayed nerves. Robin is practically vibrating out of her sneakers. She hasn't stopped talking since she got up, her words tumbling out without much sense.
She’s currently in the middle of enumerating, in exhaustive detail, every single item on her Hawkins itinerary. She’s listing the diners she wants to revisit, the hidden trails in the woods she wants to show you, and a seemingly endless roster of eccentric townspeople she insists you absolutely have to meet. She waves her hands as she speaks, painting grand pictures in the air, completely consumed by the nostalgia of going home.
Beside her, Jonathan is equally animated, though in a much more subdued, nerdy capacity. He’s adjusting the strap of his camera, firing off random, highly specific trivia about the absolute best geographical coordinates in Hawkins for golden-hour photography. He’s treating this trip back to their hometown not as a break, but as an expedition. He’s determined to conscript every single one of you into acting as lighting assistants and subjects for his new, highly ambitious portfolio project.
And then there’s Nancy, whose posture is usually rigid with an underlying current of perpetual anxiety, now looks incredibly relaxed. You know her well enough to understand that the concept of "going back to Hawkins" usually triggers a complicated cocktail of emotions for her; but today, the relief is winning. The tight set of her shoulders has dissolved. She’s smiling softly at Jonathan’s rambling, her eyes bright.
It makes sense, really. Being in your own home, surrounded by the ghosts of your childhood and the comfort of the familiar, is supposed to be a grounding experience. Being with your people, your family, your roots — it’s inherently pleasant.
You know this feeling intimately; it’s exactly the same sensation that washes over you whenever you take the long bus ride back to your own sleepy hometown. The world quiets down. You can breathe easier.
That is what anyone in their right mind would think. That is the universal expectation of returning to the nest.
But as you pull your gaze away from the chattering trio and fix it on Steve, it becomes abundantly clear that he’s not sharing in this collective, warm-and-fuzzy sentiment. In fact, he looks like a man preparing for a tactical retreat.
Since the moment you mumbled a strained "good morning" to him upon arriving at the parking lot — a greeting he barely acknowledged with a cold nod — he has done absolutely nothing but remain in a heavy, impenetrable silence. He has transformed into a machine, methodically organizing, reorganizing, and shifting the bags and the cooler full of lukewarm sodas.
When Robin excitedly shoves a bag of cassette tapes into his face, asking if they’ll fit in the front seat, he merely gives a curt, tight-lipped nod. When Nancy gently taps his shoulder to remind him not to forget the small box of snacks sitting on the curb, he simply grunts an affirmative sound, grabbing the box without making eye contact. The rest of the group seems to flow around him with complete and utter normalcy, treating his silent, borderline-sullen behavior as if it were an everyday occurrence. They act as if this is just Steve being Steve, focused on the drive.
But you know better. You know this isn't his baseline. You know the exact cadence of his genuine smiles and the specific tilt of his head when he’s actually relaxed.
As you watch the muscles in his back tense beneath his shirt, the memory of the conversations crashes into your mind — when he had spoken, his voice low and raspy, about how incredibly complicated his relationship with his family really was. He had described the sprawling, empty Harrington house, explaining how the echoing hallways and the pristine, untouched furniture could sometimes feel less like a sanctuary and more like a carefully curated hell.
Looking at him now, his jaw set so tightly you can see the bone pressing against his skin, you realize that for Steve, returning to Hawkins is not a warm embrace. It’s not a nostalgic trip down memory lane. It's bracing for impact.
You can't stop the barrage of questions echoing in your mind: Why is it so bad right now? Did something happen with his parents recently? Does he not want to see someone specifically? You desperately want to know the "why" behind the dark cloud hovering over him.
And you would ask him. You would march right up to the trunk, put your hand on his arm, and demand to know what was eating at him.
You would do it, if it weren't for the fact that the two of you have been engaged in a suffocating, deeply frustrating game of silent treatment. It’s an invisible war of who-brakes-first, and you’ve both been playing the ice-cold avoidance game since yesterday morning.
It feels as though the air between you has physically crystallized, making it impossible to step closer without shattering something.
You are angry, you are hurt, and above all, you are fiercely stubborn. You have absolutely no intention of being the one to break first. You will not cede the high ground.
Yet, despite your internal declarations of war, your body betrays your stubbornness through sheer force of habit. When Steve finally slams the trunk shut — the metallic clunk echoing loudly, signaling that it’s time to hit the road — you don't even hesitate. Without a single conscious thought, your feet carry you toward the passenger side of the car almost like a reflex.
Your fingers wrap around the cool metal of the door handle, ready to pull it open and settle into the leather seat.
Then, his voice cuts through the muggy air, shattering your trance.
"Robin, you riding up front with me?"
The words are casual, thrown over his shoulder, but they hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Your hand freezes on the handle. A sudden, burning heat rushes up your neck and floods your cheeks. Your face feels like it’s on fire. Is it humiliation? Is it raw, unadulterated anger? Is it the crushing weight of rejection? You can't untangle the knot of emotions tightening in your throat. You just know that you feel entirely, painfully exposed.
You slowly pull your hand back as if the metal has burned you. Your eyes dart up, instantly colliding with Robin’s. She’s completely, blissfully oblivious to the heavy, electric tension snapping back and forth between you and Steve. She just flashes you a wide, bright smile, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Oh, sweet! DJ privileges!" Robin cheers, already practically skipping over to the passenger side.
You swallow the bitter taste in your mouth. You step back. You let her pass. You watch as she claims the seat that, until thirty seconds ago, you had considered yours, although you’re not entirely sure why.
You force yourself to take a deep, steadying breath. Inhale. The smell of exhaust fumes and incoming spring. Exhale.
You pivot on your heel, keeping your face a carefully constructed mask of indifference, and slide into the cramped back seat, wedging yourself into the corner alongside Nancy and Jonathan.
By the time the six hour of the drive rolls around, the vibrant energy of the morning has thoroughly transformed into an irritable lethargy. The novelty of the road trip has worn off, leaving behind only the harsh reality of being trapped in a moving metal box.
You all have officially run out of music to listen to; Robin’s curated mixtapes have been flipped, replayed, and ultimately ejected in favor of the static-laced hum of local radio stations fading in and out of signal.
They have run out of nostalgic stories to tell, the well of high school memories running dry around hour two.
They have run out of stupid road trip games to play, the alphabet game having ended in a bitter dispute over whether "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" counted as a word.
The car has descended into a heavy, oppressive silence. Robin, whose energy had seemed utterly boundless that morning, abruptly ran out of battery. She passed out two hours ago, her head lolled back against the headrest, her mouth slightly open, sleeping as deeply as if someone had simply flipped a switch on her back.
On the other side of the backseat, Jonathan and Nancy have formed a tangled, sleeping mass. They are sharing Jonathan’s Walkman, a single foam headphone resting over each of their outward-facing ears, their heads leaning heavily against one another in a picture of domestic tranquility that makes you want to scream.
You are the only one left awake in the back. And you are miserable.
You can hear Wicked Game by Chris Isaak bleeding through Jonathan’s headphones, and it makes your stomach twist. Or maybe that’s just the motion sickness from the drive. You can’t really tell.
You let out a long, ragged sigh, no longer caring if anyone hears you. Your neck is throbbing with a dull, persistent ache from staring out the window for too long. Your lower back is staging a violent protest against the stiffness of the BMW’s leather seats. Your ass is completely numb from sitting in the exact same position for God-knows-how-many minutes. You are so intensely, mind-numbingly bored that it feels like a physical weight pressing down on your skull.
But beneath the boredom, beneath the physical discomfort, is a deeper, sharper ache. You want Steve to talk to you. You want him to look at you. You want the comfortable, effortless banter back. You want to bridge the abyss that opened up yesterday morning, and the desire is burning a hole through your chest—
"You wanna stop?"
The voice is low, barely a rumble, meant only for you.
Your head snaps up. You look straight ahead and your eyes lock instantly with Steve’s through the rearview mirror. His gaze is intense, dark, and unwavering.
He’s watching you. He has been watching you.
The sudden, direct contact sends a jolt of electricity down your spine. Caught completely off guard, you instinctively shake your head no. You feel a fresh wave of heat rise to your cheeks. You hadn't realized your sigh had been quite so loud, so incredibly dramatic. You feel like a petulant child caught throwing a tantrum in the back seat.
Before the silent, loaded exchange in the mirror can continue, the universe intervenes. The sound of your sigh, or perhaps the shift in the car’s atmosphere, rouses Robin. She stirs in the passenger seat, stretching her arms out with a loud, theatrical groan. She smacks her lips, blinking the sleep from her eyes.
"I actually want to," Robin announces, her voice thick with sleep. "I’m literally about to pee my pants. My bladder is going to explode."
Steve tears his eyes away from the mirror, breaking the connection. The tension in the car instantly dissipates, replaced by mundane reality. He nods, checking his surroundings.
"There’s a town coming up in about twenty minutes," he says, his voice flat, completely devoid of the quiet intimacy it held just a second ago.
By the time the tires finally crunch against the gravel of the designated pit stop, you realize Steve’s definition of a "town" is remarkably generous. The place is practically a ghost town. It consists of a single, decrepit gas station with peeling paint, a diner with boarded-up windows, and an endless expanse of dry, yellowing fields stretching out in every direction.
The heat radiating off the concrete is visibly shimmering, distorting the air. It’s utterly deserted, feeling entirely disconnected from the rest of the world. But it serves its purpose: it’s a place to escape the suffocating confines of the car and stretch your cramped, aching limbs.
You make a beeline for the restrooms. When you finally emerge a few minutes later, vigorously shaking your hands in the air because the paper towel dispenser was jammed and empty, you take a moment to scan the perimeter.
Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan are nowhere to be seen, presumably having ventured into the dimly lit, dusty convenience store to hunt for edible road trip rations.
But you spot him.
Steve is standing at the far edge of the dirt lot, having parked the car a considerable distance away from the actual gas pumps. He’s standing in the shade of a massive, dying oak tree, completely isolated.
You pause, the wet skin of your hands cooling rapidly in the breeze. You hesitate. A war wages in your mind. The smart thing to do would be to walk into the store, join the others, and maintain the safety of the group dynamic. The smart thing to do would be to keep the wall up.
But your feet are already moving. You walk toward him, the gravel crunching loudly beneath your shoes, betraying your approach.
He’s leaning heavily against the side of the car, his posture a mixture of exhaustion and defiance. As you get closer, you see him fight the wind to light a cigarette dangling from his lips. The sharp smell of tobacco hits your nose, mingling with the scent of his cologne.
When he hears your footsteps, he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t straighten up. He doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he deliberately turns his head in the opposite direction, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line, staring out into the vast, empty distance of the Indiana plains.
You reach the car. You mirror his posture, leaning your back against the warm metal of the passenger door, right beside him. You cross your arms tightly over your chest, a defensive barrier.
The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of the wind whipping across the fields and the faint crackle of burning tobacco.
"They went in to buy some snacks," he states, his voice sounding rough and unnaturally loud in the quiet expanse. It’s a peace offering. A mundane observation to test the waters.
You nod slowly, silently, the midday sun is brutal — even if spring is just starting — angled just right to assault your vision. You squint, furrowing your brow as the harsh light forces you to look down at your sneakers.
The silence returns, heavier this time. You can hear him inhale.
"What did you expect me to say?"
The words cut through the air like a knife, sudden and sharp. Steve speaks without looking at you, his voice tight. He takes another long, slow drag of his cigarette, the tip glowing bright red before turning to ash.
Your head snaps toward him. Your heart does a painful, erratic flutter against your ribs.
"Excuse me?" you ask, your tone defensive, trying to buy time, trying to understand where this attack is coming from.
Steve finally turns his head. He exhales, a thick plume of smoke escaping his lips. He turns his face away just enough so that the smoke drifts into the wind, far away from your face, ensuring it doesn't bother you. It’s a tiny, deeply ingrained gesture of consideration that makes your chest ache in a completely different way.
"I said," he begins, his eyes finally meeting yours, dark and storm-filled, "what exactly did you want me to say? Yesterday morning."
He shifts his weight, turning his body fully toward you, cornering you with his gaze.
"Did you want me to tell Robin that we got together? Did you want me to announce to the whole room that I slept in your bed? Did you want me to sit everyone down and give them a detailed account of everything that happened?" His voice is rising, laced with a bitter, defensive edge.
You suck in a sharp breath. Your jaw tightens so fiercely your teeth ache.
No. The word screams in your mind. Of course you didn't want him to broadcast it. You weren't insane. You knew exactly what the fallout would be if he had blurted that out. You knew exactly what telling Robin such a monumental secret would mean. She would have completely, totally lost her mind. The dynamic of the entire group would have been irrevocably fractured in an instant. The questions, the stares, the sheer weight of their expectations — it would be suffocating.
But… you don't know how to explain it to him. You don't know how to articulate the nuance of your hurt. Because even though you logically didn't want him to scream it from the rooftops, there was a tiny, selfish, deeply buried part of you that did. A part of you that wanted him to look at you in the daylight, in front of everyone, and not look ashamed.
A part of you that hated how easily he had compartmentalized the intimacy you shared, shoving it into a dark box the second other people were around. That was why you had gotten so angry. That was why you had frozen him out. Even if you would rather die than admit it out loud.
You don't answer him. You can't. The words are stuck behind the tight lump in your throat.
Instead, you turn your body to face him entirely. The distance between you is negligible, the air practically vibrating with unresolved electricity. Without thinking, operating purely on adrenaline and instinct, you reach out. Your fingers brush against his knuckles, sending a spark up your arm, and you smoothly pluck the lit cigarette from his hand.
You bring it to your lips, keeping your eyes locked dead onto his, and take a drag.
Steve’s irises widen infinitesimally. His brow furrows in genuine confusion, the anger momentarily gone by your sheer audacity.
"What are you doing? You don't even smoke," he points out, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher than before.
You exhale a thin stream of smoke, trying desperately not to cough as the harsh tobacco burns the back of your throat.
"Shut up," you snap, the words clipped and defensive.
For a split second, there’s absolute silence. And then, surprisingly, Steve laughs. It’s not a joyous sound; it’s a short, breathy, incredulous bark of laughter. The sheer absurdity of the situation — you, standing in a dusty parking lot in the middle of nowhere, awkwardly smoking his stolen cigarette to avoid talking about your feelings — seems to break through his armor.
The heavy, suffocating tension that had gripped him since the morning shifts. It doesn’t disappear, but it morphs into something softer, something a little more pliable. He leans back against the car, the rigid lines of his body relaxing just a fraction. He tips his head back, staring up at the blinding, cloudless sky for a long second, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
When he brings his gaze back down to you, the anger is gone, replaced by a quiet, searching vulnerability.
"Are we really not going to talk about it?" he asks softly. It’s no longer an accusation. It’s a plea.
You stare at him, feeling the familiar urge to run, to deflect, to protect yourself from the terrifying reality of whatever this is. You take another shallow puff of the cigarette, buying time.
"About what?" you ask distantly, feigning total ignorance, your voice carefully neutral.
Steve stares at you for a long moment. He absorbs your deflection, processing the wall you’ve just slammed back down between you both. A muscle in his jaw feathers. He nods slowly, a bitter resignation settling over his features.
"Right. I see," he murmurs, his voice dropping back into a flat, detached monotone. He looks away, the conversation seemingly over.
But you aren't done. The adrenaline is still pumping through your veins, making you reckless. If he wants to drag skeletons out of the closet, you can play that game too.
"Are we going to talk about the alleyway?"
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
The reaction is instantaneous. Steve’s entire body goes rigid. The momentary softness, the playful banter, the vulnerable guy who had laughed just seconds ago — it all completely evaporates. It’s as if a switch has been flipped. His posture straightens, his shoulders squaring up as he turns to look at you, his eyes suddenly hard and unreadable.
"About what?" he demands, his voice low, firm, and laced with a sudden, dangerous edge.
Whatever ground you had gained is gone. The mention of the alleyway has struck a raw, exposed nerve.
You open your mouth, ready to push him, ready to demand answers. But before you can speak, movement in your peripheral vision catches your eye.
Down the dusty road, you see them. Robin, Jonathan, and Nancy are walking back from the convenience store. Robin is carrying two massive plastic bags, laughing loudly at something Jonathan is saying, while Nancy sips casually from a cup.
The real world is rushing back in, threatening to shatter the fragile, volatile bubble you and Steve have created in this isolated corner of the parking lot. The window of opportunity is slamming shut.
You turn back to Steve. He’s staring at you, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than normal, waiting for your move.
You hold his gaze for one long, heavily loaded second. You let the unspoken words hang in the air between you — the hurt, the confusion, the undeniable pull that neither of you seems able to cut off.
"I see," you say, your voice dripping with quiet, pointed irony, throwing his exact words back in his face.
You reach out, pressing the half-smoked cigarette back into his hand, making sure your fingers brush his one last time.
You don’t wait for his response. You turn your back on him, walking around the rear bumper of the BMW, your footsteps heavy on the gravel, and pull open the heavy rear door. You slide back into the suffocating heat of the back seat, ready to endure the rest of the agonizing road trip, the tension between you somehow burning brighter and hotter than ever before.
—
Meeting Robin’s parents makes absolutely everything about her make a little more sense. She inherited her father’s sharp, eccentric sense of humor and her mother’s deep, overflowing well of emotion. It’s a combination that pulls a genuine smile from your lips every single time you watch the three of them interact.
After who knows how many hours trapped in the confined space of Steve’s car, staring out the window as the landscape shifted from the highway to the familiar, quiet streets of their hometown, the exhaustion had settled deep into your bones. The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time the tires finally crunched over the Buckley’s driveway.
Unloading the trunk felt like a monumental chore. Everyone’s muscles were stiff, joints popping in protest as you all hauled duffel bags and backpacks up the porch steps. Nancy and Jonathan, looking completely drained and practically sleepwalking on their feet, had politely but firmly declined the invitation to stay. They just wanted their own beds.
But when Mrs. Buckley appeared at the front door, wearing a welcoming smile and practically begging the rest of you to stay for dinner, Steve didn't hesitate.
He nodded, flashing that effortless, charming smile of his. “I’d love to, Mrs. Buckley. Thank you.”
You caught the briefest flicker in his hazel eyes as he said it. You know him well enough by now to read the subtle shifts in his demeanor. He agreed so quickly, so eagerly, perhaps because somewhere deep down, he just isn't ready to go back to that massive, empty house of his. The thought of him walking into a dark, silent room makes your chest ache slightly, so you’re secretly glad he’s staying here in the warmth of Robin's chaotic, loving home, at least for a couple of hours.
The dining room is cozy, filled with the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted chicken and vegetables.
“So, Robin was telling me that your final project is just about ready,” Mr. Buckley says, sitting at the head of the table, serving a generous portion of mashed potatoes onto his plate before passing the bowl toward you; pulling your attention away from Steve
“Oh, yeah,” you nod shyly, accepting the bowl. The sudden attention makes you shift in your seat. “I have to turn it in the first weeks of April. I still have to interview one more person, but I’m hoping I can find someone willing to talk soon.”
As you speak, your head naturally turns toward Steve, who is just settling into the chair right beside yours. His knee accidentally brushes against yours under the table, sending a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity up your leg. He doesn't pull away.
“Oh, I’m absolutely sure you’ll find someone, sweetheart. Don't you worry about it,” Mrs. Buckley chimes in from across the table. She offers you a soft, reassuring smile that looks so incredibly much like Robin’s that it’s almost uncanny. The warmth in her eyes makes you relax your shoulders.
Then, she turns her attention to the boy beside you.
“Steve, honey, how is your father doing? I haven’t seen him around town in quite a while.”
The shift in Steve’s posture is instantaneous. It’s subtle — a microscopic tightening of his jaw, a sudden rigidity in his spine — but sitting this close to him, you feel it. You can practically hear the iron gates coming down around his emotions. Still, he masks it flawlessly, offering Robin’s mother a polite, practiced smile as he reaches over to pass her the plate of dinner rolls.
“Uh, yeah, he’s doing well. He’s been on several business trips lately, you know how it is…” Steve’s voice is remarkably steady, smooth as glass.
“I heard he gave a rather generous loan to Mr. Smith so he could finally open that store downtown,” Mr. Buckley adds, taking a sip of his wine. “I suppose business must be treating him well.”
Steve clears his throat, a sharp sound that betrays his discomfort. He reaches for his water glass, wrapping his long fingers around the condensation-slicked surface.
“I really wouldn't know anything about that, sir,” Steve says, taking a slow, deliberate sip.
Even though you are forcing yourself to focus intently on cutting your chicken, you can swear there is a heavy, bitter lie buried underneath those words.
When Steve lowers his glass, his gaze meets Robin’s across the table. Her, sensing the dangerous territory they’ve wandered into, violently shifts gears to save him.
“We’re going to Lover’s Lake tomorrow!” she announces loudly, waving her fork in the air. “So I hope you brought a good swimsuit, because you better be ready to dive in.”
You nearly choke on your food, whipping your head to stare at her in disbelief.
“What? Are you out of your mind? Spring literally just started. The water must be colder than a glacier right now.” You shake your head emphatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Boooo,” Robin taunts, immediately tearing off a piece of bread and throwing it at you. It bounces harmlessly off your shoulder. “You’re getting in the water, end of story. Besides, local legend says that if you take a swim in Lover's Lake, you’ll find your one true love.”
You roll your eyes so hard they almost ache, trying to suppress a laugh.
“You are ridiculous, Robin.” But the teasing pulls a genuine smile to your lips, easing the lingering tension in the room.
“You don't believe in that kind of stuff?” Steve asks suddenly.
The question catches you off guard. When you look over at him, he isn’t looking at you. His gaze is firmly fixed on his plate, pushing a piece of carrot around with his fork, but the tone of his voice holds a strange, quiet weight.
“Do you?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow.
He pauses, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He offers a slow, noncommittal shrug.
“Maybe.”
“So, what, you’ve already taken a dip hoping to find true love?” you tease, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer to him.
He finally smiles, that famous, devastating grin, and shrugs again, looking up through his eyelashes. “A couple of times.”
“Yeah? And how did that work out for you?”
Your voice drops a register, adopting a tone you can’t quite describe — something soft, almost breathless, entirely too intimate for a crowded dinner table.
Steve finally turns his head to look at you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, and the sudden intensity in his gaze feels like a physical weight. The chatter of Robin and her parents fades into a dull hum in the background.
Suddenly, it’s as if the two of you are entirely alone again. The air between you crackles, heavy with the phantom memory of dancing in the middle of the empty record store, of the hushed whispers in your bedroom just the night before, of the heat of his hands on your body.
You watch, mesmerized, as Steve’s eyes dart down to your mouth. He slowly wets his bottom lip with his tongue, his chest rising with a shallow breath.
“I can’t complain,” he murmurs, his voice a low gravel that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“Who wants dessert?!” Mrs. Buckley suddenly interrupts, completely oblivious to the thick, suffocating romantic tension that just filled her dining room.
You snap your head away from Steve, your cheeks burning hot. But as you look across the table, you catch Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyes are narrowed intensely, almost accusatory, analyzing the interaction with a terrifying sharpness. But the moment you make eye contact with her, the suspicion vanishes from her face, wiped clean as she enthusiastically volunteers to help her mother with the pie.
After finishing the apple pie and spending twenty minutes helping Mr. and Mrs. Buckley wash and dry the dishes, Robin’s parents announce that they are exhausted and heading up to bed. They wish you all a good night, leaving the three of you alone on the ground floor.
The transition to the living room is lazy and slow. You collapse onto the long, floral-patterned sofa, and Steve plops down right next to you.
“I think I ate way too much,” Robin groans dramatically. She flops onto the couch, turning sideways and throwing herself directly across your lap and Steve’s thighs, effectively pinning you both together.
“Your mom’s cooking is incredible,” you say softly, gently running your fingers through Robin’s messy hair where her head rests near your arm.
Beside you, Steve adjusts his position. He drapes his right arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders. He isn't quite touching you, but the heat radiating from his forearm is a constant, burning presence against the nape of your neck.
You hate how he’s acting like nothing has happened. Not just what you saw in the alleyway, or the night spent together; but also the small fight at the gas station or the fact that you guys haven’t been able to even look at each other all weekend.
But even then, you make absolutely no move to lean forward or avoid him. In fact, you lean back just a fraction, welcoming his warmth.
“God, I know. There really is nothing quite like coming back home and eating mom’s food,” Robin sighs happily, closing her eyes.
You smile, nodding in agreement, but a sudden, heavy knot forms in the pit of your stomach. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Steve’s reaction. His jaw locks tight, a muscle feathering furiously in his cheek. He lets out a slow, silent sigh, turning his head away to stare blankly at the dark television screen.
The contrast between Robin’s comforting homecoming and Steve’s cold, empty reality is a physical ache in the room. You want to reach out, to intertwine your fingers with his, but Robin’s weight across your legs keeps you aware of her presence.
“Alright, let’s watch a movie,” Steve says suddenly, his voice a little too loud, desperate to break the suffocating silence in his own head.
“What? No, you’re insane. I am completely drained,” Robin complains, letting out a loud groan as she forces herself to sit up, removing her body from your laps.
Steve groans back, throwing his head against the back cushion in defeat.
“Come on, just one. Something short.”
“Nope. Sorry, dingus,” Robin says, pushing herself entirely off the couch and stretching her arms above her head. “Come on, dingus number two, let’s get you upstairs. I’ll show you your room for the week.”
You smile gratefully, exhaustion finally catching up to you as you stand up from the deep cushions. The moment you move, Steve quickly drops his arm from the back of the sofa, standing up right behind you.
“I’ll help you carry your bags up,” he says, his hand lightly grazing the small of your back as he steps past you toward the hallway.
“Steve, you really don’t have to—” you start to protest, not wanting him to carry your heavy luggage after the long drive.
But Robin is already bounding up the carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Bring mine up too, Harrington!” she yells over her shoulder, completely disregarding your polite refusal.
The guest bedroom is quaint, clean, and meticulously organized. The floral bedspread is perfectly smoothed out, the pillows fluffed, and a small vase of fresh spring flowers sits on the nightstand. It’s clearly the handiwork of Mrs. Buckley, showcasing a neat, domestic facet of her personality that Robin most certainly did not inherit.
“Oh, right, my mom told me to get you a towel,” Robin says, doing a quick inventory of things in the closet “Hang on, there should be some fresh ones in the laundry room downstairs. I’ll be right back.”
Before you can say a word, she spins on her heel and darts back out into the hallway, her footsteps thudding rapidly down the stairs.
Suddenly, the room feels incredibly small.
You let out a long, heavy sigh, walking over to the small, antique mirror hanging above the wooden dresser. You stare at your reflection, taking in the dark circles under your eyes and your messy hair.
“God, I look dead,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand down your face.
Behind you, there’s a soft thump as Steve drops your heavy bag onto the hardwood floor. He doesn’t step back out into the hallway. Instead, he leans his tall frame casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes lock onto your reflection in the mirror.
“You look beautiful,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost tentative, trying to see where you both stand.
Your heart does a frantic, violent flip in your chest. You roll your eyes, though you can’t hide the blush creeping up your cheeks, and turn around to face him. To think that a few hours ago you were declaring war on him and now, with just three simple words, he can completely dismantle your armor.
“Don’t start,” you warn him, pointing a finger in his direction.
Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through the quiet room. He uncrosses his arms and takes a slow step into the bedroom.
“Don’t start with what?”
“Steve…” you say, your voice carrying a mix of warning and pleading.
He just smiles. That devastating, heart-stopping smile. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between you, and reaches out to gently take your hand, pulling you slightly toward him.
“Steve!” you whisper-shout, your eyes wide as you instinctively pull your hand back. You glance terrified toward the open doorway, half-expecting Robin to appear on the landing at any given second. But despite your panic, your traitorous feet don’t step back.
“Relax, she’s gonna take a while,” Steve murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He steps into your personal space, towering over you slightly. “She probably got distracted by something in the kitchen. I know her.”
You bite your bottom lip nervously, crossing your arms over your chest as if trying to build a physical barrier to protect yourself from the magnetic pull he has on you.
He just laughs softly at your defensive posture. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches up. His warm fingertips graze your jawline as he gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The brief contact sends a rush of adrenaline straight to your fingertips.
“Are you gonna let me take you for a drive one of these days?” he asks, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes.
You feign a dramatic gasp, playing along to keep your rapidly beating heart from exploding. “King Steve is going to take me for a cruise around town in his fancy car? My God, I’d surely be the envy of every girl at Hawkins High.”
Steve groans, tossing his head back in exaggerated annoyance, but you can clearly see the way he bites down on his lower lip to suppress a massive grin.
When he looks back down at you, his eyes are darker, softer.
“Just say yes.”
You sigh, biting your lip, thinking about it.
“A short drive. As friends.”
Steve shrugs, stepping close enough now that you can smell the lingering scent of his cologne.
“Of course. As friends…”
Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of Robin’s heavy footsteps padding across the downstairs hardwood and heading toward the stairs breaks the silence.
Panic spikes in your chest, but before you can even react, before you can step back, Steve’s hand shoots out to cup the back of your neck. He leans down and captures your lips in a short, stolen kiss. It’s entirely too fast, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer terror of getting caught, but the pressure of his mouth on yours is intoxicating.
He pulls away just as quickly, leaving you completely frozen, your lips parted, your brain short-circuiting.
He spins around casually, stepping out into the hallway just as Robin reaches the top of the landing.
“Bye, Robin!” Steve calls out cheerfully, passing her on the stairs.
“Uh, bye, dingus!” she calls back, sounding slightly confused by his sudden, quick exit.
Robin walks into the room, holding a fluffy white towel. She looks at you, then looks back toward the empty hallway, her brow furrowing in deep suspicion.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, handing you the towel.
You violently snap out of your trance. Your lips still tingle. You force a bright, plastic smile onto your face and nod rapidly.
“Yep! All good. Just tired.”
You grab your toiletry bag from the bed and turn around to head to the bathroom, desperate to escape her hawk-like gaze. But Robin isn’t done.
“Hey. Wait.” She leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms.
You freeze, slowly turning back around.
“Yeah?”
Robin tilts her head, studying your face.
“From the party…” Robin begins, her voice surprisingly soft. She tilts her head, studying you. “You did go back with Dylan, right?”
You swallow hard, your throat feeling like sandpaper. You nod your head. It’s the truth, technically. It’s the easiest half-truth you can offer right now.
“Yeah,” you manage to say, forcing your voice to stay level. “I did.”
Robin doesn’t move. She just stares at you, her jaw working as if she is chewing on her next set of words.
“And…” she continues, her eyes narrowing slightly, the intense scrutiny making your skin prickle. “Did something happen after?”
Panic, cold and sharp, spikes in your chest. You immediately shake your head, perhaps a little too quickly.
Something had happened afterward, yes, your mind screams. But absolutely not with Dylan. But there is absolutely no way Robin can know that. Not now. Not ever. The dynamic between the three of you is already too fragile, a precarious house of cards built on unspoken rules and shared trauma that you don’t even fully understand yet.
Robin looks at you with an expression that screams, “Come on, don't lie to me.” She knows you. She has spent years analyzing you, learning your tells. Without saying a word, she pushes off the doorframe, takes two slow steps into the room, raises her right hand, and points an accusing finger directly at your collarbone.
“Then what’s that?”
Your stomach plummets straight to your feet, the floor seemingly dropping out from beneath you.
You reach up, your trembling fingers brushing against the soft fabric of your t-shirt. You realize, with a jolt of pure, paralyzing horror, that the neckline has slipped slightly off your shoulder in the frantic rush to separate from Steve moments ago.
There, stark and undeniably vivid against your skin, are the soft purple bruises. The hickeys. The very marks you had spent the entire weekend desperately trying to conceal with heavy layers of foundation, setting powder, and suffocating collars.
Your mind races for an excuse, any excuse, but your brain is completely short-circuiting. The silence in the room feels deafening.
“I… I tripped,” you stammer, the lie tasting like dry ash in your mouth. You sound pathetic even to your own ears. “I tripped over my own feet and, um, fell while… stacking some albums the other day in the store.”
For a second, Robin just stares at the mark. Then, she bursts into a loud, ringing laugh, the tension breaking so abruptly it gives you whiplash. She steps forward, her face splitting into a wide grin, and playfully smacks your shoulder. She exclaims your name in absolute disbelief.
“Oh, come on! You are the worst liar I have ever met in my entire life,” she laughs, her voice echoing in the quiet room. “Tell me the truth. You hooked up with Dylan, didn’t you?”
You quickly shake your head, desperate to extinguish this narrative before it takes root.
“No! Robin, I swear, no. It wasn’t Dylan.”
Robin pauses, her laughter abruptly cutting off. Her smile fades into a look of genuine, wide-eyed curiosity. She steps a little closer, lowering her voice as if someone else might be listening in the empty house.
“But… something did happen?” she whispers, her eyes bright with a mix of scandalized excitement and interrogative intent. “After he took you back to the apartment? Did someone else come over?”
You hesitate. Your mind races through a million different scenarios, trying to find a way out of this trap. If you say no, she will keep pushing about the bruise. If you say yes, you have to invent a phantom hookup. But the longer you stand there in silence, biting your lip, your eyes darting nervously to the floor, the guiltier you look. You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, betraying you entirely.
Finally, knowing you are backed into an inescapable corner, you close your eyes.
“Fine. It was Dylan… yes.”
Robin lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeal of excitement, her hands flying to her mouth. She jumps in place for a split second, showing the supportive best friend eager for gossip. But the joy is fugacious. Almost as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanishes. She stops abruptly. Her posture stiffens, and her face turns dead serious, the shadows of the dimly lit room suddenly clinging to her features again.
“Okay, wait,” she says, holding up a hand, her tone dropping an octave. “I mean… I don’t know if that’s actually a good thing.” She starts pacing, just a few short steps back and forth at the foot of the bed, her hands beginning to flutter in front of her. “I know the guy is a total idiot, but…”
She stops, planting her feet, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. When she looks at you again, there is genuine vulnerability in her eyes. The frantic energy shifts into something much heavier. She begins to speak a mile a minute, the words tumbling out of her mouth as if she can’t contain them any longer.
“Oh God, can I be totally honest with you? Because I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t just say it.” She doesn’t wait for your answer. “I was really, really scared that it might have been with Steve.”
The air leaves your lungs in a violent rush.
It feels as if all the oxygen has been instantaneously vacuumed out of the small room. You stare at her, completely paralyzed, your grip on the towel tightening until your knuckles turn a sharp, bloodless white. You try to blink, try to maintain a neutral expression, but your heart is screaming in your ears. She knows. She knows. She knows.
“Because, look, I’m not blind,” Robin continues, her hands gesturing wildly, completely oblivious to the fact that you have entirely stopped breathing. “I noticed that you guys were acting super weird at dinner tonight. The looks across the table, the whispering, the way he kept bumping his knee against yours under the booth. And honestly? I’ve been noticing it for months. God, I don’t know, practically since you guys first met!”
She throws her hands up in exasperation, pacing again. You remain frozen, a statue in the center of the room, listening as Robin unknowingly dissects the secret you’ve been harboring in your chest for the last months.
“But,” she says, stopping to press a hand to her chest, letting out a breath that sounds like pure relief, “I am so genuinely, deeply happy that it’s not him. Because — and please, please don’t misunderstand me here — he is a great friend. He really is. I love him to death. He’s my platonic soulmate, he’d take a bullet for me, and I’d take one for him.”
She steps closer, her blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you want to shrink away.
“But you know how he is. I’ve told you this before. He’s incredibly complicated. With all his family stuff, his endless track record… he’s just… he’s not boyfriend material. Not for someone like you.” She shakes her head emphatically. “He’s damaged, okay? And he doesn’t know how to handle it. He’d just end up pulling you into his mess, and he’d end up hurting you, and I couldn’t bear to see that happen to you, and—”
Robin continues to vomit words at lightning speed, her hands slashing through the air as she passionately dissects Steve Harrington’s deepest emotional flaws.
You remember every time she warned you about him.
You remember that talk in the radio cabin when Steve disappeared for days, and she told you to stay away for your own good.
But she keeps listing his insecurities, his defense mechanisms, his tendency to push people away when he feels too much. She’s completely, blissfully unaware that with every single word she speaks, she’s brutally shredding your heart.
You hear her voice, but the words start to blur into a localized white noise. Your mind goes entirely blank. A cold, heavy dread washes over you, starting at the crown of your head and seeping all the way down to your toes, effectively drowning out the lingering, intoxicating warmth of Steve’s kiss that had been burning on your lips just moments prior.
You suddenly feel sick to your stomach. You want to scream at her to stop, to tell her that she’s wrong, that Steve is gentle and kind and terrified of exactly what she is describing.
But you can’t. Because defending him would mean exposing the truth. It would mean destroying the fragile peace of your makeshift family. And at the same time… do you know better than her?
“Anyway,” Robin finishes, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh of relief, dropping her hands to her sides. “I’m just glad you’re smart enough to steer clear of that particular mess.”
The room descends into a profound, suffocating silence for a second. The only sound is the rhythmic, haunting chirp of the crickets outside the window, bleeding through the glass from the dark Hawkins night. You stand there, mute, a ghost in your own body.
Robin watches you, perhaps finally sensing a fraction of the tension radiating from your rigid frame. Her shoulders drop slightly, the frenetic energy bleeding out of her, leaving behind a profound sadness that makes her look incredibly fragile.
“Listen,” she says softly, the rapid-fire pacing gone, replaced by a quiet earnestness. “I know I’m always vague about this stuff. I know I talk in circles and I beat around the bush and I never just come out and tell you things straight.” She sighs, a weary, bone-deep sound, and rubs the back of her neck. “But it’s for your own good, okay?”
She tilts her head, her eyes pleading with you to understand.
“We’re good, right? All of us, just the way we are. As friends. Us against the world.”
She steps closer, her voice dropping to a harsh, intimate whisper. The mask of the quirky, fast-talking girl from the city drops completely, revealing the vulnerable teenager from Hawkins.
“We’ve known Steve since before,” she says, emphasizing the word before like it holds the weight of a thousand untold horrors. “We have to carry his demons. We know the ghosts that haunt him because we were there when they were made. But you met him now. You met him in the city. And that is so good. Because you get to know a new Steve. A Steve who is desperately trying to be better, a Steve who is trying to leave the blood and the nightmares behind.”
She looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, before her gaze snaps back to you, fierce and protective.
“Look, do you remember that night?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly. “That night when he came to your apartment completely beaten up?”
You nod slowly, the memory flashing behind your eyes. Steve sitting on the edge of your couch, his lip and eyebrow split, blood even in his hair, staring at you with a look of such profound shame and sorrow as you gently dabbed at his cuts with a warm cloth.
It was the night the undeniable shift between you had solidified.
The night you realized there was no going back from anything he was pulling you towards… with him.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been through something exactly like that with him?” Robin’s voice cracks, pulling you back to the present. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to clean his wounds? How many times I’ve had to go looking for him in the middle of the night, dragging him out of some dark alleyway? How many times I’ve had to hide his lies, cover for his injuries, make up excuses for why he couldn’t function?”
She shakes her head bitterly, stopping herself before she reveals too much, before she accidentally spills the secrets that she and Steve have sworn to protect you from.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What I mean is… you don’t have to know that side of him. It’s ugly. It’s painful. And it is absolutely not worth it.”
She looks at you, her eyes searching yours desperately for agreement.
“And honestly, while we’re here in Hawkins for these next few days… you’re probably going to notice that he acts… well, a little weird, you know? He gets jumpy here. Paranoid. Maybe we all will.” She offers a small, self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You just have to understand that this town does things to us… and it definitely brings out the worst in him.”
Her smile softens into something incredibly genuine, filled with a deep, platonic love that makes the guilt in your stomach twist like a physical knife.
“But it’s a good thing you don’t get it, you know?” she says, reaching out to gently squeeze your arm. “Because you are our future. You are the very first good thing we met when we arrived in the city, trying to run away from all of this. You were a new chapter. You are… you are the first good, pure thing that Steve has known in a really, really long time. And I am entirely sure that he appreciates that more than he could ever say.”
She pauses, her thumb gently stroking your arm, before adding the final, devastating warning.
“But… just as friends. Right?”
You can’t speak. Your throat is entirely closed off, blocked by a massive lump of unspoken truths, unconfessed feelings, and a crushing, suffocating guilt. You can only manage another weak, pathetic nod, confirming a lie that has just shattered the foundation of your world.
“Right,” Robin whispers, seemingly satisfied, the tension completely leaving her body. She believes you. She trusts you completely.
She steps forward, leaning in, and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek.
“Goodnight,” she says brightly, her voice returning to its normal, cheerful tone as if the heavy conversation had never happened. “Sleep well! Don't let the Hawkins bedbugs bite.”
She turns on her heel and practically jogs out of the room. You hear her footsteps pad down the wooden floor of the hallway, followed by the definitive click of her bedroom door shutting firmly at the other end of the hall.
And then, there is nothing but silence.
You are left standing completely alone in the center of the quiet guest room. The oppressive humidity of Indiana presses down on you, heavy and thick. You clutch the white towel to your chest with white-knuckled fingers, staring blankly at the fading floral wallpaper, feeling as though the floor has entirely dropped out from beneath your feet.
You are completely overwhelmed by the crushing, undeniable realization that you are now the one walking into the darkness. You are the one with the secrets. You are the secret.
You trace a trembling hand up to your collarbone, hovering over the bruised skin where Steve’s lips had been two nights ago. You remember the way he looked at you, the way he held you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that was constantly crumbling beneath him. You remember Robin's words — he’s damaged, he's not boyfriend material, you are our future.
The two realities clash violently in your mind, fracturing everything you thought you knew. You realize, with a sickening drop in your stomach, just how incredibly, dangerously complicated everything has just become. It is much, much more complicated than it already was.
And as you stand alone in the room, the lingering scent of Steve's cologne fading into the stale air between the walls, you know with absolute certainty that this secret is going to destroy one of you.
You just don’t know who it will be first.
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steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: detailed in each chapter. mainly tension. secrets. violence description. wounds description. alcohol consumption
words: 79k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: ongoing series. comment/reply to be added to the taglist. english is not my first lenguage + this is my first time sharing my work around here, so be patient with me !!
୨୧ teaser
୨୧ chapter one: another one bites the dust
୨୧ chapter two: you can't go on thinking nothing's wrong
୨୧ chapter three: every now and then i fall apart
୨୧ chapter four: i could drink a case of you
୨୧ chapter five: for nobody else gave me a thrill
୨୧ chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world
୨୧ chapter seven: wicked game
୨୧ chapter eight... (coming soon)
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
੭﹕﹒ please make sure to give love + support to all the authors of these fics ! and if you want your fic removed from the list, just dm me and i’ll take it down.
these recs are for stranger things・・・starring joe keery
꒰ ⋆ ꒱ personal favourites - not doing for this list because all of these are super close to my heart & super amazing
— my thoughts
header made by me : divider by @nemoresources
the things we do for love : @stevebabey
quarantine blows. marginally less so when you're with your boyfriend, but, hey, even that isn't without it's whinging and complaints. you decide it's worth risking an encounter with murray (ugh), if it means getting the chance to surprise your love. it just doesn't occur to you that someone else might have the exact same idea.
― firstly i'm so offended you said this adorable fluffy piece is something you didn't 'luv' but no worries cause i love her enough for both of us because why are these two idiots the cutest most adorable idiots to ever exist?! i love this so freaking much ruby and i love you more for writing it.
bitter : @luveline
steve hates that you don’t like him, and you love how much he hates you.
― 'his bitchy little sigh' ugh you never miss jade and i love that so much !! this was so cute and i love how cool reader is and steve is a total loser. also shoutout to dustin for being the cause of miscommunication in half of the steve fics i love you dustin !!
the chain : @daystarpoet
you haven't had a proper conversation with steve harrington since you broke up with him. now it seems that that end of the world has brought you closer than ever.
― aimee you're gonna be receiving my therapy bills pretty soon so wait by the door for them. the kitchen floor therapy session was illegal levels of yearning. also steve if you don't save her with her favourite song or stay by her side like lumax i am gonna come for you.
shy!reader : @moonstruckme
she feels insecure about steve and nancy's whole ex relationship because she worries they still have feelings for each other and so she kind of goes into a little shell and how steve would react to that.
― mae the roof avoidance and then the car talk was painfully accurate i felt called out on behalf of every overthinker alive. steve saying he’s not smart enough to juggle two girlfriends is peak reassurance actually and also super true because i don't think the boy could handle even one girlfriend without melting everytime she smiles at him.
welcome to the family : @luvchall
in which you make steve meet your father & little sister, until it quickly turned into a interrogation by el.
― ugh “boyfriend steve” is now canon in my heart and el conducting a full relationship background check while steve politely answers was perfect and honestly him surviving is his greatest feat, not the demogorgons.
police station phone call : @spideystevie
“i figured we were close, i just didn’t think it was “call me at two in the morning from a police station” kind of close.”
― allie the concept is actually genius. steve showing up in pajamas and accidentally boyfriend-ing himself into a relationship was adorable and the beemer parking lot kiss paid off perfectly. also i fear deb deserves a raise for her matchmaking services.
take my hand : @mcrdvcks
steve tries his hardest to make a move, but every time he gets close to saying the words, your younger brother dustin interrupts him. every. single. time.
― i just. . . no words honestly. i just went through like all the emotions in the history of emotions. definitely one of my favourite fics on this app. thank you so much for writing this!
summer blurb : @bruisedboys
― mal i think at this point i'm in danger of being obsessed with your writing. the kids placing bets on whether they’re making out is so real and lucas + his detective skills will always be a fav. the sticky lemonade kiss was peak summer fluff. this was very very painfully cute. also dw we'll never burn you at the stake.
false god : @pretty-little-mind33
you've liked steve since forever, while he's only now just realizing you're exactly the girl he's been searching for.
― sky can you be more perfect?! the rose at the door and then him immediately fumbling a date invite in the video store had me giggling. i love that he went from king steve to nervous boy with a crush in like 24 hours and robin instantly clocking it is perfect. also poor reader tried to act cool for exactly two seconds. she's exactly like me.
jealousy, jealousy : @colouredbyd
you can’t shake the sharp sting of jealousy when you catch your boyfriend, steve, engrossed in conversation with his ex, nancy wheeler.
― the jealousy spiral to car-pull-over comfort scene absolutely wrecked me. also him swearing on his life there are zero secret nancy feelings and then telling her about the six little nuggest? steve, my man, you're the best fictional man to ever have fictioned.
untitled : @lovebugism
steve harrington's plan to win your older brother's favor almost backfires, until it doesn't.
― the storage room kiss???? i had to physically put my phone down and stare at the ceiling. him blurting to jonathan that he wants HER and then immediately sprinting to find her was amazing. like walk him like a dog sis! also the “why does everyone think i’m still in love with nancy” panic was so true because why does everyone think that he's obviously stupidly in love with you!!
romantically, maybe : @ddejavvu
― guys i am in love and yes it's with mei's writing + steve harrington once again!! steve's little "why's y/n here? she- she doesn'even like me." yeah she doesn't like you steve because she LOVES you, idiot!! i just wanted to scream at the two and lock them in a room and tell them to confess!!!!! also the confession thing was so cute i melted like i would die for a confession like that. thank you for writing this mei.
untitled : @lovebugism
steve harrington's plan to win your older brother's favor almost backfires, until it doesn't.
― the storage room kiss???? i had to physically put my phone down and stare at the ceiling. him blurting to jonathan that he wants HER and then immediately sprinting to find her was amazing. like walk him like a dog sis! also the “why does everyone think i’m still in love with nancy” panic was so true because why does everyone think that he's obviously stupidly in love with you!!
oblivious : @meadowscarlet
steve has been in love with his best friend ever since they met at tina’s halloween party. from that night on, she became the one constant he could hold onto, the bright spot in the middle of hawkins’ endless chaos. every sweet laugh, every word, every small gesture from her felt like a lifeline, something he had quietly cherished for years. he longed for her in ways he couldn’t admit, craving more than just her friendship… unfortunately she’s oblivious as hell.
― steve being a full time babysitter and a part time lovesick disaster is so amazing i laughed out loud. the “like who” “me” confession actually punched me in the feelings and then immediately smoothed it over with the kiss. robin deserves a medal for surviving this pining in the same room. i see you robin.
sweet, wonderful you : @levanswrites
your extremely professional relationship with coach steve may be under investigation by one (1) very observant six-year-old.
― this is so cute it actually hurts a little. eli being onto them before the adults do and delivering full wedding planning notes took me out, and steve using a six-year-old as a courier just to see her for thirty seconds is peak loser in love behavior. the last line with the ring box was evil but in a warm fuzzy way. thank you for writing this.
sweet, wonderful you : @levanswrites
your extremely professional relationship with coach steve may be under investigation by one (1) very observant six-year-old.
― this is so cute it actually hurts a little. eli being onto them before the adults do and delivering full wedding planning notes took me out, and steve using a six-year-old as a courier just to see her for thirty seconds is peak loser in love behavior. the last line with the ring box was evil but in a warm fuzzy way. thank you for writing this.
proximity : @prettyglad
moving the new york city with steve harrington has you falling into habits you never thought you would. has he always been this touchy? now he’s seeing you in your towel.
― ugh too cute alert aeriel please. the whole “nothing is happening but actually everything is happening” thingy going on was perfect and the slow couch kiss paid off all that tension. roommates to “oh we’ve basically been dating for months” is my favorite flavor of steve and you nailed it. i love this so much!
on his willpower : @headkiss
when visiting your friend robin in hawkins turns into an indefinite stay, you decide to entertain yourself by getting under steve’s skin. it turns out different than you expect. maybe better.
― this was so soft it actually felt like i was kind of third wheeling and and the slow burn was so evil (affectionately) and now i’m mad at you because i’m attached to this version of steve and am gonna need atleast ten more. kidding (or am i?) but thank you so much for writing this.
steve harrington x reader — stranger things x bridgerton au
request – Duke Steve getting irritated with Lady Whistledown for making his intended sound desirable to the other lords looking for a successful match.
Dearest Gentle Reader,
As the Queen prepares to select her Diamond of the Season at this week’s Evening Ball at Irving Hall, I am starkly reminded of the competitive nature with which young ladies push themselves for a chance to take home the esteemed title. This season holds many a rare beauty — it is anyone's guess to whom the Queen may choose. Between the charming Miss Christina Cunningham, the handsome Miss Tamara Thompson, and many notable names, our options are plentiful.
However, this author urges your eye to the unsuspecting wallflower making her debut after many years in the shadows of her elder brothers. Any eligible bachelor seeking an accomplished match should look no farther than the northside of Mayfair…
The men were seated together in the Harringtons’ reception room as Eddie read the pamphlet aloud. Steve continued to pace the length of the room while Jonathan attempted to talk him down, “Forgive me, but what is the issue with Lady Whistledown boosting the credibility of this lady?”
Steve huffed, head shaking as he moved to look out the window and across the street to your home. A line of suitors had already settled themselves in a line, waiting to be received. The Duke could hardly keep his composure intact, “There is no issue. Why should I take issue with this ghost writer who has suddenly set every other bachelor in London, if not the entirety of Britain, upon the lady whom I set my gaze upon.”
“Perhaps if you’d just asked her for a dance at the last ball, rather than vaguely staring at her from across the room, your competition wouldn’t have turned so fierce,” Eddie chuckled as he tossed another berry into his mouth.
“And perhaps, Edward, if Lady Whistledown were not so content with seeing me unhappy, none of this would be an issue,” Steve shook his head, jaw tight while he observed your coachmen escorting the line of bachelors into your home.
“You cannot believe Lady Whistledown to despise you, Steve. Don’t be dramatic,” Jonathan hummed, adjusting to sit straighter in his chair, “Besides, if you were to make your intentions known, I’m sure the lady would be agreeable in joining you for a promenade.”
“Well, obviously I thought about that, sir,” Steve scoffed, pausing as his eyes raked over Jonathan’s lounging position, “But that does me no good in—”
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” His valet entered the room, prepared to announce a guest.
Steve rolled his eyes, his youthful carelessness showing. He had no interest in guests while dealing with such a crisis, “Send them away, Thomas. We are not accepting guests at the present.”
“Sir, I believe you shall want to receive this guest,” Thomas gave his lord a pointed look to come look into the hallway.
While Eddie and Jon glanced between the Duke and his valet, Steve took a breath. His brow furrowed as he walked with a swiftness towards the foyer. As he descended the stairs, he captured a hint of a woman’s silhouette before a gentle giggle wafted through the halls.
Steve paused when you came into view, lingering in the entryway. His brown eyes widened, focused on each detail of you and how utterly perfect you looked, outlined by the proscenium of the hall. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards as he noted you welcoming one of the new maids, your bright disposition filling the room. He cleared his throat to make his presence known, “My dear?”
You paused your conversation, offering the Duke a polite smile and a curtsy as he approached, “Your Grace.”
summary: when you are whisked out of london and to the harrington's countryside estate with your brothers, it seems that you shall have no peace for your holiday. you've reclused yourself to the library, only to recieve an unwanted visitor.
steve harrington ୨ৎ bridgerton au ୨ৎ enemies to lovers
When the Duke of Maple, Lord Steven Harrington, invited your family to join him in the countryside at the end of the season, your mama eagerly accepted on behalf of all her children. Steven was a close friend of your elder brothers, the trio having studied together at Eton. It had been a casual invite; he simply tossed it out when he attended your family’s dinner. At first, you assumed it was exclusively intended for your brothers. But then your mother asked about his library and whether he had any siblings to take advantage of the collection, and your father couldn’t stop rambling about how you’d read everything in the family library twice.
It had been settled without your consideration. So now you were spending the intended holiday at the Harrington Country Estate under the charge of your brothers in Steve’s family home. Any other lady of the ton would be elated, yet you seemed perpetually indifferent to the situation. While you were obviously familiar with his standing in society, you were fully aware of the fact that he was a notorious rake.
During your typical afternoon tea in the library, Steve suddenly appeared, “And with which fine author or poet are you spending today with?”
You lowered the book, offering him a polite, albeit tight, smile, “Why, that would be Shakespeare. Are you jealous of me spending time with another man?”
“Oh, terribly,” He rolled his eyes, pacing around the shelves. Steve gestured to your relaxed state on the chase, “I find you alone in my library with a poet. No chaperone in sight. Such a dastardly thing for a lady of your station.”
“Ah, yes, remind me of the ridiculous double standards to which we are held,” You commented, eyes looking anywhere but him to feign disinterest. You quickly moved to your feet, “And since it is wrong for a bachelor and debutante to occupy the same space, I shall take my leave. Good afternoon, your gra—”
Before you could take another step, Steve had stilled you, his large hand encircling your elbow. You blinked twice, your gaze dropping from his face to where his palm warmed your skin, “Excuse me, sir—”
“You’re not excused,” His grace cut in once more, “I cannot win with you. You scoff at my presence, use my words against me, and believe me to be another sniveling, brainless brute.”
“Because you are a brute; you enjoy disturbing what little peace I can find, interject yourself where you are not wanted, and you take pleasure in taunting me,” Your brow furrowed, your frustration reaching it’s peak.
“No, you are mistaken,” His jaw tensed as his head dipped closer, “It is you who taunts me. You remain steadily outside of my grasp and seem quite content to cut me out entirely. Yet, like a dream, you exist just outside my reach and haunt me in my lonesome hours of the early morning. I close my eyes and you are there. I open my eyes and you are there.”
Your tongue went dry, the usual confidence in your voice wavering, “Then why invite me here?”
His hand on your elbow moved to cup your cheek, lifting your chin to fully meet your gaze. Steve leaned in closer, the tip of his nose gingerly grazing your cheek, “So that I might at least have a memory of you haunting my home, rather than living off dreams.”
Your lips parted, but no words escaped. By this point, you were far too close to be deemed acceptable, but for once, you didn’t wish to depart from his presence.
The voice of your lady’s maid calling from the hall pulled you from the temporary trance. You took a step back from the Duke, eyes flitting across his face for a sign of deception. When you could not discover one, you moved to leave the library. You lingered in the doorway for a few moments, basking in the feeling of Steve’s eyes focusing on your back, heating your skin like summer sun.
summary: gator tries his best to make up for making you upset, and you do your best to drag it out.
tags: gator is bad with emotions and pitiful and pathetic (whats new), reader is sensitive, reader has gator on a leash pretty much, lowkey ooc gator but shhh, briefly proofread
wc: 3.3k (got carried away whoops)
This was ridiculous. All because of stupid argument. Not even an argument.
All because of Gators stupid self saying something stupid just because he was frustrated after work.
And now being alone and being ignored for hours has Gator parking on the sidewalk outside your house at midnight.
He found out early on that even though you were shy, you got snappy too. You got mouthy with him, you had an attitude at times.
But he’d expect at least a goodnight text, no matter how annoyed you’d get with him in the past, you’d always send some sort of little text to remind him you were there, and that you were still upset.
Tonight, he got nothing. No call, no text, not even a little emoji, nothing.
You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him.
Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.
And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.
So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him.
You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.
He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.
“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.
“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”
“What?” You mumbled.
“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.
Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.
You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open.
“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.
Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.
He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house.
Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.
If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.
He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.
He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.
But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.
Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.
He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement.
Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.
The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting.
The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.
You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?
He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.
You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.
Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.
He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.
You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.
Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.
Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.
“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.
“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.
You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.
“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.
“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.
“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.
God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.
You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.
You’ll torture him a bit more.
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically.
“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.
“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.
“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.
Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.
“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.
He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.
Gator does his best to make up for it.
“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.
And it’s working. God, you hate him.
He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down.
Waiting for it.
It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.
He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.
It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.
Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder.
You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.
Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.
Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous.
You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale.
You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.
The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.
Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.
Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.
“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.
“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.
He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.
“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.
You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.
“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.
“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.
But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.
“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.
The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.
And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.
“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.
“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.
“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.
Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.
“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.
Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.
Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.
“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”
A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.
“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist.
He’s really trying to make it up to you.
“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.
He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.
“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.
Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.
When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.
“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.
He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays.
“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle.
You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied.
“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.”
“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.
You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.
“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.
The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.
“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.
You absolutely are.
“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head.
Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.
“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.
“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.
Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.
“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.
“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.
“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.
Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.
“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.
He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.
Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.
You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.
“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill.
It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.
“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.
“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off.
And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.
Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.
He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.
Summary: Can you and Steve really start over after everything that happened?
Warnings: angst, established relationship, married couple, arguments, marriage issues, pregnancy, infertility issues, maternity, motherhood, emotional distress, smut, dirty talk, nsfw, unprotected p in v
English isn't my first language, so be understandable and gentle, thanks!
Word count: +20k
Author's note: So, here we go... we’ve finally reached the end of this story! 🥺 I honestly can't believe it's over, and I'm definitely feeling a little sad about it because I'm going to miss this couple so much! That being said, maybe I'll write some extra chapters about them in the future. I feel like there are still a few stories left to tell — like their first official date, for example! But for now, that's a wrap on this story. I really want to thank you all for all the love and amazing feedback. It seriously warms my heart knowing that you've loved this story just as much as I loved writing it. I truly hope you will be satisfied with the epilogue I wrote. Let me know what you think with a comment, your feedbacks are really important for me. And if you want to support me even more, reblog it. I'd really appreciate it. Now enjoy it and thanks for reading!
Masterlist
A week later, Steve was finally discharged from the hospital and you went home with him.
But “home” didn’t look exactly like it used to. Not yet.
Steve moved slowly through the house on crutches, his steps careful and uneven. The bandage at his temple remained a constant reminder of how close you had come to losing him.
Sometimes he reached instinctively for the wall or the back of a chair to steady himself, stubbornly trying to do more than he probably should. And every time, you found yourself hovering nearby, close enough to catch him if he slipped but careful not to make him feel like you didn't trust him.
But even though he hated being stuck in the house and feeling useless, he enjoyed having you around, all for himself.
After spending weeks apart, having you back in the house felt like breathing properly again. He seemed to find reassurance in your presence. He loved waking up and finding you beside him. Or hearing you move around the kitchen in the morning. He simply loved the comfort of knowing you were there.
The conversation about children stayed untouched. Not avoided, not denied — just… gently set aside, left somewhere between you, waiting. And while you tried to make peace with it — with your body, with what it meant — Steve stayed close and patient, without pushing or rushing you.
It wasn’t always easy, though.
Because the thought never truly left you, feeling it in small, unexpected moments. A woman passing by with a hand resting on her stomach. A baby crying softly somewhere nearby. A stroller rolling past. Each one was like a quiet reminder of something you couldn’t quite look at directly.
School wasn't any easier. You spent your days surrounded by children—laughing, arguing, running through hallway — and sometimes it hit you so suddenly you had to pause, just for a second, and take a breath before moving on.
But the worst moment was when someone you knew announced they were pregnant. Because before happiness could come, before excitement or congratulations, you felt a sharp drop in your stomach. A flash of jealousy so quick and ugly that it made you feel ashamed. For a split second, thoughts crossed your mind that you immediately wished you could take back. That they didn’t deserve it. That it should’ve been you instead. Then guilt followed just as quickly. You swallowed it all down, forcing a smile onto your lips. You congratulated them, asked questions you didn’t really want the answers to and nodded in all the right places as you listened to nursery plans, baby names and ultrasound stories.
And you got good at that.
But when you got home, where no one was watching, everything came out, quiet at first, then all at once. You cried in the shower where your tears mixed with the water, or laying on the bed with your face buried against the pillow.
But never in front of Steve.
He was still recovering from the accident and you didn’t want him to suffer even more and to make everything worse.
Again.
Sometimes, you caught him watching a father with his child after baseball practice or a family crossing the street together. His gaze lingered just a second too long, his expression almost nostalgic, making your chest tighten. Every time he noticed you looking at him, he smiled or squeezed your hand. Like he knew what you were thinking. Like he wanted to reassure you without saying it out loud. Sometimes it worked. Other times it didn’t, the thought still finding its way in.
Maybe one day he’ll realize it wasn’t enough.
That you weren’t.
And he’ll want more.
He’ll leave.
It crept in at the worst times. At the end of the day, when everything was finally quiet and there was nothing left to distract you. During Steve’s baseball practices. At night, when sleep wouldn’t come. Even when you were in his arms. In those moments, you stayed still, your face tucked into his chest, breathing him in like that alone could keep everything else at bay. Until the thought began to haunt you, waking you up in the morning.
Every day, before you even opened your eyes, your arm would move across the bed, reaching for his side — checking. Making sure he was still there. That the space beside you wasn’t empty. Or too cold. That he hadn’t gotten up and left. Not just the room. Not just the house.
But you.
Most mornings, your hand found him without effort. Sometimes he was still asleep, his breathing slow and even. Other times, he was already awake, looking at you with that soft, familiar smile that made something in your chest ease and forget all your worries. Some days, instead, you didn’t even have to reach for him. You woke up already tucked against him, his arm loosely wrapped around you, like even in his sleep he hadn’t let you drift too far.
Those mornings were easier.
But not all of them were.
Sometimes, when you brushed the sheets slowly, carefully, hoping to find him without having to look, there was nothing. His side of the bed was already cold. You gave it a second. Then another. Your fingers pressed a little more firmly into the mattress, like maybe you had just missed him. Like maybe he was still there and you just hadn’t reached far enough.
But he wasn’t.
You kept your eyes closed for a moment longer, your breath catching as you delayed the reality you already felt settling in. Then you slapped your eyes and saw the sheets already smoothed out, as if no one had slept there.
That was when the panic set in.
You’d sit up too quickly, your breath already unsteady, your thoughts racing ahead of you. And then you’d get out of bed, almost without thinking, your feet carrying you straight to the closet.
It had become a habit before you even realized it.
You’d pull the doors open and scan the space, your eyes moving over his things — his jackets, his shirts — checking, counting as you made sure they were still there. That he hadn’t taken them. But sometimes even that wasn't enough to reassure you. You’d turn and head for the stairs, taking them too fast, your hand brushing the wall to steady yourself as you went down two steps at a time, your chest tight, your pulse loud in your ears. Until you found him sitting at the kitchen table with the newspaper spread open in front of him, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his elbow. Other times, he was stretched out on the couch, half paying attention to whatever was playing on television. His eyes would lift automatically and that familiar smile would appear. Easy. Familiar. Reassuring. Like everything was fine. And you would smile back, pretend you had just come down for something else.
You never told him anything but Steve noticed. Of course he did. He was good at noticing things about you. He just… didn’t say anything.
Until one Sunday morning, when you were standing in front of the closet again, your fingers still wrapped around the edge of the door as you let out a slow, quiet breath. Your eyes slipped closed for a second, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension eased out of you.
“What are you doing?”
His voice was close enough to make you flinch. Your eyes flew open. You turned quickly, your heart jumping into your throat, and found him standing in the doorway, staring at you. He must have just come up the stairs. His expression wasn’t accusing or angry. Just… confused, careful. In his hands there was a tray with breakfast.
Shame rushed through you, sudden and sharp. For a second, neither of you moved. You swallowed, your hand still resting against the closet door as if you hadn’t quite decided whether to close it or not.
“I—” you started, then stopped. Your voice caught, the excuse you were about to give dissolving before it could even take shape. You shook your head slightly, a breath leaving you that sounded thinner than you intended. “Nothing. I was just—”
Steve didn’t move. His eyes flicked past you, briefly, to the open closet. Then back to you.
“Checking if I’d left?”
The words cut in cleanly. Your breath caught. For a brief second, you thought — hoped — he might be joking. But there was nothing playful in his expression as his eyes held yours, steady, serious.
“Wha—what?” you stammered, even though the denial sounded weak the moment it left your lips.
Steve let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He stepped forward carefully, crossing the room with slow, uneven steps before setting the tray down on your vanity fair in front of the bed. The porcelain clinked softly against the wood. The sound felt louder than it should have. Then he turned back to you. He hesitated for a fraction of a second — like he was deciding how far to push it.
“You really think I haven’t noticed?” he said, his tone flat, controlled in a way that made it sharper. “The way you reach for my side of the bed every morning before you even open your eyes. The way you practically run downstairs when I’m not there.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Or how relieved you look every time I walk back through the door after work?”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind scrambled for something — anything — to say, but there was nothing you could say. Because he was right. And the truth — the real reason behind it — felt too ugly, too fragile to put into words.
“I—” you tried again, your voice faltering, but it died there, unfinished.
Steve didn’t wait this time. “You still think I’m going to leave,” he said.
It wasn’t a question but a statement. The certainty in his voice made your chest tighten.
You didn't answer him but your silence did it.
He turned away from you, nodding, in disbelief, his back facing you as his hands settled on his hips. For a moment, he just stood there, looking up toward the ceiling like he was trying to steady himself, like he was holding something in.
You dropped your gaze. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. Quieter. But if anything, it felt tired.
“I’ve told you — more than once,” he said slowly, “that I’m staying. That I’m not going anywhere.” A small pause. “I’ve never given you a reason to think I would. Even when I could have. Even when I was at my worst.”
You instantly knew he was talking about Kirsten. About that night. When he could have left and gone to her house. When he could have chosen something simpler. But he still didn’t.
“I didn't even think about it,” he added, almost under his breath.
You believed him.
And that made things even worse.
You swallowed hard.
“And still…” He stopped, exhaling through his nose before turning back to you. His eyes found yours again, something unsettled flickering behind them now. “Still it’s like you don’t believe me. Like you don’t trust me,” he went on, quieter now, but no less direct.
You flinched slightly at that, your fingers curling in on themselves.
“When…” He hesitated, just for a second, like he was debating whether to let it out or keep it in.
You could already feel that it was no good. That it would hurt you.
“When you’re the one who left.”
The words hung between you. Heavy. Painful.
Steve looked away for a moment, shaking his head faintly before letting out a breath that sounded more like frustration than anything else.
“I’m the one who should be checking that closet,” he said, his voice tightening despite himself. “Making sure your things are still there. Making sure you didn’t just—” He stopped, jaw clenching, the rest of the sentence catching somewhere in his throat. Then, more quietly, but still honestly. “I’m the one who should be wondering if you’re going to leave again. Not you.”
He was right. You knew that. But that didn't mean his words hurt any less. Your hands tightened together until your knuckles ached. You bit down on your lip, hard, trying to keep the tears from spilling.
His gaze dropped for a moment, then lifted back to you. “Do you really think I don’t have those thoughts too?” he went on, his voice less controlled, sharper now, stretched thin. “That I don’t wonder if I’m going to come home one day and you just… won’t be here anymore?”
The words hit you straight in the chest like a punch, knocking the air out of you.
“Or walk in and find you halfway down the stairs with your bags again?” he added. “Just like that day.”
You stayed silent.
Steve took a few steps toward you, his shoulders tense. “I’m scared every damn day,” he said, louder now, the frustration breaking through. “All the time.”
Your chest tightened as the words sank in.
“Do you know what I think about when I kiss you goodbye in the morning?” he continued, his voice rough, unsteady in a way that made it worse. “When I leave for work?” A short, humorless breath escaped him. “That it might be the last time.”
Your eyes filled with tears, burning you.
“The last time I get to hold you. The last time I get to kiss you.” He continued, swallowing hard. “And every single time, I just hope… it’s not.”
Silence followed, thick and suffocating.
He turned away again, dragging a hand over his face before lifting both arms briefly, resting them behind his head. He stayed like that for a second, staring ahead, jaw tight.
“But I still choose to trust you,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I choose it. Every single day.” His arms dropped back to his sides as he turned to face you again. “I choose to believe that when I come home, you’ll still be here.”
You couldn’t breathe properly. Your throat was dry, sore.
He looked at you like he wanted to say more — like the words were there, right on the edge — but then something in his expression shifted. He stopped himself. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again, his jaw tightening.
The silence stretched.
You pressed your lips together, unable to speak. Because he was right. About all of it.
Even after everything he had said, some stubborn part of your mind kept waiting for the moment he would finally decide he had had enough. Even when… when you had been the one to leave. The one who had packed a bag and walked out, breaking something between you that you were still trying to fix.
What was wrong with you?
The thought came sharp and merciless.Your throat tightened painfully. For a second, you almost felt angry at yourself, enough to want to shake yourself out of it.
Steve cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the silence.
“I need you to trust me too,” he said, more quietly now. Exhausted.
“Steve, I do trust you, it’s not—”
Your voice was so weak that you almost didn’t recognize it.
“Well, it doesn’t feel like it,” he cut in, not raising his voice, but not letting you finish either. He hesitated, like he wanted to keep going — like there was more sitting behind those words — but then he exhaled slowly and shook his head.
“Forget it. I just… went out to get breakfast,” he added, his tone changing, flattening, like he was forcing the conversation somewhere safer. “I got you those pastries you like. Thought I’d bring you them in bed. I just wanted to… surprise you.” A small pause. “That’s all.”
Your eyes closed for a second, the guilt settling heavier in your chest. When you opened them again, your gaze dropped to the tray on the table. You looked at it better this time — the coffee, still steaming faintly, the pastries neatly arranged like he had taken care choosing them, orange juice, eggs and bacon. There were all the things you loved to eat.
Steve followed your gaze. “You should drink the coffee before it gets cold,” he said. His tone cold, detached that it surprised you.
He turned before you could say anything else, moving toward the door with quick steps, without looking back at you.
For a second, you didn’t understand what was happening. Your body froze, your mind lagging behind as the sound of his steps carried down the stairs.
Then it hit you.
He was leaving.
Your throat tightened as you forced yourself to move, your legs finally responding as you rushed out of the room and down the stairs after him, still in your nightgown, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through your chest.
“Steve!” You called his name with everything you had, your voice echoing through the house.
But he didn’t answer. He didn’t slow down either. He just kept going, one hand gripping the railing, as he moved fast, like he needed to get out before he changed his mind.
Panic surged through you.
“Steve, wait—!”
By the time you reached the bottom, he was already in front of the door.
“Wait — please, wait!” Your voice broke as you closed the last bit of distance and grabbed his arm, your fingers tightening around it, forcing him to stop. “Where — where are you going?”
He stilled under your touch, turning around to face you. His eyes were shining. “I need… some air,” he said, his voice low, steady in a way that felt final. “I’m going for a walk.”
You shook your head immediately, your grip tightening, your breath uneven. “No — please, stay. Let’s just — let’s talk, okay? Please.” Your voice trembled, the words stumbling over each other as the tears spilled freely now, warm against your skin. You didn’t even try to hide them.
Steve closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose like he was holding something in. “I already tried,” he said after a second, quieter now. “More than once. But you don't seem to hear me.”
You shook your head again, desperate. “I know. I know, I’m sorry, I just—”
“I don’t know what else to say,” he cut in, not harsh, but firm. Tired. Exasperated. “I don’t know… what else to do to make you believe me.” His jaw tightened and for a moment he looked away. “I’m tired,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “And… angry.” He swallowed hard and you saw his throat move. “That’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want to say something I might regret later.”
Or do something he might regret, you thought.
Your chest constricted painfully.
“Please, don’t go,” you whispered, shaking your head, your fingers curling tighter around his arm like you could keep him there if you just held on enough. “Please, don’t leave me.”
For a moment, his expression softened. He hated seeing you like that.
“I’m coming back, okay?” he said, softer now, like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. Like he needed to stop it before it spiraled. “I’m… I’m not leaving. I just —” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I just need a minute… to clear my head. Be alone for a bit.”
Your grip loosened, but only slightly.
“I’ll be back,” he repeated, more gently this time. “And we’ll… talk later. Promise.”
Talk about what? You wondered.
Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. It lingered just long enough to hurt. Then he pulled away. Carefully, he slipped his arm from your grasp. The loss of contact felt immediate. Cold.
You stood there as he opened the door and stepped outside. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence flooded immediately the space he left behind. Loud. Unbearable.
You didn’t move. You stayed there, right where he had left you, your hands hanging useless at your sides, your vision blurred with tears you didn’t even try to stop anymore. Your heart pounded unevenly as your gaze fixed on the closed door, like you expected it to open again any second. While upstairs, the coffee he had made for you was already growing cold.
His voice replayed in your mind, louder with every passing second.
I’ll be back.
You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your chest aching.
Would he?
-
You were lying on the couch in the living room, curled on your side, facing the TV, even though it was off.
You hadn’t moved from there since Steve left.
The clock was ticking but you didn’t know how much time had passed. Long enough for the sobs to stop and the tears on your cheeks to dry, leaving your skin tight, your body still, your mind heavy and hollow. Your breathing had evened out. The storm had burned itself out, leaving behind nothing but a quiet that felt too big for the room.
Silence settled around you. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Then, suddenly you heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. Your body reacted before your mind did. You pushed yourself up from the couch, your heart jumping as you turned toward the door just as it opened.
Steve stepped inside. His gaze lifted as he crossed the threshold, and it found yours immediately.
You stayed where you were. Even though every instinct in your body told you to run to him — to close the distance, to hold onto him, to make sure he was really there — you didn’t.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click and took a few steps forward.
“You’re here,” he said, his gaze fixed on yours.
You knew he didn’t mean just now. That you hadn’t left. That he hadn’t come back to an empty house.
You nodded, your throat tight. “And you are back.”
Something in his expression shifted — subtle, but there. He nodded once in return, like he was acknowledging something unspoken between you.
He knew exactly what you meant too.
He moved around the couch, with still his jacket on and sat down, leaving only a small space between you. For a moment, he just sat there. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face before pressing his palms briefly against his eyes, like he was trying to steady himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About before. I shouldn’t have… reacted like that.”
You hesitated for a second before sitting down beside him, careful and let out a slow breath.
“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “You — you were right.”
Steve turned his head to look at you.
You swallowed, your hands tightening together in your lap before you forced yourself to keep going. “I am… I am still scared. That you might leave one day.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t be. That it doesn’t make sense. You’ve never given me a reason to doubt you. Not once.”
A small pause.
“I’m the one who did that,” you added, quieter now. “I’m the one who left. I’m the one who… broke your trust.”
The admission sat between you, raw and unguarded. It hurt you to remind what you had done. But you needed to.
“And I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “For that. For everything.”
Steve didn’t interrupt and kept listening to you.
“But it’s not true that I don’t trust you,” you went on, shaking your head slightly, like you needed him to understand that part most of all. “It’s… me.”
That was harder to say.
Your gaze dropped for a second before lifting again.
“I don’t trust myself,” you admitted, the words catching slightly on the way out. “Because I don’t feel like I’m enough. Like I’m… lacking something. Like I’m not…” You exhaled shakily. “Not what you deserve.”
Your fingers twisted together again before you stilled them, forcing yourself to continue.
“And I know—” you added quickly, almost defensively, “I know you don’t see it that way. I know that’s not how you think. But I do. And it’s not something I can just switch off, Steve. It doesn’t work like that.”
Your voice softened, losing some of its tension.
“I need time,” you said. “To come to terms with it. With the fact that… it’s not my fault.” You swallowed. “And that it doesn’t make me less. Or… harder to love. I just… need time,” you repeated more quietly.
Then, after a small pause, you reached out, slowly, carefully, and rested your hand on his knee. Steve's gaze immediately dropped to where your hand rested. His eyes lingered there for a second before lifting back to yours.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” you said, meeting his eyes. There was no hesitation now, only quiet certainty. “I’m here. And I’m staying.”
Your fingers pressed slightly against his knee, grounding yourself in the moment.
“I almost lost you,” you went on, your voice softening further. “Twice.” Your throat tightened. “And the second time… I almost didn’t get you back at all. I don’t want that again,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
You held his gaze as Steve reached for your hand where it rested on his knee, lacing his fingers through yours and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m not going anywhere either, okay?” His gaze held yours, steady, intent. “I’ve seen what it’s like… living without you. And I didn’t like it. Not even a little.” A faint, humorless breath left him. “Worst week of my life, actually. And I’m not planning on going through that again.”
Your chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear.
“So yeah,” he went on, softer now, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles, “some mornings you might wake up and not find me in bed. Or downstairs. And some afternoons or nights, I might come home late.” A small pause. “But wherever I am, I’ll be thinking about you. And I’ll always come back.” His voice dipped slightly, more vulnerable now. “As long as you still want me to.”
You didn’t hesitate. “I will,” you said, your voice steady despite everything you were feeling. “And I’ll be here too. Waiting for you.” A small breath. “As long as you want me to be.”
Something softened in his expression. Then he smiled and lifted his free hand to your face, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in.
The kiss started soft. Careful. Like everything else between you had been these past weeks.
But as the seconds passed, some of the distance you had both been carrying seemed to melt away. You shifted closer without even thinking about it, your body moving toward his like it had been waiting for this. Your hands came up to his face as you kissed him back, deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation that had lingered between you began to slip, piece by piece.
You moved onto his lap, straddling him, your lips never quite leaving his. His hands found your waist, holding you there, tightly, like he needed to make sure you wouldn’t disappear.
The kiss grew hungrier, faster. His hands moved along your sides, firm, warm, sliding up your back, pulling you closer. Yours slipped into his hair, fingers curling, holding on as if that alone could keep him there. You felt him exhale against your lips, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second before his mouth found yours again, more urgent this time.
He trailed slowly down your jaw, your neck, until it reached your shoulder. The strap of your nightgown had already slipped down your arm, giving him space, and he took it without hesitation. His lips pressed warm against your skin, lingering, then moving again — slower this time. Each touch sent a quiet shiver through you, your breath catching as he traced a path along your collarbone. You tipped your head back instinctively, giving him more room, your hands settling on his shoulders to steady yourself. For a moment, you just felt the warmth of his mouth, the roughness of his hands against your skin. And the solid presence of him beneath you.
He was already hard.
Your hips shifted almost unconsciously against him, drawn closer, and the contact made his breath hitch for a brief second. His hands tightened at your waist in response, grounding, firm, like he needed to keep you right where you were.
You threaded your fingers into his hair, gripping lightly, guiding him back to your lips. There was nothing hesitant left in the way you kissed him now. It wasn’t careful anymore — it was need, release, everything spilling over at once after being held back for too long.
You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms as your hands moved over him, impatient. He let out a quiet breath against your mouth, helping you shrug it off the rest of the way without breaking the kiss for long.
Your nightgown had ridden up completely, forgotten, as you shifted in his lap, the fabric bunched at your waist. But you barely noticed it, too focused on him — on the way his touch felt after everything. After weeks without intimacy — without sex. The last time had been during that famous weekend that was supposed to be the last. Fortunately, it hadn’t been in the end. How could you have thought you could live without him? Without his touch? Thinking back now, it seemed almost impossible.
His hands slid lower along your thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of your nightgown, hesitating only for a fraction of a second — as if giving you time to pull away, to stop him.
You didn’t.
If anything, you leaned into him more, your hands tightening his face even more, your lips parting against his in a silent answer.
You weren’t pulling away anymore.
His hand started moving over you again, sliding under the hem, caressing the bare skin of your ass, gently, slowly, as if he wanted to savor the moment. Like he was relearning you — like he needed to feel every inch just to remind himself that you were real, that you hadn’t slipped away again.
You pressed closer instinctively, grinding down on his bulge in search of something more, something deeper. It wasn’t enough — none of it felt like enough after everything you had been through. The distance, the fear, the almost losing him.
You needed to feel him. Really feel him.
Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding on just as tightly, like you were afraid that if you let go, he might disappear.
“Steve… please,” you whispered against his lips as his hand moved closer to where you needed him most. But every time, when he was almost there, he pushed it away, teasing you.
He smirked, amused. “What’s it, babe?” He murmured, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”
You let out a soft, frustrated breath, your forehead resting briefly against his.
“Please,” you begged, desperate, unable to form a complete sentence.
Steve’s grin widened even further. He hesitated a few seconds, his hand tightening on your thigh, the other one on your hip, holding you in place as he watched you for a moment longer than necessary. Then finally, he gave in. His hand began to slide down along your core, feeling the wet spot that had already formed on your panties.
His touch was slow, deliberate, rubbing gentle circles over your clothed clit as heat pooled low in your belly. Your hands found his shoulders again, gripping for balance as you moved against him, hips rolling, chasing his touch. Steve increased the pressure and you moaned into his mouth as you kept grinding your soaked panties.
The other strap of your nightgown slipped from your shoulder, revealing your breasts. Steve groaned. As he kept caressing your core, he ran his other hand up your stomach and squeezed your tits, gently first, then hard. You moaned again, letting your head fall back.
But it still wasn’t enough. You wanted more.
“Steve… I need you… Please,” you begged him, almost crying.
“Yeah, babe? Where do you need me? I’m right here.”
His hand pressed down on you harder, while your fingers curled into his shirt even more, resting your forehead on his shoulder, panting. For a moment, you hesitated, swallowing slowly.
“Inside me.” Your voice lower than a whisper. “I need you inside me, Steve. Please.”
Steve stopped moving, taking his hands off of you. You whined at the loss of contact, missing him already. But before you could say anything, he pulled your nightgown over your head in a single motion and threw it somewhere behind you, leaving you half-naked.
His gaze dropped straight to your bare breasts, his eyes widening, hungry. He swallowed hard.
“God…” he breathed, almost to himself.
After few seconds, you found yourself lying on the couch, on your back with Steve on top of you. He hooked his fingers into your panties, tugging them quickly down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, eager to be free of them.
Steve stood up, pushing his shirt up, revealing the trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. Then he took them off and his boxers in one smooth motion, letting them drop to the floor. His length slapped against him.
Both naked, he settled between your thighs, bringing you closer as you raised yourself on your elbows to see him better. His gaze traveled over your body spread open on the couch, lingering on your centre, shiny and swollen already.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said, looking back at you, a little smile on his lips. “And it’s all mine.”
Even though you were married and he had already seen you like that several times, you couldn't help but blush at his words.
He lay down on top of you and kissed you passionately, supporting himself on one arm, as he dragged his other hand through your slick folds, spreading yourself open. His fingers drew slow circles around your clit before dipping inside. Your body responded instantly, arching into him, hips rolling against his fingers. The wet sounds filled the room, mixed with your shaky breaths.
“You’re so wet, babe, and I barely did anything,” he murmured under his breath, holding his glistening fingers up to your lips.
You took them into your mouth and sucked, tasting yourself on them as Steve never took his eyes off you.
“So needy and desperate, aren’t you? And you really think you could live without me?”
You didn’t answer. Instead, a broken moan ripped from your throat as he rubbed his hand all over your entrance, spreading the wetness. Your hips moved towards him, looking for more. Then he grabbed himself and stroked it a few times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Your eyes fixed on him the entire time, biting your lip at the sight of his thick member. Even after so many years together you still hadn't gotten used to its size, capable of leaving you breathless and sore every time.
Steve moved closer to you, guiding his length through your folds, the tip nudging against your clit, teasing you. You threw your head back, a sigh escaped your lips.
Without warning, he drove into you with one, quick thrust, seating himself fully inside you. You gasped at the intrusion, arching your back as he stretched you open with a deep groan.
He started moving immediately, without giving you time to get used to it. You were so wet that he slid perfectly inside you all the way, meeting no resistance. The wet slaps of skin and your desperate moans filled the living room as he kept pounding into you at a brutal pace. Your hands ran down his hairy chest, his arms and then over his back, scratching him, digging your nails into him as he went deeper with each stroke.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, trying to pull him in tighter to you. His hand reached your clit, rubbing it as he kept fucking you harder. He thrusted in and out, relentlessly, quickly. His eyes stayed locked downward, fascinated by the sight of himself sliding in and out of you, dragging a creamy ring back and forth along his length.
“How — How can you think I can leave? That I can do without all this? Without you?" he asked after a while, his lips pressed to your ear.
There was no malice or bitterness in his voice, just honesty. You didn't respond, you couldn't. Partly out of shame, partly because Steve's movements prevented you from thinking or speaking clearly. Only half-formed words, moans escaped your mouth.
"Steve, I…"
"Yes, babe? Are you coming? I can feel you squeezing my cock. Come on, cum for me."
And you came, clenching around his cock and crying out his name. Steve followed you right away, coming inside you with a low, guttural groan as his release painted your walls. He gently collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.
-
About ten minutes later, you were lying on the couch, wearing only his shirt, curled slightly on your side with your head resting on Steve’s chest. Your fingers were still loosely intertwined with his, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He lay beside you in nothing but his boxers, one arm draped around you, absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm.
Everything felt… lighter now. Not just because of what had just happened between you, but because of everything that had come before it — your argument, the honesty, the way you had finally let yourselves say things out loud instead of carrying them alone.
It hadn’t fixed everything. You knew that. There were still cracks — fears that wouldn’t disappear overnight. Things you —especially you — would have to work through, slowly, patiently. But for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel impossible. It felt like something you could face together.
Steve shifted slightly beneath you, his fingers tightening around yours for a moment before he lifted your hand, turning it gently so your wedding band caught the light of the lamp.
“Give me your ring,” he said after a beat.
You barely noticed at first, still half lost in the quiet haze of the moment. Then you blinked, the words taking a second to fully register. You pushed yourself up slightly, one hand pressing against his chest as you looked down at him, your brows knitting together. “What?”
“Your ring,” he repeated, his voice calm but his gaze intense. “Give it to me, please.”
Confusion flickered across your face as you sat up properly, turning to face him.
“My ring? Why?” There was a trace of unease in your voice now, subtle but there. You instinctively curled your fingers slightly, as if protecting it without even realizing. You didn’t like taking it off. Not even when you had temporarily left Steve you had taken it off.
Steve pushed himself up into a seated position, resting against the couch armrest as he looked at you.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
You knew, instantly, that he wasn’t just talking about the ring. He was asking something bigger.
Did you trust me to stay?
Did you trust me not to leave?
Your throat tightened slightly, but you nodded without hesitation, swallowing. Your fingers hesitated for only a second more before you slipped the ring off and placed it in his hand.
It felt strange the moment it left your finger. Lighter. Wrong, almost.
Steve watched you for a second, then reached up and removed his own. For a brief moment, he held both rings in his palm, staring down at them — silent, thoughtful.
You shifted closer, kneeling on the couch in front of him now, your eyes fixed on his face, trying to understand what was happening but without success.
“What are you doing?” you asked softly.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly and placed both rings on the couch between you.
Side by side.
You followed the movement with your eyes, your confusion deepening, your brow furrowing as you looked back up at him.
“Give me your hand,” Steve said softly.
You looked up at him, your confusion still written all over your face.
“Steve… will you tell me what you’re doing? I don’t—”
“We’re renewing our vows.”
You blinked, your eyes widening as you stared at him, even more lost than before.
“What?”
“Didn’t we say this was a new beginning?” he went on, his voice steady, certain. “For you, for me… for us.”
You nodded slowly, still trying to catch up.
“Then we need new promises,” he said. “Ones that actually fit us. Our way.”
Before you could say anything else, he reached for your hands again, holding them gently but firmly between his.
“Trust me,” he added, quieter this time.
There it was again.
That question beneath the words.
You swallowed and nodded. “I do.”
Steve took a slow breath, his thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles as he gathered his thoughts. For a second, he looked almost nervous — but he didn’t look away.
“Do you take me to be yours again,” he began, his voice low but clear, “knowing that we don’t have everything figured out… that things might change, that life might not go the way we planned…”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“To have and to hold anyway,” he continued, “to stay instead of running, to try, even when it’s hard… to not walk away when things get complicated…”
Your eyes burned, but you didn’t blink.
“To love me for as long as we both want this… for as long as we keep choosing each other?”
Silence settled between you the moment he finished.
For a second, you couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. Then you nodded — once, twice, again — your grip tightening around his hands.
“I do,” you said, your voice trembling but certain. “I do.”
Tears blurred your vision as you held onto him.
“Okay,” he murmured, a faint, relieved smile tugging at his lips. “Your turn.”
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, your heart still racing as you repeated his words — slowly at first, then with more certainty, your voice finding its strength as you went. When you finished, Steve didn’t hesitate.
“I do,” he said immediately, like it was the easiest thing he had ever done. There was no doubt or uncertainty in his voice.
He reached for your ring, holding it carefully between his fingers before looking back up at you.
“Repeat after me,” he said softly.
You nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you.”
“With this ring, I choose you,” you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I promise to love you, to be honest with you and to let you in, always.”
You repeated each word, your gaze never leaving his.
“I promise I won’t shut you out when I’m scared… to trust you, to stay… and to build whatever life we can — together.”
Your throat tightened, but you kept going, holding onto every word like it mattered more than anything.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When you finished, his expression softened completely. Slowly—almost reverently— he slid the ring back onto your finger. The weight of it felt different now. Not heavier.
Stronger.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his ring, still resting between you on the couch. You picked it up carefully, turning it between your fingers before looking back at him.
“Your turn now,” you said softly, almost timidly.
He nodded.
“With this ring, I choose you,” you began.
He repeated it without hesitation.
“I promise to love you, to trust you, and to stay when things get hard — not because I have to, but because I want to.”
His voice was firm, certain.
“I promise to stay even when it would be easier to walk away… and to build whatever life we can— together.”
Your chest tightened.
“For as long as we both keep choosing each other.”
When he finished repeating, you took his hand and slid the ring back onto his finger, your touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your fingers intertwined.
When you looked up again, he was already staring at you. Smiling. There was something lighter in his expression now. Softer. Hopeful. You smiled back, your eyes still shining.
“And now what?” you asked quietly.
A small, familiar spark returned to his gaze.
“Well,” he murmured, his voice dipping just slightly as his hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheeks, “now I get to kiss my wife.”
A flash of playfulness softened his features — something boyish and bright, as if he’d been counting down the seconds to this very moment. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, fueled by a quiet, steady confidence. Like he wasn’t asking — just finally claiming what had always been his.
And then he kissed you.
The force of it, the sudden pull of his hands, sent you tipping backward onto the couch, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as he followed you down without breaking the kiss, his body settling over yours.
You barely had time to react before your hands found him again — his shoulders, his hair — pulling him closer as if there was still distance left to close.
At first, the kiss was slow, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of care that felt almost reverent, like he was memorizing you all over again. Then it deepened, growing stronger, more urgent, the quiet tenderness giving way to something warmer, fuller, alive with everything you had both held back for too long.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, his grip on you firm but steady, keeping you anchored beneath him as if letting go wasn’t even an option anymore.
It wasn’t just a kiss.
But a promise.
A new beginning.
The first step into something new.
Together.
-
A week later, you started therapy.
It wasn’t an instant fix. Nothing about it was. But slowly — almost without noticing at first —something began to shift.
The mornings were the first to change.
You still reached for him sometimes when you woke up, your hand instinctively searching for the warmth of his side of the bed. But you no longer did it with that same sharp edge of panic or fear. You didn’t brace yourself before opening your eyes. You didn’t lie there, afraid of what you might — or might not — find.
And some mornings… you didn’t even have the chance to.
You woke up already wrapped in his arms, his body warm against yours, his hand resting at your waist like it had been there all night. Other times, you felt him pull you closer in his sleep, like even unconsciously he was making sure you were still there — still his, still within reach.
Those mornings were easier. Quieter. Because they didn’t leave space for doubt to creep in.
And when he wasn’t there, you didn’t rush. You didn’t run to the closet anymore to check if his clothes were still hanging where they belonged. You didn’t scan the house with your heart in your throat, waiting to confirm your worst fear. Instead, you breathed — once, twice. You reminded yourself — quietly, firmly — of everything he had told you. Of everything you had promised each other.
You chose to trust him.
And, slowly, you started trying to trust yourself too. To believe that you were enough. Not just because he said it, or because he loved you. But because you were.
-
Two months later, you came back from a weekend away with Robin and Nancy.
The moment you stepped into the house, you barely had time to set your bag down before Steve reached you, taking the suitcase from your hand and leaning in to kiss you softly.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.
“I was gone only for two days,” you replied, smiling anyway.
“I know,” he said. “Two very long days.”
And then you noticed the expression on his face. He looked suspiciously satisfied, like he was waiting for you to figure something out.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?” you asked, suspicious now. “What did you do?”
He feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. No trust at all?”
You gave him another look.
“Okay, maybe I did something,” he admitted, a grin slipping through.
“Please tell me you didn’t burn the kitchen down while I was gone.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “Firstly, rude. And secondly, it’s a good thing. A surprise. Promise.”
Then he extended his hand toward you.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to see it.”
You hesitated for only a second before taking it, letting him guide you inside and up the stairs.
He left your suitcase by the bedroom door without a second thought and kept going.
And that was when you realized where you were going.
Your steps slowed. Your grip on his hand tightened just slightly.
The further down the hallway you walked, the heavier your chest felt until you stopped, right in front of the door you almost never opened anymore.
Your throat went dry.
You hadn't stepped inside in months. Most days, you barely even looked at it when you passed. Sometimes you wished it wasn’t there at all. That the door could just… disappear.
“Steve… what are we doing?”
He turned back to you immediately, and whatever excitement had been on his face softened the second he saw yours. He stepped closer, taking both your hands this time, holding them gently but firmly.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Trust me. Okay?”
The words settled between you. Familiar now. Your eyes flickered to the door for a brief second, your chest tightening — then back to him. You swallowed hard and nodded.
“Okay.”
He smiled, just a little, then squeezed your hands.
“I need you to close your eyes,” he said. “And don’t open them. No matter what.”
A small flicker of hesitation crossed your face again. But this time, you didn’t let it take over.
“I’m trusting you,” you murmured.
“I know,” he said softly before closing your eyes.
You felt him let go of one of your hands, the other still firmly wrapped around his as he guided you forward. Then you heard the sound of the door opening. Your heartbeat picked up.
“Okay,” he said. “Come on. Just follow my voice.”
You did. Slowly. Carefully.
“Stop,” he said gently after a moment.
You stopped instantly, abruptly.
“Okay… you can open them.”
You inhaled deeply and opened your eyes.
At first, all you saw was him — standing in front of you, watching you carefully, almost nervously. Then your gaze shifted and everything else came into focus. You turned slowly, taking it in piece by piece.
Everything was different. But it wasn't what you had once imagined either.
The boxes were gone. The walls had been repainted in soft, warm colors that made the room feel brighter than you remembered.
There was no crib by the window. No changing table. No carefully planned corners for a life that hadn’t come. Instead, there were large canvases leaned against the far wall, waiting to be used. Shelves lined with paints, brushes, pencils and jars of color.
Your breath caught. Your hand rose instinctively to your mouth as your eyes began to sting.
It wasn’t a reminder of what you had lost anymore. Of what you couldn’t have. Steve had transformed it into something full of possibilities that didn’t hurt to look at. That didn’t whisper what if every time you passed by.
Behind you, Steve shifted slightly. When you didn’t speak right away, uncertainty crept in.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe I should’ve talked to you first,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I just… I thought it was a shame to leave it like that and not using it. And you always said you wished you had a space to paint, so I thought—”
He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair, suddenly unsure.
“I mean, you don’t have to use it if you don’t want to,” he added, softer now. “We can —”
You turned to him before he could finish the sentence and closed the distance in two quick steps, kissing him.
He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard — then melted into it, his hands coming up to steady you as he kissed you back. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, your breath uneven.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered. “I love it. And I love you.”
Your arms slipped around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Thank you,” you murmured against him.
He held you just as tightly.
And over the following weeks, that room became yours.
You spent hours in there — painting, sitting, letting your thoughts settle into something quieter. Sometimes, you didn’t even realize how long you’d been there until the light changed. Steve would linger in the doorway now and then, leaning against the frame, watching you with that same soft expression—like he was witnessing something slowly come back to life.
Eventually, you even convinced him to sit for you. He complained about it at first. A lot. But he stayed.
And little by little, that room changed. From something that once held only absence, pain, sadness… to something filled with color.
And hope.
-
A few weeks later, Steve showed up with a camper that looked like it had lived several lives before you ever laid eyes on it. It was old, dented in places, the paint faded and uneven — but there was a spark in Steve’s eyes when he stood in front of it, one hand resting on the hood like he’d just found treasure.
“I know what you’re thinking but it has potential,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “It probably has tetanus.”
He grinned.
With Eddie’s help — and a lot more time, effort, and swearing than either of them would ever admit— they brought it back to life. By the time summer arrived and school let out, it was no longer falling apart.
With no schedules to follow and nowhere you had to be, you left. The road stretched out in front of you, endless and open. It felt… freeing.
You drove for hours with the windows down, music playing too loud, your hands resting somewhere on each other — your arm, your thigh, wherever you could reach — just to feel each other.
You made your way through the Rockies first, the air thinner, cooler, the silence deeper than anything you were used to. You hiked trails that left your legs aching and your lungs burning, but every time you stopped, every time you looked around, it felt worth it.
At night, you slept outside more often than not. Sometimes in the camper, sometimes in a tent, sometimes just wrapped in blankets under a sky so full of stars it didn’t feel real. There were moments when you lay side by side, not speaking, just looking up. And your thoughts didn’t spiral anymore.
At the Grand Canyon, you stood at the edge in silence, your shoulder pressed against his. His hand found yours without looking, fingers threading through yours like it was second nature.
“Hard to believe something like this just… exists,” you murmured.
Steve glanced at you instead of the view. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It is.”
After that, you went to Yellowstone. Beautiful and unpredictable at the same time. One moment you were admiring the scenery, the next you were lost, soaked by unexpected rain, or arguing over a map you both insisted you knew how to read properly.
And then there was California.
Everything seemed to slow down there. The air was warmer, the days felt longer. The ocean stretched out endlessly in front of you, the sound of it constant.
Steve decided he was going to learn how to surf. In reality, he spent most of his time falling off the board while you sat on the beach laughing so hard your stomach hurt.
You played volleyball on the beach with strangers, drank overly sweet cocktails decorated with ridiculous little umbrellas, and watched the sun melt into the ocean more evenings than you could count.
During the day, Steve refused to wear sunscreen, even though you had told him he’d regret it.
And he did.
“This is your fault,” he muttered later, lying on his stomach, his skin flushed red while you tried not to laugh as you applied aloe.
“My fault?” you echoed, incredulous.
“You should’ve insisted harder.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, your fingers gentler than your tone. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you love me.”
You didn’t answer.
You didn’t need to as you both knew the answer.
Sometimes, you acted like kids — splashing each other in the water, chasing each other along the shore, collapsing into the sand, breathless and laughing.
Other times, things slowed down. Quieted.
You’d sit close together, his arm around your shoulders, your head resting against him, listening to the waves without feeling the need to fill the silence.
One night, long after the beach had emptied, you slipped into the ocean together, only in your underwear.
The cold hit you instantly, sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. You gasped, instinctively reaching for him. His hands found you beneath the surface, firm on your hips, pulling you into him until there was no space left between your bodies. The water moved around you, waves brushing against your skin. You laughed quietly when one hit you harder than expected, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, pressing your chest against his, your breath mixing.
You started kissing — your lips touching, hesitant for half a second — and then it deepened instantly.
Hungry.
Your fingers slid into his hair, grabbing, pulling him closer as his hold on you tightened, one hand pressing firmly at your lower back, anchoring you against him while the ocean swayed around you. There was no teasing or slow build. Just want. Desire. Raw and immediate.
“I need you,” he muttered against your mouth.
“Then stop talking,” you shot back softly, breathless, your eyes fixed on his. “And show me how much you need me.”
That was all it took.
The kiss turned rougher, deeper. His hand shifted, gripping your hip harder, pulling a quiet sound from you that you couldn’t hold back. The ocean rocked around you, but neither of you paid attention anymore.
By the time you made it back to shore, you were both breathing harder than you should have been, your skin still wet, cooling in the night air. The moment your feet hit the sand, his mouth was on yours again, stronger this time, more urgent, more demanding. Your hands moved just as quickly, sliding over him, holding, pulling, needing to feel him.
You stumbled back together, barely coordinated, until the sand gave way beneath you and you fell, a soft breath leaving your lips as your back hit the ground. Steve followed immediately, catching himself just enough to not hurt you.
Sand clung to your skin, your legs wrapped around him without thinking, pressing into him like you couldn’t get close enough, like your body refused the idea of space between you.
His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, your neck, slower now — but not softer. Each touch leaving something behind, something you could feel spreading under your skin.
“You feel that?” he murmured against your skin, voice rough.
“Yes—”
Your head tipped back, breath catching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he held you tighter, like he wasn’t planning to let you slip away again.
“Don’t — don’t stop,” you breathed against his mouth.
A quiet exhale left him, almost like a laugh, but darker.
“Never,” he replied, almost immediately.
When you finally came together, it felt inevitable. Natural. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm before you even found it. Every movement met, answered, matched. Your breath broke into uneven patterns, your fingers tightening, needing something solid as the rest of the world blurred into nothing but the sound of the ocean and the feeling of him.
His name left your lips without thought, barely more than a breath, your body reacting to every shift, every movement that pulled you further into him.
Afterward, you didn’t move. You stayed wrapped around each other, your skin still warm, your breathing slowly evening out as the night settled back around you. His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer instinctively, like distance wasn’t something either of you could tolerate. Your fingers traced slow, absent lines over his chest, your cheek pressed there, listening to his heartbeat.
The waves kept coming and going, soft, constant.
And for once, there was nothing chasing you.
No doubt.
No fear.
No voice in the back of your mind asking what if.
-
When you came back from your trip and the new school year began, things felt different between you and Steve. Not all at once. Not in a way that erased everything that had happened. But the tension, the constant weight of fear and doubt — it had softened.
You still talked about children sometimes. About the future. About what you both wanted. But the summer spent together had reminded you of something important: you were happy. With Steve. With the life you had built together, even if it was only the two of you for now. But it was enough for now. So you decided to wait and to give yourselves time.
No deadlines.
No pressure.
No quiet panic about what should come next.
Just the two of you.
Or rather, the three of you.
Because shortly after you got a dog.
A golden retriever puppy, barely a few months old, all oversized paws and endless energy that you named King.
King made his loyalties very clear from the start. He followed you everywhere like your shadow. If you moved, he moved. If you stopped, he sat at your feet. At night, it became a problem. Every time you and Steve went to bed, King would jump up before either of you could stop him and curl up right on Steve’s side.
“You’ve got competition,” you teased one night, already half under the covers as Steve stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the dog sprawled comfortably across his pillow.
Steve scoffed. “Yeah, I can see.”
King didn’t move. If anything, he stretched and it took a solid minute of negotiating — firm voice, light pushing, and eventually bribery — before Steve managed to reclaim his spot. Even then, King would lie at the foot of the bed, eyes on you.
Steve pretended to be annoyed at him, almost jealous. Sometimes he even sounded like it. But you caught the way he looked at the dog when he thought you weren’t paying attention — soft, amused, completely gone. He loved him as much as you did.
Every evening, he took him out for walks, no matter how tired he was. You’d watch from the window sometimes as they crossed the yard — Steve throwing the ball, King sprinting after it like his life depended on it, ears flying, tail wagging wildly.
-
Not long after classes started, a position opened in the art department. A few days later, the principal called you into his office and offered it to you. Your first instinct was to say no.
The thought of being so close to children every day made something in your chest tighten again. Old fears, quieter now, but not completely gone, stirred under the surface.
What if it would hurt?
What if it was too much?
What if you couldn’t handle it after all?
But then you thought about the studio that Steve had set up for you. About the way your hands had found their way back to color, to creation. About the way you had slowly, carefully started building something new out of what you thought you had lost.
So when the principal asked for your answer a few days later, you said yes.
Steve was… impossibly proud.
The surprise party he organized was chaotic, loud, full of people you loved — and entirely overwhelming in the best way.
Your first day in the classroom felt different than you expected.
Not heavy.
Not painful.
Just… new.
There were moments of uncertainty, of course. Small pauses where you caught yourself observing, adjusting, learning where to stand, how to speak.
At one point, while you were leaning over a desk helping a child mix colors, you felt something shift in the room — a subtle change in attention. You looked up. Steve was standing by the door. He hadn’t said anything. Just… watching. A small smile already on his face.
One of the kids noticed him first. Then another. And suddenly the entire class had turned, voices rising all at once.
“Who is that?”
“Coach Harrington!”
“Is that your husband?”
“Are you gonna kiss him?”
Your face flushed instantly.
“Okay — alright — back to —” you tried, but it was too late.
“Ki-ss! Ki-ss! Ki-ss!”
You shot Steve a look — half warning, half embarrassed.
He only grinned and walked over, slow, deliberate, like he was enjoying this far too much. When he reached you, he leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to your cheek.
The class erupted.
You covered your face for a second, laughing despite yourself.
“Sorry,” he murmured near your ear, low enough that only you could hear. “Couldn’t help it.” Then, after a beat, softer. “I’ll make it up to you later.”
Your cheeks warmed even more, and you nudged him lightly, trying to regain some composure.
By the time the day ended and the last child had left, the classroom fell quiet. You stood there for a moment, taking it in—the scattered drawings, the faint smell of paint, the soft echo of a day that hadn’t hurt the way you feared it would.
If anything, it had felt… right.
A light knock pulled you from your thoughts.
You followed the sound.
Steve was leaning again against the doorframe, watching you with that same soft expression.
“So?” he asked.
You hesitated only a second.
“It was good,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
You smiled a little, shaking your head. “Okay… it was better than good.”
Something in his face eased. He stepped closer, his hand settling lightly at your waist.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
You let out a small breath, glancing around the room one last time before looking back at him.
“I’m happy. Really happy,” you admitted.
It came out softer than you expected.
Steve’s thumb brushed gently against your side. “And I’m proud of you.”
You held his gaze for a second, then a small, knowing smile curved your lips. “Then maybe we should go home,” you said lightly, tilting your head just enough, “so you can show me how proud you are.”
Something shifted in his expression immediately — subtle, but unmistakable.
“Don’t say more,” he murmured, a hint of a grin breaking through.
“Come on,” you said, reaching for your bag.
He took it from you without a word, his other hand finding yours and you walked out together, turning off the lights behind you.
-
One evening, you were already home, waiting for Steve to be back. Dinner was ready, the table perfectly set. The kitchen still carried the warmth of what you had just cooked, and King lingered nearby, pacing in small, hopeful circles, his eyes fixed on the counter in case something might fall.
You glanced at the clock one more time.
Steve was late.
You furrowed your brow. Practice should have ended a while ago and he was rarely off schedule without a reason.
You dried your hands on a dish towel, trying not to let your thoughts drift too far ahead of you. But just as a flicker of concern began to settle in your chest, the sound of the front door opening cut through the silence.
Relief left your lips in a quiet breath before you could stop it. King reacted instantly, tail wagging as he rushed out of the kitchen, nails clicking against the floor as he ran to greet Steve.
“Hey, what happened? The kids wouldn’t let you go?” you called out, stepping out of the kitchen after the dog, still distracted as you wiped your hands.
“Hey,” Steve said.
Something in his tone — slight, uncertain — made you lift your gaze. At first, you didn’t notice anything different. Then your eyes caught it.
A small hand, barely visible, peeking out from behind his leg, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his pants.
You slowed mid-step. Your mouth parted slightly, the words you had been about to say fading before they could form. Your gaze stayed fixed there, on that small hand, and on the hint of a face just barely visible behind him as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. But you couldn’t quite see who it was.
You looked back up at Steve. “Oh,” you said, managing a small smile despite the confusion already building, “I see we have a guest.”
Steve lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly, a nervous habit you knew too well. He smiled back—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was hesitation there. Almost… caution.
He glanced down behind him. Then, after a brief pause, he shifted slightly to the side.
And the child finally came into view.
You blinked. “Charlie?” you said, surprise softening your voice.
He stood half-hidden still, shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes flicked up briefly before dropping again like he wasn’t sure if he should be there at all.
You knew him. He was one of your students. And one of Steve’s athletes too. Quiet. Gentle. Polite. The kind of child who never demanded attention, who was always the last to leave, as if he had no hurry, or worse, nowhere to go.
“Good evening, Mrs. Harrington,” he said, his voice small, careful. His eyes lowered to his worn shoes, toes turned slightly inward.
King, meanwhile, had already approached him, tail wagging enthusiastically as he sniffed at him. Charlie flinched slightly at first but didn’t pull away. He just stood there, still, letting the dog investigate him like he didn’t quite know how to act.
You softened immediately at the sight.
“Hey,” you said gently, your voice shifting without you even thinking about it as you took a few little steps closer. “It’s okay, you don’t need to be afraid. He’s friendly. And… curious.”
Charlie gave a small nod, barely lifting his gaze.
You knew enough about his situation. In a town like Hawkins, people talked and everyone seemed to know everyone else's business. Over the years, you had heard various things about him. No father. A mother who was rarely home. And when she was, she often seemed lost in problems of her own and Charlie ended up spending many evenings alone.
Your attention flicked back to Steve again as he stepped closer to you. A thousand questions sat just behind your lips but you didn’t ask them. Not yet.
Steve cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he began, his voice low. “I should’ve called, but—”
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to brush his lips near your ear.
“His mom didn’t show up,” he murmured quietly so that only you could hear. “We couldn’t reach her. And I couldn’t leave him there.”
He pulled back, his hand finding yours, fingers wrapping around it as he searched your face. Your eyes flicked briefly to Charlie, then back to Steve. You nodded, a small smile forming as you squeezed his hand lightly, reassuring him that it was all okay. You stepped away from Steve and moved toward Charlie, lowering yourself to his height so you wouldn’t tower over him.
“Hey,” you said softly. “You actually got here at the perfect time.”
He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, weight moving from one foot to the other.
“I hope you’re hungry because dinner’s ready,” you continued, keeping your tone light. “And I made way too much food. Honestly, it’s a problem at this point.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Think you could help us with that?”
Charlie nodded after a moment, still not quite meeting your eyes. You nodded back, as if sealing an agreement.
“Perfect,” you said gently. Then, glancing over your shoulder at Steve, “why don’t we go wash our hands while Steve… gets everything ready?”
Your eyes lingered on him just a second longer, enough for him to understand that what you were really giving him was time. He gave a small nod in return before going back to look at Charlie. You reached out carefully, giving him the chance to step back if he wanted to but he didn’t. Your fingers closed gently around his hand—small, a little cold—and you guided him toward the bathroom. Behind you, you heard Steve move, the faint sound of the phone being picked up echoing through the quiet house. As you walked, you could feel the slight tension in Charlie’s grip, the way he stayed close but cautious, like he wasn’t used to this kind of care.
When you stepped back into the kitchen, your eyes found Steve’s immediately. He shook his head, just slightly. Something in your chest dropped, but you didn’t let it show. You forced a small, easy smile for Charlie.
“Here we are,” you said lightly. “Go ahead, Charlie, sit here.”
You gestured to the chair between you and Steve. He moved toward it slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid of getting something wrong. Steve took the seat across from you, while King had already settled at your side, tail brushing against your leg, eyes fixed on the table with quiet anticipation. He knew you well enough to expect something, even if he’d already eaten.
You looked at Charlie, searching for the right thing to say. Make yourself at home sat on the tip of your tongue — but it didn’t feel right. Not when you didn’t know what home meant for him.
“Take whatever you like, please” you said instead, softer.
He still didn’t move. His mouth was slightly open, his gaze fixed on the table in front of him. You followed it.
Dinner wasn’t anything special — just spaghetti with meatballs, fresh salad and warm garlic bread. The portions were the same you cooked every night for you and Steve, the kind that usually left leftovers for the next day. It was normal for you.
But not for him.
His eyes moved slowly from one dish to the next, taking everything in. There was something in his expression — something caught between hesitation and wonder. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real or that it was actually meant for him.
Your chest tightened and a thought slipped in before you could stop it.
When was the last time he ate like this?
Not just ate — but sat down at a table, with other people and warm food in front of him that he didn’t have to earn, or rush, or hide. Maybe he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he was just waiting to understand what was allowed. Waiting for someone to tell him it was okay.
You swallowed hard but didn’t ask questions. Instead, you reached forward and began serving him yourself, adding a bit of everything onto his plate. More than you normally would. More than he probably expected.
“There you go,” you said gently once you were done. “There’s more if you want, okay?”
He nodded faintly, his hands still resting in his lap for a moment longer.
You and Steve served yourselves next, exchanging a brief look across the table before your attention returned to Charlie.
He hadn’t touched the food yet.
Only when you both took your first bites did he finally move. At first, it was tentative. Slow. Careful. He picked at the food like he was testing it, like he wasn’t entirely sure it was really his to eat. Like he expected someone to stop him. But after a few bites, hunger took over and his movements changed — faster now, less careful. He ate quickly, almost urgently, like his body couldn’t afford to wait. A bit of sauce smeared at the corner of his mouth.
You had stopped mid-motion without realizing it, your fork suspended halfway to your mouth as you watched him. Something shifted inside you. It wasn’t discomfort. Or pity. It was something else — warm, but heavier than you expected. Something that settled low in your chest and stayed there, tightening your throat just slightly. You didn’t have a name for it but it made it harder to look away.
You loved your students. All of them. But this felt different. Seeing Charlie like that, so small in that chair, so quiet and guarded one moment and then suddenly… unfiltered. Unaware. There was something vulnerable about it. But also something incredibly real. And it stirred something in you that you didn’t quite recognize. Something close to affection — but deeper, instinctive, almost unfamiliar in its intensity.
You smiled, softly. Charlie caught it out of the corner of his eye and he slowed down almost immediately. The shift was instant — shoulders tightening again, movements becoming smaller, more controlled, like he had just remembered himself or as if he thought he had done something wrong. Your smile faded just enough. You looked down quickly, pretending to focus on your own plate, giving him privacy again.
Dinner moved forward like that. Quiet, mostly. You and Steve tried to make conversation — small questions, light comments, easy conversation — but you didn’t push. When Charlie answered, it was brief. Polite. Careful.
So you let the silence settle instead.
And strangely… it wasn’t uncomfortable.
It felt gentle.
Safe.
The kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from anyone. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery, King’s tail occasionally brushing against the floor, and Charlie’s breathing slowly evening out as he ate.
And as you sat there, across from Steve, watching this small, fragile moment take shape at your table, you felt something shift inside you again.
Not sharp.
Not painful.
Just… something opening.
Something that felt, quietly, like the beginning of something you hadn’t planned — but somehow already cared about.
At some point, King started circling the table again, nails clicking softly against the floor as he moved from one chair to the next, hopeful and impatient in the way he always was. Then, without warning, he stopped beside Charlie and rested his chin on the boy’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Charlie froze instantly. His shoulders stiffened, his hand hovering mid-air, his whole body going still.
“It’s okay,” Steve said gently, his tone easy, reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared. It just means that he likes you.”
He reached over, picking up a small piece of leftover meat from his plate and holding it out toward him.
“Here,” he added. “You can give him this if you want. He’ll be your best friend for life after that.”
Charlie hesitated. He looked at Steve first, uncertain — then at you. You gave him a small nod, soft, encouraging. He took the piece of meat slowly, carefully, like even that small gesture required permission. Then he lowered his hand toward King, a little unsure.
King didn’t hesitate. He took it immediately, tail still wagging, clearly thrilled by the interaction and the food. Charlie watched him, something shifting in his expression. Then, almost cautiously, he lifted his other hand and rested it on the top of King’s head. He started petting him, slowly at first, light, almost testing. King leaned into it, happily, before licking his hand in response.
And just like that a small smile appeared on Charlie’s face. Barely there at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold it. Then a quiet, surprised sound slipped out of him — something between a breath and a laugh.
You realized then that it was the first genuine smile you'd seen since Steve had brought him home.
A real smile.
The sight of it sent a rush of warmth through you so sudden it almost caught you off guard. You looked up, meeting Steve’s gaze across the table.
His expression had softened in exactly the same way.
Neither of you said anything. There was no need. Your smiles said more than a thousand words.
-
Darkness had settled outside the windows. The last traces of daylight had disappeared long ago, replaced by the quiet hum of crickets and the occasional headlights passing on the distant road. The clock in the kitchen kept ticking steadily forward, each passing minute making the silence feel heavier.
Steve had tried calling again. And again. But it had become clear no one was coming.
Hopper had been informed, and after a brief conversation, the three of you had come to the same conclusion. It was late, Charlie was safe where he was, and dragging him somewhere unfamiliar in the middle of the night would only make an already difficult situation worse.
Hopper promised he would start looking into things first thing in the morning. He'd check hospitals, talk to people, ask questions and figure out what had happened. But until then, the best place for Charlie was here. At your house.
You and Steve got the guest room ready together, moving quickly, instinctively falling into rhythm without needing to say anything. Clean sheets, an extra blanket, a small glass of water placed on the nightstand.
You found something for him to sleep in as well. One of the spare pajamas that had been left behind over the years after countless sleepovers. Dustin, Mike, Lucas and the others always seemed to forget something whenever they stayed over. The pajama shirt hung almost to Charlie's thighs and the sleeves fell past his wrists. It was obviously far too big for him, but it was clean, warm, and smelled faintly of laundry detergent.
When it was finally time to put him to bed, something shifted again — a different kind of uncertainty. You were suddenly aware of how unfamiliar this felt — not the presence of a child, not really. You and Steve were surrounded by them every day at school and you had even years of babysitting behind you.
But this was different.
This was your home.
And right now there was a child who was almost a stranger to you. Not one of your little friends, like Dustin, or a friend's kid you found yourself looking after for a night. Sure, he was your student, but you still knew little about him. He was a responsibility that didn’t have a clear boundary. You didn’t know what his routine looked like. Or if he had one at all. You didn’t know if someone usually tucked him in. If he was used to silence, or noise, or being left alone entirely. You didn't know what you could or couldn't do.
He wasn’t your son, after all.
And you weren’t his mother.
The thought made you hesitate. But not for long. Because he needed you, whether you were his mother or not.
You stepped closer to him. He had already slipped under the covers, lying stiffly on his back, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself there either. You reached down and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around him. Your movements were careful, slow. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.
“I… uh,” you started, your voice quieter now. “Me and Steve — we’re just down the hall. First door on the left.” You offered a small smile. “If you need anything… anything at all, you can come get us. Or call.”
He just nodded.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his expression, hoping he understood — not just the words, but what you meant.
That he wasn’t alone.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” you said gently. “Sweet dreams.”
Still no answer.
You smiled anyway, then turned toward the door. You had just opened it, one foot already out in the hallway, when his voice stopped you.
“Goodnight… Mrs. Harrington.”
You turned back, your eyes met his again. For a second, something caught in your chest. You smiled again at him. Part of you wanted to tell him to use your name. To make it easier, less formal. But you didn’t. It was too soon.
“Goodnight,” you simply said.
Then you stepped out and closed the door gently behind you, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you almost immediately. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping without you even realizing how tense they had been. It felt strange. Like you had just passed some kind of test you didn’t know you were taking.
-
By the time you reached your bedroom, the exhaustion of the evening had finally started catching up to you. You pushed the door open quietly.
Steve was standing beside the bed, halfway through changing out of his clothes. His shirt was already gone, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips while he tugged a clean T-shirt over his head. The moment he saw you, he stopped immediately.
“How is he?” he asked right away, concern already written all over his face. “Did he fall asleep?”
You shook your head as you closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the handle for just a moment before you let it go.
“Not yet,” you said. “But he was fine... and I think he was tired too. After all, it was a busy evening... for all of us. I'm sure he'll fall asleep soon.”
Steve nodded slowly, eyes dropping for a second as he processed that, some of the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. Then his gaze lifted back to yours.
“And you?” he asked more carefully this time, his voice low.
There it was.
The real question.
Are you okay after all of this?
You leaned back lightly against the dresser, crossing your arms loosely over yourself as you thought about it.
“Honestly?” you said after a moment. “Better than I expected.”
“Are you sure?” He said, carefully.
You let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, but didn’t quite make it.
“I’m not gonna lie. It was… intense,” you admitted. “And a little overwhelming at first.” You paused for a moment before continuing. “When I saw him standing behind you, I think my brain completely stopped working for a second.”
That earned the faintest smile from Steve, though it disappeared quickly again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to warn you, but I didn’t really have the time or… a choice,” he said immediately.
You shook your head gently.
“Steve,” you said softly, “you weren’t going to leave him there all alone.”
His jaw tightened slightly at that.
You could still picture it clearly — Charlie patiently waiting at the baseball field long after everyone else had gone home, like he was already used to it. To being forgotten. The thought made something ache inside your chest all over again.
“You did the right thing. I would’ve done the same,” you told him.
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You nodded.
“Of course.”
Steve looked at you for a long moment after that, something conflicted moving behind his eyes.
“When I showed up with him,” he admitted quietly, “I was scared you’d look at me and think I’d lost my mind.”
You frowned immediately.
“Steve—”
“No, I —” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly. “I was really scared… I didn’t know if this would… bring everything back up again.” His voice lowered on the last part.
Even now he hated talking about the pain you both had gone through. But you promised each other you'd be honest and tell each other everything, even when it wasn’t easy. You didn't want to repeat the same mistakes.
Your expression softened instantly. “You thought I was gonna fall apart again.”
He didn’t talk but his silence was answer enough. You pushed yourself away from the dresser and walked toward him slowly.
“I… I was scared, at first,” you admitted.
Steve’s face tightened slightly.
“But not because of Charlie,” you clarified quickly. “More because… I didn’t know how I was supposed to act. What he needed. Or what the right thing was.”
You stopped in front of him.
“But…” your voice softened, “I’m glad you brought him here.”
Steve’s eyes searched yours carefully, like he still wasn’t fully allowing himself to believe that.
“And he can stay as long as he needs to,” you said firmly. “Honestly, I’m more angry that nobody seems to even be looking for him.”
Something dark flickered briefly across Steve’s face at that.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “Me too.”
Silence settled between you for a moment. Then Steve looked at you again, softer this time.
“You were really good tonight,” he said suddenly.
You blinked.
“With him,” he added. His mouth lifted faintly at one corner. “The second you realized what was happening, you just… took over.” He shook his head a little, almost like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “You made him feel safe in, like, five minutes.”
Warmth spread slowly through your chest.
“So did you,” you replied quietly.
Steve huffed softly. “I mostly panicked internally.”
You laughed under your breath. “No,” you said, stepping closer. “You brought him home. You made sure he wasn’t alone tonight.”
Your eyes softened as you looked at him. “You’re a really good man, Steve Harrington.”
His gaze dropped briefly, almost shy despite all these years.
“And… You’d be an amazing father,” you added, gentler now.
Steve smiled automatically at that—but it faltered almost immediately after. You noticed it instantly. Like the words had caught somewhere inside him. Your head tilted slightly, knowing exactly what had happened.
“You can say it, you know,” you murmured.
His eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he looked almost hesitant. Then finally, “You’d be an amazing mother too.”
A small smile pulled at your lips as you stepped even closer until your bodies nearly touched.
“Thanks,” you said quietly. “I’ll try to be.”
Your hand slid gently against his chest.
“One day. When we’re ready.”
Steve’s expression softened completely.
Relief.
Love.
Hope.
All at once.
His hands found your waist slowly, carefully, like he still wanted to make sure this was real.
“That sounds nice,” he admitted quietly.
You smiled.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You looked at each other for another moment before Steve finally pulled you fully against him. You melted into his arms immediately, your cheek pressing against his chest as his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. His hand slid slowly up and down your back while the other rested protectively at the base of your spine. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear.
After a moment, you tilted your head back just enough to look at him again. “I love you,” you whispered.
Steve smiled. “I love you too.”
Then he leaned down and kissed you.
-
The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen. You blinked slowly against the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue. For a moment, you stayed still beneath the covers. The house sat wrapped in that quiet kind of silence that only existed in the earliest hours — before alarms, before life began moving again. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach. One arm had somehow ended up stretched across your waist sometime during the night, heavy and warm over the blanket, his face half-buried into the pillow. His hair stuck up messily in every direction, lips slightly parted, completely unaware of the world.
You watched him for a few seconds, then your thoughts drifted to Charlie. You carefully slipped out from under Steve’s arm, moving slowly so you wouldn’t wake him. He stirred anyway, mumbling something incoherent under his breath before instinctively reaching toward the warm spot you had left. You smiled to yourself. Then quietly, you pulled something on and stepped into the hallway. Your feet slowed when you reached the guest room. Carefully, you opened the door just enough to peek inside.
Charlie was still asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath the pillow, hair messy from sleep.
Relief moved through you instantly.
At some point during the night, he must have kicked the blankets halfway off himself and King had somehow managed to sneak in too, curled at the foot of the bed like some oversized guard dog, completely passed out.
You almost laughed.
Traitor.
You had checked on him more than once during the night. Each time half expecting him to be awake, scared, crying, confused. But every time, you had found him still sleeping.
Charlie’s face looked different asleep. Softer. Younger. Relaxed in a way you didn’t think you had ever seen him at school. He was just a little boy sleeping. Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly. You wondered when he had last slept somewhere without worrying. If he ever had.
You stepped inside just long enough to pull the blanket back over him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. King cracked one eye open, lifted his head lazily.
“You’re supposed to sleep in our room,” you whispered.
His tail thumped once against the mattress before he ignored you entirely. You shook your head, smiling faintly, and quietly slipped back out.
Downstairs, the house still smelled faintly of last night’s dinner. You started the coffee machine first. Then breakfast. You decided to make pancakes, hoping Charlie liked them. Without realizing it, you found yourself making more than usual.
By the time you were whisking batter, you heard some familiar footsteps behind you and after a moment, strong arms wrapped around your waist, making you smile immediately.
“Good morning to you too,” you said softly.
Steve leaned down, still half asleep, pressing his face against your shoulder, kissing it lazily.
“It’s Saturday and it’s early,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Come back to bed.”
You smiled despite yourself.
“Don’t tempt me, Steve.”
A soft hum vibrated against your skin.
“You know I can’t help myself,” he murmured near your ear. “Especially when I know I can convince you.”
His hands settled against your hips, warm and familiar.
“Steve…”
“Mhm?”
“I’d like to remind you we’re not alone in the house.”
He kissed your shoulder again. “I checked,” he murmured. “He’s still sleeping.”
The admission caught you off guard for a second.
Of course he had checked too.
The thought alone made your chest tighten in the softest way.
You tilted your head back for only a moment, giving him space without even meaning to as his lips brushed your skin again. Then you caught yourself. Turning in his arms, you rested your hands against his chest to stop him.
“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t wake up any second,” you said gently. “And I’d rather avoid traumatizing him any more than life already has.”
Steve let out a quiet sigh — not annoyed. Amused.
His forehead dropped lightly against yours.
“Ok, you’re right. I’ll behave,” he said. “For now,” he added before kissing you. Soft. Slow.
When he pulled back, he exhaled quietly.
“I’m gonna call Hopper,” he said after a moment. “See if there’s any news.”
The mood shifted a little, reality settling back in.
You still nodded. Even though, deep down, you already feared the answer.
While Steve reached for the phone, you turned back toward the counter and started cooking. You needed something to do with your hands, something to stop your mind from spiraling.
You poured the first circle of batter into the pan, watching it spread slowly across the surface as the soft hiss filled the kitchen.
After a few seconds, Hopper answered. You could hear his voice through the receiver — agitated, fast — but none of the actual words reached you. You focused on the pancakes, the smell slowly filling the kitchen.
A small stack of pancakes had already begun to form on the plate beside the stove by the time you glanced over again. Steve’s expression had slowly changed as he listened to Hopper. His eyes met yours, your stomach tightening. You could tell before he even hung up.
“Still nothing?” you asked quietly, swallowing hard.
Steve shook his head. “Hopper checked their caravan,” he said carefully. “Nobody was there. And no one has seen her apparently.”
He paused, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “He said… Charlie can keep staying here, for now. If… we want, of course.”
You looked down at the batter absentmindedly as something twisted painfully in your chest. Not because you minded. God, you didn’t. But because no child should ever be left wondering why no one came. Then there was a part of you — the quiet, selfish one — that felt strangely relieved.
Your eyes slowly lifted to Steve’s.
“Yeah,” you agreed immediately. “Of course he can stay. As long as he needs it.”
“You sure?” he asked quietly.
Steve watched you for a second, like maybe he was still afraid of your answer. Like some part of him worried this would be too much.
“Steve,” you said gently. “I told you. I’m okay, really. And he needs us now. That’s all that matters.”
Something softened in his face. “You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes lightly. “You brought home a child, Harrington. You are.”
“Yeah, and you just took over, making it feel normal.”
“I just made him dinner.”
“You made him feel safe. Welcome.”
You looked at him, your mouth slightly open. But before you could answer, soft footsteps interrupted you.
You both turned.
Charlie stood awkwardly near the kitchen entrance, hair sticking up everywhere. King stood proudly beside him like he had personally escorted him downstairs. Charlie hesitated when he noticed you both looking.
“Morning,” Steve said immediately, casual — gentle enough not to scare him off. “Did you sleep well, buddy?”
Charlie shifted his weight slightly. Then, he nodded, quickly.
“Good,” he said, softer than usual. “You hungry?”
Charlie looked up at you and after a moment, he nodded again.
Your heart nearly cracked open. “Well,” you said, turning back toward the stove, “perfect timing. You pointed toward the bowl on the counter. “Pancakes. They’re almost ready. And before Steve eats all of them, I suggest you sit down.”
Steve looked offended. “What? I didn’t…”
“You ate six last time.”
“Seven,” he corrected proudly. “It's not my fault if your pancakes are the best,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
And for the second time, you saw it. Small. Quick. Gone almost immediately. But there.
Another smile.
And somehow, standing there in your kitchen, with King circling his legs and Steve already pretending to argue over pancake rights, something shifted. You couldn’t explain it yet. Didn’t have words for it. But for the first time in a long while…
The house felt fuller.
Complete.
-
Since school was closed for the weekend, you had the day off and could do whatever you wanted. So after breakfast, Steve disappeared for a moment before returning with two baseball gloves and a ball in hand. He leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at Charlie.
“So,” he said, shrugging lightly, like the idea had just come to him, “since you’re here…”
Charlie looked up from where he sat beside King.
“Thought maybe we could get a little practice in.” Steve tossed one ball lightly into the air before catching it again. “Consider it private coaching.” A small grin tugged at his mouth. “But don’t tell the others, alright? Can’t have the team thinking I play favorites.”
Charlie hesitated, shoulders tightening slightly.
“You really don’t have to if you don’t feel like it,” you added gently, not wanting him to feel pressured.
Steve nodded immediately. “No pressure,” he said easily. “We can just throw the ball around for a bit. King will probably join and ruin everything anyway.”
As if on cue, King lifted his head and after a second, Charlie nodded.
Steve pointed at him with mock seriousness.
“That’s my guy.”
-
Outside, you settled onto the porch with your sketchbook, intending to draw. At least, that had been the plan. Instead, your pencil barely touched the page as you found yourself watching Steve and Charlie.
Steve crouched down to Charlie’s height, explaining something while the boy listened carefully, shoulders tense. At first, he nodded and answered only when Steve asked him something directly. But little by little, the nervousness began to fade.
And soon, he was laughing quietly when Steve intentionally exaggerated a missed catch, dramatically falling backward into the grass.
“You did that on purpose,” Charlie said before quickly going quiet again, almost surprised by his own voice.
Steve placed a hand over his chest. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Another laugh escaped Charlie, his smile widened despite himself.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Charlie looked… lighter. Like for a few hours, he had forgotten to be scared. And watching him — safe, laughing, free in a way you suspected he rarely got to be — stirred something unfamiliar and quiet inside your chest. And frightening in how natural it felt.
You didn’t quite know what to call it. Not yet. Affection, maybe. Or something dangerously close to love. And that scared you more than you wanted to admit. Because you knew what love could do and how quickly it could turn into grief. How suddenly happiness could become fear and loss. And letting yourself care this much felt dangerous.
But then Charlie laughed again — breathless this time, chasing after King while Steve pretended to complain dramatically about being ignored by his own player — and something inside you softened anyway.
So, just for now, you let yourself enjoy the moment. The sound of laughter drifting through the yard. The warmth of the sun on your skin. Steve’s voice somewhere in the background.
-
By evening, the kitchen smelled like flour, tomato sauce, and melted cheese.
You had decided on homemade pizza.
At first, Charlie hovered near the kitchen doorway again, uncertain, hands half-hidden inside the sleeves of Dustin’s oversized sweatshirt. King sat loyally beside him, tail sweeping lazily against the floor every few seconds like he had already decided Charlie belonged there.
“Come here,” you said gently, patting the stool beside you. “I need help decorating.”
Charlie hesitated, glancing briefly toward Steve like he needed confirmation he wouldn’t be in the way.
“You heard the boss,” Steve said, washing his hands at the sink. “No backing out now.”
Slowly, Charlie climbed onto the stool beside you. You handed him a small handful of shredded mozzarella while you spread tomato sauce over the dough.
“Okay,” you said softly. “You can put the cheese on.”
He watched your hands first, careful and observant, before pinching a small amount between his fingers and sprinkling it over the pizza with extreme concentration. At first he moved slowly, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. Then he paused.
“Like this?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
You opened your mouth to answer, but Steve leaned over the counter first.
“That is way too much cheese,” he said with exaggerated seriousness.
Charlie froze immediately and you shot Steve a look.
“Ignore him,” you said, nudging Charlie lightly with your shoulder. “There’s no such thing as too much cheese.”
Steve looked personally offended.
“There absolutely is.”
“There isn’t.”
“There is. You just refuse to acknowledge basic pizza science.”
You rolled your eyes.
Beside you, Charlie let out the smallest laugh.
As the evening went on, Charlie relaxed little by little. He started helping more without asking. Passing ingredients. Carefully arranging pepperoni in uneven little circles. Sneaking extra cheese onto one side of the pizza when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.
King, meanwhile, had become completely and utterly attached to Charlie. The dog barely left his side. Every time Charlie moved, King followed. Every time Charlie sat down, King somehow ended up pressed against his leg like they had known each other forever. At one point, while you were reaching for plates, you noticed Charlie glance around carefully before lowering his hand beneath the counter. The second the piece of cheese slipped onto the floor, the dog appeared like magic and eat it. Charlie looked oddly proud of himself. Across the kitchen, Steve caught your eye just in time to see Charlie carefully slipping another tiny piece of pepperoni. Steve let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms.
“Great,” he said, crossing his arms. “Now he likes you more than me too.”
Charlie startled slightly, cheeks reddening.
“I— sorry,” he mumbled immediately, hand pulling back like he’d done something wrong.
Steve’s expression softened at once. “Kid, I’m kidding,” he said gently.
Charlie glanced up uncertainly. “He switched teams years ago,” Steve continued, nodding toward the dog. “The second she started sneaking him food under the table, I lost all authority in this house.”
“Excuse me?” you said, pretending to sound offended as you slid the pizza onto a cutting board. “You spoil him just as much.”
Charlie looked between the two of you quietly. Then, almost absentmindedly, his hand dropped to scratch behind King’s ears. King immediately melted into the floor with complete devotion.
Charlie also started speaking more. Small things at first. How he liked baseball more than math. How he hated peas. How King reminded him of a dog he’d once wanted but never got. Nothing really big or life-changing but every sentence felt important to you. Like trust being handed over in pieces.
“You know,” Steve said eventually, leaning back in his chair after another bite of pizza, “I think this might actually be the best pizza we’ve ever made.”
You looked up from your plate and glanced first at Charlie, then at Steve. You smiled softly. He wasn’t talking about the food.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I think so too.” Then, after a beat, your eyes dropped back to Charlie. “I had an amazing helper.”
Steve pointed to himself immediately.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding once like it was obvious.
You looked at him flatly. “I wasn’t talking about you.”
Steve placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Wow,” he said, feigning heartbreak. “That’s actually cruel.”
You laughed quietly when the doorbell suddenly rang. The noise cut through the room so suddenly that all three of you looked up.
“Were we expecting someone?” Steve asked.
You slowly shook your head but but deep down, somehow, you already knew. You couldn’t explain how or why. Instinct, maybe. The feeling settled heavily in your stomach before either of you even moved.
Steve stood first. And you followed almost immediately, wiping your hands absentmindedly on a kitchen towel while Charlie remained seated at the table, one hand resting unconsciously against King’s fur.
When Steve opened the door, Hopper stood there. And beside him, there was a woman.
Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. There was fading makeup smudged beneath tired eyes and a bruise near her temple, yellowing at the edges. Her clothes smelled faintly of cigarettes and hospital disinfectant. She looked exhausted more than anything else. Worn down by life in a way that made it difficult to tell how old she actually was.
You didn't need an introduction to know who she was.
Charlie’s mother.
Your chest tightened instantly.
The woman swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously past you into the house, searching.
Hopper exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“She got into a car accident yesterday,” he explained quietly, glancing between you and Steve. “Minor injuries but she ended up at the county hospital unconscious most of the night. She didn’t have any documents with her, so they didn’t know who she was.”
“Charlie,” she breathed out.
You turned.
Charlie stood a few feet behind you but he didn’t move. Not immediately. Then, slowly, carefully, he stepped forward. The woman’s eyes were fixed entirely on him. She crouched immediately despite the obvious stiffness in her body, one hand bracing against her knee. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached up.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly, voice cracking as she looked at him. “I’m so, so sorry. For everything.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
And the worst part was that she sounded genuine. Not cruel. Just… incapable. Like someone who loved her child but kept failing him anyway.
The guilt hit you before you could stop it. Because part of you had already judged her and decided what kind of mother she must be. Someone selfish. Someone reckless enough not to notice their child was gone. But now, standing there, seeing the bruising near her temple, the exhaustion written all over her face, she just looked overwhelmed. And broken.
She looked up at you and Steve then, eyes red-rimmed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank us,” Steve said gently. “He’s okay.”
“A little scared,” you admitted quietly. “But… he’s okay.”
The woman nodded like hearing that physically hurt.
Hopper stepped aside eventually, giving them space and quietly pulled Steve aside.
“I already talked to her,” he muttered low enough that Charlie couldn’t hear. “One more screw-up and I’m stepping in. I mean it. And I’ll be checking on her. Frequently.”
Steve simply nodded.
Eventually, Charlie disappeared upstairs to grab his things. When he came back down, King immediately stood, tail wagging, following him toward the door. Charlie wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, while he started licking his face without hesitation.
“You know,” you said softly, crouching beside him, “you can come visit him whenever you want.”
Charlie looked up. “For real?”
“For real,” Steve said. “Pretty sure you’re his favorite now.”
King barked once like he agreed. A tiny smile pulled at Charlie’s mouth. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
You smiled despite the ache building in your throat. You reached up before thinking, smoothing his messy hair back for a second.
“You’re always welcome here, Charlie”, you said, the words slipping out naturally.
They were already halfway to Hopper's truck when Charlie suddenly turned around. You smile and lifted your hand immediately.
“Bye, Charlie. See you on Monday,” you said, your voice trembling.
He hesitated for a second before raising his own hand in return. Small. Shy. Your arms crossed instinctively over yourself. King moved forward as if ready to follow him but Steve caught his collar gently. “Easy, buddy.”
The dog whined softly.
After closing the door behind you, Steve’s hand found yours silently. Slowly. His fingers threaded through yours and squeezed. Tight. Like he was comforting you. Like maybe he was holding onto something too.
The house felt unbearably quiet.
That night, lying in bed, you broke. You cried silently at first. Trying not to. Trying to be reasonable. After all, you would still see him at school. And Steve would see him at baseball practice. Nothing had changed. And nothing would. Not really.
Except it had.
Because somehow, impossibly, one day had been enough to make the thought of not hearing his quiet voice in the kitchen hurt more than it should.
Behind you, Steve said nothing. He wrapped himself around you, one arm around your waist, the other pulling you closer until your back pressed firmly against his chest, holding you tightly and letting you cry.
After a long while, something warm touched your shoulder. At first, you thought it was your own tears. But then Steve buried his face more firmly against the back of your neck.
And you realized.
He was crying too. Silently. Or at least, he was trying to. The fabric of your nightgown was damp against your shoulder. You turned slowly in his arms. His eyes were red.
“Oh, Steve…”
His laugh came out shaky. “I know,” he whispered hoarsely. “It’s stupid.”
“No,” you said immediately. “It isn’t,” you said, cupping his face, your forehead resting against his.
And somewhere in the quiet dark, holding each other like that, you both understood.
Seeing Charlie again at school would never be the same.
-
The next morning, you woke up early as usual but stayed where you were, tucked beneath the blankets while the soft gray light of early morning stretched across the bedroom. Beside you, Steve was still asleep, facing your side of the bed, hair sticking up in every direction, lips slightly parted as the faintest snore escaped him every few breaths.
You smiled despite yourself. Years ago, you probably would have found it annoying. Now, somehow, it had become comforting. Familiar. You turned onto your side, resting your head more comfortably against the pillow as you watched him sleep.
The night before replayed quietly in your mind.
Charlie leaving.
The silence afterward.
And the ache.
You and Steve had barely spoken once the house had gone quiet again. There hadn't really been words for it. Only a strange sense of loss neither of you had expected.
And it made no logical sense.
Because Charlie had only been with you for a day.
One day.
And yet it had been enough to love him as something more than just a student. His absence had settled over the house like something physical.
Eventually exhaustion had taken pity on both of you. But sleep hadn’t come easily. You had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking.
About Charlie.
About Steve.
About the future.
And somewhere between all those thoughts, something inside you had finally settled into place. Something that terrified and gave you hope at the same time. Because you had spent so long convinced that door had closed forever and that maybe some broken part of you would never recover enough to want it again.
But Charlie had changed something.
Beside you, Steve stirred. His nose scrunched slightly before he rolled onto his back, stretching with a groan and blinking against the morning light. Then he noticed you watching him, a sleepy smile pulled at his mouth immediately.
“Well,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “that’s either really romantic or really creepy.”
You laughed softly. “Good morning.”
“Morning, early bird.” He rubbed at his face before glancing toward the clock. “How long have you been awake?”
You hesitated. “A while.”
He studied you for a second and then something in his expression shifted, his smile fading just slightly. Like memory had finally caught up with him. He pushed himself up against the headboard, running a hand through his hair.
“How are you?” he asked carefully. “After… yesterday, I mean.”
You sighed and looked down at the blanket for a moment, considering the answer.
“Sad,” you admitted quietly. “I miss him.” Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “And… I’m worried.” You exhaled slowly. “I just really hope he’s okay, you know?”
Steve nodded immediately. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.” He looked down for a second. “I know we’ll see him tomorrow. At school. Practice and all that.” He hesitated. “But it doesn’t really feel —”
“The same,” you finished the sentence, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, it doesn’t.”
For a few seconds neither of you said anything else. You looked at him and suddenly, the words you had been carrying all night felt too important to keep inside anymore.
“You know, yesterday…” you started quietly.
Steve immediately looked up.
You cleared your throat and continued. “Yesterday felt like —” You paused, choosing your words carefully.
His brow furrowed slightly. You looked down at your hands, swallowing.
“It felt like we were a family.”
The words settled softly between you. Steve stayed quiet, letting you continue.
“And I liked it. A lot,” you admitted, a small smile touching your lips. “And it… it made me realize something.”
Steve sat up a little straighter now, more careful. “What… what do you mean?”
You hesitated for a second, your fingers twisting nervously in the blanket and then, you finally looked him in the eyes. “I think I’m ready.”
His forehead creased. “Ready for what?”
Your heartbeat quickened. But strangely, you weren’t scared anymore.
“To be a mom,” you said softly.
The room fell completely silent. Steve blinked once, then twice, like he genuinely hadn’t expected those words.
You looked down briefly before continuing. “For a long time, I thought that part of my life was over.” You swallowed. “But taking care of Charlie yesterday felt... so natural. And good.”
A faint smile touched your lips as you remembered the previous day.
“I liked making him breakfast. Checking on him.” You let out a small breath. “Seeing him play baseball in the backyard with you.”
Your eyes found Steve's again.
“And… I want that.”
Steve still hadn’t spoken. You could practically see him trying to process your words.
“I want a family,” you finally admitted. “With you.”
Steve swallowed hard. The shine in his eyes made your chest ache. Slowly, his hand reached across the blankets until his fingers found yours.
“You sure?” he asked gently. “Because we don’t have to rush anything. We can wait if—”
You nodded immediately, squeezing his hand. “I’ve never been more sure.”
You took a deep breath.
“Maybe we can’t be what Charlie needs,” you said quietly. “But there are so many kids out there like him.” Your voice softened. “Kids who just… need someone. And we could be that for one of them. Give them a better life, you know.”
Your fingers tightened around Steve’s. You hesitated for a moment, then finally said it.
“I’d… I’d like to adopt, Steve.”
For a second, he just stared at you, completely still.
Your stomach twisted.
“Say something, please,” you whispered, suddenly nervous. “What… what do you think?”
He brought your hand to his lips, pressing a slow kiss against your knuckles.
“I think,” he said softly, voice rougher now, “every time I convince myself there’s no possible way I could love you more…” His thumb brushed gently over your hand. “You somehow give me another reason.”
Your eyes stung instantly, your breath caught. “Steve…”
“No, seriously.” He shook his head slightly. “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”
He leaned forward without hesitation, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him.
“And you’re going to be an incredible mom,” he whispered against your hair.
A watery laugh escaped you. You lifted your head just enough to look at him, smiling. “And you’re going to be the best dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His forehead rested gently against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek.
“Let's do it. Let’s adopt.”
Tears threatened to spill. “Really?”
Steve let out a quiet laugh.
“Really.”
Steve kissed you, slowly, carefully. Like the moment deserved to be held onto for as long as possible.
-
Two years later
The afternoon sun spilled across the porch, warm against your bare legs as you sat in the wooden chair Steve had built for you the previous summer. A sketchbook rested on your lap, your pencil moving lazily across the page.
You weren't drawing anything in particular, just pieces of the moment unfolding in front of you.
The yard.
The dog.
And the baseball game currently unfolding across the grass.
King barked excitedly as he tore after the ball that had no intention of being caught by a dog. He missed it entirely, skidded through the lawn, and immediately tried again as though nothing had never happened. A boy sprinted after it, nearly tripping over his own feet before recovering at the last second.
You smiled to yourself.
"That one didn't count!" he shouted.
"It absolutely did," Steve called back.
The boy groaned dramatically while Steve looked entirely too pleased with himself. You laughed softly and shook your head.
Some things never changed.
The competitive streak Steve brought to absolutely everything was apparently hereditary. Or contagious. You still hadn't decided which.
Steve tossed the ball into the air before catching it again.
"Ready?"
The boy narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“No. You’re cheating."
“I’m winning,” he said, throwing the ball anyway.
The boy managed to hit it this time, the crack of the bat echoing across the yard. His face lit up immediately.
It still amazed you sometimes.
The first time he had stepped into your house, every word had seemed dragged out of him. He had spoken cautiously, as though every sentence needed permission before leaving his mouth. Now he laughed loudly and argued confidently.
Steve grinned. “There you go! Nice job, buddy."
The kid turned toward the porch. "Mum! Did you see that?”
Mum
The word still caught you off guard sometimes. Not because it felt wrong, it was quite the opposite actually. It felt so natural now that it was hard to remember a time when it hadn't.
Your eyes met his.
Your son.
“I did," you called back. “That was a good hit, well done!”
The boy looked pleased with himself.
Your chest warmed.
You never would have imagined this.
You and steve hadn’t been parents yet.
And Charlie had still been someone else's child.
But then everything had changed.
Charlie had lost his mother only a few months after you and Steve had finally decided to adopt. The grief that followed and the months afterward hadn't been easy. There had been lawyers, court hearings, social workers and many questions. But eventually, after months of waiting, the judge had signed the papers and Charlie had finally come home. This time not as a guest.
But as your son.
And now you were finally a family. Not the one you had imagined years ago but the one that had been waiting for you instead.
A sudden movement pulled you from your thoughts. Your hand settled automatically over the curve of your stomach as you looked down, a smile spreading across your face.
Even now, months after finding out, part of you still couldn't quite believe it. After everything that had happened, after making peace with the possibility that it might never happen, life had found a way to surprise you again.
You felt another kick. This one stronger as if she was demanding attention.
You laughed under your breath. "Well, hello to you too."
A moment later you heard the familiar creak of the porch boards and Steve appeared beside your chair.
"You okay?"
You nodded and reached for his hand, placing it gently against the curve of your stomach. Right on cue, your daughter kicked again.
Steve’s face softened immediately. "There you are, princess,” he murmured, as though he were greeting someone already familiar.
You watched him for a moment. The man who had once brought home a scared little boy because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving him alone. The man who had become a father long before either of you realized it.
Out in the yard, Charlie was already growing impatient.
“Dad!”
The word made Steve glance up instantly. “Yeah?”
“Are we playing again or are you tired already?”
Steve looked back at you, looking deeply offended. “Did you hear that? No respect around here."
You laughed. "Go save your reputation, coach."
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead before heading back toward the grass where Charlie was impatiently waiting for him, bat resting on one shoulder and King circling excitedly around both of them. The afternoon sunlight wrapped around the three of them as they disappeared into another argument about baseball. You rested a hand over your stomach and watched.
Your husband.
Your son.
The life and the family you were building together.
Years ago, you had thought some dreams were gone forever. That you would never be a mother. Now, surrounded by the people you loved most, you realized that sometimes life gave you a different ending than the one you had initially imagined.
And sometimes, somehow, it turned out even better.
desc - growing up, the one dream steve had in life was to have a wife and kids. then he got his heart broken by the only girl he'd ever loved. so fast forward to now, he was utterly hopeless. he no longer believed someone would come around and change his life. did he wish for it? absolutely. when he was out at bars drinking his life away did he sometimes picture being here with someone special? also yes. but, he realised life doesn't always work in his favour. until he met you, that is.
val speaks - AYYY new rm song yk what that means babies !!!!!! a fic loosely based on it! high hopes 3000 has been on absolute repeat and i have my cowboy boots on and everything. anyways i hope u enjoy this !!!!!
word count: 8.6k
steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.
when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.
a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.
a life that felt full.
a life that felt loud in the best possible way.
a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.
his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.
he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.
so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.
he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.
maybe that was what made it so dangerous.
maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.
he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.
with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.
and for a little while, it had almost been enough.
he imagined her in every version of his future.
the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.
but then the cracks came.
then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.
nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.
so, he boxed it up instead.
shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.
he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.
and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.
maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.
by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.
he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.
that mattered more than he liked to admit.
his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.
mostly he felt lonely.
there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.
no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.
just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.
-
he still told himself things at bars, of course.
tonight’s the night.
i’m gonna meet someone tonight.
i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.
he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.
the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.
he was trying, he really was.
he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.
that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.
not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.
you were just there.
standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.
you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.
you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.
he noticed that first.
then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.
it was nothing.
it was everything.
it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.
he did anyway.
or tried to.
you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.
he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.
steve froze.
not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.
don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.
he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.
but you didn’t look away immediately.
you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.
there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.
then you looked back down at your drink.
steve should've left it there.
he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.
instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.
not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.
noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.
there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.
which was ridiculous.
steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.
but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.
you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.
and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.
because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.
his hand got there first.
yours met his over the strap.
for a second, both of you just stared.
then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.
close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.
he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.
“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.
“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”
you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.
“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”
he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.
“cool. great. good.”
you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.
it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.
“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.
“yeah, no problem.”
you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.
steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.
“are you here alone?” you asked.
the question was simple. harmless, probably.
it still made his pulse jump.
“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”
your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”
“right. yeah. sorry.”
you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.
“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”
“good to know.”
“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”
there it was, the opening.
the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.
steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.
instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.
“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.
you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”
he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”
“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.
he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”
you told him.
he ordered you another one before you could object.
and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”
“you did not almost die.”
“emotionally, i did.”
that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.
it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.
but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.
maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.
you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.
maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.
the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.
he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.
you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.
you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.
there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.
he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.
he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.
you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.
that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.
it almost was.
by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.
he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.
but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.
and that was terrifying.
because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.
he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.
but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.
a person.
a real one.
someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.
the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.
not at you, at himself.
at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.
you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.
he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”
you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”
“i was listening” he said, too quickly.
you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.
“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”
“the record store?”
“yeah.”
“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”
“that is the least convincing answer possible.”
“i’m aware.”
you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.
whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.
the thing was, it did.
he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.
and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.
maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.
steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.
didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.
didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.
all he knew was that the night was not over.
and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.
-
it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.
one phone call became two.
two became every other night.
every other night became every night.
and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.
he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.
or he'd call you first.
sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.
those ended up being his favorite conversations.
you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.
books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.
except somehow they mattered now.
steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.
for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.
but then there was you.
calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.
and god.
he loved it.
he absolutely loved it.
it became the highlight of his day.
there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."
sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.
robin certainly would've said it did.
but steve couldn't help it.
he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.
one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.
forty minutes.
he hadn't even been there.
you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.
"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."
"how many are there supposed to be?"
"i don't know."
"what do you mean you don't know?"
"i threw the box away."
steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"
"they were confusing."
"the instructions are literally the most important part."
"well that's your opinion."
"that's everyone's opinion."
he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.
it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.
and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.
but steve didn't, he never had.
which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.
does love come around or does one come around to it?
he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.
when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.
because maybe people talked about love all wrong.
maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.
maybe it was this.
slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.
maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.
and god.
if that was true.
he thought he was getting dangerously close.
there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.
there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.
nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.
there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.
because really, what was this?
you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.
hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.
you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.
friends.
right.
and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.
and suddenly everything would feel okay again.
you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.
like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.
sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.
"you're smiling again."
steve looked up.
"what?"
"that weird smile."
"i don't have a weird smile"
robin narrowed her eyes.
"did she call?"
steve immediately looked away which answered the question.
robin groaned.
"oh my god."
"what?"
"you are so gone."
"i am not."
"steve."
"i'm not."
"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."
"it's a good movie."
she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.
the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.
asking you out.
every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.
what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?
that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.
because right now?
he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.
he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.
and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.
not yet.
so for now he settled for smaller victories.
baby steps.
movement.
he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.
the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.
just staring.
before finally dialing.
you'd answered on the second ring.
"hello?"
and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.
"uh."
smooth, very smooth.
"steve?"
"yeah."
a pause.
then a smile in your voice.
"did you call me?"
he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."
"everything okay?"
"yeah."
"then why are you calling?"
steve had opened and closed his mouth.
because honestly?
he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.
"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."
your silence lasted half a second.
then came the softest, warmest laugh.
"okay."
and somehow that had been enough.
because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.
three whole hours.
and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.
because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.
and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.
but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.
and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.
especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.
-
the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.
nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.
at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.
he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.
and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.
it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.
the store should have been boring.
fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.
but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.
“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.
steve glanced down. “like what?”
“like it might bite you.”
“i don’t trust it.”
you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.
by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.
and maybe that was the problem.
because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.
he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.
after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.
but with you, the pictures came anyway.
one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.
it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.
the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.
“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”
steve blinked. “hello to you too.”
you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.
“no, seriously. this place needs help.”
he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”
“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”
“from what?”
“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”
he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”
“right.”
he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.
he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.
and then you started helping.
really helping.
not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.
you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.
that part got him every time.
he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.
and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.
not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.
in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.
music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.
by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.
that was the part that haunted him afterward.
the fact that you made his place feel lived in.
like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.
and then there were the little surprises.
he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.
a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.
“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.
you huffed. “it was on sale.”
“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”
“because you needed a rug.”
“i didn't need a rug that badly.”
“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”
he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”
you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to.”
that was worse. that was always worse.
because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.
it made his throat tight.
it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.
it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.
so he kept trying to be careful.
he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.
he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.
that he should be grateful for what he had.
and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.
he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.
“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”
his chest ached.
he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.
you answered on the first ring this time.
“hey.”
and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.
“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”
“mostly.”
he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”
“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”
he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”
“not really.”
“good.”
“good?”
“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”
there was a pause.
then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”
it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.
you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.
a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.
he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”
you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”
he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”
“yes.”
“with food?”
“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”
steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.
“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.
you glanced up. “do what?”
“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”
your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”
he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.
because this wasn’t luck.
this was you.
showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.
and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.
if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.
so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.
he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.
you noticed him staring. “what?”
he swallowed.
“i need to ask you something.”
you went still.
he almost panicked.
“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.
steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”
your eyes widened.
for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.
then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.
“yes” you said.
steve blinked. “yes?”
“yes.”
he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.
“oh my god.”
you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.
“that went better than i expected” he admitted.
“you expected me to say no?”
“i expected you to laugh in my face.”
you looked scandalised. “steve.”
“what?”
“i would never.”
he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”
you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”
his heart felt absurdly full.
there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.
instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”
you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.
and that was that.
somehow, miraculously, that was that.
-
after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.
easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.
date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.
you asked for little.
just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.
help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.
and you asked him on purpose.
“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.
you looked up from the counter. “do what?”
“ask me for things.”
your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”
he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”
you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”
he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”
there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.
you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”
his throat tightened.
“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.
that nearly finished him.
he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.
the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.
the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.
it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.
the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.
when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.
the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.
you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.
“what?” he asked softly.
you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.
your hand touched his cheek.
he leaned into it without thinking.
and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.
he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.
when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.
you laughed softly. “hi.”
he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”
“was that okay?”
he stared at you in horror. “okay?”
“i mean, i just-”
he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.
after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.
he let himself fall.
freely and completely.
and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.
he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.
you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.
he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.
not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.
but because you were there.
because you kept being there.
because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.
that was the thing he had always wanted most.
not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.
with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.
he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.
but now those thoughts didn't hurt.
now they glowed.
because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.
he'd just been waiting for you.
and now that you were his, the world felt different.
steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.
and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.
he wasn't lonely anymore.
not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.
he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.
now he knew better.
now he knew they were something he could have, too.
something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.
and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.
you were his girl. his whole world.
that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.
desc - growing up, the one dream steve had in life was to have a wife and kids. then he got his heart broken by the only girl he'd ever loved. so fast forward to now, he was utterly hopeless. he no longer believed someone would come around and change his life. did he wish for it? absolutely. when he was out at bars drinking his life away did he sometimes picture being here with someone special? also yes. but, he realised life doesn't always work in his favour. until he met you, that is.
val speaks - AYYY new rm song yk what that means babies !!!!!! a fic loosely based on it! high hopes 3000 has been on absolute repeat and i have my cowboy boots on and everything. anyways i hope u enjoy this !!!!!
word count: 8.6k
steve harrington had spent so much of his life believing that wanting something badly enough would eventually make it real.
when he was younger, it had been easy to imagine the rest of his life as a neat little picture painted in soft colors and warm light.
a house with a porch and a little garden that never quite stayed tidy. a kitchen that always smelled like coffee in the morning and cookies in the afternoon. noisy children running through hallways with scraped knees and bright laughter. a wife who knew him so well she could tell what kind of day he’d had just by looking at him.
a life that felt full.
a life that felt loud in the best possible way.
a life that made the silence in his parents’ house seem like a distant, ugly dream instead of the thing he had grown up inside of.
his parents had always been there, technically. they had paid for the house, the clothes, the school, the kind of life that looked good from the outside if anyone ever bothered to glance their way. but steve had never really felt raised by them so much as maintained. like something expensive that had to be kept in decent condition.
he learned early how to be easy to love in theory and impossible to know in practice. he learned how to smile when people expected it, how to be charming when it suited him, how to become the version of himself that made other people comfortable before he even knew what made him comfortable at all.
so when nancy wheeler came into his life, it had felt like a door cracking open in a locked room.
he had been young, stupid, and desperately in love with the idea of being seen.
maybe that was what made it so dangerous.
maybe that was why he had let himself believe so completely in her, in them, in the future he started building in his head before he had any real proof that it could exist.
he loved her in the loud, awkward, aching way that only teenagers can.
with all the confidence of someone who had never actually been broken before and with all the hope of someone who thought love would fix the emptiness he'd carried around for years.
and for a little while, it had almost been enough.
he imagined her in every version of his future.
the woman beside him at the kitchen counter. the mother of his kids. the person who would finally make the house feel alive. he imagined growing old with her in a way that felt almost sacred, like love was something solid and permanent if you held it tightly enough.
but then the cracks came.
then the lies, the distance, the things unsaid and the things said too late, and suddenly the dream he had been holding in both hands split apart right in front of him.
nancy had broken his heart in a way he never really admitted to anyone, not even to himself, because naming the hurt would've made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could survive.
so, he boxed it up instead.
shoved it in the back of his mind with all the other things he had never figured out how to say.
he finished high school. barely. he took a shitty job. he let his life narrow into a shape that was easier to manage than hope.
and when the years kept moving and nothing magical happened, steve started to wonder if the dream had died with nancy.
maybe that was what life had decided for him. maybe some people were built for grand love stories and some people were built to watch them from the outside. maybe he was the kind of man who got close to happiness only to be reminded that it was never really meant for him in the first place.
by twenty one, he had learned how to pretend he was fine with it.
he stopped sneaking drinks in sweaty basements and started buying them at bars where the lights were low and the music was loud enough to drown out thoughts if he let it. he bought clothes that fit properly, nice enough to make him look like a guy who had his life together even though he absolutely didn't. he moved out of his parents’ house and into a small apartment that was barely more than four walls and a handful of bad decisions, but it was his.
that mattered more than he liked to admit.
his own furniture, his own dishes, his own front door to close behind him at the end of the day. he should've felt proud of that, and sometimes he almost did.
mostly he felt lonely.
there were nights when he’d come home, keys in hand, shoulders sore from work, and stand in the doorway for a second too long just listening to the silence settle around him.
no television in the background. no soft laughter from another room. no smell of someone else’s shampoo in the bathroom.
just the hum of the fridge, the faint traffic outside and the weight of a life that was technically his and yet still somehow felt unfinished.
-
he still told himself things at bars, of course.
tonight’s the night.
i’m gonna meet someone tonight.
i’m gonna talk to someone tonight.
he said it with enough confidence that he even almost believed it, at least until the moment came and went and he was still alone with his drink, pretending not to notice the couples at the corners of the room. pretending not to notice the girl by the jukebox smiling at some guy who clearly knew exactly what to say. pretending not to notice that he'd become very good at standing in places where something could happen and then leaving before it did.
the worst part was that he wasn’t even sure he was doing anything wrong.
he was trying, he really was.
he was just trying in the way a man tries when he's already started to assume the universe isn't on his side.
that was what made the night you came into his life feel like a mistake at first.
not because you did anything wrong, because you didn’t.
you were just there.
standing in the doorway of a bar he had almost left ten minutes earlier, the cold of the outside air still clinging to your coat, your cheeks faintly pink from the wind.
you looked around like you were deciding whether the place was worth staying in, and for one impossible second steve had the absurd thought that he knew exactly how that felt.
you were carrying a bag over one shoulder and had a look of quiet determination that made you seem like the kind of person who didn’t waste time on things that weren’t worth the trouble.
he noticed that first.
then he noticed the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear when you scanned the room, the small crease between your brows when the music got too loud, the way your eyes softened when the bartender pointed you toward an open seat.
it was nothing.
it was everything.
it was the sort of ordinary moment that should have passed by without making any kind of impression and yet somehow lodged itself deep under steve’s ribs before he had even told himself to look away.
he did anyway.
or tried to.
you took the stool near the bar instead of one of the crowded tables, set your bag on the empty seat beside you, and ordered something with the kind of calm confidence steve had always secretly admired in people.
he couldn’t hear what you said over the music, but the bartender smiled like you were a regular, or maybe just the sort of person that was easy to like. you took off your coat. you glanced around again. and then, for the briefest second, your eyes landed on him.
steve froze.
not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would have noticed, just enough for his fingers to tighten around his glass and for some old, painfully familiar instinct to flare up inside him.
don’t get caught staring. don’t be obvious. don’t make it weird.
he’d spent enough of his life being the pretty guy at the center of attention to know exactly how dangerous it was to be seen looking like he wanted something.
but you didn’t look away immediately.
you held his gaze for a beat, maybe two, with a kind of unreadable calm that made his stomach twist in a way he absolutely didn't appreciate.
there was no smile. no flirtation. no embarrassment. just a moment of shared awareness, as if you had both quietly registered the other one and decided, for reasons not yet explained, that the moment meant something.
then you looked back down at your drink.
steve should've left it there.
he should've gone on with his night, maybe ordered another beer, maybe pretended the strange little jolt in his chest was nothing more than boredom.
instead, he found himself watching you again and again without meaning to.
not in a creepy way, he told himself. not like that. just… noticing.
noticing the way you spoke to the bartender with your head tilted slightly to the side, the way your expression changed when the song on the jukebox shifted into something older and sadder, the way you seemed both perfectly at ease and a little far away at the same time.
there was something about you that made him think of winter mornings, of warm light, of doors being opened to places he had never quite let himself hope existed.
which was ridiculous.
steve was not the kind of man who believed in signs. not anymore. not after everything.
but there was something almost insulting about how quickly his attention kept returning to you, as if his own mind had decided to betray him on the first night of a random week in a random bar with a random stranger who had absolutely no business looking that interesting.
you stayed in your seat for a while. long enough for steve to tell himself about six different times that he wasn’t going to say anything. long enough for the bartender to slide your drink across the counter and for you to thank them with a small smile. long enough for him to take one more sip and still not decide what to do with the weird, restless feeling building under his skin.
and then the universe, apparently, got bored of watching him suffer in silence.
because someone bumped into the table behind you, and your bag slipped off the seat with a quiet thud that made your head snap down at the exact same time steve moved to catch it before it hit the floor.
his hand got there first.
yours met his over the strap.
for a second, both of you just stared.
then you looked up at him with a kind of startled politeness that made his heart do something embarrassingly stupid.
close up, you were even prettier than he'd already decided, which felt unfair.
he saw the shape of your mouth when it parted slightly in surprise, the faint shimmer of your eyes under the low lights, the little breath you took like you had just been caught off guard by a very small, very human moment.
“sorry” you said, and your voice was softer than he expected.
“no, uh, it’s fine” steve said at the same time. “you good?”
you blinked once, then looked down at the bag in his hand before looking back at him. there was the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, like you found his question slightly ridiculous in a way that was not unkind.
“yeah,” you said. “i think so.”
he nodded like he hadn’t just lost every coherent thought in his brain.
“cool. great. good.”
you laughed then, quietly, and it was the kind of laugh that hit him somewhere deep and unexpected.
it made him smile before he could stop himself, and suddenly the whole thing felt less like fate and more like one accidental step in the wrong direction that somehow landed on the right path anyway.
“thanks” you said, taking the bag from him.
“yeah, no problem.”
you hesitated, one hand still resting lightly on the strap, and something in your expression shifted as if you were deciding whether or not to keep talking.
steve, who had spent years convincing himself he wasn’t the kind of man to hope too quickly, found himself hoping anyway.
“are you here alone?” you asked.
the question was simple. harmless, probably.
it still made his pulse jump.
“yeah,” he said, “i mean, not like- not because i’m weird or anything. just, you know. alone.”
your smile widened a little. “i didn’t say weird.”
“right. yeah. sorry.”
you turned slightly on the stool so you could face him more fully. it was such a small movement, but it changed the air between you. made it feel less like two people near each other by accident and more like something had quietly begun.
“i’m not judging,” you said. “i just noticed.”
“good to know.”
“are you always this charming, or am i just lucky tonight?”
there it was, the opening.
the small, shimmering crack in the wall he had spent years building round himself.
steve should've taken the easy route. should have flirted back the way he had with dozens of people before, should have made some smooth comment and followed it with that lazy smile he knew worked on most people.
instead, what came out was a little more honest than that.
“i’m usually better at it” he admitted.
you gave him a look that was equal parts amused and curious. “better at what?”
he shrugged, suddenly aware of how much he wanted this conversation to keep going. “talking to people.”
“that sounded suspiciously like a lie.” your laugh came again, and this time it was easier, warmer.
he leaned his elbow on the bar and glanced at your drink. “so what are you drinking?”
you told him.
he ordered you another one before you could object.
and when you opened your mouth to protest he raised a hand and said, “please let me have this. i almost died saving your bag.”
“you did not almost die.”
“emotionally, i did.”
that got another laugh out of you, and steve had the completely unreasonable urge to keep making you do that forever.
it scared him a little, how quickly his mind was leaping ahead, how easily some part of him had started imagining a future that hadn't yet earned the right to exist.
but maybe that was the thing about loneliness.
maybe it made even a brief kind smile feel like a promise.
you introduced yourself then, and when he repeated your name under his breath, he felt something shift in him that he didn't have words for.
maybe the first real crack in all that hopelessness he had worn like armour for years.
the bartender set your drink down between you and steve found himself watching your fingers wrap around the glass.
he tried not to stare. tried not to look too eager. tried not to let the night become more than it was. but you kept talking, and he kept answering, and somehow the hours began to peel away around you both like old paint.
you were funny in a dry, unexpected way that made him catch himself smiling when you were speaking.
you asked questions and actually waited for the answers. you didn’t seem impressed by his name, his looks, his usual empty bravado, and that in itself was almost enough to fascinate him completely.
there was no performance in the way you listened. no fake interest. just steady attention, as if he were a person first and a pretty face second, and steve was so unused to that he almost didn’t know what to do with it.
he found out where you worked. he found out you were new to town, which explained why he hadn’t seen you around before. he found out you hated tequila, preferred colder weather to hot, and had a habit of collecting old books from secondhand stores if the covers looked interesting enough.
he told you about the video store. he told you about robin, making you laugh when he described her as “the most annoying genius i’ve ever met.” he told you about family christmases that felt too large and too empty at the same time, about his apartment, about the long, stupid loneliness of adult life that no one warned you about when you were younger.
you listened to all of it without making him feel pathetic for saying it.
that alone should have been enough to make him fall for you a little.
it almost was.
by the time the bar started thinning out and the music changed to something slower, steve had stopped pretending this night was just another night.
he didn’t know what you were looking for. he didn’t know if you were waiting for someone, if you had come here on a whim, if you were the kind of person who flirted with strangers just because you liked the conversation. he didn’t know if there was any chance at all that what he was feeling was mutual.
but when you looked at him, really looked at him, something in your expression told him he was not imagining the way the air seemed to pull tight between you.
and that was terrifying.
because steve had built his life around surviving disappointment.
he knew how to laugh things off. knew how to make the joke first so nobody else could hurt him with it. knew how to leave before he got attached, how to keep things light, how to turn longing into something manageable.
but you were standing there with your hand around a half finished drink, looking at him like he might actually be worth staying for, and all his old defences started to feel flimsy in the face of something he hadn't let himself want in years.
a person.
a real one.
someone kind, someone warm, someone who might sit beside him on the couch in that tiny apartment and make the silence feel less enormous. someone who might laugh at his terrible jokes and know when he was pretending to be okay. someone who might touch his shoulder in passing and make him feel, for the first time in a very long while, like he wasn't built only for being left behind.
the thought hit him so hard it almost made him angry.
not at you, at himself.
at the stupid, aching hope that had survived in him even after he had spent years trying to kill it.
you were saying something then, something about the record store downtown, and he realized he had missed the first half because he had been too busy staring at the shape of your mouth when you spoke.
he cleared his throat, cursed himself silently, and said, “sorry, what was that?”
you tilted your head. “nothing important. just wondering if you were actually listening.”
“i was listening” he said, too quickly.
you looked at him for one long second, then smiled in a way that made him think you didn't entirely believe him but were willing to let it go for now.
“good,” you said. “because i asked if you’d ever been there.”
“the record store?”
“yeah.”
“uh,” steve said, suddenly scrambling for a memory. “probably. maybe. once?”
“that is the least convincing answer possible.”
“i’m aware.”
you laughed again, and he wondered, not for the first time that night, whether you knew what you were doing to him.
whether you could see the way he kept leaning a little closer when you spoke. whether you noticed how careful he was becoming with every word, as if something in him had started to believe that this mattered.
the thing was, it did.
he didn’t know it yet. not fully. not in the way that would eventually settle deep into his bones and refuse to leave. but something about you had already begun to move through him like the first warm air after a long winter.
and maybe, just maybe, that was how it happened.
maybe love arrived like this instead. in a crowded bar on an ordinary night. with a dropped bag and a crooked smile. with a stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger for long. with a man who had spent years convinced that nothing good was ever going to stay and a person who looked at him like staying might be the most natural thing in the world.
steve didn’t know your name was going to become the first thing he thought about in the morning.
didn’t know your laugh would start living in his head like a song he couldn’t turn off.
didn’t know that one day, when he was standing in his empty apartment again, he would remember the warmth of your hand over his and feel something in his chest answer back like it had been waiting all along.
all he knew was that the night was not over.
and for the first time in a very long time, that didn't feel like a threat.
-
it happened so gradually that neither of you really noticed it at first.
one phone call became two.
two became every other night.
every other night became every night.
and suddenly steve couldn't remember what his evenings had looked like before you.
he'd get home from work exhausted, smelling faintly like dust and videotapes and whatever cheap cologne he'd sprayed on that morning, toss his keys onto the counter, kick off his shoes, and before he'd even fully settled onto the couch the phone would ring.
or he'd call you first.
sometimes neither of you had anything particularly important to say.
those ended up being his favorite conversations.
you'd spend hours talking about absolutely nothing.
books you'd found. movies you'd watched. customers that had annoyed you. customers that had made you laugh. memories from childhood. stupid theories about life. things neither of you had ever told anyone else because they seemed too insignificant to matter.
except somehow they mattered now.
steve had never realized how much loneliness could sneak up on a person until it started disappearing.
for years he'd gotten used to silence. he'd gotten used to empty apartments and eating dinner alone and nobody asking how his day was. he'd convinced himself that was adulthood, that everyone eventually stopped expecting more.
but then there was you.
calling him because you'd found a book with a ridiculous title and needed someone to laugh about it with. calling him because you'd gotten lost on the way somewhere and somehow thought steve harrington was the best person to ask for directions. calling him because your shelf was crooked. calling him because you couldn't decide what to make for dinner. calling him because apparently he was now your designated emergency contact for every minor inconvenience in your life.
and god.
he loved it.
he absolutely loved it.
it became the highlight of his day.
there was something embarrassingly satisfying about hearing your voice say his name followed by some variation of, "i need your help."
sometimes he worried it made him sound pathetic.
robin certainly would've said it did.
but steve couldn't help it.
he liked being needed. liked knowing that when something happened, good or bad or completely insignificant, he was one of the people you thought to call.
one evening he'd spent nearly forty minutes helping you assemble a bookshelf over the phone.
forty minutes.
he hadn't even been there.
you'd read the instructions out loud while he attempted to make sense of them.
"okay," you'd said. "so i've got three wooden pieces left."
"how many are there supposed to be?"
"i don't know."
"what do you mean you don't know?"
"i threw the box away."
steve had nearly choked laughing. "you threw the instructions away?"
"they were confusing."
"the instructions are literally the most important part."
"well that's your opinion."
"that's everyone's opinion."
he could still remember sitting alone in his apartment, grinning like an idiot at nothing while listening to you argue with him.
it had hit him then that he hadn't felt lonely once during that entire conversation.
and maybe that shouldn't have felt so monumental. maybe normal people experienced that kind of comfort all the time.
but steve didn't, he never had.
which was probably why he found himself asking increasingly dangerous questions, questions he wasn't sure he wanted answers to.
does love come around or does one come around to it?
he thought about that a lot, late at night mostly.
when the apartment was dark. when your voice wasn't filling the silence. when he was lying awake staring at the ceiling.
because maybe people talked about love all wrong.
maybe it wasn't lightning, maybe it wasn't destiny, maybe it wasn't some magical thing that appeared out of nowhere and knocked you off your feet.
maybe it was this.
slowly finding yourself looking forward to someone's calls. memorising the sound of their laugh without meaning to. learning their coffee order. knowing exactly what kind of mood they were in from a simple hello.
maybe love wasn't something that arrived, maybe it was something you arrived at.
and god.
if that was true.
he thought he was getting dangerously close.
there were still bad nights, of course. steve wasn't suddenly fixed. you weren't some magical cure for years of disappointment and loneliness.
there were nights when he'd sit in the dark and all those old thoughts would creep back in.
nights when he'd remember every failed date, every conversation that went nowhere, every person who'd eventually left.
there were nights when he'd think maybe he was being stupid again. maybe he was building castles out of nothing. maybe he was setting himself up for another heartbreak before anything had even started.
because really, what was this?
you weren't dating, you hadn't talked about feelings, you hadn't kissed.
hell, you hadn't even properly gone out together.
you were friends, just friends. very good friends. friends who talked every single day. friends who occasionally flirted. friends who somehow knew more about each other than people who'd been together for years.
friends.
right.
and then the next day he'd get home from work, the phone would ring, you'd tell him about some weird book you'd found or ask him for help choosing paint colors or call because you'd burned dinner and wanted sympathy.
and suddenly everything would feel okay again.
you had this strange ability to make life seem manageable.
like maybe it wasn't always working against him. like maybe happiness wasn't some exclusive club he'd never been invited into.
sometimes steve would catch himself smiling in public because he'd remembered something you'd said three days ago. sometimes he'd laugh to himself while stocking shelves because he'd thought of a joke you'd appreciate. sometimes robin would stare at him from across the store and look genuinely concerned.
"you're smiling again."
steve looked up.
"what?"
"that weird smile."
"i don't have a weird smile"
robin narrowed her eyes.
"did she call?"
steve immediately looked away which answered the question.
robin groaned.
"oh my god."
"what?"
"you are so gone."
"i am not."
"steve."
"i'm not."
"you literally just smiled at a copy of ghostbusters."
"it's a good movie."
she'd laughed so hard she'd nearly fallen over.
the problem wasn't that steve liked you, he'd accepted that part, the problem was what came next.
asking you out.
every time he considered it, he immediately talked himself out of it.
what if he made things weird? what if you'd only ever seen him as a friend? what if he ruined everything? what if he finally got lucky enough to have you in his life and then managed to lose you all by himself?
that possibility terrified him more than rejection ever could.
because right now?
he had you, maybe not exactly the way he wanted, but he had you.
he was the first person you called when something happened. the person you trusted. the person you reached for.
and selfishly, desperately, he wasn't sure he could risk that.
not yet.
so for now he settled for smaller victories.
baby steps.
movement.
he started calling first sometimes which had taken an embarrassing amount of courage.
the first time he'd done it he'd spent nearly five minutes staring at your number.
just staring.
before finally dialing.
you'd answered on the second ring.
"hello?"
and immediately every thought had vanished from his head.
"uh."
smooth, very smooth.
"steve?"
"yeah."
a pause.
then a smile in your voice.
"did you call me?"
he'd felt ridiculous. "yeah."
"everything okay?"
"yeah."
"then why are you calling?"
steve had opened and closed his mouth.
because honestly?
he hadn't had a reason, he'd just wanted to hear your voice. which sounded far too pathetic to say out loud so he'd settled on the truth adjacent version.
"i saw something funny and thought you'd laugh."
your silence lasted half a second.
then came the softest, warmest laugh.
"okay."
and somehow that had been enough.
because you hadn't questioned it, hadn't made fun of him, hadn't treated it like it was strange, you'd just stayed on the phone with him for three hours.
three whole hours.
and afterward steve had sat alone on his couch staring at the wall with the stupidest smile imaginable.
because for the first time in years, maybe ever, something in his life felt like it was moving forward.
and maybe he still didn't know how to ask you out. maybe his heart still jumped every time you laughed. maybe he still spent half his time wondering whether he was imagining the occasional flirtation between you. maybe he was still scared.
but for once the fear wasn't winning, for once hope was.
and steve had spent so many years without hope that even the smallest amount felt revolutionary.
especially when it sounded so much like your voice on the other end of the phone.
-
the first time you met steve in person outside of the bar, it was supposed to be simple. that was the lie you both told yourselves.
nothing about the two of you ever stayed simple for long.
at first it was little things, the kind that looked harmless from the outside.
he started showing up where you were with the kind of frequency that was easy to excuse. with coffee, a ride, a book he thought you’d like, a spare key he claimed he was only giving you in case of emergencies.
and then one day you went grocery shopping together, because steve had complained loudly and dramatically enough about needing to do it that you offered to come along just to keep him from whining the entire time. he accepted too quickly, which should.ve been a warning.
it was, in retrospect, one of the strangest and most perfect afternoons of his life.
the store should have been boring.
fluorescent lights, crowded aisles, a list tucked into his pocket, the usual dull tasks of adulthood that most people tolerated and nobody romanticized.
but with you beside him, it became something else entirely. you walked too close when the aisle got narrow, bumped your shoulder into his when you thought he was being too serious about brands of cereal, and laughed at him when he stared at the produce like he was personally offended by every lemon in the bin.
“why are you holding the avocado like that?” you asked.
steve glanced down. “like what?”
“like it might bite you.”
“i don’t trust it.”
you laughed so hard you had to stop walking, and he stared at you for a second too long before turning away with a grin he couldn’t hide if he tried. he hated how easy it was for you to turn a stupid errand into a memory. hated it because he loved it too much.
by the time you reached the cereal aisle, he’d already forgotten half the list. by the time you were arguing over which pasta sauce looked less depressing, he’d stopped caring about the list altogether and started caring about the way you leaned your hip against the cart like you belonged there. like you belonged beside him. like it was the most natural thing in the world.
and maybe that was the problem.
because the more time he spent with you, the more his brain betrayed him.
he stopped doing this years ago. stopped imagining girls in his future. stopped picturing dinners and holidays and apartment keys left in a bowl by the door and someone’s laugh spilling out of the bathroom while they got ready for work.
after nancy, he made a quiet little burial ground out of all those thoughts and called it moving on. he convinced himself it was easier not to hope, easier not to attach pictures to people, easier not to let his head wander into places that only ever hurt him.
but with you, the pictures came anyway.
one second you were holding a box of mismatched screws and telling him the instructions made no sense, and the next his mind had already placed you like that permanently. but instead, in his kitchen, years later, barefoot and annoyed and laughing as he tried to assemble something unnecessarily complicated.
it was so vivid it almost made him dizzy.
the first time you came over to his apartment, you took one look around and made a face.
“wow,” you said, setting your bag down. “this place needs help.”
steve blinked. “hello to you too.”
you looked around slowly, taking in the couch, the shelves, the sad little lamp in the corner, the blank walls.
“no, seriously. this place needs help.”
he crossed his arms. “i didn’t invite you here to insult my home.”
“good,” you said. “because i’m not insulting it. i’m saving it.”
“from what?”
“from looking like a single man with unresolved issues lives here.”
he stared at you. “i am a single man with unresolved issues.”
“right.”
he laughed despite himself, already shaking his head, and before he knew it you were opening cabinet doors, asking where the spare nails were, and telling him he needed better curtains.
he should have been offended. instead, he watched you pace around his apartment like you had an opinion about every corner of it and found himself impossibly, stupidly charmed.
and then you started helping.
really helping.
not the fake sort of help people offered when they wanted to feel useful. actual help. sleeves pushed up, hair tucked back, concentration pinching your brow as you tried to figure out what could go where.
you grunted when a piece of furniture refused to cooperate. you muttered under your breath when a screw dropped under the couch. you asked him for a hand without hesitation, like it was the easiest thing in the world to include him in what you were doing.
that part got him every time.
he would have carried boxes for you across town, fixed anything in your apartment, driven across state lines if you’d asked him with that same open trust in your voice. it felt good. better than good, it felt like purpose.
and the terrible thing was that you seemed to know that.
not in a manipulative way, never that, just in the way you noticed things.
in the way you handed him one end of a shelf and smiled like you were quietly offering him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.
the day stretched long and easy between the two of you.
music played low in the background. a chair got moved three times before you both agreed it looked best by the window. he found an old photograph tucked behind a drawer and made fun of himself for it. you laughed. he made you lunch in the middle of the chaos, and you told him his cooking was surprisingly good, which made his chest feel strange in the best way.
by evening, his apartment looked less empty, warmer somehow. not because of the rearrange, though that helped. because of you moving through the rooms like you belonged there.
that was the part that haunted him afterward.
the fact that you made his place feel lived in.
like a home could be made out of ordinary things if the right person was standing beside him.
and then there were the little surprises.
he’d complain offhandedly about something, barely thinking it mattered, and you would show up later with the exact thing he’d mentioned.
a rug, because he’d laughed once and said the one in his living room had a stain on it that probably counted as a permanent resident. you arrived at his door with a rolled-up rug tucked awkwardly under your arm, nearly toppled by the sheer inconvenience of carrying it, and he had to physically catch the thing before it knocked into both of you.
“are you trying to injure yourself on my behalf?” he’d asked, laughing as he helped you lower it to the ground.
you huffed. “it was on sale.”
“you bought me a rug because it was on sale?”
“because you needed a rug.”
“i didn't need a rug that badly.”
“steve, your old one looked like it had survived a war.”
he stared at you, then down at the rug, then back at you. “you spent money on this?”
you lifted your chin, unapologetic. “yes.”
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to.”
that was worse. that was always worse.
because steve could handle kindness from strangers. he could even handle affection from people who liked giving it freely. what he didn’t know how to handle was the kind that felt thoughtful. the kind that remembered offhand comments and turned them into actions. the kind that said i listen to you, i notice you, i want your life to be a little better just because i’m in it.
it made his throat tight.
it made his heart feel too big for his ribs.
it made him think, more than once, that he was going to ruin this if he wasn’t careful.
so he kept trying to be careful.
he kept meeting you halfway, kept letting things unfold one small piece at a time, kept pretending he wasn’t completely undone by the way your smile changed when he opened the door.
he kept telling himself he wasn’t ready to ask you out, that the timing had to be right, that he couldn’t risk messing up something this good, that friendship was still better than nothing.
that he should be grateful for what he had.
and then one day, after a hard shift that left him sore and irritated and closer to snapping at a customer than he liked to admit, he came home and found your name on his answering machine.
he stood in the doorway for a second, key still in hand, just listening.
“hey, steve. it’s me. i figured i’d call and see if you were alive. if you are, call me back. if you’re not, haunt someone else. okay, bye.”
his chest ached.
he called you back before he could talk himself out of it.
you answered on the first ring this time.
“hey.”
and there it was again, that impossible steadiness in your voice. not pity. not obligation. just you.
“hey,” he said, sinking onto the couch. “you called just to check if i was dead?”
“mostly.”
he laughed, long and tired and real. “that’s kind of sweet.”
“don’t tell anyone. i have a reputation to maintain.”
he smiled at the wall, at the ceiling, at the empty room around him that no longer felt quite so empty when you were on the other end of the line. “you busy?”
“not really.”
“good.”
“good?”
“yeah,” he said, then exhaled and let himself be honest. “i kind of wanted to hear your voice.”
there was a pause.
then your voice came back even gentler. “you can always call.”
it was such a simple thing to say which was probably why it wrecked him.
you had no idea what it did to him when you said things like that. how much hope could fit inside a single sentence. how easily you could make a hard day feel survivable. how every tiny kindness from you seemed to settle into his chest and stay there.
a few nights later, you showed up at his apartment in pajamas with a paper bag in one hand and a small smile on your face.
he opened the door, looked you up and down, and frowned. “are you okay?”
you shrugged one shoulder. “you sounded bad.”
he stared at you. “i sounded bad over the phone and you decided to come over in pajamas.”
“yes.”
“with food?”
“obviously.” you walked past him and into the apartment like it was the most normal thing in the world. “you were having a rough night, and i thought you could use company.”
steve shut the door slowly behind you, heart in his throat, and for a second he couldn’t move. couldn’t think. couldn’t do anything but watch you pull takeout containers from the bag and set them on his coffee table like you belonged there, too.
“you do this on purpose” he said quietly.
you glanced up. “do what?”
“show up and act like you know exactly what i need.”
your expression shifted, just slightly. softer now. “maybe i do.”
he looked at you, really looked at you, and something in him finally cracked clean through.
because this wasn’t luck.
this was you.
showing up. staying. making him feel chosen in ways he’d never been chosen before.
and after enough days and nights of that, enough accidental dates disguised as errands and drive thrus and shared meals, enough of you reaching for him without fear and enough of him falling a little harder every single time, steve finally thought fuck it.
if he waited any longer, he was going to explode.
so he asked you out in the front seat of his car with takeout balanced between you, the engine off, the night quiet around both of you.
he had rehearsed it three different ways and forgotten all of them the second he looked at your face.
you noticed him staring. “what?”
he swallowed.
“i need to ask you something.”
you went still.
he almost panicked.
“okay” you said slowly, but you were smiling a little now, like you already knew where this was going and were trying not to scare him.
steve dragged a hand over his mouth, then let it fall to his lap. “i know this is probably going to come out badly, but i, uh..” he laughed once under his breath, nervous and disbelieving that he was really doing this. “do you want to go on an actual date with me?”
your eyes widened.
for one horrifying second he thought he’d ruined everything.
then you smiled, really smiled. the kind that made the whole world narrow down to just your face in the dim car light.
“yes” you said.
steve blinked. “yes?”
“yes.”
he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding for years. then another. then he laughed, helpless and stunned, and had to lean back in his seat because he genuinely thought he might float out through the roof of the car if he didn’t stay put.
“oh my god.”
you laughed too, delighted now, and he covered his face with one hand like a man trying very hard not to lose his entire mind in front of you.
“that went better than i expected” he admitted.
“you expected me to say no?”
“i expected you to laugh in my face.”
you looked scandalised. “steve.”
“what?”
“i would never.”
he glanced at you through his fingers, smiling despite himself. “you definitely would if you thought i deserved it.”
you pointed at him. “okay, yes, maybe a little. but not about this.”
his heart felt absurdly full.
there were a thousand things he wanted to say after that. a thousand different ways he wanted to tell you how much this meant to him, how much you meant to him, how long he had spent wanting exactly this without daring to reach for it.
instead, because he was still steve and still at least a little terrified of sincerity, he said, “cool.”
you laughed again and nudged his shoulder with yours.
and that was that.
somehow, miraculously, that was that.
-
after that, everything got easier and harder at the same time.
easier because you were no longer pretending. harder because now he had a reason to be afraid of losing you. but mostly it was beautiful in the painfully ordinary way he had once thought only existed in daydreams.
date nights where you ordered two meals and shared because you were both annoyingly indecisive. afternoons spent browsing records, where you’d lean close enough to smell his cologne and he’d forget entire sentences. evenings where you sat on his couch in soft clothes and let the silence rest between you without it feeling empty. mornings where he woke up with your head against his shoulder and had to lie perfectly still because he didn't trust himself not to cry from happiness.
you asked for little.
just enough to let him love you in the ways that came naturally to him.
help carrying things. help with directions. help deciding what to eat. help fixing something small. help choosing between two nearly identical shirts. help with the kind of things that made him feel useful, needed, wanted.
and you asked him on purpose.
“you do that” he said, voice going strange and quiet.
you looked up from the counter. “do what?”
“ask me for things.”
your brow furrowed a little. “i mean, yeah. because i need help sometimes.”
he shook his head, smiling even though his chest hurt. “no, i know. i just.. i know you could do a lot of this stuff yourself.”
you went still, reading the look on his face with a kind of soft intelligence that always made him feel seen right through. “steve.”
he laughed once, shaky and disbelieving. “you do it because you know i like it.”
there was no point trying to hide it from you. not anymore.
you crossed the kitchen slowly and stopped in front of him. your expression had gone warm in that quiet, devastating way it always did when you were being tender. “yeah,” you said. “i do.”
his throat tightened.
“because you deserve to be needed too” you added softly.
that nearly finished him.
he stared at you for a long second, then reached out like he couldn’t help himself and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. you smiled up at him, and he thought, absurdly, that this was what a miracle must feel like.
the gentle, impossible fact of being loved by someone who understood you.
the first time you kissed him, he swears he forgot how to breathe.
it happened at the end of a date that was not technically a date anymore because by then the word didn’t even seem big enough for the way you were together.
the two of you had spent the evening sharing fries, making fun of a bad movie, and arguing over whether a joke in the restaurant had been funny or just deeply stupid.
when he walked you to your door, neither of you seemed in any hurry to say goodnight.
the air between you felt charged with something quiet and inevitable.
you smiled at him from the steps and said his name like you were already halfway to touching him.
“what?” he asked softly.
you looked at his mouth then you stepped closer, and suddenly all the fear, all the years, all the old loneliness that had once lived in him so deeply it felt permanent just fell away.
your hand touched his cheek.
he leaned into it without thinking.
and when you kissed him, it was so gentle it almost hurt. so certain it made every part of him go still.
he felt it down to the marrow of his bones, like the whole world had finally clicked into place and his body had been waiting his entire life for that exact moment.
when you pulled back, he was staring at you like you had performed actual magic.
you laughed softly. “hi.”
he let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “hi.”
“was that okay?”
he stared at you in horror. “okay?”
“i mean, i just-”
he kissed you again before you could keep apologising for something so perfect.
after that, he stopped pretending he was only dipping a toe into this.
he let himself fall.
freely and completely.
and the worst part, the most beautiful part, was how easy it was.
he realised you were his first real love, and somehow you made that fact feel less like a wound and more like a gift.
you knew him in ways he'd never been known before. not because you were trying to fix him, but because you were paying attention. because you loved the parts of him he'd once thought were too much and not enough all at once. because you looked at his softness and his awkwardness and his need to be useful and his habit of filling silence with jokes, and instead of making him ashamed, you made him feel cherished.
he stopped worrying, mostly, about whether you'd leave.
not because the fear vanished entirely. he was still human. still steve. still someone who had been taught by life to brace for loss.
but because you were there.
because you kept being there.
because one night turned into a week, and a week turned into a month, and before he knew it he was waking up beside you and listening to you talk about your dreams before the sun came up, and it didn’t feel temporary. it felt like home.
that was the thing he had always wanted most.
not a perfect life, not a flawless one, just a life that felt full.
with laughter in the kitchen. with your shoes by his door. with your voice in his ear. with your hand in his. with a future that no longer felt like a blank wall he had to stare at alone.
he still thought about marriage sometimes. still thought about kids. still thought about the little house with the porch and the bright, noisy rooms and the warmth that would come from somewhere deeper than furniture or decor or good luck.
but now those thoughts didn't hurt.
now they glowed.
because he knew. he knew, with the kind of certainty that settled quietly and stayed, that he hadn't been doomed to loneliness after all.
he'd just been waiting for you.
and now that you were his, the world felt different.
steve, who had spent years thinking he was unlovable, was loved instead.
and you loved him so naturally that it rewrote everything.
he wasn't lonely anymore.
not when you were beside him talking his ear off in bed. not when you reached for him in the dark. not when you smiled at him over dinner and asked him to pass the salt.
he once thought high hopes were something that happened to other people.
now he knew better.
now he knew they were something he could have, too.
something he could build. something you had built together, one small choice at a time.
and when he looked at you, really looked at you, he felt it with painful, beautiful clarity.
you were his girl. his whole world.
that was not a dream that hurt to hold, it was real.
Chapter Warnings: SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, m recieving oral, fingering, masturbation, denial?) slow burn friends to lovers, jealousy, depictions of grief, parental issues
Chapter Summary: as you and steve begin to navigate your new relationship, you have to find a way to reconcile your happiness with your baggage.
Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.
The first time you met Steve, you were new to Hawkins.
At nine years old, you had your own friends that you'd miss terribly, and you didn't want to have to meet anyone new. You moved across state lines for the good of your parents' careers and took a box of goodbye letters and friendship bracelets with you.
Your parents became members at the Hawkins Regency Country Club two weeks into moving, a recommendation from the head surgeon at Hawkins Memorial. The first community mixer was held in the event center at the club, a big ballroom overlooking the tennis courts.
You snuck away into the hot summer night knowing that you wouldn't be missed and sat on the patio with your legs tucked beneath your stupid, itchy dress. And, really, you didn't expect to be bothered, but you heard shoes scuffing behind you and knew that your isolation was short lived.
In some part of your mind, you thought you'd always remember that version of Steve— in ugly, corduroy pants and a green striped shirt, holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres. He'd sort of had a bowl cut too, which you suspected was the reason that he didn't keep too many pictures of his childhood around. Not until he had turned eleven and got his hair cut like Lief Garrett, at least.
"I didn't want you to be out here alone," he said. "It's dark."
You shrugged and turned out to face the tennis courts… and the woods beyond. It was so creepy and ugly here. The trees were big, and the woods felt so endless. Like you could just walk and walk and never escape. That's what being in Hawkins felt like.
But Hawkins, Indiana needed a cardiologist and had an opening in neurology with a path for advancement. It was like fate, your parents told you. It was the perfect place for them to go. Perfect for them, but… you weren't so sure.
"Do you… um… like to ride bikes?" Steve asked as he sat next to you. His nails were a little bloody around his cuticles, which you thought was gross, especially because he intended to eat finger foods. He was actively picking at them, which only made it worse, and you wondered why he was making them worse.
"No, I like to roller skate," you answered, nose wrinkling as he picked again and you watched him expose pink, raw skin. "Do you want a band-aid?"
He shook his head. "No, I'm fine." It went quiet then. You heard an animal calling in the woods, nothing you could identify. You wondered if there were entirely different animals here, or if anything overlapped. "I'm Steve. I live on Bradford Street."
"I live on Bradford Street." You turned to look at him, really look at him and gave a tiny smile before you told him your name. "I just moved here with my parents. They're doctors."
Steve offered you a small cocktail weenie. You declined. "I think you're the house next door," he said. "That's where the Thomases lived, but I heard my mom say that Mr. Thomas was having a baby with someone who wasn't Mrs. Thomas, so I guess they moved somewhere that they can all live together."
Your expression wrinkled. That didn't sound right, but Steve seemed so sure, so you jut went along with it. As you sat there, the music from the party was filtering through the crack in the sliding doors. Jive Talking, which you loved. You even had the 45. Steve didn't look particularly amused.
"Well, you live next door, so we can be friends," Steve said. "Maybe next week you can roller skate, and I'll ride my bike, and we'll see who's the fastest."
It was all so simple, it was exactly what you needed. A companion during parties where you were meant to be seen not heard, a friend to spend time with when the world felt so lonely. For a while, you tried to write your friends back home… but then Hawkins became your home.
It felt like all you needed was Steve, but then you got Carol and Tommy too, and that was perfect. You'd lost all of them in different ways, and you got them back in ones you didn't expect.
You woke up on the Friday of Sam's first birthday beside a sleepy Steve with his face smushed into a pillow, listening to the sounds of Sam breathing over the monitor. You moved closer, kissing his shoulder, right above the barely-there pink scars where he'd been dragged across the upside down version of Lover's Lake.
"Mmmph," Steve groaned into the pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes for a while, but then he rolled over and blinked the sleepiness away. A fond smile played on his lips at the sight of you, even with your messy bed head and granny pajamas. "Morning, beautiful."
You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Good morning," you said with a tiny grin. He started to sit up, but you put a hand on his arm and tugged him back into bed. "Where are you going? I thought Robin cancelled the broadcast today for Peanut's party."
Steve grinned and kissed your forehead once before peeling himself off of you. "Yeah, but it's Peanut's birthday. I'm hosting the morning show so I can record it all on tape and show it to her when she's older."
You grinned and sat up. "That's cute," you replied. "Now I feel like my painted toy box is a stupid idea. It's not sentimental enough."
"No, it looks great and she can keep it forever. And who knows if she'll ever actually listen to the broadcast, y'know?" he insisted.
You followed him into the en suite and sat on the countertop while he got the shower running. He stretched, and your eyes flicked to the dark hair that trailed from his tummy and disappeared into his flannel pajamas.
He caught your gaze when you looked back up at him and rolled his eyes. "No. You're not showering with me." You laughed, cheeks burning hot as you tried to play coy. Just as you opened your mouth, he shook his head. "No way. Not to save water, not because you need one anyway. You're going to make me late."
A slow sigh escaped you. You hadn't actually slept together since the last time a week ago. And that wasn't to say you hadn't gotten close, but Steve kept pulling back before things could get too far, panting into your mouth with a gentle, I think we should slow down.
It was impressive, but generally frustrating. You wanted to sleep with Steve. Frequently. And you were confused about why every time that you tried to move beyond a heated make out, he politely rebuffed you.
I just want us to take our time, or, I don't want to rush.
But you hadn't taken your time. You had slept together after months of silent pining and jealousy and angst, and now… nothing. What good was taking your time when you'd already gone all the way? When, frankly, you'd missed a few bases on your way there?
But something about seeing him, with the grogginess of sleep still clinging to him, all unkempt and domestic… it was really doing it for you. You'd toe the line again and see if an entire week of behaving was slow enough for Steve. "I won't make you late," you insisted. "It's so cold today, a hot shower sounds really nice. And I don't want to go back to bed and be cold and alone."
Steve put his hands on his hips and sighed. A tiny smile played on your lips as he ran a hand through his messy hair and rolled his eyes again. "Fine. But it's just a shower."
Five minutes later, your hands were all over each other as you stood beneath the steaming spray. You panted, gasping into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily. His tongue dipped into your mouth, laving over yours like he was desperate to claim you inside and out.
But just as your hand moved down his stomach, following that dark thatch of hair, he pinned it to the tile. "Steve," you whined as he licked up your throat. "Let me touch you, baby."
And you swore you could feel him shiver against you. "You sound so hot calling me baby," he panted against your skin. And, Jesus, his dick twitched where it pressed against your hip. "But I want us to—" he hissed when you grabbed his ass to pull him closer, making him rut against you, "—to take this slow. Don't wanna cheapen it."
Huh. You'd need to unpack that later. For the moment, you pulled back just to meet his gaze. "Are you telling me that I can't suck your cock?" You asked with a pout.
"Oh, fuck me," he groaned. "No. I mean— not no I'm not telling you that. It's… yes, I'm… not yes as in—" He looked like he was being held at gunpoint, all soaking wet from the constant spray of water over the both of you, as pathetic as you'd seen him.
"Steve," you said, as gently as you could manage. "I am so fine with cheapening the moment. I'm literally begging to suck your dick right now, this is humiliating for me."
You kissed his throat, and he tasted like tap water and the remnants of his shampoo that had rinsed out. "Just…" You planted another wet kiss, sucking softly at the tender skin just beneath his pulse point. "Lemme take care of you. Please?"
He groaned, and you felt his cock twitch against your hip again. For just a moment, he gave in, rolling his hips almost imperceptibly against you. And then he sighed and pulled back to look in your eyes. "Can I take you on a date first?" He asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear. "It's important to me."
You sighed softly, feeling an annoying sting of disappointment. Maybe he had a point— you'd done everything so backwards, maybe it was smart to cool off until you'd gone on a date and talked things out. So, with an annoyingly understanding and affectionate tug in your chest, you nodded. "Tomorrow," you said, meeting his gaze. "Promise?"
He smiled and kissed you again, slow and deep. Your eyes fluttered as he pinned you against the shower wall, groaning into your mouth. "Turn around, I want to wash your hair."
Steve's fingers moved over your scalp, combing through your wet hair as he massaged in the shampoo. You couldn't help the soft sighs that escaped your lips as he worked the suds through the ends of your curls.
A tiny laugh escaped him and you turned over your shoulder, brows furrowed. "Your perm is all grown out," he mused. "You should let me cut it."
"So you can get your payback?" You asked, raising a brow. He grinned and continued to work the shampoo in, until your eyes were half-closed and your knees felt weak.
He kissed your wet, soapy shoulder fondly once he'd gotten all of the shampoo rinsed. "I know the importance of a person's hair." He parted your hair and placed a gentle kiss at the back of your neck, sweet and tender. You listened as he lathered soap in his hands, then moved them to your slick skin.
A soft, shuddering sigh tumbled from your lips as his big hands massaged the soap onto your tits. One hand feebly grabbed at the slick, tiled wall. "Steve," you panted, almost a warning.
"Mmm?" He let his hands move, lower, sudsing up your tummy and ribs. "Just getting you clean."
Bullshit. His hands moved to your thighs, then squeezed your ass. He kissed the top of your spine again, pressing his forehead to your damp skin. He eased you beneath the spray, so all of the suds and bubbles rinsed down the drain between your feet.
"All better," he said softly. You opened your eyes and smiled up at him, feeling that stupid fluttery feeling that he seemed genetically engineered to instill in you. "Now get your cute ass back to bed. I have to take care of something before I leave."
A sly grin spread across your lips as you cast your eyes down, where his cock twitched, hard and flushed a pretty pink at the tip. You had a pretty solid idea of what that something was, and it wasn't something you really wanted to miss.
"Don't let me stop you," you said, and he groaned as you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and met his gaze once more.
"You're so evil," he muttered. But he couldn't stop his own eyes from wandering, falling from your eyes to your mouth, to your tits, to the soft curls at the apex of your thighs. He huffed and you watched his hand wrap around the base of his cock and squeeze.
His pretty eyes fluttered a bit, but when they locked on you, it sent a shot of pure electricity down your spine. It settled in your stomach, molten hot, and you gave a shaky exhale as his fist began to glide up and down his cock.
Holy fucking shit. Your mouth felt dry, and you swear you got a head rush just watching him. Rivulets of water streaming down his strong arms, the bulge of muscle as his hand worked over his length.
"This what you wanted?" He panted. His palm splayed against the tile beside your head, making him lean even closer to you. He smelled like the sweet honey of his shampoo and the spice of his body wash. You nodded quickly, and he fucking laughed. "Such a perv. Have you always been like this?"
No. God, no. He had a way of bringing out the most degenerate parts of you, it seemed. The angry, jealous rage, the toe-curling, horny need, the sappy, doting affection. So you just rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Shut up."
He tilted his head down, just enough that your noses pressed together and your lips were just barely grazing. Each of his panted breaths puffed over your wet mouth as he worked himself in his hand. You could hear the slick glide of his fist even over the spray of the water.
"Fuck, you look so pretty," he groaned, and his lips brushed yours in a cruel imitation of a kiss. So close, but still not enough.
You laughed weakly, holding his gaze. With his forehead against yours, you couldn't see much beyond the slope of his nose. That close, you could see every tiny freckle there, like pretty constellations.
"Wish you'd just let me touch you," you murmured. He groaned and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips. He pulled back just to pant and moan, soft against the side of your mouth. "So stubborn."
He kissed you again, hungrier this time. His tongue moved over yours, careless and desperate, until he pulled back with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. "I'm really close," he panted. "You drive me crazy. I want you so bad."
"So bad?" You echoed. He nodded, knocking his nose against yours.
"Mhmm…" His nose nuzzled against your cheek as he sloppily kissed the side of your mouth. "So fucking bad, honey." The moan that escaped him sent a thrill through you— electric right down to your core. You felt his hot cum painting your thighs as he worked himself through his orgasm. It felt so intimate, seeing him come apart like that all on his own, that he'd done that for you, because of you.
His head slumped against your shoulder, wet hair sticking to your face as he huffed like he'd run a marathon. "Jesus christ," he panted. "Fuck." He kissed your shoulder, rinsed you clean, and kissed your forehead for good measure.
You slipped back into the bed and the cotton sheets felt like ice without him there to warm you up. And, frankly, you were still really turned on, enough that you had to slip a hand into your panties and get yourself off just listening to him humming and fixing his hair.
Just imagining him in his tight Levi's with the pudge of his tummy jutting over the waistband, with the dampness of the shower still clinging to the hair on his chest and his shoulders. The sounds he had made echoed in your brain, the smell of him close to you, sweet like honey.
You came embarrassingly fast, biting into the plush of your bottom lip as you worked yourself through it.
Steve stopped by the bed a few minutes later and planted a gentle kiss on your lips, totally oblivious. "Go back to sleep, dummy," he mumbled against your mouth. Then he stood and grinned. "The big broadcast is at eight, so make sure you have the radio on. I'll be back to help before the party, I promise."
Steve's broadcast started at 8AM, right as you eased a hungry Sam into her high chair and turned on the portable radio on the kitchen table. Sammie perked up at the sound of the station's jingle, or maybe it was just that you were bringing her a sippy cup of milk while you got ready to make her scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Good morning Hawkins, I'm your host, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, and I hope you're ready for a very special broadcast in honor of a very special girl. My girl, my Peanut, turns a whole year old today.
You grinned at the sound of a cheesy cheering sound effect, followed by noisemakers. Even if he had a helping hand, that choice was all Steve.
Sorry to any parents listening, but compared to Peanut, your kids are total duds. She knows three whole words, and she has two teeth, both on the bottom. Her favorite food is oatmeal, and she totally hates all of the gross meat flavored baby food. She can walk a little, but prefers to be carried, and if you turn your head while she's on the ground, she's gone, because she's the fastest crawler on the planet. Her favorite Care Bear is Funshine, and I'm not ashamed to know all of their names.
And, you're probably thinking— Steve, you have a daughter at twenty, you're totally throwing your whole life away. But that's total bull. Honestly, it feels like I was just kind of aimless before I became her dad. I think now, I'm finally seeing things clearly.
Anyway, I hope she's listening to this someday on cassette, or maybe on hologram. Who knows? So Peanut, if you're listening right now or in the future— your dad loves you, your mom loves you— you're probably the most loved kid in the world. Happy Birthday, Sammie. This one's for you.
A dumb smile played on your lips as the bouncy bass riff of My Girl played through the speakers. You glanced over at Samantha, your girl, and felt such a strong tug of affection that your eyes went misty.
Stupid. You'd never been so sappy before now. A perk of motherhood, maybe.
Various party members and their families called in to leave birthday messages— for posterity. Auntie Rob was the first one to say her piece from the studio. And when the calls rolled in, they came in droves. Claudia and Dustin, The Wheeler's, The Sinclair's, Joyce and the boys.
Your girl, your peanut, was adored by everyone who was lucky enough to meet her. She smiled up at you with the few teeth she had as you put her plate down and fed her little bites. And every time she heard her dad's voice on the radio, you swore she looked a little happier.
The birthday party was later that day, with snow still falling in fat flakes that piled up in snowdrifts outside. It was a biting, nasty cold that no one would have wanted to leave the comfort of the indoors for.
And even so, the house was packed full of people who wanted to celebrate her. Soggy boots were left in the foyer, where they melted into snowy puddles that the beach towels on the floor did little to help with. Parkas overflowed the rack by the door and spilled onto Daniel Harrington's desk like it was a coat check at a fancy restaurant.
You'd attempted to frost the cake with little peanut shapes, but they turned into ugly brown blobs. Karen Wheeler stepped in to assist, easing the piping bag from your hands so you could, "enjoy the party."
You were doing your best to do just that, passing from group to group, trying to keep everyone entertained. You passed Sam being held by Mrs. Perkins, who was posing for a Polaroid. It was a full house— a combination of Carol and Tommy's families, yours and Steve's families (with large exceptions), and the family that he had found in the party.
It was nearly elbow to elbow, even in the large house, and it was far too cold for anyone to spill into the backyard. One of Steve's little cousins knocked into your legs as he ran to peek inside the dozens of gift bags that had spilled from the dining table and onto the floor. You hadn't really expected so much, but it was a welcome surprise.
You scanned the room, eyes furrowed, and frowned when you didn't spot either of your parents. They had called to tell you that they would be there, but the party was well underway and they still seemed to be missing. But you couldn't focus on that, just like Steve couldn't really think about his parents' absence, or whether they would have cared to show up in the first place. You just continued through the party, trying to keep things in order.
A smile played on your lips as you passed a table littered with pictures of Sam's first year. In the very middle, in a small metal frame, was a photo of Carol, Tommy, and Sam on the night she was born— red in the face and wrinkly. In a frame beside that was a framed photo of you and Steve holding Sam in her Halloween costume, with her full bucket of candy between you. It felt fair that all four of Sammie's parents were represented, and you couldn't imagine the day without them there in some capacity anyway.
As you passed the snack table, you felt a strong arm loop around your waist and tug you back, until you were held snug against a broad chest and felt lips peppering kisses onto your cheeks. "Hey, beautiful," Steve mumbled against your cheek, punctuating it with a final smack. "Did you fix the cake?"
"Mrs. Wheeler's got it," you answered, turning your face to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "Have you seen my parents yet?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Not yet, but they said they'd be here," he assured. He rubbed his hands over your arms like he and kissed the crown of your head. "And if they don't show up… that's their loss, right?"'
You sighed and nodded, then tilted your lips and accepted another chaste kiss, which was met by loud, exaggerated groaning. With a sheepish smile, you turned to look at Dustin and Robin, who were eating pinwheel sandwiches and peanut butter cookies that Claudia had brought.
"Can you tiptoe around each other again?" Robin asked. "I can't keep down my food."
"Yeah, this mushy shit is nauseating," Dustin said with a grimace.
Your brows furrowed and you tilted your head, a sly smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah? As nauseating as a certain song?" He swallowed, and had the good sense to look abashed. "A certain song about a certain story… It's on the tip of my tongue actually…"
Dustin's expression wrinkled and he shook his head. "You're both seriously evil people, you know that? You belong together." He grabbed the peanut butter cookie from Steve's plate and shook his head. "Don't eat my mother's cookies, you don't deserve them."
You shook your head and peeled yourself off of Steve so you could continue your rounds. The party was there, along with their families. You hadn't realized how much Steve was appreciated until Sue Sinclair was pulling you to the side to talk about how Steve had spent August of '85 practicing with Lucas to prepare him for basketball tryouts. How he'd never missed one of Lucas' games, so they wouldn't have dreamed of missing Samantha's birthday.
And it seemed like every one of the kids and their parents had a similar story. Steve let Mike wait out a storm inside of Scoops Ahoy after closing, and sent him off with free ice cream. He drove Will into the city to check out the one comic book store that had a comic he needed. Claudia had already told you about Steve helping Dustin get ready for every single school dance he's ever attended… and reiterated it any time she had your ear.
You just wished El could have been there. She was an angel in your eyes, and she loved helping with Sam whenever she came to visit. You'd always felt so lonely as an only child— it was part of why you and Steve bonded so quickly as kids— and being around El let you feel like a big sister.
You'd promised to save her a slice of cake for the next time you saw her, but it still felt a bit unfair that she had to hide in the shadows. A girl like her deserved life in the sun.
"There's Mama," you heard a voice say, and suddenly Sam was in your arms again. You weren't even sure who had handed her over, but you bounced her on your hip and carried her over to Steve.
He smiled at the sight of her, expression softening as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. She let out a happy dada, which Steve had been bragging to everyone about. You had definitely heard her say more and hi first, but you weren't going to ruin his fun.
You adjusted her dress and straightened the bow clipped to the tiny ponytail on the top of her head. A camera flash startled the three of you, and you gave Claudia a sheepish smile as she took more photos, until Dustin put a hand on her arm and guided her away.
"Baby parties are kind of boring," you said to Steve as you nodded back to the clusters of people just standing around and snacking. "Maybe we can knock out happy birthday, cut the cake, then open a few presents?"
He frowned. "You don't want to wait a little longer?" He asked. "We can hold out for your parents, if you want me to. I can stall for time, give a big, sappy speech."
Despite everything, you couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, you got that out of the way tenfold this morning," you said. "It was really sweet, by the way. I got a little weepy, which is totally lame. But, she's lucky you're her dad."
Steve's cheeks went a little pinker than they had before— you were around him enough now to notice things like that. And how he swallowed hard at compliments that really meant something, like he had to force himself to accept it.
"Yeah, thanks," he said quietly. "And we're both really lucky to have you. You're so…"
A sight over his shoulder made you stand up straighter, and the sound of whatever he had been saying was muffled in your ears like you'd been submerged underwater.
Because in the middle of the living room, with snow clinging to her hair and a beautifully wrapped gift in her arms was your mother. It was almost impressive, how little you'd crossed paths with her since your brief visit to the Hospital. Sometimes, when you would go with Steve to visit Max, you'd hear her voice down the hallway, but that was the extent of it.
You wondered if the nurses warned her— Maybe avoid that hallway, your whore daughter is visiting the comatose redhead with that boy she lives in sin with.
But that wasn't fair. Well, really, what they had done wasn't very fair either.
"Sorry I'm late. I was hoping your father would be out of surgery by now, but…" She gave a flippant wave of her hand. "I brought a gift for Samantha."
A strained smile played on your lips as you bounced her on your hip. "That's really sweet, Mom," you finally said. "I can go carry that into the dining room with the others. Do you want to hold Sam? She's an easy baby, really calm."
She gave a polite, but firm shake of her head. "You don't need to bother, darling," she insisted. It was her coded way of saying, I'm here, but not for that. So you took a deep breath and watched her disappear into the party again.
You looked towards the front door and let out a heavy sigh. "We should probably just get everything done," you finally said to Steve. "Because if we wait much longer, Sam's gonna get fussy, and people are going to get antsy and…"
Steve planted a kiss on your forehead and ran a thumb between your brows, smoothing the wrinkle there until you laughed softened your expression. He pressed a small kiss right where his thumb had just been. "I'll handle everything, don't even stress."
If there was one thing that Steve was good at, it was taking the burden off of your shoulders and moving it onto his own. So while you got Sammie into her high chair and made sure her bow was clipped on straight and her shoes were buckled right, Steve rallied the troops and brought in the cakes.
Steve counted the room off, and Sam wailed as the crowd around her sang happy birthday. Her face went strawberry red as she cried, so you and Steve had to blow out the single candle on her tiny, baby sized cupcake. It was unclear to you whether or not that counted as a wish, but you had one. Please let this all work out.
That afternoon, when the guests had cleared out and left only a few stragglers to help clean, you took inventory of Sam's haul. With the quarantine in place, the gifts hadn't exactly been top shelf, but there was a clear show of effort that made you happy.
Hand-sewn outfits, hand-me-down toys and books, baby gear that people had no need for and were willing to pass along. The dining room was filled with it all, and you were honestly a little worried about finding space to store everything.
As you counted the number of Care Bears that she had gained (two funshines, one good luck bear, one bedtime bear, and three cheer bears), you felt arms loop around your stomach and you laughed softly as you were tugged against Steve's broad chest.
"You did good today," he mumbled against your throat as he kissed the soft skin there tenderly. "The party was fun, the cake was delicious—"
"I heard Mike say the peanuts on the cake looked like balls."
"Mike's an asshole," he said. "Mrs. Wheeler fixed it either way, and everything was perfect. You're perfect." His palms splayed over your tummy, pulling you tighter against him as he continued to pepper gentle kisses.
"Steve," you murmured softly, as he moved your hair away to suck at your pulse point. For a moment, your knees threatened to buckle, and you couldn't do much more than exhale a shuddery sigh. "Steve, Claudia is right in the kitchen."
He smiled against your throat and you shivered as his teeth grazed over your jaw. "She's occupied." His voice vibrated against your throat, and you sighed weakly.
You laughed softly and turned around in his arms so you could look up at him. "Steve. What about our date tomorrow?" He groaned against you and the ticklish buzz of the sound made you shiver. "If the rules apply to me, they apply to you."
With a sigh, he peeled himself off of you and fixed you with a little pout. "That's too many Care Bears," he sighed. "Way too many. And she already has, like, a million upstairs."
You laughed and held the good luck bear to your chest. "I think you should keep this one," you said. "Put it in the van for the crawls. A real good luck charm."
He ran his fingers over a hand-sewn big bird pillow and laughed softly. "What'd your mom end up bringing, anyway?" He asked, meeting your gaze. "Baby's first MRI?"
You scoffed and shook your head. "No, uh… it was old baby things of mine that were in storage," you answered. "Mostly dusty, old clothes that Sam will never wear. And…"
You reached into the box and pulled out a curly stuffed bear with a big yellow ribbon around it's neck. With a big smile, you held him to your chest. "Do you recognize him?"
For a moment, there was little more than confusion behind his gaze, and then there was a flash of recognition. "Mr. Coco," he said with a grin. "I gave you that when we were, like, ten."
"Eleven," you corrected, squeezing the bear even tighter against your body. The top of its head smelled like the attic— ancient and musty, but it made your heart ache with nostalgia. "What are your parents sending?"
He shrugged. "Well, snail mail and quarantine aren't exactly the best ways to communicate," he said with a wry laugh. "Three months ago I sent a letter with pictures of the three of us to them and reminded them of her birthday. And two weeks ago I got a heavily redacted letter that mentioned that they had shipped us a camcorder as a combo birthday-Christmas gift, with their best wishes for the three of us."
A tiny grimace twisted your expression. "Bleak," you said softly. "But useful? It'll be nice to have some home videos of Sam."
"Yeah, well that's if it makes it through the blockade, or whatever. Ninety-nine percent chance some bozo MP is fucking around with it right now."
Steve wrapped his arms around you again and kissed you slow and sweet, and you felt the tension of the day melt like the snow that dripped from the eaves outside. His hands moved up to your shoulders and you sighed against his mouth as his thumbs worked out the tension there.
"You should bail on cleaning," he said softly, mumbled against the corner of your mouth. "Why don't you go take a really long, really hot bath and relax for the rest of the night, hm? We have a big day tomorrow."
A grin twitched onto your lips as you peered up at him through your lashes. "Are you telling me I need to rest up before our date?" You asked coyly. "What are we gonna do? Run a marathon?"
"Something like that."
Before you could respond, you felt a presence at your left and turned to see a scowling Mike Wheeler. "Gross. Can you two stop sucking face long enough to tell us where the recycling bin is?"
Steve groaned in annoyance and stalked off with Mike in tow, dragging him into the garage where you kept the bins during the snowstorm. In his absence, you slipped into the kitchen and gave Claudia a grateful smile.
"You've done so much for us already, you don't have to clean any more," you insisted. "You should get home, Mrs. Henderson. Let the rest of us pick up the slack."
She looked reluctant, but grateful as she gathered her things and her son and headed towards the car. In the morning, you'd call the florist and send her a thank you bouquet, and even that didn't feel like enough. Without even meaning to, she'd become Samantha's unofficial grandmother, in a way. Whether she'd ever claim that title or not, it made you happy that even with your own and Steve's parents being absent in one way or another, your girl still had a family around her to give her love.
You tidied up what was left of the kitchen, then joined Lucas and Erica in the living room. They were trying to silently pop balloons with tiny pinpricks that they squeezed the air out of, which meant whenever one popped loudly, the offender got yelled at.
"There's a baby asleep upstairs, shithead," Erica snapped and slapped her brother's arm.
"You just popped one!" He argued back.
Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan were trying to make tidying the display of Peanut's baby pictures a three person job. Will was folding up the banners and garlands that he had painted for you to keep, while Joyce sat staring longingly at the snowy patio like she was craving a smoke.
You slipped into your bedroom and smiled at the sight of a tiny present on your nightstand. You chewed on your lip as you took the little box into your hands and read the small note on top.
To the best mom in Hawkins, from the okay-est dad in Hawkins. One year down, seventeen more to go. At least.
Inside the box, you found a little ring rattling about. A pretty gold setting with two little diamonds framing a dainty ruby cut into a heart shape. It fit perfectly on your ring finger, the one on your right hand.
You recognized it immediately— Valentine's Day of '80, Sylvia Harrington got the ring as an apology. Steve told you as much, when you had to sit through the Hawkins Regency Valentine's Day dinner and watch her showing the little ring off to the other ladies.
I heard Mom say he's screwing the secretary again. That's why she got that and not, like… a card and a bouquet.
The next time you went over, you found the ring shoved in the back of the jewelry box and tried it on. Still too big for your fingers, but so pretty that you just wanted to take it home. He said you could, if you wanted, but you knew if your parents caught you with it, they'd drag you over to return it by your ear.
Steve had remembered, after all this time. It was funny, how it had been a thoughtless gift from his father, but meant so much coming from Steve. One woman's sorry-for-cheating present is another's treasure.
You took Steve's suggestion and had a long, hot bath in Sylvia Harrington's pink bathtub. And you figured if you could have her ruby ring, you could use her fancy soaps and bath oils. You stayed in, decompressing until the water went lukewarm and you felt like a lavender-scented raisin.
It was still snowing out— you could see it from the big windows in the bedroom, so you pulled on your comfiest sweatsuit and thickest socks before braving the living room.
"Oh look, Mom's back," Robin said when you walked back in. It made your face heat up still, that stupid nickname. "We're watching Clue, if you wanna join."
You grabbed an extra slice of cake and slid into the free spot beside Steve. The second you were beside him, his arm found its place around your shoulders like it was second nature. And, really, you fit against his side like you belonged there.
No crawls, no monsters, no fears. Just one really good day— the best day. Steve and the rest of the party sprawled around the living room, a stupid movie on TV, your girl upstairs napping.
His lips pressed against your temple and you melted against him. You wished every day could be just like that.
Snow was still falling in fat, lazy flakes as Steve drove you into town the next day. The headlights illuminated them as they drifted down, landing in clumps atop yesterday's snow.
Steve had managed to strike a deal with Mrs. Henderson, or maybe he had just begged until she folded. Frankly, you weren't sure how he pulled it off, but you were baby free until the morning, which was as exhilarating as it was unfamiliar.
Your stomach fluttered with all sorts of strange feelings. Nerves, like any other first date you'd ever been on. Worry, because Sam was staying the night with Claudia and she'd never spent the night anywhere before. Giddiness, because you'd spent most of your adolescence dreaming about a date with Steve Harrington, and it was finally happening.
Enzo's was, as he put it, the only real option for your kind-of-first date. You didn't bring up that your last date had been to Enzo's as well, or how that date had turned out. All he knew was that it went bad, you didn't get to hook up, and he was stupidly smug about it.
The table he'd reserved was a little small, tucked into the corner next to the string quartet they had on Saturdays. They were playing Vivaldi— one of the songs that played from your childhood music box. You kicked Steve's shin as you tried to readjust your legs, and laughed bashfully as you mumbled a quick apology.
"You look so beautiful tonight," he murmured, and you melted a little as he brushed your hair behind your ears. "You got all dressed up for me, huh?"
Truthfully, you'd spent a stupid amount of time getting ready— flipping through Vogue and Cosmo for any inspiration for how to dress up while not freezing to death in the snow. Eventually, you copied an editorial as best as you could— a turtleneck sweater, a mini skirt, red tights, and black boots.
"I wanted to put in some effort," you admitted, a little bashful to have been called out for it. "Most of the time I'm just wearing sweats and a t-shirt covered in baby food, milk, and god knows what else. I thought you deserved me at my best for our date."
His brows furrowed at your words, and he shook his head quickly. "What? You're always at your best. You're— I mean, god, you're perfect all of the time, not just—" He exhaled hard and met your gaze. "I didn't mean to imply that you're… y'know, better, but—"
"Steve," you said gently. "I know what you mean, and thank you. I think you look pretty handsome yourself." He preened at that, and you grinned at his proud little smile as he read over the menu and tried not to look too happy about the compliment.
"Sam said milk today," you said, after a prolonged bout of silence. "Clear as day. So that's word number four."
His expression wrinkled a bit and he shook his head. "No, it's five. She said bye when we dropped her at Henderson's."
You were unconvinced. She'd said buh… and gah, and blew raspberries. But you shrugged and chewed on the crispy breadsticks the waiter had brought out with your waters. No wine— you tried to order their cheapest red and were promptly carded. That's what a fancy establishment got you.
While you waited for your food, the conversation was stiff. Talk about the station, about Sam and her newest milestones. About Robin, apparently dating someone new and totally stealing your thunder as the party's newest couple.
And then you just… sort of ran out of things to say. What was there that you hadn't said already earlier that day? Or that week? Or in the past nine months of living together?
There was so much balancing precariously on the shoulders of the date. It was your first full night away from the baby ever. It was your first real date with Steve. It was the requirement Steve had set before you could have sex again. And, in the back of your mind, it felt like a litmus test for the viability of your relationship.
"So…" you pushed your dinner salad around with your fork and the tomato on your fork mopped up the vinaigrette. "What's a normal first date conversation to have?"
Steve perked up at your attention and gave a small shrug. "I dunno… uh, where do you see yourself in five years?"
A snort escaped you and you couldn't help an amused smile that crept onto your lips. "What, like a job interview?" You laughed lightly as he ducked his head, but humored him. "Um… I would hope I've at least gotten my associates in nursing by then. I might think about trying to get a job at one of the schools when one of the batty, ancient nurses finally retire."
He looked at you expectantly, and you felt your face burn a little. "And in this very optimistic vision, your parents graciously hand over the keys to their place while still paying the bills so we can have a nice place to raise Sam," you joked, because it was the least mushy way you could communicate that he was still in your vision of the future. "What about you? Five years out, what do you want life to be like?"
You watched him think for a moment— brows drawn together, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth. A soft, huh, escaped him, like he hadn't thought about what his own answer would be.
"I guess, y'know, I want all of the bad stuff in Hawkins to be over," he began. His thumb ran along your knuckles again, worrying over the ring as he thought. "I'd have a decent job doing whatever the hell I can get hired to do. That part doesn't matter as much as just, y'know, being a good provider for my girls. And Peanut would be in school by then, and she'd be doing really well because we'd be working with her at home too. And, I dunno… I think it'd be nice if she had a sibling or two by then, before she's too big and feels left out when we have more."
Oh. You took a slow drink of your water and tried to pretend like you couldn't feel Steve's eyes on you, studying your reaction. Steve wanted more kids. Steve wanted more kids before you even turned twenty five. Steve wanted to have kids with you. And maybe you hadn't schooled your expression well enough, because his eyes went a little soft and his throat bobbed nervously.
"If we… y'know, have more," he amended. "But have you thought about it? Having more kids, I mean."
"That's a… wild question for a first date," you said with a weak laugh, trying to brush off the seriousness of the question. "I guess I never really thought about it before everything happened, you know? I thought I'd decide whether or not I'd have kids when I was older and had everything else figured out first. But, uh… I guess it got decided for me."
Truthfully, you'd always wondered if you wanted kids at all. It seemed like everyone's parents let them down eventually. Your own, who hadn't ever really seemed interested in raising you in the first place, Steve's who tormented him with both emotional and physical distance. Carol's father whose benders drove her to your house for an escape, and Tommy's father, who pushed him aside to pour all of his attention onto his shiny new step-family.
It just felt like all parents did was fuck their kids up in some way. Whether intentionally, or as an unfortunate side-effect of just existing.
But you'd also seen Claudia doting over Dustin at the dinner table, encouraging his interests and hobbies even if she didn't understand them. You'd heard Steve singing Sam to sleep at three in the morning, exhausted but full of so much selfless love that it didn't even bother him that much. And you'd felt a new part of yourself growing and changing over the past year— like the muscle of your heart expanding to create a new space all for your girl. Full of pride and love and joy for every bit of her that you got to experience.
The odds felt stacked against you, in a way. Most parents messed up; everyone you knew had, at one point, slammed their bedroom door and just screamed into their pillow about how they hated their parents, or they just didn't understand. And you thought that, maybe, the inevitability of it was just part of life that you had to count on.
Because you still remembered how proud your father had been when you clumsily stitched your teddy bear's arm back on, and how your mother had beamed about how beautiful you looked before prom. You remembered Carol's father's slow recovery for his family's sake, and how he'd cried happy tears when they danced at her wedding.
"I guess I don't think it would be the worst thing," you said finally. "More, I mean. Like… two or three including Sam. If the circumstances are right."
"What about four?" He asked, and you couldn't tell if he was joking or not.
So you brushed your hair back and narrowed your eyes with an easy smile. "Do you always ask your dates how many babies they're willing to pop out for you on first dates?"
He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and laughed. "Sorry, you're right, that's pretty intense, huh? Uh… it's been a while since I've been on a first date," he admitted. "Like a real, sit down, have a conversation date, you know? Not just…"
"Yeah, I know what a first date is," you replied with a tiny laugh. "Who was your last real one? Nancy?"
It was meant to be a teasing jab, but his cheeks went a shade of pink that might have been adorable if it weren't for jealousy roiling around your stomach. Which was stupid, really, but that didn't make it any less present. "I mean, yeah, pretty much," he admitted.
"Huh… Carol told me you were, like, really dating around after I left Hawkins," you said, raising a brow. "Like… constant stream of girls dating around. I guess I didn't realize she meant, like, fucking around."
He glanced at the tables on either side of you, but the string quartet was playing loud enough that it sort of muffled your conversation. "I took most of them out beforehand."
You laughed wryly. "Most of them."
His eyes narrowed, and you could sense defensiveness in the tick of his jaw. "Why are you being so weird about this? You're acting pissed."
You didn't know how to even begin to explain how you were feeling, because it was a weird feeling. This itch under your skin, a resentment. Of the girls, of him. Stupid, nagging, hot jealousy from a very loud, very tender spot you thought you'd outgrown.
"I'm not pissed," you insisted, because you were pretty confident that you weren't. "And I don't know what it is, okay? I just feel crazy when I think about you with other girls. It makes me feel like I'm in high school again."
Unfortunately, you were self aware enough to know where it all stemmed from. Carol's birthday party in the stupid basement closet and your first kiss with Steve (with anyone). How he had immediately confessed that he wished you had been Lisa.
It was watching his endless stream of girlfriends and going to parties where he'd disappear into the nearest door with a lock and walk out unkempt and smug. It was the mental image of Steve with pretty girls who he took on casual dates and hooked up with in his car, the same car that he'd gotten you in the backseat of.
It made you stupidly nauseous to think about. That you were one of many, that there was always a chance that you were being compared to some other girl he'd been with, for better or worse.
Maybe Amy was a better kisser. Maybe Laurie was better in bed. And Lisa had better tits, and Stacey had a better attitude, and, and, and. Maybe the only thing you had going for you was that, for now, he was in love with you.
"Hey, I can see your brain working," he said, and you thought it was sweet how visibly concerned he was, at least. "This isn't like high school, okay? After the wedding it was all just… meaningless. I was looking for something— for someone— that wasn't even in Hawkins."
Your chest fluttered a little at his words. There was a sick sort of pride you felt at being the one in the back of his mind while he was with other girls, just like he had been with you. It soothed that nagging voice in the back of your head, just knowing that you had been the one who he was comparing them all to.
Sure, it was immature and selfish, but it had always been a part of you, that jealousy. "Oh," you said softly, because you couldn't think of anything else to say.
"That's why this date means a lot to me, you know?" He said. His cheeks were dusted with the faintest ruddiness, the softest spray over his freckle dotted face. "I just… I needed this to be different than before, so you don't think that being your boyfriend isn't important to me. I didn't want you to think I just wanted to sleep with you, and that's all that mattered to me, because I wouldn't blame you if you thought of me that way."
You swallowed around a lump in your throat and nodded. "I don't think of you that way, and I know you really care about this," you said, lips twitching with a tiny smile. He took your hand from across the table, his thumb running over the ruby ring on your finger. Your heart was doing a funny, fluttery thing, one that made you feel like you were going to cry or laugh because you were so full of feeling that something had to come out.
You knew what it was, but you couldn't bring yourself to verbalize it. "Hey, about what you said before… I don't want you to just pick whatever job is available so you can be a provider, or whatever," you said. "Isn't there anything you want to do?"
He shrugged, brows knit. "I don't know," he admitted. "Remember that career aptitude test we took in senior year?" When you nodded, he sighed. "It told me I was best suited to be a, like, retail associate, which is just a fancy way of saying a schmuck who folds shirts for a living."
Your lips twitched with the beginnings of a frown at his dejected tone, like he'd given up on ever doing anything he cared about. "Steve, c'mon, they give you, like, twenty suggestions. They weren't all just retail."
He sighed, and the forced nonchalance in his expression was how you knew it really bothered him. "Alright, fine, they also said I should be an elementary school teacher."
Your brow knit. "Well, what's the problem with that?"
His laugh was bitter and dry. "Maybe that I'm a goddamn idiot," he muttered. He looked up and saw pure concern on your face, which made him quickly shake his head and try to look unbothered. "I'm sorry it's just… it doesn't matter what I'm suited for. I just want to be good to you, and good to Sam. I'm happy when I know you're both healthy and happy. And you're both healthy and happy so..."
"You're not an idiot, Steve," you pressed. "And I'm not going to be happy if you're killing yourself every day at some soul crushing job, just for my sake."
Across the table, his nails dug into the soft skin around his cuticles and pulled. It made your stomach turn just to watch it, especially when you had to look at the raw, tender flesh. "Do we have to talk about this?"
"Well, if you can ask how many kids I'm willing to give you, I think I can tell you that I want you to have a job you care about," you countered.
It struck you then that this wasn't a first date. It wasn't even a fiftieth date. While you were avoiding your feelings for Steve, your lives had grown around one another whether you wanted them to or not. Tightly woven, completely inextricable.
Nothing was as simple as just being each other's boyfriend and girlfriend when you'd been playing house since March. Mom and Dad. Samantha's Parents. Hello, this is the Harrington Household, we can't come to the phone right now, but—
Boyfriend felt too casual for what he was to you. It felt small and childlike. You were talking to Steve like your future together had already been written in permanent marker. And, really, you knew that feeling wasn't just about Sam. It was a choice you made daily, that you'd been actively making since March.
A choice to wake up and see things through, to live with hopefulness instead of anger. It was the harder path, you were more than sure of it, but the funniest sense of certainty settled over you as you looked at Steve across the table.
It had never felt so obvious until that moment.
"I think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," you said finally. "And I think you're funny, and charismatic, and shockingly selfless. And if you ever can't decide on what to do, I vote that you stay a DJ, 'cause your voice sounds really sexy on the radio."
He laughed and shook his head incredulously, but the tiny smile on his lips as he stared at the tablecloth told you that you'd managed to cheer him up a little.
The waiter brought out your plates, which gave you both a healthy buffer to push thoughts of the future aside for another time. The conversation moved away from heavy topics like how many kids will we eventually have and what job will you have to support them and don't be jealous that I was sleeping around before we reconnected, I did it because I missed you, and into safer places like wow, these mashed potatoes are really good and I think the menu actually called it a potato puree.
Your fork dragged against your plate, and it suddenly felt very… calm. Sweet and well intentioned, but so much more grown up than you were used to. It reminded you of being twelve and having a babysitter come over so your parents could go have a date night. They went out, had a nice meal, and got home exactly at nine so they could hand over the cash to the babysitter.
You didn't want to feel like them— not now, not ever. Besides, the mention of a future career outside of interdimensional monster hunting had bummed your boyfriend out.
"Do you wanna do something fun after this?" You asked as you finished your last bite. "Like… maybe we can hit up Big Town and see if that bartender who always sold us drinks still works there."
"Big Town?" He asked, brows furrowing. "You want to go bowling?"
You nodded. "Yeah, why not? When's the last time either of us did anything fun?" Really, your lives had become a series of end-of-the-world emergencies, child-rearing, and brief moments of respite in each other. But fun… the kind of fun that you'd had before the world ended, had been a rare occurrence in your lives as of late.
He gave you a guilty look look, like like a puppy that had just been caught chewing on your favorite shoes. "This isn't fun?"
"No, it's great, Steve, and I appreciate that you planned all of this," you insisted. "But… I think we should take advantage of our baby-free night since it's only, like, half past eight. And I want to see if I can kick your ass in bowling still."
The promise of a little competition lit a spark in his eyes, and his guilty, disappointed expression disappeared. "I always went easy on you," he said with a grin. "And you're right, this isn't the most exciting date of all time. I just wanted it to be kind of fancy, I thought you deserved to be treated to something nice."
You leaned across the small table and planted a soft kiss on his lips, not caring that your blazer was at risk of dragging across your plate. "It's very sweet," you said against his lips. You gave him another slow kiss and sat back. "You're very sweet. And very, very bad at bowling."
Steve flagged the waiter for the check, unable to sit back while his athletic prowess was called into question. On the way to the car, after he had paid for the meal (a meal which you thought was way too expensive, but you weren't going to tell Steve that), you linked your fingers with his and tugged your jacket a little tighter around yourself.
But thoughts about how the conversations inside had gone kept nagging you with each step away from the warm glow from the windows. You didn't want to leave that part of the date with unsaid words or a dark cloud over it.
"Okay, to start, I'm sorry for getting weird about you dating around," you began, pausing at his car. You leaned against the passenger's side door and peered up at him. "It's totally fine that you did, y'know, and I'm not ever going to think lesser of you because you did, or judge you for anything, because that would be totally hypocritical. And it's not even about you it's—"
The soft warmth of a kiss on your cheek made you shut up and take a deep breath. He stepped back and brushed your hair out of your face with a an amused, if not understanding smile. "It just made me think about how much time we've wasted, y'know?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "I don't even know if there's anything we could have done to change how things ended up, or if this is just what we were meant for, but sometimes I catch myself thinking about all of the places we could have fit back together before."
You thought about senior year, and if Steve would've come to your window after Billy beat him senseless— cold tile under your knees as you cleaned the blood off of his face and stuck pink bandaids on the deep cuts. How easy it would have been then to just apologize for your fight before you slept together and things got more complicated.
Or, maybe, Fall break of your freshman year of college, when Carol and Tommy sent you to return a couple of tapes to Family Video. You had thought it was a simple favor because she was way too pregnant to deal with the asshole manager bitching her out about late fees, but, no. Steve was behind the counter like they'd planned it all. Honestly, they probably had.
Maybe if you'd just talked it out then. If he hadn't been so avoidant, if you hadn't been so angry.
"I'm glad it's now," he said finally. "I'm glad you got to stay away from… everything I come with for a little while." His eyes shifted over your shoulder and you turned, looking at the football stadium glow of the military base in the square. A shiver ran through you, not from the snow. "Let's get you in the car, you're freezing. And I don't want you to blame it on frostbite when I kick your ass at Big Town."
A smile played on your lips as you nodded. You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him again, slow and sweet, then got in the car.
Honestly, you didn't hate the Beamer that much anymore. It smelled like Steve's cologne, and a little bit like the strawberry applesauce that you'd spilled into the floor mats in the backseat when you'd tried to appease a crying Sam on the drive home from a doctor's appointment.
The radio was turned to WSQK, as it usually was. As Steve cranked the car, you heard Robin announcing her next track— a throwback by Depeche Mode. Steve made a face and turned the radio up.
"I put her onto that one," he muttered, without much venom at all. He flipped down the visor to check his hair in the mirror and your heart fluttered at the sight of the pictures of you and Sam clipped inside. He brushed his fingers against the pictures briefly, like it was a habit, before he shut the visor and gave you an easy grin.
That was your Steve. The Steve you felt that aching affection for that you couldn't bring yourself to place. He held your hand over the center console and drove into the snowy night.
Big Town Bowling Lanes was the one respite from Steve's carousel of women when you were in high school. It was like it had sacred wards carved into the foundation, forbidding him from bringing annoying skanks along whenever you went bowling with Carol and Tommy.
Or, maybe, it was just because it was four people per lane and Carol wouldn't let him kick you out to bring some girl. Either way, you relished in your weekends spent at the lanes. Tommy and Steve always took it way too seriously, and you always wound up barely edging Steve out in scores.
Darrell, who worked the concessions stand, would pour beers into styrofoam cups so you could pretend they were sodas, just as long as you tipped him nicely. It was a pleasant surprise to find him still behind the counter, and still willing to sell beers to underage drinkers like you and Steve.
A few teenagers were trying their hand at the open mic night while you waited for a lane to open up— singing Madonna and Paula Abdul and a few other top 40 songs. It wasn't the best background music, but the liveliness reminded you of your friends. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant sobriety of the end of the world and parenthood.
"Pinball while we wait?" Steve suggested. You fished around your purse for a couple of quarters and leaned against the machine while he played. Tommy had always been better than him at this exact machine, but Steve knew all the targets and how to get multipliers. Plus, it was nice to look at his handsome face lit up by the flashing lights.
You used a quarter to try the claw machine beside him— another thing Tommy had excelled at. He'd taught you all the tricks to get a prize every time, and even though you were out of practice, it was a bit like riding a bike. While Steve got a second ball in the playing field, the claw caught on a gorilla's arm and carried it to the prize chute. You put in another quarter and won a second one for Sam.
The bowling alley was packed— there wasn't much else to do in a quarantine. To make up time, you signed the two of you up for the open mic, where you fumbled your way through You're The One That I Want from Grease. Steve still hated Travolta, and still had a much better singing voice than you did. When the lanes still stayed full, you sang Don't You Want Me very, very badly.
Darrell poured you both beers, and you were about to just give up and call it a night when the lane you'd been desperately waiting for opened up. Already, enough time had passed that you were itching under your skin with anticipation about getting home, so you weren't exactly focused on bowling.
You watched Steve step up to the lanes each frame as you sipped at your beer, eyes on the way his jeans clung tight to his ass, the way his fingers slid into the bright green house ball. Your pulse fluttered at the sight, and your brain went a little fuzzy.
God, you needed to get laid.
You took another drink as he threw the ball down the lane and the pins crashed at contact. Strike. He spun around, a smug grin on his lips, and marked an X on the scorecard.
"That's three in a row, baby. I'm going for a perfect game," he insisted, smacking a kiss on your forehead. You blinked yourself from your horny stupor and nodded. You took another drink of beer and took your turn.
You were distracted by his stupid hands and handsome face. Frankly, you were regretting bringing up bowling as an option, because you were stupidly needy and eager to get him back home so you could get your hands on him. You knocked down seven pins, then threw into the gutter on your attempt to pick up the spare.
"You're not giving me much competition, honey," he said as you sat back down, grinning smugly. You shook your head and rolled your eyes, leaning into his side, but as soon as you had cuddled up against him, he was back up and on the lanes.
You gave a strained smile and a thumbs up, and watched as, sure enough, he threw a clean strike. His excitement was palpable, as was his ego. He looked like he was back on the basketball court in high school after he'd shot a successful three-pointer.
When he sat down, you leaned into his side and put a hand on his thigh. He kissed your forehead, then nodded towards the lane. "Stop stalling 'cause you know I'm going to beat you," he said, completely oblivious to your intentions.
You sighed and stood, heading back to the lane. This time you managed to get a spare, which was met by a very sarcastic clap from your boyfriend. He stood, not even giving you time to sit beside him before he was up again.
Steve took competition very seriously, and you knew that. He had barely even sipped at his beer so he could keep his focus. Partially, you appreciated that he wasn't going easy on you as a form of flattery, but you also wanted a little more attention.
There was something cute about him getting all worked up and focused about it. The way his tongue peeked out in concentration as he wrote scores, how he'd turn around and give you a smug smile at the end of each frame. You were bowling in a technical sense, but really you were taking it as your opportunity to relish in the ghost of King Steve before you.
"Why don't you help me correct my form?" You asked him as the game neared its end, slipping your fingertips inside the V-neck of his collared shirt. His heart thrummed against your touch, beneath the soft chest hair and spattering of beauty marks hidden beneath. "Hm? Give me a fighting chance."
He swallowed hard, his warm brown eyes going wide. "You want me to… oh! Yeah, I'll just… yeah, I'll help you."
With a grin, you stood and pulled him to the lane and grabbed the ball. "Okay, so… you want to line up with the dots on the ground," he began.
You nodded and sighed contentedly as he fit himself against your back. "Start back here, and you walk to gain some momentum. And before you're at the line, you pull your arm back, and throw."
He guided your motions as best as he could with a twelve pound ball in your hands. But it wasn't the actual advice you wanted— you knew how to throw a bowling ball down a lane— you wanted the close press of his body against yours.
"Got it?" His breath puffed over your ear and you shivered. You nodded and he stepped back. "Show me."
You rolled the ball down the lane and grinned victoriously when nine pins came down. You turned on the balls of your feet and met his gaze, hands clasped behind your back.
He sat back, seemingly less interested in the actual sport of bowling now that he had you blatantly flirting with him, in a cute little skirt and an oversized blazer that you definitely stole from his dad's closet. You'd even put a little brooch on it— two interlocking gold hearts and a dangly little pearl.
"What are you gonna give me if I make the spare?" You asked with a coy smile. "I think I deserve a prize for my hard work."
He shrugged casually and nodded back to the prize counter, where a bored employee sat with her chin in her hand and read Seventeen. "Maybe you can get one of those slap bracelets."
You rolled your eyes. "Hm… not quite what I was thinking."
"I just think it's a waste of a prize if whatever you're asking for is something you're going to get anyway." He gave you a smug smile and you could do little more than laugh and shake your head.
You picked up the spare, and your temporary reward was a slow, hungry kiss when you joined him on the couch. Really, you should have been a little embarrassed by the fact that you were french kissing Steve in the middle of the bowling alley, but you were too drunk on him to care. His hands slid under your jacket, teasing the waistband of your skirt where your sweater was tucked in.
"Hey, I should probably finish this game," he pulled back suddenly, glancing at the lane. His thumb brushed under your bottom lip, tidying up your smudged lipstick. "I'm, like, five strikes from a perfect score."
You sat back, brows furrowed, bottom still tingling from the way he'd bitten it. "Wait, what?"
He held up the score sheet. Sure enough, while you'd been staring at his ass and drooling over the veins in his hands, he'd managed to pull off seven strikes in a row. Fuck… maybe he had been letting you win in high school.
"Wow… sexy," you deadpanned, but he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he looked really proud of himself when he bowled another strike.
"You must be, like, my lucky charm," he said, planting another kiss on your lips. "This is the universe telling me you're the one."
By the time you finally made it back to the car, Steve had his picture framed on the wall of Big Town Lanes, a tiny plastic trophy, and a rainbow slap bracelet he'd asked for from the prize counter.
"Hold out your wrist," he said. With an amused huff, you held out your arm and tensed in anticipation. "C'mon, don't be a baby, it's just a bracelet." He slapped it onto your wrist and you shrieked, yanking your hand back.
"You were right, bowling was fun," he said. "And I did totally kick your ass. I'm gonna have to ask Henderson the odds on bowling a perfect game. Maybe we should go buy a scratcher or something."
You laughed, shaking your head. It was something else you loved about Steve— he was naturally funny. He could make you laugh until your sides hurt, especially now that you weren't denying your feelings for him. Well, not like you were before, at least.
"Alright, champ, let's get home," you said with an affectionate eye-roll. "It's freezing."
The house felt a little less like home when you walked inside. It was cold and still, like a dollhouse. You wondered if it was how Steve felt growing up alone most of the time. You couldn't ask, because Steve hated feeling pitied, but you could wonder.
As you got settled, Steve put his trophy down on the counter and you eased off your coat and went to check the answering machine. "Hi sweethearts. Samantha was a perfect angel. She had some meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner, then watched the Care Bears movie on tape with Uncle Dusty. She's just gone down for the night, and I know she can't wait to see you in the morning. Enjoy your night, you two!"
You smiled fondly at the message and turned to face Steve with a smile. "Hear that? We've raised a perfect angel," you said with a tiny laugh. He was pouring glasses of wine into the pretty crystal that typically sat unused in the china cabinet. The deep red looked so inviting behind the etched glass, especially after cheap beer.
"Of course we did, you're a great mom," he said, and handed you the glass. Your fingers brushed against his as you accepted it into your own hand, just for a fleeting moment. "Feels weird having the house empty, huh?"
You brought the glass to your lips and took a slow sip. "Really weird," you agreed. "Not bad, just different."
He nodded and took a drink of his own. You both stood in the dark kitchen, lit only by the street lamps outside the window— a pale yellow glow. You finished your glass and felt a pleasant warmth all over— a buzz under your skin. His parents' wine collection was fancy enough that you actually enjoyed drinking it, unlike the cheap boxed stuff that you and Carol used to share.
"Wanna listen to some music on the couch?" He asked finally. "I have some pretty great mixes. Working at the station means I get access to all of the good stuff."
You snorted at the thought of Steve slacking off and making mixes on the clock. "Your big move right now is asking if I want to listen to music on the couch?"
"Well, it's a really good mix," he insisted with a stupid grin. You shook your head and put your empty glass back on the counter with full intentions to revisit it later.
You knew this move in his playbook, and you were totally shameless about the fact that it was actually going to work on you. So you let him lead you over to the couch, and sat patiently while he messed around with the fancy sound system hidden in the bookshelves.
He clicked the tape into place and joined you on the couch just as the sound of a synth started playing. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as he slung an arm across the back of the couch, so his fingers brushed against your shoulder. It was just so obvious.
You shivered as his fingers played with the ends of your hair, twirling them around his fingertips. That was the invitation he needed. You grinned as he tugged you into his side, wrapping his arm tight around you. "Cold? Need me to warm you up?"
It was so corny. You figured this was a move of his, tried and true, but you didn't mind. Really, you had always wondered what the Steve Harrington hookup experience was like.
So you nodded and let him pull you into his lap where he was nice and warm beneath you. "'S that better?" He asked. Big hands settled on your arms, moving up and down in a showy attempt to warm you up.
"Mhmm… but maybe I'm a little hot now," you said, playing right into his hand. At that, his expression perked up, and you could sense his excitement in the way his eyes lit up.
"Yeah? Gotta get this off then, huh?" He tugged at the thick fabric of your sweater, right below your ribcage. As soon as you nodded, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt and untucked your sweater so he could pull it over your head and toss it mindlessly aside.
It totally fucked up your hair, but neither of you seemed to mind. Steve's eyes flicked to your breasts, the soft flesh encased in delicate black lace. You ran a hand over your unkempt hair in a nervous attempt to make yourself presentable again while he just stared.
"Where'd you get this?" he asked, meeting your gaze. "Did you send Murray out for it?"
Your expression scrunched in distaste. "Ew, no, why would I ever ask him for that?" You muttered. "I got this at school."
He swallowed hard, and you sighed softly as his warm hands moved up your ribs to cup your breasts through the lace. "You wore this for some college guy?"
You really had to steel your expression to keep from grinning. There was something exciting about the hint of jealousy in his gaze, the tiniest tick in his jaw. "I wasn't exactly celibate in college," you said slowly. His fingers flexed and you exhaled shakily as he played with you. "If you'll remember, I was heartbroken and trying to put this total asshole in Hawkins behind me."
His lips turned into what you could only describe as a pout, just before he moved his mouth to your sternum, pressing soft kisses to the flat of your chest. You would never tell another soul, but giving Steve a taste of his own medicine was immeasurably cathartic.
"If the fact that another guy saw this bothers you so much, you can just take it off," you added. He sighed against your skin, and you moaned softly as his lips trailed hot, messy kisses over the thin fabric.
He shook his head, nuzzling his face deeper into your tits. He mumbled something that you couldn't understand and met your gaze. "I'm not jealous," he insisted. "I just feel like they probably didn't appreciate your effort."
You couldn't keep the smug grin from your lips. "No?" You asked, cocking your head. "But you appreciate it fully, right?" He nodded and sucked a bruise onto your exposed cleavage.
"I appreciate it so much." His voice vibrated against your skin, making you laugh softly. When he pulled back from your tits, his pupils were blown with desire. He gave a tiny nod towards your skirt before dragging his eyes back to yours. "Do they match?"
In lieu of a response, you stood up and unzipped your skirt, so it joined your discarded sweater on the floor. Steve groaned at the sight of you in your sheer red tights, barely concealing the promise of more black lace beneath— high cut and pretty.
Before you could slip your fingers under the waistband to roll the tights down, Steve grabbed your wrist. "I've got it," he said. "It's like unwrapping a present."
He kissed your stomach once, twice, then eased the tights down your legs. His hand came under your knee, easing it into a gentle bend so he could pull one leg off your feet, then he repeated for the other.
There was a certain intentionality to every one of his touches— a confidence that showed in the steadiness of his hand as he ran his hand up your thigh. It was gentle and sure— intimate.
His hands slid up your thighs and pulled you in closer, so his mouth was level with your lower stomach. You sighed when he ducked his head and kissed the front of your panties, nice and sweet.
"Wait," you said suddenly. He looked up at you with flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, and you swear you got a head rush. "Just sit there for me, okay?"
You swore you could hear his pulse kick when you sank to your knees between his thighs, or maybe that was your own. Your palms slid up his thighs, moving over the dark-wash denim. He was already hard, you could see the thick shape of him straining against the fabric.
"Can I?" You asked. One hand rubbed at the bulge beneath your palm, the other toyed mindlessly with the button to his jeans.
"Fuck— yeah, 'course you can, honey. You can do whatever you want to me."
You smiled prettily up at him and popped the button of his Levi's. He groaned at even the lightest amount of pressure against his dick as you eased the zipper down and freed him from the confines of the denim.
You'd seen his dick before— in the shower, while he was changing, even how it looked in your hand. Even so, you'd never seen it so close before. You spit into your palm before you wrapped your hand around the base of him, relishing in the warm pulse beneath your grip.
With just the slightest glide of your hand upwards, you watched precum dribble from the ruddy tip. He groaned, hips thrusting up into your grasp. He squirmed as he kicked off his jeans and briefs, then tossed his sweater to the side. Your hand caressed his now-bare thigh, soft and downy to the touch.
"You have the cutest little freckle right here," you said with a tiny grin, and relished in the way his cheeks went red with embarrassment. Your lips moved to the base of him, where there was a small beauty mark. He shivered above you as you planted a soft, wet kiss there and looked up at him through your lashes.
"Fuck," he groaned, chest already heaving. "You're killing me, honey."
Your lips trailed up his shaft, until you wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled. He moaned, deep and pretty, head lolling back against the cushions. It was hard to fit much of him inside of your mouth without triggering your gag reflex. Your hand had to pick up your slack, stroking the inches that didn't fit with slick twists.
"God, you're good," he panted. "So good for me." You nearly preened at the praise. His fingers threaded into your curls, twisting your locks into a loose ponytail. Not so he could guide your pace or force you to take him deeper, but to keep your hair from getting in your face.
You pulled off, just to spit the drool that had collected in your mouth back onto his cock. It dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers, collecting at his base and dripping down his balls. You moved your mouth down to them, licking up the mess you made just to hear him cry out above you.
He swore under his breath as you licked up the underside of his cock once more on your way up, tasting the slick mix of his precum and your spit. You pressed an almost chaste kiss to the head— once, twice before you teased the precum-slick slit with your tongue.
He exhaled sharply through his teeth. hips bucking up towards the wet heat of your mouth. You licked around the tip, teasing a pretty moan out of his lips. When you finally wrapped your lips around him and took him deeper into your mouth, his thighs tensed on either side of you.
You were incredibly grateful that you had the experience you did before Steve, otherwise you'd probably humiliate yourself. Your lips stretched to accommodate him as you tried to take him deeper, and you had the experience to know exactly how to fight your gag reflex as his cock nudged your soft palate.
"Keep going, just like that," he panted, tummy tensing as you let your tongue massage the underside of his shaft. "God, you've got a perfect fucking mouth."
When your jaw began to ache, you pulled back, lips puffy and sticky with spit. You pumped his cock in your fist as you took a second to catch your breath. His free hand moved to your face, where he stroked your cheek tenderly.
You wet your lips before you took him back into your mouth, suckling softly on the head of his cock briefly before you swallowed him deeper.
You were sure the sight was obscene— your lips stretched wide around his girth, spit bubbling around the spot where your mouth and fist met with each messy bob of your head and twist of your wrist. His moans we're constant, and the taste of his precum was heady on your tongue.
When his fingers tightened around your hair, you moaned around him, eyes fluttering. He panted out a pathetic moan at the sound, at the feeling of your own noise vibrating against him. He was so close, you knew it. His thighs tensing, his moans getting breathier, his hips canting up as they tried to bury his cock deep into your mouth.
You looked up, meeting his half-lidded gaze as you swallowed around him, and he was done for. He barely had time to give you a weak warning of, "gonna cum—" before he was spilling into your mouth.
You did your best to swallow every spurt of cum that painted your tongue and work him through every last aftershock. You were panting like you'd run a marathon when you finally sat back and wiped your sticky lips on the back of your hand.
Steve's eyes were closed, one arm tossed over them as he caught his breath, cock flagging between strong thighs as he came down. When he finally opened his eyes, you kissed a beauty mark on his inner thigh and stood.
"Sick of me already?" He asked with a grin. He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto his lap, but you shook your head and leaned back.
"I was gonna grab some mouthwash before we do anything else," you explained with a sheepish laugh. "So it's not gross for you, I mean."
He shook his head and let his arm move to the small of your back to ease you closer. You sighed softly as he pressed his lips to yours, licking slowly into your mouth. "I don't care," he murmured. Then, like he was trying to prove his own point, he licked your pouty bottom lip with a grin. "That's, like, the least gross thing you could ask me to do."
"Yeah?" You asked with a grin. "You're such a slut."
You watched him close his mouth and swallow, pupils blown as his eyes flicked from your lips and back to your eyes. He laughed weakly, but you knew he was so gone that he'd agree with anything you said. You leaned in, laving your tongue over his as you kissed him slow and deep.
It was messy and desperate, but you didn't care. His head tilted back, and you took every opportunity he gave you to kiss deeper, to lick into his mouth and claim the space for your own. His hands slipped down to palm your ass over the lace, squeezing and tugging you closer on his lap.
"Are you gonna let me touch you?" He murmured against your lips. You nodded, and he licked your bottom lip before a smile spread across his lips. "Yeah? I bet you're soaking through your panties right now. Probably why you're sitting up like that— so I can't feel it."
He eased you back so you were laying on the couch beneath him. His mouth went to your throat, suckling softly on the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. With his knee between your thigh, you couldn't help but squirm, seeking a little bit of relief where you needed it most.
You hated to be so easy for him all of the time. You wanted to look a little more composed and in control, but Steve had a way of making your inhibitions melt away and drip down your thighs.
"You drive me crazy, Steve," you murmured, your words little more than desperate pants in his ear. As his hand moved down your torso, you arched into him, seeking the heat of it against your body.
The feeling of his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties pulled a whiny mewl from your lips. The rough pads of his fingers rubbed over your sensitive clit, just barely grazing it before dipping down to your slick entrance.
"So wet and I've barely even touched you." His words vibrated against your jaw, and he punctuated them with a soft kiss. He nudged your thighs apart with his knee, giving him better access to toy with you.
A shudder ran through you as he slid his slick fingers up to your clit, only to circle his fingers so he totally avoided giving you any real friction. "C'mon, Steve," you whined. "I didn't tease you."
He laughed, a low, pretty sound that tickled your throat. "You're always a tease."
"You jerked off in front of me yesterday," you panted, bucking your hips with the feeble hope that you might catch the pad of his fingers where you wanted them. "Didn't let me touch you for a week. Fuckin' tease."
You could feel his smile against your skin, but, sure enough, he relented and gave you what you wanted. You gasped softly as he finally rubbed your clit, a pretty noise that he swallowed up in a hungry kiss.
His tongue slipped into your mouth, lapping up each whine and moan as he played with your pussy. Thick fingers rubbing through your slick folds, curling deep inside of your aching entrance.
"That's what you wanted, yeah?" He murmured against your lips. His fingers flexed, curling until your walls squeezed around them. "Mhmm… I can feel it. You're always so sensitive for me."
The sound of his fingers plunging in and out of your sopping cunt made your cheeks burn. It felt pointless, being so embarrassed at the effect that he had on you. He was just as affected by you as you were of him… but you couldn't hear how turned on he was with every single thrust of his fingers inside of you.
You grabbed onto his shoulders with one hand, blunt fingernails digging into the firm muscle there to ground yourself as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. Your other hand moved down, squeezing his wrist in an impossible choice of needing more but feeling too much.
The heel of his palm rubbed against your clit, giving you relentless friction and pressure that you couldn't squirm away from. Your thighs trembled, walls fluttering around the intrusion as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.
The lap of his tongue into your mouth kept you from slipping away entirely. Sweet, sensual kisses that kept you there with him, relishing in the full-body high of being worshiped by Steve Harrington.
You felt that warm buzz in the pit of your stomach, a pressure just building and building until you couldn't deny its pull anymore. Gasping into Steve's mouth, you squeezed his wrist and bucked against his hand as he brought you over the edge.
"That's it, pretty girl," he hummed. Your eyes fluttered, rolling lightly as he curled his fingers, toying with you as the final waves of pleasure wracked your body. "That's what you needed, huh?"
When he pulled his hand from your panties, his fingers were slick with your juices. He wasted no time sucking them between his lips, cleaning every trace of you off.
He laid beside you, tracing spit-damp fingers along your tummy as his mixtape played on. You'd been so wrapped up in Steve that the music had gone fuzzy in the background. But now that you were fully back in your body, all fuzzy and content, the sound of saxophones struck you fully. With a giggle, you met his gaze. "Careless Whisper?" You asked with a grin. "You're so corny."
"Hey, it's the best," he insisted. "It's sexy."
You rolled your eyes and grinned up at him before you leaned up an kissed him again. He smiled into it, meeting your lips with the ease and confidence of a man who knew he had all of the time in the world with you.
You didn't want to wait another second. You shifted, pinning him beneath you on the cushions. He was hard already, and you had a feeling he had been for a while. As you stripped off your bra and tossed it aside, you watched his cock twitch where it rested against his stomach.
"Looks like you really want me," you teased, like you didn't want him just as bad. "Do you have it in you, baby?"
He swallowed hard and nodded. "Fuck, yeah I do," he breathed. His hands moved to your hips, and you didn't resist as he guided your hips in a slow grind. It was a little obscene, the sight of your clothed pussy rubbing over his bare cock. Precum beaded then dripped onto his stomach, making a slick little pool beneath the head that only seemed to grow with each lazy rut. "You gonna give it to me?"
Steve's pupils were blown wide as he looked up at you, swallowing up the honey-brown of his irises. He really did drive you crazy. Really, how was it fair that he could just look at you like that? Desperate and doting in equal measure.
You detached from him to wiggle off your panties, balancing against the back of the sofa as you kicked them off, then settled on his lap once more. His big hands went right back to their place on your hips and you couldn't help but give a testing roll of your hips.
Even with that tiny motion, you felt his fingers flex, dimpling your soft skin. Your eyes fluttered at the feeling of the blunt head of his cock nudging your clit, still sensitive from the first orgasm he'd pulled from you. You felt your cunt pulsing with need as you continued to slowly grind down against him.
"You're torturing me," he whined. His eyes were half-lidded and lazy, his mouth parted as he watched your slick pussy gliding along his length. One of your hand rested on his chest for stability as you moved, giving him the perfect view of your tits as they moved in time with your hips. "God, you're so hot, honey. Just wanna make you feel good, baby. You've gotta let me, 'cause I know you need it."
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you looked down at him. "I barely have to do anything and you're begging," you teased. He groaned, grinding up against you, unabashed in his need.
And, yeah, it would've been fun to keep torturing him, but you were still just as impatient as he was. So you lifted your hips just enough that you could guide his cock to your entrance and begin to slowly sink down.
He felt even bigger with you on top, something you'd blissfully forgotten since your wedding hookup. It made you wonder if he had gone easy on you the week prior and hadn't tried to go all the way in. It felt like a challenge to prove you could take it— every single inch.
Your fingers twitched against his chest, curling into the downy hair there as your mouth fell open. He moved one of the hands resting on your hips to lay on top of yours, frustratingly affectionate. "C'mon, honey, just take it nice and slow."
"Shut up," you panted, which only made him grin up at you. "I've done it before."
It wasn't like riding Steve was some herculean task, even if he was stupidly hung. But you were more than a little out of practice, and after you finally managed to pick up a decent rhythm, you kind of just wanted him to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions.
You weren't a quitter though, and Steve's blissed-out reactions beneath you were all the encouragement you needed to keep going, aside from your body's need for release. Your thighs ached slightly from months of celibacy, but the room filled with a chorus of both of your moans each time you sank back onto him.
"You feel so good, baby," you moaned softly, giving your hips a little swivel that made a drawn out groan spill from his lips. "I love how you feel inside of me. So deep."
It wasn't just to fluff his ego— you swore you could feel every ridge and vein of his cock where it was buried within you. Every pulse, every twitch was just confirmation that he felt as good as you did.
The hand that was gripping onto your hip moved, flattening just beneath your belly button. It's as tender as it was debauched, just like him. His thumb stroked over your soft skin, sweeping back and forth in a display of affection. "Feel me here?" He asked, and it was a marvel that he could look so earnest when asking something so filthy.
You nodded, giving a slow rock of your hips. He was so deep that you could hardly think of anything else except for the drag of his cock against your fluttering walls, the way his tip nudged against your G-spot as you sank down on him again and again.
"Steve," you whined, looking down at him. "I want you to fuck me."
A lazy smile spread across his lips. "We are fucking." As if he was proving his point, he began to thrust up so he could sink deeper into your wet heat.
Your brows knit together as a soft moan fell from your lips. "Yeah, I— fuck, Steve— I know but I just want—" Your eyes rolled back as he fucked you nice and deep, stealing the words and your breath right from your lips.
"I know what you want." You almost regretted asking to switch positions when he pulled out, leaving you empty and wanting. But then he was shifting you beneath him and hooking your legs over his shoulders. "How's this?"
You swallowed hard. "It's good, it's so good," you said eagerly. You could feel the head of his cock nudging your puffy folds as he rutted against you. It would catch at your entrance and you would gasp in anticipation, but he didn't sink in yet.
"Can you bend a little more?" He asked, and moved so he was pressing your thighs into your chest, his body imposing above you. "Is that too much?"
When you shook your head, reached between your bodies and began to slowly push inside. You groaned, head lolling back as he moved. With the way he'd folded you in half beneath him, you felt every inch splitting you open. Thick, stretching you out obscenely around his girth.
"Oh god," he groaned, and you swore you felt his dick twitch inside of you. "You're squeezing me so tight. Perfect fucking pussy."
Your face went hot at his words. "Steve," you whined. He'd never said anything so dirty to you before, and it thrilled you as much as it made you feel a flash of embarrassment.
He grinned down at you, pulling out so he could glide back in nice and slow, just to torture you. "What? You don't want me to talk about how much I love your pussy? 'Cause the way you're gripping me makes me think you do."
"Fuck, Steve," you moaned. "You can't say stuff like that, baby. You're killing me."
"I think you like it," he said, pushing in again, so deep that his balls pressed tight against your ass. "I think you fucking love knowing that I'm obsessed with you."
He pulled out again, only to set a dizzying pace. Hips snapping against yours again and again and again, while you just laid there and took it. Your feet dangled where they rested over his shoulders, shaking each time he bottomed out.
"Oh my god. You're so wet, honey. Sound so fucking pretty."
His words made you conscious of the tacky, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your cunt. The slick sound of your walls swallowing him, the plap plap plap of his balls against you. You didn't particularly think the sounds of him fucking you were pretty. They were pornographic and obscene, sure, but not pretty.
He was heavy on top of you, rutting more than thrusting so each movement made him grind against the sensitive spots inside. Your eyes rolled back and you felt your walls squeezing around his cock. "Steve, just like that—"
"C'mon, beautiful, tell me how it feels."
You whined, toes curling. "So— ngh— so good, baby," you managed. "God, I feel you everywhere."
It wasn't the most coherent description, but it was true. He was inside you, so deep it felt like your body was moving to accommodate him. He was on top of you, pressing you into the bed, into him. Around you, holding you close. It was like your world started and ended where you touched him.
It was so easy to lose yourself to him. His head buried into your shoulder as he ground deeper, harder inside of you. A choked sob slipped past your lips, and you trembled as the pressure built up inside of you. His tip nudged your sweet spot over and over, until you weren't sure you could take much more.
"God, I fucking love you," he panted. Your pussy fluttered around him at those words, and he moaned at the feeling. "Want me to say it again? I love you so much."
It hit you suddenly then. Your cunt clenched around him as euphoria washed over your body. "Oh, fuck, Steve—" you gasped, until your words dissolved into keening moans and whines. You mewled, eyes rolling back as he continued fucking into you as you lost yourself to the pleasure.
He lifted his head just enough to capture your mouth in a messy kiss— tongues sliding against one another, licking into his mouth to swallow each other's cries. His rhythm grew sloppy and clumsy, until he swore into your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, honey, shit— I'm— fuck fuck fuck—" He barely managed to pull out before he was painting your cunt with hot ropes of his cum. His cock twitched with each spurt of cum, until there was nothing left to give. He exhaled sharply, looking more than spent as he eased your legs from his shoulders and caught his breath.
The tape had long since ended, leaving you in silence, save the chorus of your shaking breaths. You giggled weakly and peered up at him with a dopey smile. "Holy shit."
Steve took a shaky breath and met your smile with one of his own— equal parts exasperated and lovestruck. "God, we really can't go raw anymore, baby. I almost didn't make it."
Your heart did a funny little skip at that, but you nodded. "Yeah, probably shouldn't," you agreed. He leaned down to give you one more kiss. "Let's go to bed, yeah?"
Steve couldn't keep his hands off of you, even when you were just washing your face and brushing your teeth. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and dribbled minty foam down his chin. You hated how endearing you found that.
When you were taking your vitamins and medicine, he stood behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as you washed them down. "You're so clingy," you accused, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
"I just love you," he replied, and kissed your temple for good measure.
You climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling as Steve dozed beside you. The soft cadence of his breath rising and falling. But you didn't want to sleep yet. You just wanted more time with him.
So you grabbed the shabby quilt from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around your body as you crossed the room to your turntable. Behind you, there was the soft rustle of blankets as Steve sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"What're you doing?" He slurred sleepily. You glanced at him over your shoulder, at his half-lidded eyes and his messy hair, and felt such a strong tug of emotion that you had to look back at the task at hand— flipping through your crate of records.
"Trying to find something good to listen to," you replied casually, pausing to eye Purple Rain before flipping onward. "I'm not tired yet— don't really want the night to be over, y'know?" You grabbed your old Super Trouper album and smiled fondly as you set it on the turntable and put the needle to the vinyl.
Steve groaned at the choice in music, but you rejoined him in bed, curling up against his chest with a contented sigh. His strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His fingers tangled with yours, playing with them as you laid in the quiet of the room.
"I want you to tell me something no one else knows," you whispered. "Even if it's just something small."
He leaned over, kissing the crown of your head briefly. You felt the warm puff of his breath over your scalp as he thought, a hum buzzing against your skin.
"I made you a tape, in case Vecna got in your head and started digging around," he said finally. "This was, like, a month after Hawkins split open, so we thought he might just start popping people into trances all over town. And I was so scared for you, y'know? I didn't want anything to happen to you."
A tiny smile played on your lips. Even when you felt like your whole life had shattered around you, he was still working to make things better, even if you didn't know it. You hated that it had taken you so long to see that, when it was something so beautiful about him.
"What song?" You asked after a beat, brows furrowing.
He laughed softly. "Well, I asked you what your favorite song was over breakfast, you glared at me, asked why I cared, and told me Baby I'm a Star. And I didn't really know if that was true, but I made the tape anyway. And then I made a second one with How Deep Is Your Love, because you used to say if that song was played at your funeral, it'd wake you right up."
A snort escaped you at the memory. You could remember him asking, and it felt like such a cheap attempt to bond that it had soured your mood for the rest of the morning. You felt a world removed from that moment, even though it hadn't even been a year since then.
"It actually would," you agreed. You squeezed his hand and brought the back of it to your lips to plant a soft kiss there. He had a tan line from his watch that was only just starting to fade from the winter gloom. It was so strange, to be so utterly seen by someone, and to see them just the same.
"What's your song?" Your lips brushed against the back of his hand as you spoke. "If you got lost, what would pull you back?"
"Under Pressure," he replied simply. "Sometimes I'll play that tape in the van just 'cause. I could listen to that song forever, y'know? Drives Dustin crazy."
A small laugh escaped you at the image. Maybe it was just that it was late and you were exhausted, but you were endlessly amused by the thought of Steve making Dustin listen to music on replay on top of the monotony of the crawls. "Tell me something else. Talk to me about anything, I just want to hear you."
He sighed, relaxing beside you. He was so warm where he pressed against you, accommodating the nudge of your knee between his thighs and the slip of your arm under his. The soft thud of his heartbeat was like a metronome where your ear rested against his chest.
"Mrs. Wheeler said she'd start babysitting Sam for us, if that's what we wanted," he said. "I was going to tell you tomorrow, after we'd had the date and everything. I know you never wanted to just sit around this big house all day, so I told her we'd talk about it."
You swallowed hard, and felt a strange mix of excitement, gratitude, and the strangest ache in your chest. "I mean… yeah, we could use more money," you agreed. "But I don't even know what I'd do, Steve. Like… bus tables at Enzo's? Work with Murray at Bradley's? Gross."
Both of your bodies shook as he laughed. "God, you're so dramatic. You could do whatever you wanted," he insisted. "You could help us at the station."
You snorted. "Mm… doesn't really solve the money problem, huh?" You curled even closer into him, like you just wanted him to envelop you completely. "And I dunno… maybe I don't want things to change just yet."
Hawkins was like a world frozen while life moved around it. It was all real life with real consequences, and you knew that, but it also felt like you were holding your breath until all of the interdimensional horror was over. Once that happened, the day to day problems would feel bigger.
You didn't want to leave Sam with Mrs. Wheeler during the day, but you knew that was probably best. Rip off the proverbial bandaid and start the slow process of detaching from your routine before things really changed for good. You were never meant to be a housewife forever— it wasn't what you wanted, even if you'd gotten good at playing that role.
Steve kissed the crown of your head and squeezed your hand. "They don't have to change," he insisted. "But they can if you need them to. I just don't ever want you to feel like you're trapped, or you're making yourself smaller to fit here."
"Thanks," you whispered. "I just feel like I need a little more time with her. When things go back to normal, I don't know if I'll ever have this much time again. I feel like she deserves it."
The record played on while you continued to talk about anything you could think of. Steve had been watching the Bulls whenever he could catch a game on TV, and was eagerly trying to explain why he thought this was their year. You told him about the Danielle Steel novel you'd borrowed from Nancy and were totally devouring. He played with the ends of your hair, you planted the occasional kiss to his chest and shoulders.
You closed your eyes, listening to the sounds of ABBA playing from your speakers. "In five years, I want to be doing this exact same thing," you whispered. "Listening to an outdated record, laying in bed, just talking until we run out of things to say."
"Why don't we make it ten?" Steve mumbled against the crown of your head. You smiled and chewed on your lip. Ten could work. Or twenty-five, or fifty. Forever, even.
The needle of the record stopped, raised, and returned to its cradle, leaving the room quiet. "Steve," you whispered. It felt louder in the stillness of the bedroom— breaking through the silence of the house the same way a scream would. "I love you too."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Steve froze at your side, barely even breathing. Waiting for him to say something, anything felt like torture. And you knew you'd squeezed the proverbial toothpaste out of the tube, but really, you didn't mind. Life was already so messy that it felt natural.
"You love me," he echoed. Not a question, exactly, and not self-important enough to be a statement… just sheer disbelief.
And you wouldn't stand for that, so you rambled on. "I was just scared to say it, and I kept telling myself it was too soon because we've only been official, for, like, one week, but, y'know, things are different for us. I don't want to hide behind walls to protect myself anymore, and I know that y—"
Your words were muffled by the pressure of Steve's lips on yours. You barely had time to kiss him back before he leaned away to meet your gaze. "You love me?" He beamed down at you. "You don't have to. I mean— I just didn't expect you to reciprocate so soon."
"How could I not?" You asked gently, meeting his gaze. It was so soft and hopeful, warm enough to melt away your fears and reservations about opening up. "Even when I wasn't saying it, I felt it, y'know? This… rightness. And I felt bad for a while, but I don't want to feel bad anymore."
It was this circular logic that you kept falling into— the idea that fate had brought you to that moment. You'd never been a big believer in anything before, except in yourself, Carol Perkins, and that things usually went wrong for you somehow. Fate was new.
Carol got pregnant with Sam, which meant she had to get married, which is where you slept with Steve and dredged up all of those old teenage feelings again— the yearning and angst. Carol and Tommy made you and Steve godparents, Carol and Tommy died when the rifts opened, you and Steve raised Peanut, you and Steve fell in love.
Good things happened which led to worse things. Horrible, painful things happened that led to beautiful ones. How could you ever move on if you let guilt and anger keep you from being happy?
You believed in a lot more now. You believed that there were good people who would give up their peace thanklessly to save a world that would never even know they needed to be saved. You believed in psychic powers and monsters. You believed that your daughter's near-toothless smile was the best medicine on a really hard day.
And you believed, as corny as it was, that you were always meant to be with Steve Harrington from the moment he sat with you out on that patio.
"Oh my god, you love me," he repeated, smiling even wider. Before you even had time to roll your eyes and insist that, yeah, that's what you just said, he had shifted on top of you so he could kiss you fully. "I mean, I probably should have known when you came just from me saying it, but—"
You rolled your eyes and pulled him in again, relishing in the full weight of his affection as your lips met. You'd worried before that it would feel like a burden on you, some awful weight to carry on your shoulders, but it felt right in a way few things ever had.
A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and continued love for these characters + this fic! As many of you know, I've been getting treatment for my OCD which took a lot of my headspace away from being able to get this out sooner. I appreciate your love and encouragement SO so much and I promise not a single day passed that I wasn't actively working on it!!
I hope you love this chapter as much as I do! Part 6 (the ACTUAL final part) will be a wombo combo of the events of the final season + epilogue from what I have planned now, but I think we all know by now that my plans vs what I actually write don't always align perfectly <3
Worst comes to worst... seven or eight parts. Who knows! But I'm hoping I can tie this story off with a little bow in this next chapter.
Please send me an ask with your thoughts/hopes/opinions on this chapter and the story so far!! Give me a like/reblog/comment if you see fit as well <3 And thank you so, so much for reading! XOXO
a/n: after this chapter, the fluff will be rolling in
The headlights stayed frozen across the front windows. For one horrible second, neither of you moved.
Steve’s hand was still resting against your waist from when he kissed you. Now it tightened slightly, reality crashing back in all at once.
Your pulse started hammering instantly, “She’s here,” you whispered. Steve exhaled slowly through his nose beside you, “So we do this now,” he said quietly.
The car door outside slammed shut. Then a knock, the sound echoed through the quiet house. Steve stood first and you stayed frozen on the couch for half a second longer before forcing yourself up too.
Your nerves suddenly felt unbearable again, “What if she starts screaming?” you asked quietly. Steve looked at you immediately, “She probably will.” That answer should not have comforted you as much as it did.
Steve reached for your hand. A firm squeeze. Then he let go and headed toward the front door. You followed behind him automatically.
The front door unlocked before either of you could reach it fully.
Claire stepped inside immediately, her eyes moved between the two of you instantly.
You standing there, Steve beside you, the tension thick enough to choke on, then her gaze flicked past both of you toward the stairs.
“Where’s Blaire?” Claire looked at Steve sharply now, “Where is she?”
Steve opened his mouth, but you answered first, “She’s with my parents.” Claire blinked once, “…Your parents?”
You nodded carefully, “She needed some space after yesterday.” The mask Claire walked in wearing cracked immediately. Not fully, just enough, “What do you mean she needed space?” Claire asked slowly. Her voice had changed it was sharper now.
Steve stepped in gently, “Blaire was overwhelmed.” Claire laughed once softly, disbelieving, “So you sent my daughter away?”
The room tightened instantly. “We thought it was best she wasn’t here tonight,” Steve said carefully.
Claire stared at him, then at you, then back at him again. And suddenly you could see it happening in real time, the realization, nobody was hiding anymore.
Claire’s expression hardened, “You made decisions about my daughter with her?” she asked quietly.
The venom underneath the calm made your stomach twist. Steve stayed steady, “We made a decision for Blaire.”
Claire let out another hollow little laugh, “Oh my God.” She dropped her purse onto the entry table harder than necessary, “This is unbelievable.”
Neither of you spoke. Claire paced a few steps away before turning back suddenly. “Okay,” she snapped. “Somebody tell me what the fuck is going on.”
Steve looked at you briefly and you felt like you could barely breathe. Then he looked back at Claire and finally said it, “We’ve been sleeping together.” No easing into it or softening it, just truth. Claire froze completely, you watched the exact second her entire body went rigid.
Like she’d been bracing for the answer and still wasn’t prepared for hearing it out loud. Then she laughed, a sharp, breathless sound.
“So I was right...” she whispered like she couldn’t believe herself.Nobody responded and Claire’s eyes darted between both of you desperately now. “No fucking way.”
Steve stayed still and that silence answered everything. Claire’s face twisted instantly, “Oh my God.”
She looked at you now like she was seeing you for the first time, “You?”
The shame hit instantly but you stayed where you were. Claire looked back at Steve, “You’re sleeping with the nanny?” Steve’s jaw tightened, “She’s not just—”
“Oh don’t,” Claire snapped viciously. “Do not fucking romanticize this to me right now.” Your chest tightened painfully. Claire laughed again suddenly, pacing now, “I knew it,” she muttered. “I fucking knew it.”
Then louder, “You made me feel insane.” Claire laughed bitterly through tears already beginning to form.
“Claire—” Steve started. “No!” she shouted immediately, “No, you don’t get to calmly say my name right now like we’re gonna have some mature fucking conversation about this.”
Her composure was slipping faster now, you could see it happening in real time.
Claire looked at you again, “You were in my house.” Every word sharper than the last, “With my daughter.”
Guilt twisted violently in your chest. You opened your mouth instinctively but Steve stepped in first, “This didn’t start the way you think it did.”
Claire stared at him, “Oh, this should be good.”
Steve exhaled slowly, “I knew something was wrong between us before she was ever here.”That stopped her and Claire’s face shifted slightly, “What?”
Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw tiredly, “I had a feeling for a long time.” Claire stared at him harder now, “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s why I didn’t want a nanny,” Steve continued quietly.
Claire blinked, “What are you talking about?”Steve looked exhausted suddenly, like every sentence physically hurt to say, “I already felt you pulling away from me.”
Silence, “I figured if something was happening…” Steve swallowed once, “Hiring someone would just make it easier for you to disappear whenever you wanted.”
Claire’s expression darkened instantly, “So this is my fault now?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Oh bullshit,” Claire snapped, “You’re trying to justify screwing a nineteen year old because your marriage got hard.”
Steve’s jaw tightened immediately then finally, “This wasn’t one mistake, Claire.”
Claire froze, Steve looked directly at her now, “You’ve been cheating on me for months.”
Claire’s face changed instantly. Not shock that he accused her, shock that he knew.
Your stomach twisted watching it happen. Claire recovered quickly though, “Oh please.”
Steve didn’t move, “I knew before yesterday,” he admitted quietly, “Yesterday just confirmed it.”
Claire scoffed loudly, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You disappeared constantly.”
“You worked constantly,” she shot back.
“You stopped trying to come home.” Steve countered. “You stopped caring about me a long time ago!” The room fell dead quiet again afterward, Claire’s chest heaved hard.
Steve’s voice lowered, “And then it was her.” Your breath caught instantly. Claire looked at you sharply and Steve glanced toward you briefly before continuing. “She made the house feel different.” he continued.
The room tightened painfully around you. “She made Blaire happier.” he smiled at you. Claire’s eyes filled instantly with fresh fury. “She made me happier.”
Claire actually laughed at that, “Oh my God.” Steve looked exhausted, “So yeah,” he admitted quietly, “After a while… cheating came easy.”
Claire stared at him like he’d just shot her then suddenly her eyes snapped toward you, “You think this is love?” she demanded sharply.
Claire stepped closer now, “You think you’re special because a married man got bored with his wife and started fucking the babysitter?”
Your face burned instantly, Steve stepped forward immediately, “Stop.”
“No!” Claire shouted. “She should hear this!” You swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. Claire laughed again through tears, “You’re nineteen.”
The shame hit immediately. “Nineteen,” Claire repeated viciously. “and you really thought this was gonna end well?”
You felt yourself shrinking instinctively under the force of it.
Claire saw it immediately and pushed harder, “You walked into my house and spread your legs for my husband.”
“Claire,” Steve warned sharply but she wasn’t stopping now, “You let my daughter get attached to you while you were screwing her father behind my back—”
“Stop acting like he ruined this marriage by himself!” the words burst out of you before you could stop them.
The room went dead silent instantly, even you looked shocked you’d said it.
Claire froze. Steve stared at you. Your chest heaved hard suddenly, anger finally overpowering the shame, “You don’t get to stand here and put all of this on him…on me!” you snapped shakily.
Claire blinked once slowly, “Listen—”
“No,” you said louder this time, “you were cheating before I was even here!”
Claire’s expression twisted immediately, “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“I know Blaire walked in on you with another man!” That hit, hard.
Claire visibly flinched for the first time all night, but your anger had finally broken open now too.“I know she cried so hard she couldn’t breathe afterward,” you continued, voice shaking, “I know she wouldn’t even look at you!”
“Don’t you dare talk about my daughter,” Claire hissed viciously. “She loves you!” you cried suddenly, “and you still did that to her!”
The room exploded into silence again.
Claire looked stunned for half a second, not because you yelled but because you sounded genuinely heartbroken over Blaire.
Claire’s face twisted violently, “You think you know what’s best for my child now too?”
“No!” you snapped immediately, “but somebody has to think about her because clearly neither of you were!”
Steve shut his eyes briefly at that and Claire looked almost feral now, “You little bitch.”
“Claire,” Steve barked instantly. “No!” Claire shouted back at him, “You let her stand here and judge me?”
“She’s not judging you!”
“Oh please,” Claire laughed hysterically, “she’s been waiting for this!”
“That’s not true!”
“She wanted my life!”
“No!” The tears finally spilled over your cheeks now, “I never wanted your life!”
Claire stared at you breathing hard, “Then what did you want?” she demanded.
Your voice cracked immediately, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”
“But it did!”
“I know!”
“You still kept doing it!” The shame hit all over again. “You think he’s gonna love you forever?” she asked viciously. “You think you’re different?”
You froze. Claire stepped closer, “He’s a man who cheats when things get hard.”
“Claire,” Steve warned again.
“One day you’re gonna wake up and realize you destroyed your life for a man who was bored and lonely.” The words sliced straight through your chest.
You actually recoiled slightly and Steve saw it immediately. Something in him snapped, “Enough.”
Steve stepped forward fully now, placing himself slightly between you and Claire without even realizing he was doing it.
“Oh there it is.” Claire laughed.
“You can scream at me all you want,” he said quietly. “But you are not gonna stand here and tear her apart because our marriage fell apart.”
“Our marriage?” Claire laughed sharply, “You mean the marriage you replaced with a teenager?”
Steve’s jaw tightened hard. Then Claire finally asked it, the question that had been sitting underneath every scream tonight.
Her voice cracked when she said it, “Do you love her?”
Your heart stopped completely. Claire stared at him desperately now, almost like she still believed he might save her from the answer.
Steve looked toward you briefly then back at Claire. And quietly without hesitation, “Yes.”
Claire stared at him completely still, like the word itself had physically struck her. The house fell dead silent around all of you, the only sound your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Her eyes searched Steve’s face desperately now, like maybe she’d find hesitation there, regret, something, but Steve just looked exhausted. Heartbroken even, still certain.
Claire laughed weakly then, a horrible little sound. “You really do.” Steve didn’t answer, he didn’t need to.
She looked between both of you slowly, disoriented now, like she didn’t recognize the room anymore.
Then finally, in a voice that cracked apart halfway through, she whispered, “So what now?”
Steve swallowed hard beside you. You could feel the tension radiating off him, feel how badly this was hurting him too, but when he finally spoke, his voice stayed quiet and steady, “I think we should get a divorce.”
Claire froze, actually froze.
Your stomach dropped instantly because somehow hearing it said out loud made everything real in a way it hadn’t been before.
Claire stared at Steve for a long moment, her face crumpling slightly before she forced it back into place again, but the damage was already done. She looked shattered, humiliated, furious, all at once.
Then slowly, her eyes shifted toward you, and suddenly you wished she’d just screamed again because this was worse.
Claire grabbed her purse from the entry table with shaking hands before looking directly at you, “Congratulations,” she said softly. Claire’s mouth twitched bitterly, “You got exactly what you wanted.”
The words hit like a slap because they weren’t true, but standing there with Steve beside you, his marriage ending in real time, it looked true.
Claire laughed weakly through tears again before turning away from both of you. A second later, the bedroom door upstairs slammed hard enough to shake the walls, and neither you or Steve moved afterward.
Steve stood beside you silently, staring toward the stairs for a long moment before finally exhaling through his nose.
Then his eyes shifted toward you, “Hey.” Your throat tightened harder at how gentle he sounded.
You looked away quickly instead because suddenly Claire’s final words wouldn’t stop replaying in your head.
You got exactly what you wanted.
The worst part was standing here beside Steve while his marriage fell apart, it looked true.
Steve noticed immediately, “Don’t listen to her,” he said quietly.
A weak laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, “But she’s right.” Steve frowned instantly, “She’s not.”
“She is,” you whispered shakily. “Look at this.”Your voice cracked badly as you gestured helplessly around the house. “Your marriage is over.” The reality of it hit all over again saying it out loud.
Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks immediately. Steve stepped closer without hesitation, “We both made choices,” he said softly.
You covered your mouth briefly, trying to steady your breathing, but the emotions finally crashed over you all at once. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whispered brokenly.
Steve’s face twisted immediately, “I know.”
“I swear to God I didn’t.”
“I know,” he repeated quietly. Then finally he reached for you, one hand carefully pulling you against him.
The second his arms wrapped around you, your composure shattered completely. You buried your face into his chest instantly, shoulders shaking as he held you tightly against him.
Steve rested his cheek lightly against the top of your head, one hand moving slowly up and down your back while you cried.
“Do you regret it?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. Steve stilled slightly above you. You shut your eyes hard immediately after asking it, because suddenly you weren’t sure you wanted the answer anymore.
But Steve didn’t hesitate, “No.” Steve pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand moving carefully against your cheek now, brushing away tears with his thumb.
“I regret how badly everything hurt everyone,” he admitted softly. “I regret Blaire getting caught in the middle of this.” Your chest tightened painfully at her name. “But I don’t regret you.”
Steve stayed holding you for a while after that. Neither of you speaking. The silence felt different now.
Your crying eventually slowed, leaving you drained more than anything else. Steve’s thumb continued moving softly against your back the entire time, grounding you whenever your breathing threatened to shake again.
You finally pulled back slightly, wiping beneath your eyes carefully before exhaling shakily, “I think…” your voice cracked a little from crying, “I think I wanna go get Blaire.”
Steve’s expression softened immediately, “Okay.”
You swallowed hard, “I just—I need to get out of this house for a little while.” The words sounded pathetic out loud, but Steve understood instantly.
Steve nodded softly, “Want me to come with you?” The offer came so naturally it made your chest ache but after a second, you shook your head, “No.”
Steve frowned slightly, “You sure?” You nodded again, “You should stay.” Your eyes flicked briefly toward upstairs. “Just in case she…” you hesitated carefully, “does something reckless.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw before nodding slowly, “Okay.”
Silence settled again briefly between the two of you, then Steve stepped closer. Close enough that your breathing caught automatically, his hand lifted carefully to your face, thumb brushing softly beneath one of your eyes where your tears had dried against your skin.
The tenderness of it almost destroyed you all over again. “You okay to drive?” he asked quietly. You nodded weakly, “Yeah.”
Steve looked at you for another second like he was trying to memorize your face, then finally he leaned down and kissed you.
Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his shirt as you kissed him back, and for the first time since all of this began, you didn’t feel fear immediately afterward.
It almost scared you how relieving it felt. Steve rested his forehead gently against yours for a second after pulling back, “Call me when you get there,” he murmured softly.
You nodded. Even through the guilt still twisting painfully in your chest, something inside you finally loosened.
Steve had chosen you, openly.
And for the first time since this all began, he finally felt like yours.
