Casual - Pt 2 - Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader
Summary: You and Steve Harrington aren’t dating. You’re not even really together. You’re just… hooking up. Secretly. Repeatedly. Stupidly. No one knows, especially not Dustin, who would combust if he found out his sister was sneaking around with his hero. Following season 4 storyline! She/Her reader! Warnings: Dark themes, Sexual Themes, there will probs eventually be smut if I continue this Word Count: 6,214 Masterlist
Fridays at Family Video always had a certain vibe - too many customers, too many returns, too many weirdos asking for movies that absolutely did not exist. But today felt… slower.
Maybe it was the weather, the late-fall haze settling over Hawkins, or maybe it was the fact that Robin was off for the day, leaving just you and Steve behind the counter...an objectively dangerous combination.
The bell above the door hadn’t chimed in fifteen minutes. Steve had reorganized the “Staff Picks” wall twice and was now pretending to read the back of a horror movie you knew he’d never actually watch. You were leaning on the counter, sorting membership cards you did not need to sort.
It was the kind of quiet that made you too aware of him. Of how close he stood. Of how his cologne mixed with the smell of old VHS cases. Of how his arm would brush yours when he leaned over the counter to pretend he was looking at something important.
This was the problem with closing shifts with Steve: the second the store slowed down, he got reckless.
And reckless Steve Harrington was your weakness.
He pushed the movie aside, drumming his fingers against the Formica countertop, gaze drifting toward you like it always, always, did when he got bored.
“Can I come over today?” Steve asked, leaning on the counter and hitting you with the most pathetic pair of puppy-dog eyes known to mankind.
“Nope.” You popped the P just to be rude.
His face fell. “Wait, what? Why?”
“You work tomorrow morning.”
“That hasn’t stopped us before,” he argued, sounding almost offended.
“Yeah, but Dustin is also definitely gonna be home tonight.”
Steve groaned. “That little cockblocker. Why can’t we just tell him already?”
You stared at him, horrified. “Oh my god, you have to be kidding. He would literally kill us. He’d break up with us. He’d write me out of the family tree entirely.” You lifted a hand, miming the scenario, “‘Hey Dustin, how was Hellfire? By the way, your best friend Steve is shagging me in his free time.’”
Steve recoiled. “Okay, well OF COURSE he’d be mad if you phrased it like that.”
“Point is,” you sighed, “let’s just keep this thing between you and me”, you paused. “and Robin.”
He leaned closer, resting his elbows on the counter, the faintest shadow of disappointment pulling at his expression. Before you could read into it, the bell chimed and he jolted upright like he’d been caught doing something illegal.
Tiffany D. walked in - perfect hair, perfect sweater, the kind of girl who never had to try. You watched her scan the store until her gaze locked on Steve. Of course.
She beelined toward him.
Steve flashed her a polite smile, the one that used to make half the school swoon, and your heart did a weird, half jump.
Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. You were not getting jealous over Steve Harrington.
You and Steve were… nothing. Officially unofficial. Friends who blew off steam. A lot of steam. Frequently. But still… just friends.
So you shoved off the counter and marched toward the back room before you could accidentally listen in. From behind the beaded curtain, you heard her laugh. Then heard Steve laugh back.
Ugh.
You breathed deeply. In. Out. Do not be jealous. Do not show it. Do not give him the satisfaction.
Only when she called out a cheerful “Thank you!” and the bell jingled again did you let your shoulders relax.
You emerged wiping imaginary dust off your hands, “She was hot,” you tossed over your shoulder, very casually-not-casual.
“Tiffany?” Steve asked, sounding personally offended.
“Yeah. You get her number?”
“No.” He fumbled a VHS tape and nearly dropped it.
“Aww,” you said, forcing a syrupy laugh, “did Stevie’s flirting not work?”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” he insisted. “That was not flirting, you wanna see some real flirting?”
Your mouth twitched. “Please. Enlighten me dear o’stevie boy.”
He squinted, studying you like he was calculating the best way to strike, “I hate you,” he announced - laughing - just before he lunged. You shrieked. Actually shrieked and Steve grabbed your waist, lifting you clean off the ground while you kicked your legs and uselessly smacked his shoulders.
“Put me down!” you breath-laughed. He did the opposite - carrying you across the store and gently setting you on the counter, bracketing you in
“Come over tonight,” he said…not a question, a statement.
“I told you,” you began, “you have work, and Dustin—”
“Screw Dustin,” he said instantly. “Come over. He’ll never know. Tell him you slept at Robin’s. He’ll buy it.”
Your stomach did an Olympic-level flip. He had no idea how easy it was for you to say yes, how much you wanted nothing more than to spend the night with him. So instead, you teased, “My, my, my. Someone is hornyyyy tonight.”
His smile froze for a single beat and then he made an overdramatic, pained noise and let his head flop onto your chest, “you are helpless” he muttered.
“There, there, Steve,” you said, stroking his hair with false sympathy. “I’ll come over.”
His head snapped up so fast you almost laughed, “Really?”
You nodded, fighting a grin. “Yes.”
Steve was still smiling - dumb, boyish, stunned - long after you agreed to come over. He didn’t even play it cool. He just stood there grinning at you like you'd hung the moon.
“Okay,” he said, voice a little wrecked. “We should probably close before I embarrass myself further.”
“Impossible,” you said sweetly. “You peaked in ‘84.”
He flicked a tape at you. You dodged it, laughing, and he shook his head like he couldn’t believe you existed. He locked the door, lowered the gate, and shut the lights off in one practiced sweep. In the dark, the outline of him was all broad shoulders and soft edges… a silhouette you knew too well.
“Come on,” he murmured, nudging you toward the exit with a gentle hand at the small of your back. “Let’s get out of here.”
His room was dim except for the lamp on his nightstand. Posters you’d seen a hundred times always looked different in the low light, warmer somehow. More intimate.
You tossed your jacket on his chair. Steve shut the door with a soft click.
And that was all it took.
He crossed the room in two strides, hands already sliding to your waist, pulling you into him like he’d been holding back all day. You barely got a breath out before his mouth was on yours - hungry, warm, familiar.
His fingers curled in the hem of your shirt, not yanking it but holding, like he wanted to drag you closer but didn’t want to rush you. So, you kissed him harder.
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch against your mouth. He pushed you gently back into the door, the soft thud vibrating down your spine.
One of your hands fisted in his hair, the other sliding under his shirt to the small of his back. He sucked in a breath when you touched him there, pressing closer, chest to chest.
You kept tugging his shirt up, silently telling him to take it off. He let out a shaky laugh, “Bossy.”
“Just take it off.” you mumbled between kisses.
He obeyed, tossing it somewhere behind him without looking, and kissed you again, deeper, the kind that made your knees go weak. He flip you off the door and walked you backwards until the back of your legs hit the bed, his lips never leaving yours. You gasped softly as you fell onto the mattress, and he followed you down, bracing himself on his forearms so he didn’t crush you.
Your fingers brushed the sharp line of his jaw; he closed his eyes like the touch unraveled him completely.
“God,” he whispered against your throat, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
Your breath hitched, and you swore you misheard him.
His lips trailed lower -slow, deliberate, knowing - and you couldn’t help the sound that slipped out. He smirked against your skin, because of course he smirked; he’d earned that reaction before, more than once, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Still gets you every time,” he murmured, mouth brushing the hollow of your throat.
“Shut up,” you breathed, fingers sliding into his hair and tugging.
He groaned, a real, unfiltered one, and pressed himself closer, his weight familiar over you, comforting and electrifying all at once. He moved like someone who had mapped your body already, who knew where to touch, how to kiss, how to pull another gasp from you without even thinking.
He tugged your shirt up, you lifted your arms without thinking, letting him pull it over your head and toss it aside. He leaned back a fraction, just enough to look at you in the dim lamplight, eyes sweeping over your skin like he was seeing something he’d missed earlier.
Not worship. Not awe. But familiarity. Want.
His lips found yours again, deeper now, his hand sliding along your thigh with confident pressure that had your pulse kicking hard. He guided your leg around his hip, pulling you tighter against him, hips slotting together in a way that was far too familiar, far too easy.
He exhaled sharply, forehead dropping to yours.
“God, you’re -” He cut himself off with another kiss, rougher this time, like the words were too big, too revealing.
Your hands slid down his back, tracing the lines you already knew, the curves of muscle you’d held onto too many times to pretend they didn’t matter.He shivered when your nails dragged lightly along his lower back.
“I swear Henderson, every damn time,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked. “You do that and I’m - I’m gone.”
You smiled against his mouth. “Then don’t pretend you’ve got any self-control.”
He laughed breathlessly, kissing you again, deeper, harder, his weight shifting as he moved with that familiar urgency that only ever showed up when it was you.
No uncertainty. No slow warming-up. Just two people who knew each other inside and out.
You woke up to sunlight bleeding through Steve’s curtains and the warm, heavy weight of an arm draped across your waist.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
Steve was still asleep behind you, face buried against your shoulder, hair a total disaster, breathing slow and even. He was warm, too warm, and you let yourself enjoy it for three seconds before reality shoved its way in.
Home. Dustin. Reality.
You slipped carefully out of Steve’s hold, but he immediately groaned and reached for you like a sleepy toddler.
“Mh - come back,” he mumbled into the pillow.
You snorted softly. “I have to go.”
“Noooo,” he said dramatically, eyes still closed, arm searching blindly. “Five minutes.”
“You have work,” you reminded him, pulling your jeans from the floor.
He glanced over at you, eyes still heavy with sleep, unfairly soft - “Yeah,” he muttered. “I was hoping that part was a nightmare.”
You snorted, stuffing your shirt into your bag before he caught how flustered you felt, “I should go. Before Dustin wakes up and starts his morning crusade.”
Steve froze mid-stretch, “Hold on. You’re walking?”
“…Yes?”
He stared like you’d just told him you planned on fighting a Demogorgon with a butter knife.
You pointed at him, “If I’m going to convince Dustin I crashed at Robin’s, you absolutely cannot be dropping me off at home. No arguing. Besides you are already late for work”
He stood, coming closer, tugging on a wrinkled shirt as he did.
“Fine, but If you’re gonna walk home…”, he hesitated, eyes flicking to yours. “At least call when you get in”
You didn’t tease him for worrying. You didn’t make a joke. You just nodded, because the reason behind the request was obvious - everyone in the group had gotten a little paranoid due to their traumas.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’ll call.”
Something unspoken settled between you - warm and a little dangerous - and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something more.
But instead, he stepped back, grabbed his name tag off the nightstand, and cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said lightly. “ I should fix my hair or something. I look like I just crawled out of… well. Never mind."
You cracked a smile. “Good luck with that.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
You opened his bedroom door - pausing when he said: “Hey”
You looked back.
He gave you a small, stupidly soft smile. “Thanks for coming over.”
You swallowed, trying your hardest to play it cool, "Anytime Harrington”
The Henderson front door creaked exactly the way it did every morning - loud, accusing, like it knew you were up to something.
You slipped inside anyway, shutting it with the gentlest possible click, shoes already in your hand. The house was quiet. Dustin’s room door was shut. The kitchen was empty.
Perfect. Safe. Home sweet -“Um, where were you?”
You physically jolted from shock as Dustin burst out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, towel around his shoulders, curls sticking straight up like he’d stuck his head in an outlet.
“Jesus, Dustin!” you hissed. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“I almost gave YOU - ? Where were you?” , he squinted, suspicious, “You weren’t in your bed when I checked.”
You froze.
“You… went into my room?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “You didn’t come home last night. I thought you died or something!”
Panic pricked behind your ribs.
Keep it cool. Keep it casual. Think.
“I slept at Robin’s,” you blurted.
Dustin blinked. “You did? Why?”
“Uh… girls’ night?”
“Girls Night?”
“Yes, Dustin, you know where girls get together and watch movies and gossip and shit.”
He stared… then nodded slowly.
“Huh. Weird. But okay.”
You exhaled as subtly as possible.
He stalked into the kitchen for cereal, muttering to himself about Social Dynamics of Teenage Girls or whatever nerd analysis he was running this time.
You tiptoed down the hall to your room, shut the door, and collapsed face-first onto your bed.
Your heart was still racing as you dialed Family Video, still half buried in your pillow.
It rang twice before:
“Family Video, Robin speaking,” she answered in her usual deadpan.
“It’s me,” you said softly.
A pause. Then a shift in her tone - sly and knowing.
“Let me guess… you’re calling to let Steve know you got home?”
You could practically see her eyebrow lift, and you mentally cursed Steve for spilling the beans to Robin.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “He asked me to.”
Then Robin let out a very knowing, very smug, “Ohhhhhhh.”
“Don’t,” you warned.
“Damn, Henderson,” she continued, slow and amused. “Look at you two being… cute. Practically a real couple.”
You groaned. “Robin - ”
“So, how was it? Actually -nope, I don’t wanna know. Forget I asked.”
Somewhere in the background you heard Steve yell, “Is that Y/N? Robin, is that =?”
Robin talked over him loudly. “Anyway! How the hell did you get today off? I swear Keith is in love with you. He gives you all the easy shifts, it’s disgusting. Meanwhile, I ask for one Saturday off and suddenly it’s ‘We’ll see, Buckley,’ and ‘We’re understaffed, Buckley,’ and—”
“Robin,” you interrupted gently, “love, I have to go. Please just tell Steve I got home.”
“Okay, okay.” She sighed dramatically. “Ai ai, captain.”
“Thank you.”
“Mhm. Go shower. You sound dirty.”
“ROBIN.”
You set the phone back onto the cradle and exhaled into your pillow until it muffled every embarrassing feeling ballooning in your chest.
“Cute.”
“Couple.” Robin was out of her mind.
You were not cute. You were not a couple. Steve was just… Steve.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling as if it would offer answers. It didn’t. It never did. Instead it let you sit in the quiet morning light, hair a mess, replaying last night - the way his fingers traced your body, his voice whispering in your ear, the way his mouth –
God. You needed to get a grip.
You grabbed the blanket and pulled it over your face, letting yourself sink into the mattress. You stayed like for what felt like hours - wrapped up in the illusion that everything was simple, that last night was just last night and not one of the many nights blurring together into something that felt dangerously like a pattern.
Then the knob twisted and your door bangs open so hard it ricochets off the wall.
“Code red,” Dustin announces.
“Son of a bitch,” you say, pushing up on your elbows. “Do you know how knocking works?”
He’s breathing hard, cap slightly askew, curls frizzed from either sweat or panic or both. Max is behind him in the hall, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded and her expression set to its default: unimpressed.
“What did you do?” you ask, because with Dustin, it’s a fair first question.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s not me. It’s Eddie.”
You blink. “Eddie… Munson?”
“Yes, Eddie Munson, do you know any other Eddies?” he snaps, pacing into the room like a caged animal.
“I mean, there’s Eddie from the arcade who keeps hitting on - ”
“Focus!” Dustin practically yells.
Max rolls her eyes. “He’s been like this since I got here. Save yourself.”
“What happened?” you ask, sitting all the way up now.
Dustin rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, so, last night Max saw Eddie had a deal - like, a thing - with Chrissy Cunningham - ”
“The cheerleader?” you interrupt.
“Yes, the cheerleader, can I please talk?” he says. “Max said she saw flickering lights and shit. And now there’s cops at his trailer and tape and they’re saying Chrissy’s dead and no one has seen Eddie since.”
The words hit you in quick succession, too fast to process.
“Wait, slow down,” you say. “Chrissy’s dead?”
Max nods, the set of her mouth tight. “That’s what the news said this morning. ‘Hawkins teen tragically deceased, ongoing investigation, blah blah blah.’”
“And Eddie’s missing,” Dustin repeats, as if you misunderstand that part. “I called, no answer. I biked past the park - cops everywhere. His uncle said no one’s seen him.”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the carpet.
“Maybe he’s just hiding,” you say. “If the cops think he did it—”
“He didn’t,” Dustin says immediately, "Also, don't forget about the flickering lights, we all know what that means”.
“I know,” you say. “But they don’t know that. I mean if all of this is true, and Chrissy died in some upside Demogorgon way, and Eddie was there - I mean there's no way the cops dont think its him”
“Exactly!” Dustin points at you like you’ve proven his point. “He probably freaked out and hid, and who knows what else is out there, and the cops are gonna screw it up, and if we don’t find him first - ”
“Okay,” you cut in. “Okay. Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“Yeah, well breathe less dramatically,” you say.
He glares but obeys, shoulders moving slower.
Your stomach gives a slow, uneasy twist. This feels familiar. Too familiar. The rush of gathering facts before adults can screw it up. The unsteady sense that something under your feet is already cracking, you just haven’t fallen through yet.
You take a breath of your own. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”
Dustin straightens. “We go to Family Video.”
You blink. “That’s the plan?”
“Steve’s there,” he says, like that explains everything. “He’s the chauffeur. Robin’s there. She’s smart-ish. We’re smart. We put our heads together. We find Eddie before everyone else does.”
Max snorts. “You’re really leaning into this ‘Dustin Henderson, detective’ thing, huh?”
“Do you have a better idea?” he fires back.
She pauses. “No.”
“Alright then,” he says, turning back to you. “Come on, get your shoes.”
You look down at your socks, at the magazine still open on the bed. The normalcy of your room suddenly feels flimsy.
“Let me change,” you say, pushing up to stand.
“Be fast,” Dustin says. “Eddie could be bleeding out in a ditch somewhere.”
“Jesus, dude,” Max cuts in. “Maybe dial it down.”
You yank a pair of jeans from your chair, pull them on, grab the first clean-ish shirt you see, and shove your feet into sneakers. Your hands feel clumsier than they should, like your brain is one step behind your body.
You don’t know Eddie well. But you know Dustin. And you know that look - fear bottling up under stubbornness, spilling out as urgency. You’ve seen it before. Late nights. Flashlights. Monsters.
You shrug on a jacket and grab your house keys.
“Let’s go,” you say.
Dustin practically sprints down the hall, Max following close behind.
As you pull the front door shut behind you, you catch a glimpse of the family photo on the entryway table - one of the few where everyone’s smiling. Your mom. Dustin. You.
For a second, you wish this was a different kind of emergency. A broken bike. A failed test. Anything else.
But you’ve lived in Hawkins long enough to know better.
Family Video looks the same as always from the outside - sun-faded posters taped to the windows, a cardboard cutout of some horror villain leering next to a display of rom-coms. The fluorescent lights inside buzz steadily, oblivious.
The bell over the door jingles as you push it open. The familiar smell hits you: plastic, cleaning solution, the faint linger of stale popcorn from the machine Keith keeps threatening to throw out.
Steve and Robin are behind the counter.
Robin is leaning over the register, reading the back of a VHS box out loud in a dramatic voice. Steve is sorting returns into stacks, not listening.
“‘A love triangle that defies time,’” Robin intones. “What does that even mean? Is one of them a ghost?”
“Please just put it in drama,” Steve says. “Where Keith told us to.”
“It’s not drama, it’s crime against cinema,” she says.
Then she notices you and straightens, dropping the tape onto the counter. “Oh good,” she says. “Reinforcements. We’re under attack from the romance section.”
Steve glances up at her, then follows her gaze to you. His whole face changes.
He looks surprised, then happy, then concerned in the span of a heartbeat.
“Hey,” he says. “Wait, what are you doing here so early?”
“Yeah, about that,” you say, moving forward with Dustin and Max flanking you. “We’ve got… a situation.”
Robin’s brows shoot up. “Please say it’s not more late fees, I don’t have the energy.”
“Eddie’s missing,” Dustin blurts.
The air in the store feels different instantly. Thinner. Tighter.
Steve’s brows knit. “Missing how?”
“And Chrissy Cunningham is dead,” Max adds, voice flat. “At his trailer.”
Robin’s mouth falls open. “The cheerleader?”
“Wait, what?” Steve says, straightening fully now.
After that, everything moved fast.
You, Dustin, Max, Steve, and Robin huddled in the back room, trading everything you knew - Chrissy’s death, Eddie’s disappearance, the way the cops were already circling. Robin scribbled theories while Dustin paced like a detective on a deadline, and Steve kept glancing between all of you like he was trying to hold the group together by sheer will.
It didn’t take long to land on the only lead you had: Reefer Rick. If Eddie was scared and hiding, he’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere off the grid. So with nothing but a name, a direction, and a gnawing sense that things were about to get worse, you all piled into Steve’s car and headed toward Lover’s Lake.
The drive felt longer than it should have, and you blame the eerie silence that took over the car - everyone clearly deep in thought over what is happening.
Dustin is hunched over his notebook in the back with you, scribbling arrows between names and locations like he’s plotting a war. Max stares out the window, fingers drumming restlessly against her thigh. Robin is chewing on the edge of her thumbnail in the passenger seat, eyes flicking between the road and the trees like one of them might suddenly get up and walk.
And Steve… Steve keeps looking at you in the rearview mirror.
He doesn’t do it constantly, but it’s often enough that you notice a pattern. Every time Dustin says something that makes the situation feel more real - “If the cops find him first” or “what if whatever took Chrissy, took him, what if the monster is at Reefer Rick's house” - Steve’s gaze flicks up, finds yours, like he’s checking that you’re okay
“We are not dying because of some stoner named Reefer Rick,” Robin says finally, breaking the silence. “If I get murdered in a boathouse, I’m coming back to haunt all of you.”
“If you come back, it’ll be the Upside Down’s fault, not the boathouse,” Dustin says. “Completely different situation.”
“We don’t even know if it’s Upside Down-related,” you say. “We just know it’s… weird.”
“It’s Hawkins,” Max says. “Weird is implied.”
She’s not wrong.
Trees start to thicken on either side of the road. The lake creeps into view between branches - gray, still, reflecting a sky that looks too heavy for mid-afternoon. Steve slows as he turns onto the narrow dirt road that leads toward Reefer Rick’s. Branches scrape the sides of the BMW.
“Careful, Harrington,” Robin says. “Your rich boy car can’t handle nature.”
“Shut up,” he mutters, easing over a rut.
The road opens up to a clearing after a minute - a small, battered house back in the trees and, closer to the water, a weathered boathouse listing slightly to one side. There’s no sign of life. No car. No smoke from a chimney. Just the quiet splash of the lake against the dock.
Steve kills the engine. The sudden silence rings in your ears.
“Okay,” he says. “Rule number one: nobody freak out.”
“Why would you say that?” Robin snaps. “Now I’m automatically freaking out.”
“Rule number two,” he continues as if she hasn’t spoken, “we stick together. No wandering off. No ‘I’m just gonna check over here’ bullshit. Got it?”
Dustin rolls his eyes. “Who died and made you boss?”
“Literally no one,” Steve says. “Let’s keep it that way.”
You swallow a nervous little laugh and open your door. The air outside is colder by the water, sharp and damp. The smell of algae and old wood wraps around you immediately.
You all walk toward the boathouse, shoes crunching on gravel, then thudding on the dock. The boards creak under your combined weight.
“Wow,” Robin says quietly. “This is… murdery.”
“Comforting,” Max mutters.
The boathouse door is partially ajar, hanging crookedly on one hinge. A chain dangles uselessly from a hook where a lock probably used to be.
Steve reaches it first, bracing a hand on the frame.
“Stay behind me,” he says.
You snort. “Relax, Captain America. It’s a shed.”
Steve shoots you a look over his shoulder. “A creepy shed. With potential murderers. Big difference.”
“You say that like you could actually stop a murderer.”
His mouth opens - offended, ready to argue - but Robin cuts in.
“You’re not exactly a tank, Harrington.”
He swings his glare to her. “Do you want me to open the creepy door or not?”
She gestures grandly. “After you, O Brave Sir Knight.”
He takes a breath, muttering something that sounds like “why am I friends with any of you,” and pushes the door open with his shoulder.
The inside of the boathouse is dim and smells like damp wood, oil, and old fish. Light filters in through cracks in the walls and gaps under the roof; dust motes float lazily in the beams. There’s a small boat propped on a set of blocks, a couple of oars, some discarded nets, and piles of junk scattered around the floor.
No Eddie.
Dustin steps carefully inside, scanning the floor for signs of movement. “He has to be here. It makes too much sense.”
“Unless he already left,” Max says.
“No,” Dustin argues. “Look.” He points at the ground. “Those are fresh footprints. Two sets - one going in, one moving around. And this -” he crouches, touching a small dark patch on the floor “ - is either grease or blood.”
“Please be grease,” Robin says.
Dustin moves further in, eyes narrowed. “Eddie?” he calls, voice echoing off the wooden walls. “It’s us. Dustin. Henderson. We’re not cops.”
You follow, heartbeat ticking in your throat. The boathouse feels smaller once you’re inside, the walls closer, the shadows deeper.
“Maybe he’s hiding,” you say, your voice sounding muffled in your own ears. “If he thinks the cops are coming…”
“Or if he thinks we don’t believe him,” Dustin adds quietly before calling out again, “Eddie, if you’re here, come out. We’re not gonna turn you in, man. We just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
Silence.
A drop of water plunks somewhere in the back. The boat creaks slightly on its blocks.
You look around, eyes adjusting to the dim. There are corners of the boathouse that are darker than the rest - behind the boat, along the back wall, near the piles of coiled rope - and you can feel Steve’s tension ratcheting up with every second Eddie doesn’t appear.
Your attention snags on an oar leaning against the wall just inside the door. It’s long, heavy, the handle smooth from years of use.
You grab it before you think too much about it, and point the stack of paint jars to your left.
Steve whips around so fast his sneaker squeaks on the damp floor. “What are you doing?”
You freeze mid-reach, oar already in your hands. “Just” You gesture vaguely at the darker corners of the boathouse. “Poking things.”
He stares at you like you’ve announced you’re about to perform brain surgery with a spoon, “Poking things?” he echoes.
“Well, unless you want me sticking my bare hand into mystery holes - ”
“Oh my god, please don’t say ‘mystery holes,’” he groans, dragging a hand down his face like he wants to scrub the phrase right out of the air.
Robin perks up. “She’s got a point.”
“I hate that she has a point,” Steve fires back, still glaring at you as he reaches forward, "give me that"
"No" You lift your chin, giving him a smug little shrug. “You’re just jealous of my superior weaponry.”
“That’s not a weapon,” he argues, pointing accusingly at the oar. “That’s… a boat stick.”
You blink. “It’s literally called an oar, Steve.”
“That’s what I said.”
“That is not what you said.” you teased, trying so hard not to call him adorable right now.
“Guys,” Dustin hisses, eyes wide as he gestures at the whole eerie, creaking murder-scene vibe around you. “Can we focus, please?”
You tighten your grip on the oar and step a little deeper into the boathouse. The air grows colder the farther you venture, shadows thickening along the back wall. Dustin and Max fall into step beside you, pacing carefully around coils of rope and old fishing gear. From behind, Robin mutters something about her ghost haunting Keith’s lunch break if she dies here.
Steve stays right on your right flank - close enough that you can hear the uneven way he breathes when something creaks, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he instinctively moves in front of you again.
You roll your eyes but don’t push him away.
You use the oar to nudge aside a stack of nets. Dust rises. A crab trap rattles. Nothing.
But every rustle, every shift of the floorboards makes Steve tense like he’s ready to tackle you to the ground and throw himself on top of whatever comes next.
You push a bucket. It clatters over, empty.
You tap the underside of a shelf, then reach out with the oar to push the tarp covering the boat, just a little, just to see if -
Suddenly, the tarp explodes.
Something big and fast surges up from the boat with a yell. You barely have time to scream before everything goes sideways.
Steve’s hands slam into the front of your shoulders, shoving you back hard.
You stumble, feet tangling, back slamming into the ground. The oar clatters out of your hands, skidding across the floor.
Your vision jolts, then steadies on the scene in front of you:
Steve pushed up against the wall, with a knife pressed to his throat by Eddie Munson himself.
“Back!” he snaps at you without looking, voice low and sharp. “Stay back!”
Your whole body froze.
For a heartbeat, just one, you forgot how to breathe. Steve’s chest rose sharply against the blade. Eddie’s eyes were wild, terrified, cornered animal panic radiating off him in waves.
“Eddie - ” you tried, but the word barely made it out.
Then Dustin lunged forward, hands up, voice cracking as he shouted, “EDDIE, STOP! IT’S US! IT’S ME!”
Those few seconds felt like hours.
Eddie’s eyes flickered to Dustin. Back to Steve. Back to you.
Finally - finally - his grip loosened. He jerked the knife away from Steve’s throat and staggered back, shaking.
Steve braced his hand against the wall, swallowing hard, the red line blooming just under his jaw making your stomach twist.
“Dude,” Dustin gasped, “we’re not here to hurt you - we’re trying to help you.”
It took a while before Eddie believed it.
But eventually, you were all crowded inside the boat house, voices low, lights dim, fear buzzing around like a trapped insect. Eddie paced, hands trembling, as he explained what he saw. Chrissy. The way she died. The impossible way her body broke. The way the walls seemed to close in.
And you…you sat there listening, nodding, asking questions, but inside?
Inside you wanted to scream.
To sob. To throw something. To beg the universe to give you one year where you didn’t have to worry about monsters or curses or alternate dimensions.
You were so tired of this. So tired of pretending you weren’t scared. So tired of pretending this wasn’t ripping pieces out of you.
Steve kept glancing at you from across the room - small looks, quick flickers, checking you were okay without drawing attention….And it should’ve helped.
But right now, it only made your throat feel tight.
Because your life wasn’t normal. Hadn’t been normal since the moment the Demogorgon tore its way into town.
You weren’t a regular teenager. Your friends weren’t regular kids. And now another creature, another curse, was hanging over your heads, threatening to take someone else you cared about.
Eddie’s voice shook as he whispered, “I didn’t do this. I swear. I swear on my life.”
And for the first time since stepping into the boat house, you found your voice.
“We know,” you said softly. “We believe you.”
But inside, the truth pressed heavy against your ribs: You weren’t sure how many more horrors Hawkins could throw at you before something inside you finally broke.
You’re the last one to step out of the boathouse.
The air outside feels sharper, cooler, like the whole lake is holding its breath. The others head toward the car first, voices overlapping - Robin ranting about boathouses, Dustin theorizing, Max insisting she’s not scared.
You take a moment before following.
Your chest still feels fluttery from the adrenaline. Or maybe from something else entirely.
Steve slows until he’s walking beside you.
For a few steps, neither of you say anything. The boards of the dock creak beneath your shoes. A gull calls somewhere across the lake. Your heartbeat hasn’t quite settled.
He keeps glancing at you without turning his head - small, quick looks like he’s checking for damage.
Finally, he exhales. “You okay?”
Your lips tilt upward. “Are you asking me or yourself?”
That makes him huff out something like a laugh, soft and shaky. “Both, I guess.”
“I’m fine,” you say.
He doesn’t look convinced. His brows pinch just slightly, the way they do when he’s still replaying a moment in his head - like he’s still seeing Eddie exploding out of that tarp.
“I didn’t… hurt you, right?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your shoulder where his hands shoved you back.
You shake your head. “No. You just scared the shit out of me.”
His mouth quirks. “Yeah. Same.”
You don’t say anything else, and neither does he.
But he stays close the whole walk back - closer than he normally lets himself in public. Close enough that your sleeve brushes his every few steps.
He opens your car door before getting into his own, his hand braced on the frame like he’s shielding you from hitting your head. He’s done it before, but today it feels… heavier.
“Thanks,” you say, stepping in.
He pauses - not long, but long enough. His eyes drift over your face, checking you all over again, before he nods. “Yeah. Sure.” He shuts the door gently. The drive back feels heavier than the drive out.
No one talks at first, not even Dustin, which is how you know things are bad. He keeps fidgeting with the walkie in his lap, tapping it against his knee in uneven patterns.
Max sits beside him, staring out the window. Her jaw is tight, shoulders tense. She hasn’t spoken since Eddie described what happened to Chrissy.
Robin leans forward from the backseat, elbows on her knees, brain clearly spinning.
Steve’s hands grip the steering wheel a little too hard.
And you… you sit behind him, directly in the line of the rearview mirror.
Which he checks.
Frequently.
The BMW hums along the road. When a quiet stretch of forest passes outside the windows, Robin finally speaks.
“Okay… she levitated?” Robin says, brows furrowed. “And her bones snapped? And nobody finds that just a LITTLE weird?”
Dustin shakes his head. “This is big. Bigger than the demodogs. Bigger than the Russian Spies. Bigger than the gate.”
Robin sighs dramatically. “Cool, cool, love that. Love that it’s never a normal murder. It’s always freaky, supernatural nightmare fuel.”
Steve clears his throat. “Whatever it is… Eddie saw it. Or thinks he did.”
“It wasn’t a hallucination,” Dustin insists. “Everything he described matches the Upside Down rulebook.”
“Great,” Robin mutters. “We should write a handbook. ‘Surviving Interdimensional Trauma for Dummies.’ Volume 1.”
You should laugh. You should say something clever. But you just watch Steve’s hands flex around the wheel.
You pretend not to notice.
Just like you pretend you don’t still feel his mouth on your neck from last night. Just like you pretend you don’t want to climb over the seat and bury yourself in his arms and cry right now. Just like you pretend whatever is happening between you two isn’t real. Just like you pretended you werent scared out of your mind right now.
Because pretending is easy. Pretending is safe. Pretending is what the two of you do best.
And as you glance around at the others - Dustin hunched forward, Max stone-quiet, Robin chewing her thumbnail - the sinking realization settles in your chest:
Whatever is happening in Hawkins again, it’s only the beginning.
TAGLIST: @bluezzzzzz , @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles , @will-noble-owns-my-ass , @screamdolan , @reggieafogado, @rogertaylorsupermercy , @fromsaltandsea
