Summary: A Briar physiotherapist unknowingly becomes Dean Di Laurentis’s rebound after his breakup fallout, only to fall deeply in love with him before discovering she was never his first choice.
Enjoyy
The sterile scent of the Briar University training room had become a second skin to you, a comforting blend of rubbing alcohol, wintergreen liniment, and the sharp tang of sweat. As the hockey team’s newest student physiotherapist, you began to learnthe exact threshold of the boys' pain tolerances. You knew that Beau needed to be bullied into icing his shoulder, and you knew that John Tucker, always the quiet, steady anchor of the house, would sit silently on your taping table, offering soft-spoken gratitude while you worked out the knots in his back. They became older brothers to you, protective and annoyingly loud, wrapping you into their chaotic orbit until you felt entirely a part of their world.
But everything changed the night Dean Di Laurentis stumbled into the training room after his world imploded. You hadn't known about the brutal bar brawl with Hunter Davenport, you only knew that Dean’s knuckles were split open, his eyes hollow and burning with a frantic, dangeroues energy. When you gently cleaned the blood from his skin, he hadn’t looked at you like a helper, he had looked at you like a lifeline. What started as late-night comfort in the quiet training room quickly bled into a breathless, secret arrangement. He proposed friends-with-benefits with a devastating, lopsided grin, and you, already half-enamoured by his magnetic charm, had readily agreed, entirely unaware of the ghost haunting his every move.
For months, the relationship felt like a beautifully wrapped gift. From your point of view, it was unexpectedly cutesy, defying everything the campus whispered about Dean’s ruthless playboy reputation. He wasn't distant, in fact, he was suffocatingly attentive. At the massive off-campus house parties, Dean would pull you tightly against his chest, his hands anchoring around your waist, burying his face in your neck and kissing you with a desperate, public intensity that took your breath away.
He insisted on you wearing his oversized, heavy Briar hockey hoodies, wrapping the thick fabric around your shoulders and smirking when his jersey number draped down to your thighs. When you sat on the living room couch, curled up between Tucker and Beau talking about upcoming rehab schedules, Dean would arrive like a whirlwind, shoving himself into the tight space next to you just to drape his heavy arm over your shoulders, claiming your space in front of everyone. It felt like devotion. You felt cherished, protected, and completely integrated into his life, completely blind to the fact that his eyes were always darting toward the entryway of the room, tracking the door with a sharp, calculated desperation.
There were only small, inexplicable ripples in your perfect pond, mostly stemming from Hannah. Whenever you were at the house helping Tucker with his nutrition plans or laughing with Beau, Hannah treated you with a cold, guarded distance. She wasn’t outright cruel, but her politeness felt like a wall of ice. Whenever Dean would pull you into his lap in the kitchen, Hannah would stiffen, murmuring an excuse to leave the room, her eyes flashing with a judgmental pity that you couldn't quite decipher. You brushed it off as her simply being protective of the hockey house dynamics, especially since Allie, was rarely around when you were. On the rare occasions you did see Allie across a crowded party, she looked at you with a heavy, sorrowful expression that made your stomach twist, though you never understood why. You didn't know the history. You didn't know about the casual agreement that broke, the mutual panic, or the devastating betrayal with Hunter that had shattered Dean's pride. You just thought you were a girl falling, effortlessly in love with a boy who seemed to be falling right back.
The illusion shattered into a million jagged pieces during a victory party at the house, a night where the air was thick with cheap beer and loud music. You were standing near the kitchen island, waiting for Tucker to grab you a soda, when Chloe, one of the team’s most notorious puck bunnies, leaned against the counter next to you, a cruel, amused smirk playing on her lips. She swirled her red cup, looking at you with mock admiration before drawling, "I honestly have to hand it to you. I don't know how you handle it, having Allie and Dean in the same room like this after everything." You blinked, the loud music suddenly fading into a dull buzz in your ears as you frowned, asking her what she meant. Chloe let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Oh, come on. Don't play dumb. The massive, bloody fistfight Dean got into with Hunter over Allie? The fact that he was so broken he would have taken anyone to get back at her? And then tonight... I mean, it’s pretty bold of Dean to bring Allie back to his childhood home over winter break to meet his parents, but he won't even let you leave a toothbrush in his bathroom. You’re brave, honey."
The floor felt like it was tilting beneath your feet, the breath completely knocked from your lungs. The world narrowed down to a suffocating pinpoint as Chloe’s words echoed through your mind, instantly recontextualizing every single memory of the last few months. The aggressive, public displays of affection. The frantic way he insisted you wear his clothes at parties. The heavy, performative making out whenever certain people walked into the room. It hadn't been devotion, it had been a weapon. He had been using your body, your warmth, and your genuine affection to stage a play for an audience of one.
Slipping away from the kitchen with a trembling chest, you found the boys Tucker, Beau, and a few other players huddled in the quieter hallway near the back exit. Your face was stark white, tears burning the backs of your eyes as you walked straight up to them. "Did Dean get into a fight with Hunter over Allie before we started seeing each other?" you asked, your voice cracking, stripped of all its usual warmth. "Did he take Allie to meet his parents?"
The reaction was instantaneous and damning. Beau, usually so loud and quick-witted, immediately looked down at his shoes, his jaw tightening in uncomfortable guilt. Tucker, your closest confidant, froze entirely. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, he just looked at you with a profound, agonizing silence that confirmed every single horrific realization crashing down on you. They knew, they had always fuckin known. Hannah’s icy distance, her complete refusal to let you into the inner circle, suddenly made sickening sense, she was loyal to Allie, the girl Dean actually loved, the girl he was trying to torture by using you.
Just then, Dean’s phone, which he had carelessly shoved into your jacket pocket earlier while he went to grab a keg tap, buzzed against your hip. With trembling fingers, you pulled it out. The lock screen illuminated the dark hallway, displaying a fresh text notification. It was from Allie. Can we talk?? It was the final, devastating nail in the coffin, a clear indication that the toxic, unresolved tether between them was alive and well, and you were nothing but a temporary shield he used to survive the fallout.
When Dean finally found you upstairs in his bedroom, trying to gather your coat with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, there was a split second where everything in him seemed to still. The noise of the house downstairs, the music, the laughter, even the world itself felt like it had fallen away the moment his eyes landed on you.
The expression on your face told him everything before you even spoke. Whatever fragile balance he had been holding onto, whatever version of this he had been hoping to control or explain his way out of, was already gone. The easy confidence he always wore like armour slipped off his shoulders in an instant, replaced by something raw and exposed, something almost boyish in its panic.
“Hey—” he started, softer than you had ever heard him speak, like he was afraid of breaking you further just by being too loud. He stepped toward you instinctively, hands half-raised like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t dare. “Talk to me baby. What happened?”
You flinched away from him. That single movement hit him harder than anything you could have said. Your voice came out broken, uneven, as though every word had to force its way past something heavy sitting in your chest. “You used me.”
Dean froze completely it wasn’t anger in your voice that undid him. It was the way it trembled, like you were trying so hard to hold yourself together for the sake of not falling apart in front of him. Like you were still trying to understand him even while he had already destroyed the version of him you thought you knew.
You shook yourr head faintly, tears slipping down your cheeks as you continued, each sentence quieter than the last, more wounded. “Every time you pulled me into you at those parties… every time you made me wear your clothes like it meant something… every time you kissed me in front of everyone like I was yours… it wasn’t real, was it?” Your breath hitched, and your eyes finally lifted to his. “It was never me. It was always her. I was just… noise you used to drown her out.”
Something cracked in Dean’s expression then, something deep and irreversible. His jaw tightened as if it he was physically trying to hold himself together, but it didn’t work. The denial never came. There was no instinct to lie to you, not anymore.
Instead, when he spoke, his voice came out rough, stripped of everything but truth.
“I won’t insult you by pretending it didn’t start that way,” he admitted, and the honesty of it made your stomach twist. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing half a step like he couldn’t stand still inside his own skin. “After the fight with Hunter… I was a mess. I was angry at her, at myself, at everything. And when you were there, when you looked at me like I wasn’t completely wrecked…” He stopped, exhaling sharply.” I told myself it was just something to get me through it. Something to make her feel what I was feeling.”
The words landed between you like glass shattering on tile. Your chest rose sharply as if you couldn’t get enough air, but Dean wasn’t finished. And for the first time, there was nothing performative about him, nothing controlled. He looked like someone standing too close to the edge of something he couldn’t step back from.
“But that isn’t where it stayed,” he said, voice quieter now, almost desperate in its honesty. “It stopped being about her. It stopped being about anything except you, I prmoise.” His eyes finally met yours fully, and there was something in them that made your breath catch despite everything. “You didn’t feel like a rebound to me anymore. You felt like the first thing that made sense in a long time. The first and only thing I didn’t want to ruin.”
Your hands tightened around your coat, knuckles white, because none of it made sense with what you knew. Not when you were standing here with the weight of everything he had already done sitting on your chest like a bruise you couldn’t press out.
“You don’t get to say that to me now,” you whispered, voice breaking in a way that made your own heart hurt. “You don’t get to decide it changed after you already made me believe I meant something I didn’t.”
Dean stepped forward again, slower this time, like he was approaching something fragile that might disappear if he moved too quickly. His voice dropped, rougher now, stripped down to something painfully human.
“You did mean something,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation in it. None at all. “You weren’t a placeholder. Not to me. I know that’s what it looks like, I know that’s what I made it look like, but I swear to you… I didn’t know I was falling into you until I already had.”
Your laugh came out wet and broken, shaking your head because it hurt too much to believe him and too much not to. “Then why did I have to find out like this?” you choked out. “Why did I have to be the last person to know what I was to you? Everyone else knew, her , Hannah. Everyone knew except me.”
His face changed at the mention of her, something like shame flashing briefly across his expression before it dissolved into something heavier. He looked away for a second, like he couldn’t hold your gaze under the weight of it.
“I didn’t handle it right,” he admitted, voice low. “I didn’t protect you from any of it. I should have. I know that now.” His hands curled slightly at his sides, like he was stopping himself from reaching for you again. “But what I feel for you isn’t something I turned on and off. It’s not something I planned. It’s just… you became it for me. You became the person I couldn’t stop thinking about, even when I was trying to fix everything else I’d broken.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. You looked at him for a long moment, really looked at him, like you were trying to find the version of him you had fallen for and realising it had always been split between what he was and what he wished he had been. When you finally spoke, your voice was barely more than air, “But you didn’t.”
Dean closed his eyes at that, like the sentence physically landed on him. When he opened them again, there was something softer there something unbearably human.
“I know,” he whispered.
And for a moment, neither of you moved. Not because anything was fixed, but because there was nothing left to say that wouldn’t break you both further. Then you stepped back. This time, he didn’t follow, couldn’t dare to move his legs.
He just stood there in the dim light of his room, watching you leave with the quiet, devastating understanding that no matter how real his feelings had become, they had arrived in a story that had already hurt you too much to survive them.
eeee
as soon as i finished off campus u fucking bet i wrote a tucker and dean fic lmaoo. i know he didnt introduce allie to his parents i just wanted it to be more angsty, so yayyyy. hope it was ok, i just wanted to write a angsty fic with dean lol. Its super short and not that indetail so ignore that;))
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x coach's goddaugther!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-66
a/n: Thank you so much for all the love shown to my first Dean fic! Here’s a little extra so you guys can see what my blog has to offer. I’ve created the masterlist and more is coming (not only smut but I need to get through the horniness first).
Summary: You were always off-limits. The coach’s goddaughter, the team’s PR girl and the one woman Dean couldn’t have...but the thing about limits was that it was still a line to skate over.
Classification: Smut +18 | voyeurism/exhibitionism, detailed mutual masturbation, forbidden romance, risk of getting caught / secret relationship tension (coach’s goddaughter + player dynamic) and pining
Word count: 5,2k
Divider by me ;)
You were the embodiment of ‘off limits’.
A PR and communications student assigned to the hockey team to learn the ropes, glued to a camera, phone or a laptop half the time, always lingering somewhere between the locker room and the rink with that little furrow between your brows whenever the boys gave you trouble.
And worse, you were the coach’s goddaughter, practically raised by the man and threaded into Briar hockey long before Dean had ever pulled on the jersey.
You attended Sunday dinners at his house and there probably were childhood photos stacked in dusty albums somewhere in his office. Those were years of trust Dean had absolutely no business threatening.
Off. limits.
Dean repeated it to himself constantly over the last year, as if repetition alone could beat the impulse out of him. He did so in empty equipment rooms when you brushed past him carrying stacks of media packets, in hotel lobbies during away games when you sat cross-legged on a couch editing footage at two in the morning while the rest of the team got drunk upstairs and during practices when he’d glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it the second he spotted you there, bundled in team colors, chewing absently on the cap of a pen while watching the ice with sharp, attentive eyes.
It wasn’t harmless anymore and that was the problem.
At first he’d told himself it was mere attraction…temporary and easy to bury, but months kept passing and somehow every woman he brought home blurred together because none of them were you, none of them looked at him with restrained annoyance whenever he pushed too far and none of them straightened his collar before interviews with distracted but perfectionist little tugs of your fingers.
Hell, he couldn’t even get it up anymore and the few times he tried sleeping with someone else ended badly enough to bruise his ego.
You hadn’t even touched him yet and somehow you’d ruined him completely.
You hadn’t shown up to practice that afternoon, choosing instead to camp out in your godfather’s office to finish assignments, legs curled beneath you on the couch while the muffled sound of pucks slamming against boards echoed through the walls. By the time practice ended, you’d gathered your folder and headed out to finish your actual responsibilities before the boys disappeared for the night.
You caught Garrett first on the way toward the showers, then Logan and Tucker, who exchanged immediate shit-eating grins before inevitably dragging Dean into it. Completely wrecking your original plan of quietly emailing him the document later and pretending not to care when he probably ignored it for three whole days.
The hallway outside the locker room had mostly emptied by the time he appeared.
Dean strode toward you lazily, sweaty hair sticking slightly to his forehead, gear half removed, skates still carving heavy sounds against the rubber flooring. The second he noticed how empty the corridor was, his mouth tilted upward slowly, something pleased and dangerous settling into his expression.
“Did you need me, Hawkeye?” he asked as that grin widened once he stopped directly in front of you…far too close.
Only then did you realize your mistake, standing near the wall like an idiot, leaving nowhere to go once his frame crowded the space. He towered over you already and the skates only made it unfair. Heat rolled off him fresh from practice, sharp cologne mixing with sweat and cold air from the rink.
“You need to stop calling me that,” you said flatly, immediately looking anywhere but directly at him.
Dean’s eyes fixed on your face with infuriating patience. “Why?” he asked lightly. “Thought your whole job was noticing everything.”
You finally looked at him then, holding his stare in what you hoped translated to ‘behave yourself for once’.
His expression barely changed but something darker flickered behind his eyes anyway.
A quiet sigh left him. “What’d you need me for?” he asked softer this time, voice dropping into that maddening tone he reserved only for you. Gentle and careful, like he was handling something delicate instead of actively making your life harder.
It only got worse when he stepped closer.
Instinctively, you stepped back. Your shoulders nearly hit the wall, breath catching painfully in your lungs at the sudden lack of space. You straightened afterward, forcing your posture taller like it would somehow help. It obviously didn’t because Dean was already bigger than you, even more when he was standing there in skates, looking down at you like he had all the time in the world.
“You need to approve the questions for the next team interview,” you told him, pulling a printed sheet from the folder you carried.
Dean glanced down at the paper briefly but made no effort to take it. His eyes found yours again, gaze lazy and unwavering. “I don’t need to,” he said. “You wrote them.”
“It’s protocol.” You insistently lifted the page higher between you both.
“It’s you,” he replied, like that alone justified everything.
Your expression flattened. “So if someone asks you ‘how many strokes it takes you to nut’ mid-interview, you’re just gonna roll with it?”
A grin spread slowly across his face, brow lifting. “Depends.” He mirrored your earlier shrug casually, though his attention never once left your face. “Will you be the one asking me the question?”
You glanced down the hallway again before answering. “I won’t be there.”
“Then no,” he decided immediately.
“It would still be bad,” you stressed, pushing the page against the center of his chest. The paper bent slightly over the hard padding beneath his gear. “My entire job is making sure things like that don’t happen. Read them and approve at least three.”
Dean looked down at your hand where it rested against him but his own still didn’t move.
“I’m a hockey player,” he reminded you solemnly. “Reading’s already asking a lot from me.”
“Email me your pick.” You pressed the page harder against his chest when he still refused to take it, annoyance sharpening your movements enough to wrinkle the paper more under your palm.
“Can’t,” he replied easily. “She’s standing right in front of me.”
“Of the questions,” you clarified firmly which finally earned a quiet laugh from him.
Dean took the page at last, fingers dragging against yours for a second too long before pulling away. It was entirely intentional, you knew that much from the way his mouth twitched afterward.
“Then I’ll text you.”
“You’ll send your answers to my school email,” you corrected quickly. “Texting is unprofessional and it’ll get you blocked.”
You conveniently left out the real issue, which was that the two of you absolutely should not be texting each other in the first place because every interaction already lingered too long and every conversation slipped somewhere dangerous eventually.
Dean studied you for a moment, his expression soft and voice quieter underneath the teasing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You nodded once because denying it would’ve been pointless. “I’ve been busy.”
His head tilted slightly, lips pressed in a tight line. “With what?”
“Avoiding you.” The smile that pulled at your mouth betrayed how true the answer was. “The world doesn’t revolve around you,” you continued. “If I get one bad grade, I lose this job and you are the epitome of a distraction.” You paused, letting the silence stretch as you waited for his answer. “Epitome means–”
“I know what it means,” he cut in, grinning wider now. “Your godfather’s not gonna fire you.”
“No,” you corrected, poking a finger into his chest. The impact hurt you far more than him against all that equipment. “Your coach will. Then he’ll give me some speech about loving me and wanting what’s best for my future, which honestly makes it worse because he’ll be right.”
Something changed in Dean’s face as the grin began fading. “I missed you,” he admitted quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
You saw it happen in real time too, the brief regret flashing behind his eyes after saying it aloud but it was already there now, hanging heavily between you both.
“We’re already stuck doing this…” He gestured vaguely between your bodies, frustration roughening his voice. “‘Almost’ thing and now you wanna disappear too?” He shook his head once, jaw tightening. “We need to figure something out because I can’t think when you’re around.” His eyes dragged slowly over your face before settling back on your eyes again. “And somehow I can’t think when you’re gone either.”
Your brows pulled together, trying very hard to stay serious despite the smile threatening at your mouth. “Can’t fix the lack of a brain, Di Laurentis.”
“Funny,” he murmured flatly, nodding once. “No, actually, that was hilarious. I almost believed you didn’t care for a second there.”
Your mouth opened with a rebuttal ready, but voices suddenly echoed further down the hallway and they got progressively louder and closer. Dean reacted instantly. His hand found your waist before you could protest, firm and warm even through layers of clothing, steering you quickly down the hall toward the nearest side room.
Once you entered, the door shut softly behind you both.
Your nose scrunched. “What the–,” you whispered harshly. “It fucking stinks in here.”
Your eyes adjusted enough to make out scattered hockey equipment piled around the cramped storage room. Gloves, pads and jerseys that, judging by the smell alone, hadn’t been cleaned recently.
Dean stood directly in front of the door, broad shoulders blocking it almost entirely. “It was either this or getting caught.”
“Oh, so you are aware there’s an issue here.” You nodded slowly. “That’s amazing progress for you, actually.” You pointed toward the door behind him. “Can I go now?”
He shook his head once, decisive even in the cramped, sour-smelling storage room. “I wanna see you tonight.”
You let out a breathy laugh before you could stop it, the sound slipping out lighter than you intended. “I’d like to see me too,” you decided, adjusting your grip on the folder like it could anchor you back into something sensible. “I’ve got things to turn in. Between that and this job I’m trying very hard to keep and deserve despite the obvious nepotism allegations, I barely have time to do anything else.”
“Perfect,” he said, as if you’d just agreed with him. “So I’ll be your distraction.” He paused, then carefully added, “From a…appropriate distance.”
Your brows pulled together. “Are you even listening to me?” You reached up on instinct, tilting his head down slightly like you were physically trying to redirect his attention. “Didn’t know hockey required ear plugs.”
Dean’s grin turned sharper. “You know exactly what hockey requires,” he countered, voice low. “You just wanted to touch me.”
His hand softly caught your wrist halfway before he seemed to remember himself and let go as quickly as he’d taken it. Still, he stepped closer right after, restraint only applying in pieces. Your breath caught on the way in, shallow and inconvenient, as his nose nudged yours gently, forcing your gaze up.
“An hour,” he murmured softly, almost in a begging tone. “Two tops…I’m going through withdrawals here.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh, the word choice alone almost ridiculous enough to cut through the tension. “I don’t think that’s medically accurate,” you said.
“You wouldn’t want to be the one explaining it to the coach,” he continued, unfazed, “or posting it on socials.”
“No,” you agreed, lips twitching despite yourself. “It wouldn’t get the right statistics. It’s bad rep for the team.”
The humor didn’t quite hide the way your breathing slowed, attention narrowing until it was just him, too close in a room that suddenly felt smaller than it should’ve. You breathed him in without meaning to, realizing it was the first time you’d allowed yourself the space to notice everything without immediately stepping away.
So for one weak second, you indulged in it…and if something happened because of it, if lines blurred and boundaries slipped, you’d blame the idiot currently brushing his nose against yours like he had no self-preservation instinct whatsoever.
You swallowed. “It’s a bad idea.”
Dean shrugged, entirely shameless. “I’ve had plenty of those before.” His lips curved. “Came out alright every time.”
You exhaled and this time your hand came up to his chest pushing lightly to create space. To his credit, he allowed it, always did when it mattered. “You can’t get it up,” you reminded bluntly, “there’s nothing ‘alright’ about that.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting like he was recalibrating you, yet amusement still flashed across his face. “How do you know that?”
“Voices carry in these hallways,” you replied, momentum making it worse instead of better. “And it’s suspicious when the team’s resident roller coaster suddenly stops offering rides to every girl with a pulse.”
His grin only widened. Fuck, he was enjoying this…and worse, so were you.
“So maybe it really is withdrawals,” you decided.
“Then help me with it,” he added, as the simplest solution in the world.
Silence followed immediately after as you held his gaze while the seconds stretched painfully long, until even the smell of old gear faded, drowned out now by the overwhelming presence of him.
You eventually cleared your throat, stepping back carefully until your shoulder nearly brushed a stack of equipment. “I’m gonna go now,” you announced, voice steadier than you felt. “I’ll go one way–” you gestured vaguely toward yourself, then the door, drawing boundaries in the air. “And you’ll go the opposite way.”
“And then what?” His voice matched yours, it was quiet and careful.
There was no teasing left in it anymore. Dean was used to this part, used to you pulling away at the last second, both of you pretending restraint still meant control but even now, he stepped aside from the door without argument, giving you space to leave because as badly as he wanted this, he wanted you to want it too.
You moved toward the exit slowly, fingers wrapping around the cold handle before glancing back at him one last time. “I’ll see you around,”
You opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, letting cold, clean air replace everything that had been pressing in on you.
The door clicked shut behind you as Dean exhaled hard through his nose and stayed exactly where he was because the worst part of the entire interaction wasn’t the rejection, it was the reminder that he wasn’t broken at all…the unmistakable hardening tent in his hockey pants made that painfully obvious.
Dean stayed home that night.
For probably the first time in months, he skipped the party the team had been planning all week. The excuse came easily enough, he’d faked discomfort in his ankle the second he got back to the locker room after you left, enough grimacing and irritation to keep the guys from questioning him too hard.
By the time everyone headed out, the house had finally gone quiet and now he sat alone on the edge of his bed staring at the blank wall across from him with the concentration of a man trying not to lose his mind.
His phone rested facedown on the desk a few feet away, intentionally dead. He had watched the battery drain without plugging it in, convincing himself this counted as effort…progress or even detox. Maybe if the phone died, the temptation would too. This way he couldn’t text you or call, or even stare at your contact until his self-control caved in around midnight like it usually did.
You had become a habit too quickly…worse than a habit honestly, because Dean had given up plenty of things before. Bad grades, classes and women whose names he should’ve remembered to moan instead of yours, but trying not to reach for you felt violent in comparison.
A frustrated breath left him as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glaring toward the dead phone anyway. Fucking hell, even silence tempted him.
He could already picture it perfectly if the phone still worked, he would send one stupid text, something harmless enough to start things off. You’d reply annoyed within minutes with sharp little responses pretending indifference while still answering too fast. Then eventually one of you would push too far and suddenly the conversation would drift past every boundary you both kept swearing mattered.
Dean scrubbed a hand down his face roughly then froze when a noise sounded outside his window.
For half a second he thought he imagined the house creaking or branches scratching against the siding just as your head appeared outside his second-story window.
You shoved the unlocked frame forward with visible irritation, balancing dangerously on the ladder propped against the house. “Are you gonna help me,” you hissed, “or just fucking stare while I die?”
Dean moved instantly and crossed the space in seconds, grabbing the window and holding it wider as he reached out for you. The original intention probably involved helping you climb inside normally, maybe by steadying your arm or something. Instead, the second his hands landed on your waist, instinct completely took over and he hauled you inside too quickly.
Your balance disappeared entirely and the both of you toppled backward onto the bed in a mess of limbs and startled noises. You landed squarely on top of him hard enough to knock a grunt from his chest.
Dean looked up at you already grinning while you were certain your eye twitched with annoyance so visibly he almost laughed again.
“Hurt ankle, my ass,” you muttered, pushing yourself upright swiftly and moving off him, sitting cautiously on the edge of the mattress for approximately two seconds before your expression changed.
A look of sudden reconsideration crossed your face making you stand right back up.
Dean watched in amusement as you wiped your palms against your jeans, glancing around the room instead of at him.
“Fuck knows what’s happened on that bed.” You mumbled under a breath.
“You came to check on me,” he said instead, smile widening as he propped himself up on his elbows. “Thought you didn’t do house calls.”
You shrugged lightly, immediately reaching for technicalities the way you always did whenever you crossed one of your own rules. “I didn’t call,” you pointed out. “Or text.”
Dean’s grin softened at that. “Did you get my email?” he asked, weirdly proud of himself.
“I did.” You finally looked at him properly again…with annoyance, of course. “Though signing it ‘Big Dick Dean Di Laurentis’ felt incredibly tasteless.”
He sat up fully now, visibly delighted. “That was obviously a typo.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
Dean climbed to his feet slowly, attention locked entirely on you as he stepped closer. “You could’ve used the front door,” he pointed out. “There’s no one else here.” His gaze dropped pointedly toward where you still hovered beside the bed instead of sitting. “And it’s clean,” he added. “Thought you knew all about how little play I get these days.”
That comment earned him a look, one of those quiet staring contests the two of you somehow kept having lately, where neither person moved first because both of you wanted the other to crack beforehand.
Eventually, you sighed and sat down on the bed properly.
Dean dragged his desk chair around and dropped into it, hands resting on his evidently muscular thighs as he faced you.
“Should we unpack that a little?” you asked teasingly, your tone mischievous. “I almost majored in psychology.”
“There’s nothing to unpack.” Dean leaned back in the chair, watching you carefully while he spoke. “Everything works perfectly fine.”
The pause afterward felt challenging. You held his gaze stubbornly at first, refusing to give him the satisfaction of reacting but eventually your eyes betrayed you, flickering downward despite yourself and straight to the growing outline beneath his sweatpants and judging by the smug look spreading across Dean’s face the second it happened, he noticed.
You dragged your eyes back up to his face with visible effort. “Well,” you started carefully, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from your jeans, “I won’t ask what the issue is then.” Your mouth curved. “Wouldn’t wanna embarrass you.”
Dean let out a quiet laugh through his nose, low and knowing. “You won’t ask because the issue is sitting right in front of me.”
The words settled heavily between you both.
His gaze dropped briefly as you shifted on the mattress, one leg crossing slowly over the other without much thought. Unfortunately for him, the movement dragged the fabric of your jeans tighter across your thighs.
Dean’s jaw flexed once as his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he forced them back upward. “You’re torturing me,” he rasped. “And the worst part is you know exactly what you’re doing.”
You said nothing, you couldn’t, not when he looked at you like that.
Your attention stayed locked on him completely, unwilling to miss even a second of whatever this had become. The room felt smaller now, warmer somehow despite the cold night air drifting through the still-open window behind him. Every tiny movement seemed louder, from the creak of the desk chair when he leaned back, to the faint rustle of fabric when you adjusted your legs again and the quiet exhale Dean took afterward like he regretted noticing.
“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.
You shook your head once. “I don’t know.”
Dean watched you for a long moment, expression unreadable for approximately half a second before he gave a small nod, already deciding you were lying and unfortunately, he was probably right.
“You do,” he corrected, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re lying to me…and normally I’d let you get away with it,” he continued. “But not when you’re sitting on my bed rubbing your thighs together.”
Your breath caught at the change in his tone. He spoke each word gently, letting them land with intent as his gaze dipped again, tone turning sultry while his hand slid down and disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants. “You need something from me,” he decided.
The sentence barely sounded like teasing anymore. Your pulse thudded painfully hard against your throat and between your legs as the silence stretched. You uncrossed your legs in response, your fingers inching toward the button of your jeans.
“Something,” he continued carefully, not wanting to rush this. “to take the edge off.”
The air thickened as you popped the button open, the soft rasp of the zipper following as you drew it down slowly. Your jeans parted enough to reveal the edge of your lace panties, the fabric already damp against your skin.
Across from you, his hand moved inside the cotton of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock thickening under his palm as he began to stroke in long, unhurried pulls.
The mere sight of it sent a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs.
You slipped your hand beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers gliding over the slick heat of your pussy. A quiet sigh escaped you as you traced your folds, circling your clit with firm pressure while he watched every motion, his own hand working steadily as the head of his cock peeked above the waistband with each upward stroke.
Precum glistened at the tip, catching the low light as he smeared it along his length.
Your fingers moved in slow circles, spreading the wetness that coated your sensitive skin, each pass making your hips twitch involuntarily on the bed's edge.
His breathing grew heavier as he adjusted his grip, pulling his sweatpants lower to expose more of his shaft. The veins along his cock stood out prominently under the firm strokes of his fist, the skin stretching taut with every upward motion.
You could see the way his thumb brushed over the head on each pass, gathering more of that shiny fluid to ease the slide. The visual made your own touch quicken, your middle finger pressing firmer against your swollen clit while your other fingers teased at your entrance.
Drawn by the growing ache, you leaned back until your shoulders met the mattress. The sheets carried his scent of warm musk and faint soap, filling your lungs and making your clit throb harder under your circling fingers.
You spread your knees wider, jeans still hugging your hips as your hand worked faster inside the panties. Every inhale pulled more of him into you, fueling the slick glide of your fingertips over swollen flesh. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement and you turned your head to press your cheek against the sheets, breathing deeper to draw in that intoxicating aroma. It wrapped around you like an invisible touch, making your nipples tighten against the fabric of your shirt.
He stroked himself openly now, full length exposed to your gaze, firm grip twisting at the head with each slow pass as his eyes landed on your noticeably hardened nipples.
You pictured him rising from the chair, crossing the space between you to bury that thick cock deep inside your aching pussy, stretching you open with one thrust. The fantasy burned even hotter because you were both holding back, letting the forbidden tension build instead. Your fingers dipped lower, parting your lips to press inside, the wet motion of your touch mingling with the rhythmic slide of his fist. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through the room as you felt your walls clench around your own fingers in answer.
Your free hand clutched the sheets, twisting them as your hips rocked lightly to meet your own touch. Wetness coated your fingers, dripping down to the fabric inside your jeans while across the room Dean’s breathing grew ragged, eyes half-lidded while he watched your body arch and tremble in his bed. The scent of him made your head spin, your pussy fluttering around nothing as you finally thrust two fingers deeper, curling them against that sensitive spot inside. Every curl sent sparks of pleasure radiating outward, your thighs trembling as you imagined the weight of his body pressing you down, his cock replacing your fingers in one smooth motion.
The pressure coiled tighter in your core, every stroke of your clit sending sparks up your spine as you watched his cock twitch visibly in his fist, a bead of cum welling at the slit before he spread it down his length again.
You moaned, the sound raw and needy and his pace quickened in response. Your jeans restricted your movements enough to heighten the friction, the denim pressing against the back of your hand as you worked yourself closer to the edge. The room filled with the soft sounds of your mutual pleasure, his low grunts mixing with your gasps.
You allowed yourself to keep your eyes locked on him, watching intently as his fist pumped steadily along the rigid length, the skin sliding taut over the swollen and pinkish head with each upward pull.
Below, his balls hung full and heavy at first, swaying slightly with the motion of his strokes but as the tension kept building, they began to draw upward, the loose skin tightening and wrinkling as the muscles contracted. You watched the way they pulled closer to the base of his cock, tensing visibly with every twist of his wrist.
His thighs flexed in the chair as he spread them wider, offering an unobstructed view of the entire scene.
The veins along his cock stood out even more now, pulsing in time with his quickening strokes, the skin pulling smooth and firm as his breathing grew shallow and urgent, mirroring your own.
The sight pushed you harder against your own fingers as his body locked, balls pulling up completely into a tight, rounded shape at the root of his cock. A restrained groan tore from his throat as the first thick rope of cum surged free, jetting over his knuckles in a hot, white arc that landed across his clothed stomach. His balls pulsed visibly with each spurt, contracting and releasing in waves as more cum erupted, splattering higher and dripping down his shaft.
Your orgasm hit shortly after. Your back bowed off the bed, thighs quaking as your pussy pulsed and gushed around your fingers, sending waves of pleasure rolling through you in hot, liquid surges that left you quivering and whimpering on his bed watching as immediate relief hit the both of you.
His grip loosened slightly, cock jerking uncontrollably while his balls finally relaxed, emptying in long, forceful pulses that left him trembling and spent. Thick strands continued to ooze from the tip as the last tremors faded, his hand slowing to gentle strokes that milked out every last eager drop.
As relief and pleasure eased through your spent forms, you both were left boneless and utterly relaxed. You slowly withdrew your hands from between your thighs, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your fingers as they lingered for half a second like your body hadn’t fully caught up to your brain yet. Staring up at the ceiling, you caught your breath, while he gazed forward, both of you panting as though you had just sprinted straight through every boundary you’d spent months trying to maintain and were only now realizing there was no finish line waiting on the other side.
Neither of you spoke because what exactly was there to say?
Congratulations on making things infinitely worse?
You sat up slowly and met his eyes briefly in the heavy silence before looking away, your hand moving to zip and button your jeans as you tried to act like nothing extraordinary had occurred. You pushed yourself to your quivering legs, balance threatening to betray you for a second before steadying. You stepped towards him as his gaze tracked you the entire way.
Standing in front of him felt strangely so, even more intimate after everything else, which honestly seemed ridiculous considering what had just happened. Still, your throat tightened slightly when he looked up at you flushed and wrecked, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the blue in his eyes almost entirely.
Your hand lifted toward his face before you could think too hard about it and his lips parted faintly against your palm the second you covered his mouth. You pretended not to notice him inhaling the scent of your essence deeply as you pressed a slow kiss to the back of your own hand, right over his lips.
"I’m glad that question won’t be asked," you murmured, straightening up. Dean’s brows furrowed slightly, still dazed enough that it took him a second. "Couldn’t keep count of the strokes."
With that, you crossed the bedroom, opened the door and disappeared into the hallway before he could answer, your pulse still hammering against your ribs.
Behind you, Dean licked slowly over his lips where your hand had been, head dropping forward afterward as a quiet curse left him under his breath.
His cock throbbed and began hardening again, muscle starting to draw upward once more with renewed tension, the loose skin tightening as his shaft swelled visibly under the fresh surge of arousal.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍
Summary: it’s really hot on the 4th of July and you and John need a shower
WC: ~2.9k
Warnings: nakedness, intimacy, dry or um wet? humping/grinding, showering together, my very bad attempt at comedy, he rubs your clit, there's talk of having penetrative sex but none is depicted
In regards to gif: beard not mentioned
-
There were so many fans going around the Admit desk.
“It’s hot as shit.” You complained. “One of the busiest days of the year and we’re expected to work under these conditions? Exactly how well are any of us functioning cognitively speaking when it’s this fucking hot?”
“Well, at least you have a shower at my place to look forward to.” John kissed your temple as he came up beside you.
“Really?” You asked, slightly surprised by his comment.
“Obviously.” He set down a chart in front of him.
“Oh, okay. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome?” He phrased it as a question. What a queer response. “You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable.”
You shook your head. “No, that’s not it.”
He shrugged. “You just seem surprised when I said that. You’re allowed to spend time with your boyfriend, you know.”
You smiled at his teasing tone. “Obviously, I know that. I spend time with you all the time.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Was it the shower thing? Was that what was weird?”
You sighed. “I guess I just didn’t realize that I could shower at your place whenever I wanted to.”
He chuckled and smiled boyishly. “Of course, what else are boyfriends for?”
“Curing boredom.” You deadpanned.
He laughed lightly. “You’re cute.”
You flashed him a smile. “I know.”
“No, seriously, it’s really cute that you didn’t think that you could come over anytime.”
“I literally came over last week because I was bored one evening and then remembered that I had a boyfriend.”
He rolled his eyes playfully. “I meant anytime besides when you’re just bored.”
“I didn’t mean to say that I don’t want to spend time with you. Or that I don’t enjoy spending time with you. Whether that’s spontaneous time or scheduled time.”
“You literally planned an elaborate city tour for us last month. And I’ve lived here my whole life.”
You ever so lightly punched his arm. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy yourself, John.”
“Of course I enjoyed myself, I was with you.” He gave your forehead a kiss.
“Could you take that somewhere else, I’m trying to work.” Susan’s voice came from beside you.
Both you and John looked over at her. She had a small smile on her face. She’d obviously been half joking.
John apologized to her, gave your temple a kiss, and then walked away, but not before softly saying, “I’ll see you later,” to you.
“You two are disgusting.” Susan told you after he’d left. She was joking again.
“Aren’t you dating that firefighter? And do you remember how you were in his lap all night last weekend at the bar?”
“Point taken.”
“Mhm…”
-
The shift from Hell finally came to an end. Finally. The break room was empty as you were at your locker. You had pit stains. You had sweat stains under your breasts. And you were pretty sure you had a sweat stain on your back. You stunk. You were tired. And you really needed that shower. You must’ve been pretty lost in thought because you startled when hands were suddenly at your hips.
“You stink.” A familiar and welcome voice said from behind you before he was pressing a kiss to your head.
“If only there were a way to fix that.”
You could feel the smile from behind you. “I can think of a few.”
“There’s only one I’m particularly interested in right now.”
“Just a few more minutes and then we’re out of here.”
You both hurriedly collected your things from your lockers. Leading you by your hand, John pulled you toward the ambulance bay door. He led you to the parking garage and subsequently into his vehicle, kissing your hand and arm several times before reluctantly letting go. He couldn’t seem to get to his apartment building fast enough as he drove.
“John! Slow down!” You squeaked as he drove wildly through the streets of Chicago.
“We’re fine.” He insisted.
“You’re going too fast!” You protested.
He sighed and slowed his pace a bit. “Sorry. Just really excited. And my A/C still isn’t working!”
He wasn’t mad at you. He was just angry at his vehicle. He hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. All through June, his vehicle was hot and stale (not that that had stopped you two from going at it in it after a rough shift).
You put your hand over his and rubbed his knuckles. “We’ll get it fixed, relax, hon. Let’s just hope your shower is working.”
He looked at you dramatically. “Now why would you go and say that?”
“Sorry. Knock on wood?”
He knocked on your forehead a couple of times.
“Come on…come on…” he gritted out at a very long red light.
“Be patient.” You teased as you tickled his cheek.
“Fuck! Come on…”
You finally reached his apartment building and God shined down upon him, blessing your shared shower because there’s a spot right in front. “Yes, yes!”
He hurriedly unbuckled himself, then unbuckled you when you didn’t move fast enough. He fumbled with the door handle, stumbling out of the vehicle.
“Slow down there, cowboy.” You chuckled.
He looked over at you. His hair was stuck to his forehead in a couple of places, his tee shirt already sweat stained as well from the drive home. “Slow down? In this heat? With water waiting for me? And you naked? Uh uh. No way.”
He shut the door and sprinted over to open yours. He tugged you out and promptly shut your door as well.
The lobby man opened the door for him as he saw John sprint up with you in tow, knowing it was hot, knowing John, and sensing the urgency.
“Thanks, Owen.” John thanked the man quickly before making a bee line for the elevator.
“Anytime, man.” Owen called after him.
After impatiently tapping the elevator button several times on the outside, John practically jammed his finger on the floor button upon entering the elevator after tugging you into it. He rocked on the balls of his feet as the elevator ascended. His hand held yours tightly still. Its weight was comforting in yours even if it was very sweaty.
You both were sweaty and hot and uncomfortable. Neither of you could wait until you could get your clothes off and get under some cool water.
He’s out of the elevator as soon as it’s opening and tugging you toward his apartment door. He fumbled with his keys. And of course he dropped them.
“Fuck me!” He bellowed as he leant down to pick them up. “The universe hates me!”
The door finally opened as you both stumbled inside. He immediately began divesting himself of his clothes at a concerning pace (you do wonder how he doesn’t lose his balance and fall on the floor). You went at a slightly slower pace. You hadn’t quite gotten your bra and panties off when he’s pulling down his boxers and stepping out of them.
“Come on, sweetheart.” John almost whined at you.
“What?! Would you chill for like one second?” You peeled your socks off.
“Let me take your bra off, please!”
“Okay! Fine!”
He’s very close to you now and his fingers are trying to unhook the bra. He’s fumbling a bit. He growled in frustration. “Ah! I did this in two seconds like three days ago!”
He finally got it and quickly yanked it off of you. Your nipples hardened a bit from the exposure to air. His hands are at your panties now and he’s yanking them down too.
“I did not say you could take my panties down.” You scold as you step out of them.
“Yeah, yeah, spank me later.” He is tugging you towards his bathroom.
He muttered “please please please” under his breath as he turned the shower on. Water sprayed from the shower head. “Haha! Yes!”
He stepped under it and groaned satisfactorily. His hands were planted firmly on your hips, keeping you close to him under the spray. He leant in to pepper kisses to your face and neck. Your nipples hardened even more under the cold water. He can feel them against his chest.
“Fuck, this feels so good.”
His hands go to knead your ass. His hardening cock slid between you two.
“John, this is a cold shower. Like cold as fuck. My nipples are already perked up.”
“Yeah? It is? Tell little John that.”
“Biologically speaking-” , how are you hard right now? You should be shriveled. Sad. Tiny. Flaccid.
He cut you off as he molded his mouth to yours. He thrust his hips against yours.
“John…we’re supposed to be…showering…” You panted against his mouth.
“Yeah? You wanna shower?” He whirled you both around so your head got soaked, the water trickling down your body.
He reached to get your body wash and squirted a bit into the wet loofah. He then began to scrub the body wash into your back and buttocks. It felt good on your skin (so did the cold water on your icky feeling skin). He turned you around so he could suds up your breasts and stomach, his cock now nudging your ass. He rubbed the loofah between your legs.
“John…lemme get you…”
“‘M not done with you yet, sweetheart.” He emphasized his point by bringing his free hand up to squeeze your breast and then he pinched your nipple.
He ran the loofah across your abdomen then your stomach some more. He then scrubbed down your thighs.
“I’m pretty sure I’m pretty clean.”
“My dirty girl isn’t nearly clean enough.”
You chuckled. “You’ve got me pretty good. I think I’m good.”
“You’re not good until I say you are.” He rubbed the loofah between your legs again. He rubbed it over your clit.
“Ohhh, that kinda good…we uh shouldn’t waste a lot of water, probably.”
“Arms up, then. Lemme get your pits.”
You raised your arms so he could scrub at your armpits. Very sexy. But he ticked you under there and you instinctively jerked.
“John! No!” You chirped, then whipped around to face him. His arms immediately wrapped your body, holding you close to him. He was nose to nose with you now.
“Just having some fun.”
“You’re so mean.” You mock pouted.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He pressed his lips to yours. One of his hands briefly left your body to shut the shower off so you indeed were not wasting too much whilst you were very distracted.
“We’re gonna… slip.” You chuckled softly. “This was a terrible idea.”
“Good thing we’re both doctors.”
“We’re also both idiots. Your clumsy ass is definitely overdue for a concussion.”
“That last time was not my fault.” He insisted. “Jerry put that crash cart there on purpose.”
“Sure he did, hon.”
“He did!” John exclaimed. “He just won’t admit it. And Susan won’t say anything about it either.”
“It’s all a big conspiracy against you, hmm?”
“It really is quite disheartening.”
“Poor baby.” You stroked his arms.
He tilted his head down so his lips brushed your ear. “Maybe you can kiss me, make it better?”
“Smooth change of subject.” You wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Like you’re complaining.” He moved to peck your lips.
“I’ll be complaining in the ER when I have a concussion.”
“Alright…out, out.” He huffed as he ushered you out of the tub.
“I’m going!” You chuckled as you stepped out but you apparently weren’t fast enough because he patted your butt.
“Hey!” You exclaimed.
“Move your pretty ass.” He commanded.
You scoffed. “Make me.”
“Oh-ho, you are testing me, sweetheart.” He crowded you against the sink. “And after the day I’ve had, I don't think you want to do that.”
“The day you’ve had? What about the day I’ve had?” You exclaimed.
“Yeah, I guess you did have a pretty bad day.”
You were faux offended. “Pretty bad? Pretty bad?”
He cocked his head. “Very bad?”
You scoffed. “Atrocious, actually.”
“Well let’s get dried off and in bed, hmm? We can poop right out. Unless…you wanna maybe…continue?”
You sighed. “We could cuddle fuck. I’m really tired.”
He smiled boyishly. “Sweetheart, you don’t have to do a goddamn thing.” He nipped at your neck. “I’ll do everything.”
“Even if you’re exhausted too?”
“When have I ever been too exhausted to fuck you, hmm? If you want it, it’s yours.”
“I do want your cock.” You murmured slightly sheepishly even though you’ve been with John a great many times.
“Then you’ll have it.” He snapped the towel off the shower rod and wrapped it around you. “But let’s get you completely dried off first before I get you in a bed.”
He took the towel and dried off your head, then your shoulders, going downward until he’d gotten to your feet. Playfully, he kissed them. He knew he was in a weird position where he’d come from money and grew up way more privileged than you had. While he’s distanced himself a bit from it and that resulted in him living in a kinda shitty apartment, he still felt the weight of that privileged upbringing on your relationship from time to time. He made up for it in small ways. He wasn’t too proud to service you, that wasn’t beneath him. He’d kiss your feet, let you use him as a footrest (God knows he couldn’t afford an ottoman or be able to fit one in his small apartment), or worship your body, doing all the work while you just got to lay there.
His hands and lips were everywhere, lulling you into a state of deeper relaxation. He kept moving the towel over your body when he was done kissing there so he could move on to another newly bare area. He repeated this until you were completely dry and feeling very loved and well taken care of.
“Let’s get into bed now, yeah?”
You could only agree with him and nod as he led you to his bedroom and into his bed, a place you were very familiar with at this point. You curled right up in his bed like you belonged there (he’d argue you absolutely did). He slotted himself in behind you, tugging you close to him.
“Theeere we go. Nice and cozy?”
“Mhm. Very.”
“Just let go of all of that tension and stress for me.” He began to massage your shoulders. “That’s right…”
Your legs tangled with his. Your chest was pressed to his.
His hips bumped forward into you and you laughed. “Trying to get hard again? Will you not let me actually relax?”
“You wanted this, right? My cock? Relax.” He rolled you onto your back. He settled on top of you. “Lay back. Let me do all the work. I mean that.”
His lips grace your neck, leaving lots of warm kisses there as his hands caress your sides. “Just let me…mmm…let me love on you some.”
“I think you did enough of that in the shower.”
He shook his head. “Uh uh…never enough for my girl.” He spread your legs wider and his thumb found your slit.
“You exhaust me, John Truman Carter the Third.” A soft laugh escaped you.
He pouted. “Aw, but you love me.”
You sighed dramatically. “Must be why I’m in your apartment and in your bed.”
“Must be.” He peppered kisses across your chest. “Definitely not because you hate me. Something’s gotta keep you coming back for me. Maybe it’s my money or my cock, I dunno.”
You give his shoulder a playful shove. “Yeah, right. Your cock is definitely the only reason I’m still with you.”
“Pretty big reason though, right?”
“Definitely a very… very big reason I stick around.”
He peppered your face in kisses as he rubbed your clit slowly. “If it’s so big, we gotta warm you up first so it’ll fit.”
You snorted. “You’d fuckin’ better.”
He smirked as he kissed your neck. “Don’t I always?”
“Of course you do.”
“Because I take good care of my girl, don’t I?” He nipped at your earlobe. He rubbed your clit faster.
“Yes.” You whined. “You do.”
“Fuck yeah, I do. Isn’t this just a perfect way to end a fucking shitty day?”
“Mhm.” You agreed. “The best way. But we’re gonna get all sweaty again and we’ll probably need to shower again. Which would use more water. Which would not be great for your water bill.”
“You telling me to stop? I’ll take a shitty shift of Deb’s or something. She’ll let us shower at her place as a thank you for that.”
“You really think so?”
“Won’t know until I ask, of course, but I’m pretty sure she-”
“No.”
“What?!” John sighed in exasperation. “Come on, Deb!”
“I’m sorry, John, I can’t. I have a social life too, you know.”
“We would just need to shower at your place.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that. I have company today.”
“Maybe Susan would let us shower at her place.” John sighed after he hung up.
You shook your head. “She’s got her firefighter over tonight.”
“Damn it…” John murmured.
“We could just go find a public pool to hop into.” You suggested.
“You? In a bikini? Sold.”
“What? N-”
It’s too late. He’s already all over you again and you hardly want him to stop until you’re lost in him completely and experiencing bliss underneath him.
summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.
notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)
warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 18779
It started on a random Tuesday night.
You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.
You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.
After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.
You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.
When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.
Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.
You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.
Then… that Tuesday night happened.
You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.
There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.
Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.
You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.
But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.
And something deep inside you snapped.
You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.
Simple, right?
Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.
And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.
You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.
And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.
The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.
His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.
“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.
He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”
And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.
You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.
“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”
You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.
He misses his best friend.
You miss the boy you’re in love with.
It’s not the same. Not even close.
“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”
He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.
“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”
You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”
He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”
Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.
“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”
“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.
His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.
And you do.
Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”
He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.
“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”
Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.
“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”
You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”
He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”
Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.
“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”
The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.
Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.
“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”
He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.
You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.
“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.
You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”
He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.
“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?”
(Shit, baby… all this for me?)
You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.
“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.
Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.
Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.
He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.
Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.
One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.
“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”
Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.
His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.
Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.
He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.
“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”
He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.
“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”
It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.
He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—
You shatter.
The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.
He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.
“That was—”
“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.
He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”
“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”
“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”
Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.
“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”
You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”
You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.
“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.
He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.
“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”
Then he drops you.
You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.
And God, does he fuck you.
He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.
And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.
And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.
-
You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.
You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.
And so does your heart.
God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.
You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.
You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.
You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.
You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.
It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.
Another knock echoes through the apartment.
You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.
So you open the door.
“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.”
(Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)
It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.
She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.
Oh no.
“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?”
(Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)
You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”
“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?”
(Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)
You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.
“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says.
(You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)
Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.”
(She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)
She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?”
(So why is she wearing your shirt?)
“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.”
(Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)
“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk.
(What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)
“¡Mamá!”
She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.”
(Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)
Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.”
(It’s not like that.)
“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.”
(It could be! I want grandbabies.)
“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.”
(Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)
His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.”
(How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)
Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”
You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.
“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”
She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”
“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”
Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”
“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.
You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.
“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”
She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.
“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”
She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”
He frowns. “Oblivious?”
She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”
“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”
Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”
His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.
You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”
“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”
His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”
You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”
“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”
“You could have texted me,” you mutter.
“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”
You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”
His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”
“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”
You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”
He shrugs. “A little.”
You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.
“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”
You drop your hands. “Two nights?”
He nods.
“Where’s she going to sleep?”
He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”
“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”
He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”
“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”
He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”
Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”
“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”
You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”
“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”
You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”
He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”
He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”
You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.
Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.
After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.
You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.
Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!
You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.
“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.
Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”
You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.
“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.
“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.
You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.
“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”
You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”
Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”
“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.
He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”
She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”
Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.
“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”
Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.
Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.
After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.
Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.
By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.
“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.
“I’m in my room!” you call back.
You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.
You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.
Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”
“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”
He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”
You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”
“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”
“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”
He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”
You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”
He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”
“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”
You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.
You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.
Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.
“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.
Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”
Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.
His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.
Then he sees you.
And he stops.
His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.
“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”
You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”
He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”
You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”
He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"
You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”
You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”
Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.
The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.
“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.”
(Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)
Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.
It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.
“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”
You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”
Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”
“Sam,” Joaquín warns.
“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”
You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”
He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”
Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”
Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.
“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”
Lover Boy?
Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.
Right?
You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.
You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.
Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.
“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.
You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”
You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.
Joaquín freezes.
His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.
“Holy fu—”
“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”
He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.
Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”
Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.
“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”
Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.
Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”
And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.
Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.”
(Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)
You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.
Then the waiter appears.
He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”
“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.
The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.
“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.
The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”
“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.
“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.
The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.
“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”
She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”
Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”
Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”
“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”
“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.
“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”
Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”
“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”
You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.
Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.
He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”
You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”
“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.
Your eyes go wide.
“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.
You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”
Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”
Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.
“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”
You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”
He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.
“Tell me what you think.”
You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”
“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”
He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.
Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.
The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”
“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”
He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”
Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.
Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”
“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.
You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."
Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.
Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.
“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.
“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”
“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”
You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.
“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.
You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”
His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”
You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”
“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.
The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.
“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.
“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”
Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.
“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”
“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”
You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.
With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.
“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”
Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.
“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.
Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.
Was that... jealousy?
No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.
But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.
And maybe you’re just imagining it.
Maybe it’s nothing.
But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.
You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.
But you do.
You want him to be jealous.
“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”
You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”
He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”
“None you’re cleared to know about.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”
You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”
Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”
You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”
“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”
You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”
Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.
It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.
You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.
You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.
“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.
Then he turns to your side of the booth.
He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.
“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.
You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”
The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”
You glance up at him. “I bet.”
There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.
Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.
“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”
You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”
His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”
When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.
Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.
You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”
Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”
You shoot him a look. “What?”
Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”
But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.
Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.
“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”
You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.
The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.
But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.
Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”
Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.
Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.
You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.
Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.
The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.
Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.
Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.
And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.
Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.
“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”
The air stills.
Your pulse skips.
Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.
Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.
And before any of you can even attempt to recover—
“How’s everything going?”
The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.
The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.
“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”
You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”
Joaquín goes completely still beside you.
The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”
You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”
“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”
“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.
There’s a beat of stunned silence.
The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”
“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”
Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”
The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.
“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.
You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.
“Are you—”
“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”
Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”
Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.
Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”
Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”
“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.
Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.
You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”
Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.
Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”
Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”
Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”
The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”
There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.
The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.
After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.
You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.
Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”
Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.
The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.
Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.
You glare at him.
He pretends not to notice.
From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.
Neither of you move.
Neither of you speak.
You just... wait.
After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.
Real silence.
Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.
You break the silence first.
“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”
He finally looks at you. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”
He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”
“Oh, you mean you?”
“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”
“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”
“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”
He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”
“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”
“I didn’t make a scene.”
“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”
“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”
You frown. “So?”
He looks away, jaw flexing hard.
You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”
“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”
He stops.
Your breath catches.
“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”
“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”
“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”
The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.
“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”
His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.
You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.
“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”
His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.
“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”
Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.
His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.
“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”
You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.
“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”
“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”
Mistake.
The word hollows you out.
You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”
He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”
“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”
Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.
Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.
You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.
“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.
Then you slam your door.
Hard.
-
You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.
When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.
But he hasn’t.
Of course he hasn’t.
You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.
You clear your throat. “Morning.”
His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”
Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.
“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."
You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.
The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.
Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.
“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”
“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.
“Fine,” you lie right after.
Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”
Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”
Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.
“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”
Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.
When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.
Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.
She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.
Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.
Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.
You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.
Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.
Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.
“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”
You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.
Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.
“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”
Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.
And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.
By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.
Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.
Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.
Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”
A peace offering—fragile as glass.
You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”
He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”
“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”
He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”
It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.
You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”
He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”
Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”
He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.
“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”
The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.
Because it’s not real.
And you can’t keep pretending it is.
Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.
You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.
Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.
“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”
“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”
Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”
Your breath catches. Hard.
A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.
“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”
Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.
Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.
You don’t wait to hear more.
Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.
Because she sees it.
Everyone sees it.
Everyone but him.
You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.
But you don’t.
Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.
Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.
You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.
Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.
You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.
He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.
Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.
You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.
And then—a knock.
So soft, it’s barely a tap.
You stop breathing.
Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.
You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.
“Hey—uh, are you awake?”
Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.
“Um. Yeah.”
There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.
“…Can I come in?”
For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.
“…Yeah. It’s open.”
The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.
You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”
He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.
“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”
You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”
He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”
Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.
You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”
He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.
Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.
Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.
Your throat tightens. “Me too.”
He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.
“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”
You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.
He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.
“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”
Your breath stutters, just a little.
He notices—of course he notices. He always does.
Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.
His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Neither of you move.
The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.
He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”
Your heart squeezes, painfully.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”
He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”
You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.
He knows the answer.
You know he knows it.
But he wants you to say it.
He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.
And God, it’s intimate.
Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.
He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.
Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”
Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.
Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.
“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.
You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.
“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.
His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.
“And the second?” he breathes.
Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.
You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.
“No falling in love.”
The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.
His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.
“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”
Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.
He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.
“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.
Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.
“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”
The whole world stops.
You don’t say no.
You don’t even think it.
You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”
And that’s all it takes.
He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.
You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.
And it does.
Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.
He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.
You go willingly.
Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.
When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.
He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.
You kiss him again.
Harder this time.
His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.
As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.
He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.
“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”
Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”
Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.
He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.
His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”
“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”
He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."
He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.
He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.
He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.
“You’re so beautiful.”
Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.
Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.
He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.
His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.
When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.
A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.
He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”
Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.
“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.
“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”
You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”
You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.
“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”
The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.
“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”
He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.
“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”
His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.
You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.
He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”
“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.
“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.
Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”
His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”
Then he moves.
He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.
“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”
Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.
His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.
Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.
For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.
Breathing. Shaking. Whole.
Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.
Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.
“Fuck, Joaquín—”
He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.
“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”
Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.
Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.
“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”
You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.
His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.
“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”
You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.
“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”
“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”
His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.
Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.
Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.
“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”
“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”
His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.
“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.
You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.
Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—
But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.
Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.
“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”
Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”
He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”
You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—
And then everything goes white.
It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.
His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”
You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.
For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.
Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.
You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.
“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”
A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.
You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.
He noses your temple.
You smile.
And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.
Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.
“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”
He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.
“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”
You swallow, chest tightening.
He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.
“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”
Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”
“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”
Your eyes burn—warm, aching.
“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.
“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”
You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.
“And now?” you ask.
He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.
“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”
You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.
This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.
And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.
Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.
Lucía’s door, maybe.
Or fate laughing quietly to itself.
Either way, you fall asleep smiling.
-
Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.
You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.
For a few minutes you don’t move.
You just watch him breathe.
Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.
Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.
It would be easy to stay here forever.
Too easy.
But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.
Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”
You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”
He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”
And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.
He offers his hand, and you take it.
You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.
By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.
Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.
When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.
He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.
“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.
You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”
“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”
You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”
“But you love me.”
You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”
And then you kiss him again.
Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.
The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.
His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.
And that’s when—
“Ahem.”
You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.
Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.
“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”
Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.
“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.
Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.
You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.
“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”
Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.
“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”
Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”
She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.
“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”
Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.
“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”
Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.
“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”
You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.
“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”
She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”
She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.
“I know where babies come from, hijo.”
You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.
Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.
You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.
“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.
You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”
He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.
His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”
Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—
“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!”
(Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)
You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.
The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.
And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.
Medical school is hard. It's even harder when your brother is officially your boss, and you have the most debilitating crush on the intern in charge of you. From THIS moodboard.
warnings: 18+, mdni! canon medical talk, explicit sexual content (oral f receiving, protected pinv), reader is mark greene's half-sister, but remains undescribed physically, she also has a little bit of performance anxiety surrounding orgasms w/c: 6.5k
main masterlist // ER masterlist
You didn’t know that you had a brother until you were nine, and your mother died.
Your parents were never fully together, per se, but your dad was a fairly constant presence in your life. At every birthday, recital, soccer game. He’d go away for work, and come back with some kind of present for you, and a little gift for your mom too.
If somebody had told you that his ‘work trips’ simply meant that he was with his other, original, family, you would have laughed.
There’s no way.
How could a man maintain two entirely separate families in the same city, and not get caught until your mom has a massive heart attack and dies in her sleep?
As your newfound legal guardian, he’d been left to introduce you to Mark and his mother. The other Greene Family.
To this day, you’re still not sure how he broke the news. You’ve never asked Mark - it didn’t seem fair to reopen old wounds.
As a nine-year-old with no other relatives, you’d moved into the box room at the back of the house - barely enough room for a bed, much less a person. It didn’t help that Mark’s mom insisted every single trace of your life be confined to that room.
If somebody was visiting, they’d never know you even lived there.
In hindsight, you understand where she was coming from. Mark’s parents had been married, and your presence wrecked that. They didn’t separate, but it was never the same.
All of them, including your dad, would have been far better off without you.
Despite that, Mark was a saving grace. Never once did he hold your past against you, understanding that you had nothing to do with your dad’s grievances. Instead, he took you under your wing, even at eighteen. He played soccer with you, took you out to lunch, and looked out for you.
Of course, it couldn’t last forever, and soon Mark went off to college, leaving you caught between a depressed step-mother (if that was what you could call her), and an alcoholic father.
Life was hard, made brighter only by Mark’s occasional visits. He’d call and write, telling you all about medical school - how he had a girlfriend named Jen, and they were going to have a baby. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you had no parents at all, and simply lived with your brother.
Even now, you wonder if you would have become a doctor without Mark’s influence.
You hadn’t quite taken the same path as him, training as a nurse during undergrad, before landing a scholarship for medical school. Even with the extra help, you wouldn’t have been able to afford to move to Chicago without him.
The nursing job at County? Definitely something Mark managed to wrangle on your behalf. You can pick up locum shifts whenever you need some extra cash - Carol always needs the help.
You moved into his and Jen’s spare room, barely bigger than your one back home, but endlessly more inviting. You paid your rent in babysitting Rachel until you had enough saved to get your own shoebox, and life suddenly started looking up. Now, finally, it’s all making sense.
You’ve started your clinical rotations. Practicing the job you’re going to be working until you’re sixty. Being at County helps - you’ve grown very familiar with Mark’s friends over the years. Doug, Carol, Susan.
Feels a little less like being thrown to the wolves.
After a harrowing six weeks in surgery, spending as much time as possible in the ER with Benton, you’re finally back until Christmas. You love it here. It’s exactly your speed.
There’s just one problem.
In your entire medical school career thus far, nobody has terrified you the way John Carter does. Not because he’s scary, or unpleasant, or anything of the sort.
But because you can’t think straight whenever you’re in a ten-foot radius of him. Which, unfortunately, is most of your day.
It’s not your fault. Carter is exactly your type - practically tailor-made to your tastes. If you’d been asked to build yourself a boyfriend at the age of ten, you’re pretty sure you would’ve come up with somebody almost identical to him.
Maybe he wouldn’t be quite so popular with women. You’ve never been one for competition - ironic, since you’ve chosen to devote your life to medicine.
You had been clocked immediately by Doug and Carol for your crush, leading to some interminable teasing during your surgical rotation. After all your time in Chicago, they’ve become as much siblings to you as Mark.
Unfortunately, Doug Ross is far more perceptive than Mark Greene, and likes to lord that fact over you. Thus far, his meddling has included shoving you into Carter, tricking you both into wearing matching costumes at the ER Halloween party, and even locking you both in a supply closet under the guise of a dodgy hinge.
Things have only gotten worse now that you’re in the ER every day, with a whole new group of students.
There are four of you. You, Iain, Madeline, and Emil. All entrusted largely to Carter for the duration of your placement.
Emil is nice. Quiet, and very obviously not cut out for Emergency Medicine (he’d confessed to you on day one that he was gunning for geriatrics), he’s smart in an entirely non-judgemental way, and you’ve studied with him on more than one occasion.
You tried your hardest to like Madeline. As one of the few other women on your course, you’d felt like it was important to have some kind of sisterhood. Support each other in a field dominated by men. She didn’t quite share the same sentiment. While she doesn’t seem to have a huge interest in the ER, she does have an interest in John Carter.
A big one.
If you thought your crush was obvious, Madeline is shameless. She’ll try and flirt with him over the most severe traumas, while the rest of you are elbow-deep in some guy’s guts.
The worst part was, you thought it might be working at the start. For the first week or so, he seemed to entertain it, leading to all sorts of rumours in the ER.
You’re not proud to admit it, but it made you sick with jealousy. Pulling some strings with Mark, you cited an interest in paediatrics as an excuse to work with Doug instead, and tried to put John Carter out of your mind.
It worked for all of a week, before you went to a hospital gala with Mark and the others, and Carter was suddenly everywhere.
It was like Madeline didn’t exist anymore. He was calling for you with traumas, showing you how to suture, and helping you with your charting.
You have no idea what changed.
According to Doug, Carter is into you. But given his track record with Carol, you’re not jumping to take his advice. You’re too scared to ask for anyone else’s opinion, for fear it gets back to John.
It’s only so long before Mark figures it out.
He may be oblivious, but he’s not stupid.
“What’s your problem?” He asks, dropping down next to you in the doctor’s lounge.
You jump slightly at the intrusion, having spent the last ten minutes lost in your thoughts. Madeline’s been even more overt with her flirtations today, and you’re starting to worry that it might be working. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“Mhm,” Mark replies, entirely unconvinced. “You sound like Rachel. And she’s seven.”
You shoot him a glare. “I do not. I just don’t want to come running to my brother every time anything goes wrong. Gives the wrong impression.”
“You know - you don’t have to make everything as hard as humanly possible for yourself, just because you don’t want to ask for help.”
“I ask for help!” You protest, and Mark snorts.
“Sure. And I’m not getting a divorce.”
Finally, there’s Iain. The worst of them all. Before he even opens his mouth, it’s obvious that he wants to go into surgery. Trauma surgery, to be specific. He carries himself like he’s already an intern, like this placement is just a formality before someone hands him a scalpel and a title.
And for some reason, he’s decided you’re the easiest one to bait.
Carter is tied up with a complicated trauma, Madeline hovering nearby like a shadow, Emil buried in charts, and you’re left with Iain and a patient who needs sutured - simple enough on paper.
“I’ll do it,” You say, a little too quickly, trying to sound confident.
Iain doesn’t stop you. He just steps back, folding his arms. Watching.
It’s almost worse.
You prep the site, hands steady at first as you gather the needle. You’ve done this before. Plenty of times. But there’s something about the way he’s standing there - silent, expectant - that makes your fingers feel heavier than usual.
“Local?” he asks, after a beat.
“I’ve got it,” you reply, sharper than you mean.
A pause. Then, mildly, “Just checking you weren’t going to skip steps.”
Heat creeps up your neck. You inject the anaesthetic, wait a moment longer than necessary, just to be sure. The patient winces, then settles.
Taking a breath, you angle the needle and press it into the skin. You realise immediately that your bite is wrong, and that the stitch won’t hold. Instead, it tears the flesh at one side. Thankfully, your patient isn’t watching, instead opting to look out the window instead.
God, you wish it was a cannula. Or bloods. You’ve been doing them for years - can get even the most tricky veins with your eyes closed.
But suturing is almost exclusively medical students and doctors. You haven’t had nearly as much practice. Especially with Iain’s presence.
You’re totally off your game.
“Depth’s wrong,” Iain says.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Your jaw tightens. “I said I’ve got it.”
A small pause.
“Right,” He says. “Looks that way. You’re overthinking it. Or maybe underthinking. Hard to tell.”
You don’t respond, teeth gritted as you prepare for another attempt..
“Hand it here,” He adds, already reaching for gloves.
“No,” You snap. “I’ve got it.”
“Based on what?” he replies evenly.
You feel the patient shift under your hands.
“I said I’ve got it,” You repeat, quieter now.
His voice is devoid of all emotion, “You don’t.”
He steps in before you can stop him, close enough now that you have to move aside or be in his way. The decision is made for you.
God, you can’t believe he’s making such a fool of you in front of a patient. In private, you expect that kind of thing. But you’d hoped he would have slightly more respect for you in public.
“Watch,” He says, the word edged with a derision that makes your stomach ache. “This isn’t complicated.”
You leave him to it, for fear that you’re about to cry in the middle of Curtain Two. You’ve had enough embarrassment for one day, and stick to charting, to small tasks, to anything that doesn’t involve someone standing over your shoulder waiting for you to mess up again.
By the time things finally start to quiet down, you slip out under the excuse of grabbing supplies you don’t actually need.
The staff room is empty when you get there. Fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead, vending machine buzzing in the corner. You lean back against the counter, pressing your palms into your eyes for a second, willing the tightness in your throat to go away.
It was stupid.
It shouldn’t matter. You’ve done cannulas before. Nobody gets all of them first time. That’s not how it works. You shouldn’t be letting a stupid comment from a rich prick stick in your head like that. You’ve worked harder in the past year than he has in his whole life, just for the privilege of getting to be here.
A few tears come anyway.
Maybe Mark’s mom was right. Maybe you did just follow him out here because you had nothing else going for you.
“Hey.”
You drop your hands immediately.
John is standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he’s been there a second, like he’s been watching you.
“You alright?”
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”
He doesn’t move. “Carol said you were upset.”
You sigh. Of course she did.
You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “I’m okay. Just - long shift.”
“You’ve had longer. Worse. What’s different about today?”
If he keeps looking at you with such a tender expression, you think you might bawl. “Just Iain being a dick. I don’t really want to talk about it. Exam stress, portfolio stuff, it all just caught up with me. M’fine. Promise.” You offer him a smile, though you can’t imagine it’s in any way convincing.
“Want me to give him the impaction in four?”
You snort. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. Guy's a dick.”
“I think… that would make me feel a little better, yeah.”
“Consider it done,” Carter muses, before continuing. “I know you don’t like to use the Mark connection, but if Iain’s really bothering you-”
“I’m fine, John. Promise.”
He nods, and steps back towards the door, when you speak again.
“Carter?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think you could maybe give me some suturing tips tomorrow? I think I could use some practice.”
He doesn’t seem at all surprised, and you wonder how much he knows. Just as he’s about to leave, he pauses. “You know, she had chronic steroid use. Makes skin really fragile.”
“What?” Your head whips round to face him.
“Not your fault,” Carter shrugs, and then he’s gone.
*****
You manage avoid Iain until your final hour, when Carter appears at your back. “Greene, McDougall - I want opinions.”
You fall into step behind John, Iain a few paces behind, barely able to hide his disinterest.
“Middle-aged male,” He says quickly. “Chest pain. Came in about twenty minutes ago. Central obesity, history of Type 2 Diabetes, currently taking Metformin, Propanolol and Atorvastatin. Here,” He passes you a chart, “is his ECG. Talk to me.”
You examine the patient in the bed first, while Iain goes straight for the ECG. The patient - Michael Murray, you note - is diaphoretic, pale, one hand pressed flat against his chest. Not sweaty, the way you’d expect from a straightforward MI, but you can’t rule it out yet.
Iain answers first, of course.
“Likely non-cardiac,” he says, glancing briefly at the chart. “Could be reflux. Maybe musculoskeletal. He’s overweight, risk factors unclear. When patients are that obese, they can’t really tell what’s chest and what’s stomach pain.”
You reach for the ECG, examining it carefully. On first glance there’s nothing hugely wrong - no obvious STEMI, or tented T-waves. But there is some ST-depression. “I would do another ECG. Posterior this time. Make sure it’s not an MI before I move onto other differentials.”
“Based on what?” Iain asks.
“ST-depression in the anterior leads. And I think I see some prominent R waves in V1 and V2.”
“It’s non-specific,” He cuts in. “You can’t call a posterior infarct off that.”
“I’m not calling it,” You reply, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m saying it’s a possibility.”
“A remote one. Much more likely indigestion given the presentation.”
The patient shifts again, visibly uncomfortable. You glance at Carter, who remains quiet, and you suddenly realise what he’s waiting for. He wants you to fight for this, for your patient. “I’ll do another one,” You say, reaching for the leads. “Posterior, this time.”
Iain’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “It’s not necessary,” he says.
“Maybe not,” Carter replies evenly. “But it’s quick, cheap, and if she’s right, it matters a hell of a lot to this patient.”
It’s a strange feeling when the ECG comes back with massive ST-elevation in the V7 to V9 leads. On the one hand, you know the patient has just had terrible news delivered to him, and you empathise greatly. On the other hand, you’re so relieved to finally get one up on Iain.
Within minutes, the trolley’s being wheeled out, heading upstairs to the cath lab. As it disappears through the doors, Carter turns back. His eyes land on Iain.
“You see the problem?” He says.
Iain doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t even glance at the patient. You went straight for the ECG, and treated him like a textbook case. Pain, presentation, risk - those matter more than your first impressions.”
Iain’s expression is tight. “It wasn’t a classic presentation.”
“They rarely are,” Carter replies. “That’s the point.” He checks his watch, before letting out a heavy sigh. “Anyway, I think that’s a good place to stop for the night. Go, try and enjoy the rest of your nights, and be here for seven sharp.”
You all disperse, and make for the lockers. Despite the save at the end of the day, you’re still desperate to get home, and clean the hospital grime that lingers for weeks out of your hair. Carter follows, chatting absentmindedly about the MI. How he doesn’t think he would’ve caught it at that age.
Madeline tries to catch him on the way out of the lounge. Asking for some kind of favour regarding her portfolio.
“Hm? Yeah, I’ll catch you tomorrow. We can talk about it then.” Carter’s voice is distracted, and he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t stop.
Madeline falters, just slightly. “Oh - okay.”
But he’s already looking past her.
At you.
“You heading out?” he asks.
You nod, adjusting your bag. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he says. “Come on - I’m done too.”
You push through the hospital doors together, the air outside cooler, quieter - for a second, neither of you say anything. You wipe at the sweat on your forehead, and let out a small sigh.
Finally, he speaks, “You did well back there.”
You glance over at him. “I almost didn’t say anything.”
“I know,” He shrugs. “I watched you hesitate. But you spoke up, and that’s what matters. You saved a man’s life today.”
“You knew it was a posterior MI,” You argue.
“I suspected - you confirmed.” He pauses for a second, as you walk up to your respective platforms. “Get some sleep. You look like you need it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Me too,” he admits. “Long shift.”
The train pulls in, brakes screeching slightly as it slows. “See you tomorrow, Carter.”
He offers you a soft smile. “See you round, Greene.”
*****
You hear them before you see them. Heading into work first thing, you’d been planning on getting a head-start on some scut work to free you up for studying later. It appears some of your colleagues have beaten you to it.
You don’t mean to overhear, but the lounge door is creaked open, and when you pause to tie your lace, you catch a voice.
“…it’s getting ridiculous.”
Madeline.
You pause, just out of sight of the doorway.
“What is?” Iain’s voice, lower, disinterested.
“Carter,” She says, sounding annoyed. Like he should just immediately know what she’s talking about. “Or have you not noticed?”
A beat.
Then, dryly, “If this is about you not being the centre of his attention anymore, I’m not interested.”
“It’s not that,” She snaps, a little too quickly. It definitely is.
You should leave.
You don’t.
“It’s about her,” Madeline continues. “He keeps pulling her onto cases. Showing her things he doesn’t show the rest of us. I mean, I know she’s his boss’ sister, but come on.”
“He’s overcorrecting,” Iain says. “People do that. Get fixated.”
“On her?” Madeline scoffs. “Why?”
“Why do you think?” Iain says, quieter now, but sharper.
Madeline doesn’t answer straight away.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, guarded.
Another pause. You can almost picture the look on his face. “Come on,” He says. “You’re not that naïve.”
Your stomach twists.
Madeline lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “You think - what? That they’re…?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
“I think,” Iain says finally, “that kind of attention usually comes with a reason.”
“No,” Madeline says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not - no. He wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t?” Iain repeats, almost amused. “I thought that was actually kind of his thing. If you’re to believe what the nurses say.”
“He’s not like that,” She insists, but there’s something strained underneath it now. “And she-” a scoff, sharper this time, “-she’s not exactly-”
She stops again, like even she doesn’t quite know how to finish it. She doesn’t have to.
“Right,” Iain says, unconvinced. “Because this makes so much more sense otherwise.”
“It doesn’t have to be that,” Madeline snaps. “Maybe he just… pities her or something.”
That stings in a completely different way.
“Sure,” Iain says. “That must be it.” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Either way, it won’t last.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means,” He says, “if it’s about performance, she won’t keep up. I mean, she’s a fucking nurse, for Christ’s sake.” A pause. “And if it’s not,” He adds, “that kind of thing burns out fast. She’s just pretending, and they’re all indulging her because they like her.”
Madeline doesn’t respond.
You don’t wait to hear more. Your pulse is loud in your ears, drowning everything else out.
She won’t keep up.
That kind of thing burns out fast.
Not only do you have to deal with the very real prejudices against you for your background - now there’s apparently a sex scandal, so obscure that even you and Carter aren’t aware of it, despite allegedly being involved.
You just need to keep your head down, and ignore them entirely.
A patient needs reviewing. Then another. Observations, notes, small jobs no one else wants - you take them all, keep moving, keep your hands busy so your head doesn’t catch up.
When there’s a lull, you pull out your notes, leaning against the counter, flipping through exam checklists. Cardio, Neuro, GI, Breast - just a few of the practical exams you need to be able to perform flawlessly for your OSCEs coming up next month. You mouth them under your breath, like if you say them enough times they’ll stick in your brain.
“Practicing or hiding?”
You look up.
Carter nods toward the empty treatment bay. “Come on.”
You follow him in without question.
He sets up a practice pad, hands you the needle holder. “Show me.”
You start slower this time. Deliberate. Thinking about depth, angle, tension - getting the perfect bite. Already, things are looking better - all you had to do was remove Iain from the equation. He gives you a few tips, showing you how to do other stitches for different injuries, and you get to practicing on a banana.
He watches your next stitch. “OSCEs coming up, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be fine,” He says. “They’re more interested in whether you think about what you’re doing than whether it’s perfect.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It’s true,” John shrugs. “Talk through it. Show your reasoning. Half of this is just convincing people you know why you’re doing something. Tell them what any sign you spot could indicate”
You nod, tying off the stitch a little more neatly this time.
“See?” he adds. “That’s already better.”
Before you can respond-
“Carter - trauma incoming! We need you in the bay.”
“Shit,” Carter scrubs a hand across his face. “I’m sorry-”
You’re about to interject and tell him it’s fine, that he’s done more than enough already, when he keeps talking.
“You want to run through some examinations later?”
“Oh,” You reply. “I uh, I get off at five.” It’s not that you aren’t grateful for the offer. But you’ve been here since six-forty-five this morning, and the idea of overtime is not an appealing one.
“Yeah, I know. I do too. You could come round to my place - we could order pizza, do a practice exam?”
You must be dreaming. This cannot be real. And yet, Carter’s scribbling something down on a piece of paper, and pressing it into your hand. An address.
“Any time after six is fine.”
*****
It’s only when you’re trying to pick out an outfit that you realise what a terrible idea this may be. Half of your classmates already think you’re sleeping with Carter - anything that could come out of tonight would surely only further that.
Then, you really start to consider Iain and Madeline’s position in your life. Realistically, once this rotation is over, you’re unlikely to ever see them again. Your graduating class is huge, and soon you’ll all be picking electives anyway.
In an ideal world, you’ll match to County. Neither of them want to stay in Chicago after graduating.
You’re overthinking.
This is fine.
Carter is your friend, and that’s all this is.
You manage to get out of your head, and land on an outfit - a slightly-nicer-than-average top and jeans. Casual, but definitely a step up from scrubs.
Unfortunately for you, Carter had neglected to mention the fact that he lives in a literal castle. You’re still trying to get your bearings when he opens the door, smile wide. “Hey, you made it!”
“Are you like a Kennedy or something?” You mumble, glancing around the foyer as he leads you inside. Your whole apartment could fit in one tiny corner of the hallway “Jesus.”
He has the decency to look a little embarrassed, rubbing at his neck. “Uh, yeah - the Carter Family isn’t really known for subtlety. But my grandparents are away on holiday, so we’ve got the place to ourselves.”
“I don’t think we’d be encroaching on their space even if they were here.”
Truthfully, you’re glad there’s nobody else here. While the red cotton is nicer than scrubs, it’s certainly not nice enough to meet Carter’s rich-as-God grandparents.
His room isn’t quite as extravagant - very Carter, but still obviously full of items that cost more than you make in a month. “Make yourself at home.”
You let your backpack drop to the floor, and perch at the very edge of the bed, too scared to touch anything else. “So… uh, how do you want to do this?”
“Well,” He starts, leaning back against the headboard. “I figured I could be your mock patient, and you can just treat this like an OSCE. Then we can go over anything you missed at the end over pizza?”
“Are all the medical students getting such special treatment?” Deep down, you know the answer already, but a part of you wants the confirmation.
Carter scoffs. “God, no. Emil, I would consider helping him out within my working hours. The other two are on their own though.”
“Really?” You murmur, leaning forward to rest your chin on your elbow. “Thought you were quite fond of Madeline-”
“Who said that?” Any teasing has disappeared from his tone, his brow furrowed slightly.
“Nurses talk,” You shrug. “You’re forgetting I still do the occasional shift. Lydia knows all.”
“Well, she doesn’t know that,” He grumbles. “I do not like Madeline. At all.”
“Got it,” You reply, suddenly desperate to change the subject. Maybe he’s regretting suggesting this. “Shall we get started?”
“What do you want to do first?”
“Um, Cardio.”
*****
“Okay,” Carter breathes, face only inches from yours. “What’s next?”
“I need to listen to the valves of your heart now,” You reply, trying to drag your gaze away from his. “But uh, first I need to feel your apex beat.”
“Good girl.”
You stiffen just slightly at the phrase, praying that he hasn’t noticed the shift. Your mind races ahead of you, wondering what it would be like if he was saying that in a different context, while you were writhing under him-
No.
You can’t think of him like that. Especially not now. He’s your friend, and he’s doing you a favour, and all you can do is think about how much you’d like him to-
“Mid-clavicular line,” You say, voice barely more than a squeak. “Fifth intercostal space.”
Your fingers press down his bare chest as you feel his ribs, moving slightly until you feel the familiar thump against your hand. It’s strong and regular, but definitely a lot faster than you’d be expecting from a guy Carter’s age.
“What do you notice?”
“It’s a little fast. I should listen to make sure.”
He just nods, and lets you reach for the stethoscope, before you press the diaphragm to the mitral valve. Just as you felt before, his heart is hammering.
You swallow heavily. “Still tachycardic.”
“Why do you think that might be?”
“Um, I guess it could be stress, high caffeine intakes, exercise…”
“Close proximity to a pretty girl?”
“What?”
“S’a good differential. Definitely one you should consider. Now, c’mon. Keep going.”
As if you can think about anything else after that admission. But he’s looking at you expectantly, and you try desperately to make your brain start thinking straight again. You listen to the other valves, and start to check for thrills and heaves, praying that he can’t tell how clammy your hands have gotten.
You press the bell of your stethoscope to his carotid, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep flitting to your lips. “No sign of aortic stenosis,” You say softly, and Carter nods.
“Good sign. What next?”
“Um…” Shit. Your mind has drawn a total and utter blank. Your brain is too occupied with the way Carter’s cologne tickles your nose. “I don’t remember.”
He watches you for a second, before deciding to put you out of your misery. “You should check my back next.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks.”
You check for scars or deformities, before listening to his lung sounds. Because of the way he’s sitting up, your back ends up bent at an awkward angle while you try and check for sacral pitting. “You know,” He murmurs. “Might be easier for you to just sit there.”
The idea of being any closer to John than you are right now makes you positively dizzy, but you’re not in the habit of not listening to him. Mostly.
Bracing your hands across his bare shoulders, you hoist yourself behind him, and get settled. Really, it’s unnecessary. You know already that Carter doesn’t have sacral pitting.
“Nothing interesting?”
“Nope.”
“Can’t really hear you from back there,” He replies. “Sit up a little closer to my ear, honey.”
You comply, getting ready to give him a rundown of the examination, when Carter tilts his head, and kisses you.
Even though the entire study session has arguably been preamble for this, it still manages to catch you off guard. His lips are soft but intentional, parting your own with his tongue.
God, you can’t believe this is happening.
In just a single movement he twists, bracing over you as you’re crowded up against his headboard. Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him further into you.
As close as he can humanly get.
“Nobody would dare fail you if this is the kind of exam you give,” Carter mumbles between kisses, and you groan.
“You’re so mean.” There’s no real bite to it, but you pout against his lips anyway.
His fingers tug at the hem of your sweatshirt, and you lean back to let him discard it, leaving you in only your bra. It’s definitely not one of your sexier items of clothing - focused entirely on comfort during long shifts in the ER - but up until twenty minutes ago you’d assumed that this was simply a study session.
If it were anybody else, you’d feel self-conscious.
Something about John puts you at ease, though. It always has. Even when you were deeply terrified of him, of embarrassing yourself in front of him, you’d known deep down that he’d never make fun of you, even if he didn’t feel the same.
Based on the way you can feel him hardening against your thigh, you figure that’s not an issue. “Prettiest girl in the world,” He mumbles, lips returning to your neck. Eyes fluttering closed, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, and he allows you to tug them downwards. Yours go next, leaving you both in your underwear.
When it comes to foreplay, you’re used to a finger or two, scissoring you open just enough for the main event.
You’re not expecting John to draw back entirely from you, as he starts to press kisses down your navel.
You’re almost embarrassed for him to reach your panties, given how much you’ve managed to soak through them in just a short time. “Is this for me, or do cardio exams just really get you going?”
He shoots you that shit-eating grin, and you roll your eyes, before allowing your upper half to flop back onto his pillow. If he wants to be a dick, two can play at that game-
“Oh.”
Carter wastes no time, mouthing at your cunt through the wet fabric. One hand settles on each thigh, holding you firmly in place for him.
There’s no build-up - just John and his tongue, relentless against your skin. You don’t even register when he gets the fabric out of the way, your hand finding a home in his hair to guide him to where you need it most. “F-Fuck, John-”
“Yeah, honey? You like that?”
The coil in your belly is tightening, and you feel the familiar wave of panic start to wash over you. You’ve never been good with orgasms - it’s always felt too scary to let yourself go like that with another person. What Carter is doing feels really fucking good, but you also know that you don’t want to ruin this. “Need you up here-”
He complies immediately, clambering back up to press his lips to yours. You taste yourself against him, moaning into his touch.
Everything’s going so well, Carter’s reaching for his bedside table, when…
“You have had sex before, haven’t you?”
You pull back. “You did not just ask me that.”
“What? You're… young.”
You stare at him, jaw dropped. “I'm twenty-five, not sixteen. What are you - twenty-nine?”
“Twenty-eight,” He grumbles.
“Well - I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Not worried,” He replies, more earnest than you expected. “Just want it to be good for you.”
You’re suddenly overwhelmed with a deep affection for the man in front of you, and lean forward to kiss him again. The wrapper crinkles as John fiddles to get the condom out without breaking contact with you.
“You’re sure about this?” He asks, and you laugh.
“Not sure I could get a better anatomy lesson if I tried-”
Your voice cuts off in a sharp gasp as he pushes in just slightly, before pulling out again, cock head dragging through for folds. “Fuck.”
He does it again, pushing just a little further, and then retreating. Only on his third time, does your hand cup the back of his head, to draw him against you. Carter bottoms out with a low moan, hips rolling so he catches your clit.
Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, and he starts to move.
“Thought about this so much, sweet girl,” He grunts, peppering kisses across your cheeks as he rocks against you.
It’s a real effort to form a coherent thought, and you lace your fingers through his. “You h-have?”
“Haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that gala. H-Had to get myself off in the shower as soon as I got home, ‘cause of that dress. ‘Cause of you in that dress.”
“Didn’t realise you even noticed.”
“S-Should’ve taken you home right there. Shouldn’t have left you wondering how I felt.”
Carter looks just as overwhelmed as you feel - a bead of sweat is trickling down his chest, and there’s a vein on his forehead that looks like it’s in serious danger of bursting. He picks up the pace a little, and you whimper.
You’ve never whimpered in your life.
You hope you remember this moment for the rest of your life. “Kiss me, Johnny.” Your voice is breathless, almost unmoored from your body.
You can feel the coil tightening again, but it doesn’t feel quite as scary when John is looking at you so sweetly, and pressing kisses to the corner of your mouth in between his praise.
It creeps up on you, and soon your face is buried in the crook of his shoulder as you cry out his name.
*****
“God. Your brother is going to kill me.”
“Mhm, he’ll get over it.” You’re currently tucked into Carter's side under the duvet, fingers tracing soft patterns onto his chest.
“Easy for you to say,” John snorts. “You won’t be the one he kills.”
“I’ll make sure that you’re remembered,” You hum, pressing a kiss to his cheek as you bite back a laugh. “I’ll throw you a memorial, get Benton to eulogise you. It’ll be the event of the season.”
“Glad to hear it. “Make sure to make it tasteful,” He adds, deadpan. “I want something upbeat. Something that says ‘he died young, but at least he had good hair.’”
“You do have good hair,” you murmur, carding your fingers through it like you’re proving the point. “I’ll make sure that’s mentioned. Extensively. Very pullable.”
“I’m sure my grandmother will love to hear that that’s my defining trait.”
“Well, you also give really good head. I’m not sure she’d want to hear about that, though.
A comfortable silence settles over you both, Carter’s arm tightening round you. “…You really think he’ll be that mad?” He asks after a moment, voice dropping just a notch.
You shrug against him. “Mad, yeah. Murderous? Probably not. He likes you.”
“He tolerates me. But just so we’re clear - if I do die, I want you to erect a statue in my honour.”
You groan. “Absolutely not.”
“Life-size.”
“No.”
“Bigger than life-size. Ten feet fall.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Bronze,” He continues, ignoring you entirely. “Dramatic pose. Maybe a sword.”
“You’ve never held a sword in your life.”
“Details.”
It isn’t until an hour later, when you’re cross-legged on John’s bed wearing only his shirt, a pizza box perched between you both, that you have the courage to ask. “So… like, was this just a one-time thing, or… what?”
Not your most eloquent of phrasing, but you figure you’d scare him off if you admitted that you’ve been in love with him pretty much since you saw him for the first time.
“Technically it’s already a two-time thing, since we fucked again in the shower.”
“John-”
“Okay, okay,” He concedes, hands in the air. “Comedy surrounding the sex is not appreciated. Noted. Well… on that note. I think I’d really like to take you out for dinner. Celebrate your catch yesterday properly. Celebrate you properly.”
You smile, so wide that it almost makes your cheeks hurt. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Greene.”
The edges of your soul (I haven't seen yet) ⭐︎ chapter twenty three
⭐︎ We could be safer, just for one day
Warnings: 18+, mdni! smut, blowjobs, spitting and swallowing y'all we are getting freaky here, jealousy (it's silly). angst at the end oops
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader
Word count: 9.5k+
Author's note: I'm sorry for taking forever to finish this chapter. Writers block really kicked my ass but I'm back! buckle up for the next one cause it will hurt! Cowritten with my lovely @hellfire--cult
Series masterlist
☀︎
A smile tears at Steve’s lips when he wakes up this morning, his heart skips a beat, feeling your breath on his skin as you trail kisses down his jaw and his throat. The tip of your nose brushes against the prominent vein on the side of his neck. Warmth blooms everywhere in him and the happiness he’s been so afraid of feeling spreads like a wildfire in him at getting to wake up like this, to you pressed against him, to you kissing him awake, to you adoring him this way.
A low rumble falls from his lips when you kiss that certain spot beneath his ear. His arm is curled around your body like it was all night. Without opening his eyes just yet, his fingers find their way into your hair, and he tugs just the slightest bit, but enough to make you moan against him – a sound that will never fail to make his stomach flip.
“Good morning, Sunshine.”
He hears the way your breath stutters, and it makes him smile. He peeks his eyes open to find you looking at him now, your lips curled into a smile, cheeks flushed, the smallest amount of shyness flashing in your eyes, like you didn’t do the most unspeakable things on this bed last night – much to Eddie’s and Nancy’s dismay.
“Hi.” You whisper and lean closer to peck his lips. A simple sweet kiss that turns heated in a matter of seconds because he can’t resist you. He pulls you on top of him completely, wrapping his arms around your body as he kisses you breathless. His tongue swipes along your bottom lip, and you don’t hesitate to open your mouth wider, moaning as the kiss gets more intense.
Steve smiles against your lips, his heart beats strongly against his chest as your soft whines sound like music to his ears. His fingers run through your hair. Hands sliding down your back, squeezing your hips and then your butt, fingers digging into the flesh.
You moan both at the touch and at him growing harder against your inner thigh. Your core is burning with need already and by the way he is growling into the kiss, moaning and grabbing at you while his hips start grinding against you, you know he wants you too, badly so.
But you want something else today, you’ve been wanting something else for a while now. Steve is so good to you, perfect even. He puts you and your pleasure first. Every chance he gets, he spends his time with his head between your thighs, tasting you, devouring you. He fucks you so good, no matter what position he puts you in, he always makes you see stars and of course you know that he feels good too, you can see it in the way his eyes roll to the back of his head when he comes, you can hear it in the way he whimpers your name, you can feel it in the way he holds you extra tightly and how his hips stutter when he is inside of you but you want him to feel a different type of good, you want to make him feel the type of good that he makes you feel when his face is buried between your thighs.
Steve begins to push you to the side, and you know what comes next, he wants your back pressed against the mattress so he can get on top of you, so he can kiss down your body, so he can taste you.
But today it’s your turn.
You press your palm against his hairy chest, keeping him down against the mattress. His lips slow down against yours, and when you pull away from the kiss and open your eyes to see the confused look on his face, you almost giggle, especially after taking a longer look at him. His hair is a mess, both from sleep and from your last night’s activities. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips bruised.
“What–”
You shush him with another kiss to his lips, giving him the softest peck that makes his hazel eyes soften.
“I wanna try something else today…” You whisper. Your cheeks start to burn so badly.
Steve’s eyebrows shoot up, and his lips part. His throat bobs when he swallows, and he pushes himself up on his elbow. He scratches the back of his neck, “oh?” He squints his eyes at you, noticing how sheepish you look now, how shy.
He brings his hand up to your face, cupping your cheek as his thumb comes to rest on your chin. He pulls your bottom lip free from your teeth.
“What is it, baby?” Steve asks, unable to stop the smirk from spreading. It’s been weeks since you’ve started dating, since you’ve started having sex, and still you get so shy at his nicknames, at his touches. He loves it.
Your heart pounds against your ribcage, nerves going wild inside of you, and the way he is looking at you isn’t helping your case at all. You take a deep breath and lick your lips, still aware of his thumb on your chin and how it’s still brushing against your lower lip.
“I wanna make you feel good, Steve.”
Steve gulps. His stomach flips once again. He has an idea of what you mean but he needs you to say it.
“How?”
You blink at him. Desire starts burning in you, just the thought alone at making him fall apart drives you insane.
You could tell him, or you could show him.
Or both.
“Wanna make you feel good with my mouth,” you murmur, not breaking eye contact, you watch his reaction closely, watching the way his eyes darken. “Wanna suck your dick, Steve.” You whisper before you wrap your lips around his thumb, teasing with your tongue before you suck a little. And by the way he twitches against your inner thigh and how a low moan falls from his lips, you know he wants it too.
“Can I?” You ask sweetly after releasing his thumb. “Please?”
How could he ever say no to you?
“F-Fuck…” Steve murmurs, nearly whining. “Are you sure, baby?”
You nod, and he can see it in your eyes how badly you want this.
But he suddenly grows shy, and his cheeks start burning too now. He clears his throat, “I just–” He huffs, eyes moving away from yours for a split second. His jaw clenches as he looks around before his gaze returns to you. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, just stares at you.
Uncertainty bubbles inside of you. Does he think that you won’t be good at it?
“I know I don’t have the kind of experience you do, but I wanna make you feel good, Steve.”
Steve’s eyes widen at your words, and he quickly shakes his head when he realizes the kind of thoughts that are running through your mind right now. His hand falls to the side of your neck, and he leans in to peck your lips. He tucks your hair behind your ear.
Your brows are furrowed when he pulls back again, eyes soft and wide with confusion. God, you are so sweet – wanting to make him feel good, wanting to do such things to him.
“It’s not about you, Sunshine.” He assures you, cheeks heating up more and more. “It’s just… no one has ever… you know…” His words come out awkwardly, shyly, which is something very new to him and to you.
The shock is written all over your face, but once that wears off, Steve can see the way your eyes flash with something that can only be described as satisfaction and excitement.
“You– never?” You whisper, eyes stuck intensely on his face, watching every reaction, enjoying the red cheeks and the shyness he is expressing so freely.
“No.” Steve shrugs.
“How…” You mumble. “Why?” You tilt your head to the side, like you don’t understand how no one’s ever gone down on him. You know about his past, that he was some kind of casanova back in high school and even after… in a way. He’s had plenty of sex, but no one has ever sucked his dick? Your mouth is salivating at just the thought of doing it. You have been thinking about this for so long, perhaps longer than you would ever admit to him. You have been dying to watch him fall apart because of your touch, to watch him throw his head back, to watch him lose himself in pleasure, to feel him pulling your hair, to see him looking down at you like you are the only thing that matters, to hear him moan your name, to please him in ways only you can.
Steve shrugs once again, chuckling softly at the frown on your face.
“No one’s ever offered–”
“What kinda girls were you sleeping with?” You roll your eyes. There’s a hint of annoyance in your voice, but also jealousy, despite it all being in the past.
Steve runs his fingers through your hair, his hand falling down to your shoulder, rubbing up and down your arm.
“Doesn’t matter anymore, baby.” Steve smiles at you, kissing your lips.
“You’re right, it doesn’t.” You nod. “Cause I wanna be your first if you’ll let me.” Steve can tell that this news gives you a kind of confidence you didn’t have before. He can tell that you love knowing that you get to be his first in a way the same way he got to be yours. And his heart flutters strongly at the fact that you wanna do this without wanting anything in return.
“I would never say no to you,” he murmurs against your lips.
“No?” You smile, gazing into his eyes as your lips keep brushing against his. “Then ask me.”
Steve gulps. His hazel eyes wide as he looks at you. Something in him stirs, not just his heart or those butterflies in his stomach, something else, something that makes him feel hungry, feral for you, for your mouth on him.
His eyes darken, his grip on you tightens. The air between you is thick and heavy, burning. The sweet atmosphere changes so quickly, evolving into something else.
He doesn’t ask.
He bites his lower lip as his eyes flicker between your own eyes and your puffy lips. And you admire him, the light stubble on his cheeks, his mustache that you begged him not to shave, his messy hair, and those beautiful dark eyes that make him look absolutely desperate for you.
“Touch me.” Steve murmurs. His voice is low, rough from just waking up.
Your stomach flips, excitement bubbling inside of you. You breathe heavily as you wait for him to say it.
He stares at you. Emotions going wild in his eyes, his cock stirs against you and you have to press your lips together to stop yourself from moaning as desire runs deeper and deeper.
“Suck my cock, Sunshine.”
Your stomach flips, and the excitement in you snaps. Steve can see it in the way your eyes basically light up, and your lips curl upwards. Your enthusiasm is almost amusing by how quickly you are to push him back down on the pillows, not even wasting your time to attach your lips to his neck, not wasting time to make him moan. You suck and bite on his skin, marking him. You love covering him in hickeys, and he loves showing them off. You kiss down his chest. A strand of your hair gets stuck on his chain, something that he notices immediately. He gently removes it from his chain, careful not to pull it… yet. His palm comes to rest on the side of your cheek and he looks down at you in adoration and anticipation. His chest starts rising up and down faster and faster, heart pounding in his chest.
“Fuck…” Steve breathes, clenching his jaw at his throbbing dick, the twitching almost becoming painful when he reacts to all your little touches. From the way you kiss down his stomach softly, to the kitten licks you tease his skin with, to the soft sighs escaping your lips, and your hands on his body. The closer you get to where he needs you, the harder he gets. His eyes follow your every movement, glued to you, and god you are a sight for sore eyes – your hair is sprawled across your arched back, cheeks flushed and glowing beneath the sunlight peeking through the blinds. Your back arches more and more as you move lower down his body, and it only makes his case worse, knowing that you are completely bare beneath the sheets that are low on your hips now, exposing you more. He knows you are aching between your thighs, knows that you are wet already, aching for him.
Steve jolts when you trail your tongue along his happy trail, tearing a moan from his lips. Holy fuck.
“You’re so hot, Steve.” You moan, kissing the veins that lead down to his dick. You clench around nothing when you wrap your hand around his throbbing length. His tip is an angry red, leaking already. Your nerves are running wild, heart pounding against your chest. You want this so bad, and by how he’s been reacting so far, you know he wants it just as badly. Still, you can’t help but feel nervous, worried about doing it the wrong way. Though when you press your lips against him, giving his heavy cock a kiss, confidence rushes through you when he lets out a loud moan, followed by your name. You do it again, again, and again.
“Sunshine… Holy fuck–” He breathes and his stomach tenses, his eyes widen, stuck on you and the way you kiss down his length. He can’t believe this is happening.
“Does that feel good, Steve?” You ask sweetly, glancing up at him as you press your tongue to the underside of his dick, licking up to his tip, you swirl your tongue around before enveloping it with your lips. A mewl falls from your lips as you slowly take more of him into your mouth. You try not to think too much while trying not to forget; no teeth, hollow your cheeks, spit, jerk him off where you can’t reach.
“O-Oh my fucking…. baby!” Steve’s broken whimper pulls you out of your thoughts. One look at him is enough to have you moaning around him like you are the one getting pleasured. He looks like a mess, and you've only just started. He moans your name. One hand curled around the sheets beneath him, the other hand sprawled on the top of your head, fingers ready to sink into your hair. His eyes are wider than ever as he watches you pull away from him, releasing him, but only to spit down on him. For a second, you watch your own spit dripping down his length like you are fascinated by it.
Steve’s fingers curl into your hair, knuckles turning white. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. He is watching intensely, gulping. Everything in him is burning in a way it never did before. Not only is this feeling overwhelming in the best way possible, but watching you play with him, watching you be so filthy with it, awakens something else in him.
And then you take him back into your mouth, only this time, you take him deeper than before, deep enough that you nearly choke on him, and Steve has to try so hard to stay put, to not buck his hips up, but fuck… you feel so good, and you feel even better when you hollow your cheeks around him and start bobbing your head, slowly and unsurely at first.
Steve couldn’t describe this feeling even if he tried, but besides being inside of you, this is the closest thing he’ll get to heaven, he is sure of it.
“Sunshine…” Steve whimpers, fingers gripping your hair tighter now, giving the weakest tug as you start bobbing your head faster while jerking him off where your mouth can’t reach him. Your moves are a bit sloppy, but only you notice it. Steve is so far gone in his pleasure, all he feels is your warm, wet mouth around him, hollowing more and more. Your moans vibrate against him. He bites on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. His eyes grow heavy, threatening to roll to the back of his head, especially when you keep moaning like that. He breathes your name, again and again.
“Please…” Steve begs, tugging at your hair to get your attention. “Look at me, baby… I need to see your eyes… Baby, please…” He is so desperate for you, despite you drooling over him, being so hungry for him, for his dick in your throat, he still needs to be close to you, closer.
Steve’s dick twitches so painfully in your mouth when you give him what he wants. Your glassy eyes locking with his as you don’t slow down your movements at all, if anything, looking at him only spurs you on even more. You whimper loudly around him, bobbing your head now faster. You are drooling all over him, tears pooling at your lower lash line. Something dark twists in his chest, something wild, something that makes him pull your hair harder, and yet his heart flutters at the same time, seeing you get so lost in making him feel good. You are enjoying this, he can tell. He can see how your brain is turned off now, no worries, no nerves standing in the way, nothing but pleasure.
“Fuck… you are so hot… oh… what do you do to me…?” Steve whimpers loudly, keeping a tight grip on your hair as he feels his release coming close already, too soon.
Your breathy moan sounds through the RV. A tear rolls down your cheek that he wants to wipe away so bad, but he can’t even function when you pull out yet another new move, your fingers squeezing his balls gently, all while swirling your tongue around his dick like you know exactly what you are doing.
“Sunshine…” Steve suddenly tenses up, the muscles in his stomach aching. His breathing gets heavier as his eyes get wider. His voice is warning you. “I can’t– I’m not…” He curses under his breath as everything in him tightens. “I’m not gonna last.” He whines in a way that would have made him pathetic under normal circumstances. He can’t hold it in, not like this, not when you do this to him. “Baby…” He warns you again, but you don’t listen, not in the slightest, if anything, you move your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him even more, moaning like you are lost in your own world.
And Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself, how to stop his hips from bucking up, how to stop his fingers from tugging harshly at your hair. He knows he can’t hold back, and part of him feels so embarrassed for not lasting that long, but he can’t even blame himself.
You moan around him so sweetly, slipping your free hand up his stomach, touching his hot skin. His hand finds yours quickly, and he curls it around your own almost bruisingly.
“I’m gonna cum, Sunshine…” Steve doesn’t bother to hide his whine, trying to pull you off him, but you don’t budge, not in the slightest. You want it, you want him to cum in your mouth, but despite his pleasure, he doesn’t want to overwhelm you — not that you seem to be in any way. You look like you are right where you want to be.
And when you twist your hand around him, sucking him off like you personally need it, and you blink at him with your tear-filled eyes, he can’t help himself anymore. Your name rolls off his tongue in a loud whimper as he cums inside your mouth, painting your tongue and your throat, making you choke a little before you pull off him. Hand still wrapped around him, replacing your mouth now as you continue to stroke him slowly.
Your lips are wet just like your cheeks are. His cum trickles down your chin. You are a mess, you both are. Steve can barely catch his breath. His chest shines with sweat, his hair is stuck to his forehead, and soft moans continue to fall from his lips. He softens in your hand – your hand that is covered in his cum just like your mouth is, just like your chin. He twitches yet again at the sight of you. Hair messy, cheeks flushed, skin glistening because of him, puffy lips, and doe eyes, staring up at him in awe of what you were able to make him do. His heart swells in his chest. His girl. His Sunshine.
You release him, looking down at your hand, blushing. He is about to sit up, to get something to clean you up when you do something that stops his breathing. You lick his cum off your fingers, eyes closing, moans falling.
“Holy fuck… Sunshine.” Is all he can say, in absolute shock. You are so… freaky, filthy, and it only makes his obsession with you worse. He can’t help himself when he finally sits up and reaches for you. He grabs you under your armpits and pulls you up and back to him, this time he doesn’t hesitate to get your body underneath his. He pins you down and starts kissing all over your face, making you giggle.
“Was that– was I good?” You ask when he has his face buried in your neck, lips attached to your skin.
Steve can hear the uncertainty in your voice despite the mess you made of him just now. He pulls back from your neck to look at you. His eyes are hooded, his cheeks are still flushed, his sweaty chest pressed against yours.
“Baby…” Steve murmurs as he brings his hand up to your face. He caresses your skin and tucks your hair behind your ear. Your lips curl into a smile at his touch. Your eyes light up, and your lashes flutter. You lean into his touch, lips following his palm to give him a kiss, and oh the way it makes his heart skip. For a moment, he stays quiet and takes the sight in under him. Your hair is sprawled on the pillow beneath you. Your soft skin, your body bare and exposed for him only. His eyes follow every mark his lips had made. He sees the way goosebumps rise on your skin and hears the way your breathing stutters when his hand runs down your stomach. The sigh that falls from your lips is so sweet, you are so sweet. He can’t believe what you have just done to him, what your pretty mouth has done to him. He leans down to kiss you, “I think you sucked my soul out.” He murmurs against your lips, and it makes you giggle.
You throw your arms around him, beaming up at him. His words satisfy you.
“Good, that’s exactly what I was going for.” You grin at him, gazing into his pretty eyes.
Steve chuckles. He can’t believe you are his.
“Oh, Sunshine.” He sighs softly and buries his face back in your neck, pressing his lips against your skin. He melts against you, and you embrace him happily. Your hand runs up and down his back, your lips find his shoulder. “Where’d you even learn that?” Steve asks after a long moment of silence, not really thinking anything of it.
Your hand halts on his back.
“I asked Eddie.”
Steve freezes against you. With furrowed eyebrows, he pulls back to look down at you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it’s jealousy that crosses his face.
“What…?”
“I asked Eddie…” You shrug, giving him a sweet and innocent smile. “I wanted to surprise you, Steve… who else was I supposed to ask for advice?”
You can’t help but giggle when he rolls his eyes. Yeah, clearly jealous.
Steve sighs dramatically. He pushes off you, but not without kissing your lips first. He sits up and turns his back to you. He runs his fingers through his hair, huffing.
You lay there for a moment, eyes tracing the moles on his back. Your smile lingers.
“Steve…” You whisper, poking his back. He huffs again, and it amuses you. There is not a single reason for him to feel jealous, and he knows it. You sit up too and wrap your arms around him, placing your palms on his chest. You lean your chin on his shoulder.
“It’s not like he showed me how to do it.”
Steve freezes again at both your words and the bratty tone in your voice. The jealousy and the irritation in him spark so strongly that not even a minute later, he is dressed in jeans and a shirt, stomping out of the RV like a madman, leaving you behind giggling on the bed. He throws the door open, startling Nancy, who is sitting on a camping stool with a book in hand and her rifle leaning against her chair. She raises her eyebrows at him, eyes flashing with amusement when she sees the mess on his head, eyes fixated on Eddie, who is munching on a granola bar, standing there with his back turned to him, none the wiser, humming with his headphones on.
Steve walks up to him and smacks him on the back of his head, startling the metalhead, who starts choking. Eddie takes his headphones off and turns around with nothing but confusion on his face.
“What the hell, man!?”
“Why are you teaching my girlfriend how to suck dick!?”
Nancy’s eyes widen. The interest in her book is gone right away; she closes it and puts it down, looking between them.
Steve is seething as he glares at his best friend, and normally, Eddie would have felt intimidated by this type of anger, but instead, he feels amused and smug, especially when he realizes just how flushed Steve’s cheeks are, not from anger but from something else. His eyes fall to his neck, exposed and covered in your marks. The jealousy in Steve’s eyes isn’t very hard to miss, though it only makes Eddie wanna laugh even more. He can’t help but fuel it.
“Don’t worry, we only did the theoretical part.” Eddie bumps his shoulder, wiggling his eyebrows with a shit-eating grin.
Steve’s face drops, and Eddie knows he fucked up.
“Too far?” Eddie chuckles.
Steve takes a step closer, nodding with a clenched jaw, “too far.” He reaches forward, and Eddie discards his granola bar and makes a run for it.
“Hey!” Steve yells and starts running after him. “Get back here, asshole!”
Eddie laughs loudly as he runs through the field of grass. His eyes widen when he turns around to see Steve much closer than expected. A yelp pours from his mouth when he trips over nothing, running hunched over for a second.
“Who better to give advice than someone who received and also gave?” Eddie yells, laughing like a maniac.
Nancy watches them, sighing. She rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair, “children.” She mutters under her breath. Her eyes flicker to the open door. She hears you shuffling around the RV, probably getting dressed. And then she straightens up and jumps to her feet when she registers just what Steve is so angry and jealous about. You sucked him off. She rushes into the RV for some much-needed girl talk, leaving the bickering boys behind.
Only when they are both out of breath do they finally stop running across the field like kids.
Eddie is hunched over, holding onto his knees as he tries to catch his breath. Steve is standing beside him, hands on his hips, breathing just as heavily as he still glares at the red-cheeked metalhead.
“Are you gonna thank me now or keep pretending you’re mad at me?” Eddie huffs, wiping his mouth.
Steve stares at him, his face unreadable. His eyes flicker across his face, and then his shoulders slump and his features relax.
“I love you so much, thank you.”
Eddie snorts. His eyes light up as he breaks into a grin. He straightens up and reaches his arm out to pat Steve on his back.
“There it is.”
Steve shakes his head, falling quiet again. He runs his hand through his even messier hair now. He looks back at the RV to find the door now shut, Nancy’s chair empty. His cheeks heat up again, knowing that you are probably sharing every detail about how much fun you both had, about how much fun you had. His stomach flutters at the freshly made memory. You looked like you enjoyed it more than he thought you would. You looked like you were in your own world, going dumb around his dick.
Steve swallows. He turns back to Eddie, who is watching him intently, like he knows exactly what he is thinking about.
“She was so into it… is that normal?” Steve asks quietly, face burning up.
Eddie’s smirk only widens at that, and he throws his arm around Steve’s shoulder.
“Told you she was a freak.” He whispers, chuckling.
Steve can’t deny that. A smile creeps up on his face, and he looks down at the grass and the melting snow beneath his boots.
“You’re gonna learn more from her than you teaching her shit.”
And Steve’s smile vanishes just as quickly, replaced by a frown. He looks back up.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Eddie places his hand on his chest, grabbing Steve’s shoulder now as his face gets serious.
“...Harrington, I will say this with all the love and care I have for you.”
“Huh?” Steve looks at him dumbly.
“You’re vanilla as fuck.”
Steve’s jaw falls slack. His eyes widen.
“One would think you are the virgin, not her.” Eddie adds, throwing more fuel into the flames.
“I…I am not vanilla!” Steve gasps, pushing Eddie’s shoulder.
“Tell me another position other than missionary, doggy, or cowgirl.” Eddie raises one brow at him, waiting for Steve to save himself from the title he just gave him.
Though Steve has nothing to say. His hazel eyes flicker back and forth, mouth still open. He places his hand on his hip, huffing.
“That uh…”
“Uh huh.” Eddie hums and points a finger at the RV. “I bet that girl there would be into 69, reverse cowgirl, lotus, and butterfly.”
Steve is stunned, staring at him wide-eyed. Eyebrows furrowed still.
“...What the fuck is lotus? Like lotus flower?”
Eddie’s face falls, and even his teasing smile vanishes. He shakes his head like he’s disappointed.
“...You’re just digging the hole deeper for yourself now.” Eddie sighs and walks off and back to the RV.
“Hey!” Steve follows him, huffing. “What are you– what is that?”
Eddie picks up his discarded granola bar, looking down at it with a frown, checking to see if it’s still edible. He ignores the disgusted look on Steve’s face when he removes the grass and takes a bite.
Steve opens his mouth again when the door bursts open, and you come skipping out, like you are having the best day of your life. Your smile is wide, your face glowing. You don’t hesitate to rush to his side, cuddling up to him. His arm curls around you instantly, pulling you into his chest.
“Hey, watcha talking about?” You beam up at him before you glance at Eddie, whose smile returns when he looks at you. Amusement flickers across his face when he watches the way Steve’s cheeks get redder.
“Vanilla chocolate chip cookies.” He winks at you.
A moan falls from your lips at the mention of cookies, and Eddie nearly bursts out laughing when Steve’s eyes widen at the sound that just left your lips. Only one word comes to his mind when he looks at his best friend. Hopeless.
Later that day, you and Steve set up camp miles and miles away from where you spent the previous night. Eddie and Nancy slept through the drive all the way there, still dozing off in the back of the RV while you and Steve catch the last rays of the sun peeking over the hills across from you. You are sitting on a picnic blanket by the stream. The air is crisp, slightly chill but not unpleasant, and spring is finally coming closer.
A comfortable silence is settled between you two, the sound of the water rushing and the birds chirping all around you. Your eyes are closed as you lean back on the blanket, basking in the warmth of the sun. A small smile appears on your face when the wind blows through your hair, and Steve reaches his hand out to tuck it back behind your ear, palm lingering on your cheek. You lean into his touch, and his hand stays there.
Steve’s eyes trace your face. Your soft features, the curve of your nose, your lips, the tiny scar on your cheekbone that reminds him to kiss it every day. He leans in and places his lips right there, pecking you softly.
Your eyes flutter open, and you are met by the sight of him staring at you, admiring you. You can’t help but grow flustered. No matter how much you are starting to get used to his shameless staring, you still get shy every single time. Your fingers curl around his wrist, and you lean closer to nuzzle your nose against his.
Steve’s breathing stutters, the lingering smile never fades, but his eyes close. He falls weak at your touch every time. Something he was once so afraid of is now coursing through him, growing stronger each and every day. You make him feel something he can’t even put into words, not even if he tried. But it’s so pure, so strong yet so fragile, easily to tear him apart if it was taken from him.
You whisper his name, and he doesn’t hesitate to press his lips against yours, kissing you softly, kissing you in a way that makes you feel all that he has for you; everything. His hand cups the back of your head when he lays you down on the blanket.
Your lips move softly and slowly against each other, savoring every moment, every hum, every soft moan. His hands cradle you so softly, and you hold onto his shoulders, fingers digging into his sweater.
You stay like that for a while, just kissing each other, holding onto one another, enjoying this sweet moment. You both smile when you pull away from the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, chuckling softly.
“What?” You giggle, running your hand up and down his arm.
Steve pecks your lips once more before he lies on his side next to you, holding himself up on his elbow. He shakes his head, “nothing.” He murmurs, keeping his hand on your cheek. “I’m just so happy.”
“Yeah?” Your eyes light up.
Steve nods, smiling at you. He can’t help but lean in and kiss you again, and then again and again, and then he is peppering kisses all over your face, fingers digging into your waist. His heart is fluttering wildly in his chest at your giggles. The sound is like music to his ears. His heart is so happy, so full… full of… the words that are on the tip of his tongue, ready to be said.
“Steve!” You whisper his name breathlessly. Your cheeks are hot from all the laughing, from all his kisses.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He laughs, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before he pulls back. “Couldn’t help myself, I just adore you so much.”
“I adore you too.” You bring your hand up to his cheek, caressing him. “So much.”
You see it in his eyes, you see the softness, the one that could make you melt right there. It makes you feel goosebumps, it makes you feel warm, it makes you feel excited, it makes you feel everything, all at once. Most of all, it makes you emotional because you almost didn’t have this. If he didn’t allow himself to give you a chance, you wouldn’t have this, you wouldn’t get to feel him like this, to be able to kiss him, to be able to have a piece of his heart.
“Thank you.”
Steve’s hazel eyes flash with confusion. He shakes his head, “what are you thanking me for, baby?”
“For giving me a chance, for giving us a chance.” You whisper softly. “I know it wasn’t easy for you after everything that happened.”
Steve’s face softens. He presses his lips together, nodding.
“It wasn’t, but only because I was dumb, a total idiot. I should be the one thanking you, Sunshine. For coming into my life– god, if only you had stumbled into Hawkins before the world went to shit, I would have been chasing you from the start, you know that right? None of that grumpy bullshit you had to deal with before.” He scoffs at himself for how he treated you in the beginning.
“I don’t know, I kinda liked the grumpy Steve. I mean, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have followed you around so much.” You blush.
“Oh, is that so?” He asks, intrigued as he pulls you up with him, sitting across from each other now, his hand reaches for yours, and he intertwines his fingers with your own.
“Mhmm.”
He can’t help but blush, wondering what was going through your head back then when you just met.
“Well, Honey, if we met back then, maybe you wouldn’t have liked me then if grumpy is your type.” He teases you, bringing your hand up to his lips, and he kisses your knuckles.
“Pfft. You would be my type no matter what, Cowboy.” You remind him of the nickname you gave him in the beginning.
“Oh yeah?”
You nod, gazing into his eyes.
“Even in that sailor outfit.” You say, giggling.
Steve groans, throwing his head back, exposing his marked neck – your work of art. You stare at it for a moment before your eyes find his hazel ones again.
“It was hot! I loved the shorts, especially, they showed off your strong thighs.” You giggle as you climb into his lap, settling your knees on each side of him, and he envelopes you in his arms happily. “I would have been all over you if you served me.” You murmur, pecking his lips.
His arms tighten around you, hand sliding down and sinking into the back pocket of your jeans.
“Oh? Well, in that case… I would have totally embarrassed myself in front of you, trying to get you to go on a date with me.”
“And I would have loved every second of it; it wouldn't take much for me to say yes, but I would have let you suffer a little.” You tease him.
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect any less from you.” Steve chuckles softly, eyes never straying away from yours. “But I would have gotten my date, and I would have treated you like a princess.”
“You already do.” You smile. “I love that that was your job after school. I think it’s cute.”
Steve huffs, still blushing in embarrassment over it. His interest piques when he realizes that you never told him about your job between graduating high school and starting college. You told him everything about how high school was for you, your friendships, your first and only relationship before him, your family, stories from childhood but you never told him this.
“You never told me about your summer job before college!”
Your eyes widen as you’ve only realized it now as well.
“Oh! I was a server!”
Steve raises his eyebrows, smiling softly.
“At Hooters.”
His smile falls, and his mouth drops. He blinks at you, trying to see whether you are joking or not, but you are not.
He had heard of Hooters, about the uniform policy at the restaurant, the tiny outfits that Eddie beamed about when he told Steve about having been there once in Chicago two years back.
So many questions are running through Steve’s mind as he imagines you in that tiny, exposing outfit. It makes his cheeks flush, and his pants tighten, but at the same time, it turns his grip on you a little tighter, knowing the kind of perverts whose eyes followed you.
“I–”
“Hey lovebirds!” Eddie yells across the field, standing there with his arms crossed in front of the RV. A bird's nest in his hair, plaid shirt messily on his body, he clearly just got up. “No fucking in public!”
“Okay dad!” You roll your eyes.
Eddie flips you off, mumbling something under his breath before he turns away and gets started on making the fire for the night.
You look back at your boyfriend, smiling innocently.
His eyes are still wide, his face shocked.
“Hooters!?”
Giggles pour from your mouth at the shocked expression on his face. You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear.
“I made a lot of money!” You say smiling, and by the mischievous look in your eyes, he already knows what kinda thoughts are running through your mind. You lean in and press your lips to his ear, “but I would’ve loved your tip the most.” You whisper seductively, pressing your lips to his cheeks before you get off him and walk away, joining Eddie.
Steve’s cheeks are bright red, his jaw slack again as his wide eyes follow you. His pants feel tighter than before now as your words replay in his mind like a broken record. His eyes follow your swaying hips and the way your curves look in those jeans.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve mutters under his breath when you look over your shoulder at him, flashing him a sweet smile.
Eddie was right.
You’re a freak, and he is the luckiest man alive.
He takes a moment to calm down from both the image you left in his mind of you in that little outfit you used to call a work uniform and your words. He joins you both by the fire a few minutes later. Eddie is pushing around the wood with a stick, letting the flames grow a little higher. The metalhead glances at him, eying the flushed cheeks.
“You okay there, Harrington?” Eddie snorts, glancing at you to find you biting back a smirk.
“Mhmm, yeah… yep.” Steve nods, scratching the back of his neck. He looks down at you, watching you get started on dinner. Chicken noodle soup.
“Sunshine, did you check the date on the soup?” Steve chuckles, thinking about what happened the last time Eddie scarfed down the soup.
“Not expired, but I warned him already.” You sigh.
“Dude.” Eddie gives him a disapproving look, holding the stick up with a warning glance.
You and Steve share a glance, chuckling softly.
“Fuck you, Harrington.” Eddie sighs, shaking his head, but even he can’t stop himself from chuckling.
Nancy steps out of the RV, carrying bowls and spoons. You look up, noticing her wet hair and a fresh outfit; she must have been up for a while already.
“Good morning.”
“More like good evening, Nancy.” You laugh, though, greeting her with a smile.
She claims the chair beside yours, much to Steve’s dismay. She puts the bowls on the ground and squints her eyes, reading the label of the soup you start pouring into the pot.
“Eddie, are you trying to shit your pants again?”
Eddie turns to face her with a clenched jaw. He takes a deep breath and glares at her, making the three of you burst out laughing.
“It’s been months, why do you guys even remember that!?” He exclaims and drops the stick on the ground before he sits down in his camping chair.
“Because it’s funny!” You say laughing, thinking back to that day. It was the same day you found out the truth about what was the cause of the world turning into this. “But don’t worry, the soup isn’t expired.” You assure him with a serious look on your face before you start laughing again. Steve looks down at you, smiling.
Eddie shakes his head, sighing.
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods and leans back.
Silence stretches between you all, the comforting type as you and Steve move around, preparing dinner and getting some soda from the RV that you found a couple of days back. The sun goes down, and only the light from the fire stays, illuminating just enough for you all to see each other as you fall into a quiet conversation about the rest of your journey ahead of you.
Not much longer, and you will get to Nevada.
But the thought of it suddenly steals your hunger and the happiness you have felt at the beginning of this road trip. The fear that lingered deep inside of you all along suddenly spreads wider, making you feel a sense of dread that you try to push away as best as you can. You return to your conversation with your friends, put that smile back on your face, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by Steve. His own smile fades when he notices the change in your eyes, when he notices how the color drains from your face a little, when he notices the tension in your shoulders.
He instantly reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze that you return.
He knows what you are feeling.
And god he feels it too.
And a part of him wishes you could stay here, in the unknown, safe from whatever is waiting for you at home, because part of him feels like he was right all along.
And it scares him so badly.
-
The atmosphere in the RV is tense. The heavy, thick air makes it hard to breathe. A few days had passed since your sweet moment with Steve by the stream, where you shared kisses and funny memories. You knew then that it would only take a few more days to find your way back home but you didn’t realize just how anxious it had made you until Eddie said it out loud how the journey to your home was coming to an end, just how strongly you pushed your nerves aside but now that you are closer than ever, you can’t stop your knee from bouncing or your hands from shaking. You keep sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, not caring about the blood you draw. It’s getting progressively worse, especially after Eddie takes the exit on the highway that will lead you to your town.
Both Eddie and Nancy keep glancing at you through the rearview mirror, noticing the state of anxiety you are in now.
And Steve, he feels all that is cursing through you at this moment. He sits next to you, holding your hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. He tries to comfort you, but he knows how nervous you are. He is too. You woke up this way earlier, the usual smile you greet him with every morning was weak today, missing the usual enthusiasm. You didn’t finish your breakfast; you couldn’t.
He always thought that you would be fueled by happiness knowing that you will finally get to see your family again, but right now, he sees nothing but fear across your features, fear that you won’t find them the way you always said you would.
He feels the same kind of fear. He fears what you will find. He fears what you could lose. His soft hazel eyes stay on you. He squeezes your hand, and you turn to face him. Your eyes find his, and your lips curl into a small smile. Hope. There is still some hope in your eyes.
“Maybe you can show me around your town.” Steve smiles, trying to distract you from whatever is running through your mind right now.
You nod at his words, scooting closer to him. You lean in and kiss him on the lips. He wraps his arm around you, bringing you closer to him. You return your attention to the window, watching the passing trees.
Steve kisses your temple and rubs your arm. He can feel how scared you are, he can hear it in your silence, he can hear it in your touch. And he tries his best to keep you up right now.
“Sunshine?” Steve whispers as he places his finger under your chin, turning you back to him. He tries to be gentle with his next words.
“Yeah?”
“I’m here, okay?” He reminds you, looking into your worried eyes. “No matter what, I’m here.”
No matter what.
You swallow the lump in your throat and nod. Holding onto his hand tighter than before.
“I know.” You whisper softly. “Thank you.”
Steve’s lips curl into a small smile. He brings your hand up to his lips, kissing it. “Of course, baby.”
The RV is so quiet, you only hear the tires on the road. Even Eddie is silent, not bothering to turn on the music, not bothering to hum the way he usually does. His brown eyes are fixated on the road. He feels a sense of dread in his chest, the kind he felt before he faced the bats in the upside down, the kind he felt before Robin died, the kind he felt before the attack on the road, before you killed for them.
The welcome sign of your town is still intact, and so far, there is nothing but the road and the trees. Nancy shifts beside him, closing the map now. She takes a deep breath and turns around to take a look at you.
“Whoa…” Eddie murmurs under his breath when he takes a turn on the road that leads to the downtown area. Nancy turns back around, eyebrows furrowed as she glances at Eddie before she follows his gaze. Oh. The ground is dark, black, like it’s been burned. Windows of stores are broken, not only that, but some of the buildings are burned down. Ashes. She looks out the window and up into the sky, dark clouds, and red lightning. She and Eddie share a look.
Eddie slows down, careful not to drive over anything that could mess up the tires. He gulps. The nerves are now running wild in him too. The town is not only completely destroyed, but also burned down. It’s abandoned. No sign of life.
Something twists inside Steve’s chest, like a knife buried in his heart, when he watches your face fall more and more, losing color each passing minute. You are staring out the window stoically. He knows your heart is pounding, sinking deeper.
Your eyes are stuck on the burned-down military truck. The remains of the soldiers that must have been assigned here to protect your town. You swallow the lump in your throat. Sickness spreads inside of you more and more as you take in your abandoned hometown, which is left in ruins.
Steve doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say as he watches the hope slowly vanish in your eyes. His heart is racing in his chest, feeling helpless. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to go back in time, to take you back to the stream where you kissed on the picnic blanket, or the house you had your first date in, or even the community back in Wyoming, anywhere but here, where your heart could break. He can feel it. He can feel the sickening realization dawning more and more, knowing that you won’t find what you had been hoping for all these months.
But he can’t.
Eddie clears his throat, “alright… uh… Sunshine? I need you to guide me now, okay?” Eddie tries to say with a smile, but it comes out weak. The happiness, the light feeling you all had a few days ago, is gone now.
You blink, looking away from the window, glancing at Steve, who gives you an encouraging nod before you turn to Eddie.
“Yeah… Okay, yeah.” You mumble, your voice shaking as you straighten in your seat. Steve expects you to let go of his hand now, but instead, you hold on tighter, and he can feel it shaking; he can feel you shaking. He covers your hand with his other one.
You close your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. You straighten in your seat and clear your throat. You start giving Eddie the directions to your house, no longer looking out the window next to you, ignoring the burned down buildings and the blood stains on the windows of the houses you pass by. You focus on the road and that alone.
Nancy’s fingers cling to the barrel of her shotgun; she has the sickening feeling that she needs it.
It feels forever as Eddie drives through your small town, following your directions to your house, but when it finally comes into view, he suddenly wants to turn back, not because it’s burned down like the rest of the town, but because it isn’t, and he knows nothing good is waiting for you in there. Maybe it would have been better if it had been burned down, gone like the rest of the town, leaving you with an ounce of hope that your family is somewhere else and no longer here. The dread inside of him grows stronger than ever.
Steve cranes his neck, seeing your house, your home, still standing. No blood. Nothing burned down. No sign of life either, except for a truck in the driveway that must belong to your dad. The driveway is long, and wooden fences are around the property, your house has a large porch with a swing. It almost looks like a small ranch. Steve is sure that it was beautiful before, now it looks… cold, abandoned. Everything is there, and yet something feels wrong even from afar.
He notices how your breathing gets heavy, he notices the anxiety in your eyes now burning stronger than ever, and for a moment, your hand clings to him so strongly before he loses your touch. You move too quickly, too suddenly for him to stop you. The moment Eddie parks the RV behind the truck, you bolt, you run for the door, rushing out of the RV, ignoring everyone yelling your name, trying to stop you.
Steve calls out to you, not wasting a second to follow you out. His heart is pounding in his chest out of fear. His blood runs cold as you rush up the stairs of your house. A wave of nausea washes over him because you are no longer in reach.
You should know. You should know what could be waiting for you in there. You should know that your family wouldn’t leave the ranch open for anyone to just drive into, but there is no rational thought in your brain right now. You should have taken a closer look. The fence was open. Some of the windows in your house are open. No wooden boards. No fort. Nothing. No sign of life.
The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you rush up to your porch. Your eyes are already burning up. Your heart is in your throat, and you feel a kind of sickness you haven’t had since the day on the road.
Time slows down, and yet everything moves so suddenly when you reach for the doorknob.
Steve’s panicked eyes are on you as he watches you open the door, and everything inside of him stills when he sees you freeze. You don’t even step inside, your body just grows still, and you even take a step back, like you are revolted by something.
And Steve, he freezes too when he sees your reaction and then he hears your broken whisper, and his heart shatters.
Suddenly, you are both back in Hawkins, standing in front of Robin’s grave in the pouring rain. You are both crying. You are both hurt. And he is throwing all these ugly words at you.
“Smell the fucking non-existent sunflowers, they’re dead by now!”
“You think you’re going to find your house surrounded by a gate of protection? You’re fucking delusional if you think so.”
“Smell the decay of the corpses around you, and tone down that hope of yours before you end up even more hurt than you thought you could ever be. Open your eyes for once and stop acting like an immature little girl.”
Words he wished would never come true. Words he wished he could take back. But none of it can be undone. None.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: angst. sammy jumpscare... hate that guy. knew what he was all along. n e way....... yearning. COMING OUT SCENE! hopeful future
words: 21k (now. u guys know why it took forever)
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: okay first off hello. hi. there might be a bit of errors because its so hefty and i couldn't catch everything!!!!! also, i hope the coming out scene is done okay. this is why it took forever too. i just obviously don't know how thats like and i don't want anyone thinking robin came out for other people. this chapter means a lot to me now.
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 17
You're not shocked or surprised when you open the door to your hotel room and see Robin standing out on the balcony, silhouetted against the night sky.
Polly must be somewhere else. With Eddie, probably, now that you know the truth about who's been making those sounds through the wall.
Robin is smoking a cigarette.
Robin doesn't smoke cigarettes. She'll drink until she's sick, will smoke weed until her eyes are red and glassy, but she's always drawn a hard line at cigarettes. "They're disgusting," she'd say whenever someone offered her one at a party. "I don't understand how anyone can stand them."
You close the door gently behind you, catching sight of yourself in the mirror mounted on the wall. Your face is splotchy and swollen, eyes puffy from crying, mascara smudged beneath your lashes like bruises. Your jaw sets, muscles tensing, because you know the night isn't ending yet. Know there's one more confrontation to survive before you can collapse.
You walk closer to the balcony, and Robin hears you over the sound of waves crashing below. She looks over her shoulder at you, her long straight chestnut hair whipping in the wind, catching the light from the room behind you and the moon above. Robin's face hardens when she sees you, jaw clenching, and she watches as you step out onto the balcony but keep your distance—standing close enough to talk but far enough that you won't accidentally touch.
Robin snaps her focus back to the ocean, and you see her grimacing at the cigarette in her hand like it betrayed her somehow, like she can't believe she's actually smoking it.
There's a beat of silence. Just the waves and the distant sound of music from a party somewhere down the beach and the wind rustling through the palm trees below.
And in the emptiness, you realize how long you've been angry at Robin. How long you've pushed it aside, buried it deep, ignored it for the sake of your friendship because losing her felt unthinkable. But it's been there all along, festering beneath the surface.
Robin takes another drag, exhaling smoke that gets caught by the wind and dispersed immediately. "Nancy broke up with me." Her voice is flat, dead. "Jonathan is taking her to the airport right now."
Your heart drops, stomach plummeting like you've just fallen off a cliff. You look out at the ocean again, listening to people laughing somewhere in the distance. Probably drunk college students having the time of their lives while yours falls apart.
But you don't say anything. You wish you could've seen Nancy before she left. Wish you could've hugged her, told her you understood, told her you were sorry.
Robin continues, shaking her head, and you realize she must have been crying before she came back to the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, nose running slightly. "We went looking for you, you know? After you left the restaurant. And I asked her if you were telling the truth. If she was actually miserable." Robin's voice breaks, cracking down the middle. "She told me she loves me. But she can't lie anymore."
Robin finally looks at you, tears streaming down her face, catching the moonlight. "Are you happy now?"
You scoff, the sound harsh and bitter. You take a moment to close your eyes and breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth, trying to steady yourself. "Why would that make me happy, Robin?"
"Because isn't this what you wanted?" Robin's voice rises, sharp with accusation. "Since you can't be with Steve, you have to break me and Nancy up?"
You twist your body to face her fully, nose flaring with anger. "Cut that shit out, Robin." Your voice is hard, uncompromising. "I have been there for you and Nancy from the beginning, and you know it. I have always been there for you two."
You take a breath, trying to contain the fury building in your chest. "Seeing you be your full self around her when you can—god, Robin, you have no idea how much it kills me that it's not enough. That neither of you can be happy hiding like this." Your voice softens slightly, but the anger is still there underneath. "Of course I didn't want you to break up. But what else is there to do when you won't admit the arrangement isn't working?"
You pause, gathering courage for the question you've wanted to ask for months. "Does Nancy really want it to be you, her, and Steve for the rest of your lives? Do you?"
Robin's face transforms immediately at the last part—sadness replacing anger, lips twisting as she tries not to sob. Tears run faster down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw. She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she deflects.
"Nancy told me I was pretending not to see that you and Steve like each other." Robin pauses, swallowing hard. "I wasn't pretending. I knew Steve liked you. He told me."
Your face drops. Your heart skips a beat, then starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.
Robin swallows thickly, her throat working. "But I shut it down."
Your eyes flare wide, heat flooding through you—part anger, part devastation. "How?"
Robin's jaw ticks, muscle jumping under skin. She rubs her free hand over her face, takes another drag of the cigarette that's now barely more than a filter. "I told him what you told me. That you didn't like him like that and never would."
Your eyes dance over Robin's face. You’re searching, trying to understand, trying to process. Your mouth falls open, eyes going wider. "This happened on Friday, didn't it?" The pieces are clicking into place now, sharp and painful. "That's why you were so angry? That's why he—"
You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You grip the balcony railing, knuckles going white from the pressure, trying to steady yourself as the world tilts sideways. Your breathing comes fast and shallow.
"What?" Robin's voice is defensive, aggressive. "I was telling him the truth that I knew. It's not my fault you kept lying to me about how you felt."
"And how the fuck was I supposed to, Robin?" Your voice raises, loud enough that someone in a nearby room might hear. You don't care. "When you told me not to? When you said he doesn't do relationships? Maybe he doesn't do relationships because of you. Because he thinks you're all he has."
Robin is taken aback, face crumbling like you've struck her. She looks young suddenly, vulnerable, scared and small.
But you can't stop now. The words are pouring out, months of frustration and hurt and swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "This isn't about me and him. This is about you." Your voice drops, going quieter but no less intense. "I have been nothing but understanding. But I don't understand why you still feel like you have to hide behind him. I'm not saying you need to come out to the world, but... maybe you should come out to yourself."
Robin lets out a choked sob, her whole body shaking with it. "I think you should leave."
You curl your lips inward, biting down hard enough to taste copper. You sniffle, wiping at your face. "Yeah. I was planning on it."
Robin stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray the hotel has set out on the balcony, grinding it down with more force than necessary. She gives you one more look—angry and hurt and betrayed all at once—before storming past you into the hotel room. The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.
You stand on the balcony alone, the ocean stretching out before you dark and endless. You let out a shaky breath and cry into your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
You finally collect yourself enough to go back inside. You pack your things, though you realize you hadn't really unpacked much from the first night anyway—like some part of you always knew this would happen, was always prepared to run.
You don't see anyone else you know as you slip through the hotel halls. They're all hiding in their respective rooms probably, licking their wounds, trying to figure out what happens next.
You wonder if Steve is safe. Wonder if he made it back to his room okay, if Jonathan or Eddie are with him, if he's still crying on that empty beach.
You almost—almost—go to the room you suspect he's sharing with Jonathan. Room 408, you think, or was it 412? You could knock, could make sure he's okay, could tell him you lied when you said you don't love him.
But no. You can't. You can't see him again, can't risk changing your mind, can't let yourself hope for something that will never work.
You hail a cab to the airport instead, throwing your duffel bag in the trunk and climbing into the backseat. The driver asks where you're going and you tell him Miami International, and then you sit in silence for the forty-minute drive, watching the city lights blur past the window.
At the airport, your eyes scan the departure board, tracking over different destinations. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. Dallas. Boston.
You have no idea where to go. You don't want to go back to college, back to that dorm room, back to staring at Robin's empty bed and being reminded of everything you've lost.
You sigh and walk up to the ticket counter, telling the worker where you want to go. Home. Back to your parents' house, back to your childhood bedroom, back to a place where things made sense before Steve Harrington and breaking your own heart.
Later, standing at a payphone with coins clutched in your sweaty palm, you dial your parents' number. It rings three times before your mom picks up.
"Hello?"
"Mom?" Your voice cracks on the word, and you bite back another sob.
"Honey? Are you okay? I thought you were in Miami—"
"I'm coming home." The tears are falling again, and you can't stop them. "Can you pick me up from the airport? Tomorrow morning?"
There's a pause, and you can hear the concern in your mother's voice when she speaks. "Of course. Of course, sweetheart. What happened?"
"I'll tell you when I get there," you lie, knowing you won't, knowing you'll smile and say spring break was fine and your friends were busy and you just missed home.
But your mom doesn't push. She never does. She asks what time your flight lands, tells you she'll be there, tells you she loves you.
You hang up the phone and stand there in the fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal, surrounded by strangers going to places you'll never see, and you feel more alone than you've ever felt in your life.
.-.-.-.
Sunday of spring break week, your parents drop you back off at school.
Your mom didn't ask questions during the week, thankfully. You'd spent most of it in your childhood bedroom, sleeping too much, eating too little, pretending everything was fine when you came down for meals. But you think maybe this time, if she had asked, you would've told her. Would've broken down and explained everything—Steve, Robin, the lies, the love, the loss of it all.
But she didn't ask, and you didn't tell, and now here you are.
Your parents smother you in hugs and kisses before you get out of the car. Your dad points at you, his usual joke ready. "Don't get pregnant." His way of saying I love you, I'll miss you.
Normally you laugh and roll your eyes and say, "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon."
But this time your stomach twists violently, and you feel like you could vomit at the thought. At the memory of Steve in the tent saying he'd imagined having kids for the first time, of him looking at that family at the campsite with longing in his eyes. And even though it took forever for you to see you like him, you knew with aching clarity that’s when your heart unzipped itself, letting him in.
You manage a weak smile and a wave instead, then grab your bag and head inside.
Your dorm room is cold when you walk in, the heating apparently turned down over break. You throw your duffel bag on your bed, and the smell hits you immediately—yours and Robin's detergents mixed together, her perfume and your body spray, everything that used to mean home and safety and best friends.
Everything that reminds you that you used to be friends. Best friends.
You break down again, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing into your hands.
Dinner is lonely. The dining hall is mostly empty—most students haven't returned yet, won't be back until late Sunday night or early Monday morning. You sit by yourself at a table near the window, pushing food around your plate without eating much.
The library is lonely. You try to study, to get ahead on reading for your classes, but the words blur together and you can't focus.
Everything is lonely.
That night, when you eventually crawl into bed, you toss and turn. The smell of Miami still clings to your clothes—salt and sunscreen and heartbreak burning in your nostrils. You know it's late, maybe midnight, and you can't stop thinking about two weeks ago when Steve Harrington was standing outside your window, grinning up at you like an idiot, asking you to come downstairs.
You shut your eyes tighter, trying to burn the memory away, to erase it completely.
Then you hear it. The door opening, closing softly. The lock clicking into place.
You don't look over. You keep your eyes closed, your breathing even, pretending to sleep.
You hear slight shuffling. Movement across the room. The sound of Robin changing—fabric rustling, the soft thud of shoes being kicked off, a zipper being pulled.
Then she's getting into her own bed, springs creaking under her weight.
But not before you hear her pause. A sharp intake of breath, like she's been punched.
You'd left Robin's lamp on for her. The small desk lamp she always uses to read before bed, the one with the green glass shade that casts everything in a soft glow.
You swear you hear Robin sniffle—once, then again, trying to muffle the sound.
Then the light clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.
And you both lie there in your separate beds, in the dark, pretending you don't hear each other crying.
.-.-.-.
It's Wednesday morning, and you've managed to shut everyone out completely.
Monday, Robin didn't go to class—still asleep when you left for your morning lecture because she's always had a problem sleeping through her alarm. The shrill beeping goes off at seven, and she slaps at it without opening her eyes, rolls over, and falls back into unconsciousness within seconds.
Normally, you'd shake her awake. Poke her shoulder until she groaned and swatted at you, mumbling something about five more minutes. You'd turn on her desk lamp, pull her blanket off, do whatever it took to get her vertical and moving.
But you don't wake her up this time. You grab your books and leave while she's still snoring softly, one arm thrown over her face to block out the morning light filtering through the blinds.
Tuesday, you saw Sammy in the hallway outside the lecture hall. He was standing by the door with his satchel slung across his chest, clearly waiting for you, and when your eyes met, his face lit up with cautious hope.
But you bolted. Turned on your heel and pushed through the crowd in the opposite direction, even when you heard him call your name softly—tentative, questioning, hurt.
The weeks of school are thinning, winding down toward finals and summer break. A reminder of that comes in the form of a knock on your door Wednesday morning, just as you're pulling on jeans and trying to decide if you have enough clean shirts to make it through the week without doing laundry.
Robin answers it, still in her pajamas—an oversized Blondie t-shirt and shorts that are barely visible beneath the hem. Tessa stands in the hallway, holding out a piece of paper with an apologetic smile.
"Hey, guys. Housing forms for next year. Need them back by next Friday."
Robin takes the paper without looking at it, barely mumbling a thanks before closing the door. She immediately sets it down on her desk like it's contaminated, like touching it too long might burn her. She doesn't even glance at it before turning back to rummaging through her closet for clean clothes.
But you look at it.
You walk over to your desk and pick up the paper, scanning the options printed in neat administrative font:
REQUEST TO MOVE OFF CAMPUS
REQUEST TO MOVE TO A DIFFERENT DORM
REQUEST TO STAY IN CURRENT DORM
And underneath, the section that makes your stomach drop:
REQUEST TO KEEP SAME ROOMMATE — BOTH PARTIES' SIGNATURES REQUIRED
REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE
You set the paper on your desk carefully, like it might shatter. Your mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Another knock comes at the door, sharper this time. Robin groans from somewhere inside her closet, still searching for her other shoe. "Can you get that?"
You open the door. Tessa is still there, looking sheepish. "Hey, sorry again! Hot Shot, you have a call."
You furrow your brows, looking at your watch. It's barely eight in the morning. Who would be calling this early?
Robin emerges from the closet, one shoe on, and gives you an equally curious look as you slip past her into the hallway.
You make your way to the pay phone on your floor, the receiver hanging off the hook where Tessa must have left it to hold the call. You pick it up, the plastic warm against your ear.
"Hello?"
"Oh, thank god." The voice on the other end is frantic, breathless.
"Max?"
"Look, I'm going to cut to the chase." Max doesn't wait for you to respond, words tumbling out rapid-fire. "Last night I called Steve for our weekly call, and he didn't answer. I mean, I wasn't too worried at first because I know he's studying and he's busy with that big test coming up, but yeah... okay..." She takes a breath, and you hear rustling like she's pacing, the phone cord probably stretched to its limit. "Last night I get a call from Dustin. Steve's here. In Hawkins."
You try to process this, to catch every word, but Max is talking fast and your brain feels sluggish, still not fully awake.
"I don't know what you want me to do," you say slowly, carefully.
You pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache building behind your eyes. Out of the corner of your vision, you see Robin walking down the hall—looking anywhere but at you, studying the bulletin board with fake intensity—until you wave at her frantically.
Robin's confused, brows furrowed, but she walks over anyway.
You cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with your palm. "Steve is in Hawkins. Right now."
Robin's eyes widen, going almost comically large. "What?"
You pull the phone between you, both of your heads tilted in, temples touching, the receiver pressed between your ears. You can smell Robin's shampoo and it's so familiar it makes your chest ache.
"He won't say anything," Max continues, and you can hear the worry bleeding through her usually steady voice. "He's pretending to be fine, but god, he looks miserable. Dustin and I played hooky today to hang out with him. I asked what about his big test Thursday—you know? And he says there's no point. That he's going to fail it anyway."
Max sighs heavily, and you hear what sounds like her sitting down, springs creaking.
Robin's eyes are frantic now, darting around like she's searching for answers in the peeling paint of the hallway walls.
"Did you tell him it's probably nerves?" you suggest, grasping for something helpful to say. "That he's been studying so hard he's psyching himself out?"
Max hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, broken. "Hot Shot... he says he's going to drop out."
The words hang in the air, heavy and terrible.
Robin snatches the phone from you, nearly yanking it out of your hand. "Max, this is Robin. I'm on my way." She pauses, listening. "Mhm. Mhm. Okay. Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can."
She hangs up without saying goodbye, then immediately starts rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
"Robin," you call after her, following.
But she doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. Her bare feet slap against the linoleum as she moves.
Robin rushes through the lobby, weaving between students checking their mailboxes and the RA manning the desk. You hurdle past people, mumbling apologies, trying to keep up with her longer stride.
When Robin bursts through the front doors into the cool morning air, she's still walking fast, arms pumping with purpose.
"Robin, please," you jog up beside her and catch her wrist.
Robin stops, huffing with exertion, and turns to look at you. Her expression is almost annoyed—eyebrows raised, mouth tight—like she's asking what? without saying it out loud.
You're both breathing hard now, catching your breath. "Where are you going?"
"Hawkins," Robin answers simply, like it's obvious.
"Okay, but how?"
"Eddie will take me." Robin says it with complete certainty, no doubt in her voice. "It's not a far drive—only a few hours. If we leave now, I can get Steve and we'd be back by dinner. Plenty of time for him to study and get some rest before the test tomorrow." She's talking faster now, planning out loud. "He needs to take that test. He has to. His dad will kill him if—"
"Let me come with you," you interrupt.
Robin's face turns solemn, all the frantic energy draining out of her in an instant. "Do you think that's a good idea?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "You don't think it would make it worse?"
The question stings, sharp and sudden.
"I don't know," you shoot back, anger flaring hot in your chest. "I could ask the same for you."
Whatever moment of unity you'd shared. Your heads pressed together listening to Max, both worried about Steve, snaps clean in half. You're reminded with brutal clarity that you're not best friends anymore. You're two people who used to be close, standing in front of each other like strangers.
Robin shuts her jaw with an audible click, teeth grinding together. "This is my fault," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "I need to fix it." She says your name, eyes pleading, desperate. "He can't drop out because of me. Because of—" She cuts herself off, looking up at the sky like the clouds might have answers. When she speaks again, her voice is raspy, raw. "He's my best friend, and I screwed up."
God. After everything that's happened, Robin is still acting possessive over Steve. Still claiming him as hers and hers alone. Nothing is going to change that.
"Right," you snap, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. "Because my friendship with him never counted. Or yours with me, I guess."
Robin's face breaks for a second. Her eyes softening, mouth parting like she wants to argue, wants to tell you that's not what she meant. But she doesn't say anything. Can't, maybe.
You dig into your pocket and pull out your keys. You unhook the dorm key from the ring and hold out the car keys, looking Robin directly in the eyes with determination you don't entirely feel.
"It's quicker if you leave now. Take my car."
Robin doesn't take them. She's staring at the keys like they're a snake that might bite her. "I don't have my license."
"Wait, what about that night you drove Eddie and Steve— you know never mind. Just don't get pulled over. " You motion for her to take them again, shaking the keys slightly so they jingle. "I'll let Eddie know what's going on. And I'll take notes for you in class."
For a brief second, Robin smiles. It's small and sad and achingly familiar. It’s the smile of a friend, the smile of someone who wants to pull you into a hug and say thank you and I'm sorry and I miss you all at once. The smile that used to mean everything is going to be okay because you have each other.
But it falls away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something more guarded.
She gives you a curt nod, takes the keys from your outstretched hand—careful not to let your fingers touch—and runs toward the parking lot where your car is parked.
You watch her go, standing alone on the front steps of your dorm, and you wonder if this is what it feels like to lose someone piece by piece instead of all at once.
Later that night, you're at your desk pretending to do homework.
You've been avoiding all public spaces—the dining hall, the library, the student center—eating granola bars from the stash under your bed and telling yourself you'll go get real food tomorrow. Your American Lit textbook is open in front of you, reading the same paragraph four times without retaining a single word.
Your eyes wander to the housing form sitting to the side of your desk, partially buried under a notebook but still visible. The deadline looms: next Friday. One week to decide where you'll live next year, who you'll live with, whether you'll stay or go.
You turn in your chair to look at Robin's side of the room.
It's a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere—jeans hanging off her desk chair, a sweater crumpled on the floor, her denim jacket draped over her closet door. Books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Empty coffee mugs forming a small collection on her nightstand.
You've never cared about the mess. You're pretty messy yourself—your own clothes tend to migrate from the hamper to the floor and back again, and you're not above wearing the same jeans three days in a row if they pass the smell test.
But looking at Robin's side of the room now, you're hit with a wave of memory so strong it almost knocks the air from your lungs.
You had a horrible first roommate freshman year. Melissa, who passive-aggressively left notes about your "excessive" overnight guests (you'd had exactly two) and complained to the RA whenever you stayed up past ten studying. Who listened to terrible pop music at full volume when you were trying to study. Who made you feel like an intruder in your own room.
Robin came up to you after class second semester, Intro to Literary Analysis, a pre-req you both suffered through, and asked if you wanted to room together next year. You barely knew her. You'd seen her at a few parties, and one other class. You knew she was funny and hyper and incredibly intelligent.
"I can't stand my roommate," Robin had said bluntly. “We should room together. And you always look like you know how to have fun."
And somehow, it had worked. You'd never found someone you could coexist with so easily—someone who understood that sometimes you needed silence and sometimes you needed to blast music and dance badly at two in the morning. Someone who would let you borrow her clothes and would steal your shampoo and would wake you up when you'd overslept but also knew when to leave you alone.
You don't know if you'll ever find someone like Robin again.
The thought makes your hand shake as you reach for a pen, pulling the housing form closer. You start to circle REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the pen hovering over the paper.
But you're stopped by the sound of the door unlocking.
Robin walks in, and she looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped, hair tangled like she's been running her hands through it. She freezes when she sees you sitting at your desk, clearly not expecting you to be there.
You quickly shove the housing form away, burying it under your textbook, and look up at her. You search her face for any telling details—did she get him back? Is he okay? Did it work?
Robin clears her throat, breaking the silence first. "I'm coming to grab my stuff. Me and Eddie are going to help him study." Her voice is rough, tired. "I think I might stay the night at Pike. I..." She holds up your car keys, and there's an awkward smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I only ran through one stop sign. But she's in perfect condition, and I filled up the tank."
You swallow hard, nodding. "You can put them on my bed. Thanks."
Robin does as you asked, setting the keys down gently on your comforter. The room fills with tense silence, the kind that's heavy with all the things you're not saying to each other.
You can feel her looking at you when you turn back to your textbook. And when you glance up from the corner of your eye, you catch her quickly looking away, pretending to search for something in her closet.
This happens three more times—both of you stealing glances when the other isn't looking, like teenagers with crushes instead of ex-best friends who can barely speak to each other.
Robin finally gathers her things—textbooks, notebooks, a change of clothes shoved into her backpack. She goes to open the door, then stops. "Hey."
She clears her throat when you don't respond immediately.
You look up at her. "Yeah?"
Robin takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. "Uh... thank you. For lending me your car."
"No problem," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel.
Robin stands there awkwardly, door half-open, letting the hallway noise filter in. Someone's TV playing too loud, a group of girls laughing as they pass. "Right. Okay."
She goes to leave, and then you hear yourself say, "Oh! Hey, Rob…in."
You catch yourself before you can finish the nickname, the syllables sticking in your throat. It comes out wrong, forced, like you're trying too hard or not trying hard enough.
"Yeah?" Robin turns back, and there's something hopeful in her expression that makes your chest hurt.
"I left your notes from class on your desk." You motion toward her side of the room, where the papers are stacked neatly. "From today."
Robin's whole face shifts. It’s something like relief, or gratitude, or maybe just surprise that you thought of her. She perks up and walks over to her desk, picking up the papers and awkwardly waving them. "Cool. Uh... thanks. This is—thanks."
"Yep."
"Right." Robin adjusts her backpack on her shoulder, the papers clutched in her other hand. "Bye."
"Bye."
The door closes with a soft click, and you're alone again.
You sit there for a long moment, staring at the space where Robin was standing, then pull out the housing form from under your textbook. Your pen hovers over REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the circle you started to draw still incomplete.
But you don't finish it. Instead, you set the pen down and push the form aside again, telling yourself you'll deal with it tomorrow.
.-.-.-.
The loneliness is creeping in again, settling over you like fog rolling in from the ocean—thick and suffocating and impossible to see through.
You're on your bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. There are seven that you can see from this angle, spiderwebbing out from the corner where the water damage bloomed last semester. It's Friday evening, the sun already setting, the room growing darker by the minute.
You only saw Robin briefly in class today. She didn't sit next to you—took a seat three rows ahead instead, on the opposite side of the lecture hall. But you could see her from where you were sitting. Could see her leg bouncing incessantly, the rapid tap-tap-tap of her pencil against her notebook, the frantic scraping as she took notes even though the professor wasn't saying anything worth writing down. She left quickly when class ended, gathering her things and disappearing through the door before you'd even closed your notebook.
Yesterday, Art History was cancelled. A note on the door said the Professor was out sick, class would resume Monday. You were grateful, relief flooding through you so intensely your knees went weak. You don't know if you could handle sitting in a room with Sammy, still with no answer for him about being his girlfriend, still not knowing what you really want for yourself.
You do know you want to stop being so lonely.
You let out a big huff, the sound loud in the quiet room, and swing your legs off the bed. You need to move, need to get out of this room that smells like Robin's perfume and your own sadness. You grab a jacket and head out, not really knowing where your legs might take you, just needing to walk.
There's a lot on your mind as you wander campus. Your anger at Robin, at Steve, at yourself. The sadness that sits heavy in your chest like a stone you swallowed and can't cough up. You wonder how Robin is really doing, not knowing how she's dealing with the breakup with Nancy beyond the bouncing leg and frantic note-taking. If Eddie and Polly are going strong, if anything changed when they came back to school after Miami, if they're actually together now or still dancing around it.
What the rest of the trip was like for everyone after you left. If Steve's test went well yesterday. If he actually wanted to drop out or if that was the alcohol and despair talking.
And of course—pathetically, predictably—you find yourself outside the Pike house.
You're still far enough away that no one would see you. Standing across the street, partially hidden behind a tree, feeling like a stalker or a ghost haunting the places you used to belong. You're looking at the window to Steve's room. It's dark, the curtains closed, no light bleeding through the edges.
And you know then that it doesn't matter what you're thinking or feeling or wanting. Now that Steve knows you don't love him—that you lied and told him you don't feel that way—he's probably moved on already. Out with Robin and Eddie somewhere, maybe with another girl, some new conquest to ruin with his lies and rules and that fake relationship he's trapped in.
Forcing her to play along too.
And that's when you realize it.
You're done being the secret. Done being the exception that isn't really an exception. Done waiting for something that will never happen.
It doesn't take long to walk to Alpha Tau. The house is quieter than Pike usually is—no party tonight, just the regular sounds of college guys living together. Video games from somewhere upstairs, someone's stereo playing too loud, the smell of microwaved popcorn and cheap cologne.
Sammy answers when you knock, and his face goes through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, hope, caution, guardedness.
"Hey," he says carefully.
"Can we talk?"
He lets you in, leading you upstairs to his room. It's neater than you remember, like he's been cleaning to cope with stress. His bed is made with crisp corners, textbooks stacked in precise piles on his desk.
You both sit on his bed, and you smile at him shyly, gathering courage. "I've, uh... thought a lot about what we talked about. Before break."
"Yeah?" His smile is cautious, hopeful but trying not to be.
You nod, looking at the ground because you can't look at his face while you say this. You take a breath to steady yourself, pulling air deep into your lungs. "I don't think casual stuff works for me either. I never really thought I wouldn't want it, you know? And I..." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "I always blamed others for not wanting anything serious. But maybe it was me who didn't. Like maybe, I was too scared." You take his hand in yours, feeling his palm, the lines etched there by genetics and time. "I'd like to give it a shot. Us. For real."
His hands just feel like skin. Warm and dry and completely unremarkable.
Sammy grins, looking away and chuckling like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "I thought about you a lot over break, you know?"
"Really?" you ask, looking into his green eyes.
For a split second, you manage to take that green and imagine it like the green that swims around in hazel pools—Steve's eyes in certain light, when the sun hits them just right. Your heart thrums painfully.
Sammy nods, reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from your face. But it falls immediately back into place, so he tries again. Finally you laugh—forced, brittle—and help him, tucking it behind your ear yourself and looking up at him.
And in the second before he leans in, you close your eyes and pray that it will be him you see. That this will be enough.
"Can I kiss you?" He says your name softly, tenderly.
You smile through the pain blooming in your chest. Nod.
Sammy's lips meet yours—soft but chapped, tentative at first then firmer. You kiss back, closing your eyes, letting your lashes flutter against your cheeks. And suddenly you're hearing waves, smelling salt on skin that isn't his.
He's laying you down on the bed gently, his knee slotting between your legs, and your eyes are still shut tight. The waves are getting louder in your head, crashing and receding and crashing again.
You feel him creep his hand up your shirt. Feel him touch your bare skin—stomach, ribs, the underside of your breast. And you're still back on that beach in Miami, hating that you never got a chance to go in the water. You can still feel sand under your clothes except that's Sammy's hands, not sand. His rough calluses, not the ocean floor.
Sammy is kissing your neck now, and you're letting him because you want this to work, need it to work. You can't open your eyes because if you do, you'll see it's not Steve and the illusion will shatter.
You feel his mouth trail up—jaw, ear—and his breath is hot when he speaks, voice rough with want. "Say you're mine."
You're breathing heavy, chest heaving, and you're being swallowed by the waves, pulled under, water filling your lungs. "I'm yours," you whisper.
Your face is wet. You're crying, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your breath is shaky, your voice cracked and broken when you say it again: "I'm yours, Steve."
Sammy stills immediately. His lips slowly leave your collarbone, pulling back like you've burned him.
When did your shirt come off? You slowly open your eyes, and Sammy is sliding off you, sitting up, putting distance between your bodies. His jaw is set tight, muscle jumping, and you're crying harder now, hands coming up to cover your face.
"I'm sorry," you sob, voice muffled by your palms. "I'm so sorry."
You're shaking, and in your head you're submerging back under the water, lungs screaming for air that won't come. "I'm so, so sorry."
Sammy doesn't say anything. He sits next to you on the bed as you cry, not touching you, not comforting you, waiting.
When you finally collect yourself enough to breathe without sobbing, you sit up. You see your shirt on the floor and pick it up, pulling it back on with trembling hands. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, leaving mascara streaks.
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. "Can you please drive me home?"
Sammy laughs, it’s loud and sharp and bitter. "You think I'm going to take you home now? After you embarrassed me like that?"
You twist around to look at him, anger sparking through the shame. "You're embarrassed?"
"You know what? You're right." Sammy's voice is cold now, cutting. "I’d be embarrassed wasting my time on a guy who won't give you the time of day— but I guess I have been wasting my time, huh? Steve Harrington is a complete douchebag who cheats on his girlfriend and has nothing else going for him. He's pathetic. And if you can't see that, then you're right there with him."
You stare at Sammy for a long moment, really seeing him for the first time. The bitterness twisting his features, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he's lashing out because his pride is hurt. Everything twisting ugly.
"You don't know him," you say quietly, firmly. "And you don't know me."
You scoff in disbelief, pushing yourself off the bed and jerking his door open. But you stop in the doorway, turning back to look at him one more time.
"And you know what else?" Your voice is steady now, powered by anger. "You suck at kissing."
Not your best moment, but you're pissed off again, and it feels good to say. You slam the door shut behind you hard enough that it rattles in the frame.
When you get back to your dorm, you think you'll finally be able to relax, to collapse and process everything that just happened.
But Robin is there.
She's sitting at her desk, music playing from her radio—Madonna, you think. You’re unsure, it’s too loud for the small space. The window is open despite the cool spring air, letting in the sounds of campus at night and the smell of someone's cigarette smoke from outside.
Robin looks so normal. Acting like she hasn't ruined your life. Like she didn't tell Steve you don't have feelings for him, didn't sabotage any chance you had at happiness.
She should have never told you Steve wanted to sleep with you. Should have never mentioned that he begged for it. Then maybe you can erase any memory of when he looked at you like you were it for him.
You should have never become her roommate in the first place, never let yourself get close enough to be destroyed like this.
You walk into the room, toeing off your shoes and lining them up by the door. You feel the overwhelmingness engulf you again—emotion rising like a tide, threatening to pull you under. Your head is pounding, temples throbbing with each beat of your heart.
You say politely, voice tight, "Can you turn the music down?"
Robin doesn't hear you. She's focused on whatever she's writing, head bent over her notebook, pencil scratching across paper.
You count to ten in your head, trying to maintain composure, then turn around to look at her. "Hey. Can you turn the music down?"
Robin still doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up. She's not listening, not being considerate, and something inside you snaps.
You storm over to the radio, pick it up. The plastic warm under your fingers, vibrating slightly with the bass. Before you can think about it, you walk to the open window and throw it out.
You watch it fall, tumbling through the air, before it crashes against the sidewalk below with a satisfying crunch of breaking plastic and shattering components.
"What the hell, dude?" Robin yells, jumping up from her chair. "What—"
You turn slowly from the window, gripping the sill so hard your knuckles go white. You lick your lips, steadying yourself. "I went to see Sammy tonight."
Robin's face softens immediately, anger draining away and replaced with something like concern. "Okay?"
You put your hand to your head, fingers pressing against your temple where the headache is worst. "I tried to make it work. I really tried." Your voice cracks. "And then I realized I was only doing it so maybe you would stop being mad at me. So we could forget about everything and go back to normal."
You drop your hand, looking at Robin directly now. "Then I thought... I don't care if you're mad at me anymore. Because I'm mad at you."
Robin looks at the ground, jaw working like she's trying to swallow something bitter.
Your face contorts with anger and hurt and months of swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "But I don't want to forget what happened. You and Steve fucking hurt me, Robin. And I hate that I still care about you despite everything."
You look away from her, tears streaming down your face again, voice breaking completely. "I'm in love with him,” your voice shakes. You saying it out loud still didn’t feel real. “I love Steve, and I had to lie to him because of you."
You're crying harder now, face buried in your hands, and you've never felt more embarrassed—breaking down like this in front of Robin, exposing yourself completely.
And then you feel arms wrap around you.
Robin is crying too, holding you tight, and you're both sinking to the ground. She guides you down gently, and then you're sitting on the floor together, Robin's back against your bed, you tucked into her side. She's petting your hair the way she used to when you were sad about exams or life in general.
"It's okay," Robin whispers, voice thick with tears. "It's okay. I'm so sorry." She says your name like it hurts. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."
She takes a shaky breath, still holding you. "You're right. I've been selfish. And fuck, I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to become like this."
You lean back to look at her, both of your faces wet with tears, lips quivering. Robin wipes her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak.
"You were also right about..." Robin's breath catches, shaky and uneven. "About me being scared." She looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "I told you Steve was the first person I came out to, yeah? And I've told a few others since then. And I know—" She taps her temple. "—in my head, I know I like girls. When I look at Nancy, I definitely know."
She pauses, gathering courage, and when she speaks again her voice is barely above a whisper. "But sometimes I look at Steve and I hate myself. Because I think, why can't things be easy? Why can't I just like him that way and have it all be simple?"
Robin's hands are shaking now, and she clasps them together to still them. "I don't think I've been able to look in the mirror and say it out loud to myself. That this is who I am." She laughs bitterly, tears still falling. "So I clutch onto any bit of what could make me normal. Because I don't want people to look at me and say 'oh, there's Robin Buckley the lesbian.' I just want to be Robin, you know? Just... me."
She looks at you now, really looks at you, eyes red and pleading. "And I know I take it too far. Like telling Steve you didn't feel the same way about him." Her voice breaks. "I should have never told him that. When part of me did know the truth."
Robin wipes her face with her sleeve. "I saw you two kiss. At the lake during the camping trip. I was coming to see if you two were ready to go… and yeah. Then I saw how you looked at each other afterward… but I never brought it up because I didn’t want it to be a big deal. And then I saw Sammy in the library… and I pushed for you to consider him because then maybe you’d forget about Steve." She closes her eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. "I knew. I knew exactly how you both felt, and I still—"
She puts a hand on her chest, over her heart. "I'm so sorry for what I said at dinner in Miami. For all of it." Her voice drops to barely audible. "I love you. You're my best friend, and friends don't treat each other like that. Ever."
You pull Robin in for another hug, and this time you're not sobbing. You're holding each other the way you used to. Before everything got complicated, before secrets and lies carved canyons between you.
"I love you too," you whisper into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo. "I missed you so much."
Robin holds you tighter, arms squeezing around your ribs. "I missed you too. So fucking much. I haven't been able to look at the housing form because it makes me feel sick."
You laugh. It’s wet and a little broken but genuine. "I tried to circle 'different roommate,' but it felt so wrong."
You sit there together as the room grows darker, the only light coming from Robin's desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls and the moon filtering through the open window, silver and cool. Outside, you can hear crickets starting their nightly chorus, someone's car door slamming, the distant thump of music from a party several blocks away.
Robin is the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. "I don't know what to do."
"About what?" you ask, pulling back slightly to look at her face.
"About it all." Robin admits, gesturing vaguely at the universe. "Steve and our whole thing." She puts her face in her hands and groans, the sound muffled. Then she flops backward dramatically onto the floor, arms spread wide like she's making a snow angel. "And Nancy. God, I really fucked things up."
She stares up at the ceiling, and you watch her throat work as she swallows. "Why is my life all… kaplooey." She grabs her thumb and makes a raspberry sound with her tongue, twisting her hand to demonstrate something being bent or broken. "All because I can't just say I like..." She pauses, gathering courage. "Boobies."
She laughs at herself, high and slightly hysterical, and you can't help but laugh too.
Robin shoots up suddenly, her limbs moving awkwardly like a newborn giraffe learning to walk. You watch as she scrambles to her closet, nearly tripping over her own feet.
There's rustling and curses muttered under her breath, the sound of plastic hangers clinking together like wind chimes. Suddenly clothes start flying behind her—left and right, an explosion of fabric. All her dresses and blouses, the ones she's worn to family dinners and church and formal events. The ones that made her look like the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect girl.
She even goes to her dresser, yanking open drawers with enough force that they nearly come completely out. She pulls out a bra and holds it up like evidence at a trial.
"I've always hated this bra!" she announces to the room, laughing chaotically. "It literally makes my boobs itch and feel weird."
After thirty minutes, there's a mountain of clothes on the floor. It’s pretty much Robin's entire closet reduced to a heap of fabric and false identities. She's breathing hard like she's been running a marathon, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion and exhilaration.
Then she scoops them up in her arms—as much as she can carry, which is most of it—and walks over to the still-open window. She tosses them out without hesitation.
You watch the clothes tumble through the air, catching moonlight, before landing in a pile on the grass below.
Robin looks almost pleased with herself, hands on her hips, when suddenly her eyes widen like she's remembered something crucial. She runs back to her closet and grabs an armful of high heels—the ones that pinch her toes, the ones she can barely walk in, the ones her mother bought her for special occasions.
She does the same thing, hurling them out the window one by one. They land with satisfying thuds.
When she's done, she stands at the window with her hands on her hips, grinning ear to ear, breathing hard and looking more alive than you've seen her in months.
"Hey," she says, turning to you with that wild grin still plastered across her face. "How about we go get our hair done tomorrow?"
.-.-.-.
You don't know why you agreed to this.
You're standing in the cramped entryway of Bellini's—the Italian restaurant in your college town, the one Sammy had brought you to a couple of times.
It wouldn’t be so daunting, but you knew inside was Eddie, Robin and her parents and… Steve and his own parents.
It's been two weeks since you and Robin made up, but that doesn't mean everything is fixed. It's still fragile, still distrust, like walking on ice that might crack at any moment.
Robin hasn't been hanging out with Steve as much. She’s claimings it's because of end-of-semester stress, all the final papers and exams piling up. But really, you know it's to be mindful of you. To give you space from him. Or maybe Robin knows she needs distance from him too, needs to figure out who she is without Steve Harrington as her defining characteristic.
You've started hanging out with Eddie again. Smoking joints with him and Polly in the back of his van, Eddie's arm draped lazily over Polly's shoulders, her fingers playing with the rings on his hand. He never talks about Steve around you, except for that first time when he'd said, "Am I allowed to say I knew you two had been smooching all along?"
Polly had smacked him hard on the arm, leaving a red mark. "Edward!"
Later that night, when you'd climbed out of the van to head back to your dorm, Eddie had stopped you. He'd had remorse written all over his face, brows drawn together, mouth turned down.
"Hey, look, I feel awful, man." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "Steve told me you thought it was him and Polly in the next room. In Miami. And I really wasn't thinking about what it could've looked like." He'd spoken fast, words tumbling over each other. "Steve was nearly passed out drunk that first night on the beach, so everyone took him back to the hotel. But then he started begging—said he couldn't trust himself being in his room alone. We didn't know what that meant, so we left him with Jonathan. And then Polly and I started talking, and she didn't want to wake you up because you weren't feeling well, and she needed to shower..." Eddie had looked genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Hot Shot. I should've thought about how it would sound."
Maybe you were really high and feeling generous. Maybe you were tired of being angry all the time. But you'd forgiven him.
And maybe a little bit of that forgiveness was for Steve too.
There was one night though—about a week ago—when Robin was getting ready for bed and someone knocked on your door to say she had a call. She’d come back to the dorm already tired and stressed, grabbed her shoes.
"Steve passed out at Murphy's," she'd said quietly, not meeting your eyes. "Have to go help get him home."
You'd almost offered to go with her. Almost. But you were afraid of what you'd feel if you saw him, afraid you'd break whatever fragile progress you'd made in trying to move on.
And you were correct to assume you would feel... sick is the easiest way to put it.
When you open the restaurant doors and walk to the table where everyone is gathered, Steve is the first pair of eyes you catch. You realize you haven't seen him in weeks. All that distance you'd put between you hasn't helped at all. None of it, because seeing him now makes you miss him more, not less.
It's reconfirmed by the way your heart swells painfully in your chest, beating too fast, reminding you that you still feel it. Love. A love he has no idea you carry, that you told him doesn't exist.
Robin had invited you a few days ago. Pike was having a family weekend event, and it had turned into Robin's parents coming to visit, which somehow evolved into a planned dinner. Robin had asked if you'd come because her parents specifically requested it, but she'd understood if you couldn't.
"Now or never, I guess," you'd said with a shrug, not looking up from the book you were reading on your bed.
And now you regret it. You thought you could be strong. Thought seeing him would feel like closure, like proof you were moving on.
You were wrong.
There isn't any closure yet between you two. Mostly because of you, because you're still hurt by what he said, but also because you know you hurt him too. Lied to him in the worst possible way.
His hair has grown out again. It’s longer at the nape of his neck, pushed back and fully chestnut. If it weren't for the dark circles under his eyes, he'd look completely fine and normal. He's wearing a navy polo tucked into Levi's, hands folded in his lap, sitting next to Robin.
On his other side is his mom, and next to her is clearly his father. You'd only heard Mr. Harrington's voice on the phone that one time, but seeing him now, you realize the Harrington genes are strong in Steve. Besides the graying hair on Mr. Harrington's temples, they have almost exactly the same features—the same jawline, the same straight nose, the same way of holding themselves with careful control.
His mom is on the plumper side with a kind face that's beyond beautiful. You can see where Steve gets his hazel eyes—the same mixture of green and gold and brown that shifts in different light.
"Sorry I'm so late," you say breathlessly, clutching your purse. "Lost track of time."
It's not entirely a lie. You had been in the parking lot for thirty minutes, sitting in your car trying to convince yourself to go inside even though you'd arrived early.
Robin's mom stands up immediately and engulfs you in a hug. She smells like floral perfume and hairspray, and her embrace is warm and maternal in a way that makes your throat tight.
"It's okay! I'm so glad you could make it. It’s so good to see you." She pulls back but keeps her hands on your shoulders, smiling warmly. Then she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "We haven't even ordered yet. They're kind of slow here."
And of course, the only open seat is directly across from Steve. Robin shoots you an apologetic look. Her eyes wide, mouth twisted in a grimace that says I'm sorry, I didn't think about the seating arrangement.
You force yourself to look at Steve fully. He's already looking at you, and when your eyes meet, something passes between you. It’s recognition, longing, hurt, love, all of it compressed into a single moment. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, and you can see his hand twitch on the table like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.
Your heart clenches so hard it physically hurts.
You sit down, and immediately Steve's mom leans across the table, saying your name with warmth and familiarity. "Right? I'm remembering correctly?"
"Oh, yes." You stand awkwardly, half-bent over the table, and shake her hand. It's soft with perfectly manicured nails painted a subtle pink. You shake it firmly but carefully. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Harrington."
You glance at Steve, and he's staring at the table like watching this exchange physically pains him. But then his eyes go wide when you turn to his father, plastering on your most polite smile.
Mr. Harrington holds out his hand with a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, only nodding in greeting. His handshake is brief and perfunctory.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrington," you say, and then because you can't help yourself, you add, "Steve talks about you a lot."
Mr. Harrington's smile shifts slightly. It becomes more arrogant, more satisfied. It looks exactly like the upturned lips on Steve that you fell in love with, except colder, more calculated. "All good things, I hope?" He glances at his son, who quickly averts his eyes elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the breadsticks.
You hum, pretending to think about it, smile playing at your lips. "Still up for interpretation."
You think maybe he'll get upset at that, maybe call you rude or disrespectful. But he blinks at you, surprised, and then cracks a smile that actually looks genuine—amused, even.
Steve's mom chuckles, her laugh bright and musical. "We've heard a lot about you from Steve," she says, eyes twinkling. "He said you're funny." She gives you a dazzling straight-toothed smile that lights up her whole face. "You're so pretty."
She says it like she's cooing at a baby or a puppy, and you feel your cheeks flush hot.
Your brain supplies unhelpfully that his parents only know you as Steve's friend. If you're even that anymore—you're not sure what you are to each other now. But there's a moment where you pretend this is meeting his parents for the first time as his girlfriend, and you could walk away happy that you left a good impression.
You look up to catch Steve's eyes softening as he looks at you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he's pretending too.
But then Robin's mother speaks, sighing heavily. "I still don't know why you decided to do that to your hair."
She's speaking to Robin, and there's clear disapproval in her tone.
For as long as you've known Robin, she's had long chestnut hair. Always silky smooth, brushed until it shone, falling past her shoulders in perfect waves. Always with neat makeup carefully applied—eyeliner precise, lipstick never smudged. Perfectly manicured nails. Everything about her appearance carefully controlled and maintained.
But when you went to the hair salon last week—after the great closet purge—Robin had told the stylist to cut it off. All of it. Her hair now sits above her shoulders in a choppy, almost boyish cut that somehow makes her look more herself than she ever has.
Her eyeliner is smudged purposefully under her eyes now, giving her an edgy look. Her fingers are painted different colors on each nail, already chipped from a week of wear. And after feeling guilty about throwing her clothes out the window—both of you bringing everything back up to pack away for donations instead—she'd gone shopping for a whole new wardrobe.
She's wearing a striped green sweater tucked into her jeans tonight. But it's not the clothes that are different. It's like she cut off the strings of whatever puppeteer was controlling her. She slouches now, lets her limbs drape over furniture not in the careful, practiced way she used to, but naturally, comfortably. She's not pretending anymore.
She's finally relaxed. Finally herself.
Robin looks nervous at her mother's comment, but she still rolls her eyes. "Mom—"
"I like it," Steve offers quietly.
Mrs. Buckley waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, Steve, you're always such a sweetheart. But you don't have to like it because you're her boyfriend."
"I'm not."
Everyone's heads snap toward Steve. Eyebrows furrow. Even your eyes go wide, and you can feel your face betray you—hopeful, desperately hopeful that this means what you think it means. You look at Robin, wondering if they finally ended their fake relationship.
Steve clears his throat, seeming to realize how that sounded. He straightens in his chair. "I meant that I'm not saying that because I'm her boyfriend." He reaches over and squeezes Robin's hand on the table, the gesture practiced and familiar. "I like it because it's her."
Robin and Steve share a look, something passing between them that speaks of years of friendship, of secrets shared, of unconditional support. Robin smiles at him, and it's genuine and grateful.
Both of their mothers look at each other with matching expressions—bottom lips puckered, hands coming up to rest over their hearts in some universal salute of mothers who think they're witnessing true love. Their fathers maintain neutral, stony faces, both distantly clinking their whiskey glasses together in masculine solidarity.
You know you're looking at them with a mixture of sadness and fondness, unable to hide it from your face. They're so good at this—at playing the perfect couple, at making everyone believe it's real.
Eddie, who is normally loud and constantly talking, squeezes your hand under the table. His palm is rough from guitar strings and calluses, familiar and grounding. You look up at him and see his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed.
You want to laugh. He's mentioned before that parents make him nervous, that authority figures in general stress him out. No wonder he's been silent this entire time, he’s high off his ass from weed and anxiety.
Finally, the food arrives—steaming plates of pasta and chicken parmesan and breadsticks that smell like garlic and butter. The waiter sets everything down with practiced efficiency.
It's mostly the adults talking after that. Mr. Harrington discussing work, Mrs. Buckley sharing updates about people from Hawkins you don't know. Eddie hums beside you, a tuneless sound that you recognize as his anxious tic. Robin eats her food in a hurry like it might disappear if she doesn't consume it fast enough.
You catch Steve slipping his hand under the table, probably settling it on Robin's restless leg. You know she's bouncing her knee because occasionally the table shakes slightly when her knee comes up too high, jostling the water glasses.
Steve is picking at his food, barely eating. You try your best not to watch him, but you fail repeatedly. And he's doing the same thing, both of you stealing glances, eyes meeting briefly before darting back to your plates.
Robin's dad speaks, breaking the cycle. "Steve, Robin tells me you passed your College of Education entrance exam."
You can't stop the words before they burst out. "Wait, really?" You're smiling, genuine and wide and pleased for him.
Steve looks at you, and his cheeks dust pink. He's smiling too, eyes twinkling in a way you haven't seen in weeks. He nods, ducking his head slightly. "Uh, yeah." It comes out shy, and he glances back at Robin's dad. "I'll be officially majoring in kinesiology with education studies."
You notice Mr. Harrington taking another long drink of his whiskey, jaw tight.
But Mrs. Harrington beams, her whole face lighting up with maternal pride. "We're so proud of him." She leans over and smacks a big kiss on Steve's cheek, leaving a lipstick mark.
Steve laughs awkwardly, squirming away. "Ma," he complains, but there's a huge smile on his face. He takes his napkin and wipes the lipstick off his cheek, but his eyes catch yours again across the table.
You share another smile, and it feels like something precious and fragile, a moment of connection in the midst of all this pretending.
Mr. Harrington grumbles into his glass, "Well, Harold, I guess you'll need to start supporting those bills on giving teachers higher pay."
It's meant to be a joke, but the tone is bitter, cutting. The table becomes tense, conversation dying mid-word.
Steve looks deflated, shoulders slouching inward, jaw ticking with tension. All the joy from a moment ago drains from his face.
Mr. Buckley chuckles, oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I guess I can catch up with the times—women making more money than their husbands and all that." He points his fork at Mr. Harrington. "But don't go telling the men at the club I've gone soft and switched over to the Democrats."
They laugh loudly, too loud, the sound forced and uncomfortable.
Robin, Steve, you, and Eddie all cringe simultaneously, sharing a look of mutual mortification.
Eddie speaks up, and Steve already looks like he's regretting every decision that led to this moment. "You know," Eddie says, eyes glassy and red, words coming out slower than usual, "teachers are like... the foundation of society, man. They're like..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "They're like the roots of a tree. And we're all the branches. Or maybe they're the branches and we're the leaves? I forget how trees work." He takes a bite of his pasta. "But they're important. Very important. Essential, even."
There's a moment of silence.
"Thank you, Eddie," Steve says flatly, rubbing his face with both hands.
The waiter comes by with a water pitcher, moving around the table to fill glasses. Mrs. Buckley clears her throat. "So, have you two discussed the timeline of when you're going to propose? Since Robin is considering law school?"
"Uh..." Robin and Steve say in unison.
"Are you thinking about eventually moving back to Hawkins?" Mrs. Buckley continues, not noticing their discomfort.
"Yes," Steve says surely, at the exact same moment Robin says, "No."
They look at each other, and the tension ratchets up another notch.
"We're still talking things through," Steve says slowly, carefully, like he's defusing a bomb.
Robin looks at her plate, sliding her fork through the remnants of spaghetti sauce, creating patterns in the red.
Mr. Harrington blows air through his nose in obvious disapproval. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, nodding at the waiter after his glass is filled. "This is why I told you decisions like that needed to be discussed thoroughly before making them." His voice is hard, disappointed. "It'd be different if you'd just met the girl. But you two have been together for years and have always planned on getting married. Is this really the first time you're talking about it?"
You make awkward eye contact with the waiter, who looks like he wishes he could disappear. You mouth sorry at him.
Eddie takes a huge bite of his food and announces to himself, but loudly enough that everyone hears. "I never thought I'd like zucchini."
You elbow him hard in the ribs.
"Ow! Hot Shot," he whines, rubbing his side.
Everyone ignores it. Mrs. Buckley speaks, her voice soothing and placating. "Oh, they're still young, Danny. They'll figure it out. Harold and I didn't have it all planned out when we got married either." She smiles at Robin and Steve. "Besides, Robin loves Steve and knows that at the end of the day, he'll know what's best for them."
Suddenly, Eddie, still parading his fork with a piece of zucchini speared on it, accidentally knocks into the waiter's hand as he's filling Eddie's glass. The glass tips, falls, hits your glass, and water pours all over your lap.
You make an "oomph" sound as cold water soaks through your jeans, but you can't concentrate on the discomfort because you see Steve immediately scoot his chair back, eyes full of concern like you've been seriously hurt and he's about to climb over the table to get to you.
"You okay?" he asks, voice urgent.
You look at him, and the concern on his face makes your chest tight. Then you glance at Robin, who looks defeated and guilty, staring at her plate like she wishes she could disappear into it. Then you see the adults all looking at you, and the waiter is next to you apologizing profusely, his face red with embarrassment as he rushes off to get napkins.
"Yeah, I'm fine." You manage a smile, trying to be reassuring. "It's water."
He doesn't move at first, still half-standing, scanning you like he's checking for injuries. Only when you nod again does he sit back down, but his hands remain on the edge of the table, ready to jump up again if needed.
You and Steve can't stop looking at each other now. Your eyes feel like they're about to burn with tears, from embarrassment, from longing for the boy across from you who you can't have, from the sheer weight of everything unsaid between you.
You sniffle, thanking the waiter when he returns with a stack of napkins, dabbing at your lap even though it's mostly futile. Your face is heated with embarrassment and something deeper.
You notice Robin looking between the two of you, her jaw twitching like she's grinding her teeth. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they're glassy and serious. Determined.
She says in a hushed whisper, but loud enough that you can hear across the table: "Now or never."
"What, dear?" Mrs. Buckley asks, leaning toward her daughter.
You look at Robin, searching her face, trying to understand what she means. Tilting your head, Robin catches your eyes and holds them. You can see it there—resolution, fear, courage, love. She's telling you without words that she's about to do something big, something that can't be taken back.
And somehow, through that look, she's also telling you that it's going to be okay.
"Mom," Robin says, turning to face her parents. "Steve and I are not like you and Dad."
Mrs. Buckley laughs lightly. "Yes, I know you two are more modern and—"
"No." Robin cuts her off, voice firm. "I love Steve differently than you two love each other."
Steve's eyes go wide, lips parting. "Robin," he whispers, voice tight with warning or fear or both.
Robin looks at him, and tears are already forming in her eyes. But she smiles. It’s soft and grateful and apologetic all at once. She squeezes his hand on the table, turning it over so their fingers can intertwine properly.
"Steve was the best boyfriend a girl could ask for," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "He did everything I asked him to. Even when it cost him everything." Her eyes glance at you, holding your gaze for a moment before returning to Steve.
Steve turns to look at you too, something desperate and hopeful in his expression, before looking back at Robin.
"Was?" Mrs. Harrington asks, confusion clear in her voice. "Did you two break up?"
Robin sighs, and you can see her leg bouncing frantically under the table. She bites her bottom lip, takes a breath, and then says the words that change everything:
"We were never together."
"What?" You're not sure which adult asks—maybe all of them in unison, a chorus of shock.
Eddie leans over to you, whispering, "Is she really...?"
Your eyes cut to him sharply, silencing him immediately. He looks completely sober now, his usual grin gone, focused entirely on Robin.
Robin turns to her parents, and there's a sad but determined expression on her face. "Mom, Dad, I don't love Steve the way you two love each other."
"You said that already, dear," her mom says, voice tight with confusion and growing concern.
Robin tilts her head back, looking up at the ceiling like she's asking for divine intervention. Then she looks back at her parents, and you can see her searching their faces—hopeful, terrified, needing that approval, needing them to understand that she's still their daughter, still the same Robin they've always loved.
"Mom," Robin's voice cracks slightly, "I will never love Steve the way you love Dad. I will never..." She takes another breath, and you can see her hands shaking where they're clasped with Steve's. "I will never love a boy like that."
Robin is crying now, tears streaming down her face, sniffling. But she's also smiling. It’s small and fragile but real.
Her parents furrow their brows, confused. Then slowly, you watch understanding dawn on their faces. The creases in their foreheads smooth out, eyes widening with realization.
"Oh," is all Mrs. Buckley says. Just "oh," but the word carries the weight of revelation.
Mr. Harrington speaks, and his voice is sharp, cutting. "Are you saying my son has been your..." He can't even finish the sentence, disgust coloring his features. "What? Are you going to tell me he doesn't like girls either?" His eyes cut to Eddie accusingly. "Are you his boyfriend?"
Eddie chokes on nothing, nearly knocking over another glass. "No, sir! No! Absolutely not! Not that he isn’t my type—" He catches himself. “I meant that as—”
“Eddie, shut up.” Steve cuts in, running his hands down his face.
“Yep.” Eddie agrees, shoving a mouthful of zucchini, chewing, with wide deer caught in headlight eyes.
Mrs. Harrington isn't looking at Robin anymore. She's looking at Steve, who's staring at the table with his shoulders caved in, hunched over like he's trying to make himself smaller. She can see him rubbing his knees nervously under the table.
His eyes dart to yours across the table, and his expression softens when he sees you looking back. There's something there—apology, hope, love, all of it written plainly across his face for anyone to see.
Mrs. Harrington watches this exchange, and her face transforms. The confusion melts away, replaced by understanding and something that looks like sympathy. She smiles gently, reaching over to squeeze her son's shoulder.
Then she turns to her husband, voice calm and measured. "Daniel, I think you should pay the bill. And I think we all need to go back to the hotel and have a conversation. A real one."
Mr. Harrington looks more appalled at the idea of having to pay the bill than he did at the revelation that his son has been lying to him for over a year. He sputters, "Now? We haven't even had dessert—"
"Now, Daniel," Mrs. Harrington says, and there's steel in her voice that brooks no argument.
Mr. Harrington signals for the check with a tight expression, pulling out his wallet with sharp, angry movements.
Everyone leaves quickly, practically fleeing the restaurant while Mr. Harrington handles the bill. Eddie looks genuinely sad about abandoning his half-finished plate of pasta, reaching for it one last time before you grab his arm and pull him away.
Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, smelling like car exhaust and the Italian restaurant's kitchen vents pumping out garlic and tomato sauce. The parking lot is lit by yellow streetlamps that cast everything in a sickly glow.
Robin comes up to you and Eddie, and she looks completely frazzled. Her eyes wide, breathing fast, one hand clutching at her chest like she's checking to make sure her heart is still beating.
"Did I—did I do that?" She's looking between you and Eddie like she needs confirmation that what just happened was real. "Holy shit. I think I did that. I think I just came out to my parents at an Italian restaurant." She laughs, high and slightly hysterical. "In front of Steve's parents. And you guys. Oh god."
"I was honored to witness it," Eddie says solemnly, putting a hand over his heart.
You smile at Robin, chuckling softly at her spiral, then pull her into a tight hug. You never knew you liked hugs until you met Robin. It was a good discovery, finding out that physical affection didn't have to be uncomfortable or performative, that it could be warm and grounding and exactly what you needed without having to ask for it.
Your body feels warm and relaxed as you tighten your grip, holding her up while she processes what she's done, what can't be undone.
Eddie must feel left out because suddenly he's crushing you both with his arms, trying to pick you both up off the ground. You and Robin squeal in unison, half-laughing, half-protesting.
"Group hug!" Eddie announces, lifting you both an inch off the pavement before setting you back down.
"Eddie!" Robin shrieks. "You're going to break us!"
You're all laughing—breathless and giddy and riding the adrenaline of what just happened—when you see past Robin's shoulder to where Steve is standing with his mom.
They're by her car—a champagne-colored Cadillac that looks expensive and well-maintained. Steve opens the passenger door for her, but she's not getting in yet. She's looking at Steve with such gentleness it makes your chest ache. Her hand comes up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and you can see her saying something. Then her hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing.
Steve is nodding, listening intently. His shoulders are still hunched, defensive, but his face is open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.
He hasn't caught you watching yet, and you don't try to hide the fondness in your eyes. Don't try to school your expression into something neutral and safe.
Robin catches on to where you're looking. She follows your gaze and sees Steve with his mother, and she smiles, small and knowing. She shrugs, leaning into you conspiratorially. "You know, I think our relationship is kind of kaput now." She tries for lightness, joking. "He's fresh on the market."
You look at Robin, but you don't laugh. Can't find it in yourself to match her tone. You pinch your lips together, look down at the pavement where oil stains create rainbow patterns, and shake your head.
"Robin!" Steve's voice carries across the parking lot, breaking the moment.
Robin looks at you with that knowing expression again—the one that says she sees right through you, knows exactly what you're feeling even when you won't say it out loud.
"Go," you tell her, forcing your voice to sound normal. "I'll take Eddie home. I'll wait up for you, okay?"
Robin still doesn't look happy. That guilt-ridden expression is back on her face—the one that says something that was meant to be simple and easy turned everything sideways, turned it into chaos and hurt and complications none of you were prepared for.
But she nods anyway, then jogs over to Steve.
You watch as Steve gives you and Eddie distance, respecting the fresh wounds that are still raw and bleeding in all your lives. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he looks at you one more time, just a glance, brief but loaded with meaning, before wrapping his arm around Robin's shoulder and walking her to his car.
She leans her head against him, and they look like what everyone always thought they were. They are two people who love each other completely, who understand each other in ways no one else can.
The fact that it's not romantic doesn't make it any less real.
In the car, Eddie immediately reaches for the radio dial, turning it until he finds a station playing metal. The guitar riffs fill the small space, too loud, but you don't ask him to turn it down. He sits there pretending to play an air guitar, strumming along.
You can't help but think about what just happened. Does it change anything for you? Does it change things for Steve? Robin and Steve are broken up—except they were never really together. So what does that mean?
Your mind spins in circles, chasing thoughts that lead nowhere.
You chew on your bottom lip, worrying the skin until it stings.
"Sooo," Eddie drawls out, turning down the music slightly. "That was pretty intense back there." He pauses, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Whatcha thinking about?"
"I'm not sure." And it's the honest-to-god truth. Your thoughts are too jumbled, too complicated to articulate. "What about you?"
Eddie shrugs, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. "Finally," is all he says.
You nod, understanding what he means.
Finally. Though, you’re not entirely sure how it ties into the future.
A beat goes by in comfortable silence, just the music and the sound of your tires on asphalt.
"Have you forgiven him yet?" Eddie asks suddenly, voice careful. "I'd understand if not. Was wondering with all your staring tonight."
"I was not staring," you say defensively, heat rising to your cheeks.
"You were absolutely staring."
"Was not."
"Hot Shot.”
You huff, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I've forgiven him."
And that really is the truth. You think to yourself… is there such a thing as loving someone but not forgiving them? Can those two things exist simultaneously, or does one cancel out the other?
When you pull up outside the Pike house, Eddie gets out but then immediately turns around, motioning for you to roll down the window. You do, cranking the handle, and Eddie bends down, arms crossed on the window frame, smiling cheekily at you.
"What?" you ask, already exasperated.
He hangs his arms inside the car, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "What'd I tell you, Hot Shot?"
"Tell me what?"
"That you had Harrington all twisted up inside." He taps his forehead with one finger, grinning. Then he leans his cheek on his hand, sighing wistfully like a lovesick teenager. "I saw it coming from a mile away. Both of you. Just didn't think you'd fall this soon."
Your face burns hot, and you look away, trying not to smile. "Shut up."
"What did it for you, Hot Shot? What made you fall?" Eddie's eyes are twinkling with mischief. "Was it the glasses? I told him to be careful with those. Chicks can't resist a guy in glasses."
"Eddie, please go. Now. Before I drive over your foot." You're trying not to laugh, fighting to keep your expression stern.
"Or was it the hair? The tragic backstory? His encyclopedic knowledge of star facts courtesy of Dustin Henderson? He told me about your little date, by the way," Eddie starts laughing as you begin winding the lever to roll the window back up. He steps back just in time, head thrown back with laughter that echoes across the parking lot.
You flip him off before driving away, but you're smiling despite yourself.
And you think… maybe it was the glasses. Or maybe it was everything.
Maybe it was just him.
Steve Harrington, in all his complicated, messy, beautiful totality.
.-.-.-.
It's ten p.m. when Robin storms through the dorm room.
She doesn't say anything at first. Just rushes to her closet and pulls out her duffel bag. She starts shoving clothes inside with no apparent organization, just grabbing things and cramming them in. She's frantic, moving back and forth across the room, stopping randomly like she's forgotten what she was doing, then snapping back to attention and continuing her packing.
"Robin?" You sit up in bed, book falling closed in your lap. "Hey, what's wrong?"
Robin keeps shoving clothes in the bag. After a few minutes, it's like she's heard you. She perks her head up, face flushed, eyes wild and bright. "I'm going to Boston. To win back Nancy."
Your mouth falls open in disbelief. "What? What are you talking about?"
Robin runs her fingers through her short hair and starts pacing back and forth as she talks. The words come out rapid-fire, barely pausing for breath.
"Steve is driving me to Boston right now—well, not right now, he's waiting in his car downstairs—so I can go see Nancy. I never even got to tell her I love her, you know? I was such a mess back in Miami," She's gesturing wildly with her hands. "And tonight I told my parents about her. Everything. Including how much I love her. And they want to meet her. They asked when they could meet her."
"Wait." You hold up a hand, trying to slow her down. "So the conversation with your parents went okay?"
Robin stops pacing abruptly, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She smiles—soft and disbelieving, like she still can't quite process it. "Yeah. It went... really well. Like, too good to be true well." She laughs, the sound slightly manic. "They were mad at first, but only because I lied to them about Steve all this time. But then they said..." Her voice breaks slightly. "They said nothing is different. I'm still their daughter and they love me."
She swipes at her eyes, and you realize she's crying. They’re happy tears mixed with overwhelmed tears, all of it spilling over at once.
"My dad said he'll be okay. That he'll be there to support me and will deal with whatever the public says." Robin laughs again, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "And during all of this, all I could think about was running to call Nancy. But then I remembered—wait, Nancy broke up with me, you dingus." She smacks herself lightly on the forehead. "So I'm going to her instead. I'm going to show up and tell her I love her and that I want to be with her for real. No more hiding."
She zips up the duffel bag with a decisive motion. "I'm not sure when I'll be back. Maybe Monday morning if things go well. Or maybe never if they go really badly and I die of embarrassment."
"Robin, wait." You stop her, catching her arm as she reaches for the door. You smile at her. It’s genuine and warm and so proud you could burst. "I’m happy for you."
Robin stops, hand on the doorknob. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then turns to look at you. "You should come, you know."
The invitation hangs in the air between you.
You would say yes. You really would. Part of you wants nothing more than to pile into Steve's car and road trip to Boston, to be there when Robin tells Nancy she loves her, to witness what comes next.
But a larger part of you doesn’t want to. You can’t stomach facing Steve in the confined space of a car for hours, to sit in that tension with nothing left to say except what happens now? Where do we go from here? How do we move forward?
You shake your head, and for the first time in weeks, you don't lie. Don't make up an excuse about homework or projects or needing to study. You say simply, honestly, "I'm not ready."
Robin nods, understanding flooding her features. She doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. She walks over and kisses you on the cheek. It’s soft and quick and full of affection—then grabs her bag and heads for the door.
"Wish me luck," she says one more time.
"You don't need it," you tell her. "But good luck anyway."
And then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click, and you're alone again.
You walk to the window and look down at the parking lot. You can see Steve's BMW, the engine running, exhaust visible in the cool night air. Robin appears a moment later, tossing her bag in the backseat and climbing in the passenger side.
Steve looks up at your window, and even from this distance, you can feel his gaze. You step back into the shadows before he can see you watching.
The car pulls away, taillights disappearing into the night, carrying Robin toward her future and Steve toward... what? You don't know. Can't know until you're ready to find out.
.-.-.-.
News of Steve and Robin's breakup spreads like wildfire across campus.
It starts Monday morning. The whispers in the dining hall over scrambled eggs and burnt toast, hushed conversations in the library stacks, pointed looks and not-so-subtle stares whenever you're with Robin. Walking to class together, you can feel eyes on you both, hear the buzz of speculation following in your wake like a swarm of insects.
When you're in the dining hall, conversations pause as you pass tables. In the library, people crane their necks to get a better look at Robin, like she's suddenly become a celebrity or a curiosity. Even in your own dorm, girls stop by on flimsy pretenses—borrowing a pen, asking about summer plans— but really just trying to get a glimpse of Robin post-breakup, searching for signs of devastation.
Robin tells you that Steve didn't explain much to his fraternity brothers. Apparently, they all sat around the common room one night, and Steve had simply said, "Robin and I aren't dating anymore."
All the Pike brothers asked if he was okay, concern written across their faces because Steve and Robin had been together forever.
And Steve had shrugged, said, "Never better."
His brothers took that as his asshole frat boy answer—that finally he wasn't tied down anymore, that he could do whatever and whoever he wanted now that he was single. You can imagine them clapping him on the back, making jokes about all the girls who'd been waiting for their chance, planning to take him out to celebrate his newfound freedom.
But you know what he really meant by those words.
Because yes, he can do whatever and whoever he wants now. But more importantly, he's free. Liberated from chains that had been binding him for over a year. It's like Robin and Steve had been handcuffed together this whole time, unable to find the key to unlock themselves. Maybe they never wanted to find it, never thought they could, never believed freedom was actually possible.
Until it was.
Most people are relatively normal about the breakup. There are the usual rumors circulating through Greek life. The whispers that Robin finally had enough of Steve's cheating, that she caught him with someone else, that the relationship had been dead for months. That he had enough of her not putting out. You hear fragments of these stories in bathroom stalls, in line at the dining hall, passed between sorority girls like currency.
When you see Sammy in Art History he gives you a soured look. His jaw is tight, eyes cold, and he deliberately chooses to avoid you at all costs. He probably thinks the breakup is your fault, that you're the reason Steve's relationship imploded.
Maybe, in a way, it is.
And that's something you struggle with. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, a constant weight you can't shake. Did you ruin Robin's life by falling for Steve? Did your feelings set all of this in motion?
Robin must sense it because one day while you're both studying in your dorm—you at your desk, her sprawled on her bed with a textbook—she randomly says, "You know I came out to my family because I was really ready, right? It had nothing to do with anyone else. Not you, not Steve, not Nancy. Just me."
You look up at her, startled by the unprompted statement. But there's a small smile on your lips, and you nod in acknowledgment. "I know."
"Do you?" Robin asks, sitting up slightly to look at you properly. "Because sometimes I see you looking guilty, and I need you to know that this—" she gestures around the room, at herself, at everything that's changed "—this is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
You nod again, throat tight. "I know."
After a week of Robin and Steve being officially single, the vultures start circling.
Girls approach Robin everywhere— in the library, out on the quad, sometimes even in class. They always start the same way, with false concern and sweet smiles.
"Hi, Robin. How are you holding up?"
And then, inevitably: "So, I was wondering if it would be okay if I made a pass at Steve?"
The first few times, Robin just scoffs, collects her things, and leaves without dignifying the question with a response.
But now she has a new favorite tactic.
Like now, in the library. Amanda—the same girl who'd flirted with Steve at that party in the fall, who'd touched his chest and batted her eyelashes—is standing at the edge of your study table. She's smiling sweetly at Robin, completely ignoring your existence.
"Hey, I wanted to ask if you didn't care if I reached out to Steve—"
Robin's face immediately scrunches up, features contorting like she's in physical pain. She covers her face with her hands and starts shaking her head, fake sobs croaking out of her mouth. Her shoulders shake convincingly.
You have to bite the inside of your cheek hard to fight back your laugh, forcing your eyes elsewhere to maintain the illusion.
"It's still all so new," Robin chokes out, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't talk about this yet."
Amanda's eyes go wide, guilt flooding her features. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Robin. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have asked. If you need anything, I'm here for you, okay?"
Before she leaves, she glances at you. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, jaw ticking with what might be suspicion or jealousy or both. Then she hurries away, probably feeling terrible about herself.
Robin watches through her fingers until Amanda is completely out of sight. Then she drops her hands and laughs, eyes flicking to you.
But you only manage a half-hearted smile that doesn't reach your eyes, the humor not quite landing.
Robin's face falters immediately. "You okay?"
You furrow your brows, breaking from your thoughts. "Yeah. I know he's probably happy to have all this shameless attention now. I'm sure he's been having fun these past couple weeks." You brush it off, returning your gaze to your textbook even though the words blur together.
Robin sighs heavily. "Hot Shot, you know he isn't."
And you know Robin well enough now to recognize that wasn't a question. It was a statement. She's telling you something—something you already know deep down but are pretending not to know.
You're pretending Steve doesn't want to see you, doesn't want to talk to you. Pretending he doesn't love you.
When really, he's waiting.
The Saturday before finals, the fraternities come together to host one last end-of-semester bonfire at the dive spot.
Robin eventually convinces you to go, promising it'll be just the two of you and you can leave anytime you want. You don't hesitate to say yes. You need a break from studying, from the walls of your dorm room closing in, from the constant tension of avoiding Steve on campus.
So once Robin gets off the phone with Nancy—her girlfriend again, officially and happier than ever.
The bonfire is already raging when you arrive, flames reaching ten feet high and casting dancing shadows across the cliff face. The air smells like burning wood and spilled beer and the lake water below, that particular scent of algae and fish and summer approaching. Music blares from someone's boom box—Journey or REO Speedwagon, something with a big chorus that people are singing along to badly.
You can hear the roar of conversation, the crack and pop of the fire consuming wood, glass bottles clinking together, someone's laughter cutting sharp and bright through the general noise. There must be fifty people here at least, maybe more, spreading out across the clearing and down toward the water's edge.
The last time you were here, everything changed. Nancy had kissed Robin. You saw Steve in a new light under the stars. You'd felt something shift that night, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet, and you hadn't even realized it was the beginning of everything.
Once Robin gets her drink, some mixture of vodka and fruit punch that looks radioactive, and you get your water since you're driving, you both start dancing.
It's free and uninhibited, jumping around to the music without caring how you look. Robin throws her head back laughing, short hair flying, and grabs your hands to spin you around. You're both breathless and grinning, moving without thought, without the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on you.
For the first time in a while, it feels like it used to. And you realize it's because there are no secrets anymore. No manipulation, no hidden agendas. Just you and Robin, best friends again.
The other night, you'd admitted to Robin that you miss Steve. You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them. Robin had climbed into bed next to you without a word, let you lay your head on her shoulder, and hadn't tried to pry or push you into being ready to see him.
She'd just held you while you cried.
You know you'll see Steve eventually tonight. You didn't expect it to happen so soon.
He spots you first, like he's been searching for you in the crowd. You feel his gaze before you see him, that prickle of awareness that makes you turn your head.
For the first time since their breakup, Robin doesn't leave to go hug him. He doesn't come over to kiss her cheek or wrap an arm around her shoulders. They only give each other a small wave of acknowledgment, friendly but distant, establishing new boundaries.
But then his eyes flick to you.
The firelight catches his jaw, illuminating the sharp line of it, the way his throat works when he swallows. He's wearing a backwards brown baseball cap, an old Hawkins High one you've seen before, and a plain white t-shirt that fits him perfectly, jeans that hang low on his hips. He looks so handsome it makes your chest ache. It’s that same feeling you get when you see something beautiful you can't have.
Your heart thrums in your chest, beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. You know by the look on his face, eyes soft and yearning and full of everything he's not saying, that he's thinking the same thing about you.
Steve rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, and looks at the ground. Then he turns and walks over to where Eddie is standing.
You and Robin watch as Steve points his thumb behind him toward the parking area. Eddie, who's standing a few feet away from Polly, who's talking animatedly to a tall dark-haired boy, immediately searches the crowd until he finds you and Robin. He looks back at Steve and gives him a small nod, squeezing Steve's shoulder in comfort.
Steve turns around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, ducking his head, and starts walking toward the parking lot.
He's leaving.
You watch him go, taking a deep breath, your stomach twisting painfully. He's leaving because you're here, because being in the same space as you is too hard when you're not ready to talk to him yet.
Robin looks between you and Steve's retreating figure, chewing on her bottom lip. Without a word, she laces her fingers through yours and starts dragging you across the dirt.
"Robin, what are you—"
But she's not listening. She pulls you past the fire, and you feel the overwhelming sweltering heat hit you like a physical wall, making sweat immediately prick your forehead. Robin has long strides, moving so fast her short bob sways with each quick step. You have no time to ask what she's doing because she's already caught up to Steve, reaching out to grab his wrist.
He turns around, startled, and you catch the way his eyes are red-rimmed. Has he been crying?
His pink lips part in shock. "What—"
Robin brings both of you over to an area that's darker, away from the main crowd but not completely private. There are still people around—couples making out against trees, groups passing joints, someone throwing up behind a bush—but it's quieter here, more removed from the chaos.
She lets go of both your wrists, stepping back to look at you both with her arms crossed.
Then she looks at Steve and says firmly, "Ask her to dance, Harrington."
She turns to you. "And you're going to say yes."
You and Steve look at each other, then back at Robin. She crosses her arms, widens her eyes, and motions impatiently for you to get on with it.
Steve lets out a shaky breath, looking away like he can't quite believe this is happening.
You feel yourself starting to roll your eyes, ready to walk away because this is too much, too fast, too—
Steve grabs your hand.
It feels like your whole body sparks with electricity—head to toe, every nerve ending coming alive, tingling. He tugs you toward him gently, and that's his way of asking. Your way of saying yes is not hesitating to look in his eyes and place your free hand on his shoulder.
You search each other's eyes, not even moving yet. Robin is saying something—you can see her mouth moving, probably making some joke to cut the tension—but you can't hear it. Your ears are buzzing and your heart feels like it's been shocked back to life after weeks of barely beating. Blood rushes everywhere as you drown in his hazel eyes, those pools of green and gold and brown that shift like seasons.
Steve moves your hand from his, lifting it to place it on his other shoulder so both your arms are around his neck. Then his hands settle on your sides, just above your waist, like he's too scared to go lower, too afraid you'll pull away if he gets too familiar too fast.
And then you start to sway.
Unlike the couples next to you—grinding against each other, making out aggressively, hands wandering—and unlike the music, which is definitely not a slow song, you move together slowly. Carefully. Like you're both made of glass and one wrong move will shatter everything.
No words pass between you.
Robin is gone now, and you're not sure when she left. Probably slipped away as soon as you started dancing, giving you this moment.
Steve still makes no move to speak. His fingers flex against your sides when you step closer, closing the remaining distance until you're properly pressed against him. You feel the warmth of his soft stomach against your. You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, breathing faster than the gentle swaying warrants. If you were really brave, you'd press your palm to his chest to feel how fast his heart is beating.
Steve lifts one hand from your waist, fingers gentle as they brush your hair from your face so he can see you better. He tucks the strand behind your ear, and his thumb traces your jaw—barely touching, ghosting across your skin in a way that makes you shiver despite the warmth of the night.
Then he tilts your chin up with his finger so you have to look at him, can't hide behind lowered lashes or averted eyes.
His eyes are soft, vulnerable, laid completely bare. You see his throat working as he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.
He says your name softly, reverently. "I'm so sorry."
You breathe in and then out, hating how easy it is for you to relax under his gaze, how quickly your body responds to his touch like it's been waiting for this. "I know," you say quietly.
He's still staring at you, and you wonder if all he can think about is the beach in Miami. The way you told him you don't love him, the way you walked away and left him there alone in the dark. Probably.
You know he's sorry. You can see it in every line of his face, feel it in the tremor of his hands on your waist. You know things can be different now—Robin and Steve are free, the chains are broken, the future is no longer predetermined.
You step even closer, hesitating only a moment before laying your head on his chest, looping your arms fully around his neck.
Steve goes completely still.
Then slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll change your mind, he slides his hands to your hips. His grip is firm but gentle, holding you like you're precious. You feel his nose press into your hair, breathing you in, and his fingers tighten on your hips in response to whatever he smells there—your shampoo, your perfume, you.
The music continues around you—louder now, something with a driving beat—but you're moving to a rhythm only the two of you can hear. Swaying slowly, barely moving, just holding each other.
You can feel it when his heart rate picks up, the thump-thump-thump against your cheek getting faster. It happens when you tilt your head to look up at him, and you find him already looking down at you.
His expression is so full of hope it breaks your heart. His eyes are searching yours like he's looking for answers, for permission, for any sign that this means what he thinks it means.
Your eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over. You sigh—long and shaky—and even though you don't want to, even though you could stay like this forever, you slowly break away.
His hands drop from your hips immediately, respecting the boundary, giving you space.
"Can we talk?" you ask, voice barely audible over the music and the fire and the noise of the party.
Steve nods, not trusting his voice. He gestures toward the path that leads away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes and listening ears.
And you follow him into the darkness, heart pounding, finally ready for whatever comes next.
You end up at the swings.
The playground is abandoned this late at night, equipment casting strange shadows in the moonlight. The swings creak slightly as you both sit down, chains groaning with your weight. You plant your feet apart and sway gently, the motion familiar and soothing from childhood.
You can see smoke rising above the trees from the bonfire, hear the distant laughter and music and chaos you left behind. Out here, it's quieter—just the sound of the wind in the leaves, the rhythmic squeak of the swing chains, your own breathing.
Steve is staring at you. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you keep your eyes trained on the sky, trying to figure out what to say, where to start, how to explain everything tangled up inside you.
You want to be honest with him about everything. You don't know where to start, so you start with the simplest truth.
"I've missed you, Steve."
Steve's eyes gleam in the darkness, catching what little light filters through the trees. "I..." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. "I've missed you too."
You look over at him, smiling softly. He's just out of reach, so you lean over and put your hand on his cheek. He immediately melts into the touch, eyes closing briefly, like he's been starving for this and finally getting to eat.
"Steve," you say quietly, firmly. "I love you."
You nearly hear his entire being freeze and restart—his breath catching, his eyes flying open, the smile on his lips growing wider and more genuine than anything you've seen in weeks. He chuckles, and it sounds like relief, like joy, like he's been waiting for this since Miami. Or maybe his whole life. For someone to love him back the way he loves them.
He twists in his swing, chains tangling slightly, then reaches out to grab the chains on both sides of your swing. He pulls you closer, turning you to face him so you're looking at each other directly.
He looks nervous. So nervous his hands are trembling slightly where they grip the chains. He opens his mouth, then looks away, a blush dusting his cheeks that you can see even in the dim light. He takes a breath, looks at you again.
"Would you go on a date with me?" The words come out in a rush. "Like a proper one? Maybe before you leave for break? I could take you out to dinner or the movies. I don't know, I haven't—I've never actually—"
His face falls when you look down, pressing your lips together. Your breath comes out shaky.
"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, to not be a coward about this. "I love you, and I needed you to know that. But I'm having a hard time forgiving you right now." Your voice cracks. "And I don't know when I'll be ready."
Steve bites his bottom lip hard enough you worry he'll draw blood, but he makes no effort to move away or let go of your swing. His knuckles go white on the chains, tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.
"I'll do anything," he says, and his voice is steady despite the pain written across his face. "I know I can't make you forgive me, but maybe—" He trails off, looking at you with hopeful eyes, searching for any opening, any possibility. Then he sees your expression and understands. He nods, swallowing hard. "Okay."
That's all he says. Just "okay." But it's not the angry, bitter okay from before. It's disappointment and acceptance and resignation all wrapped up in two syllables.
You put your hand on his knee, feeling the muscle tense under your palm. "We can start by being friends again," you suggest. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's a contradiction, but even though you don't know if you can be with him the way you want to, you don't want a life without him in it. Even if it means he's only a friend.
Steve thinks for a moment, jaw working, before offering a sad smile. His eyebrows twitch with the effort of holding his expression together. "I can do..." He pauses, and you can see him forcing the word out. "That."
The hesitation tells you it probably tastes wrong on his tongue, that part of him doesn't mean it. But just like you, if this is how you can be in each other's lives, he'll take it.
"Okay then." You hold out your hand formally, like you're sealing a business deal. "Friends."
Steve lets go of one side of your swing, making you sway slightly, then grabs your hand. He shakes it slowly, deliberately, and his thumb brushes across your knuckles in a way that feels anything but friendly.
Neither of you pulls away immediately.
"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "Friends."
After a moment, Steve lets go of your swing entirely and you both turn to face forward, staring out at the darkness. The silence stretches between you—not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with everything you're not saying.
Another beat goes by, and you start to move, ready to stand. "I think I'm going to go find Robin now."
"Wait," Steve says quickly.
You stop, turning to look at him.
His eyes widen when he realizes he actually needs to say something now, needs a reason for stopping you. He awkwardly clears his throat. "I, uh..." He sighs, adjusting the cap on his head, running a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. His curls shoot back out. "Do you mind if we sit here for a bit longer?"
You look at him—really look at him. At the vulnerability in his expression, the way he's asking for just a few more minutes of your time like it's a precious gift he doesn't deserve.
You settle back into your swing. "Yeah. Okay."
So you sit there together in the darkness, not speaking. Just the creak of the swings and the distant sounds of the party and your own breathing. The moon filters through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across both of you.
It's not everything. It's not what either of you wants. But for now, sitting on swings in the dark with someone you love who loves you back, it's enough.
.-.-.-.
Robin and you are hugging in your dorm room, arms wrapped tight around each other.
It's move-out day. Finals are done—finished yesterday with your Art History exam that you're pretty sure you aced despite everything. Summer break officially starts tomorrow, and you're driving back home as soon as you take the last box down and hand in your key.
There's not much sentiment or tears about the departure. You've already made plans to see each other over the summer—in a few weeks, you're going to Boston together to visit Nancy, and Robin might come see you at home after that. Or maybe you'll go to Hawkins, though that particular plan is still uncertain, still carries too much weight.
And then there's the promise of phone calls at least once a week. And the promise—made official when you both signed the housing form—of being roommates again next semester.
You break apart, and you grab your last cardboard box of things. The rest of your belongings are already loaded in your car, packed with the careful efficiency of someone who's done this before.
"Call me when you get home?" Robin asks, adjusting the box in your arms so it won't slip.
"Obviously." You smile.
You leave the dorm, Robin waiting for Steve and Eddie to come help her load her things into Eddie's van. You're planning to leave as soon as possible, wanting to get on the road before traffic gets bad.
And definitely wanting to leave before running into Steve, even though part of you regrets telling him you want to be friends. But you know it's right. You know you need time.
Of course, as always, your luck runs thin.
You're going down the stairwell carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration as you navigate the narrow stairs with the box blocking your view, when you hear the door below clatter open. Quick footsteps pad up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
And immediately, his hazel eyes meet yours over the top of your box.
You have no time to protest before he's grabbing the box from your arms. "Here, let me help."
Then he's turning around and heading back down the stairs, leaving you standing there watching him go.
You take in his appearance as you follow—blue polo tucked into jeans with a white undershirt visible at the collar, his hair freshly washed and pushed back, and your eyes betray you by dropping lower to appreciate the fit of his jeans.
You follow him down the stairs, and you think he'll stop at the bottom, hand the box back, say goodbye. But he keeps walking. He only pauses for you to catch up, and then you're walking side by side through the lobby, outside into the bright morning sun, across the parking lot to where your car is waiting.
Steve opens your trunk and slides the box in with the others, having to lean on the trunk lid with his full weight to get it to click shut because it's packed so full. He chuckles to himself when it finally latches, grinning, biting his bottom lip, hands going to his hips like he's won a prize.
Then he looks at you, and you're smiling too because you can't help yourself when he's like this—boyish and pleased with such a small accomplishment.
You share a laugh, the sound bright and easy in the morning air.
"Thanks," you say.
"Yeah, no problem, Hot—uh—" He catches himself, stops.
You smile, tilting your head. "You can still call me that. I mean, it doesn't feel right when you don't."
What you don't say is that the nickname never really belonged to you in the first place. It was always his, and you want it to stay that way—only his nickname for you, something that belongs just to the two of you.
He grins, a little shy, ducking his head. "Right. Uh, well..." He clears his throat. "You excited for break? I mean, I know it's kind of already break, but you know. I guess, are you ready to go home? I bet you probably are."
You almost want to kiss the nervousness off his lips, smooth away the rambling with your mouth. But then your mind filters in the events of this year—all the hurt, all the lies, all the reasons you can't.
"Yeah," you say instead. "You?"
Steve shrugs, hands going back in his pockets. "Yeah, I guess. Probably working most of it. Not sure if Robin and I still have our jobs at Family Video. The manager there, Keith—total jackass, kind of hates me."
"I wonder why," you giggle.
He laughs, and the sound is genuine and warm.
Then there's another beat of silence as you look at each other, neither quite ready to say goodbye.
"Uh, Robin mentioned you're going to Boston together in a couple weeks," Steve says.
"Yeah." You nod. "I'm excited. Never been. And Nancy says she might introduce me to some people in publishing for an internship next year."
His face lights up. "Yeah? That's so cool." Then he pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, more careful. "Robin also said you might visit Hawkins too. If things work out."
"Yeah," you say, biting your lip nervously. You don't elaborate.
Steve seems to catch on to your hesitation, what you're not saying—that visiting Hawkins means potentially seeing him, and you're not sure you're ready for that yet.
"Right. Yeah." He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Well, I guess I'll see you then? Unless you have anything else upstairs you need help with?"
"Nope, this is it. I have to turn in my key, and then I'm all set."
God, now you wish you hadn't been so efficient loading your car if it meant you could talk to him like this a bit longer.
He nods. "Right. Okay." He repeats it like he's trying to convince himself. His face drops slightly, like he's thinking something over. Then, "Hey, I, uh... was thinking. Could I possibly get your number? Maybe I could call sometime over break?"
Your breath hitches, your brain scrambling, trying to remember which box has your notebooks and pens so you could write it down. But then you stop. You frown, looking at the ground sadly.
"I don't think..." You force yourself to look at him when you say it. "I don't want either of us to get the wrong idea."
You see Steve's face drop—another rejection, another door closing. But he doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That's cool. No problem." He takes a breath. "Well, I better go start helping Robin so we can get on the road soon."
"Yeah. Okay." You're gripping your car keys so hard they're digging into your palm. "I'll see you."
Steve's mouth twitches into something that's trying to be a smile. "Yeah. See you later, Hot Shot."
You watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, and you have to physically stop yourself from calling him back.
.-.-.-.
It's been two weeks of summer break, and you could not be more ready for Boston next week.
You've been out all day at your summer job—working retail at a clothing store in the mall, standing on your feet for eight hours, dealing with difficult customers and your manager who loves to micromanage. Your feet are killing you, and all you want to do is crash on the couch and turn on the TV.
Probably shamelessly turn on ALF, because Steve was right. It is a funny show, and it makes you laugh. And sometimes you pretend you're back in his room, holding his hand while you watch it together.
When you pass through the kitchen, you call out a greeting to your mom, who's making dinner.
She looks up from the pot she's stirring. "Oh, honey, you have mail. On the table."
You walk over, internally panicking when you see the official seal of your school on one envelope—probably final grades. You get ready to rip it open, prepping yourself for whatever's inside.
But then you see another envelope underneath. Green, not white. Your name sprawled across the front in handwriting you recognize, and your address beneath it.
You didn't think you were expecting any mail, but then your heart skips a beat when you look at the sender information in the corner.
Steve Harrington
You grab the letter quickly, nearly knocking over a glass in your haste, and run to your room. You shut the door like opening it in front of your mom would somehow make it more real, more dangerous.
You sit on your bed, holding the envelope carefully, running your finger over the ink. His ink. His handwriting—the same slightly messy scrawl you've seen on notes passed in class, on study guides, on the birthday card he gave Robin.
You open it slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear anything.
Inside are several pieces of notebook paper, folded neatly, and a photograph.
You look at the photo first, and immediately your heart beams, glowing warm in your chest.
It's the photo Jonathan took at the camping trip. Everyone standing together—Robin and Nancy with their cheeks smushed together, wrapped in each other's arms and grinning. Jonathan and Eddie with arms slung around each other, both making goofy faces. And you on Steve's back, both of you smiling so wide it looks like it hurt.
You hadn't realized in the moment, but in the photo you can see Steve trying to look back at you, his face turned slightly, and you can still see his smile. It’s bright and genuine and full of joy. Your eyes are closed from how big your own smile was.
You set the photo carefully on your bed, touching it gently like it might disappear, then unfold the letter.
Dear Hot Shot,
I was thinking about it. You never said I couldn't write to you. So here I am. If you don't want me to, you can write back and tell me to beat it. If you want to write back, then hey, I won't complain. However, if you don't mind, and I don't receive anything telling me to stop, I'm going to take that as the OK.
Jonathan came into town a few days ago and gave me this photo. He made copies for all of us but didn't have your address. Robin said she'd give it to you when she saw you in Boston, but I took the jurisdiction to do it myself. I hope that's okay. I can’t stop looking at it. I remember feeling nothing but happiness.
Not a lot has happened here. I'm ever so lucky and back at Family Video with Robin. Keith still hates me—today he made me reorganize the entire Horror section because he said I put "Friday the 13th Part III" in the wrong spot. I hadn't. He's just a dick. He also thinks it’s punishment putting me on shifts with my “ex-girlfriend.” So who has the last laugh now?
Max is good. She told me you called her the other day, which was cool of you. Then she made fun of me for asking if you'd asked about me. So I guess now you know I asked about you. Smooth, right?
I hope you're doing well. I hope work isn't terrible and that you're getting some rest. I hope you know that even though I'm disappointed about how we left things, I understand why. I get it. And I'll wait as long as you need.
You should know—I think you might be my favorite friend.
Yours truly,Steve
P.S. I got new glasses. Thought you might want to know.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: confusion, prob eventual miscommunication! drunk sex... biting (for u maya) riding, unprotected sex............. angst mean!steve (like... u guys might not forgive him.......) mentions of heavy drinking... hot shot is feeling a lot... crying... sammy
words: 14k
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: i don't have a lot to say. please don't hate me. trust me
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 15
It's Friday, and you're sitting in American Literature with Robin, watching the minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The class is lighter in numbers than usual—half the seats empty because students have already fled campus to start their spring break early. Even Professor Morrison seems aware that no one wants to be here, his usual passionate lectures about Hemingway reduced to a monotone drone that makes your eyelids heavy.
You're in the back row, your usual spot, notebooks open but mostly ignored. The afternoon sun streams through the tall windows, casting long rectangles of golden light across the floor that are slowly creeping toward the front of the room as the earth turns. Dust motes float lazily in the beams, and somewhere outside you can hear the distant sound of a lawnmower, the smell of fresh-cut grass drifting in through the cracked window.
Robin is antsy beside you. You can feel her restless energy radiating off her in waves—the way her leg bounces under the desk making the whole row of connected seats vibrate slightly, the way she keeps shifting her weight, the constant clicking of her pen cap on and off until you want to reach over and take it away from her.
You glance over and see her writing something in her notebook, but it's clearly not notes about "The Sun Also Rises." Her handwriting is messier than usual, more frantic, crossing out and rewriting the same lines over and over.
You lean slightly to peek at what she's written.
Nancy... I've been trying to find the perfect time to tell you...
Robin grunts in frustration, scribbling it out so hard the pencil nearly tears through the paper. She scratches at it with aggressive strokes, then throws her pencil down with more force than necessary. It rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor.
She puts her head down on the table with a soft thunk, sighing so heavily you feel the gust of air. Then she turns her head, cheek pressed flat against the fake wood grain surface, looking at you with those big, expressive eyes.
"How do you do it?" Robin asks, voice low enough not to disturb the handful of students actually paying attention up front.
"Do what?" you whisper back, genuinely confused.
Robin sighs again, breath stirring the loose papers on her desk. "How do you not feel things intensely?"
You're startled, brows furrowing together, a little offended by the question. You snort. "What?"
Robin shrugs, as much as she can while still laying on the desk like a deflated balloon. "I don't know... even when you're mad or upset, you don't—" She pauses, searching for words. "I don't know how you're always kind of cool about it. Like, sure, you can say things that let me know you're pissed, but I don't think I've ever seen you yell. Or cry in front of people. Or have a total meltdown." She groans, lifting one hand to place it on top of your head like she's actively trying to merge your souls together through physical contact. "Can we share a brain? Or like, swap bodies? Just for one day?"
You laugh—awkward and slightly too loud. Professor Morrison glances back at you with a disapproving look, and you duck your head apologetically. You move Robin's hand away from your head, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself.
You lean in closer, voice dropping even lower. "Rob, saying 'I love you' doesn't have to be a huge deal."
Robin's face immediately transforms like you've said a curse word in church. Her eyes go wide, scandalized. "But it's my first time ever!" she hisses. "I want it to be special. I already have it all planned out." Her voice goes dreamy, wistful, and she props her chin in her hand, staring off into the middle distance with a soft smile. "A late-night walk on the beach. The waves crashing. Maybe the moon reflecting on the water. And I'll turn to her and say it, and she'll say it back, and it'll be perfect."
You pretend to pay attention to Professor Morrison, who's now drawing something on the chalkboard that might be a timeline or might be abstract art—you honestly can't tell. You chew on your bottom lip, not looking at Robin when you ask quietly, "What does it feel like?"
"What?" Robin asks, startled like she's been pulled from her daydream mid-kiss.
"Being in love," you clarify, voice even softer now, almost shy. "What does it feel like?"
Robin turns her whole body in her seat to look at you, eyebrows raised. "You've never been in love before?"
You shrug, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the corner of your notebook where the pages are starting to come loose from the spiral binding.
Robin's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes your chest tight. "It feels like..." She pauses, thinking, then smiles. "Like coming home after a really long day and everything is exactly where you left it. Like being understood without having to explain yourself. Like laughing so hard your stomach hurts and knowing the other person thinks you're funny even when no one else gets the joke." Her smile grows wider, more radiant. "It's terrifying and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing someone will catch you if you fall, so you're not afraid to jump."
You try very hard not to think about the way Steve flashes across your mind as Robin explains this. Try not to picture his smile when he sees you, the way his whole face lights up. Try not to remember how it felt waking up in his arms in the tent, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he says your name.
You fail spectacularly.
"You okay?" Robin asks, nudging your shoulder. "You look weird."
"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about all the packing I still have to do."
Robin accepts this with a nod, going back to staring at her ruined confession in her notebook, and you spend the rest of class trying very hard not to think about Steve Harrington and failing at that too.
After class finally, mercifully ends, you and Robin step out of the building into the warm afternoon sun. The campus is already half-deserted, groups of students loading cars with suitcases and coolers, excited chatter about beach destinations and ski trips filling the air.
Steve is waiting off to the side of the building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He's wearing his glasses and you can tell the exact moment he spots you because his posture changes—shoulders straightening slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.
He catches your eyes first, and you both break into huge smiles simultaneously. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing lately, and you almost forget yourself—almost forget that you're not the one "dating" him, almost start running up to give him a hug the way your body is screaming at you to do.
But you catch yourself, stopping short when Robin brushes past you and goes straight to him. She plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out under her sneaker with more force than necessary.
"What the hell?" Steve complains, looking down at the crushed cigarette with genuine mourning. "I just lit that."
"I'm not going to be stuck in a car with you smelling like cigarettes," Robin says firmly, brushing ash off her fingers.
"You've never complained before," Steve grumbles, pouting at the cigarette on the ground like it personally betrayed him. Then he looks up, and his eyes find yours over Robin's shoulder. His pout transforms into a smile—soft and private and meant only for you. "Hey, Hot Shot."
You feel your face heat up immediately, a bashful smile taking over your features before you can stop it. "Hey, you."
God, you want to mentally kick yourself. You've had this man inside you multiple times in multiple positions, and now—just because you've realized you have a crush like some ridiculous teenager—you're acting like this? How pathetic.
But also, how is he so attractive? Standing there in his navy blue polo that brings out the blue in his hazel eyes, that mustache you spent twenty minutes kissing yesterday, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight and turning golden at the ends. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sun, and you can see the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.
He chuckles—low and warm and knowing—like he can read exactly what you're thinking. Then he turns to Robin, slinging an arm across her shoulders in that easy, familiar way they have. "Ready to go pick up your sweetheart?"
Robin beams, her whole face lighting up like she's been plugged into an electrical socket. She turns to you, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hot Shot, you sure you don't want to come?"
Your eyes go wide, panic fluttering in your chest. Steve and Robin are driving to the bus station to pick up Nancy so she'll be in town for the weekend, and then you're all leaving together for the airport Sunday morning for Miami.
But the idea of being trapped in a car with Steve for that long sounds like actual torture. And that's not even considering the dread of the spring break trip itself. A whole week of this. Of pretending you’re not feeling what you’re feeling.
You shake your head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Uh, no. I'm gonna finish some last-minute things before break. Laundry and packing and stuff."
You glance at Steve, who's still grinning at you, hazel eyes twinkling. There's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or affection, or something else you're too afraid to name.
"Guess I'll see you at the party tonight?" he says, and you hate how much your stomach flips at the casual way he says it, like you're just friends, like you haven't memorized the taste of his skin. "It won't be that big, but some of the guys wanted to have one last blowout before everyone ditches town for the week."
You nod, not trusting your voice to come out normal.
Robin leans over and kisses your cheek, her lips warm and slightly sticky from lip gloss. "See you in two hours, babe! We'll come grab you before the party!"
And then you watch Steve and Robin walk off, hand in hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand the way he does with you when he thinks no one's looking. They're laughing about something, heads bent close together, and they look perfect. They look real.
You know it's fake. You know it's not real, that it's all an elaborate performance for parents and society and the future they're building together.
But standing there watching them go, a part of you wishes it was you holding Steve's hand in the sunshine, you making him laugh, you walking to his car with the promise of two hours alone together.
You turn and walk back to your dorm, and you absolutely do not let yourself think about how Steve's hand felt in yours, or how he smiles differently when it's just the two of you, or how many days you have left before this crush becomes something you can't ignore anymore.
Two hours later, Robin and Nancy show up at your dorm, but something is off immediately.
Robin's mood is completely different than it was earlier—all the nervous, giddy energy from class has been replaced with something darker, more agitated. She's snapping at nothing, moving with jerky, frustrated movements as she rifles through her closet looking for something to wear to the party.
Nancy, on the other hand, is still chipper, seemingly unbothered. She's sitting on Robin's bed, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine and humming softly to herself.
"How was the drive?" you ask casually, pulling your own outfit from your closet—a simple top and jeans, nothing special.
Robin huffs loudly, yanking a shirt off a hanger so hard the hanger goes flying. "Fine."
Nancy looks up from her magazine, gives you a look that clearly says don't ask, and goes back to reading.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but apparently it's not between Robin and Nancy because Nancy seems completely at ease. So what happened?
You open your mouth to ask, but Robin disappears into the bathroom with her clothes, slamming the door harder than necessary. You hear the shower turn on, the water pressure making the pipes groan.
Nancy catches your eye and shakes her head slightly. Later, she mouths.
So you get ready in silence, the only sound the running water and the occasional curse from Robin when she drops something in the shower, and you wonder what could have possibly happened in two hours to change her mood so completely.
.-.-.-.
Robin, Nancy, and you walk up to the Pike house as the sun is setting, the sky streaked with orange and pink. You can hear the muffled roar of voices and laughter spilling out onto the front lawn. The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of recently mowed grass.
You're shocked to see a miserable Eddie stationed at the front door, playing bouncer. He's slouched against the doorframe, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, barely glancing at people as he waves them through. His usual manic energy is completely absent, replaced with a kind of defeated exhaustion that sits wrong on his features.
When he sees the three of you approaching, his frown deepens, carving lines around his mouth.
"I thought you wouldn't have to do this anymore since Steve became president," Robin laughs. She has her arms looped through yours and Nancy's—her excuse to touch Nancy in public without raising suspicion, though anyone paying attention would notice how her thumb keeps stroking Nancy's wrist.
"Yeah, well, your boyfriend is PMSing or something," Eddie grumbles, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips without lighting it. "He's been a total dick since he got back from dropping you two off. Snapping at everyone, drinking like it's his last night on earth."
Robin rolls her eyes, but there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "He's still pissy? Don't worry, Eds. He's mad because I told him something he didn't want to hear on the way to pick up Nancy."
"That's why he was acting like that?" Nancy asks, a small laugh escaping despite the concern evident in her voice. "What did you tell him?"
Robin opens her mouth, then gives you a sideways look—quick, furtive, guilty. "Nothing important. The truth about something. He didn't like it, so now he's acting like a baby." She tugs at both of your arms, pulling you toward the door and effectively ending the conversation. "Eds, where is he?"
Eddie shrugs, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. "Probably out back doing another keg stand. Been at it for the past hour."
"Oh my god," Robin says, exasperation coloring her voice with frustration and something that might be worry.
Robin cuts through the side gate to the backyard, pulling you and Nancy along with her. The moment you step through, you're hit with the full force of the party—the air thick and humid with body heat, drenched in the smell of spilled beer and weed and cigarette smoke layered so thick it's almost visible. The music thrums against the windows, bass so heavy you can feel it in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors called in a noise complaint within the hour.
There's chanting and hollering coming from the middle of the yard, voices raised in drunken unison.
"Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!"
You can only see a pair of feet in the air at first—New Balances with the laces untied, dangling loose. Robin pulls you and Nancy toward the crowd, bodies pressing close as you push through the ring of onlookers.
Closer now, you see Buck holding Steve up by his legs, Steve's face red from being inverted, his navy blue polo riding up from gravity to expose his stomach. His happy trail. The scars on his torso glistening with a mixture of sweat and amber liquid, like someone had sprayed him with beer. His arms hang down toward the ground, hands gripping the keg, throat working as he chugs.
Finally, he jerks his legs forward, signaling Buck to bring him down. Buck helps him right himself, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Steve is smiling—grinning, really—licking beer off his lips, more of it rolling down his chin and soaking into his collar. You can't deny how attractive he looks, flushed and pleased with himself, hair falling into his eyes.
But then you notice it.
His hair is shorter. Much shorter than you've ever seen it, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, parted down the middle instead of swept back. The blonde highlights are completely gone, cut away, leaving only his natural dark brown. And his face—he's clean-shaven again, the mustache you'd spent the better part of this week kissing completely gone.
He still looks attractive, objectively handsome in that way Steve Harrington has always been handsome. But you're grieving the old look, the version of him you'd woken up next to Wednesday morning, the one who'd made you Eggo waffles and kissed you goodbye in his car.
Robin lets go of you and Nancy, crossing her arms over her chest. A scowl settles on her face, jaw tight.
You're still staring at him—ogling him, really, unable to help yourself—when a girl materializes at his side. She's blonde, wearing a tight top and high-waisted jeans, and she places her hand on his chest like she has every right to touch him. Her smile is wide, practiced.
"Steve, that was so awesome," she coos, voice pitched high and breathy.
You can hear him through his smirk, words slightly slurred. "Hey, Amanda. How are you?"
The name clicks into place. Amanda. One of Steve's old hookups—you remember Robin mentioning her once, remembered seeing her at a party months ago hanging off Steve's arm.
You're waiting for him to remove her hand, to step back, to do literally anything to create distance. He doesn't push her off. Amanda sees Robin's glare and lets go of his chest, but she doesn't step back, doesn't leave. If anything, she moves closer.
"I'm good," she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that would be comical if it wasn't making your stomach twist. "How are you?"
He looks her up and down—slow, assessing—and even though Steve told you he ended things with all of them, Amanda clearly didn't get the memo. She's biting her lip, looking him up and down in return, playing the game they used to play.
You don't have time to fully process the sharp pang of jealousy that shoots through your chest, or to question why it hurts so much to watch, because Steve's eyes flicker over to Robin. His face falters, the smile slipping for a fraction of a second.
Then, for the briefest moment, his gaze shifts to you.
Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you can't read—something dark and hurt and angry all at once. Then he looks away.
"Yeah... good. I'll see you later, yeah?" He pats Amanda's shoulder dismissively and starts walking toward you, Robin, and Nancy, a grin spreading across his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He immediately embraces Robin in a hug, and you're close enough now to smell him—that deep musky scent that is distinctly Steve, but mixed with beer and weed and something sharper, more acrid. Desperation, maybe. Robin grimaces when he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, his hands gripping her waist, only looking at her like you and Nancy aren't even standing there.
He puts his forehead against hers, swaying slightly.
"Steve—" Robin scolds, trying to pull back.
"What?" He draws the word out, lazy and defiant. "I'm playing the part, right?" His voice drops lower, meant to be private but still audible. "Isn't that what you want?"
Robin and Nancy exchange a look—awkward, uncomfortable, like they're witnessing something they shouldn't. Your stomach twists tighter.
Robin's jaw tightens, muscles flexing under her skin. "That's not what I'm talking about," she hisses in a whisper. "How much have you had to drink already?"
Steve blows a raspberry, the sound wet and childish. "What? You're the only one who can have fun?"
Nancy steps in, voice gentle but firm. "Steve, that's not why she's concerned."
He rolls his eyes, head lolling back dramatically. "Relax. I'm having fun, yeah? Not going to do anything stupid." He leans his head back forward, hands running up Robin's arms, squeezing. "Come on, let's go dance, Rob. You always want me to dance with you. I feel like dancing..." His words run together, vowels blending, consonants softening, and you don't know how he manages to sound drunk and coherent at the same time.
You realize with a sinking feeling, Steve has not once looked at you. Not directly. Not acknowledged your presence at all.
Robin sighs, defeated. "Okay, but you're drinking water first."
Steve kisses her cheek again—wet and loud—already pulling her away toward the coolers by the back porch. Robin looks over her shoulder at you and Nancy, and the expression on her face is pure apology, eyes saying I'm sorry and help me all at once.
"What was that all about?" you ask Nancy, unable to tear your eyes away from Steve and Robin. He's forcing down a bottle of water now, Robin's hand on his shoulder, both of them bobbing slightly to the music pumping through the outdoor speakers.
Nancy sighs, watching them too, but her expression is distant, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. "Apparently they've been fighting all day. She won't tell me what about. But she mentioned something about people noticing they've been distant lately, asking questions about whether they're okay."
You look over at them. Robin's back is pressed to Steve's front now, his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them swaying awkwardly to a song that doesn't match their rhythm. They're both staring off in different directions—Robin toward Nancy with naked longing, Steve toward nothing in particular with empty eyes. Neither of them looks like they want to be touching the other.
Your heart flips violently when Steve's eyes catch yours across the yard. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping under skin. Then he looks away again, pulling Robin closer in a way that looks more like desperation than affection.
"I thought things were better," you say out loud, voice small.
It was true. You thought everything had improved since you helped fix the spring break situation with Robin's parents. You thought it was better now that Steve was making choices for himself, declaring his major, standing up to his father in his own way.
Nancy swallows hard, throat working. "I think they forget they're not really together sometimes."
The words hit you like cold water.
You think about your own feelings—the ones you only admitted to yourself last night, staring at the ceiling of your dorm room while Robin snored softly in the bed next to yours. You don't know how long you've actually felt this way. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time Steve kissed you and you realized kissing him was different from kissing anyone else.
Last night you couldn't stop smiling, caught in the memory of the planetarium, of Steve's hands on your face, of the way he said your name like it meant something. And then you'd looked over at Robin sleeping peacefully, and the guilt had settled over you like a heavy blanket.
Nancy's observation sits uncomfortably in your chest because she's right. Even you forget they're not really together. It feels like betrayal—like cheating—to entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, you could change Steve and Robin's minds about their arrangement, about their promises to each other.
But you're not different. You're not special. Nothing will change.
"Can I tell you something, Nancy?" you ask softly, still watching the couple that's not really a couple swaying in the middle of the lawn.
Nancy looks at you, and when you turn to meet her gaze, her expression isn't pity. It's sympathy—soft eyes, gentle understanding, the look of someone who already knows what you're about to say.
"I know," Nancy offers quietly, saving you from having to speak it into existence. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Undeniable.
You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat. You've never been quick to emotion—or maybe you've never allowed yourself to be. The same way you've never allowed yourself to feel this way about anyone, to get close enough for it to hurt.
Your chest feels like it's caving in, ribs pressing toward your lungs, making it hard to breathe.
You think about the rule Steve made—that if either of you caught feelings, you'd end it. But then he'd said the rules didn't apply to you, that there were never really rules when it came to you. So does that mean all of them? Or none of them? Or only the ones that were convenient?
You chew on your bottom lip, tasting cherry chapstick and uncertainty. "I need to end it, don't I?"
For a second, you think Nancy might tell you no. Might tell you to go for it, to fight for what you want, to be selfish for once in your life.
But Nancy closes her mouth. Looks back at Robin and Steve—his arm slung over her shoulder now, talking to a group of Pike brothers like they belong exactly like this, like they'll always belong like this.
"Before you fall in love with him," Nancy says slowly, carefully, each word deliberate. "Before it's too late to turn back, then yeah. You should."
Her honest truth hits you like a million tiny blades, each one finding a different soft spot to sink into.
And then Nancy's eyes light up, something hopeful sparking there. "Do you..." She pauses, choosing her words. "Do you love him?"
The same clouded, confusing thoughts that ran through your head when Max asked you this question on Tuesday come rushing back. You look at Steve across the yard—at the way the string lights catch in his newly short hair, at the strong line of his shoulders, at his hands that know every inch of your body.
You think about the pieces of yourself that belong to him now. The ones you gave freely, the ones he took without asking, the ones you didn't even know you had until he found them. Pieces you've refused to give anyone else because they were his before you knew what you were giving away.
It started because of trust, because he was your friend, because it was safe and uncomplicated. Something he wasn't six months ago when he was someone you actively avoided at parties.
Your heart races looking at him. Your stomach flutters. Heat pools low in your belly even from across the yard, even angry at him, even knowing this can't go anywhere.
You open your mouth to answer—not really sure what will come out, not ready to hear yourself say it—when a voice calls out.
"Hey, Hot Shot! You want a turn?"
You look over to see Buck grinning at you, pointing at another keg that's been set up near the fence. The crowd around it is already chanting, waiting for the next victim.
Suddenly, the idea of standing upside down chugging cheap beer out of a questionable spout seems infinitely better than answering Nancy's question.
You see Steve look over the moment Buck touches you—Buck's hand on your lower back, helping you up onto the keg platform. Steve's face transforms, features twisting into something dark and possessive. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the yard.
And it pisses you off. He let Amanda touch him. Let her flirt with him, look at him like that, put her hands on his chest. You're not dating—you've never been dating—but how could he say the things he said to you and then ignore you tonight? How could he touch you the way he touched you and then pretend you don't exist?
You don't only get drunk on the keg stand—though you do, Buck's hands firm on your stomach as you chug, the crowd counting, your vision swimming when he rights you and everyone cheers. You don't only get drunk on the cheap tequila shots that burn going down, or the beer pong game you lose against one of the Tri Delt sisters who's wearing a "Spring Break or Bust" tank top.
You get drunk on something worse, something more dangerous.
You get drunk on the pathetic, inevitable realization that you're going to have to talk to Steve tonight. That you're going to have to tell him this isn't working anymore. That you can't do this—can't keep pretending you don't feel what you feel, can't keep being his secret while he plays boyfriend to your best friend.
But finally—finally—he's looking at you.
You're dancing with Robin and Nancy now, the three of you pressed close, giving Robin and Nancy the excuse to touch each other, to be close in a way they can't be normally. Nancy's hands are on Robin's hips, Robin's head thrown back in laughter, and you're moving with them, lost in the music and the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.
And Steve is watching you from across the room.
His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, tracking your every movement. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over your exposed collarbone where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder, down to where your jeans sit low on your hips, back up to your face. The air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.
You dance harder, throwing yourself into it, letting your hips sway in a way you know drives him crazy. You run your hands through your hair, tilt your head back, expose your throat. You're playing a game you know you shouldn't be playing, weaponizing your body against him the same way he's weaponizing his indifference.
His tongue runs over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself in his jeans in a way that would be subtle if you weren't watching for it.
The song changes—something slower, bassier, all rhythm and want—and you turn, putting your back to him, rolling your body in a way that's absolutely, unquestionably meant for him to see. Nancy and Robin are lost in each other now, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing, and you're alone in the crowd but you don't feel alone because Steve's eyes are burning holes in your back.
You glance over your shoulder, find him still staring, and the look on his face is pure hunger mixed with something that might be anger or might be desperation or might be both.
Steve crosses the room.
He moves through the crowd like he has a purpose, shouldering past people without apology, eyes locked on you the whole time. When he reaches your group, he slides in next to Robin, his hand grazing across the small of your back as he passes. His fingertips find the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.
"I'm going upstairs to lay down for a bit," he tells Robin, voice rough and low. But his hand is still on your back, fingers pressing slightly, a message meant only for you.
He walks over to the makeshift bar someone has set up on the porch table, pours a shot of something clear—vodka or tequila, you can't tell—and shoots it back without a chaser. His eyes find yours as he swallows, throat working, and he jerks his head toward the foyer where the stairs are.
"Gotta... pee," you announce to Nancy and Robin, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.
Nancy and Robin nod, barely hearing you, completely entranced in each other now that the alcohol has lowered their inhibitions. Nancy's hand is tangled in Robin's hair, Robin's lips close to Nancy's ear, and you leave them to it.
Steve has already started making his way inside. You trail behind him, keeping enough distance that it won't be obvious you're following him, but close enough that you won't lose sight of him in the crowd.
Your core is already warm, heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of what's about to happen. Your heart hammers against your ribs—anticipation and dread in equal measure.
Steve says something to the two pledges guarding the stairs—PJ and someone whose name you don't remember—and they look back at you still a few paces behind. Steve must have said something convincing because they part immediately, letting him through, then stepping aside for you when you reach them.
You climb the stairs, legs unsteady from alcohol and want and the weight of what you know you need to do. Steve is ahead of you, taking the steps two at a time, and occasionally he glances back over his shoulder—checking that you're still following, eyes dark with intent.
Neither of you says anything. Not when you reach the second floor, not when he leads you down the familiar hallway to his room, not when he opens the door and holds it for you to enter first.
The moment the door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the party below, you're on each other.
Your lips crash together with the force of tension finally breaking. It's not gentle—it's desperate and messy and tastes like beer and tequila and want. His hands are immediately in your hair, gripping, angling your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between your bodies.
He walks you backward until your back hits the door, the solid wood cool against your shoulder blades. His body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is already, pressing insistent against your hip.
He breaks the kiss to mouth at your jaw, your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you'll have to hide tomorrow. His hands slide down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
But then he stops. Pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and his hands move to the hem of your shirt. He pauses, fingers just under the fabric, eyes searching yours.
"Do you want this, Hot Shot?" His voice is rough, wrecked, but the question is genuine. Even drunk, even desperate, he's checking. Making sure.
And even though you're both drunk, even though this is probably a terrible idea, even though you know you should end this before it goes any further—you want him. You want this. You want him so badly it physically hurts.
"Yes," you breathe. "Of course I want you, Steve."
Something flashes in his eyes—relief or pain or something else you can't name—and then he's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his in a way he has no right to do but you're letting him anyway.
Your feet don't work properly as he tries to pull your jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. You're both too drunk, too eager, coordination shot. You stumble, and he catches you, but the momentum sends you both tumbling to the floor.
You land on the carpet with an "oof," Steve's weight half on top of you, and you should probably be more concerned about the fact that you're on his floor, but instead you're pulling him back down into a kiss, refusing to let the moment break.
"Where's your glasses?" you ask between kisses, breath hot against his lips. You're used to them now, used to the way they press against your face when you kiss, the way he pushes them up his nose when he's concentrating.
"They broke earlier," he says, and the casual way he says it—like it doesn't matter, like they were disposable—makes something pinch in your chest. "Fell off during a keg stand. Someone stepped on them."
The way he says it, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes when you pull back to look at him—it all feels wrong. Different.
He's touching you differently too. His hands are on you—sliding under your bra, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples—but there's a hesitation to it. A heaviness. Like he's memorizing rather than discovering. Like this is the last time.
The thought sends a spike of panic through your chest, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol haze.
"Steve—" you start, but he kisses you again, swallowing whatever you were going to say.
You ask if you can take off his pants, and he nods, helping you, both of you too eager to do it properly. You only manage to drag them down to his thighs—those thick, hairy thighs you've become intimately familiar with—his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.
Your bra is still on, your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and visible through the thin lace. Your jeans and panties are somewhere across the room, abandoned in your haste.
You straddle him right there on the floor, the carpet rough under your knees, and his eyes are drunk—from weed, from alcohol, from lust, from all of it. He bites his lip watching you spit into your hand, pump him a few times, watching the way his cock twitches in your grip.
Then you're sinking down onto him, taking him in slowly, and your head lulls back at the stretch, at the familiar burn and fullness. You sit there for a moment, completely still, just feeling him inside you. His warmth, his thickness, the way he twitches like sitting still is torture for him too.
His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't make you move. Doesn't thrust up into you. Like this moment—being buried inside you, connected in the most intimate way possible—is enough. Like he's trying to make it last.
It's nearly sobering, the intensity of it grounding you through the alcohol. The stretch of him, the way he fills you so completely, the way his eyes are locked on yours like he's trying to memorize your face.
Finally—finally—you lift up almost all the way off him, and then slam back down. The sound you both make is obscene—half moan, half sob, pure desperate pleasure. You bounce on him, setting a punishing rhythm, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. You push his shirt up with your fingers, revealing his soft stomach first, then his chest, pushing the fabric all the way to his collarbone but not removing it entirely. Holding it there while you continue to ride him, his skin hot and damp with sweat under your palms.
The pace gets more erratic, sloppier, your thighs burning from the exertion but you can't stop, won't stop. He's hitting spots inside you that make you gasp for air, that make stars burst behind your closed eyelids, that make you forget why this is a bad idea.
The usual banter is lost—no teasing words, no challenges, no playful arguments. Just moans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin on skin, of wetness, of your bodies coming together again and again.
You lean down, changing the angle, and the new position sends pleasure pulsing through you both. Steve's hips buck up involuntarily, back arching off the floor.
"Fuck!" he whines, voice high and wrecked.
You lean further, putting your mouth right over his pec, and bite. Hard. Your teeth sink into his skin, and Steve lets you, lets you mark him, a moan torn from his lips.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers under his breath, the words running together. He says your name—your actual name, not Hot Shot, not baby, not anything else. Your name like a prayer, like a confession, like goodbye.
You kiss the spot like you can fix it, like you can erase the damage, but you can already see the teeth marks in his skin, the tiny bit of broken skin surrounded by red that will absolutely bruise by morning. Evidence. Proof. A mark that says I was here.
"Baby," he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as you put your hands back on his chest to steady yourself, to get more leverage.
Steve's grip tightens on your hips, fingers grabbing at the soft flesh there before one hand moves between your bodies to find your clit. He slaps it once—sharp and surprising—and you mewl, the sound embarrassingly needy.
He rubs it with his thumb, sloppy and uncoordinated but still good, still enough. The pressure builds in your core, winding tighter and tighter like a spring about to break.
You feel your walls start to clench around his cock, fluttering, and Steve groans at the sensation.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants. "So fucking good, baby. Come for me, please,” he begs.
Until finally you can't hold back anymore, crying out his name, "Steve!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your whole body goes taut, back arching, stars bursting white behind your closed eyelids.
Steve grips your hips hard, keeping the brutal pace, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He groans, head lulling back, and you can see the tendons in his neck, the veins protruding, his mouth falling open as he gasps through his own release. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you with warmth.
His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair at the base, gripping and pulling you down into a heated kiss. Desperate and messy and tasting like salt and want and ending.
Then, even though you're both still buzzing with alcohol and endorphins, the kiss settles into a steadier rhythm. Slower. Softer. Small pecks that feel more intimate than anything that came before.
You're still hovering over him, both of you breathing hard, when you look into his hazel eyes. He brushes a strand of hair back behind your ear, his touch gentle, reverent.
And you can see it. The emptiness in his eyes. The finality.
You have to tell him. Have to let him know what you're feeling. Or maybe—maybe you need to make sure this is the last time before you say something you can't take back.
"I'm going to go clean up," you say, voice shakier than you'd like.
You hurry to his bathroom, gathering your clothes as you go, not looking at him because if you look at him you might start crying and you refuse to cry over Steve Harrington.
You clean up mechanically, movements robotic. You sit on the closed toilet seat after, face in your hands, breathing hard—either from the exertion of sex or the dread pooling in your stomach or both.
When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your stomach drops at the sight that greets you.
Steve is fully dressed again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded through his short hair. Clearly thinking. Clearly working up to something.
When he looks up at you, you know from his eyes—from the set of his jaw, from the way his shoulders are tensed—that he has something to say.
Your throat tightens. You lean back against the wall, not looking at him directly, focusing on a spot just over his shoulder because if you look at him you'll break.
Steve rubs the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it hurts. "I think this is the last time we'll be seeing each other," he says quietly. Almost too quiet, like if he said it any louder he would mean it more, and he's not sure he can handle meaning it more.
And even though you were thinking the same thing downstairs with Nancy, hearing him say it out loud makes you realize you didn't actually want this to happen. That some part of you hoped you could have both—could keep sleeping with him and keep your feelings and somehow make it work.
Your defenses slam into place immediately—anger, deflection, anything to find blame in him rather than face the complicated mess you've brought upon yourself.
"But I didn't break any rules," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.
A curl falls on his forehead when he looks up, and he straightens, jaw tense. He's looking you up and down, evaluating you, scanning your face like he's trying to figure something out, solve an equation that keeps changing.
"Yeah, we did," he says slowly. "And we—I think we took it too far."
"You're kidding me." You can hear the venom in your own voice, the way it drips with hurt disguised as anger. "You told me—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I followed your rules. You were the one who told me it was okay. That I was the exception."
"Yeah, well..." He trails off, searching for the right words. He groans, putting his face in his palms before standing up to face you properly. "Maybe I said that so I could see what it was like to be normal for once."
The words hit you like a slap.
You nod slowly, mechanically. "So you wanted one last fuck? Is that it? String me along until you got what exactly?"
Steve shrugs, his expression stony, unreadable. His tongue presses into his cheek, a habit you've come to recognize as him holding back words he doesn't want to say. "Look, Hot Shot, I'm sorry. I really tried to see if it would work for me, but it doesn't. Can't."
You cross the room in three strides, closing the distance until you're right in front of him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you get near.
"You don't get to call me that anymore," you snap, finger jabbing into his chest right over where you bit him.
Steve rolls his eyes, looking away, arms crossing over his chest in a mirror of your defensive posture. He lifts one hand in a placating gesture that makes you want to hit him. "Look, this doesn't mean we can't still be friends—"
"Oh, fuck off, Steve." You press your finger harder into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingertip, fast and erratic. "Friends don't fucking cum inside other friends. Friends don't say the shit you said to me. Don't look at me the way you look at me." Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. "Admit you're an asshole who can't decide what he wants."
"Or maybe I'm an asshole who's bored of you," Steve snaps back, and his eyes burn with something dark and empty and hurt all at once.
The words steal the air from your lungs.
Your face falls, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind only the raw, exposed hurt underneath. Tears brim in your eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring your vision.
"Go to hell, Steve," you whisper, voice breaking on his name.
You take a deep breath, trying to hold yourself together for a few more seconds. Your lip quivers despite your best efforts. You take one last look at him—really look at him, memorizing his face because this is it, this is the end—and your heart breaks into a million pieces, each one cutting you on the way down.
Then you turn and walk out, leaving him standing alone in his room, and you don't look back.
.-.-.-.
Your eyes are caked with crust when you finally wake, eyelids heavy and stuck together like someone glued them shut while you slept. You peel them open slowly, immediately recognizing you're not in your own bed. The sheets are wrong—navy blue instead of your floral pattern, softer than the scratchy dorm-issue linens. The room smells different too—like laundry detergent and cologne you don't recognize, masculine and clean.
You know where you are before you're fully conscious. Sammy's room. The minimal furniture, the textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, the clothes strewn on the floor that aren't yours.
You sit up, still wearing your clothes from last night—jeans twisted uncomfortably around your legs, shirt wrinkled and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and something else underneath that makes your stomach turn. Steve's cologne. You can still smell him on you.
On cue, Sammy walks in, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, hair a little messy like he slept on the couch and didn't bother with a mirror. He's holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up from both. He smiles at you—awkward, uncertain, like he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.
"Good morning," he says, handing you one of the mugs.
"Morning." Your voice comes out rough, throat raw from crying or screaming or maybe both. You can't quite remember.
The coffee is hot against your palms, almost too hot, but you hold onto it anyway because it gives you something to focus on that isn't the pounding in your head or the hollow ache in your chest.
"You sleep okay?" Sammy asks, hovering near the door like he's afraid to come too close, like you're a wild animal that might bolt.
You nod, not trusting your voice yet. "Yeah... thank you. For letting me crash here."
"Of course," Sammy mutters, looking down at his own mug.
The memories from last night come back in fragments, disjointed and painful. Leaving the Pike house through the back gate, tears streaming down your face, mascara probably running in black streaks. Finding Eddie smoking by his van in the driveway, asking him to tell Robin and Nancy not to worry about you. The look on his face—concern mixed with understanding, like he knew exactly what had happened upstairs even though you didn't say a word.
You didn't want to face Robin. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes or hear her try to make excuses for Steve or worse—didn't want to hear her say she'd warned you this would happen, that getting involved with Steve was always going to end badly.
And you didn't want to face anyone else either. But someone who felt safe enough, someone who wouldn't ask questions or demand explanations, was Sammy.
You'd arrived at his frat house around midnight, still crying, and he'd seemed surprised to see you. Especially since you still hadn't really talked to him except for that one awkward encounter in the library and the brief exchange about picking up your things.
But he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or who hurt you. He pulled you inside, gave you a glass of water, and told you that you could take his bed. That he'd sleep in the common room downstairs.
You'd crawled into his bed fully clothed and cried into his pillow until you finally passed out from exhaustion sometime after two in the morning.
He slept on the couch in the common room, and you don't know whether to feel guilty, relieved, or disappointed about that. Guilty because he gave up his bed for you. Relieved because you couldn't handle anything more complicated last night. Disappointed because—
You cut that thought off before it can finish forming.
You rub your face with one hand, the other still clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, and swing your legs off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the shock of it helps clear your head slightly. You chew on your bottom lip, and your stomach sours at the memories flooding back.
Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago. Waking up happy, excited about spring break, thinking about Steve and the planetarium and the way he'd looked at you like you hung the moon. Everything had been honey and sweet and perfect, and you had no idea it was all about to crumble.
What changed? What did you do wrong? What did Robin say to him in the car that made him look at you like you were nothing?
Sammy clears his throat, pulling you back to the present. "I, uh... need to leave soon. Going home for spring break. Not trying to rush you out or anything—you can stay as long as you need. I don't mind."
You look over at him, really look at him for the first time this morning. He's a good person. Kind, patient, understanding. All the things you should want.
"Sorry, yeah. I'll leave now." You stand up, and the movement makes your head pound harder, dehydration and hangover and heartbreak all mixing together into one miserable cocktail.
You hate that you can still smell Steve on you—his cologne mixed with the smell of sex and sweat, clinging to your skin, your hair, your clothes. It makes you want to vomit. Makes you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower until every trace of him is gone.
You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, and you rub them aggressively, refusing to cry in front of Sammy. You put on your shoes—the ones you'd kicked off carelessly last night, now sitting neatly by the door where Sammy must have moved them.
"Hey," Sammy says your name gently, softly, like you're something fragile that might break. "Everything okay?"
"What?" You shoot up too fast, and your head pounds in protest. "Oh... yeah. I'm fine. I'm—" You look at him, really look at him, and you wonder what's wrong with you. Here's someone who is simple and easy and showed genuine interest in you. Someone who wanted to know you, who asked you out properly, who didn't play games or set up impossible rules.
"I'm sorry," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
"What for?" He tilts his head, still looking hesitant, unsure.
"For never really allowing us to have a shot." You mean it to a degree, though your feelings are so clouded and confused right now that you're not sure you mean anything you say.
Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. He shrugs, trying for casual but not quite hitting it. "It's okay. Really."
"No... I..." And then you understand why you feel so horrible, why the guilt is sitting so heavy in your stomach. "It's not cool what I did to you. Making you feel disposable or used. I'm really sorry."
Sammy doesn't argue against it, which somehow makes it worse. He nods in acknowledgment, arms crossing over his chest. "Look, I... know I wasn't the best either. I wanted to know things about you, but I didn't want you to feel smothered or pressured or anything like that. I was trying to give you space, but maybe I gave you too much."
You can't help it—feeling vulnerable and raw and desperate for something that makes sense. "Do you still want to know things about me?"
Sammy laughs, a real smile breaking through the awkwardness. "Of course I want to know things about you." Then his expression shifts, going shy, earnest. "But... not like the way before. Not casual. Properly, like..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Like dating. Like... I don't know. Like a boyfriend."
Your breath hitches, caught in your throat.
You feel a flash of anger at Steve for breaking his own rules, for making "once a month" meaningless, for letting you get close enough to fall. If he'd kept his distance, if he'd stuck to the original arrangement, maybe you'd feel less confused. Maybe you could see yourself as Sammy's girlfriend. Sammy, who knows what he wants. Sammy, who isn't afraid to say it.
"I..." You don't know what to say. Don't know what you want. Don't know anything except that everything hurts.
"You don't have to answer now," Sammy says quickly, seeing the panic on your face. "Think about it. Over break. And when we get back, you can let me know."
You nod, grateful for the escape, and leave before he can say anything else.
When you get back to your dorm, Robin and Nancy are both there, and they visibly relax when you walk through the door.
"Oh thank god," Robin says, launching herself at you and pulling you into a tight hug. "Eddie said you left with him but wouldn't say where you went. I was worried."
"I'm fine," you lie, extracting yourself from her embrace. "Sorry I disappeared."
"Where'd you go?" Robin asks, and there's genuine concern in her eyes, no judgment.
For once, you're honest. "Sammy's."
Nancy, who's been sitting quietly on Robin's bed, perks up. "Who's Sammy?"
Robin grins, immediately latching onto the distraction, her voice going sing-song. "Hot Shot's boooyfriend."
Nancy looks confused, glancing between you and Robin.
"He's not my boyfriend," you say quickly, turning away to hide your expression. Then you sigh, because you need at least one thing out in the air, one burden not sitting solely on your shoulders. "But he did ask to be. This morning."
Robin gasps, bouncing slightly. "What'd you say?"
Nancy's expression stays neutral, but her eyes are sad, knowing.
You turn away from both of them, pretending to look through your suitcase for tomorrow's flight, organizing clothes you've already organized three times. You chew on your bottom lip, the skin already raw from nervous biting. "I told him I'd think about it over spring break and let him know."
Your words come out soft, uncertain, and when you turn back around Robin is squealing like it's the best news she's heard all year. But Nancy is looking at you with sad, sympathetic eyes that see right through you.
The next morning, everyone is packed into Eddie's van again—bright and early to drive to the nearest airport. The sun is barely up, the sky still that pale gray-pink of dawn, and you're all moving like zombies, running on coffee and determination.
Steve looks rough. Rougher than you've ever seen him. He's wearing sunglasses even though the sun isn't up yet, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and he hasn't said a word to anyone. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and he radiates an energy that says don't fucking talk to me.
You hear Eddie tell Robin in a low voice, "He's got a hangover. Drank more beers than I could count last night. Found him passed out on the bathroom floor around three."
Robin winces, glancing at Steve with concern, but she doesn't approach him.
In the van, Steve puts headphones on and plays his Walkman, sitting in the front passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. You can see his reflection in the glass—eyes closed, jaw clenched, looking like he's in actual physical pain.
You're in the back with Robin and Nancy, trying not to stare at the back of his head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to make himself smaller.
Before you take the highway to the airport, Eddie makes one last stop. Your heart sinks when you see bright red hair, a cheerful wave, a familiar face standing on the curb.
Polly.
Steve is the one who gets out, greeting her with a side hug that looks stiff and uncomfortable. He takes her luggage—a large pink suitcase covered in stickers—and throws it in the back of the van. The force of it hits the back of your seat hard enough that you feel it, and you snap around to look at him.
His jaw tightens when he sees you looking. He slams the trunk shut without a word.
Polly crawls into the van, all smiles and sunshine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thank you guys so much for letting me join last minute!" She turns to you specifically, beaming. "Especially for letting me room with you! We're going to have so much fun."
You look at Robin and Nancy, and neither of them looks surprised by this news. They already knew. Everyone knew except you.
Finally, Steve turns and looks at you—still wearing those sunglasses so you can't see his eyes. "Shit, sorry. Must have slipped my mind to mention it. Hope you don't mind."
You could punch him. For putting you in this position, for making you the bad guy if you say anything. How did they even manage to find another plane ticket so last minute? Spring break flights are always booked solid.
But you can't tell Polly no. Can't say you do mind without looking like a petty bitch. So you force your best smile, the one that doesn't reach your eyes but looks convincing enough. "Of course not! We're going to have a blast."
Polly squeals and throws her arms around you, and you catch Steve's expression over her shoulder—something that might be guilt or might be satisfaction. You can't tell with the sunglasses.
Polly ends up sitting next to you on the plane, chattering away about how excited she is and how she's never been to Miami before. Steve sits next to Eddie several rows ahead, and Nancy and Robin are somewhere in the back—you can hear Robin's laugh occasionally, bright and happy.
You watch Steve flag down the flight attendant for his third glass of whiskey, even though it's not even noon yet. He and Eddie are the only ones old enough to order alcohol on the flight, and Steve seems determined to take full advantage.
Polly is a talker, and you find yourself not shying away from the conversation. In fact, you hate how much you actually like her. She's studying to be a STEM major, still figuring out if she wants to go into pre-med eventually. She's smart and funny and kind, and under different circumstances, you could see yourself being friends with her.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
The plane lands in Miami in the early afternoon, and the moment you step off and into the airport, you're hit with a wall of humid heat. It's different from the heat back home—thicker, wetter, smelling like salt and tropical flowers and jet fuel.
Outside, palm trees sway in the breeze. The sky is impossibly blue, dotted with white puffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You can hear the distant sound of car horns, music playing from someone's radio, the chatter of tourists in a dozen different languages.
They all pile into a bus that will take them to the resort, bags shoved into the overhead compartments. Nancy tells everyone that Jonathan will meet them for dinner that night—he's been on set all day but will be done by six.
The resort is huge, sprawling across what looks like several acres of beachfront property. It's packed with other college-aged students, all in various states of undress—bikini tops and swim trunks, sunglasses and flip-flops. The lobby is chaos, people checking in and out, bellhops rushing around with luggage carts, the smell of chlorine from the pool mixing with sunscreen and coconut.
It's not a fancy hotel, but it's not trashy either. It seems designed specifically to encourage partying—the staff all look young and fun, wearing Hawaiian shirts and leis, and there's already a group doing shots at the tiki bar even though it's barely two in the afternoon.
Eddie manages to flirt with a bellhop—a cute guy with dark curly hair and dimples—into sneaking a bottle of rum into his room without charging for it. Eddie winks at him, slips him a twenty, and the bellhop grins and promises to "take good care" of him.
You're able to forget about the tension and anger and sadness for a few minutes, caught up in the energy of the place, the excitement of being somewhere new.
Until you get stuck in an elevator with Steve and Polly, heading to the same floor because of course you are. Because someone—you and Steve—made the stupid decision to have his room and your room right next to each other.
The elevator is small, mirrored on three sides, and you can see infinite versions of yourself standing stiffly in the corner while Steve and Polly chat. He's taken off his sunglasses now, and you can see his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and puffy.
Steve only talks to Polly, catching up about school, asking about her classes. She mentions his big test next Thursday, and he motions to the backpack slung over his shoulder that apparently contains his textbooks.
"Gotta study," he says, and his voice sounds rough, damaged. "Can't fuck this up."
You stare at the elevator numbers, watching them tick up. Third floor. Fourth floor. Fifth floor.
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Polly bounds out first, already digging in her purse for the room key. You follow more slowly, and you can't help but watch Steve over your shoulder.
He glances at you briefly—so quick you almost miss it—and there's something in his expression you can't read. Then he turns and disappears into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a decisive click.
"Oh my god!" Polly squeals, and you turn to see her standing in your doorway, looking inside with wide eyes. "We have a balcony!"
She runs inside, and you follow, dropping your bags just inside the door. Polly is already sliding open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of crashing waves immediately filling the room along with the smell of salt and seaweed.
She steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, breathing deeply. "We don't have water this pretty in Texas," she sighs dreamily, looking out at the ocean—turquoise and sparkling in the afternoon sun, waves rolling in steady and hypnotic.
She turns back to you, beaming. "Do you want to go down to the beach with me? I'm dying to feel the sand between my toes."
You look at the clock on the nightstand. It's barely three. Dinner isn't until six. You should go, should say yes, should try to have fun.
"Oh... uh... I'm feeling a little tired. I think I might take a nap before dinner."
"Okay!" Polly shrugs, already stripping off her clothes right there in the middle of the room. "I'll ask the others."
You look away quickly, startled by her lack of self-consciousness.
Polly gasps. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if that makes you uncomfortable."
"Oh, no... I didn't expect it, is all." It's not like you and Robin don't get dressed in front of each other. But you and Robin are best friends. You barely know Polly.
Polly continues to undress, and you try not to look, try to give her privacy. But you catch a glimpse anyway as she pulls on her bikini top—a fresh purple hickey on her breast, just visible above the line of her swimsuit.
Your stomach drops. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.
"I think I'm going to take a shower first," you manage to say, stumbling toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer.
You run the shower as hot as it will go, strip off your clothes, and finally let yourself cry. Really cry, the way you've been holding back since last night. Ugly, gasping sobs that echo off the tile, mixing with the sound of running water.
Two hours later, the phone on the nightstand rings, jarring you awake. You'd fallen asleep without meaning to, curled up on top of the covers in your towel, hair still damp.
You grab the receiver, groggy and disoriented. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Nancy. We're meeting at the restaurant downstairs in forty minutes. The one off the lobby. You can't miss it."
"Okay," you mumble, still half-asleep. "I'll be there."
You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, finally bothering to put on actual clothes. You wander over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the warm evening air.
The sun is lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The beach is still packed with people—students playing volleyball, couples walking hand in hand at the water's edge, groups gathered around bonfires even though it's not dark yet.
The breeze is warm and smells like salt and sunscreen and grilled seafood from one of the beachside restaurants. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in lazy circles.
Then you hear laughter—familiar laughter—and your eyes are drawn down to the beach below your balcony.
Steve and Polly are walking together, close enough that their arms brush with every step. Steve is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest, and black swim trunks. His hair is messy from the wind, and he's smiling—actually smiling, not the fake one he's been wearing since yesterday.
Polly is wearing jean shorts and her bikini top—purple, the same one from earlier—and her breasts bounce perfectly with each step. She's laughing at something Steve said, head thrown back, hand coming up to touch his arm.
The jealousy bubbles up inside you again, hot and acidic and all-consuming. You watch Steve look up, like he can feel you watching, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you quickly back away from the railing, heart pounding.
You're out of tears. All cried out. Nothing left but this hollow, aching anger.
Dinner with everyone is surprisingly normal, or at least everyone is pretending it is. The restaurant is open-air, right on the beach, with tiki torches and string lights and a live band playing reggae covers of popular songs.
Robin and Steve seem to have gotten over whatever they were fighting about—or at least they're pretending they have. Though you notice they're not sitting next to each other, not touching the way they usually do when they're playing couple. Maybe it's because they finally don't have to pretend here, where no one knows them.
Robin does lean over occasionally to tell Steve to slow down on his drinking, giving Nancy a knowing look whenever he mutters bitterly, "It's vacation, Rob. I can do what I want."
Before dinner started, Robin had pulled you aside and quietly informed you that Polly knows everything—about the fake relationship, about Robin and Nancy, all of it. "You can trust her," Robin had said.
And that makes more jealousy bubble up inside you. Polly gets to be in on the secrets now. Gets to be part of the inner circle. Gets to be close to Steve in a way you never will be again.
Why did she have to come? Why is she here, inserting herself into this trip, into your room, into your life? Why is she so fucking nice?
Jonathan spends most of dinner telling everyone about what filming in Miami is like. Which is him spealing most of his day in a golf cart driving different crew members to different sets, but he seems to genuinely love it. He can't talk about the movie—signed an NDA—but maybe he could sneak them onto set one night if they wanted.
Eddie immediately perks up at that. "Hell yes. I want to see behind the scenes of a real movie."
"It's not that glamorous," Jonathan warns, laughing.
Eventually, as dessert is being served, Polly leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, a boy from UCLA told me about this party on the beach tonight. Like a huge one. Apparently they do it every year during spring break."
"Count me in," Eddie says immediately.
Robin and Nancy exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them, and they both nod.
"We're in," Robin says.
Everyone looks at you. At first, you almost tell Polly you're not going. The thought of going to some massive beach party, of watching Steve flirt with other girls, of pretending everything is fine—it sounds like torture.
But later, back in your room while Polly is getting ready, she insists. "Come on! This is the perfect time to let loose. Get drunk, dance, make out with random people you'll never see again."
She's slipped into another bikini top—red this time, equally small—and jean shorts that sit low on her hips.
And suddenly, the thought of making out with some random stranger to get the lingering taste of Steve Harrington off your lips sounds incredibly appealing.
"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah. Let's go."
The beach party is exactly what you expected—chaos barely contained. There must be two hundred college students packed onto this stretch of beach, music blaring from speakers the size of refrigerators, a bonfire so large it looks dangerous, red Solo cups everywhere.
The air smells like beer and weed and salt water and smoke. The music is so loud you can feel it in your chest, bass thumping with each crashing wave. People are dancing, making out, playing drinking games, swimming in the ocean despite the darkness.
Nancy and Robin disappear into the crowd almost immediately, finally able to dance together and kiss without anyone batting an eye. You catch glimpses of them occasionally—foreheads pressed together, Robin's hands on Nancy's waist, both of them smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. They look free. Finally, truly happy.
Eddie has somehow already made friends with a group of stoners, sitting in a circle and sharing stories about the craziest people he's sold to before. You even take a hit of a joint being passed around, letting the smoke fill your lungs, make everything softer around the edges.
But your focus keeps drifting to Steve, who's drinking a beer and letting some girl roam her hands over him—fingers in his hair, touching his chest, his arms, his face. They're dancing, or what passes for dancing when you're drunk. More like grinding, really.
You notice Steve isn't really paying attention to her. His eyes are distant, unfocused, and he's not touching her back. She's all over him, and he's standing there like a mannequin, letting it happen but not participating.
You can't help it. Angrily, you stand up from the circle, brushing sand off your shorts. You need to get away from this, need to find a drink yourself, need to do something other than watch Steve let that girl touch him.
Instead of finding the makeshift bar, you find yourself walking toward the water's edge, away from the noise and the people and the chaos. You stand there staring at the empty dark sky—no stars visible through the light pollution and cloud cover—with the music still blaring in your ears but more distant now.
You wish you could melt into the water, let the tide carry you out to sea, drift away from all of this. You regret coming on this trip. Regret every choice you've made this year. Regret Steve Harrington and his stupid rules and his beautiful face and the way he made you feel things you didn't want to feel.
You see Jonathan off to the side, away from the main party, nursing a beer and looking out at the ocean. And you can't help it—you walk up to him, and he looks startled when you appear at his elbow.
"What did you mean?" you ask without preamble. "At the camping trip. You said Steve talks about me all the time. Why?"
Jonathan's eyes widen, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh... uh... what?"
"You told me that he talks about me. Why does he talk about me, Jonathan?"
Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I don't think it's my place—"
"Please, Jonathan." Your voice comes out teary, desperate, and you hate yourself for it. You're buzzed from the drinks and the joint, and everything feels too big, too raw.
He looks at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell you. Then he sighs again, deeper this time.
"I don't know exactly. He brings you up a lot when we talk. Tells me about things you do, things you say. How cool you are and you don't even know it. How you're different from other girls he's—" Jonathan cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. "He told me that you're pretty. That if things were different, he'd ask you on a date. But..."
"But?" you demand, voice shaky, tears threatening.
Jonathan looks down at the sand, digging his foot into it. "You know why. Robin."
"But Robin isn't even—" You stop yourself, because Jonathan knows. He knows it's fake. "Right. Robin."
Jonathan looks at the ocean, giving you privacy for your pain. "I'm sorry. I really am."
You look out at the dark water, waves rolling in steady and relentless. "I fucking hate him."
"No, you don't," Jonathan says quietly.
You snap your head toward him. "Yes, I do."
He gives you a knowing look, sad and sympathetic. "Our brains can get hate and love mixed up sometimes, you know? The wires cross."
The tears burn hot against your cheeks, and you don't bother wiping them away. The ocean breeze is cool on your wet face.
"Let me take you back to your room," Jonathan says gently. "You look exhausted."
You don't argue, and you let him guide you back across the beach, trudging through sand that keeps getting in your shoes, making each step harder.
Polly spots you halfway to the hotel and runs up, slightly out of breath, giggling. "Hey, uh..." She looks sheepish. "Don't worry about me if I don't make it back to the room tonight, okay?" Then her expression shifts, concern creeping in. "Wait, are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm tired. Jonathan's walking me back." You nod, and you're not sure if you're pissed that Polly gets to enjoy her night with whoever she wants while you feel alone and miserable, or if you're grateful she won't be there to witness your breakdown.
Jonathan walks you all the way to your door, and you thank him quietly.
Before he leaves, he stops you with a hand on your arm. "If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. I'm in room 412."
You nod, watching him walk back down the hall toward the elevators, his footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.
You end up actually taking a shower this time, sand everywhere making you feel uncomfortable and grimy. You scrub your skin until it's red, wash your hair twice, trying to wash away the feeling of Steve's hands on you, the memory of his skin against yours.
You take one last look outside from the balcony, down at the party still raging on the beach a few hundred yards away. You wonder if Steve is making out with that girl he was dancing with. Wonder if he's thinking about you at all, or if you've already been completely erased from his mind.
A feeling of resentment toward Robin arises—sharp and unexpected and unwelcome. But you quickly push it away, not ready to examine the complicated depths of your friendship with her, especially when she has no idea what's been happening. None of this is her fault. She didn't know. She couldn't have known.
You can't sleep. You toss and turn, tangling yourself in the sheets, punching the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. You tell yourself it's because of the music from the beach, still faintly audible through the closed balcony door. But really, you can't stop your brain from thinking.
Around two in the morning, you hear the door to the next room—Steve's room—finally close.
You try to talk yourself out of it. Try not to get up, not to open your door, not to stare at the door next to yours. But you fail. You find yourself standing in your doorway in your pajamas, staring at Steve's door like it holds all the answers.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock three times. Quick, light, barely audible. You're already turning to run back to your room when the door opens.
Polly stands there in a towel, hair wet, face flushed. She looks surprised to see you, but she's smiling that bashful smile that means something just happened.
Inside, you can hear the bathroom door open, the shower still running. Someone—Steve—humming in the shower. Some song you don't recognize, voice slightly off-key, and it's so painfully domestic it makes your chest constrict.
Your eyes widen. "Oh... sorry!"
Polly looks at you questioningly, head tilting. "It's okay... do you need something?"
Your mind blanks. You can't tell her the truth—that you wanted to see Steve, to yell at him or kiss him or both. "Is there an extra pillow? There weren't any in our room."
It's a terrible lie. You have plenty of pillows.
Polly's smile widens. "Oh! Yeah, hold on." She closes the door, and you stand there in the hallway feeling like an idiot, listening to Steve's muffled humming through the wall.
She comes back with a pillow—one of the decorative ones from the bed. "Here you go!"
You stand there for a moment, both of you looking at each other awkwardly. You can smell Steve's cologne wafting out from the room, mixed with steam from the shower and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.
"Right. Thanks. See you... tomorrow," you manage, and then you bolt back to your room like something is chasing you.
You wrap yourself in your bed, pulling the covers over your head like you did as a kid when you thought there were monsters in the closet. Hiding from things that couldn't actually hurt you, except this time the monster is real and it's wearing Steve Harrington's face.
You listen to the distant music from the beach party still going, gradually getting quieter as people filter back to their rooms.
And then you hear it.
The wall across from your bed starts thumping. The rhythmic sound of a bed hitting against thin plaster, over and over. Creaking springs. A high-pitched moan that definitely isn't Steve.
Then Steve's voice, low and rough, saying something you can't make out. Another moan, louder this time. The unmistakable sounds of two people coming together, of pleasure, of intimacy.
The thumping gets faster. The moans get louder. And you lie there in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin, choking on a sob you refuse to let out.
The sounds reach a crescendo— Polly’s whines, Steve groaning, the bed slamming against the wall one final time before everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and low murmurs.
You know with absolute certainty now that you would never be the exception. That what Steve said was true—he was bored of you. That everything he made you feel was a lie, a game, a way to pass the time until something better came along.
And you know with equal certainty that you do fucking hate Steve Harrington.
You hate him for making you fall for him. Hate him for every soft word and gentle touch. Hate him for the planetarium and the tent and the way he looked at you like you mattered.
But most of all, you hate him for proving that you were right all along—that letting someone in, letting yourself feel something real, only leads to this. To lying in bed listening to him fuck someone else through paper-thin walls, your heart breaking into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but dust.
carter where he gets hurt at work (again) and he’s trying to be brave about it to impress reader and she’s like “oh so you don’t need me to kiss it better then” and he’s immediately soooo dramatic about it
.ೃ࿐ KISS IT BETTER
summary — carter is a massive baby, so when an accident occurs in the ER, he immediately does everything he can to still impress the coworker he has a massive crush on.
pairings — john carter x senior!resident!reader
pronouns — none, has hair long enough for a ponytail though
word count — 1492
note — i'm still very new to writing for carter so pls don't mind if it's bad 😭thank you for requesting :)
CARTER WAS NOT HAVING a good day.
it began when his car wouldn't start on the way to work. it got worse when he had to call the ER to let them know he would be late and in turn you showed up with your brand new car to pick him up. it unraveled further when mark made a joke in passing about how carter had called you of all people to pick him up when that wasn't the case at all.
eight lots of sutures, two ruined shirts, a broken shoelace and a pair of wet socks later, carter was ready to call it quits and head home feigning sick. he had already been here thirteen hours anyway, it wasn't like he had just showed up and felt like leaving early for the sake of it.
the sight of you made him envious. you look as good as you did when you pulled up to pick him up from the kerb thirteen hours ago. you'd been practically living in the hospital's on-call room since yesterday, but you looked so lively that it was hard to believe you'd been here that long.
your scrubs still looked pristine, but that was only because your bloodied ones had been discarded a few hours ago after a cyclist trauma rolled through the doors. there was the tiniest amount of frizz sticking up from the back of your ponytail, but overall your smile said a thousand things that blinded him into oblivion. maybe that was why you looked so refreshing.
the lights dimmed, the faded roar he could hear faintly in the background raising the hairs on the back of his neck with suddenly proximity until he found himself face-down on the floor, the stool he had been sitting on to mindlessly fill out paperwork skidding away from him until it hit the nearest gurney.
was the power out? he thought briefly before swarming clouds of dizziness flooded his line of sight, building up a blurriness that canceled out the harsh hospital lights. black spots swam across his vision, a distant groan slipping past his lips, and a very warm set of hands brushing across his face in the gentlest manner.
your silhouette blocked out the remaining light that filtered through the dark spots, and a dizzy smile pulled his lips upwards.
"CARTER," you called out, fishing your penlight out of your pocket and flashing it across his eyes. he flinched away from the light and tried to roll onto his side.
your heart had sank when one of the patients admitted under carter's care earlier had shoved wendy out of the way to pick up his IV stand and bash it over carter's head, shouting something about his results taking too long or something . . . you had ignored it completely with sudden tunnel vision because john carter was on the fucking floor bleeding from his head. you had been the first to his side and he had relaxed his head into your hands so tenderly that if you weren't so worried you probably would've noticed it clearer.
"jesus," you huffed, looking up from carter to where the aggressive patient was still kicking and screaming. "someone sedate him and help me out over here!"
you were strong but you weren't strong enough to pick up carter's borderline-dead weight. you half-hoisted him up and then let mark help support the rest of him until he was placed on the gurney carol had rolled over.
"okay, uh," you looked around the ER until you spotted deb helping the nurses pick up medical supplies that the patient had knocked across the floor. "move him into exam room 2, please."
"got it," carol smiled before helping mark guide a groaning carter away.
carter was probably fine, you knew that much. at most, he'd likely have a concussion and a bump on his head for a week or so . . . you were hoping it wouldn't become your problem.
knowing mark greene, it probably would become your problem.
THE EXAM WAS BRIEF. you quickly cleared that it wasn't anything serious, nothing more than a moderate concussion and some bleeding from a gash on the back of his head.
"am i dying, doc?" carter's voice was fluttery from the morphine. his eyelashes fluttered in a similar fashion, blinking his glassy eyes open and shut, following your every movement.
you scoffed, "baby."
"aw," carter pointed a finger at you like he knew something you didn't. "how sweet of you. look at you, being so lovely."
"no," you deadpanned, rolling your eyes and desperately trying to stop the smile that was threatening to pull your lips upwards. "i'm calling you a baby. i know toddlers who let me check for injuries better than you did."
carter waved it off, hardly remembering the way he whined and moaned about needing morphine before he 'perished'. it was quite the entertainment. "my brain hurts, okay? you try getting . . . wait," he paused, squinting before wincing. "what happened again?"
"one of your kind patients bashed you over the head with an IV stand," you said it simply, writing a few notes down on carter's chart attached to your clipboard as if it wasn't a big deal that this incident had occurred. you were absolutely not going to be telling him that you had been worried and therefore nonchalance was key. "and you have a moderate concussion and are gonna need stitches."
"stitches?" he sighed and shook his head. you hadn't had the time to properly close up the wound when examining him earlier, and you used a temporary fix until you could go find one of the med students. "speaking of . . . which med student do you want? or d'you want me to randomly pick one?"
carter paled impossibly further. "don't you dare."
"what?" you flashed him an innocent smile. "they have to learn at some point."
"and that learning will not be on my head, thank you," carter's lips were pulled into the straightest line you had ever seen. you couldn't help but let a chuckle slip when he crossed his arms and sunk back into his fluffed pillow. "can you do it?"
you sighed, "carter, i'm busy. your patients are now my patients and—"
"please?"
he was doing this annoying pouty thing with his face. his glassy eyes looked so wide and innocent, tears collecting carefully in his waterline like a weapon. you were stupidly falling for it just like every other stupid thing he did in your presence.
how could you say no to that face?
"fuck me," you grumbled under your breath, shaking your head. "fine, whatever, but you owe me the second your concussion is gone."
"mhm," he hummed, deep in thought as he stared ahead at the white wall across the room. "would a nice dinner suffice?" he asked, and you kept quiet to stop your smile from appearing in front of his eyes.
CARTER was brave the second the suture kit came out.
it was like a switch had been flipped and he was suddenly convinced that he wasn't dying . . . you had a feeling him wanting to take you out to dinner had something to do with that.
he liked watching you do sutures, and so it was a shame that he couldn't watch you do his. there was something so magical about your hands and their steadiness; something about the way you could do them so perfect every time that when patients came back to have them removed, there was hardly a visible mark. he envied it to some degree, but he made it his goal to do them just like you instead.
you impressed him every single day, and he wanted to do the same thing back by not being a baby about his injury.
"you doing okay?" you asked quietly, checking in for the fifth time since you had started. you were taking a little longer to perfect his, wanting them to perfect so that he hardly got a gnarly scar.
carter scoffed like it didn't even bother him. "me? yeah, totally fine. this is nothing at all. doesn't even hurt."
that's because you are literally numb, you thought, rolling your eyes and tying another knot. you smiled now that he couldn't see you, "aw, so you don't want me to kiss it all better for you, dr. carter?"
he spluttered, and you were smart to stop stitching him up when he started moving. "that's not— i wasn't— i mean . . . but—"
your laugh was airy, light and carefree in its quietness. "i'm fucking with you."
"so . . ." carter said after a moment of silence. "you . . . don't want to kiss me? i mean— you don't want to kiss it better, then?" you could see his frown and it made your heart beat a little faster.
"mhm," you hummed, focusing back in on his wound. "take me out to that dinner first."
his smile lit up the room. you both lapsed back into a blissful silence.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: angst... lack of communication. misunderstandings.... sex. drinking. weed. mean! steve, smut. breeding kink. creampie. sub! steve if u squint... very brief... saying everything under the sun BUT "i like you"
words: 25k
summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: okay, here is the long awaited chapter... it's a monster. and there's a bit of relationship building... i hope it's not boring...
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
chapter 13
You can't shake the feeling from yesterday—sitting on Steve’s bedroom floor, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for those tests to tell you whether your life was about to change forever.
You can't shake how normal it felt. How right.
Last night, while Robin had sprawled on her bed talking excitedly about the camping trip for her birthday—who was bringing what, where you'd all set up tents, how Eddie promised to bring his guitar—you'd decided not to tell her about the scare. The guilt is already gnawing at you, sharp teeth in your stomach, because you could've been the cause for all their carefully constructed plans to fracture and collapse. Their future—Steve and Robin's marriage, Nancy living with them as a "roommate," the whole delicate fiction they're building—could've come crashing down because you couldn't keep your legs closed.
This morning you woke before Robin did. That alone is unusual—normally you're both up at the same time, talking while getting ready for class, sharing coffee from the pot on Robin's desk, complaining about professors or assignments or whatever drama is currently unfolding. But this semester you only have one class together, and that's Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Today is Tuesday.
You'd slipped out while she was still asleep, leaving before you had to lie to her face.
It's later in the evening now, the sun already setting, casting long shadows across campus. You've skipped all your classes today because—well, to be honest, you're still shaken. You wouldn't be able to concentrate. Especially if you saw Sammy, another person in the equation who has no idea how close he came to being part of something catastrophic.
You find Steve in the library, tucked into a corner on the third floor where hardly anyone goes. He's alone, actually has a book open in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he reads. There's a highlighter in his hand, uncapped, and you watch him mark something on the page with careful precision.
You wouldn't say you're stalking Steve, per se. You just happen to know where he is and end up being in the same spot— all day. Normally hiding behind a wall or a cluster of people, watching him from a distance like some kind of pathetic shadow.
It's such a mundane sight—Steve Harrington studying—and yet it makes your chest ache for reasons you don't want to examine.
You're standing between the stacks, peeking through the gap where you've pulled out a random book, when you hear your name.
You jump, nearly dropping the book, quickly shoving it back into the empty space on the shelf.
You turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Sammy.
"Oh. Hey." Your eyes dance to the side—toward where Steve is sitting, unaware—then back to Sammy's face.
He smiles awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he's unsure what to say. "Hey." He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "You... weren't in class today."
You swallow hard. "Yeah. I just wasn't feeling good. So, yeah."
The lie is terrible. You can see that he notices—the way his eyes narrow slightly, the way his smile becomes more forced.
"Right." He clears his throat. "Well... listen, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry for being kind of weird last week. I'm really stressed about midterms, especially the one we have on Thursday." He's rambling now, words coming faster, nervousness bleeding through. "And I was hoping I'd see you today, and I was actually going to come by your dorm to drop off the review sheet for class. And maybe even see if I could take you out this weekend?"
You used to find this cute and endearing—the shy rambling, the nervous energy, the genuine sweetness of him. But now it's kind of annoying, and you can't help the irritation that prickles under your skin.
"Yeah, maybe we can talk about it on Thursday after class."
Sammy smiles hopefully, looking around the library before leaning in to kiss your cheek. The touch is soft, brief, and makes you want to pull away. "Sounds good."
Before he walks off, he halts. "Oh shoot, wait." He fumbles in his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "The review sheet. Study hard."
He hands it to you and walks away, disappearing down the stairs.
You lean back against the bookshelf, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding. Relief floods through you—relief that he's gone, that you don't have to keep pretending, that you can go back to watching Steve.
You pull the book out again, creating your spy-hole, and peek through the gap.
Steve is gone.
Your heart sinks, frustration flaring hot in your chest. You scan the area where he'd been sitting, but his books are gone too, his backpack, everything. Like he was never there at all.
The next day is better. Except with Robin.
Robin, who notices immediately that you're off about something. She suggests getting lunch together before your shared class, but you shake your head, telling her you need to go to a professor's office hours first. Which is a lie. You don't have any questions for any professors.
Robin looks disappointed, her face falling slightly before she covers it with a smile. "Okay. Rain check?"
"Yeah. Definitely."
After class, Robin catches you at the door. "Dinner tonight? We haven't eaten together in days."
"I can't," you say, already moving, nearly bolting out the classroom doors. "I have to—I promised I'd help someone study. Sorry!"
You don't look back to see her reaction.
Instead, you camp out in a small corner of the library, tucked behind the periodicals section where no one ever goes, watching the achingly slow clock on the wall. Each minute feels like an hour, each hour like a day, until finally it's 8:10 p.m.
You pack up your things and head to the parking lot, positioning yourself near the edge where you can see Steve's BMW.
At exactly 8:15, your smile is ear to ear when you see him there, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. The ember glows orange in the darkness, and you can see the smoke curling up into the night air.
He's been waiting for you.
The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest, spreading through your ribs like sunlight.
You're about to call his name, already opening your mouth to say "Steve," when his head turns. He lifts his hand, waving at someone.
Not just anyone.
Polly.
Her red hair sways as she walks toward him, wearing a tight bright green yoga outfit that shows off every curve. Steve and Polly start walking together, away from his car, talking about something you can't hear from this distance.
Steve stops for a second, looking in your direction. Your breath catches.
You do the very adult thing and duck behind a car, crouching low, pressing your back against the cold metal.
You hear their footsteps getting closer, then stopping. You peek around the edge of the car and see them talking, Steve's hands in his pockets, Polly gesturing animatedly about something. She's smiling, laughing, reaching out to touch his arm.
Then she hugs him.
Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging crescents into your palms.
You don't know why you're fueled with such jealousy. You knew what Steve was. You knew the rules. You knew there were other girls.
And you think you might even like Polly. She was kind and you have no reason not to. Except now, you were trying to find every reason to hate her.
Robin was right. Steve wouldn't change. Not even for you.
You storm into your dorm, don't even bother changing out of your clothes, just climb into bed and pull the covers over your head. When Robin comes back an hour later, you pretend to be asleep, evening out your breathing, keeping perfectly still even when you hear her sigh sadly before getting ready for bed.
The next day, you're grateful you studied despite your inner turmoil. You're a pretty natural test taker, always have been, and you breeze through the exam with time to spare. You turn it in with forty-five minutes left in the period and wait outside the building, leaning against the brick wall.
When you see Sammy emerge, you grab his hand and drag him behind your designated bush—the one you've used before, hidden from the main walkways.
You kiss him hard, desperately, trying to get his lips to burn away the memory of Steve's. Trying to replace the taste of Steve's mouth with Sammy's, trying to convince yourself that this is enough, that this is what you want.
After a few minutes of making out, breath coming hard, you pull back. "There's a party tomorrow night. At the Pike house. Eddie's band is playing. Want to go?"
Sammy's eyes light up. "Yeah. Definitely." He pauses, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want to hang out before?"
"Yeah. That sounds good."
That night, again, you go to bed before Robin gets home. You hear her come in, hear her sigh—sad and resigned—and listen to her get ready for bed in the dark.
That next day, you show up to the Alpha Tau house around seven. Most of Sammy's brothers are home, along with a handful of girls you vaguely recognize from classes or other parties. The house smells like beer and pizza, music playing from somewhere upstairs.
About an hour in, you're sitting in Sammy's lap, nursing a drink that's stronger than it should be, when you lean in close to whisper in his ear. "You should take me upstairs."
Because whatever, your period stopped yesterday and Steve was out fucking other girls. You deserve to feel good.
His eyes widen, pupils dilating with want, and he doesn't need to be told twice.
In his room, door locked, you're drunk enough to be brave. Drunk enough to say what you've been thinking about. "I want you to be rougher with me. Dirtier."
Sammy looks surprised but nods eagerly. "Yeah. Okay. I can do that."
And he does try. He kisses you harder, teeth catching your bottom lip. He digs his nails into your flesh—your hips, your thighs—leaving red marks. When he enters you, he's more forceful than usual, hips snapping harder.
Then he leans close, breath hot against your ear. "Do I fuck you better than the other one?"
The other one?
You furrow your brows, the words jarring you out of the moment. "That doesn't turn me on."
He stops, just for a second, processing. "Okay." Then he keeps going. The two of you only make dirty sounds, not speaking to each other. Not telling the other they feel good or what to do.
When he turns you over, positioning you with your hands against the wall, you close your eyes. You imagine it's Steve behind you. Steve's hands on your hips. Steve's lips on your back, trailing kisses down your spine. Steve's lips...
You think about the kiss at Mardi Tau. The taste of him—cigarettes and want and something underneath that was purely Steve. The way his tongue had moved against yours, desperate and hungry.
Then you remember something he'd told you months ago, his voice rough and commanding: "You don't need me to touch you to come."
You let out a moan as your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around Sammy, your whole body shuddering.
After, Sammy doesn't say anything. Just helps you clean up with a damp towel, gentle and thorough. Another thing he checks off the list of good sex partner, you suppose. Considerate. Caring. Everything you should want.
He drives you to the Pike party, and two of his other brothers—Gary and Ryan—pile into the back seat, already drunk off their asses. They're loud, talking over each other about girls in other sororities, rating them on a scale of one to ten, laughing at jokes that aren't funny.
You lean toward Sammy. "Why won't you say anything?"
He shrugs, eyes on the road. "They're just being dumb."
You cross your arms across your chest, annoyed at his dismissiveness.
When you finally arrive at the Pike house, it's already packed. You can hear Corroded Coffin from the backyard—Eddie's voice cutting through the night, guitar wailing. The bass vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.
Sammy puts his hand on your lower back as you walk toward the front gate, and you shift uncomfortably. His hand feels wrong—too light, too uncertain, nothing like the way Steve touches you with possession and purpose.
The pledge at the entrance—PJ, you think his name is—smiles when he sees you. "Hot Shot! Welcome!"
"Hey, PJ." You smile back, moving to walk inside.
But PJ steps in front of Sammy, blocking his path. "Oh... wow. Mr. Samuel." His smile becomes apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I've been informed you aren't allowed at Pike parties until further notice."
Sammy looks confused, then laughs like it's a joke. "What?"
You think it's a joke too. "Very funny. Come on, Sammy." You hold out your hand for him to take.
But PJ stops him again, hand coming up. "Sorry. I'm being serious."
Sammy's confusion morphs into anger, jaw tightening. "And why the fuck not? I didn't do shit."
PJ just shrugs, genuinely apologetic. "I just work here, man. Those are the rules."
"This is bullshit." Sammy pivots, turning to his friends who are watching from a few feet away. "Come on, guys. We're leaving."
"Sammy, wait!" You run after him. "Hey! Let me go in and find Steve—"
Sammy snaps around, and there's something in his eyes you haven't seen before. Hurt mixed with anger mixed with resignation. "Harrington won't do shit." He turns to his friends. "You two, go wait in the car."
Gary and Ryan exchange glances but do as they're told, stumbling toward Sammy's car.
Once they're out of earshot, Sammy crosses his arms. "Well?"
You stutter, trying to find words. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It won't take more than a few minutes. I'll just—"
Sammy laughs, but there's no humor in it. He says your name, flat and tired. "Harrington is the one who blacklisted me. Don't you see? He doesn't like me."
"I'm sure that's not—"
"Look, I know you've been sleeping with him too, alright? I know you're one of his girls." His voice drops lower, something bitter creeping in. "I saw you two disappear together at Mardi Tau."
The other one.
You don't try to deny it. The words stick in your throat, useless and heavy. Now you know why you couldn't find Sammy after Steve had left the bathroom. Though, if you're being honest, you hadn't tried that hard to look for him in the first place.
What's more unsettling is how Sammy knows about Steve's multiple girls. "How do you know about that?"
Sammy rolls his eyes, scoffing. "It's Greek life. We know everyone's skeletons in the closet, even if we don’t talk about it. And everyone knows since Buckley is waiting for marriage, she lets Harrington do whatever.”
Oh, so he doesn’t know the entire truth. You found it startling that he didn’t look down on you either. Because from the outside, it looks like you’re a homewrecker.
He pauses, licks his lips. "Look, this casual thing might be working for you, but it's not working for me."
You can see the hurt in his eyes—genuine pain mixed with embarrassment, with the realization that he was never going to be enough for you. Shit, did you even really give him the chance?
"I'm sorry," you whisper, because what else can you say?
Sammy doesn't answer. Just looks at you for a long moment, like he's memorizing your face, then turns and walks to his car.
You watch him peel out of the driveway, tires squealing, gravel spitting up behind him.
And you're left standing there in front of the Pike house, alone, while Corroded Coffin plays and people laugh and drink inside like your world hasn't just tilted sideways again.
You still go into the party, pushing through the crowd gathered near the front door, following the sound of Corroded Coffin bleeding through from the backyard. The house is packed—more people than you've seen at a Pike party in weeks now that Steve got rid of the bullshit invite only rule—and you have to shoulder past bodies to make your way through.
You find Robin and Steve in the backyard, standing near the makeshift stage Eddie's band has set up. They're wrapped around each other, Steve's arms holding Robin upright while she sways to the music. She's clearly high or drunk or both—eyes red-rimmed and glassy, face loose and unguarded in a way that only comes from being completely gone. Steve is holding most of her weight, keeping her steady.
When Robin sees you, she squeals loud enough to be heard over the guitar. "Hot Shot!" She turns to Steve, grinning wide. "You know, I see why you like calling her that."
Steve catches your eyes but doesn't say anything. Just looks away, back toward Eddie's band, jaw working.
Robin tilts her head, swaying slightly. "Where's Sammy?"
You narrow your eyes at Steve, anger flaring hot in your chest. You don't say anything about his potential blacklist—not here, not now—but you reach over and take the red solo cup from his hand. You shoot the entire contents in one go, liquid burning down your throat, gasoline and bad decisions. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth.
You turn your attention to Robin. "We're not going to see each other anymore."
Robin's face crumples, arms immediately coming around you. "Aw, babe. Here, let's get you another drink to get your mind off it."
Steve looks at you—really looks, his eyes searching your face for something—and then away, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.
For the first time in weeks, you're alone with Robin. Loose and carefree, four cups in, dancing with each other to Corroded Coffin's cover of some metal song you don't recognize but can feel in your bones. It feels easy and simple, like last semester. Right before you chose to let Steve fuck you in his room during Thanksgiving break.
You should've said no.
It was only meant to be fun. You were okay with the rules. You were okay with the other girls.
And you have no idea what changed.
You don't like him. Not like that. Not in any way that matters. It's just... you don't know. You feel so lost, unmoored, like you're floating in open water with no land in sight.
"Hey, what's wrong, babe?" Robin asks, having to lean close to be heard over the music.
You realize you're crying. Tears streaming down your face, hot and shameful, and you hadn't even noticed. "Oh." You wipe at your face with clumsy fingers, smiling half-heartedly. "I'm just... happy to see you."
Robin smiles, pulling you into a tight hug that smells like weed and the strawberry shampoo she uses. "Me too! I've been missing our time together. We should go have a girls' day tomorrow."
You nod against her shoulder, squeezing her tighter.
You pull apart and start dancing again, Robin spinning you under her arm in a move that's more enthusiasm than coordination, both of you laughing when you stumble.
When suddenly you feel another presence. To your side is a boy you've never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a backwards baseball cap—looking at Robin and you with a wicked smile, reeking of beer so strongly you can smell it from two feet away.
"Can we help you?" you ask, grabbing Robin's wrist protectively. Robin stops dancing, her loose, carefree expression fading.
"Just wondering how much it'd be to see you two make out," he slurs, leaning in closer.
Robin frowns, rolling her eyes. "Leave us alone."
"Oh, come on. Bet it'd be hot." He turns to you, grin widening. "Isn't that what they call you? Hot Shot?"
"In your dreams, asshole," you mutter, tugging on Robin's arm. "Come on, Rob."
But the man grabs Robin's wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to make her wince. "Come on, pretty girl."
You push the guy off Robin, shoving his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. "Don't fucking touch her."
"Yeah, get him!" Robin drunkenly rambles, pumping her fist in the air.
The guy grabs your wrist in retaliation, his grip painful, fingers like vices, and he's opening his mouth to say something when—
He falls to the ground.
A figure has appeared beside you, fist connecting with the guy's jaw with a sickening crack. The figure is Steve.
There are a few yelps around you, people nearest backing up, creating a circle, but not enough to make the entire party freeze. Eddie is still going at it on his guitar, oblivious.
Steve walks over to the guy who's trying to scramble backward on the grass, grabs a fistful of his collar, and hauls him half-upright. "Don't you dare touch my fucking girl again."
Your breath catches. Is he talking about you?
You can't ask before Robin steps closer, putting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Uh... babe." You notice how she grimaces, and then she’s… laughing? "It's okay. Really."
Steve is panting, chest heaving, and he looks at Robin, then back at the guy, tightening his grip on the collar. "Tell them you're sorry. Now."
Of course it's not you. He would never say that about you.
"I—I'm sorry," the guy stammers.
Steve lifts him slightly and then shoves him back down to the ground. "If you know what's best for you, get out of here."
The guy nods frantically, scrambling to his feet, and scurries away, swaying dangerously from how drunk he is.
Steve stands there panting, eyes dark and wild, knuckles already starting to bruise. He looks at you.
"Steve—"
He cuts you off, voice loud enough to carry. "Alright, party's over. Everyone go home."
No one hears him over the music. He grumbles something under his breath, stomping toward the amps that belong to the band. He unplugs them with one violent yank.
The music dies instantly.
Eddie stops mid-solo, lowering his guitar. "What the hell, man?" he mouths.
Steve repeats, louder this time. "Everyone. Leave. Now!"
Protests and groans ripple through the crowd, but they listen. People start drifting out the backyard gate or back through the house. You hear complaints—"It’s not even that late," "What's his problem?"—but the yard is clearing.
You step closer to Steve, noticing his bruised hand, the knuckles already swelling. "Hey, are you—"
"Everyone includes you, Hot Shot." He snaps, stepping away from you like you've burned him.
"Steve, what's your deal?" Robin asks, stumbling slightly.
He glares at Robin—actually glares, something cold and furious in his expression. "Munson, take them home."
Then he storms away, slamming the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Geez," Robin complains, waving her hand dismissively. "He has one bad phone call with his dad and he takes it out on all of us."
She approaches Eddie, who's packing up equipment with his band members—Gareth and Jeff, you think their names are. "Looks like you're our ride."
Eddie grins, pulling a joint from behind his ear. "Oh, ladies. The night has just started. What do you mean?"
"I love you, Eddie Munson," Robin says wistfully.
"Yeah, yeah." Eddie waves them off fondly. "Why don't you guys go wait in the van while we finish packing up, 'kay?"
He tosses Robin the keys, and she catches them with surprising coordination given her state. She hooks her arm through yours, grinning goofily. "Come on."
You walk the long way—out the backyard gate and around to the front driveway—not wanting to risk going through the Pike house and running into Steve again.
Once you're in Eddie's van—both of you claiming the front seats, Robin in the passenger side—you chew on your lip before speaking. "What was the phone call about?" You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, with Steve's dad?"
Robin sighs, digging around in the console and finding a package of crackers. She tears into them, munching loudly. "Well, turns out the dingus finally figured out what he's gonna do for the rest of his life. Declared his major for teaching. He still has to apply to the College of Education, take some test after spring break and all that jazz.”
Robin crunches on another cracker, crumbs falling in her lap.
She continues, “But anyway, he didn't tell his dad until today. Thought maybe his dad being on vacation would ease the news, but nope. His dad totally went berserk. Said teaching was a waste of time, blah blah bullshit." She shoves another cracker in her mouth. "Feel bad for him, but he's been a total grump all week anyway."
Your heart sinks, heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Why are you sad that Steve hadn't told you about declaring his major? You'd been the one who suggested teaching in the first place, but whatever. You shouldn't care.
"When did he do all of this?" you ask, keeping your voice level.
Robin thinks for a moment, fumbling with Eddie's keys even though the van is already unlocked. "I think first thing Tuesday morning."
Tuesday. When you'd definitely not been following him.
He hadn't said anything Monday that he was going to do that. But then again, did he really have a chance?
Robin finds a package of tissues in the glove compartment and blows her nose loudly. "Also, he's pissy with me because I told him he needs to be more careful with sex."
"What?" Your head snaps toward her, a humorous smile painted on your face. "Why?"
Robin shrugs, unwrapping another cracker. "Went over yesterday evening to study, and I found a pregnancy test in the bin."
She freezes, cracker halfway to her mouth. "Shit. Shouldn't have told you that since you're hooking up with him and all."
Your blood goes cold. Static fills your ears. "I... uh... what?"
Had you not gotten them all when you left?
"God, sorry. I just—" Robin shakes her head. "It pisses me off, you know? Sometimes he thinks more with his dick than what our plans are. I mean, can you imagine what I'd have to tell my parents if Steve got some babe pregnant? 'Oh no, guys, don't worry. I'm okay with my boyfriend who's not really my boyfriend having a kid with a girl I allow him to be with.'" She laughs bitterly. "Anyway, I found it and he wouldn't tell me who it was. Gosh, there I go again. I'm sure you don't want to hear it."
She turns to look at you, and something in her expression shifts. Softens. "I mean, at least I know it's not you." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I mean, you would've told me—"
"Robin, please stop." Your voice cracks, looking away. You run a hand through your hair, fingers trembling.
"Babe..." Robin's voice goes cold. Realization dawning. "Tell me it wasn't you."
Your eyes are glassy when you look at her, and the pain written on your face is answer enough.
"Holy shit."
"I know. I—"
"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin asks, voice flat and cold in a way you've never heard from her before.
Your mouth opens and closes. "I—I don't know. I—"
Robin's eyes widen, pieces clicking into place. "Monday. When you weren't feeling good and I came back to check on you, and you were gone all day. I knew you were lying." Her voice rises. "Am I right? Is this why you've been avoiding me all week?"
"Yes, but listen, Rob—" You reach for her, but she pulls away. "I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to be a big deal. I didn't want you to think that I'd do anything to jeopardize you and Steve and—"
Robin scoffs, shaking her head. She opens the van door and gets out, stumbling slightly on the curb.
"Robin, wait!" You scramble out after her. "Please, you have to understand where I'm coming from."
Robin snaps around, hair flying in her face, eyes red and furious. "You don't know how I would've reacted. You didn't give me a chance."
Your own defense boils over, spilling out before you can stop it. "Well, maybe it's because your head is so far up Nancy's ass and I never see you anymore. I would have given you one if you were ever around."
Robin looks like you've slapped her. "God, you don't get it." Her voice cracks. "Do you know how lucky you have it? You get to be with boys like Sammy, get to dance with him, and no one bats an eye. Make out at parties, be near them in public. But if I ever did that with Nancy..."
She swallows hard. "Even if people were cool with it, it'll just be like tonight, where dipshits want to make it into a sick fantasy. When Nancy comes here, I don't actually get to be with her. When I go visit her, we can't do shit like hold hands until we get in her apartment. All I have where it feels normal is talking on the phone." Her eyes are shining with tears now.
"God forbid you don't get any attention, 'cause clearly you enjoy it, Hot Shot." Your nickname is thick with venom, turned into an insult, a weapon.
"You know what? Screw you, Robin."
"Whatever." She turns away. "Tell Eddie I'm walking home. Forget about tomorrow.”
You immediately want to protest. Robin shouldn't walk home alone like this—drunk and upset and it's dark. But you're so mad at her, fury burning hot in your chest, that you just stand there.
You watch her disappear down the street, her silhouette getting smaller and smaller until she turns a corner and vanishes completely.
.-.-.-.
You wake up with your head pounding, each pulse of your heartbeat sending a spike of pain through your skull. Your stomach hurts—a deep, nauseous ache that makes you want to curl into a ball. You feel a creak in your neck as you slowly lift your head, vision blurry and unfocused.
You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of your surroundings.
You’re in the back of Eddie’s van. You recognize the faded band stickers on the interior walls, the ratty mattress beneath you that he keeps back here for—well, you’re not entirely sure what for, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. You’re laying back, body sprawled at an awkward angle that explains the neck pain.
You feel a breeze on your legs. You look down.
You’re wearing a shirt—not your shirt, you realize with dawning horror. It’s too big, hangs off one shoulder, smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne and someone else.
But your jeans are gone.
You’re only in your underwear.
Oh fuck.
Right when panic starts to claw up your throat, making your breath come faster, the back door to the van swings open with a metallic groan. Blinding light pours in, white and searing like a spotlight. Your eyes scrunch shut immediately, a groan escaping your throat as you throw your arm up to shield your face.
"Morning, sunshine!" Eddie's voice booms, way too loud, way too cheerful.
You peek through your fingers and see him standing there, backlit by what must be morning sun. He's grinning—that wide, toothy smile that takes up half his face—and he has a slice of pizza in his mouth. Cold pizza, judging by the way the cheese has congealed into a solid, waxy mass and the grease has turned opaque. Of course he eats cold pizza for breakfast. If it even is breakfast—you have no idea what time it is.
"Jesus Christ, Eddie," you mutter, covering your ears with both hands. "Inside voice."
He just chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest, and takes the pizza out of his mouth long enough to say, "This is my inside voice. You're just sensitive."
He doesn't climb into the van yet. Instead, he reaches to the side—probably the front seat—and grabs something, then tosses a greasy paper bag onto the floor near your feet. It lands with a soft thud. "Gotcha breakfast."
You sit up slowly, every movement making your head swim and your stomach lurch. You grab the bag with shaking hands, opening it with fumbling fingers. The smell hits you first—heavy, greasy, overwhelming. You grimace immediately. It's a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit, the bread already soggy with grease, the cheese looks plastic, the sausage a questionable grayish-brown.
Why does every boy think this is appetizing?
You set the bag aside quickly, swallowing hard against the nausea, and Eddie finally crawls into the van. He moves with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times, ducking his head to avoid hitting the roof, settling cross-legged near the door. He tosses you a water bottle—which you catch clumsily—and then a small orange bottle that rattles with pills.
You don't argue. You rake your fingers through your hair—tangled and probably a disaster—rubbing your temple with your free hand. Your mouth tastes like something died in it. You desperately twist the cap off the water bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip, and drink half of it in one go. The cool liquid soothes your raw throat, washes away some of the terrible taste.
You fumble with the pill bottle, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, finally getting it open and shaking two pills into your palm. You swallow them dry, then chase them with more water.
Only then do you look at Eddie—really look at him. Then down at yourself. The too-big shirt that definitely isn't yours. Your bare legs reflecting in the morning light. The absence of your jeans.
"I... uh..." You swallow hard, your throat clicking. "Did we...?"
Eddie laughs—loud and sudden and completely without shame—making you wince and press your fingers to your temples. "You don't remember?"
"I'm... oh god, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out in a rush, panic making your voice go high and thin.
He laughs again, shaking his head so his curls bounce. "Sweetheart, if we ever did anything like that, I would make damn sure you remembered." He waves his pizza slice at you, toppings threatening to slide off. "But no. We didn't do anything. Scout's honor."
He holds up three fingers in what might be a Boy Scout salute, though you're pretty sure Eddie was never a Boy Scout.
"Okay." You take a breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "So why am I in your van?" You look around again, taking in the cramped space with new eyes. "Did you sleep in here too?"
"You were passed out," Eddie explains, taking another massive bite. He talks around the food, which should be disgusting but somehow just seems very Eddie. "And you begged—like, actually begged—me not to take you to your dorm." He swallows, then continues. "And no, I didn't sleep here. I moved into the Pike basement a few weeks ago."
You blink at him. "What?"
"I mean, not like officially," he amends, gesturing with the pizza slice. "But Steve put a pullout couch down there for me, and I even got myself a bookshelf." His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. "With all my little knickknacks. It's pretty sweet, actually. I was like, 'Aw, Steve-o, you love me?' And he was like—" Eddie drops his voice into a gruff impression of Steve—"'Shut up, Munson.'"
He grins at the memory, then pauses to chew and swallow. "Anyway, before you ask why you're half-naked in my van—" He holds up a hand to stop your incoming question. "You got absolutely shitfaced last night. Like, I've seen you drunk before, but this was something else."
You groan, dropping your face into your hands. "Oh god."
"Yeah. You threw up all over yourself after Gareth gave you your stick and poke." He gestures vaguely at your lower half with the pizza crust. "So that's why you're not wearing your clothes. They were... unsalvageable. I had to throw them in a dumpster."
"My jeans?" you ask weakly.
"Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly sorry. "I would've carried you inside the Pike house—would've been easier, honestly—but you said something about being too mad at Steve to be around him." He shrugs. "So I gave you the shirt off my back—literally, that's my favorite Dio shirt you're wearing—and gave you a kiss goodnight."
Your eyes widen.
"Not really," he adds quickly, grinning. "But I did pray I wouldn't find you dead this morning. That would've been a real downer."
You stare at him, blinking slowly, your brain trying to process all of that information at once. It comes in fragments—throwing up, begging not to see Steve. Then your brows furrow, catching on something he said.
"What do you mean stick and poke?"
Eddie chuckles again, that shit-eating grin spreading wider across his face. "Oh man. I tried to talk you out of it. I really did. But you were very insistent." He takes another bite of pizza. "And you already had your pants off at that point, so..."
Your eyes grow wide, heart dropping into your stomach. "No."
"Oh yes."
You move immediately, hands scrambling for the hem of the shirt you're wearing. You lift it up, twisting to look at your hip, and sure enough—right there, just above the waistline of your underwear—is dark ink. Fresh and slightly raised. The skin around it is pink and irritated, swollen like a fresh wound.
The words Hot Shot are etched into your skin in slightly wobbly, imperfect letters. Permanent. Forever.
You bite your bottom lip hard enough to hurt, staring at it. "Great. This is just... great."
You let the shirt fall back down and flop backward onto the mattress with a loud sigh, the springs creaking beneath you. Your arm comes up to cover your eyes, blocking out the too-bright light from the open van door.
"Your van isn't all that bad, you know," you mumble after a moment.
You can hear his pleased smile even without looking at him—hear it in the way he shifts, the slight huff of amusement. "High praise. I’ll let the next person I bring in here know."
"I'm serious. It's kind of cozy."
"Okay, well, cozy time is over." Eddie claps his hands together, making you flinch. "Get these clothes on so I can take you home."
He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a new top— a silent way of telling you to give back his Dio shirt.
You don't move. "I think I'm okay hiding in here the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the semester."
"Nope." Eddie shifts forward, and you hear him moving around. "Not happening."
"Why not?" You peek out from under your arm. "You said it yourself—it's cozy."
Eddie rolls his eyes—you can see it now, the exaggerated way his whole head moves. "Look, the van is kind of a drama-free zone, and I don't want you ruining the vibe."
You move your arm fully now, propping yourself up on your elbows to give him a proper death glare. "You're literally best friends with drama queen one and drama queen two. You're pretty much their love child."
"And that's why you fit in so well," Eddie snides, finishing off his pizza and wiping his hands on his jeans.
You stare at one another for a long moment—him with that infuriating smirk, you with your best attempt at intimidation despite your pounding headache and disheveled state.
You break first. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself, small and reluctant but real.
Then it falls.
"Last night..." You sit up fully now, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "Did I... tell you anything?"
Eddie leans back against the side of the van, arms crossed. "Nah, not really. Just said Robin is mad at you. You're mad at Steve. Steve is mad at Robin, blah blah..." He starts circling his fingers in the air by his head, letting his eyes roll back dramatically. He flops backward onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated sigh. "Or wait, was Robin mad at Steve? Honestly, I can't keep up anymore. You three are like a soap opera."
You're quiet for a moment, then reach down to touch the tattoo again, lifting the shirt slightly. The letters are uneven—definitely done by someone drunk. But they're there. Irreversibly Hot Shot.
"Eddie..." You bite your bottom lip, not looking at him. "Do you think I'm an attention seeker?"
The van goes quiet. You can hear traffic in the distance, birds chirping, the rustle of Eddie shifting beside you.
When you finally look at him, his face is completely serious for once—no smirk, no jokes, no deflection. His dark eyes are steady on yours.
"Sweetheart," he says in the most genuine tone you've ever heard from him. "Aren't we all?"
.-.-.-.
Robin doesn't say anything the morning they throw their belongings into Eddie's van to drive to the camping trip. She hasn't talked to you all week, and you haven't tried to force it. The only reason you even know you're still invited is because three days ago, Robin walked into your dorm—you were lying on your bed, pretending to read but mostly staring at the same page for twenty minutes—and said, "Eddie is picking us up at 4PM. sharp on Friday."
The air in the room had felt thick, suffocating. You'd looked up from your book, mouth opening to say something—anything—but she was already turning away.
She stopped at the door, hand on the knob. Didn't turn around. "Nancy's excited to see you."
Then she was gone, the door clicking shut with a finality like a period.
You think maybe Nancy is your only saving grace for still going. Or maybe not really, because thinking about it—being in such close proximity to Robin who is clearly still furious with you, and to Steve who you're pissed at because you know he's pissed at you—makes your stomach churn with anxiety that tastes like battery acid.
Could you blame him, though?
Eddie had mentioned in passing that Steve and Robin aren't really speaking to each other either, except for some public appearances together for Greek life stuff. Things you weren't invited to this time. Things you wonder if Steve's other girls attended. If Polly was there in some tight dress, standing close to him, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm.
Maybe that's why you're pissed at Steve. Sammy ended things with you—and you still have to see him twice a week in Art Appreciation, where he now doesn't even blink in your direction, just stares straight ahead at the professor like you're made of glass or air or nothing at all—and Steve still gets to fuck whoever he wants. While you're not getting any. Not even from Steve.
At least you're not stuck in a car with him for the two-hour drive to the state park. Apparently he only had morning classes on Friday and left early to set up what he could.
But that doesn't mean the two-hour ride isn't one of the longest of your life.
Eddie does most of the talking—rambling about Corroded Coffin's upcoming gigs then about how he's pretty sure one of the Pike pledges is dealing weed and cutting into his business. His voice fills the van like smoke, impossible to escape.
You're in the back seat, watching the landscape blur past the window. Trees give way to fields give way to small towns with faded storefronts and gas stations. The vinyl seat is cracked beneath you, sticking to your bare legs where your shorts ride up. The van smells like stale cigarettes and the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that does absolutely nothing to mask it.
Robin is in the front, arms crossed over her chest, staring out her own window the entire time like if she looks hard enough she can transport herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. Her hair catches the sunlight streaming through the windshield, turning auburn strands to copper and gold.
Occasionally though, when Eddie says something particularly ridiculous—comparing his guitar skills to Eddie Van Halen with zero irony, claiming he's "basically a guitar god in the making"—you and Robin make eye contact in the rearview mirror. The corners of your lips twitch, almost smiling, something familiar and warm flickering between you before you both erase it and look away quickly, back to your respective windows.
Eddie drives down a dirt road that kicks up dust in thick clouds behind the van, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that you can taste in the back of your throat. The state park spreads out around you—tall pines and oak trees creating a dense canopy overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through in golden shafts that look almost solid. The air smells different here—clean and sharp with pine resin, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss.
Campers and tents are spread out at different sites along the winding road, some with families already grilling—the smell of charcoal and cooking meat drifting on the breeze. Others with groups of college kids drinking beer from coolers, their laughter carrying through the trees.
Eddie finally backs into a spot next to Steve's BMW, which looks absurdly out of place here—all sleek lines and polished paint next to the dusty, beat-up van. On the other side of Steve's car is a light blue sedan you don't recognize—a Ford, maybe, with Indiana plates and a small dent in the rear bumper.
The three of you climb out of the van. Your legs are stiff from sitting for two hours, muscles protesting as you stretch. The ground beneath your feet is uneven—packed dirt and pine needles that crunch softly with each step. The air is cooler here in the shade of the trees, and you can hear water somewhere nearby, a stream or creek bubbling over rocks.
You follow Eddie and Robin toward the campsite, taking in the setup.
There are already two tents pitched—one larger, the fabric a dark green that blends with the surroundings. The other is smaller, a bright blue that stands out like a beacon. There's a fire pit ringed with large stones blackened from previous fires, and someone—probably Steve—has already laid kindling in the center. A wooden picnic table sits nearby, the kind that's permanently installed at campsites, its surface weathered gray and carved with decades of initials and crude drawings.
Lawn chairs—the collapsible kind with cup holders in the arms—are folded on the ground next to a substantial pile of firewood. The logs are fresh-cut, pale wood still showing where the bark was stripped away, and they smell sweet and sharp like sap. You can see a cooler partially hidden in the shade of a massive oak tree, condensation already beading on its blue plastic surface.
"Hey!"
The voice is warm and familiar, carrying easily through the clearing. Your attention snaps toward the tree line as Nancy emerges from between two pines, carrying an armful of sticks and small branches—probably meant for kindling. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, a few leaves caught in her short bob.
Next to her is a boy you've never met in person but have seen once before. In the picture on Steve's bathroom mirror, the one with Eddie, Nancy, Robin, and him all squeezed together and grinning like idiots. The last time you saw that picture, you'd been sitting on Steve's closed toilet seat, peeing on a pregnancy test with shaking hands, and you'd noticed Steve had added a new photo to the collection—Eddie, Robin, him, and you, taken at some party you barely remember but where everyone looks happy.
Robin's face transforms instantly. Whatever moodiness she's been carrying for the past week—that heavy, dark cloud—evaporates like morning fog burned away by sun. "Nance!" She beams, already moving forward with quick steps that kick up dust.
Nancy barely has time to hand the pile of sticks to the boy beside her before Robin reaches her, pulling her into a tight hug. They hold each other for a beat longer than necessary, Nancy's face buried in Robin's shoulder, Robin's hand cradling the back of Nancy's head with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. You can hear Nancy's small sound of relief, muffled against Robin's shirt.
The brown-haired boy—tall and lanky with shaggy hair that falls across his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes—trudges through the campsite with the kindling balanced precariously in his arms. He's wearing a worn flannel over a faded Talking Heads t-shirt despite the warmth, jeans that are torn at one knee, and beat-up Converse that have seen better days. His face is gentle, features soft and unassuming—brown eyes that look kind, a slight bump on the bridge of his nose like it's been broken before.
Eddie's face lights up when he sees him, practically glowing. "Jon-boy!" He proclaims, voice booming across the campsite as he approaches with open arms. He slings one around the boy's shoulders, nearly toppling the kindling. "My favorite future Spielberg!"
"Hey, Ed." The boy—Jon, apparently—smiles, the expression soft and a little shy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice is quiet, gentle. "How was the drive?"
"Exhausting!" Eddie shoots a look at Robin, then at you, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear into his bangs. "The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Actually, forget a knife. You'd need a chainsaw. Maybe dynamite." He releases Jon and digs into his denim jacket pocket, pulling out a small tin that's definitely full of pre-rolled joints. The metal catches the sunlight, glinting. "How about we get started on the fun part?"
Jon laughs, a quiet sound that barely carries, shaking his head. But he also doesn't say no. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and you can see familiarity, but no idea where.
Eddie turns to you, grinning so wide it looks almost painful. "Hot Shot, what about you? Wanna join?"
You sigh, shifting your backpack on your shoulder. The strap is digging into your skin, and you can already feel the beginning of a bruise forming. "Can't. Need to build my tent first before it gets dark." You gesture at Eddie pointedly. "You should do the same, you know. Unless you want to be fumbling with tent poles in the pitch black."
Eddie waves a dismissive hand, clicking his tongue. "I'm all set. I'm sleeping in a hammock. The only right way to camp. You get to sway with the breeze, sleep under the stars—it's transcendent." His eyes go wide, and he smacks his forehead dramatically. "Wait, how rude of me. Hot Shot, let me introduce you to the one and only Jonathan Byers."
The name sounds familiar—you realize with sudden clarity that this must be Will's older brother. You'd heard stories about him, mostly about how he and Steve had a complicated history.
You step forward, and notice how similar his features are to Will's—the same gentle brown eyes, the same soft jawline, though Jonathan's face is more angular, more grown into itself. His hands are stained with something dark—maybe developing chemicals if the photography stories are true—and there's a small scar on his chin.
You hold out your hand. "Hi."
Jonathan takes it, his grip gentle and a bit uncertain, like he's afraid of hurting you. His palm is callused, warm. He doesn't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I've heard... well, I've heard a lot."
You smile despite the awkwardness thrumming under your skin. "All good things, I hope?"
"Mostly." He cracks a small smile, and you see a dimple appear in his left cheek.
And because the world apparently hates you, footsteps crunch on leaves and gravel behind you. You turn and Steve is walking back from wherever he disappeared to—probably gathering more firewood or checking something, his arms empty now.
He stops when he sees you. His eyes—that golden hazel color that shifts in the light—land on where your hand is still clasped with Jonathan's. Something flickers across his face—too quick to read, gone before you can name it. His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin.
Then he looks away and slips into one of the tents like you don't exist, like you're part of the landscape he can ignore.
You drop Jonathan's hand quickly, heat rising to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm afternoon sun.
You look over at Nancy and Robin. They've separated slightly but Nancy's hand is still resting on Robin's lower back, a touch that looks casual but you know is anything but. Robin is glaring at the tent Steve disappeared into, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with an intensity that could burn holes through the fabric. Then her gaze catches yours for a split second—something complicated passing between you, hurt and anger and maybe a tiny bit of understanding—before she deliberately turns away, looping her arm through Nancy's more firmly.
"Come on, babe. Help me figure out where we're setting up our tent."
Eddie leads you back to the van, the metal hot under your hand when you grab the door handle. Nancy and Robin trail behind, still joined at the hip, and you can hear them talking quietly, Nancy's voice soothing whatever's churning in Robin's head.
The back of the van is cluttered—sleeping bags, a cooler, Eddie's guitar case covered in more stickers, some camping equipment that looks like it hasn't been used in years.
Robin grabs her duffel bag, then her backpack. Eddie hands you yours.
But he makes no motion to hand you anything else.
You peek into the van, scanning the remaining contents, then look at your single duffel bag. A sick feeling starts in your stomach. "Uh, Eds. Is my other bag in there still?"
"I just handed it to you." Eddie points at the duffel, confused.
"Yeah, my other bag." You say slowly, enunciating each word like you're talking to a child.
"What other bag?" He blinks at you innocently, and you can see the exact moment realization dawns. His face goes from confused to oh shit. "Uh..."
"What's wrong?"
For the first time in a week, you hear Steve's voice directed at your general vicinity. You give him a sideways look, refusing to fully turn, your spine stiffening.
He's standing a few feet away now, and up close you can see more details—the way his hair has grown out, brown roots overtaking the blonde highlights so it looks honey-colored in the dappled sunlight. It's longer, curling slightly at the ends where it brushes his neck. He's wearing dark jeans that sit low on his hips, and that blue t-shirt that's slightly too short. You can see a sliver of his stomach when he shifts his weight, a line of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair leading down. The sleeves hug his biceps, fabric stretched across muscle, and more hair peeks out from the collar, dark against his chest.
His arms are crossed over his chest, defensive, and there are smudges of dirt on his forearms like he's been working.
Nancy—still standing with Robin, their fingers now loosely intertwined—speaks for you. "She forgot her tent and sleeping bag."
You swivel to face her, defensive heat rising in your chest. "Correction; Munson here forgot my tent and sleeping bag. I put them right by the van because he told me to." You do air quotes, pitching your voice lower in a poor imitation of Eddie's gravel-rough tone. "'Have it all under control, sweetheart.'"
Eddie scratches the back of his neck, climbing out of the van with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. His boots thud against the ground, disturbing the layer of pine needles. "Okay, yeah. Might have gotten... distracted. You see, I needed to take a smoke break while you and Robin went upstairs to double-check you had everything." He's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly in the air, nearly hitting the side of the van. "And then I saw this really cool beetle—or was it a moth? It had these incredible wings, all iridescent—doesn't matter. Point is, I, uh..." He grimaces. "Shit. Sorry, Hot Shot." He brightens slightly, like he's just had a brilliant idea. "You're welcome to share the hammock with me! It'll be cozy."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose where a headache is starting to form. "I'll just sleep in your van again."
Nancy giggles, eyebrows raising with curiosity and amusement. "You slept in his van?"
You shrug, not elaborating, the memory of waking up in Eddie's shirt with a fresh tattoo on your hip making your face heat. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve's jaw tick, his posture going rigid, shoulders pulling back.
Eddie looks back into the van, assessing the cramped space. "I mean, you're welcome to it, but I took the mattress out after our wild night together." He winks obnoxiously, making smooching noises. "Made quite the mess, sweetheart."
"Shut up. Please." Your eyes drift to Steve despite yourself, despite knowing you shouldn't care what he thinks.
He doesn't seem bothered. His face is carefully blank, neutral, giving absolutely nothing away. Does he know the real story—that you'd gotten shitfaced and thrown up on yourself? Or does he not care anymore? Has he written you off completely, moved on to other girls who don't come with complications?
Steve sighs heavily, like this entire situation is a massive inconvenience he didn't sign up for. "Okay. She can take my tent and I'll just crash with Jonathan." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't address you directly. His gaze stays fixed somewhere over your left shoulder, like you're a problem to be solved rather than a person standing right there. "It's fine."
"It's fine, really—" you start, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.
But Steve has already moved. He's walking toward you, and before you can step back or protest, he's taking your duffel bag out of your hand. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm and callused, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch—and then he's moving past you. The scent of him washes over you: pine needles and campfire smoke and that cologne he wears, the one that makes you think of clean laundry and something warmer, spicier underneath.
He sets your bag inside one of the tents—the smaller blue one—then walks to the larger green tent and grabs his own stuff. He tosses it into what must be Jonathan's tent with more force than necessary, the duffel landing with a heavy thud. He walks over to Jonathan, says something low that you can't hear over the rustle of wind through the trees, probably explaining the new arrangement.
Jonathan nods, glancing at you with something that might be sympathy or pity or just general confusion about what the hell is going on.
"Good thing they're friends now," you hear Nancy tell Robin quietly, though not quite quietly enough.
Robin snorts, loud enough that you know she meant for you to hear. "I'm gonna go build our tent, babe. Which means I'm going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing until Harrington inevitably helps me." There's affection in her voice when she says his name.
"Sounds good!" Nancy's arm is suddenly looping through yours, and she's standing right next to you, practically vibrating with excitement. Her skin is warm against yours, and she smells like the lavender shampoo she uses and something like vanilla. "That means we get to stand around, look pretty, and catch up!"
Robin's face falls slightly when she catches your eye. Something passes between you—not quite forgiveness, but maybe an acknowledgment that you're both here, both trying. Then she turns toward the campsite, already calling for Steve in that bossy tone she uses when she wants him to do something.
Once Robin is out of earshot—already gesticulating wildly at Steve while pointing at a tent bag—and Eddie is wandering off toward the tree line with his hammock under one arm, Nancy spins to face you fully. "Okay, fill me in on everything. I know something is going on between you and Robin."
Nancy shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. A few leaves are still caught in her hair from gathering kindling. "She won't talk about it. Clams up every time I try to ask. I tried to ask Steve when Jonathan and I got here, but he keeps running off." She searches your face with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "What happened?"
You should tell her it's nothing. Should brush it off and change the subject to something safer, easier. But the more you think about it, the lonelier you feel. The weight of the secret pressing down on your chest like a physical thing. "Wanna go on a walk?"
Nancy beams, relief evident on her face. She swivels to look at the group scattered around the campsite—Robin and Steve already bickering over tent poles, Eddie climbing a tree to test its hammock-worthiness, Jonathan crouched by the fire pit arranging kindling—and shouts, "We'll be right back!"
You hike for a while, following a narrow trail that winds through the trees. The path is uneven, full of exposed roots and rocks that you have to watch out for. The air smells incredible here—pine resin sharp and clean, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss growing on the north side of tree trunks. You can hear birds calling to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, that stream you heard earlier, water moving over rocks in a constant murmur.
The conversation is easy at first—Nancy tells you about one of her professors at Emerson being a total tightwad and misogynist but pretending not to be. "He talks over me in class," she says, voice tight with frustration. "Dismisses my ideas, calls them 'interesting' in that condescending tone. But then a guy says literally the exact same thing five minutes later and suddenly it's brilliant. Suddenly it's worth discussing."
"Sounds like an asshole," you offer, kicking at a pinecone on the trail. It rolls ahead of you, bouncing over roots.
"The biggest." Nancy's hands are clenched into fists at her sides. "But I've got an internship lined up for the summer at a newspaper in Boston. The Globe, actually."
You stop walking, turning to face her. "Nancy, that's amazing!"
She smiles, but it's tempered with realism, with an understanding of how the world works. "I'll probably be getting coffee the whole time and making copies. Maybe some light fact-checking if I'm lucky. But it's good for networking. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll get to write something. Even if it's just an obituary." She laughs, but there's an edge to it.
You walk in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds your footsteps on the packed dirt trail and the birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. It smells like spring and growing things and the promise of evening to come.
Then, finally, you tell her. Not everything—not that Steve kissed you like you were the only person in the world, not that you're confused about what the rules even are anymore or if they ever meant anything in the first place. But you tell her about Sammy.
How you feel guilty for using him when he clearly wanted more, even if he said he was okay with casual. How you'd liked him well enough but never thought about him when he wasn't right in front of you. How you'd used him to try to stop thinking about someone else, and how spectacularly that had failed.
You tell her about the pregnancy scare. About the way your stomach had dropped when you realized you were late, about the panic that had clawed up your throat, about how the first person you'd thought to go to was Steve. Only Steve. Not Robin, not Sammy, not even your mom. Just Steve.
You tell her about Robin finding the test in Steve's trash, about putting the pieces together, about the fight in Eddie's van where Robin had said things that cut like glass.
You stop walking. Nancy's chewing on her bottom lip, her short bob framing her face, moving slightly in the breeze that smells like pine and approaching evening. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts, practical and unfussy, but somehow she still looks put-together in a way you never manage. Her heart-shaped face glows in the golden late-afternoon light filtering through the trees, making her skin look warm and soft. There's dirt on her knees from kneeling to gather kindling, and a small scratch on her forearm from a branch.
Then she smiles—soft and a little sad and knowing in a way that makes your chest ache. "Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah, of course."
Nancy swallows hard, looking away toward the trees where birds are settling for the evening. She hugs herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's cold even though it's still warm, even though sweat is beading at your hairline from the walk. The air smells like earth and green growing things and something darker, richer underneath—decay and new life all mixed together.
"I love Steve and Robin," she says quietly, each word careful and deliberate. "But I don't think they'll both be truly happy in this arrangement. And I don’t think the people around them will be either."
There's a tear rolling down her cheek, catching the light as it falls. She wipes it quickly with the back of her hand, laughing breathlessly. The sound is hollow, painful. "God, I've never said that out loud before. I've never let myself even think it completely through."
Your chest aches watching her. You step closer and link your arm through Nancy's, pulling her against your side. "It's safe with me."
She leans her head on your shoulder for a long moment, and you stand there together on the trail surrounded by pine trees and the smell of approaching evening. Two people holding secrets that are too heavy to carry alone, that cut into your hands with their weight.
The light is starting to change, going from golden to something softer, more amber. You can hear the campsite in the distance—Eddie's laugh carrying through the trees.
Then you squeeze Nancy's arm and smile. "Okay, enough heavy stuff. Tell me—have you been reading any new books lately?"
Nancy lights up immediately, the sadness lifting from her face like clouds parting. She launches into a detailed explanation of the mystery novel she just finished—something about a detective and a murder in a locked room and a twist ending she didn't see coming. Her voice picks up speed as she gets more animated, using her hands to gesture, and you let her words wash over you as you walk back toward the campsite.
.-.-.-.
Everyone is sitting around the campfire as the sky deepens from orange to purple to deep blue. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky. The smell of burning wood is thick and pleasant, mixing with the pine scent of the forest and the faint smell of bug spray someone—probably Robin—sprayed liberally.
Beers are in hands, all of you in lawn chairs arranged in a loose circle around the fire pit. The flames cast flickering shadows on everyone's faces, making expressions hard to read. Eddie brought his guitar and he's strumming absentmindedly—not playing anything specific, just chords that blend with the crackling of the fire and the evening sounds of the woods. Crickets chirping, owls starting to call, the distant sound of other campers laughing.
Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are talking about something—you catch fragments about a movie Jonathan saw at some art house theater in LA and about Nancy's classes and her internship.
You're sitting next to Steve. There's a gap between your chairs—not huge, maybe a foot, but deliberate. Intentional. His chair is an old-fashioned folding one with green and white striped fabric, and yours is blue with a rip in one arm where the fabric has worn through.
He hasn't taken a sip of his beer. The bottle sits in the cup holder of his chair, condensation running down the glass, forming a small puddle on the plastic. He's just staring into the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes, turning them more gold than hazel, face expressionless. You can see the flicker of orange light playing across his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, those long lashes that aren't fair for any guy to have.
When you and Nancy had gotten back to the campsite earlier—the sun starting to sink toward the horizon, the light going soft and golden—you'd found Steve standing apart from the group. He was facing the neighboring campsite, perfectly still, just watching.
There was a family there. A camper trailer painted white with blue racing stripes down the side, a striped awning pulled out to create shade. A picnic table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth that billowed slightly in the breeze. Paper plates and plastic cups, a cooler open showing ice and beer and juice boxes.
A little boy—maybe five or six with a gap-toothed grin—ran in and out of the camper, shrieking with laughter that was pure and unselfconscious. His parents stood together by a small charcoal grill, the dad flipping burgers with a metal spatula, wearing a t-shirt that said "World's Okayest Dad." The mom had her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder, both of them laughing at something. Their faces were bright with genuine joy in the purple dusk, easy affection written in every line of their bodies.
The little boy was chasing fireflies with a mason jar, his small hands cupped around each one before gently placing them inside. You could hear him counting—"One, two, free, four"—his voice high and excited.
When Steve had noticed you and Nancy approaching, he'd immediately looked away, turning his attention to one of the tent stakes like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He'd crouched down, pretending to check that it was secure, but you'd seen his hand trembling slightly.
You wonder if he was imagining his own childhood. Did he ever go camping with his parents? Did they ever act like that—easy affection, casual touches, genuine happiness in each other's presence? Did his dad ever wear a goofy t-shirt and flip burgers while his mom laughed? Did they ever chase fireflies together as a family?
From the stories you've heard, from the brief glimpse of his mother's carefully maintained distance and his father's cutting voice you heard at New Year’s, you're pretty sure the answer is no. Steve had none of that. His childhood was probably country clubs and stiff family dinners and being told to be quiet, to be perfect, to not embarrass the Harrington name.
Jonathan gets up from his chair, the metal creaking slightly. He stretches, his back popping audibly, and you see him grimace. "Hey, you want something?" He's looking at you, friendly and open, voice quiet and kind.
"Coke would be great, thanks." You smile politely, grateful for his easy presence.
He nods and heads toward the cooler tucked in the shadows. You turn your head slightly and catch Steve staring at you. The firelight makes his features look sharper, all angles and shadows, the flames dancing in his eyes. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath skin. He finally takes a long drink of his beer—Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows—then turns away again, back to staring at the fire like it holds answers to questions he won't ask out loud.
Nancy had told you more about Jonathan during your walk, filling in gaps and backstory. He's sweet but shy, just like his brother Will. Always observing, always thinking, taking mental photographs of moments before they disappear. She'd dated him right after breaking up with Steve—it had been messy, feelings still raw on all sides like an open wound.
They'd even gotten in a physical fight, Steve and Jonathan, though Nancy hadn't gone into details. Something about words said in anger, about Nancy caught in the middle, about two boys who were both hurting and didn't know how else to express it. Now they don't act like it in front of people, but either one would kill for the other if it came down to it. Secret best friends, bonded through shared trauma and Nancy's– unrequited– love, through parallel experiences of feeling inadequate and out of place.
You'd asked Jonathan earlier—while helping him arrange firewood, building the structure for the fire—why he wasn't in Hawkins for the holidays. He'd looked surprised by the question, like most people don't ask about his life, before explaining that he works in California now, in film production. He's an assistant on some indie film, "basically the coffee boy with delusions of grandeur," he'd said self-deprecatingly while building a careful teepee of kindling.
But you'd seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. About being on set, about watching the director work, about the way light and shadow create mood, about the script he's working on in his spare time.
He'd tried telling the group earlier about the plot of that script—something called "The Consumer" about capitalism and body horror and the ways we literally consume each other in American society. Everyone had worn knowing smiles, nodding along with varying degrees of genuine interest. Eddie had looked fascinated, asking questions. Robin had made jokes about it being "very Jonathan" which apparently meant pretentious but in an endearing way. Nancy had watched him with such open fondness it made your chest ache.
Even Steve had smiled a little—small and fond and resigned, the expression of someone who's heard this pitch before and knows it'll probably never get made but hopes anyway.
Eventually, as the fire burns down to glowing coals and someone adds another log that sends up a shower of sparks, Eddie produces a joint and a lighter with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The joint is perfectly rolled, neat and tight.
"Alright, birthday girl," Eddie announces, standing and doing a little bow. "Your chariot awaits."
Everyone sings "Happy Birthday" to Robin—slightly off-key, the harmonies all wrong, Steve's voice a low rumble you can feel in your chest more than hear. Nancy's soprano climbs too high on the final note, and Eddie adds unnecessary vocal runs that make Robin laugh so hard she almost falls out of her chair.
She's smiling when they finish, genuinely happy, and she even looks at you during the last line—her eyes finding yours across the fire, her face saying I'm glad you're here, and you return it with your own expression saying I'm glad I'm here too, and something unknots slightly in your chest.
Robin lights the joint, taking the first ceremonial drag as the birthday girl. The cherry glows bright orange in the darkness, and smoke curls up into the night sky where stars are starting to appear. She passes it to Nancy, who takes a delicate hit and immediately coughs, her face scrunching up in a way that makes Robin laugh and rub her back.
Nancy passes it to Jonathan, who inhales deeply with the practiced ease of someone who's done this many times, probably in parking lots after his shifts at developing photos, probably alone in his apartment in California while working on his script. The smoke doesn't even seem to affect him.
Jonathan passes it to you.
You take a hit, the smoke harsh and burning in your lungs despite Eddie's claims that this is "the smooth stuff," and you look at Steve.
You make a thoughtless decision fueled by weed and firelight and the desperate want to fix something between you. You stick the joint between your lips, turn to Steve, and lean in. It's like that time months ago in the Pike basement when he'd done it to you— close enough to feel the heat of his lips when you slipped it in his mouth.
You hope he remembers. Hope he understands it's a peace offering. That you're still friends, despite everything that's happened, despite all the rules broken and boundaries crossed and words left unsaid.
The corner of Steve's mouth betrays him, twitching like he wants to smile, like he's remembering the same moment you are. You see his hand start to reach toward you—fingers extending, moving through the smoke-hazy air—and then his eyes flicker from yours to your lips. You're certain he's not looking at the joint. He's looking at your mouth, at the way your lips are parted, at the space between you that's measured in inches but feels like miles.
Then something shutters in his expression. Something closes off, locks down. His hand drops back to the arm of his chair. He takes another sip of his beer—a long pull that drains half the bottle—stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the dirt and rocks, the metal legs leaving gouges in the ground.
"Happy birthday, Rob. Love you." His voice is soft, genuine, the tone he reserves for the people he actually cares about. He walks over to where Robin is sitting, bends down to press a kiss to the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She reaches up to squeeze his hand, their fingers tangling together briefly before he pulls away.
He pours out the remaining beer from his bottle—the liquid splashing on the ground, soaking into the dirt and pine needles—and tosses the empty into the trash bag Eddie had set out earlier for their hot dog wrappers and paper plates. The glass clinks against other bottles.
Then he walks to the tent he's sharing with Jonathan and disappears inside, the zipper loud in the relative quiet of the campfire. The fabric glows slightly from his flashlight inside before it clicks off, plunging the tent into darkness.
The group falls into awkward silence. Eddie chuckles—forced and uncomfortable, trying to salvage the mood—and stands up, taking the joint from your lips where it's still burning between them. He gives you a sympathetic smile that makes you want to punch him, that makes you want to scream, that makes you want to rewind time and not do something so stupid.
You see Nancy lean over to Robin, whispering something close to her ear. Robin's face goes through several expressions—surprise, resignation, frustration—before she sighs heavily and sets down her beer. She stands, brushing dirt and pine needles off the back of her jeans.
"Steve?" she calls softly, approaching the tent. The zipper opens and she slips inside, her silhouette visible through the thin fabric, backlit by the flashlight she must have turned back on.
You don't wait to see what happens. You grab your toiletry bag and a change of clothes from your—Steve's—tent, not making eye contact with anyone, and head toward the shower building without a word.
The path to the showers is marked with small solar lights that barely illuminate anything. You can hear other campers—laughter from a site nearby, someone playing acoustic guitar, the sound of children being called in for bed. The air has cooled significantly now that the sun is down, and you wish you'd brought a sweatshirt.
The shower building is cinder block painted an institutional beige, lit by fluorescent lights that buzz and flicker. It smells like chlorine and mildew and the industrial soap from the dispensers mounted on the walls. Your shower-shoed footsteps echo on the concrete floor.
The showers are communal but mercifully empty when you get there. You stand under hot water that never quite gets hot enough, washing away the day—the tension, the awkwardness, Steve's face when you'd tried to share the joint and he'd looked at you like you were offering him something poisonous. The water pressure is weak, more of a drizzle than a spray, but you stay under it until your skin turns pink and pruney, until the water starts to run cold.
You get dressed in your sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants covered in little stars. You brush your teeth at the sink, staring at your reflection in the spotted mirror. Your eyes are red-rimmed, whether from smoke or something else you're not ready to acknowledge. You look tired. You look like you need this weekend to be over already, like you need to go back to campus where you can avoid everyone more easily, where you're not trapped in close quarters with your mistakes.
When you come out of the building—toiletry bag clutched in one hand, your dirty clothes rolled up under your other arm—you nearly run directly into Robin.
You both stop. Look at each other. The light from the shower building casts long shadows across the ground, making Robin's face half-illuminated, half-hidden. She's wearing her sleep clothes too—boxers and an old Emerson College t-shirt that must be Nancy's. Her hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it.
Robin nods at you. You do the same, a small dip of your chin.
You step to the side to walk around her, giving her space, not wanting to force proximity she doesn't want. But then you hear her say your name—quiet, almost tentative.
You turn. "Yeah?"
Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, arms crossing over her chest then uncrossing, then crossing again. She won't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Are you good with kayaking tomorrow?"
You blink, thrown by the mundane question, by the normalcy of it. "Uh, yeah. Sounds fun."
"Cool. Okay." She crosses her arms again, defensive but less rigid than before. "We're going after lunch."
"Cool."
You both nod again—this weird, formal acknowledgment of each other's existence, of the fact that you're both here, both trying in your own broken ways.
You spin back around and start walking toward the campsite, following the little solar lights, listening to the sounds of the forest at night—things moving in the underbrush, owls calling, the distant sound of the stream. Then, on impulse, you stop. Turn back.
"Hey, Rob?"
Robin swivels around, eyes wide. Hopeful, maybe. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on your part.
You smile—small and genuine and meaning it. "Happy birthday."
Something in Robin's expression softens entirely, all the hard edges melting away. She smiles back—real and warm and familiar, like the Robin you know, the Robin who's your best friend even when you're fighting. "Goodnight, Hot Shot."
The nickname doesn't sound like an insult this time. It sounds like an olive branch.
When you walk back to the campsite, the path lit only by those weak solar lights and the moon overhead, you catch Steve leaning against a tree near the edge of the clearing. He's smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the darkness, smoke curling up into the night air where it disappears among the stars. He's staring at the neighboring campsite again—that family with their perfect trailer and their perfect laughter and their perfect life.
He catches your eye as you approach, standing up a little straighter, shoulders pulling back. He looks at you like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, eyes dancing with something between guilt and defiance and exhaustion.
In the moonlight—stars twinkling overhead like they're watching, judging, bearing witness—you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to walk up to him and kiss the corner of his mouth. To taste the smoke and ask him to come join you in your tent. Well, technically his tent. To forget about rules and complications and just be close to him in the darkness where no one can see.
Because no matter how pissed off you are at him, no matter what reason your brain conjures up to justify the anger, the truth is simpler and more dangerous: you're addicted to Steve Harrington the way people get addicted to things that are bad for them. One taste is never enough. And now that you've had his lips on yours, his tongue sliding against yours, his breath mingling with yours—you want more. You want it so badly it makes your teeth ache, makes your chest feel too small to contain your heart.
You realize why you're upset. Why you're mad. You have to be angry at him because he's angry at you for almost ruining his future. Robin and Steve might have made up, talked it out in that tent while everyone pretended not to listen, but you're certain Steve will never want to see you the same way again. The pregnancy scare wasn't just about you—it was about threatening everything he and Robin have built, every carefully constructed plan for their future.
So you walk away, head bowed, not trusting yourself to get any closer to him. You unzip the tent and slip inside, zipping it back up behind you like you can seal yourself away from temptation.
But inside is worse. So much worse. The sleeping bag is Steve's—navy blue and worn soft with use. The pillow smells like cedar and aftershave and something indefinably Steve, that scent that clings to his clothes and his skin and now fills your lungs with every breath. You lie there staring at the tent ceiling, unable to sleep, drowning in the ghost of him.
.-.-.-.
You manage to sleep eventually, though it's fitful and broken. You wake to the sound of birds and muffled voices, the tent still dim but starting to glow with approaching dawn. The sun hasn't exactly risen yet—the light is that pale blue-gray of pre-morning, soft and uncertain. Your body aches from sleeping on the ground despite the sleeping pad, your neck stiff, mouth tasting like you licked the inside of a shoe.
You trudge out of the tent, squinting against even the weak light, and find Eddie and Jonathan already awake. Eddie's hair is pulled up in a messy bun at the crown of his head, curls escaping everywhere, and he's crouched by a morning campfire he's somehow coaxed to life. There's a makeshift camping stove set up on a flat rock, a pan sizzling with eggs and bacon that makes your stomach growl despite the early hour.
"Mornin', Hot Shot," Eddie greets sleepily, his voice gravelly and rough. He hasn't fully woken up yet, moving on autopilot and muscle memory.
You scrunch your face, the smell of coffee hitting you like a physical thing—rich and dark and exactly what you need. You walk away from your tent, noticing Jonathan's tent is half open. Inside you can see the tanned expanse of Steve's back, moles scattered across his shoulders and spine like constellations you've traced with your fingers in darkness. His sleeping body is curled on his side, face smushed into a pillow, hair sticking up at the back in a way that's stupidly endearing.
You force yourself to look away and keep walking, smiling at the cup of coffee Jonathan pours and hands to you. The mug is enamel camping ware, chipped at the rim, warm in your hands.
"Morning, boys." You climb onto the wooden picnic table, sitting on the surface with your feet dangling, taking a sip of the coffee. It's strong enough to strip paint, exactly what you need. "Everyone else still asleep?"
Eddie yawns so wide his jaw cracks, stretching his arms overhead. "Nancy and Robin, I have no idea. Just Steve-o is still out." He grins, something mischievous in his expression. "We men had a late night."
You raise a brow, taking another sip. "That's ambiguous, Munson."
He picks up a piece of bacon from the pan, biting it with his teeth, grease running down his chin. He looks at Jonathan, who suddenly finds the ground very interesting. "We went boat fishing last night. On the lake."
"Okay..." You raise both brows now. "Wait, how'd you get a boat?"
Jonathan snorts—actually snorts—and Eddie is grinning ear to ear, eyes dancing with barely contained glee. "Well, you see, sweetheart. You ever wonder why I got into legal trouble back in Hawkins?" He laughs, taking another bite, bacon crunching between his teeth. "Took Principal Higgins' car for a joyride when I was sixteen. My old man taught me how to hotwire."
"Oh god." Your eyes widen. "You didn't..."
"Oh, don't worry, Hot Shot. We returned it safe and sound. Even topped off the gas tank." His teeth are shining, a few bacon pieces stuck between them. "We're gentlemen thieves."
You turn to Jonathan, who's been quietly sipping his coffee. "I thought you were the sensible one."
Jonathan chuckles, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "Sometimes you just gotta live a little."
And despite everything—despite the tension and the awkwardness and the horrible night's sleep—you laugh. Really laugh, the sound startling birds from nearby trees.
Suddenly the cup in your hand is taken.
You look up and Steve is there—shirtless, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips, bed head making his hair stick up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep. He takes a drink of your coffee, grimacing at the taste—too strong, no sugar—but giving it back to you anyway. His fingers brush yours, warm and callused.
"Is there a reason we're being loud this early in the morning?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. He stands close to you—so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin, can see the goosebumps on his arms from the cool morning air. He looks at you, then Jonathan, then away quickly like the eye contact burned.
You poke his bare shoulder, definitely not staring at the constellation of moles trailing up his arm, across his collarbone, disappearing into his chest hair. "Eddie was telling me about the crime you committed last night. And now I'm an accomplice."
Steve looks down at where you poked him, a smirk tugging at his lips. The corner of his mouth lifts, showing a hint of teeth. "Is it bad to say it's not the worst thing we've done?"
"Please don't tell me." You cover your ears with both hands. "I do not look good in orange."
Steve turns to face you more fully, and you notice a new development. Had it been there yesterday? It's the beginning of a mustache on his upper lip—patchy and uneven with a small gap in the middle, like he's growing it out just to see if he can. He mutters under his breath, so quiet you almost miss it. "Handcuffs maybe..."
His eyes dart to yours when he realizes you might've heard, and heat floods your face.
But there's no time to react because Jonathan chuckles, oblivious to the tension. "Oh yeah, what did you guys tell me happened a few months ago? You broke into a pig farm?"
Eddie laughs wildly, slapping his knee. "Oh man, I wish you'd been there, Jonathan. You could've documented it. Steve, remember the look on—"
Steve's eyes snap to Eddie, burning with intensity, warning. Eddie's mouth forms an O shape, realization dawning. He looks at you, then back at Steve, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Actually, you know what? I don't remember. I was really high that night and it's all fuzzy and—"
Your brows furrow, looking between Steve and Eddie, both of them with guilt written all over their faces like billboards. Anger bubbles inside you, hot and acidic, as you connect the dots. Pigs. The reason Sammy was late to your first date was because pigs had gotten loose in his frat house. Pigs that someone had to have put there.
Jonathan is the one to sense the tension thickening in the air, suffocating everyone. "Uh... so, I'm thinking about going on a hike in a few minutes. There's a trail that leads to an overlook. Anyone want to join?"
You snap your attention away from Steve, the tentative truce from the past five minutes—from the time he took a sip of your coffee and you poked his shoulder—evaporating like morning dew. He moves away from you immediately, like you're cold, or like you're on fire and will engulf him in flames if he gets too close.
"Yes," you say, voice tight. "I would love that. Let me go see if the lovebirds want to join."
You narrow your eyes at Steve as you pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his bare chest, and walk toward Robin and Nancy's tent.
"Nancy—look, I'm sorry."
Robin's voice comes from inside the tent, muffled but clear enough. There's rustling, sharp movements like someone sitting up quickly.
"Robin, I told you it's fine. Don't really want to talk about it right now." Nancy's voice is clipped, careful, holding something back.
There's more muffled conversation you can't make out, and then the zipper unzips hastily. Nancy steps outside in clothes that tell you she's been awake for a while and ready to start the day—jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, hiking boots already laced. She seems surprised to see you standing there but doesn't say anything. She sighs, the sound heavy, and walks past you toward where Jonathan is pouring more coffee.
Robin follows shortly after, her eyes dropping when she sees you, probably knowing you heard everything.
You clear your throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "I, uh... we're going to go on a hike. Wanna join?"
Robin looks past your shoulder, seeing that Nancy must have been asked the same thing by Jonathan. She reaches into the tent and starts collecting snacks and water bottles, shoving them in a small backpack. "No, I think I'll stick around here and read." She won't look at you. "Not much of a hiker."
You know this is a lie. Sure, Robin isn't much into physical activity usually, but her natural hyperactivity makes her need constant stimulation, constant movement. She can't sit still for more than twenty minutes without bouncing her leg or drumming her fingers or getting up to pace.
"Okay," you say, because what else can you say?
The hike ends up being you, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve. Eddie had said something about trying to catch flying squirrels around the campsite—"They're fascinating creatures, nature's little gliders"—but really, as soon as you set off on the trail, you saw him crack open a beer and flop back into his hammock with a contented sigh.
The hike is pretty at least. The trail winds through dense forest, pine needles cushioning your footsteps, the morning air cool and fresh and smelling like earth and growing things. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance you can hear that stream again, water moving over rocks.
Nancy walks up ahead with Steve most of the time, their heads bent together, hushed whispers you can't quite make out. You catch fragments—"...she won't talk to me..." "...give her time..." "...don't know what to do..."—and realize they're talking about Robin.
Jonathan trails behind the group, stopping frequently to take photos with his camera—the way light filters through trees, a particularly interesting mushroom growing on a fallen log, a spider web strung between branches and covered in morning dew that catches the light like diamonds.
You're in the middle, enjoying the view, the rhythm of walking, the simple act of moving your body through space. Still cooling off from the reveal that Steve tried to sabotage your date with Sammy. I mean, it's not like you ever sabotaged any of his dates. Well, there was that one time you told him to cancel on a girl, but other than that, you respected his rules.
These goddamn rules.
The word makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a stick. What the fuck even are the rules anymore? And what kind of jeans is he wearing that make his ass look that good and—
Your attention is brought to the top of the hill you've been climbing. The trail opens up suddenly into a clearing, and the view steals your breath.
It's beautiful—genuinely, achingly beautiful. The overlook shows miles of forest stretching out below, pine trees swaying in the breeze like the strings of Eddie's guitar being plucked by invisible fingers. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the sun has fully risen now, painting everything in warm golden light. You can see the lake in the distance, glittering like someone scattered diamonds across its surface.
You take a deep breath, feeling grounded for the first time since you arrived yesterday. The anger in your chest loosens slightly, makes room for something else—awe, maybe, or peace, or just the simple acknowledgment that the world is bigger than your problems.
You see Nancy and Steve doing the same thing—both of them breathing deeply, shoulders dropping from their ears. Steve's arm comes up to rub Nancy's back in small circles, clearly consoling her about whatever's happening with Robin. The gesture is tender, familiar, the kind of touch that speaks to years of friendship and history.
You feel your anger toward Steve evaporate, just a little. Just enough to remember that he's a person, not just an object of your frustration.
You turn to look at Jonathan, who's taking more photos of the view, his camera clicking steadily. You walk up to him, curious. "How long have you been behind a camera?"
Jonathan doesn't seem bothered by the conversation while he works, doesn't stop taking photos. "I don't know. Since I can remember, I guess." Click. "I've always been kind of quiet. Not great at talking." Click. "And, uh... as cliche as it is, a picture is worth a thousand words." He shrugs awkwardly, like he's embarrassed by the sentiment even though it's clearly true. Click.
"So why film then?" you ask. "Why not just stick with photography?"
He laughs—quiet and self-deprecating. "I... I don't know. I guess even though a picture can tell you something, can make you feel something..." He pauses, lowering the camera to look at you directly. "Movies can invoke deeper feelings that make you feel less alone, you know? Like you're part of something bigger than yourself."
You smile, understanding blooming warm in your chest. "That's how I feel about books. Like the author is speaking directly to me, like they understand something I couldn't put into words myself."
Jonathan smiles back, and you see that dimple in his cheek again. "Steve told me you like to read."
Your face falters, the smile freezing then melting. "He did?"
"Yeah. He talks about you all the time. Pretty much knew who you were before I met you." Jonathan shifts his camera bag on his shoulder, lifting the camera again. "Hey, uh... do you mind?" He motions the camera at you.
You look at him, a little surprised. "Oh... uh, sure. I don't mind. You want me to just...?"
"Yeah! Just stay right there and pretend I'm not here. Look at the view, think about something that makes you happy."
You do as you're told, turning back to face the overlook. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, and somehow you can smell Steve's cologne even though he's several feet away. Cedar and something warmer, spicier. You smile despite yourself, your stomach flipping, chest tightening with something you're not ready to name.
You hear the click from Jonathan's camera. You turn to him, smile still in place.
Jonathan smiles back, lowering the camera. "Steve was right about you."
Your face flickers, confusion replacing contentment. "Right about what?"
"You two ready to go back?" Steve's voice cuts across the clearing, sharp and sudden. "It's almost lunchtime."
You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at you and Jonathan with an intensity that feels disproportionate to the moment.
So you make your way back down the trail, the mood noticeably cooler than the hike up.
Lunch is awkward in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Nancy and Robin are barely speaking to each other, even though they're sitting next to each other at the picnic table. They only call each other by first names—no nicknames, no "babe," no soft touches. The absence of their usual affection is glaring, makes everyone else uncomfortable.
Steve is avoiding looking at you entirely, keeping his gaze fixed on his sandwich or the trees or literally anywhere else. Jonathan seems to like the quiet, eating steadily without feeling the need to fill silence. Eddie, on the other hand, absolutely does not like the quiet, and makes it very obvious there are multiple elephants in the room.
"So!" he says loudly, gesturing with his sandwich. "Anyone want to address the fact that there's more tension here than a fucking... I don't know, a tightrope? A rubber band about to snap?"
No one responds.
"Cool, cool. Love that for us." Eddie takes another bite.
After lunch, plans for kayaking are still on. You pile into Eddie's van, driving down dirt roads to the lake access point. The only sound is music playing from the tape deck while Eddie and Steve talk quietly in the front seat about something you can't hear over Metallica.
When you arrive at the lake, everyone decides to do pairs for kayaking. And because you are ever so lucky, even when Robin and Nancy are secretly fighting—Nancy choosing Jonathan as her partner and Robin immediately asking Eddie—you end up in a kayak with Steve.
Steve, who has changed since the hike into clothes that make you want to commit crimes. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with your university logo across the chest, but the real problem is the jean shorts. They're cut off at mid-thigh, frayed at the edges, and they show off his legs in a way that should be illegal. His thighs are thick, muscular, covered in dark hair that you know is soft to the touch. You can't help but look at them every chance you get, eyes tracing the line of muscle, the way they flex when he moves.
His hair is pushed back by a red baseball cap worn backwards, eyes hidden beneath aviator sunglasses that make him look like a lifeguard or a model or some unholy combination of both. His shirt hugs him everywhere—across his chest, his shoulders, his stomach—and when he bends down to adjust their kayak before pushing it into the water, the shirt rides up on his back, showing a strip of tanned skin and the dimples at the base of his spine.
You feel that anger bubbling again, mixing with want, creating something volatile and dangerous.
He seems just as annoyed to be paired with you, his lips pressed into a thin line when he hands you a paddle. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm, familiar—before he pulls away.
Steve climbs into the back of the kayak and you get in the front, and then you're off. The water is calm, glittering in the afternoon sun, cool spray occasionally hitting your arms.
Nancy and Jonathan are slowly trailing in front of you, their paddling synchronized and efficient. Robin and Eddie are already way up the stream, even though they've flipped their kayak twice—you can hear Robin's shrieking laughter carrying across the water, can see Eddie's hair dripping as he rights the kayak again.
The tension between you and Steve is suffocating despite the open air, despite the beauty of the surroundings. You can smell the sunscreen he's wearing—coconut-scented. You can feel his eyes on you even though you can't see them behind those sunglasses, boring into your back like lasers.
Occasionally you peek over your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes but you can feel the intensity of his stare, can see the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the paddle.
Soon it's just the two of you. Nancy and Jonathan have disappeared around a bend in the stream, their laughter fading. Eddie and Robin are long gone, probably halfway to the next lake by now.
You're surprised that for how competitive Steve usually is—always needing to win, to be the best, to prove himself—he makes no effort to speed up. Even when you want to, to get this over with as quickly as possible, to get out of this godforsaken kayak with Steve Harrington and never look back.
"Wanna take a break?" he asks suddenly, his voice startling in the silence.
You turn to look at him, seeing him point toward a small bank where the water is shallow and trees provide shade. You swallow. "Okay."
You both adjust your paddles to head that way, working in tandem without speaking. You reach the bank and Steve is quick to get out, practically leaping from the kayak and rushing into the woods without a word.
It makes you laugh despite everything—he probably needs to pee. You take your shoes off, setting them on the bank, and dip your toes in the cool water. It feels incredible after the heat of paddling in the sun. You wade out knee-deep, the clear spring water refreshing against your skin, small fish darting away from your feet.
"Hot Shot, what are you doing?"
You don't turn around, just giggle at the panic in his voice. "Taking a break, Steve." Your voice drips with sarcasm. "Come join me. It feels great."
But Steve's voice goes sharp, loud. "Where the fuck is the kayak?"
You spin around, hand already raising to point at the bank where you left it. But it's not there. Your eyes scan the area frantically, then look down the stream. Your stomach drops. You can see the bright green kayak floating away downstream, bobbing in the current, already twenty yards away and picking up speed.
"Oh shit..."
Steve's large hands come up to rub his face in frustration or maybe grief or maybe murderous rage. You can see him weighing his options, deciding whether it's worth trying to swim after it. His sunglasses slip down his nose and you can see his eyes roll dramatically, his hands coming to rest on his hips, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he's trying to decide whether to kill you or figure out what to do next.
"I'm sorry," you offer weakly. "I thought I pulled it up far enough—"
"Just—" He holds up a hand. "Don't."
Luckily, Steve had grabbed his backpack when he got out of the kayak—some instinct or experience telling him not to leave it in the boat. The camp map is shoved in there along with water bottles and snacks, and now the two of you are trekking through the woods, trying to navigate back to the parking lot.
You don't know how long you've been hiking. The sun is lower now, late afternoon stretching shadows long across the forest floor. Steve keeps stopping abruptly, looking up at the sky like there's a huge compass up there that only he can read, like he's some kind of wilderness expert instead of a rich kid from Hawkins who probably went to summer camps with air conditioning.
By the third time he stops, you crash into his solid back, stumbling backward. He doesn't look at you when he turns and grabs your arm, steadying you before you can fall. "Do we need to stop for a bit?"
"No, Steve." You huff, pulling your arm free. "The quicker we find the parking lot, the better."
Steve straightens, jaw twitching. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that an attitude while I'm trying to get us back?"
"Key word: trying, Harrington." You tap his chest, smiling sweetly in a way that's anything but sweet. "You're not really making much progress, are you?"
You start walking ahead, as if going by gut feeling is any better than his sky-reading method.
"Excuse me?" Steve's voice rises behind you. "Do we have a problem or something?"
"Nope." You pop the ‘p’, not looking back at him.
"Crazy, because it seems like you've been mad at me for no reason for over a week now." He walks ahead of you, eyes stuck on the map, holding it up like it'll reveal secrets. His voice sounds casual but there's bitterness underneath, sharp and cutting. "You didn't think I could tell you didn't want to be stuck with me today, but I could."
You stop walking, arms crossing over your chest. You scoff in disbelief. "Oh geez, you think because I didn't give you attention for a week means I'm mad at you?" You giggle, but it's full of venom. "Maybe you needed to wear those glasses, because maybe—just maybe—you're the one who was avoiding me."
Steve stops. He pivots to face you, and his lips turn upward in this infuriating smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure. "Aw, look who's upset because I didn't whip out my dick for them."
"What the fuck does that mean?"
His lips purse, and he shrugs—one shoulder lifting in this exaggerated, sassy gesture that makes him look like a bitchy teenager. His head tilts, eyebrows raising above his sunglasses. "I dunno. You seemed just fine without me. With Sammy and all. Oh, I saw you two in the library, pretty much making out against the—"
"Oh please, Steve, he was giving me notes because I missed class—"
"—and since I didn't give you attention, you're trying to sleep with my friend—"
"—I didn't fucking sleep with Eddie! I don't want to sleep with Eddie!"
"Yeah, I'm not talking about Eddie." Steve's voice goes cold, sharp. "I'm talking about Jonathan, Hot Shot."
You stare at him, an incredulous sound escaping your mouth—half laugh, half scream. "Jesus Christ, Steve. I don't want to fuck any of your friends! It's not my fault you get jealous of any guy I speak to." Your voice rises, echoing through the trees. "You don't see me blacklisting your fuck buddies from parties or releasing pigs in their houses to sabotage dates. Really cool, Steve. Very mature."
Steve laughs, the sound bitter and harsh. "The Alpha Taus are douchebags, Hot Shot. That prank had nothing to do with you."
"Well, it doesn't make sense, because you weren't that upset about Sammy when you were off canoodling with Polly last Wednesday night." You cross your arms tighter. "Oh, don't give me that look. I saw you two in the parking lot."
He points at you, shaking his finger like he's just had an epiphany. "I knew that was you! You were spying on me!"
"I wasn't spying!" You throw your hands up. "God forbid I knew where you'd be and wanted an easy fuck."
Steve leans in close, invading your space, and you can smell him—sunscreen and sweat and anger. "I don't know why you think you're special. Is it because I kissed you, huh? Is that what this is all about?"
"Oh, give me a break, Steve." You push past him, following what you think might be a trail through the underbrush.
"Aha! See, there it is." He follows behind you, voice getting louder. "You think I'm going to break my rules just because I slipped up once. Even after I told you to forget it happened."
Your chest is heaving, face hot despite the shade of the trees. If you were a cartoon, steam would be rolling out of your ears. You spin around, storming up to him until you're chest to chest, and press your finger hard into his solid chest. "Oh, bullshit! Tell me, Steve—what does 'once a month' mean to you?"
"What?" His brows knit together in confusion.
You close your mouth, eyes going glassy. Tears threaten from how pissed off you are, from how much this hurts, from everything building inside you for weeks.
"I—" He swallows, face falling as realization dawns.
"Tell me," you demand, pushing his chest again. Harder this time.
He doesn't move from your force. Doesn't speak. His face has fallen completely, all the anger draining away into something that looks like guilt and sadness and fear.
You let out a breathy huff, scowling, turning back around to keep walking. To get away from him before you do something stupid like cry.
"Because I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck!" Steve's voice echoes through the trees, bouncing off trunks, scattering birds into flight.
You don't have time to reply. You turn around and he's already there—right behind you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the freckles scattered across his nose from sun exposure, the way his chest is heaving with emotion. His eyes search yours, desperate and afraid and hopeful all at once. Those puppy dog eyes that make your knees weak, that make you forget why you're angry in the first place.
"Steve? Hot Shot?" Eddie's voice comes from somewhere nearby, cutting through the moment like a knife.
Steve looks at your mouth, his body visibly deflating, shoulders sagging. "Over here!" he calls, voice rough. He moves past you, jogging up what must actually be the trail to meet Eddie.
The others are behind Eddie—all of them looking concerned and slightly annoyed.
.-.-.-.
Later, everyone is around the campfire again as darkness falls. Most of the evening was wasted looking for you and Steve. You're sitting far away from Steve this time, deliberately choosing a chair next to Robin instead. Nancy and Robin seem to be sort of talking—their shoulders aren't touching but they're not completely ignoring each other either—but you can see it's still careful interaction.
Jonathan is the one to try reaching an olive branch, suggesting s'mores. Everyone lights up at that—even Robin and Nancy exchange small smiles.
They start collecting the supplies—graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows—when Eddie suddenly sniffs the air dramatically.
"My dear friends..." He stands, looking at the sky with fake solemnity. "I'm afraid a storm is coming."
Everyone looks up. The sky is completely clear, stars twinkling peacefully overhead.
They ignore him, laughing, going back to setting up for s'mores. But a few minutes later, thunder claps—loud and close, rattling through the air.
"Well, shit," Robin says, exasperated. "Guess no s'mores."
Eddie sighs dramatically, looking at you. "Guess I'm bunking with you tonight, Hot Shot."
"Absolutely not," you say immediately, ignoring the way Steve's eyes snap to you, something lighting up in his expression. "Your snoring kept me up all last night."
Eddie frowns, wounded. "Well, I'm not sleeping in my hammock in a storm. I'll blow away." He turns to Jonathan and Steve, spreading his arms wide. "Boys? Which one of you loves me most?"
Steve shakes his head quickly. "You kick in your sleep."
Nancy speaks up, looking at you with eyes that are slightly desperate. "You could just bunk with Robin and me." Her expression is pleading: please, I don't want to be alone with Robin, please help me, please.
But Robin groans loudly, throwing her head back. "Can we stop pretending? Steve and Hot Shot obviously want to share a tent but don't want to say it out loud."
You and Steve immediately look at one another across the fire, then at the group. Eddie wraps his arm around Jonathan's shoulders, grinning wickedly. "Looks like you're stuck with me tonight, Jon-boy! Hope you like cuddling."
Jonathan just sighs, resigned to his fate.
Really, you don't want to be stuck in a tent with Steve. But you don't want to say it out loud and admit there's something different between you, something beyond just fucking, something that terrifies you.
There's no more arguing because small droplets start hitting everyone's skin—fat raindrops that promise a real storm. Everyone rushes to their tents, laughing and cursing and trying not to slip in the mud already forming.
You have time to change in the tent before Steve opens the zipper. He's already changed too—back in those pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and a t-shirt that's seen better days. You're both in the small space now, moving around each other awkwardly, trying not to touch, adjusting sleeping bags and pillows until finally you're both lying down.
The rain starts in earnest, drumming against the tent fabric. Thunder rumbles in the distance, getting closer.
You're both on your backs, staring at the tent ceiling, the space between you measured in inches but feeling like miles. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the rain, the thunder, and your breathing—his deeper, slower, yours quick and nervous.
And you wait.
.-.-.-.
You're lying on your side in the tent, facing the nylon wall that shifts slightly with the wind. Behind you, Steve faces the opposite direction, and you can feel the solid warmth of his back against yours through the layers of fabric separating you. He's wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. You're wearing the same.
The tension is unbearable.
You've done everything—had him inside you more times than you can count, felt his hands on every part of your body, come apart beneath his touch in ways that should've stripped away any possibility of shyness. You've kissed him now, desperately, in a grimy bathroom while a party raged outside.
But you've never slept this close.
Somehow this feels more intimate than all of it. Fully clothed, not even touching except for the accidental press of your backs, and yet your skin is on fire. Every breath he takes, you feel. Every small shift of his body sends awareness crackling down your spine.
You think about what he'd said earlier, “I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck." The words have rooted inside you, burrowing deep, and you're not sure how to ignore them anymore. Don't think you want to.
The rain patters against the tent, gentle at first, then harder. The sound fills the small space, making everything feel closer, more isolated from the rest of the world.
You hear his breath stutter behind you, the rhythm breaking and catching. You wonder if he's still angry, if he's regretting agreeing to share the sleeping bag, if—
"Hey." He says your name, barely above a whisper.
Your breath catches. For a second you think you imagined it, that it was just the rain creating phantom sounds. "Yes?" you whisper back.
He hesitates, and you feel him shift slightly. "I need you to know... I didn't hook up with Polly when you saw us."
There's a beat of silence. Rain drums steadily above you.
"Okay," you say quietly, not sure where he's going with this.
He continues, words coming faster now like he's afraid he'll lose courage. "I was... ending things with her.”
You’re not sure how to react, but your lips part, and without thinking you say, “Oh.”
You wonder if he was finally bored of her. Or maybe she broke a rule and you didn’t know.
Steve speaks again, his voice so soft you barely hear it against the crack of thunder. “I ended things with all of them."
You imagine the look on his face when he'd told you about the accident—how his downturned eyes had drooped further, how that permanent cocky assured smile had dissolved into pure, raw, unfiltered honesty.
"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it.
Steve doesn't speak for a moment. You hear the sound of his tongue pressing into his cheek, a nervous habit you've noticed. Then you feel movement—he's shifting in the sleeping bag, turning, and suddenly you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. But you can't look at him. Can't turn to face him.
His voice cracks when he says your name. And as much as you love it when he calls you Hot Shot, or moans your name in different degrees of pleasure and desperation, this feels so soft it prickles your skin, raises goosebumps along your arms.
"The night of the formal... when I came looking for you..." He drifts off, and you hear him swallow hard. "I didn't just look for you to hook up. I wanted to... I wanted to ask if we would only sleep with each other."
Your breath hitches, lungs forgetting how to expand. You think about that moment—seeing Steve in the hallway, the glasses on his face, and then going with Sammy to that hotel room. You'd told yourself you hadn't thought of Steve. Maybe you'd tried not to, but it had made it worse.
"There were never really any rules when it came to you," Steve says, voice low and rough.
Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he can hear it in the small space. You close your eyes, your lips burning at the memory of the kiss at Mardi Tau, the desperate way you'd clung to each other.
“I would’ve said yes,” you admit into the dark tent.
Finally, you slowly roll over. Lightning strikes outside, illuminating his face in fragments—the sharp line of his jaw, the worried crease between his brows, those eyes watching you. You're both lying on your sides, hands tucked under your heads, noses inches apart because of the size of the tent and the sleeping bag you're sharing.
“I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m sorry for avoiding you,” your voice comes out even softer than his. "I thought you were mad at me."
"What? Why?" He's quick, shifting closer, and you see the shadow of his hand reaching out before he pulls it back like he's not sure he's allowed to touch you.
"I thought..." Tears rim your eyes, hot and unwelcome. "Maybe you were mad because I thought I was pregnant... and Robin found out... and I almost ruined your life, Steve."
Lightning strikes again, closer this time, and you see his hazel eyes lit with something fierce—rage maybe, or panic—and just as quickly they droop in worry. "No. No, you didn't. Fuck." His hand finally makes contact, cradling your face, thumb wiping away a tear that's escaped. "I wasn't angry with you."
You're not sobbing, but your breathing is erratic, sniffling sounds escaping despite your best efforts. "But I feel so guilty. Robin and you are fighting and she won't talk to me because I didn't tell her, and I don't want you thinking—I thought I scared you."
Steve's thumb pauses mid-stroke on your cheek. "I was scared," he admits quietly. "But not in the way you think." He takes a shaky breath. "I was scared because I sat there on my bedroom floor and for the first time in my life, I imagined having kids. Really imagined it. Like… I think I do want them and it fucking terrifies me."
His voice drops lower. "I keep looking at that camper—the one you keep catching me staring at. I keep imagining it full of kids. My kids."
He lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking you would hate that it could've been mine. If you were pregnant."
"Steve." Your voice breaks. "I would've prayed it was yours."
There would've been no hope otherwise. You would've wanted divine intervention, would've bargained with a god you're not sure you believe in, would've offered anything for it to be his.
You can see in the dark how his eyelashes fan against his cheek as he blinks, processing your words. He takes a deep breath, and you scoot closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face now, fingers gentle against his skin.
"What happened the night of Mardi Tau?" you ask softly.
Steve looks at you with such sadness it makes your chest ache. "I was so confused. I didn't want to be jealous, but seeing you with Sammy... and hearing you talk about him with Eddie or Robin, knowing that he was touching you..." His jaw tightens. "Since your date with him, it got harder and harder to be with the others. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't fucking finish with anyone else, and finally I just couldn't even..." He closes his eyes, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's so fucking embarrassing."
You rake your fingers through his hair, and he immediately relaxes into the touch. "It's not embarrassing, Steve. I wish... I wish it was less complicated."
"Me too," Steve whispers.
You lay in silence for a moment longer, the rain getting heavier outside, more lightning illuminating the tent in brief, brilliant flashes. Thunder rumbles, close enough to feel in your chest.
"I don't really want to forget the kiss happened," you admit. "In fact, I haven't. It's all I can think about."
Steve's hand moves from your face to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. "I can't stop thinking about it either."
In the dark, you can see his eyes light up—crystal clear in another flash of lightning. His hand trails down your arm, pulling you closer, fingers wrapping around your wrist and gently pulling your hand from his hair. He brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them slowly, deliberately. Then he kisses your palm, the touch soft and reverent. Your wrist next, then your forearm, working his way up to your shoulder until his face is inches from yours.
He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, his other fingers sliding under your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.
You see his eyes flicker to your lips and then back to your eyes.
"I'm going to kiss you," he says.
It's not a question. Not a can I? He's telling you. Maybe even telling himself. Giving you a heartbeat to object if you want to.
You don't want to.
You grip the fabric of his shirt and meet his lips in the middle.
This kiss is different from Mardi Tau. Slower. Softer. Still passionate—god, still so passionate it makes your toes curl—but measured. Intentional. His mouth moves against yours like he's savoring it, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use every second.
He tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely Steve— sarcastic, fun, attentive. The kiss buzzes through you, electric and warm, spreading from your lips down through your chest and settling low in your belly. His lips are soft, the pressure perfect, and when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, you open for him immediately.
The slide of his tongue against yours is slow, exploratory, like he's learning the shape of your mouth. You feel it everywhere—in your fingertips still gripping his shirt, in your chest where your heart is trying to beat out of your ribs, between your legs where heat is already pooling.
Steve shifts, moving slightly over you, one arm coming down to cage you in. The kiss deepens, tongues moving together with more purpose now, but still not fast. Never fast. Every movement is controlled, like he's determined to make this last.
Your hands slip under his shirt, palms splaying flat on his stomach. You feel the way he breathes—his round belly contracting and expanding beneath your touch. You feel the raised lines of his scars, the ones you've traced before but this time with new purpose.
Tenderly your fingers ghost each soft tissue. You’ve told him before, how brave he was. And maybe you were only trying to make him feel better, but now you really believe it. He was brave then. He was brave when he told his dad about becoming a teacher.
God, you want him.
You tangle your legs with his, bodies aligning, and Steve starts to suck on your top lip. You buck your hips involuntarily, feeling him twitch against your thigh.
Steve pulls back, panting slightly. Lightning flashes, illuminating his face—flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing. "Honey," he says softly, voice rough. "I want to... I really do, but I didn't bring anything."
You understand what he means. There's nowhere he could finish except on you, and then you'd be gross, sticky— you’re not going to walk in the rain to the showers— and it might get everywhere in the confined space of the sleeping bag, on the tent floor...
You look up at him, seeing the same disappointment in his eyes that you feel in your chest. "It's okay."
He nods and starts to pull away, but you stop him, hand fisting tighter in his shirt.
"No, I mean..." Your heart is thumping so fast you can hear it in your ears. Maybe this is totally insane given the circumstances of this week—the pregnancy scare, the fight with Robin, everything complicated and messy. Maybe you're thinking only with lust and desire, being reckless and stupid. But you need him. "I want you to come in me."
Despite the way you feel his cock harden immediately against your hip, despite the shaky breath he releases, his brows furrow. "Babygirl, are... are you sure? I don't—not if..."
This is insane. This is entirely the stupidest thing you could choose to do.
You answer by kissing him deeply, pouring every ounce of want and need and certainty into it. Then you sit up, putting your arms up in offering.
Steve takes the top of the sleeping bag off you both, pushing it aside. Lightning streaks across the sky outside, illuminating the tent in brilliant white light for a split second before plunging you back into shadow. Thunder follows immediately after, so close it rattles through your bones.
He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and his movements are so slow, so different from every other time. His fingers drag up your skin as he peels the fabric higher, making you shiver. The shirt comes off over your head, and Steve's eyes immediately catch sight of your bare chest.
He smiles. "I knew you weren't wearing a fucking bra. It's like you wanted this the whole time."
You giggle, leaning forward, both hands cupping his face, and kiss him again. You feel him smile against your lips, his hands coming up to gently squeeze your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you gasp into his mouth. He pushes them together, massaging, his mouth kissing them, nipping, sucking.
"Your turn," you murmur, and start working his shirt up his torso. You take your time, kissing his belly, dragging flesh between your teeth. Kissing freckles as more skin is revealed, then his navel, one of his pecs, his throat. The shirt gets awkwardly stuck on his nose as you try to pull it over his head, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter—his a low chuckle in his chest that sounds sweet and boyish, yours breathy and slightly hysterical.
And you can’t help but kiss him, drinking the sweet sounds of laughter, teeth clanking from smiling. His laughter is sweet like caramel, thick and smooth against your tongue. It’s something you can see yourself getting drunk on more often if he lets you.
He finally gets the shirt unstuck and tosses it aside, and then you're finding each other's lips again, mouths meeting in the darkness with the kind of accuracy that only comes from want. One of his hands cradles your face, so large, palm covering your entire cheek. His other hand pushes your lower back, pressing your chest flush with his.
His skin is warm like sunshine, making you melt in his embrace. He smells like campfire and the river you two were lost in. Your fingers thread the hairs at the nape of his neck, twirling each strand, opening your mouth to capture his sigh.
Steve lays you back down slowly, your head finding the bunched-up jacket you've been using as a pillow. His hands find the waistband of your pajama bottoms, and he starts sliding them down your hips.
"Wait—" you start, but it's too late.
He sees it. The dark ink on your hip, just above your pelvic bone.
Steve pauses, squinting at it in the dim light, and then a crooked smile spreads across his face.
"Shut up," you laugh, covering your face with your hands, looking at him through your fingers.
"Wasn't gonna say a word," Steve says, sticking out his bottom lip in mock innocence, holding his hands up in surrender. Then he laughs—quiet and fond—and finishes pulling your pajama bottoms off completely.
He plants a chaste kiss on the tattoo—the words Hot Shot in thoughtless script.
"My Hot Shot," he whispers against your skin. "My girl."
Then he places a kiss over your underwear, right over your cunt, and the way his lips— now that they’ve touched your own, now that you know what he they taste like— plush against the fabric makes your breath catch.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly drags your panties down your legs. You tangle your fingers in his hair while he presses soft kisses to your bare skin—your hip bone, your inner thigh, higher until his breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him.
But then his eyes trail up, and his large hand splays on your ribs, trailing down past your belly button to rest on the soft flesh just above your womb. You feel a pool of warmth low in your belly at the tenderness in his touch.
He leans over, and you watch how his belly rolls, sticking over the waistband of his pajama pants. He kisses the spot on your belly softly. Once, twice, three times, his lips lingering on your skin. His thumb traces idle patterns there.
"You would've looked so hot pregnant with my baby," he whispers against your stomach, then looks up at you—checking, making sure what he said wasn't weird, wasn't too much, didn't turn you off.
But you smile, tilting your head, biting your bottom lip. "Yeah?"
Steve grins, placing another kiss there, his eyes dark with something that looks like reverence. "So fucking hot. Would've loved seeing you like that. All round with my baby."
Heat floods through you at his words, settling low and insistent between your legs. "Steve..."
"What?" He kisses lower, just above where you're aching for him. "You don't like thinking about it? About me filling you up? Getting you pregnant?"
You whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. "I—"
"Because I think about it," he admits, voice rough. "Think about it all the fucking time now."
Before you can respond, he's working to pull down his own pajama pants. He grunts, shifting around in the limited space—it's harder than it looks, all awkward angles and elbows bumping into things—until he finally peels them off.
You realize he's not wearing any underwear. His cock slaps against his stomach, already hard and flushed dark. There’s another flash of lightning— he’s pumping himself, biting his lip, looking at you splayed out on his sleeping bag,
"Now look who wanted this," you tease.
He crawls up your body, caging you in with his arms. "I always want you," he mutters against your lips before kissing you again.
The kiss is still slow but hungry now, need building between you. Steve positions himself between your legs, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He doesn't push in yet, just rocks slightly, sliding through your wetness, and you both make sounds that are barely human.
"Ready?" he asks against your mouth.
"Yes," you breathe. "Please."
He pushes in slowly—so slowly it's almost torture. You feel every inch as he enters you, the stretch and fullness, the way your body opens for him. He hadn’t prepared you with fingers. You feel the ache, making you wince. He kisses you again like it will help, and maybe it does.
“You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah, you’re just so big, Steve. But it feels so good.”
He bottoms out with a groan that reverberates through his chest into yours, and for a moment you both just stay like that, completely joined, breathing the same air. You both pant in each other’s mouths. Steve brushes hair from your face, jaw slack, searching for something in your eyes. Or maybe he likes looking at them as much as you like looking into his.
"You're perfect," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, blonde illuminating, refracting when lightning strikes. "Always so good to me."
A soft whimper escapes him at the praise, and he starts to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that have you both groaning. His soft stomach presses into yours, the thick thatch of hairs rubbing, dragging against your skin.
It's nothing like before. Every other time has been fast, hard, desperate—chasing release with single-minded focus. But this is different. This is Steve pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked on yours in the flashes of lightning, watching your every reaction.
"God, you feel so good," he breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that's making you see stars despite the measured pace.
You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly, and he hits something inside you that makes you gasp and arch up into him. He notices immediately, adjusting to hit that spot again and again with each slow thrust.
"So do you," you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. "You always make me feel amazing."
He smiles against your lips, the movement becoming something tender before deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours in the same rhythm as his hips, slow and purposeful, building pleasure with every thrust.
His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking gently, and you tilt your head to give him better access. One of his hands slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple while his other hand braces beside your head, holding his weight off you.
"Steve," you whimper, nails dragging down his back.
"I know, babygirl. I know." His nose rubs against yours, your foreheads pressed together. "You're so beautiful."
He kisses you again.
You smile shyly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, your fingers pressing into his ass, pushing him deeper. The new angle makes you both moan, the sound swallowed by another crack of thunder outside.
"Fuck, you're so good for me," he pants. "Such a good girl. My good girl."
You preen at the praise, and he notices, grinning. "You like that? Like being my good girl?"
"Yes," you admit, voice breathy.
Lightning illuminates the tent again, and in that brief flash you see his face clearly—lips parted, eyes dark with desire but soft with something else. Something that looks dangerously close to lo— you let out a wanton moan.
Steve maintains that slow, torturous pace, and you realize with startling clarity that you like this. You like slow sex—with him. Only with him. Because with anyone else, going slow felt boring, felt like waiting for something to happen. But Steve going slow feels intentional, feels like worship, feels like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every expression that crosses your face.
He reaches down between your bodies, and you think he's going to touch your clit, but instead he takes your hand. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight, and he brings your joined hands up beside your head, pressing them into the sleeping bag.
His hips continue their steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, your joined hands pressed into the fabric beside your head. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, such a small gesture but somehow more intimate than anything else.
He angles his face, capturing your lips in another kiss.
"You feel perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "So perfect inside me."
Steve groans, his rhythm faltering slightly, cock pulsing inside you. "Don't—fuck—don't say things like that if you want this to last."
You giggle, the sound breathy. "Can't help it. You make me feel so good."
He smiles against your lips, kissing you again, soft and sweet. Then he angles his hips slightly, hitting that spot inside you with more purpose, and you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you, honey. Love hearing all the pretty sounds you make."
Each slow thrust builds the pleasure higher, coiling tighter in your belly. You mewl breathily.
"Baby… Steve I—" your head lulls back.
"I know," he says, and his free hand finally slides between your bodies to find your clit. "I've got you."
His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts, and the dual sensation has your eyes rolling back. Your hand squeezes his tighter, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"Feels so good," you praise, one hand sliding down to rest on his lower back, feeling his muscles flex with each thrust. "You make me feel so good. Such a perfect boy."
Steve's rhythm falters, a broken moan escaping him. "I can't—you're gonna make me—"
"Not yet," you say gently but firmly, and watch him visibly struggle to obey. "Want to come with you. Can you do that for me? Be a good boy and wait for me?"
He nods frantically, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard you're afraid he'll draw blood. "I'll try. I'll be good. Promise I'll be good."
The rain pounds harder against the tent, matching the building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Lightning illuminates you both in brief snapshots—his face above you, eyes dark and reverent; your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization.
"Does Sammy make you cum like I do?" Steve asks, voice strained. His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts.
You bite your lip in a wave of pleasure, your fingertips dragging against his shoulders, feeling his skin and muscles. “No, not once. No one fucks me like you do, Steve.”
He falters briefly, whimpering, head bowing before he comes back. "So beautiful," he gasps. "So fucking perfect. Can't believe—can't believe I get to see you like this."
You moan, pleasure building rapidly. "Keep going. You're doing so good. Just a little longer."
The pleasure builds like a wave, slow and inexorable, rising higher with each roll of his hips, each pass of his thumb. You're making those sounds you made like in the bathroom—high, breathy whimpers of his name mixed with nonsense syllables.
"That's it," he encourages, and finally—finally—his pace picks up. Not frantically, but with more purpose, more urgency. His hips snap against yours, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the rain and thunder.
"Want to—fuck—want to fill you up," he pants, and you can hear the desperation in his voice. "Please can I come? I've been good, haven't I? I've been good for you?"
“Yes, god yes. Please, Steve. I’m so close,” you cry. You kiss him sloppily, full of the filthy things you want to cry out but can’t form into coherent words. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, releasing it with a pop.
His eyes snap to yours, something fierce and tender burning there. "Come for me, babygirl. Come on my cock while I fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Want to get you pregnant so badly. Want everyone to know you're mine."
You know it's fantasy talking—the heat of the moment, bodies wound tight with need, words spilling out unchecked. It probably wouldn't happen, the odds are slim, but thinking about it, imagining Steve's baby growing inside you, imagining him telling everyone you're his—
Your orgasm hits like lightning—sudden and all-consuming. Your whole body arches up into him, clenching around his cock, and you cry out his name into the small space of the tent. White-hot pleasure races through your veins, makes your vision go black at the edges, leaves you gasping and shaking beneath him.
Steve follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he comes. You feel it—the warmth flooding inside you, the pulse of his cock, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, grinding against you through the aftershocks. His face drops to your neck, hot breath against your slick skin, and he lets out a sound that's half-moan, half-so. Your name follows, escaping his warm lips, leaving an entirely new tattoo on your skin.
Thunder crashes directly overhead, so loud and close it feels like the sky is splitting open.
Steve pulls out slowly, carefully, but doesn't move off you. Instead, his face burrows between your breasts, arms sliding underneath you to hold you close. You feel his come leaking out, warm and wet between your thighs, but you can't bring yourself to care.
Your fingers immediately find his hair, threading through the sweat-damp strands, scratching gently at his scalp the way you know he likes.
You smile, your other hand tracing patterns on his back, finally getting to know the moles there.
He lifts his head slightly, reaching down with one hand to touch where you're still leaking his come. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin, and you gasp. "So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All full of me."
"Steve," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.
He brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting, and groans. "We taste good together." Never in your life would you think he would be okay with tasting his own spend.
Steve then brushes his thumb where the tattoo is. "There’s no one like you, Hot Shot,"
You smile, kissing his head. “There’s no one like you, Steve Harrington.”
He presses a kiss to the space between your breasts, then another to your collarbone, working his way up to your jaw. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate ones from before. When his tongue catches yours, you taste the both of you, and it nearly sends you over the edge again.
When Steve eventually rolls off you, it's not like before where your limbs tear apart in haste, where you're both scrambling for clothes and space and distance. Instead, he reaches for his discarded shirt and uses it to gently clean between your legs.
The gesture is so tender it makes your breath catch. His touch is careful, reverent almost, wiping away the evidence of what you've done with a gentleness that feels more intimate than anything that came before it. You feel your tummy flip and your heart stutter, and you’re sure it’s the afterwaves of your undoing.
You're sure this would be a moment of weakness. Another slip in the rules where reality crashes back in and he realizes what you've both done, what he said. Maybe he'll freak out, remembering the things he told you during the heat of the moment—saying things that were empty promises because he could never actually get you pregnant, and he could never tell anyone you were his.
I mean, it’s not like you two really wanted that. You both were still in school. You both were still too young. And you both couldn’t really be together like that.
Maybe he'll put distance between you, go back to the carefully constructed boundaries you've been dancing around and breaking for months now.
But Steve makes no effort to run.
Another lightning strike illuminates the tent, and you see his goofy smile—dopey and satisfied and completely unguarded. He tosses the shirt aside and plops down next to you, immediately grabbing you and pulling you toward him. He kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around you as your limbs tangle together naturally, fitting like puzzle pieces.
You motion to the sleeping bag. "You're going to have to throw this out now," you mumble against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your cheek.
"Mm, worth it," Steve chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.
There's only the sound of rain now—steady and soothing—and the afterglow settling warm in your bones, and this moment suspended in your tent like a snow globe, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, there are rules and arrangements and complications. Outside, your friends are in their respective tents. Robin.
But in here, it's just you and Steve and the ghost of what you just did hanging in the air between you.
You don't want to ask what this means for you both. It's not like you like each other—not like that. It's all possessiveness because you're the only ones who know how each other's bodies work. That's the only thing. Has to be the only thing.
But it is different. The rules are bent beyond recognition now, twisted into shapes you don't recognize anymore— and apparently don’t apply to you according to Steve.
So you ask something else instead. "Why didn't you tell me you declared your major?"
Steve sighs, but he doesn't tense. His hand continues its path up and down your back, scratching gently, tracing patterns on your skin. "You were the first person I wanted to tell." His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "I mean, shit, the moment you told me you thought you were pregnant, I had made a decision. Even if it's not in the cards for me—kids, a family, all of that—maybe I could have something that's just for me. Something I chose."
The words hit you like a physical blow. Your throat tightens, tears prickling hot behind your eyes. You don't cry, but you feel it building in the middle of your throat, threatening to spill over.
Maybe because everyone else in his life has made decisions for him—his father pushing business, his arrangement with Robin dictating his future, even the rules he set for himself born out of fear and self-preservation rather than genuine desire.
You're sure everyone has asked him all the questions by now. Why teaching? Why not something more prestigious, more lucrative? Why would the guy who hasn't shown any real interest in direction or ambition suddenly choose something so decidedly... honorable?
"Are you happy, Steve?" you ask quietly into the darkness.
You don't mean just about his major. You mean everything. Is he happy with his arrangement with Robin? Is it actually benefiting him, or is he sacrificing pieces of himself for her happiness? And Robin—is it even benefiting her, or is she just as trapped in this elaborate fiction they've constructed?
But Steve doesn't answer.
His breathing has already evened out into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep, a gentle snore escaping him.
You lie there in his arms, listening to the rain and his breathing, and wonder if the question scared him into unconsciousness or if he simply had no answer to give.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: mentions of sex, fingering, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of reader having a period
words: 11k (i ended up cutting some stuff ignore me)
summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: okay PLEASEEEE the last part of this chapter- i don't mean to defend it. but there will be a point to it. i'm praying you guys see my vision. im so nervous.
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
chapter 12
A few days after the formal, you find yourself walking to the record store after classes. Your mind has been gnawing at you, chewing on the same thought over and over until it feels raw and exposed. You can't take it anymore.
You can't talk to Robin about this. Robin will make assumptions—will immediately jump to the conclusion that you like Steve or something equally stupid. Or worse, Robin will remind you that she doesn't talk about the complicated stuff when it comes to Steve and his affairs, that there are boundaries she won't cross even for you.
But there is one person who might know Steve Harrington better than Steve Harrington knows himself.
Eddie.
The record store is quiet on a Tuesday afternoon, classic rock bleeding through the speakers at a volume just loud enough to discourage conversation but not loud enough to actually disturb anyone. Eddie is behind the counter, flipping through a magazine, and he looks up when the bell above the door chimes.
"Hot Shot," he greets, grin already spreading. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Can we talk?" you ask, and something in your voice must convey the seriousness because his expression shifts immediately.
"Yeah, 'course." He closes the magazine, glancing around the empty store. "Come on."
He leads you behind the counter, sinking down to sit on the floor with his back against the cabinet where they keep the cleaning supplies. You join him, pulling your knees up to your chest, and he pulls out a joint from his jacket pocket with the ease of someone who always has one ready.
"You look like you need this," he says, lighting it and taking the first drag before passing it to you.
"I very much do," you admit.
The first hit fills your lungs with familiar burn, and you hold it before exhaling slowly. The tension in your shoulders starts to ease almost immediately, the sharp edges of your thoughts beginning to blur.
You sit in silence for a moment, passing the joint back and forth, and then you say it. The thing that's been sitting on your tongue, demanding to be acknowledged.
"I had sex with Sammy."
Eddie doesn't react dramatically. Just a slow, knowing smile as he takes another drag. "Oh, you did now?"
You sigh, handing him back the joint, pressing your palms to your forehead. "At the formal."
"Ohhhh, so that's where you disappeared to." He sounds amused, taking his time with the next drag before passing it back. "Well, how was it?"
You lick your lips, considering your words, then take your own drag. "It was good. He definitely knows what he's doing."
"But?" Eddie asks, because of course he does.
"What do you mean?" you counter, playing dumb.
"Please, sweetheart." He levels you with a look that's too knowing, too perceptive. "You would not be here just to tell me you had sex and it was good."
"Sure I would." You try for teasing, aiming for light. "I mean, you probably already know all about my sex life with Steve anyway."
Eddie's face gets serious, the playfulness dropping away entirely. "Steve doesn't talk about your guys' sex life. Now... hearing it is another story." His mouth quirks. "The whole goddamn city of Hawkins probably thought an earthquake hit when you two were—"
"Oh my god, stop." You roll your eyes, snatching the joint from him.
Another odd fact about Steve that unsettles you. Another piece that doesn't fit with everything else you thought you knew. You're about fed up with collecting these pieces, with trying to make sense of a puzzle you don't have the full picture for.
"Fine, okay," you say, the words coming out in a rush. "The 'but' is... this is so embarrassing. He's too—I don't know. Sounds so stupid, but he's too soft." You look at Eddie, needing him to understand. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I can do slow, passionate sex. But..." Your head thumps back against the wooden counter. "I don't think it's fair that Steve gets to have amazing sex with a bunch of girls and I had to finish myself off in the bathroom when I said I needed to go pee."
Eddie is clearly amused, shoulders shaking as he tries to choke back a laugh.
"Shut up," you mutter. "I don't know why I even told you any of this."
Eddie takes another drag, composing himself. "Who says Steve is having amazing sex with the other girls?"
You roll your eyes. "Please. Why would he still sleep with them then?"
Eddie shrugs, completely unbothered. "'Cause he's an asshole."
You snort at that despite yourself. You look up at Eddie, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "I don't want to only depend on him for giving me mind-blowing sex, Eds."
"Then talk to Sammy about what you like and don't like," Eddie says, like it's obvious. "Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Communicate and shit?"
You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. Huh. You hadn't thought about that. And the weird truth you don't want to admit—the one that's been lurking at the edges of your consciousness—is that before Steve, you didn't really know what you liked. Not specifically. Not in the way that you know now, with such acute clarity it sometimes takes your breath away.
You're not going to tell Eddie that.
After a beat of respectable silence, a question rises in your mind. "Were you mad when Steve started hooking up with Polly? You know, since you asked her out on a date first?"
You watch the way Eddie's eyes glisten at the mention of Polly's name, something softening in his expression despite his best efforts to stay neutral.
"Yeah," he admits, voice honest in a way Eddie rarely is about feelings. "But it was because I was kind of a pussy. Before I followed Rob and Steve up here, I got in some hot shit back in Hawkins. Met Polly at a party and I was so used to rejection from high school that I didn't think she'd say yes." He pauses, taking another hit. "But the night of our date, Corroded Coffin got asked to do a gig last minute, and... not my proudest moment."
"And Steve still hooked up with her?"
"Yeah." Eddie's mouth twists. "Not his proudest moment either. But I got over it. I mean, you saw her at the formal. She hates me."
You smirk. "Yeah... and as we know, Steve would get jealous if you made another pass at her."
Eddie laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, head falling back against the cabinet. "I make passes at her all the time. He's just that way with you."
The words land heavy in the smoke-hazy air between you. You don't respond, just take another long drag, letting the words settle and trying not to think about what they mean.
He's just that way with you.
Once a month, Polly had said. The rule that apparently isn't for you.
The next few weeks pass in a blur of classes and studying and carefully maintained distance. Steve is still rough around the edges with you—not ignoring you completely, but there's a carefulness to his interactions now, like he's trying to figure out new boundaries and keeps overcompensating.
He asks nonchalantly one night if you want to go study in the library. You say yes, because you're weak and you've been thinking about him too much, and it ends up with you pressed against the door of his BMW in the dark parking lot behind the building, his mouth on your neck and his hand up your skirt.
The next week he asks if you can come proofread his essay for his child development class. You're about to say yes when Sammy calls and invites you to an Alpha Tau get-together that same night. You tell Steve you can't make it, and you see something flicker across his face—disappointment, maybe, or hurt—before he shrugs and says "no problem" like it doesn't matter at all.
You go to the Alpha Tau party. You let Sammy introduce you to his friends, let him keep his hand on your lower back all night, let him lead you up to his room afterward. The sex is fine. Better than the first time, at least—you've learned where to touch him, how to move, what makes him gasp.
But it's still not...
You don't finish the thought. You finish yourself off in his bathroom afterward, again, running the water so he won't hear, and tell yourself this is fine. This is easier. Easier than asking Steve for the truth about rules that don't seem to apply to you. Easier than admitting you might want something you're not supposed to have.
.-.--.
Valentine's Day falls on a Sunday this year. Robin left Friday afternoon for Boston to visit Nancy for the weekend, promising to be back Monday morning in time for classes. She'd been giddy about it in a way that made your chest ache—not with jealousy, but with something softer. Happiness for her, maybe. Or longing for something you can't quite name.You have been feeling that recently, like an itch you haven’t scratched right.
Sammy hadn’t brought up any plans, and neither had you.
Steve had mentioned, in passing earlier in the week, that he, Eddie, and Robin usually buy candy and watch a shitty movie together on Valentine's Day. He apparently didn’t do any hook-ups on Valentines. Didn’t want to give a girl the wrong idea.
So making themselves sick with sugar was some tradition they'd started freshman year, a middle finger to the holiday and everyone taking it seriously. You'd been planning to join them—Steve and Eddie, since Robin would be gone—but yesterday your head had started hurting. A dull throb behind your eyes that you'd dismissed as stress or lack of sleep.
This morning you woke up with a stuffy nose, a throat that feels like you've swallowed broken glass, and a pounding headache that makes even the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains feel like needles in your skull. Your body aches, muscles protesting every small movement, and earlier you'd managed to drag yourself to see look in the mirror on your dresser— you'd looked like death warmed over.
You've gone in and out of sleep all morning and afternoon, drifting in a fever haze where dreams and reality blur together. You haven't eaten. The thought of food makes your stomach turn.
There's a faint knock on your door. You ignore it, burrowing deeper under your blankets even though you're simultaneously freezing and sweating through your t-shirt.
Then another knock, closer. And a voice. "Hey! You have a call!"
It takes you a long moment to process this, to force yourself upright. Your head swims, the room tilting slightly, and you have to sit on the edge of the bed for a few seconds before you trust your legs to hold you.
You trudge down the hall in your rumpled clothes—the same t-shirt and sleep shorts you've been wearing since yesterday—not caring what you look like, not caring that your hair is probably a disaster. The girl from your floor who knocked is already walking back to her room, and you pick up the payphone receiver hanging from its cord.
"'Hello?" Your voice comes out stuffed up, barely recognizable.
"Shit, you sound terrible."
Sammy. Of course.
"Thanks," you croak, irritation flaring hot in your chest. Sickness always makes you grouchy, strips away whatever patience you normally have, and it doesn't matter who catches the bullets. Even a handsome six-foot-one green-eyed boy who's semi-good at sex. "What do you want?"
"Well..." There's a pause, like he's reconsidering. "It doesn't seem like you're really in the mood, but I was going to invite you to the bar with me and some of my buddies."
"Yeah, no. I have—" A coughing fit overtakes you, harsh and painful, and you have to lean against the wall to stay upright. When you can finally breathe again, you rasp out, "Shit, sorry. I think I have a bad cold or something."
You would've said no anyway, you think but don't say.
"Okay. I, uh... hope you feel better soon."
"Thanks," you mumble.
"Alright. Bye."
"Mhm." You give it a beat, then hang up, the receiver clattering slightly as you replace it.
You walk back to your room, each step feeling like you're wading through honey, and collapse face-first onto your bed. Your eyes flutter closed immediately.
You're not sure how long it's been—minutes? hours?—when another rap on the door jerks you awake. It's starting to get darker outside, the weak winter sunlight fading into dusk, and you feel even worse than before. Your fever has climbed higher, making everything feel distant and hazy, and your throat is on fire.
You roll off the bed slowly, every movement deliberate and careful, and shuffle to the door. You're not sure who to expect—maybe Robin back early, or Eddie checking on you, or another girl from your floor with another phone call.
You don't think it would be Steve Harrington. Not when you’ve purposely been avoiding him.
But there he is, standing in your doorway. His hair has been growing out at the roots, the natural brown starting to show, but the blonde streaks are still luminous under the hallway fluorescent lights. He's wearing a simple outfit—a polo shirt tucked into jeans, nothing fancy—and his stupidly cute glasses are perched on his nose.
He's holding a big plastic bag of assorted candies in one hand.
Your heart does something strange in your chest. A backwards tumble, a skip and stutter that's new and unsettling. It's been happening more lately whenever he crosses your thoughts. Which is a lot. More than you'd like to admit.
You frown at him.
His eyes immediately soften when he takes you in—the matted hair, the sweat-drenched clothes, the exhaustion written in every line of your body. You're ready for it, for the inevitable "shit, you look terrible" that you've been getting from your reflection all day.
But he doesn't say that.
Instead, his face does something complicated—concern mixing with tenderness—and he says, voice gentle, "Hot Shot? Are you okay?"
He doesn't wait for you to let him in. He's already moving past you, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click. He sets the bag of candy down on your desk, and then he's turning back to you, one hand coming up to press the back of his fingers against your forehead.
The touch is cool against your burning skin, and maybe it's because you're secretly a baby when it comes to being sick, but your eyes flutter shut and you lean into his hand, actually lean into it like you're starved for the contact. You pout when he takes his hand away too soon.
"Honey, you have a fever."
The word "honey" lands soft and sweet, melting over you like warm caramel, coating all your sharp edges and making something in your chest go liquid and warm. He hasn’t called you that sense last semester when it was thick with sarcasm. The casual intimacy of it makes you feel like you're floating slightly outside your body.
"M'sick," you mumble, because obviously.
Steve chuckles under his breath, and even that small sound feels like comfort. "You are? Couldn't tell."
He lifts the blanket that's draped over your shoulders—when did you grab that?—and you shiver at the loss of warmth, adjusting it back around yourself with clumsy fingers.
"Let's get you back in bed," he says, and his hand finds the small of your back, guiding you gently toward your mattress.
You make it approximately three steps before your legs give up on the whole walking concept. You fall forward, face-down on the bed, feet still dangling off the edge touching the floor. You don't even care. This is fine. You could sleep like this.
"Steve, I'm too weak," you say, the words muffled by the mattress and stuffed up from your congestion. A small cough escapes you.
You hear Steve laugh again, soft and fond. Then his hands are on you—large and warm, have they always been this big?—wrapping around your waist and under your arms. He picks you up gently, like you weigh nothing, and repositions you properly on your back in the bed, your head actually on the pillow.
You frown up at him, suddenly acutely aware of how disgusting you must feel. "Steve, I feel gross. And sweaty."
Steve looks down at you for a long moment, something tender in his expression. "Maybe you should get into a fresh pair of clothes? That might help."
You pout, the expression childish but you can't help it. "I'm too weak."
His throat works in a swallow. "Let me help."
You stare at him, searching his face for... you're not sure what. Some sign that this is too much, too intimate, crossing some invisible line in whatever fucked-up arrangement you have. I mean, just last week you were barely speaking.
But all you see is genuine concern and a willingness to take care of you that makes your fever-addled brain feel even more confused.
You nod.
Steve moves to your dresser, rummaging through the drawers with surprising efficiency. He finds a fresh oversized t-shirt—one of yours, soft and worn—and a pair of clean sleep shorts. When he comes back to the bed, he sets them down beside you and then pauses, his hands hovering.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Arms up."
You raise your arms obediently, and he carefully peels off the sweat-damp shirt you've been wearing, pulling it up and over your head. You're not wearing a bra underneath—haven't been all day, too sick to care—and you're bare from the waist up.
Steve's eyes flick up immediately. Up to your face, to the ceiling, anywhere but your exposed chest. Even though he's seen you naked multiple times, has had his mouth on every inch of your skin, right now he looks away like he's trying to give you privacy.
He slides the fresh shirt over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves, and the clean fabric feels like heaven against your clammy skin.
"Okay," he says again, and you realize he's talking himself through this as much as he's talking to you. "Shorts."
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your current shorts—disgusting with sweat—and pulls them down your legs. You're wearing regular cotton underwear, nothing sexy, just simple and comfortable. You catch him smiling slightly when he sees them, but it isn't smirking or lustful. It's soft. Fond, even.
"Will you put a new pair on me? Please?" Your voice comes out small, vulnerable in a way you're not used to.
Steve nods, not hesitating. "Yeah, of course."
He goes back to your dresser and you watch him as he opens the underwear drawer. You catch him looking maybe a little too long at the contents—probably at some of the nicer pairs mixed in with the everyday cotton—before he grabs a simple blue pair. Nothing sexy about it at all.
He comes back, and again his eyes flick up to your face as he carefully slides off your current pair and replaces them with the fresh ones. Then he shimmies the clean sleep shorts up your legs, his touch gentle and clinical.
When he's done, he picks up the covers that had been kicked to the end of the bed and pulls them up over you, tucking them around your shoulders.
"Have you eaten?" he asks, and there's something almost stern in his voice.
You shake your head. "I have crackers."
"Okay, yeah, no." He stands up, already moving toward the door. "Go to sleep and I'll be back."
"Steve..." You try to protest, to tell him it's okay, he doesn't have to, but a coughing fit interrupts you.
He says your name sharply, and the tone makes you fall silent. "I said I'll be back."
Then he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and you're left staring at the ceiling wondering what just happened and why your chest feels so full it might burst.
You wake to the sound of shuffling in your room. Your eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light—it's darker now, proper night, and the only illumination comes from your desk lamp that you don't remember turning on.
Steve is back, toeing off his shoes, a plastic bag in one hand and something else in the other. He notices you stirring and comes over immediately, setting his things down on your desk.
Without a word, he sits you up slightly, propping you against the wall, and then sits on the edge of your bed facing you, feet on the ground. He pulls a Styrofoam cup from the plastic bag, removing the lid carefully. Steam rolls out, and you can smell chicken and broth and something that makes your mouth water despite your nausea.
Chicken soup.
Steve grabs a plastic spoon and dips it into the cup, bringing it up carefully. He blows on it gently to cool it, then brings it to your lips.
"Open," he says softly.
You open your mouth, and he feeds you the soup. It's warm and salty and perfect, soothing your raw throat as it goes down. He feeds you another spoonful, and another, patient and careful, making sure you're swallowing okay between bites.
You finish the soup slowly, each spoonful feeling like it's bringing you back to life, and when the cup is empty Steve pulls out different bottles from the plastic bag. One for coughing, one for sinus pressure. He reads the labels carefully, checking dosages, then measures out the right amounts and makes you take them with water.
"Steve," you whisper when you've swallowed the last pill.
"Yeah?"
Now is your chance, Hot Shot. Now is the chance while you’re not entirely sober-minded, because if it ends badly you can blame it on being sick and delusional. Now is the time to ask him about the goddamn rule.
"Thank you."
What a coward.
He smiles, and it transforms his whole face. "Anytime, Hot Shot."
"Steve?"
"Mhm?"
"Did you come over to have sex with me?"
Steve blushes, a soft laugh escaping him as he looks at the ground. "How'd you know?" He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, still smiling when he looks back at you.
You frown, guilt creeping in. "Sorry I ruined your plans."
You would have gone through with his plans.
His smile softens into something more serious. "It doesn't matter what we're doing, Hot Shot. I just wanted to see you."
Your stomach flips. Those damn moths beneath your ribs flap harder, more insistent, and your chest feels like it's inflating with something too big to name.
Steve searches your eyes for a moment, and something passes between you—unspoken but heavy with meaning. Then he clears his throat, breaking the moment. "I, uh... I brought you something else."
"What?" you ask.
He licks his lips, and he almost looks sheepish. Hesitant. You watch as he reaches down to grab something from the floor, and the moment you catch the name on the spine, you beam.
"The Princess Bride? What—"
Steve shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. "Well, I don't know. You said whenever you were sick your mom used to read it to you... and I don't know. Maybe I could..." He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's silly."
You gather all your strength and pull him further into the bed, scooting as far as you can against the wall to make room. Steve laughs as he settles himself up against the wooden headboard, looking down at you with those hazel eyes magnified slightly by his glasses.
You look up at him through your lashes. "I don't want to get you sick."
"I'll be okay," he says, voice soft.
"Now," he clears his throat dramatically, opening the book. "The year that Buttercup was born—"
He stops and looks down at you as your head finds purchase on his chest, your arm wrapping around his middle, pulling yourself closer. You think, surely this doesn't count as cuddling. The rules are clear about no cuddling. But then again, you're not entirely sure Steve even thinks about the rules with you anymore. Once a month, Polly had said. But here you are, and that's a thought you've been actively avoiding, especially now when your defenses are down and your mind is loose with fever and medication.
You look at the words on the page instead of at him, unable to make eye contact. "Is this okay?" you ask, and your hand absently rubs circles on his stomach over his shirt, feeling the way his soft pudge moves as he breathes.
"Yeah," Steve whispers, and you can hear the smile in his voice even though you're not looking at his face.
You tuck yourself closer, your cheek pressed against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat—steady and sure. One of Steve's arms moves around you, his hand settling on your back and beginning to scratch gentle patterns there, and he continues reading.
His voice is low and soothing, and you barely make it to the first time he reads "as you wish" before your eyes shutter closed and you drift off to sleep.
That next morning you wake to sunlight and coldness.
Not the same coldness you felt with your fever—that's gone, you realize with relief—but an empty, hollow coldness. Your face is smushed into a pillow that's no longer solid, no longer warm with another person's presence. Your hand pats the empty space beside you, and you open one eye, disoriented.
You sit up slowly, looking around the room. The Princess Bride is on your nightstand, a bookmark placed about halfway through. The medicine bottles are lined up neatly on your desk. The candy bag sits unopened beside them.
Steve is gone, and a part of you wonders if you imagined him.
You look at the clock and it's 7 a.m. There's no way you're making it to classes today—you might feel better, but you have that post-sickness hangover feeling, like your body has been through a war and needs time to recover.
You hate how disappointed you feel. How the empty bed makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with being sick.
A knock at the door makes you jump to your feet, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. Hopefully it's—
You open the door and it's Sammy.
He makes a weird scrunched-up face at the sight of you, and you remember you probably still look terrible. He's holding a paper sack, grease stains visible on the bottom.
"Hey, wanted to bring this by since you aren't feeling well."
You stare at the greasy bag in his hand, reaching for it, but he takes a step back.
"Sorry, I, uh... I can't afford to get sick." He slowly places the bag down on the ground like you're contaminated, then steps back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I gotta run, but I can call you later, yeah?"
You blink at him. "Yeah. Okay."
He smiles at you before walking back down the hall, and you watch him go before picking up the bag and closing the door.
You look inside, pulling out a sad-looking sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit. The smell hits you immediately—old grease and congealed cheese—and your stomach turns.
You toss it in the trash without a second thought, repulsed.
Then you climb back into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and try not to think about how Steve's side of the bed is cold.
.-.-.-.
You're over at the Pike house, tucked into the basement with Robin, Eddie, and Steve, all of you pretending to study but really just catching up. Textbooks are open but largely ignored, highlighters uncapped but unused, the pretense of academics abandoned somewhere around the second beer.
Robin is on a tangent about Nancy. Apparently, they had their first fight—a real one, not just the small disagreements that get smoothed over with apologies and soft words. Robin's voice carries that high, anxious edge it gets when she's trying to convince herself of something she doesn't quite believe.
"And this friend of hers, Barb—well, Barbara Holland, but everyone calls her Barb—she's just always around now. And I know, I know Nancy's allowed to have friends, but the way Barb looks at her..." Robin's hands gesture wildly, beer sloshing slightly in the bottle she's holding. "It's not a friend look. It's a 'I want to be more than friends' look, and Nancy doesn't even see it."
You catch the fear in Robin's eyes beneath all the words, the way her pupils contract slightly like she's imagining something that terrifies her. She's probably picturing Nancy and this Barb right now, together in Boston, maybe sitting too close while studying, maybe laughing at inside jokes Robin isn't part of.
As Robin continues—her voice picking up speed, words tumbling over each other—you see Steve. He's sitting on the floor, back against the couch, one knee pulled up with his arm draped over it. But he's not here. Not really. His eyes have that glazed, distant quality, fixed on some empty point in the middle distance, and his jaw works slowly like he's chewing on thoughts too heavy to swallow.
You've only been alone with him once since Valentine's. Wednesday night, when you'd purposefully left the library at exactly 8:15 p.m., knowing Steve would be walking back from the rec center after his volunteer shift. You'd timed it perfectly, running into him "by accident" in the parking lot, and somehow you'd ended up in his car again, the windows fogging as his hands found their way under your shirt.
Neither of you had spoken about Valentine's night. About that softness you'd built between you—his hands changing your clothes, feeding you soup, reading to you until you fell asleep on his chest. About how it had evaporated like it was only a fluke. Like maybe you were just two lonely, pathetic people with no actual relationship prospects, because the more you get to know Sammy, the less interested you become. And maybe Steve is okay with not talking about it, with pretending it never happened at all.
Robin takes a deep breath, pulling you back to the present. "So now I have no idea if she's even coming into town for Mardi Tau."
Mardi Tau. The Sig Tau fraternity's one huge party of the year. You'd gone last year—alone, leaving alone—but you remember it being bigger than Theta Ki's Halloween party, wilder, more chaotic. Purple and green and gold everywhere, beads and masks and music so loud it made your chest vibrate.
Robin sits up suddenly, swinging her legs off the couch. "You're still driving us, right, Steve?"
Steve is still looking at nothing. His eyes haven't moved, his expression hasn't changed, like he's carved from stone.
Robin nudges her foot against his head. "Steve?"
He jumps, head jerking up, brows knitting together in confusion. "Huh?"
"Mardi Tau. You're still driving us?"
Steve's jaw clenches, muscle jumping beneath skin. His eyes drop to his lap, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "I meant to tell you. I'm not going anymore."
Robin and Eddie exchange a look—sharp, meaningful, the kind of silent communication that comes from years of friendship.
"What?" Robin asks. "Why?"
Steve's eyes flicker to yours briefly—so quick you almost miss it—before he mumbles, "I made plans already."
Robin groans, throwing herself backward onto the couch with dramatic flair. "Once again, Captain Dingus is thinking with his weiner instead of—"
"Oh, fuck off, Buckley." Steve's voice cuts sharp as a blade, and he stands abruptly, the movement jerky and aggressive. "I'm not really in the mood today, okay? Maybe you'd notice if you weren't droning on and on about Nancy." His hands ball into fists at his sides, knuckles going white. "Have you thought maybe you're jealous and scared because you think Nancy is going to leave you because you can't be seen with her? Newsflash: she knows what she signed up for. So go call her and apologize and stop butting into my personal life."
Before he turns to leave, he points at Robin, and his face is cold, eyes hard as granite, mouth pressed into a thin line that makes him look older and meaner. "And stop calling my dick a weiner."
Then he storms off, footsteps heavy on the stairs, and the door at the top slams with enough force to rattle the frame.
Robin blinks at the space he left behind, mouth opening and closing without sound. Then her face crumples slightly, realization dawning. "Shit. It's February 18th, isn't it?"
Eddie nods awkwardly, not quite meeting her eyes.
"What's wrong with today?" you ask.
Robin and Eddie look at one another. Robin sighs, suddenly looking exhausted. "It's the anniversary of the accident." She pauses, running a hand through her hair. "Shit. I should go check on him before I call Nancy."
But you speak, maybe too quickly, the words tumbling out before you've thought them through. "I'll go check on him."
Robin looks at you, protest forming on her lips.
Eddie stops her, hand on her arm. "Maybe Hot Shot should be the one to check."
Robin nods slowly, and you see hurt cross her face—brief but unmistakable. And is that a hint of jealousy? That you're checking in on Robin's best friend, stepping into a role that's traditionally been hers?
Steve's door is cracked open. You look through the gap and see him lying on the floor, tossing a tennis ball up toward the ceiling and catching it, over and over. Mechanical. Mindless.
You tap on the doorframe, and he looks up. His face softens when he sees you, some of that hardness bleeding away.
"Can I come in?" you ask.
He just nods, sitting up, one arm draped over his knee. He watches you intently—even when you cross the room, even when you sink down to sit beside him on the floor. His eyes track every movement like he's memorizing it.
You don't say anything. And he doesn't make you. You appreciate that about Steve—how he doesn't try to get you to fix him, doesn't demand explanations or comfort or platitudes. He just sits there, and you sit beside him, and the silence stretches between you like something alive.
He rocks back slightly, and you can see the cracks in his demeanor—the way his shoulders curve inward like he's trying to make himself smaller, the tremor in his hands that he's trying to hide, the way his breathing isn't quite steady. He's coming apart at the seams, slowly, quietly, and you're watching it happen.
You reach out, placing your hand on his knee, giving him a slight nod. Letting him know it's okay.
Steve doesn't cry. But he lets out a shaky breath, eyes going glassy and unfocused, and then he crumples. His head falls into your lap, the weight of him sudden and warm, and you feel his whole body sag like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
After a moment, his voice comes out muffled against your thigh. "Can you tell me about your day?"
Your hand hesitates, hovering above his head, before falling into his hair, fingers brushing through the strands. They're soft, slightly product-sticky at the ends where the blonde is growing out.
So you tell him. About waking up and going on a walk—not mentioning that you'd been thinking about him more and more since Valentine's, that his face appears in your mind at the strangest times, unbidden and unwelcome. You tell him about your exam in Art Appreciation—not mentioning how afterward, you and Sammy had made out behind a bush outside the liberal arts building, his hands under your shirt while you tried to feel something, anything. You tell him about your Medieval Literature class—definitely not mentioning that you didn't take a single note because your mind still can't wrap around the "once a month" rule, can't stop turning it over and examining it from every angle. But you do tell him about a book you're reading that you're actually enjoying, because you haven't read for pleasure in a while.
Steve listens. Nods at different parts. You see him smile when you describe the ridiculous argument you overheard between two guys in the library about whether the squirrels on campus are planted to spy on kids. His eyes flutter closed when your fingers rake through his hair just right, hitting that spot at the base of his skull, and a small sound escapes him—not quite a moan, but close.
He says your name. "I feel like I'm broken."
Your hand pauses mid-stroke. "What do you mean?"
His eyes shoot open, and you feel him go rigid against your leg. His jaw clenches, muscle jumping, and then he's lifting up, pulling away from you. "Nevermind," he mumbles, not looking at you. "I'll see you later?"
You nod, something hollow opening in your chest as you stand and leave him alone.
.-.-.-.
Mardi Tau arrives on a Saturday that feels too warm for February, the air thick with the promise of spring even though winter isn't quite finished.
You, Robin, and Eddie arrive together. Robin is subdued, quieter than usual, and you know it's because even though she and Nancy made up, Nancy has too much work to do and couldn't make the trip. Robin had stared at the phone for a full five minutes after hanging up, her face doing complicated things.
Steve did not join you. When you'd picked up Eddie from the Pike house—tonight's designated driver, your car keys heavy in your pocket—Robin had mumbled to him, "Who's his lucky lady tonight?"
You'd been sitting in the driver's seat, pretending to adjust the rearview mirror, but you could still hear Eddie even though he leaned toward Robin's right side, away from you. "Katrina."
The name had landed in your stomach like a stone.
Now you're standing in the Sig Tau house, and it's absolute chaos. The best kind of chaos, the kind that makes you forget everything except the immediate moment. People are everywhere—half-dressed in purple and green and gold, strings of beads around necks and catching light, masks covering faces, the air thick with weed smoke and something stronger. It smells like beer and sweat and sugar from the king cake someone's passing around, and the music is so loud you feel it in your teeth.
You're wearing something that leaves little to the imagination—a gold crop top that shows your midriff and a short purple skirt that Robin had wolf-whistled at when you'd emerged from your room. Beads are already accumulating around your neck, thrown by people you pass, and your skin feels sticky with the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.
It's sickening in the best way. The best way to get your mind off the burning jealousy of Katrina and Steve that you have absolutely no right to feel.
It doesn't take long to find Sammy. He's near the makeshift bar, talking to some of his frat brothers, and he lights up when he sees you. He's handsome as ever in dark jeans and a green button-down, and he's handsy too—keeps you close, his arm around your waist, fingers rubbing patterns on your hip through the thin fabric.
You know for a fact that at least tonight, you're getting fucked. That's something. That's a plan.
"You look so cute," Sammy says in your ear, having to lean close to be heard over the music. His breath is warm against your neck.
But even as he says it, even as his hand slides lower on your back, something feels wrong. Off. Like you're performing a role in a play you didn't audition for.
Later, you're dancing with Robin, Eddie beside you both, the three of you moving in a loose cluster on what passes for a dance floor. You're laughing at something Robin said when you see Polly approaching, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.
"Hey, y'all!" she calls out, bright and cheerful in a pink dress that somehow works with the Mardi Gras theme.
She looks at Eddie, eyes traveling up and down his body with obvious appreciation. "Edward," she says, and there's something in the way she says it—part challenge, part invitation.
"Penelope," Eddie replies, matching her tone.
"Looks like you actually made an effort tonight." She plucks at his shirt—a black button-down he's left mostly unbuttoned.
Eddie says, grin sharp. "I'm going for 'won't get kicked out immediately.'"
"Well, you've lowered the bar enough that I'm sure you'll succeed." But she's smiling, and there's color high in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat.
"Gonna need more drinks if I'm putting up with your compliments all night, Penelope."
"Who says I'm staying near you?" But she doesn't move away.
Robin sighs, clearly tipsy, cutting through their banter. "I miss Nancy."
"I know, Robs," you say, laughing gently.
Robin gasps like she's just had the best idea in the world. "Do you think they'll let me use their phone?"
"Robin, no—"
But Robin doesn't have time to leave because a girl with blonde hair—permed within an inch of its life, the kind of perm you'd recognize anywhere—appears in front of her. The perm is so burned into your memory you could probably count the individual curls, describe their exact spiral pattern, identify them in a lineup.
The girl's mascara is running down her face in dark streaks, and she's dressed cute but not Mardi Tau cute. It's more casual—jeans and a nice top, like she got dressed for a different party entirely.
She comes straight to Robin, and Robin shakes her head immediately. "No. You know the rules, Katrina."
Your stomach drops, plummeting so fast it feels like the floor disappeared beneath you.
"But I don't know what I did wrong," Katrina sobs, voice breaking. "I—"
Robin's face turns serious, hardening into something protective and final. "I'm not talking to you about it. Especially here. Look, I'm sorry whatever happened, but he had a rough week—"
"Am I not attractive?" Katrina continues, ignoring Robin's words. "Is there something wrong with me? Did I do something—"
"Hey," you speak up, voice coming out sharper than intended. "Respect Robin's request and leave her alone."
Katrina looks at you for the first time, really looks, her tear-streaked face tilting up to scan you from top to bottom. Taking in your outfit, your face, your body. Recognition flickers in her eyes—dawning, horrible recognition.
"And who the hell are you?"
Polly steps in before you can respond. "Hey, Katrina, let's go get some air, okay?" Her hand finds Katrina's elbow, gentle but firm.
Katrina is still eyeing you, her gaze sharp now, cutting. Taking in every feature, every detail, like she's trying to memorize you for later. Then she snaps to Polly, voice tight. "Fine."
Once they leave, Robin groans, head falling back. "I'm going to kill him. Like, actually kill him." She spots someone she recognizes across the room. "I'm going to check on Nancy. See if I can borrow a phone."
You look at Eddie, and something in your chest feels tight, constricting. "I'm... I'm going to go find Sammy."
Eddie gives you a look—knowing, too knowing, his eyes seeing right through you.
You don't know why you feel guilty. What happened between Katrina and Steve? Your feet move before your brain catches up, scanning the entire room. Bodies everywhere, pressed close together, the air thick with heat and sound. Beads clatter together as people move, plastic on plastic creating a percussion under the music. Wet mouths move against each other in darkened corners, and you can hear it—the dirtiness of everyone in the room, the moans and laughs and whispered promises. Your heart pounds against your ribs, blood rushing in your ears, everything too loud and too bright and too much.
And then you see someone you weren't expecting to see the entire night.
Standing in the middle of the room, somehow separate from the chaos around him, is Steve Harrington.
His eyes are already on yours. Like he's been waiting for you to notice him. His expression is unreadable—jaw set, mouth pressed into a neutral line—but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and they glint caramel briefly when the colored lights sweep over his face.
And on his face are his glasses.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush.
It's intense when he walks toward you. Slow, purposeful, his gaze never leaving yours, and the room seems to spin, tilt on its axis. Bodies part around him like water, and then he's nearly chest to chest with you, close enough that you can smell him—purely Steve, intoxicating. You didn’t have to have a lick of alcohol in you, but suddenly you were drunk on him.
He searches your eyes, and you see it there—desperation, need, something raw and unguarded. He doesn't grab you, doesn't touch you, but he tilts his head slightly, a small motion toward the hallway.
Then he walks through the crowd, and you follow.
You follow him through sweaty bodies pressed against walls, through the hallway where the music is slightly muffled but still thunderous. Once it seems clear—as clear as it's going to get—Steve urgently grabs your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the delicate bones there, and pulls you into an empty bathroom.
It looks like it hasn't been remodeled since the '70s. The tile is that sickly yellow-brown color, grout dark with age and mildew. Soap stains the sink in crusty white patches, and the mirror is spotted and cloudy.
Steve shuts the door forcefully, the slam echoing in the small space, and clicks the lock. His palms press flat against the door, back still turned to you, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. Like he's gathering courage or composure or both.
Then he finally turns.
You have no idea if he's angry. His face gives nothing away, that same unreadable expression from the party still in place. He approaches slowly, backing you up against the bathroom counter. The edge digs into your ass, cold porcelain through thin fabric.
He finally speaks, and his voice is hoarse, cracking around the edges. "Touch me."
You swallow, throat suddenly dry. "Steve, I—"
"Please." He's begging now, and something in your chest cracks at the sound of it. "Please touch me." He says your name like it's the only word that matters, like everything else is just noise.
You don't hesitate. Your hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach. You feel the muscles there contract under your touch, the scattered hair, the faint raised lines of old scars you've traced before. He whimpers—actually whimpers—at the contact, his hips pressing forward instinctively.
You feel him harden immediately, the thick length of him pressing insistent against your thigh through his jeans. The pressure sends heat flooding between your own legs, pooling low and urgent.
One of your hands grabs Steve's and guides it between your thighs, placing his palm against you through your skirt. Needing him just as badly, needing him to know it.
Steve's fingers press up immediately, finding the damp heat of you through your underwear, and the sound he makes—broken, desperate—sends electricity down your spine. His other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place while his fingers move, circling and pressing with the kind of precision that comes from knowing exactly what you need.
His lips are open-mouthed, panting against the apple of your cheek. Hot, wet breaths that make goosebumps erupt across your skin. Your hands rake up and down his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle, the soft give of his stomach, the slight pudge that you've become inexplicably fond of. Your fingers hook through the belt loops of his jeans, pulling him closer, eliminating what little space existed between your bodies.
Steve picks you up—lifting you like you weigh nothing, hands under your thighs—and plants you on the counter. His hand slides up further under your skirt, fingers pushing your underwear aside, and when he touches you directly, skin on skin, you both make sounds that are barely human.
He presses two fingers inside you without preamble, curling them exactly right, and your nails bite into his back through his shirt. The stretch and fullness is perfect, overwhelming, and you pant into the space between your mouths—so close you can feel his breath mixing with yours, can taste the cigarettes he's been smooking.
You whimper his name, high and breathy and desperate, and he responds by adding another finger, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy.
Your vision whites out at the edges, pleasure building impossibly fast, and you can hear yourself making sounds you don't recognize—high whines and gasps of his name—while he works you open with single-minded focus.
And then—oh god—Steve pulls his head back slightly, looking at your face. His jaw is slack, mouth open wide, his own moans mixing with yours. His free hand grabs the back of your head, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, pulling you toward him.
His mouth crashes onto your lips.
You feel him tense immediately, fear flashing across his face as he pulls back. His hand stills between your legs. "Fuck... I'm sorry. I'm sorry—"
You stop him by hooking your finger through his chain necklace and pulling him into another kiss, grinding down on his hand that's frozen inside you.
It's desperate. Filthy. Your mouths open and hungry, tongues meeting and sliding together with none of the careful precision from before. His fingers start moving again, faster now, curling and stroking while his tongue maps your mouth like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.
You've never known you needed to be kissed like this. Never knew that kissing could feel like burning from the inside out, like your skin is too tight and you might combust from the heat of it. Never knew it could be this consuming, this necessary.
Steve lets out a loud whine when you nip his bottom lip, teeth catching and tugging, and you feel him twitch and release against your leg, his hips stuttering, warmth spreading through the denim as he comes.
Your own orgasm crashes through you seconds later, your body clenching around his fingers as you cry out into his mouth. Pleasure whites out your vision, makes your ears ring, leaves you gasping and shaking against him.
But you don't stop kissing.
Can't stop kissing.
Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers threading into his hair and pulling—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. His hand leaves from between your thighs, and suddenly both his arms are wrapping around you, one hand splaying wide across your lower back, the other moving up to cup the back of your head. He's holding you like you might disappear, like if he lets go you'll vanish entirely.
You clutch at him just as desperately. Your hands roam everywhere—sliding from his hair down to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, feeling the solid muscle underneath. Down his back, nails scratching through the cotton, making him arch into you. Back up to his neck, his jaw, fingers tracing the sharp line of it before burying themselves in his hair again.
Steve's mouth moves from your lips to your jaw, kissing and sucking and biting gently as he works his way down your throat. His hands are moving too—one sliding up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your top, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
You pull his face back to yours, needing his mouth again, and he comes willingly. The kiss is messy now, all tongue and teeth and desperation. You're both still panting, breathing hard into each other's mouths, but neither of you can seem to stop long enough to actually catch your breath.
Your hands slide under his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his stomach, and you feel his muscles contract under your touch. You rake your nails up his sides, across his ribs, feeling him shudder. His hands mirror yours, sliding under your top, fingers spreading wide across your bare back, pulling you impossibly closer until you're chest to chest, no space between you at all.
Steve's mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is slower but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in your belly despite having just come. Your fingers find his belt loops again, hooking through them and pulling his hips flush against yours, feeling the wet warmth where he came in his jeans pressing against your inner thigh.
His hand comes up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that contradicts the desperate way his other hand is gripping your waist. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, and hear him make a sound—broken and wanting and almost pained.
Your hands roam to his chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath your palm, racing just as fast as yours. You trace the lines of his collarbone through his shirt, up to his shoulders, down his arms, memorizing the shape of him through touch. His hands do the same, mapping your body like he's trying to commit every curve and angle to memory.
You break apart just long enough to gasp for air, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, and then you're kissing again. Softer this time but still urgent, still desperate, like you're both trying to say something you don't have words for.
Steve's hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to change the angle, and his other hand grips your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there. Your arms wrap around his neck again, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.
The kiss slows gradually, becoming gentle pecks, then just your lips resting against each other, then just breathing the same air. Steve takes one last moment to kiss your bottom lip—sucking it gently between his teeth, tongue soothing where they just grazed—before he pulls back.
Actually pulls back.
Steps away from you, putting space between your bodies that feels like miles.
He's swallowing hard, licking his lips, his pupils still blown wide and dark. His hair is a disaster from your hands, shirt wrinkled and askew, jeans obviously wet at the front. He looks at the ground, then back at you, and something sad and guilty crosses his face—something that makes your chest ache.
Then he opens the bathroom door and leaves, shutting it behind him with a soft click.
And you're left sitting on the grimy bathroom counter, lips swollen and tender, body still humming with aftershocks, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.
.-.-.-.
Your word of the day is late.
You woke up late—alarm blaring for god knows how long before you finally registered the sound and slapped it silent. Then you were late to class, sliding into your seat five minutes after the professor started lecturing, earning a pointed look that made your cheeks burn. And now you're late to lunch with Robin, who's already sitting at your usual table with her food half-eaten when you finally collapse into the chair across from her.
"Jesus," Robin says, fork pausing halfway to her mouth. "You look rough today."
You do feel rough. There's a queasy turning in your stomach that won't settle, a tight knot that's been there since you woke up. "Thanks," you mutter, pushing your tray around without actually looking at the food.
"I didn't mean—" Robin softens, leaning forward. "Are you okay? You seem really stressed."
Stress. That's probably it. Midterms are this week, and you've barely studied, too distracted by—
By the fact that you haven't seen Steve in over a week. Not since Mardi Tau. Not since the bathroom, since his mouth on yours, since he left you sitting on that grimy counter alone.
Robin's birthday is coming up in two weekends. A camping trip. All of you together in close quarters with nowhere to hide. You wonder what the fuck you're supposed to do about that.
Sammy has noticed too—how stressed you've been. The last few times you tried to fool around, you couldn't get in the mood, your body refusing to cooperate, mind too scattered and anxious. You'd seen the irritation flash across his face, the way his jaw tightened. Last Thursday he'd told you after class that he couldn't do lunch like usual, tone clipped, and you'd known it was because of you.
"I'm fine," you lie to Robin. "Just tired."
"Well, you need to eat something." Robin gestures at your untouched tray.
You look down at the sandwich, the chips, the apple, and your stomach lurches. The smell of the cafeteria food—grease and salt and something vaguely meat-adjacent—makes bile rise in your throat.
"Actually," Robin says, watching your face go pale. "Maybe you should go back to the dorm and take a nap. You look like you might throw up."
"Yeah." You stand abruptly, leaving the tray. "Yeah, okay."
The walk back to your dorm passes in a blur. You climb the stairs mechanically, unlock the door, step inside the empty room. You peel off your shoes, kick them toward the closet. Your backpack gets thrown to the side, landing with a thud against Robin's bed frame.
And then you glance at the calendar hanging above your desk.
February 29th.
Leap day.
The date stares back at you, innocuous and terrible, and your brain makes a connection it should have made days ago.
You're late.
Not to class. Not to lunch.
Late.
Your hands scramble for your birth control pills, fingers clumsy as you pop open the compact. You count backward, checking dates, cross-referencing with the calendar, brows furrowing deeper with each passing second.
No. You haven't missed a single day. You take them religiously, same time every morning, 8 a.m. on the dot.
You were supposed to start last week.
Shit.
Oh fuck.
Oh fucking shit.
Your first instinct isn't to cry. That surprises you—you'd think panic would bring tears, but your eyes stay dry, your breathing stays steady even as your heart rate kicks into overdrive.
Your first instinct isn't even to find Robin, to confess this growing terror to your best friend who would know what to do, who would hold your hand and help you figure it out.
Oh god, no. You can't tell Robin.
Your first instinct is to put your shoes back on and walk to the Pike house.
The front steps creak under your feet. You don't knock politely, don't wait to be invited in. You just walk through the door like you belong there, like your world isn't tilting sideways.
The brothers in the common room aren't surprised to see you. A few of them are sprawled on the couches, watching TV, and one—you think his name is Marcus—lifts a hand in greeting. "Hey, Hot Shot!"
"Where's Steve?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Buck, stuffing his face with what looks like a massive sandwich, barely glances up. "Upstairs in his room."
"Thanks."
You take the stairs two at a time, your pulse thundering in your ears. The second floor hallway stretches before you, and Steve's door is at the end, slightly ajar.
You don't hesitate. You push it open.
Steve is at his desk, hunched over paperwork, pen tapping against the wood surface. "Theo, I told you there's nothing I can do about your penalty charge—" He doesn't turn, assuming you're someone else.
"Steve." Your voice comes out softer than you want it to, barely above a whisper.
He snaps around, eyes going wide. He stands quickly—too quickly, his chair rolling back and hitting the wall—and his hands flutter uncertainly before crossing over his chest in a defensive posture. "Hey." He says your name like a question. "What are you doing here?"
You close the door behind you, the click of the latch loud in the sudden silence. "I, um... can we talk?"
Steve swallows hard, his throat working visibly, like he's been bracing for this conversation since Mardi Tau. "Yeah. Do you want to sit?"
You shake your head. Your hands are trembling, fingers curling into fists to try to stop it. "No, I—"
"Hey." His voice softens immediately when he notices the shaking. He takes a step closer, arms uncrossing, hands reaching out before he seems to think better of it. "What's wrong?"
You look away, unable to meet his eyes. The words stick in your throat, sharp and jagged. "I'm... I'm late."
Steve looks at you blankly. "To, like... what?"
"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, and you know he can see everything written on your face—the fear, the panic, the desperate need for him to understand without you having to say it.
His mouth forms an "oh," the sound coming out small and shocked. His eyes drop to your stomach, then snap back to your face. "Are you—" He doesn't finish the question.
"I don't know." The words tumble out in a rush. "Fuck. I don't know. The second I realized it, I came straight here. We've been careful. We've used protection every time. Oh god, I don't know what to do."
"Yeah, we've been careful." He stresses the word we've, emphasis heavy and pointed.
You shoot a glare at him, anger flaring hot through the fear. "Are you trying to presume something?"
"I mean, you are sleeping with someone else." He shrugs, but the motion is stiff, defensive.
"Okay? And I used protection with him too."
"Okay, but why did you come here?" He bites the words out, and there's something raw underneath them, something that sounds like hurt.
You stare at him, and something inside you cracks. Your breath comes out shaky, and your lip starts to quiver despite your best efforts to hold it together. "Because, Steve. I'm scared and I need a friend." Tears glisten in your eyes, blurring your vision. "I'm so scared." Your voice breaks on the repetition.
Suddenly you're engulfed in warmth. Steve's arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, his chin tucking perfectly on top of your head. He's rubbing your back in long, soothing strokes, one hand coming up to pet your hair. "Okay, hey, it's okay. I'm here." His nose presses into your crown, and you feel the soft press of his lips against your hair—brief, tender, achingly gentle. "I'm here," he says your name like a promise.
Steve returns forty-five minutes later with a plastic bag that crinkles loudly as he enters his room. You've been sitting on his bed, staring at the wall, mind blank with static.
He dumps the contents of the bag onto his comforter, and you just stare.
Pregnancy tests. At least ten of them, maybe more. Every brand, every type—digital, classic pink lines, ones that spell out the words, ones with multiple tests per box. The boy has gotten every single option available at the drugstore.
He stands there with his hands on his hips, smiling awkwardly, looking almost proud of his thoroughness.
You grab three boxes and head for the bathroom.
When you emerge, Steve is hovering right outside the door, tapping his foot anxiously, biting the skin around his thumbnail so hard you can see red marks.
"Will you wait with me?" you ask.
So you sit on his bedroom floor. You'd felt too disgusted waiting in the bathroom, the walls too close, the smell of his soap and shampoo making your stomach turn. Out here feels slightly better, even if the tests are lined up on the carpet in front of you like tiny judges waiting to deliver a verdict.
Time moves like molasses. Steve sits shoulder to shoulder with you, both your heads leaned back against the wall, and you can feel him looking at you. Again. And again.
By the fourth look, you can't take it anymore. "Can you stop?"
Steve snaps his gaze forward, body going rigid. "Sorry."
You grab his wrist—needing something to hold onto, something solid—and you feel the muscles in his forearm tense immediately under your touch. You look at his watch face. "How the hell has it only been a minute?"
Steve chuckles, the sound low and nervous, and you feel some of the tension bleed out of his arm when you drop it.
You look up at him, eyes locking, and the moment stretches between you. His face is so close, close enough that you can see the darker ring around his irises, the faint freckles scattered across his nose, the worry carved into the lines around his mouth.
"Do you know what you'll do?" Steve asks finally, voice barely above a whisper. "You know? If you are?"
You tuck your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins. The question hangs heavy between you, and you answer honestly because lying seems impossible right now. "No. I don't know." You pause, the next words sticking. "I mean... I have no clue whose it would even be."
Steve's eyes drop to his lap. His hands start fidgeting, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, and there's something about his expression—the way his mouth turns down at the corners, the way his eyebrows draw together—that looks devastatingly sad.
"Would that influence your decision?" he asks, still not looking at you.
You open your mouth to answer, but Steve's watch beeps. Three sharp tones that shatter the moment.
He turns it off with quick fingers, and you both look at the pile of tests on the floor.
"Moment of truth," you whisper.
You reach for the first test. Flip it over.
Negative.
The second.
Negative.
The third, fourth, fifth. All negative. Every single one showing that blessed single line, that absence of possibility.
Relief floods through you so powerfully that you actually sag against the wall, all the tension draining from your muscles at once. You can breathe again. The knot in your stomach loosens, unraveling thread by thread.
But alongside the relief comes something else. Something complicated.
You look up at Steve, who's staring at his hands, fingers still fidgeting with that thread. You trace his features with your eyes—the slope of his nose, the sharp line of his jaw, those downturned eyes that make him look perpetually sad even when he's smiling. And unbidden, unwanted, your mind conjures an image: a small human with Steve Harrington's nose. With those same eyes, that same hair that never quite cooperates.
A smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it.
Then guilt crashes in.
You're imagining what your baby with Steve would look like, when that's something he explicitly doesn't want. When he's made it clear—marriage isn't for him, kids aren't for him, his whole life is planned around Robin and Nancy and maintaining the careful fiction they've built.
And you realize with startling clarity that you haven't thought once about what a baby with Sammy would look like. Not once.
God, you're so young. Of course you don't want an accidental pregnancy. But if you did—if this had gone differently—would it be all that bad if it belonged to Steve?
Probably. It would ruin his life. And Robin's. And Nancy's. Everything they've been building for one another would collapse. And it's absolute clarity now, understanding why Steve hasn't spoken to you since the kiss.
Because he's loyal.
And you're not going to make him choose.
"Well," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "You're off the hook."
Steve's face does something complicated—hurt flashing across his features before surprise takes over. He doesn't answer. His jaw ticks, muscle jumping. "Do you want me to drive you back?" he asks, still not looking at you.
"No," you say. "I'll be okay."
He nods once, sharp and final.
Then he's staring at you again, and you notice his breathing pick up, chest rising and falling faster. "Hey, uh... listen. About what happened—"
You straighten, raising your brows. "Yeah?"
He swallows hard, those downturned eyes lifting to meet yours, hazel catching the afternoon light filtering through his window. His mouth lifts into something attempting nonchalance. "Don't worry, it won't count or anything. You didn't break the rules since I'm the one who initiated it. We can forget it, yeah?"
Your lips roll inward, pressing together to keep words from spilling out. You search his face, hoping—desperately hoping—he'll say nevermind. That he'll look at your lips and kiss you again, that he'll tell you he doesn't want to forget it, that it meant something.
But he doesn't.
"Okay," you say.
You stand, legs unsteady, and start collecting the boxes and tests, shoving them into the plastic bag. You're already planning to toss them in the dumpster behind your dorm. Maybe set the whole thing on fire for good measure.
You don't want to forget about it. You have no idea why.
You get down the stairs, plastic bag crinkling in your hand, and you're halfway across the common room when you stop.
No.
Absolutely not.
You're not playing this game anymore. You're going to march back up there and ask him why he keeps breaking his own rules for you. Why once a month doesn't apply. Why he kissed you. Why he's acting like it didn't matter when you both know it did.
You run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His door is still cracked open from when you left.
You're going to push it open. You're going to demand answers.
But then you hear it.
A thump.
You peek through the crack and see Steve standing in the middle of his room, head tilted back against the wall. He thumps it again, harder, the sound dull and painful.
"Fucking idiot," he mutters, hand dragging through his hair, pulling at the strands. "So stupid."
You step back from the door, swallowing hard around the lump forming in your throat.
When you get back to your dorm, Robin is there. She's sitting cross-legged at her desk, pencil tapping an anxious rhythm against her notebook, and she looks up when the door opens.
"Hey!" Her face breaks into a big smile. "You feel better? You weren't here when I got back earlier."
You give her a weak smile, hoping it reaches your eyes, knowing it probably doesn't. "Yeah. Just needed a nap. I think I’m stressed."
"Good." Robin turns back to her work, oblivious. "Because we have so much to plan for this camping trip. I'm thinking we can—"
You let her voice wash over you as you sink onto your bed, and try not to think about Steve.
Try not to think about what he might be regretting.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: sexual acts talked about but no details. ...angst... jealousy (BECAUSE YOU GUYS ASKED FOR IT!) playgirl hot shot in the house...
words: 13.4k
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: i apologize for the delay.. i got home later than expected and then i did one last round of editing and yeah... so.... ha. also once again... sorry if not a good chapter i really tried...
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 11
Steve Harrington shows up to your dorm the Saturday before classes start.
Robin is in Boston until tomorrow—she and Nancy went together instead of Robin coming back to campus, and you'd waved them off at the bus station in Hawkins last Sunday— before leaving yourself— a knowing smile and strict instructions to have fun.
You were almost sad to say goodbye to the quaint town. The rest of the Hawkins stay went by too fast, days blurring together in a haze of laughter and late nights and a comfort you hadn't expected to find in a small Indiana town.
You did end up watching the last D&D campaign, much to Eddie's initial dismay when you'd settled yourself at the folding table in Nancy Wheeler's basement, squeezing into the chair next to Steve instead of taking one of the empty seats across from him.
"Really?" Eddie had said, looking between you both with exaggerated suspicion. "You're gonna sit there?"
"Problem?" you'd asked sweetly.
"Multiple," Eddie had muttered, but he'd dropped it, launching into his opening narration with the kind of theatrical flair that made it clear why he was the Dungeon Master.
There hadn't been much protest from Steve either. If anything, he'd seemed pleased, scooting his chair closer to yours under the pretense of needing to share the Player's Handbook, his thigh pressing warm against yours under the table.
Occasionally, he'd sneak his hand under the table and squeeze your thigh—nothing inappropriate given the audience, just his palm settling heavy and possessive above your knee, thumb rubbing small circles through your jeans. And sometimes, you'd do the same thing, your fingers finding the hard muscle of his leg, feeling it tense under your touch.
Max had narrowed her eyes at you more than once during those moments, followed immediately by a smirk that said she knew exactly what was happening and found it highly entertaining.
You were quick to discover a fondness for the kids that surprised you.
Mike had eased up considerably after that first night at the New Year's party, his initial wariness dissolving into something approaching friendship. He still had that sharp edge to him, that quick wit that could cut if he wanted it to, but mostly he used it to make you laugh, to include you in inside jokes you were slowly becoming part of.
Will had become more comfortable too, losing that quiet nervousness that had made him seem younger than he was. By the end of the campaign, when his character had made a particularly clever move that saved the party from certain death, you'd thrown your arm around his shoulders and squeezed, and he'd actually hugged you back.
And right when you were climbing into Steve's car to drive back to Robin's house, you'd caught them—Mike and Will, standing by the side of the Wheeler house, sharing a kiss that was sweet and tentative and clearly not meant for anyone else to see.
You'd looked away immediately, smiling to yourself as you buckled your seatbelt.
Dustin and El were adorable in a way that made your teeth hurt. Anytime El felt frustrated during the game—her character missing an attack roll or failing a saving throw—Dustin would lean over, completely earnest, and say, "Janie-kins, you're doing so good," before kissing her cheek with a loud smack that made her giggle and blush.
Max and Lucas were equally a force, though in a completely different way. Max would get off-task during the campaign just to bully or antagonize Lucas's character, rolling her eyes at his tactical suggestions and deliberately making choices that complicated his plans. But the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching—soft and fond and completely gone—gave her away every time.
And Eddie.
This side of Eddie—the Dungeon Master side, fully immersed in his element—made everything make sense. He became someone else entirely when he sat behind that screen, voices changing for different NPCs, hands gesturing wildly as he described encounters, eyes blazing with the kind of passion usually reserved for his music. He was magnetic, commanding the table with an authority that had even Mike deferring to him without argument.
At one point, during a break while everyone raided the Wheeler kitchen for snacks, you'd pulled Eddie aside.
"Why didn't you ever pursue theatre?" you'd asked. "You're incredible at this."
Eddie had hung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, and sadly shook his head. "Sweetheart, I fear I need to have some humility in my life." He'd grinned, but there was something wistful underneath. "An upcoming rockstar and actor? That's too much power for one man."
Then there was Steve.
Although you were ostensibly there to help him—to explain mechanics he supposedly didn't understand, to clarify rules that seemed to confuse him—he definitely knew what he was doing. You'd catch him scribbling down his next attack before his turn, calculating modifiers and damage with the kind of focus he probably should've applied to his actual schoolwork. But before he'd announce his move, he'd turn to you, those hazel eyes finding yours, and say, "What do you think I should do, Hot Shot? Wanna roll my d20?"
And no matter if the roll was a nat 1 that made the whole table groan or high enough to land a critical hit that had everyone cheering, he'd lean over afterward, smirking, voice low enough that only you could hear: "I think you're my lucky charm, Hot Shot."
The two of you didn't hook up, per se. Didn't want to break the rules and all—only once a week, and you'd already used up your allotted time. But there had been a heated exchange in the back of his BMW one night when he'd driven you back to Robin's, the windows fogging up as his hands found their way under your shirt, your mouth on his neck, both of you panting and frustrated until you'd finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the small space.
"Next week," Steve had whispered, and you'd nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.
So it's no surprise that he's shown up tonight, after not really seeing him all week. You'd moved back into your dorm three days ago, spent the week unpacking and reorganizing, getting coffee with friends who'd returned early, avoiding the reality that classes start Monday and you're absolutely not prepared.
The knock on your door comes at eight o'clock, three sharp raps that you recognize immediately.
When you open it, Steve is leaning against the doorframe in that way he does—all casual confidence, one shoulder propped against the wood, hand tucked into his pocket. He's wearing dark jeans that fit him perfectly, a burgundy henley pushed up to his elbows, and those wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
The glasses.
You know immediately what he's wanting, because he'd brought it up that night in his room, right before you'd finally peeled yourself off his bed to go to your assigned guest room. You'd paused at his door, hand on the knob, and turned back.
"I had fun tonight," you'd said.
"Yeah, me too."
You'd bitten your lip, considering, then added, "I'm serious though. You need to wear the glasses more often."
Steve had propped himself up on his elbows, that crooked smile spreading across his face. "Or maybe I could just wear them when I want your attention?"
He'd worn them the rest of the stay in Hawkins. Every single day.
But there's something different about Steve tonight.
Your eyes shoot up to his hair immediately, and your mouth actually falls open slightly.
It's much shorter—still wavy, but now it hits just above his ears instead of curling past them, the sides trimmed close while the top remains longer and swept back. And it's streaked with blonde. Not fully bleached, but highlighted, honey-colored streaks running through the brown in a way that catches the hallway light and makes the whole thing look sun-kissed and expensive and completely, utterly unfair.
His cocky smirk widens when he catches your expression, eyes trailing deliberately up and down your body—you're wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, nothing special, but the way he looks at you makes you feel like you're dressed in something far more interesting.
"Good evening, Hot Shot."
He pushes off the doorframe, walking forward with purpose, and you step back automatically to let him in. He kicks the door closed behind him without looking, hands settling immediately on your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there as his mouth finds your neck.
Your hands come up to run through his hair, and it feels different—softer somehow, the shorter length making your fingers tangle differently, and you can smell the salon products still clinging to the strands.
"What is this?" you manage, voice coming out breathier than intended as his teeth graze your pulse point.
"You like?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, that smirk still firmly in place. "Thought I could do something new since I'm president and all."
You push him back slightly, still running your fingers through his hair, studying it in the light. The blonde streaks are subtle, not brassy or obvious, woven through in a way that looks natural, like he's spent the summer at the beach instead of winter in Indiana. Combined with the glasses and the shorter cut, he looks older somehow, more put-together, less like the high school king and more like someone who's figured out who he wants to be.
You walk him backward toward your bed, fingers still tangled in his hair, and the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sits with a soft "oof," hands immediately finding your ass and pulling you to stand between his spread legs.
You continue playing with his hair, testing the texture, the length, watching the way the light catches the blonde. His hands knead your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts, thumbs hooking under the elastic.
Your gaze drops to his neck, to the constellation of moles scattered there that you've memorized without meaning to. You lean down and kiss one, just below his ear, and feel him shudder. Then another, lower, where his pulse beats visibly beneath skin. You tug his hair—gently at first, then harder when he groans, the sound vibrating against your lips.
"Fuck," he breathes, hands tightening on your ass. "I've been thinking about this all week."
"Yeah?" You tug harder, and his head falls back, exposing more of his throat.
"Yeah." His voice is wrecked already, pupils blown wide behind those glasses. "Couldn't stop thinking about you."
You kiss another mole, teeth grazing, and his hips buck up involuntarily.
Later—much later—you're both panting on the floor, sprawled on the decorative shaggy rug Robin had insisted you needed, the bristles scratching against your damp skin. The glasses are askew on Steve's face, one lens smudged, and he's staring at the ceiling with a crooked smile.
"Jesus," he whispers, chest still heaving.
You look over at him, propping yourself up on one elbow. Sweat has made his hair stick up in odd directions, the blonde streaks even more visible now, and there's a hickey blooming purple on his collarbone that you don't remember making but must have.
You sit up fully, reaching for the shirt he'd pulled off you earlier—his henley, you realize, not yours—and tug it over your head along with your shorts that had ended up near your desk. You have no clue where your shirt is.
"You hungry?" you ask, standing and stretching. Your legs feel like jelly.
Steve's still lying there, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest bare and marked with your fingerprints in faint red lines, competing against his pink scars. "Yeah, I could eat."
"Cool, I'll order a pizza."
He almost looks like he's going to argue—his mouth opens, brow furrowing like he wants to protest or suggest something else—but then he closes it and nods. He clears his throat, sitting up to reach for his jeans. "Yeah. Okay. Pizza sounds good."
You pad over to your desk, fishing out the menu for the place that delivers until midnight, and call in the order while Steve finishes getting dressed. When you come back in, he has only his jeans pulled up to his waist. You can feel him watching you, that heavy gaze tracking your movements, possibly looking at how his shirt looks on you, but when you glance over he's focused on buttoning his jeans.
You rip off his shirt, tossing it to him, and you notice the way his eyes flashes your bare chest along with a look that tells you he is conflicted if he’d rather you keep it on or take it off. He turns his back to put it on. And then it’s your turn to watch, finding your shirt, pulling it on, staring at how his muscles stretched against his skin. God, did he somehow have even more moles down the line of his back?
He turns, and you don’t look away.
Twenty minutes later, the pizza arrives—only pepperoni, because you'd asked what he wanted and he'd just shrugged and said "whatever you like"—and you're both sitting on the floor with your backs against your bed, the box open between you on the rug.
The room is quiet except for chewing and the occasional rustle of the cardboard box. Steve takes a bite of his slice, cheese stretching in long strings before breaking, and you notice the way he's not quite looking at you. There's something nervous in the set of his shoulders, the way his free hand keeps adjusting his glasses even though they don't need adjusting.
Finally, he speaks. "I, uh... this week I signed up for an intro to child development class."
You stop mid-bite, lowering your slice to look at him. "Really?"
He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes, studying the pizza like it holds the secrets of the universe. "I still haven't made a decision, but I dunno... my advisor thought it'd be good for me to try. See if I actually like it or if it was just—" he waves his hand vaguely, "—wishful thinking."
"Steve." You wait until he looks at you. "That's awesome."
The shorter hair makes it impossible for him to hide the blush that spreads across his cheeks, turning them pink and splotchy. He bites into his slice again, chewing thoroughly, clearly using it as an excuse not to respond right away.
You smile, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the pizza or the physical activity from earlier. You decide it’s because you’re excited for him. "I'm proud of you."
His eyes snap to yours, something vulnerable flickering there. "Yeah?"
The word comes out small, almost disbelieving, and the blush that was already present deepens—spreads from his cheeks down his neck, visible now with the shorter hair that can't hide it. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you've seen before but never quite like this. His shoulders hunch slightly inward, like he's trying to make himself smaller, and his gaze drops to the pizza box, unable to hold eye contact.
It strikes you suddenly, with a clarity that makes your chest ache—this might be the first time anyone has ever said that to him. Ever told him they were proud of him for trying something, for taking a risk that wasn't about popularity or living up to some impossible standard his father set.
"Yeah." You bump your shoulder against his. "That took guts. Trying something new."
He huffs out a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Or stupidity. Haven't decided which yet."
"Definitely guts," you say firmly. Then, because you can't resist, "Plus, if it works out, can you imagine how good you'll look teaching kids while wearing those glasses? You'll be fighting off moms left and right."
Steve chokes on his pizza, coughing and laughing at the same time, and you pat his back helpfully while trying not to laugh yourself.
"A man can only dream," he says when he can breathe again, but he's grinning. Then he adds, “you’re terrible.”
"You love it," you tease, teeth pulling your bottom lip.
"Unfortunately." The word slips out before he seems to realize it, and his eyes widen slightly, like he's said something he didn't mean to.
But you just laugh, reaching for another slice, and the moment passes.
You eat in comfortable silence for a while, and you find yourself studying him in the low lamplight—the new haircut that somehow makes his features sharper, more defined.
It feels domestic in a way that should probably worry you but doesn't.
"So," you say eventually, wiping your hands on a napkin. "President Harrington. How does it feel?"
He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "Exactly the same as before, except now I have to actually show up to meetings."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It will be." He stretches his legs out in front of him, socked feet crossing at the ankle. "But, uh... it's good, I guess. Gives me something to focus on besides—" he stops abruptly.
"Besides what?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head, reaching for another slice. "Just, you know. School. Life. The usual existential dread."
You snort, but don’t press.
"What about you?" He glances at you sideways. "Ready for the semester?"
"Absolutely not." You groan, letting your head fall back against the bed. "I haven't even bought my textbooks yet."
"Hot Shot, classes start Monday."
"I'm aware, thank you."
He laughs, and the sound fills the small room, warm and genuine. "You're a disaster."
"Says the guy who showed up at my dorm on a Saturday night with no warning."
"You let me in."
"Touché." You turn your head to look at him, still leaning against the bed. "I'm weak for the glasses. It's becoming a problem."
Then you look at his hair, licking your lips. You run your fingers through the blonde locks, and you swear he leans towards you, giving you better access. “I like the blonde.”
Steve's smile turns smug, that cocky edge returning. "Good to know."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," he says, and you shove his shoulder, and he shoves back, and suddenly you're both laughing again, the tension from earlier completely dissolved.
When the laughter fades, you find yourself just sitting there, shoulders touching, sharing pizza on your dorm room floor like this is something you do all the time. Like it's normal. And maybe it is, you think.
Maybe this is just what you and Steve are now—whatever this is.
Very good friends.
.-.-.-.
Monday's classes go better than expected. They're the usual first-week affairs—syllabus reviews, introductions, professors setting expectations that seem reasonable now but will inevitably become overwhelming by midterms. And yes, you did end up buying your textbooks, though your bank account is currently weeping over the damage.
You're looking for the classroom for your Art Appreciation elective, squinting at room numbers that seem to follow no logical pattern, when you reach a door at the exact same moment as someone else. You bump slightly, shoulder colliding with an arm.
"Oh, I'm sorry—" You look up and your face breaks into an immediate smile, eyes widening. "Oh! Hi!"
It's Sammy, looking equally pleased to see you, though there's a nervous energy radiating off him that's almost endearing. God, what is he? Like six feet tall? Maybe more? He towers over you, but somehow doesn't make you feel small—just makes you acutely aware of the height difference. His smile is charming, easy, those green eyes crinkling at the corners as he points into the classroom.
"Are you taking Art Appreciation?"
You nod. "Yeah! Taking it as an elective. What about you?"
"Same here."
You both look at one another, and you feel warm under his green-eyed gaze. There's something open about the way he looks at you, none of the complicated layers you've grown used to navigating.
He clears his throat, making a motion with his hands toward the door. "Ladies first."
You smile, stepping into the classroom and scanning for a seat. You choose one about halfway back—not too eager, not too disengaged—and settle in, pulling out your notebook and a pen.
Sammy grins at you but doesn't sit next to you. Instead, he approaches another boy a few rows over, someone you vaguely recognize wearing the same Greek letters as Sammy's frat. They do an elaborate handshake-fist-bump combination that speaks to years of friendship, and Sammy drops into the seat beside him.
But as soon as he's settled, his eyes drift over to you.
And you're unashamedly looking at him too.
His smile widens, just slightly, before he turns his attention to the front of the classroom as the professor begins going over the syllabus.
Once class is over—a mercifully short fifty minutes of the professor explaining grading policies and showing slides of art movements you'll be studying—you purposefully take your time putting your belongings in your bag. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sammy talking to his frat brother, leaning in to say something that makes the other guy laugh and clap him on the shoulder.
"I'll catch you at the house later," Sammy says, loud enough for you to hear, before adjusting the strap of his satchel. Because of course he carries a satchel instead of a backpack, brown leather that looks expensive and well-worn, probably a gift from his parents.
He makes his way over slowly, deliberately, like he doesn't want to seem too eager but also can't quite help himself.
"Hey," he says.
You're cool, collected. "Hi." You turn, slinging your backpack over one shoulder. "Excited for this class after today?"
"Well..." He pauses, considering. "At first, no. But now..." He makes a point to scan you, gaze traveling from your face down to your feet and back up again in a way that should probably annoy you but doesn't. He clears his throat, looking at his watch. "I have a break before my next class. Do you want to grab lunch with me?"
You hug your textbook to your chest. "Sure."
You end up at one of the little lunch spots just outside the quad—a sandwich place with outdoor seating, red umbrellas providing shade even though it’s January.
Sammy had insisted on paying despite your protests, waving away your wallet with an easy smile and a "my treat" that felt natural. Now you're sitting across from him at a small metal table, your empty plate pushed to the side, watching him try to explain something that clearly delights him.
You're laughing, properly laughing, the kind that makes your shoulders shake. "Okay, okay. So how exactly did your brother get stuck in the wall?"
"We still have no idea!" Sammy's grinning, hands gesturing animatedly. "Pretty sure it was my other brother, Sawyer. But Simon wouldn't tell us. Just kept saying he 'slipped.'"
"How did no one notice for four hours?" You lean forward, propping your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hand, genuinely invested in this story.
Sammy laughs, his hand coming up to cover his face, shaking his head. His cheeks are red, embarrassed but in a fond way. "It's a big family. Sometimes it's easy to lose track. There's Sawyer, Sally, me, the twins Shaun and Seth, and Simon."
"And I see your parents have a trend with S names."
Sammy laughs again, shrugging with a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, my mom thought it would be cute. It's a nightmare when you're trying to get someone's attention and you have to run through the whole list. Even poor Sally is a victim."
There's a moment of comfortable silence, both of you smiling, and then he chuckles to himself, glancing at his watch. His eyebrows raise. "God, it's nearly been an hour and a half. I should get going to my next class" He looks up, and there's something nervous in his expression now, hopeful but cautious. "Is it a bad time to maybe see if a date is still on the table sometime?"
You tilt your head, feigning confusion. "I thought this was a date?"
The corner of his mouth lifts, pleased. He brushes back his dark hair with one hand. "I wasn't sure, since you never called me back over break."
Your face falters a little. You pinch your lips to the side, leaning back in your chair, guilt settling in your stomach. You remember it clearly—one afternoon, your mom calling up the stairs that you had a boy named Sammy on the phone. You'd been in the middle of reading, comfortable and warm under a blanket, and you'd called back down to tell her to say you'd call him back.
But you never did.
You chew the inside of your cheek briefly. "Yeah... sorry. I was just really busy... and—"
Sammy cuts you off, shrugging easily. "I get it. You don't know me all that well."
"Well... no... that's not it. I just..." You take a deep breath, deciding honesty is probably the best approach here. "Look, I'm going to be totally honest with you. You seem really sweet, and I do want to go on a date with you, but I don't really want to lead you on with hopes of being anything serious."
"I see," Sammy says slowly, processing this. His expression doesn't close off, exactly—just becomes more thoughtful.
You let out another sigh. "I don't want to get involved if you're not aware that I'm seeing other people."
Well, not really people. One person. But he doesn't have to know who.
Sammy nods, looking at you for a long moment, those green eyes steady and considering. Then his smile comes back, slow and knowing. He tilts his head. "Who says that I'm not okay with that? Why can't I want both? To take you on a nice date... and who knows what happens right after."
Warmth floods your cheeks and settles between your legs. You don't break eye contact with him, even as your pulse picks up. "This Friday."
He smirks, leaning back in his chair. "That eager?"
You roll your eyes. "Pick me up at my dorm at eight."
He narrows his eyes, that toothy grin spreading. "Okay. Dress cute."
You let the comment slide, choosing instead to stand and gather your things. "See you Thursday in class?"
"Can't wait," Sammy says, standing as well. He gives you one last deliberate up-and-down look before walking away, satchel swinging at his hip.
You watch him go, that warmth still present in your cheeks, and wonder if you've just made things more complicated or simply more interesting.
Later, you and Robin are in your dorm room. Robin is hanging upside down off her bed, face slowly turning red from the blood rushing to her head, textbook open on the floor beneath her.
"Remind me why I became an English major?" she groans. "I can't take it. How do we have assignments due next week already? Maybe I should drop out. Do you think it's hard to be a deejay? Always thought Rockin’ Robin would be a good stage name."
You roll your eyes, not looking up from your own reading. "It's not that bad, Rob. And you say this like you're not the top student in the department."
Robin blushes, the color even more visible with her already flushed face. "It's a curse. Now I have to be good or our professors are going to do a wellness check on me."
You grab a crumpled piece of paper from your desk and throw it at her forehead. It bounces off with a satisfying thwack.
Robin tries to reach for the paper to throw it back, overextending, and suddenly she's slipping, tumbling off the bed in an ungraceful heap of limbs and swearing.
You both burst out laughing, the sound filling the small dorm room, and for a moment everything feels simple and uncomplicated.
.-.-.-.
Wednesday night finds you in the backseat of Steve's BMW, panting, coming down from the heated frenzy of fucking in a parking lot. You slip off him carefully, pulling your skirt back down over your thighs. You're both still mostly dressed—your shirt rucked up, his jeans pulled down just enough, nothing removed entirely because there wasn't time, wasn't patience for that.
Steve collects himself, fingers fumbling slightly as he slips off the condom and ties it, reaching forward to drop it in the small plastic bag he keeps in the front seat. Then he's pulling up his jeans, buttoning them, his other hand running through his blonde-streaked hair. His face is flushed even in the dark, lips swollen from kissing your neck.
You hadn't planned this at all. You'd just happened to be walking back from the library, backpack heavy with books you'd been pretending to study, when you'd seen him walking from the rec center. It was a little after eight, and he didn't look sweaty or like he'd just showered, so you'd wondered why he'd been there.
You'd called out his name, and he'd turned, face lighting up in a way that made something warm bloom in your chest.
You both chatted for a few minutes—generic small talk, how was your day, how's the first week of classes going, the usual things people say when they're trying to figure out if something more is on the table.
And then you'd suggested continuing the conversation in his car.
You'd both known what that meant.
Now you sit there in the cooling aftermath, your breathing slowly returning to normal, the windows fogged from your combined heat. You look through the condensation at the rec center, its windows still lit up on the first floor.
"What were you doing before I ran into you?" you ask.
Steve looks startled, then a little shy, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Oh... uh... I'm volunteering for this after-school program on Wednesdays. For kids. They come and we kind of do a bit of everything, like tutoring and then play games." He pauses, and you notice the way he's choosing his words carefully. "Polly..." He mentions her name, looking at you for a second, almost like he's watching for a reaction.
His face drops a little when you don't have one.
"She teaches a yoga class in the mornings and she heard about it, and mentioned it to me."
"That's cool," you say, and you mean it. You feel a sort of admiration for him, mixed with the realization that maybe you've underestimated him. "You're taking this teaching thing really seriously."
You watch his face change—something conflicted passing over his features. He shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "Nah, it's more to get volunteer hours for the frat. I'll probably end up getting bored quickly anyway."
The words land heavy in your chest.
You recall the rules—the ones he'd laid out so carefully at the beginning. Either party can end it whenever they want. If he gets bored.
You wonder how many girls there have been that he felt bored by. How many times he's done exactly this before deciding it wasn't worth the effort anymore.
Reality crashes in as you examine him in the dim light—the blonde streaks in his hair catching what little illumination filters through the fogged windows, the fading hickey on his neck that you know you didn't put there.
You realize that if you talk more, this might be blurring the line of the rule for no pillow talk. But then again, does it count since you're not tangled together cuddling or in an actual bed? This is just like when you sat on the floor of your dorm room and shared pizza.
But you don't want to cross any lines. Don't want to give him a reason to invoke that clause about getting bored.
"I should get going." You pick up your bag from the floorboard where you'd thrown it before your mouth had been occupied with his neck.
As you shift, preparing to leave, you catch sight of the hickey again. The one you didn't make. It's small—one wouldn't even notice it unless they were looking closely, positioned just below his ear. You'd seen it earlier and avoided it, kissing around it, next to it, marking the areas beside the mark that isn't yours.
When you'd first spotted it, you'd felt a sudden territorial nerve spike through you. Not jealousy, you'd told yourself. Just something biological coming over you in the heated moment. A little bit of hatred that was purely physical, purely chemical.
Steve grabs your wrist as you reach for the door handle, then immediately lets go like he's been burned. "Hey, uh... Eddie scored tickets to this gig in the city on Friday. You in?"
You keep your face cool, neutral. "Sorry, I can't."
He laughs, smug and easy, like he's already sure of your answer. "Why, you got a date?" He teases like it's become an inside joke between you.
You're serious, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "Yes, actually."
He blinks. His face falls, smile disappearing completely as he looks away. But he makes no further comment, no follow-up question. "Oh... okay."
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. "I just figured it'd be okay since you see other people that I'm allowed to, too."
Steve's brows furrow, jaw tightening. "I'm not one of those assholes who says you can't. I'm not stopping you." The muscle in his jaw flexes visibly. He adds, voice flat, "Don't need my permission."
"Well, I really wasn't asking for it," you say, and there's more attitude in your voice than you intended.
He groans, hand coming up to his forehead like he has a headache. "Look, I..." He pauses, like the words are physically difficult to get out, like he's going to vomit. "I don't care if you got a date with someone else." Then he mutters, quieter, "Not like I'm gonna fuck you again this week, so do whatever you want."
You don't know why you're mad. You don't know why you're getting defensive, why your chest feels tight and your hands are clenched into fists. You don't know why maybe you wish he would be upset, would care, so that maybe you could tease him about it, could make it into something playful instead of this cold dismissal.
But he doesn't seem to care.
"Fine. Whatever."
"Wait!" he calls out when you open the door and step out into the cool night air.
You try to close it, but Steve has crawled on his knees across the seat, eyes frantic, hand stopping the door from closing completely. You have to lean down a little to see his face through the gap, and you feel that pinch in your chest when you see how the parking lot lights illuminate his hair, make his skin look warm and golden. You're still so pissed.
"What?"
His jaw ticks. "I'll see you next week."
"Maybe. If I'm not too busy."
He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. He's smirking, but there's something sharp underneath it. His hazel eyes are piercing, intense. "That wasn't a question, Hot Shot."
"And I said maybe. We'll see how this date goes."
That finally gets him. His jaw snaps shut and he gives you the same burning look he had when you'd kissed Eddie at the party—possessive and wounded and furious all at once.
There's no "good night" this time. You shut the door and scurry off before you can make the mistake of jumping back into the backseat and fucking him again, before you can do something stupid like ask why he has someone else's mark on his neck or why the thought of him being bored makes you feel all wonky.
Robin is already asleep when you get back to the dorm, her textbook open next to her face, drool on her chin, one arm hanging off the bed.
You smile despite your mood and move the textbook carefully, setting it on her desk. You grab a blanket from the foot of her bed and drape it over her. Robin is a heavy sleeper and doesn't stir, just makes a small sound and burrows deeper into her pillow.
When you're finally ready—teeth brushed, face washed, pajamas on—you lay in your own bed and stare at the ceiling. Your blood is still boiling. Fuming.
And why are you so fucking pissed off about the hickey still?
.-.-.-.
Friday night, Sammy ends up pulling into the parking lot at 8:32. You're acutely aware he's technically late because Eddie had picked up Robin at eight sharp, and you'd been able to see Steve in the passenger seat, looking at you through the windshield before deliberately turning away. You have made a point to acknowledge him, turning slightly so you can’t be tempted to see if he looked at you again.
Robin had insisted on staying until Sammy arrived, but you'd told her no, that you'd be fine waiting the few minutes. Eddie's van had peeled off with a rumble of exhaust and loud music bleeding through the closed windows.
When Sammy finally pulls up, he waves at you from inside, leaning over to push open the passenger door from the inside. There's an apologetic look on his face, eyebrows drawn together in genuine regret.
"Hey, so sorry I’m late. Someone managed to let loose two pigs in the Alpha Tau house right when I was about to leave to come get you." He shakes his head, running a hand through his dark hair. "Would've been here earlier, but it took us an hour to catch them both."
You can't help but smile as you slide into the passenger seat, the interior clean and smelling faintly of the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. "It's okay. And that's... wow." You laugh, buckling your seatbelt. "Two pigs?"
You wonder who managed to pull that off.
Sammy sighs, pulling out of the parking lot. "I know. I'm—" He stops to rub his face with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel, then looks at you. Really looks, his eyes traveling over you in a way that makes you glad you'd spent the extra twenty minutes getting ready. "You look really pretty."
"Thank you." You smooth your dress over your thighs—a simple blue number that hits mid-thigh, nothing too fancy but definitely nicer than your usual attire. "You look handsome."
And he does. Dark jeans, a button-down in deep green that brings out his eyes, sleeves rolled to his elbows showing tanned forearms. His hair is styled with what looks like minimal product, just enough to keep it from falling in his face.
He looks at you for a moment, something warm and appreciative in his expression, and you laugh. "Are we going to go somewhere, or...?"
And honestly, you wouldn't mind either way. The car is comfortable, he smells good—cologne mixing with laundry detergent—and there's something easy about being in this space with him.
Sammy blushes, the color visible even in the dim light from the dashboard. "Oh yeah, right." Then he drives, pulling onto the main road that leads away from campus.
He takes you to a restaurant about fifteen minutes off campus—not a chain, but a local Italian place with checkered tablecloths and candles in old wine bottles, the kind of spot that's trying for romantic without being too over-the-top about it. The hostess seats you at a corner table, and Sammy pulls out your chair before you can do it yourself.
"Thank you," you say, settling in as he takes his own seat across from you.
The conversation flows easily enough. He asks about your major, and you ask about his—accounting, which makes sense given the organized way he'd laid out his napkin and silverware, a piece of paper in his car you saw with neat handwriting.
"Why accounting?" you ask, taking a sip of water. The restaurant is warm, almost too warm, and you're glad you'd worn short sleeves.
"Honestly?" Sammy leans back in his chair, that charming smile playing at his lips. "I'm good with numbers. Always have been. And my dad's an accountant, so I kind of grew up around it." He shrugs. "Seemed like the practical choice."
Practical. The word sits between you, neither good nor bad, just there.
"What made you join a fraternity?" you ask, genuinely curious. He doesn't seem like the typical frat guy—too clean-cut, too earnest, none of that aggressive bravado you've seen from others. Not like— nope.
Sammy grins, and there's something almost rehearsed about the way he answers. "I've been surrounded by brothers my whole life, so it'd feel weird not to have more." He pauses, then adds, "Plus, the networking is great for my major. Half the accounting firms recruit directly from Greek life."
Networking. Practical. You nod, filing these observations away.
The waiter comes and takes your orders—you get chicken parmesan, he gets fettuccine alfredo—and the conversation continues. Sammy talks about his family, and you find yourself entertained by his stories about his siblings, the chaos of growing up in a house with six kids, the elaborate pranks they'd pull on each other.
But you notice, as the night wears on, that he doesn't ask you much. Not really. He asks about your major, about where you're from, surface-level questions that you answer easily. But he doesn't ask why you chose your major, or what you want to do with it, or anything that requires you to dig deeper than the basics.
When you ask him about his goals after graduation, he launches into a detailed explanation about CPA certification and climbing the corporate ladder. When he asks you the same question, and you start to talk about how you're still figuring it out, how you're not sure what you want yet, he nods along but his eyes glaze slightly, like he's waiting for you to finish rather than actually listening.
"That's cool," he says when you trail off. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."
The food arrives, and you eat, and it's good—the chicken is perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and tangy— you try not to think about the chicken parmesan you had at Thanksgiving. Sammy tells you about the pig incident in more detail, how they'd finally cornered both animals in the basement laundry room, and you laugh because it is genuinely funny.
But there's something missing. Some spark or connection or depth that you can't quite name. Like you're both performing "first date" rather than actually being on one.
Still, he's nice. Polite. He doesn't monopolize the conversation entirely, even if his questions don't dig very deep. He pays for dinner without making a big show of it, and when you walk back to his car, he opens your door again.
The drive back to campus is quieter, a comfortable silence filled by the radio playing something soft and inoffensive. You watch the streetlights pass, the campus buildings coming into view, and try to figure out how you feel about the night.
It was nice. That's the word that keeps coming back. Nice.
Sammy pulls into the parking lot of your dorm and turns off the car, the engine ticking as it cools. He sits there nervously, hands on the steering wheel, waiting for you to speak.
"I had a nice time," you say, and you mean it. You did. Nice.
God, you’re an English major, there are other words than nice.
"Yeah, me too," he answers, and there's relief in his voice, like he'd been worried you hadn't.
You look at his lips—full, well-shaped, the kind that probably look good in photographs. And you realize, with a start, how much you've missed kissing someone. Not the frantic, heated kissing that leads to more, but just kissing for the sake of it. Slow, exploratory, getting to know someone through the press of mouths.
You never knew you could be sexually deprived from only kissing, but apparently you can, because your mouth literally aches with wanting it.
Sammy looks at your lips too, tongue darting out to wet his own, and he leans in shyly. "You're really cute," he says, voice soft.
You know what he's doing. Trying to butter you up so when he leans in all the way, you'll accept it, you'll want it. But you kind of wish he'd just do it already, skip the preamble and just kiss you.
But you play along anyway. "Yeah?" You lean in, closing more of the distance between you.
You think he's going to press his lips to yours when he stops, barely an inch away, and asks, "Can I kiss you?"
You have to fight back an eye roll. The momentum is completely gone now, shattered by the question. You wish he would just do it. You're clearly both into this, both want it, so why is he being so... slow? So careful? But who else is going to kiss you tonight?
"Yeah," you mutter, eyes fluttering closed.
When his lips finally meet yours, you can't help but compare it to the last kiss at the bonfire—months ago now, when you'd both been drunk and sloppy and desperate. This is more sober-minded. Less messy. Controlled.
It's nic— pleasant.
He's a good kisser, technically speaking. Knows how to angle his head, how to apply the right amount of pressure, when to part his lips slightly to deepen it. There's nothing wrong with it.
But your mind betrays you, straying to wonder what Steve would kiss like. Would it be like this? Slow and sweet and technically proficient? Or would it make your body ache for more, would it be consuming and desperate and utterly overwhelming?
You need more. Need to stop thinking. So you grab Sammy's hand and place it over your breast, letting out a sigh when he squeezes gently. He opens his mouth in response, letting your tongues meet, and it's good, it's fine, it's exactly what this should be.
Your hand moves from the back of his head, fingers that had been tangled in his hair sliding down his chest to his thigh. You can feel him harden under your touch, his breath hitching, and it becomes heavy petting—hands and mouths and the windows starting to fog slightly.
Then Sammy pulls away, chuckling breathlessly. He wipes the spit from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then wipes that on his pants. He looks at you, eyes dark and wanting but also... restrained. "We can take it slow, yeah?"
No, you think. No, I don't want slow. I want fast and hard and consuming.
"Yeah, of course," you say instead.
His smile widens, pleased. "Is it maybe too early to ask for a second date?"
"No," you say, because what else are you going to say?
He leans in and offers a quick, chaste kiss—completely different from the one moments before, almost juvenile in its brevity. "Can't wait. See you Tuesday? In class?"
"Yeah," you respond, smiling because that's what you're supposed to do. You adjust your dress strap that had slipped down your shoulder and get out of the car.
He drives off, waving at you through the window with a shy smile, and you wave back before turning toward your building.
Tessa is at the desk again, feet propped up, talking on the front desk landline. She waves at you without interrupting her conversation, and you wave back, heading for the stairs.
You walk up to your room, fishing your key out of your small purse, and unlock the door. The room is dark, and immediately you hear loud snores—God, Robin must have had a wild night wherever they'd gone. You walk in carefully, not wanting to turn on the light and wake her, heading toward your dresser to change into something more comfortable.
That's when you trip over something.
You let out a yelp as your foot catches on what feels like a body, and whoever it is makes an "oomph" sound.
"What the hell?" you whisper-shout, heart pounding.
The lamp on Robin's side clicks on, and she sleepily rubs her eyes, squinting at you. The light fills the room, and you look down to see two bodies on the floor—Steve and Eddie, both still fully dressed, sprawled on the thin rug between your beds.
"Easy there, Hot Shot," Steve mumbles. He's the one you tripped over, and he's pushing himself up on one elbow, hair mussed and sticking up at odd angles, glasses nowhere to be seen, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep.
Robin yawns, stretching. "Sorry... is it okay if they stay here? I had to drive these two dinguses home because they got too drunk to stay the whole time at the show."
Eddie is still passed out, face-down, the source of the thunderous snoring. But Steve is staring right at you, his eyes assessing, taking in your dress, your slightly smudged makeup, the fact that you're just now getting home. He swallows, looking away briefly before his gaze returns to you, something unreadable flickering there.
You shrug, trying for casual. "Yeah, it's fine."
You rummage through your dresser, pulling out an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, acutely aware of Steve's eyes tracking your movements. You grab your toiletry bag and head to the bathroom down the hall, taking your time washing your face, brushing your teeth, changing into your sleep clothes.
When you come back, Robin is already asleep again, soft snores mixing with Eddie's louder ones. But your lamp is on now, casting a warm glow over your side of the room.
And Steve has moved. He's no longer where you'd left him, sprawled near the door. Now he's closer to your bed, his back against the wall beneath your window, knees pulled up, arms resting on them. He's still dressed in jeans and a dark t-shirt, socked feet crossed at the ankle. His eyes are closed, but you can tell he's not actually asleep.
You crawl into your bed carefully, the springs creaking softly. You reach over to switch off the lamp, and the room plunges into darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside filtering through the thin curtains.
You settle under your blanket, facing the wall, trying to get comfortable. The room is quiet except for the snoring and the occasional car passing outside.
Then you hear it. So quiet you almost miss it, barely more than a whisper, coming from right beside your bed.
"Night, Hot Shot."
.-.-.-.
The Pike winter formal is hosted at a hotel in the city—not one of the luxury high-rises with marble lobbies and crystal chandeliers, but a mid-range place with decent carpet and functioning air conditioning. The ballroom they've rented isn't elaborately decorated, but there's effort visible in the details: white and gold streamers draped across the ceiling, balloon arrangements in the corners, a few rented spotlights casting colored patterns across the dance floor. You suspect most of the decorating was done by some of the guys' girlfriends, judging by the coordination of the centerpieces on each table.
You'd been invited. Just because. At least according to Steve when he'd mentioned it offhandedly a week ago, leaning against your doorframe like the invitation was no big deal, like he hadn't been avoiding eye contact with you since the car incident.
Whatever irritation exists between you hadn't stopped you from having another late-night rendezvous in his bedroom two nights ago. You'd known he was still angry because neither of you had spoken. No heated words, no playful banter, no conversation at all. Just torn clothes and your body pushed over the edge of his bed while he drove into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave a burn, his breath harsh and ragged in your ear but never forming words.
Nancy had come in for the occasion too, taking the bus down Friday afternoon. You'd had to step out of the dorm room earlier while she and Robin were both getting dressed, unable to watch them anymore—the way they kept gravitating toward each other, hands constantly finding excuses to touch, voices going soft and sweet.
"Babe, you look so gorgeous."
"No, you look gorgeous."
"Stop, you're going to make me cry and ruin my makeup."
"Then stop being so beautiful."
It had been too much. Too intimate. You'd grabbed your own dress and makeup bag and finished getting ready in the communal bathroom down the hall.
Now you're in the hotel ballroom, bass thumping through the speakers as bodies crowd the dance floor. Robin's arm is hooked into Steve's, the two of them playing their parts perfectly—laughing at something one of Steve's frat brothers is saying, Steve's hand resting possessively on Robin's lower back. Nancy stands a few feet away, and you keep catching the way she looks at Robin. Sad and longing, her eyes tracking Robin's movements even while she's mid-conversation with someone else. They came together but not really, not in the way they wish they could.
Eddie is dressed nice like he was at the New Year's party—black slacks and a button-down that's actually tucked in, his hair pulled back in a low ponytail that shows off his sharp jawline. After his drunken night two weeks ago that had ended with him passed out on your dorm room floor, he'd claimed abstinence from alcohol for at least a month. But he's one hundred percent in the clouds high, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, grin perpetually plastered across his face as he sways slightly to the music.
And you—your arm is hooked into Sammy's.
Sammy, who'd picked you up right on time, who'd complimented your dress three times before you even got to his car. Sammy, the boy you have lunch with after Tuesday and Thursday classes now, sharing a table at the sandwich place that's become "your spot" without either of you officially claiming it. The boy you've had two more dates with since that first one—a movie on Sunday where his hand had found yours in the darkness, and coffee on Wednesday that had turned into three hours of talking about nothing in particular. The boy you still haven't slept with but really, really want to, if only he'd stop being so frustratingly careful and slow about everything.
The boy Steve Harrington keeps staring at like he wants to set him on fire with his mind alone.
You'd felt it the moment you and Sammy had arrived together, Sammy's hand on the small of your back as he guided you through the hotel lobby. Steve's eyes had found you immediately, tracked your entrance, his jaw going tight as concrete. His gaze had dragged over Sammy—assessing, dismissive, proprietary—before landing back on you with something that made your stomach flip. Not quite anger. Not quite hurt. Something burning and complicated that lived between the two.
The night has continued like that. Every time you look up, Steve is watching. Every time Sammy's hand finds your waist or his lips get close to your ear to speak over the music, Steve's hands ball into fists. His smile never falters though—the practiced, easy one he wears like armor—but his eyes tell a different story entirely. They follow you across the dance floor, trace the line of your dress, linger on Sammy's hand where it rests on your hip, and burn with something volcanic.
At one point in the night, after dancing wildly to a string of fast songs that have left you breathless and warm, Sammy leans in close. "I see some brothers I should probably say hi to. I'll find you in a bit?"
"Yeah, of course." You smile, and he presses a quick kiss to your temple before disappearing into the crowd.
You make your way over to Eddie, who's standing near the edge of the dance floor, clearly people-watching with the kind of glazed contentment only weed can provide.
"Hey," you say, bumping your shoulder against his.
"Hot Shot." He grins, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "You having fun?"
"Yeah." You settle into his side, letting yourself people-watch too—something you haven't been able to do properly in a while, always too busy being watched yourself.
Your eyes find Steve immediately, like a compass finding north. He's with Nancy and Robin now, the three of them standing in a loose triangle, drinks in hand. Nancy is saying something that makes Robin laugh, her head tipping back, and Steve smiles at them both with genuine warmth. But then his eyes lift, find yours across the room like they've been searching, and he holds your gaze while taking a long, slow sip of his drink.
Your breath catches.
There's nothing that can happen tonight between you—you'd hooked up two days ago, used up your allotted time, the rules clear and unbreakable. But god, he looks good. The white suit shouldn't work on him—it's bold, almost ostentatious, the kind of thing that would make most guys look like they're trying too hard. But on Steve, with his blonde-streaked hair and tan skin and the confident way he wears it like he was born in formal wear, it's devastating. The jacket fits perfectly across his shoulders, the white shirt beneath it unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show the hollow of his throat, and when he moves you can see the way the fabric pulls across his back, his arms, the lean muscle underneath.
He's not wearing his glasses though. That detail registers with a small, private disappointment. He only wears them when he wants to hook up, you've learned. When he wants your attention in that specific way. Tonight he's just Steve Harrington, Pike president, Robin's devoted boyfriend, nothing to signal that he's thinking about you at all.
Except for the way he's looking at you now. Like he's memorizing you. Like he's imagining something he can't have.
"You two are exhausting," Eddie mutters, and you realize you're still staring.
"What?"
"Nothing." He shakes his head, grinning. "Absolutely nothing."
Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts in, sweet and edged with something playful.
"Well, Munson, I had no idea you could look like a respectable person of society."
Eddie's entire body goes rigid. He rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't fall out of his head before turning to face Polly with a smile that's pure sarcasm.
You've never seen Eddie irritated with anyone before, especially not pretty girls like Polly. But the look he gives her now is withering, his gaze dragging up and down her body in a way that should be appreciative but somehow comes across as critical.
"And I had no idea you'd be here at all. Who even invited you?."
Polly smiles, unbothered, her red hair catching the colored lights as she tilts her head. "I have my ways, Munson. You're not the only one with connections, you know." She pauses, her expression shifting into something coy. "Besides, some of us don't need a formal invitation to show up looking this good."
Eddie scoffs. "Looking good doesn't mean you're welcome."
"And looking respectable doesn't mean you've changed," she shoots back without missing a beat. "Still the same Eddie who thinks showing up is the same as making an effort."
"I'm making plenty of effort not to leave right now, thank you very much."
"Oh please, you're not going anywhere." Her smile widens. "You're having too much fun pretending you're not having fun."
Eddie's jaw twitches, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a way that betrays his agitation. "You're real cute when you're trying to be clever."
"And you're real obvious when you're trying to pretend you don't care."
You watch them, fascinated. There's something electric in the air between them, something that crackles and sparks like a live wire. They're standing too close, leaning in even as they're verbally sparring, and you're not entirely sure if they want to kill each other or—
"Okay," you interrupt. "Do you two hate each other?"
They both laugh, the sound coming out simultaneously, and exchange a look that makes you feel like you're intruding on something private.
"Hate?" Eddie turns back to you, grin widening. "'Course not. But would I want to be alone in a room with her? Definitely not."
Polly lets out a laugh that's honey-sweet, her Texas accent coming through stronger. "Oh really? You wanted to be alone with me when you asked me on that date first semester freshman year. Right before you stood me up."
Eddie groans, throwing his head back. "Oh please, I did not stand you up. I told you I couldn't make it anymore."
"Thirty minutes before!"
"That's not standing you up, that's rescheduling!"
"Rescheduling requires suggesting a new time, Munson!"
Eddie turns to you, gesturing at Polly with exasperation. "She won't let me live it down. It's been over a year."
"Because it was rude!" Polly's cheeks are flushed now, whether from anger or something else, you can't tell.
Eddie waves his hand dismissively, but there's something in his eyes—something warm despite the irritation. "Go be cute somewhere else," he mumbles.
And unfortunately for him, you hear it.
So does Polly, apparently, because her entire demeanor shifts. The sharp edge softens, something uncertain flickering across her face before she masks it with that same sweet smile. She gives Eddie a look—slow, assessing, her gaze dropping from his face down his body and back up in a way that's unmistakably interested—before tilting her head.
"Maybe I didn't come over here for you, Munson." Her eyes shift to you.
Eddie looks between the two of you, processing, then lets out an exasperated sigh. "Christ. I'm not high enough for this." He extracts himself from beside you and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
You're left alone with Polly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. You have no idea what's about to come out of her mouth, and your mind is already running through escape routes.
But then Polly smiles—genuinely, warmly—and says, "I wanted to tell you I really love your dress."
You look down at the blue satin dress you'd spent an hour deliberating over, the way it hugs your curves and hits mid-thigh, the thin straps that had seemed like a good idea until you stepped into the air-conditioned ballroom. "Thank you."
And because it’s completely and totally true, you reply, "You look really pretty."
Polly does. Her dress is a soft pink, fitted at the top and flowing at the bottom, making her look like something out of a fairy tale. Her red hair is curled and pinned half-up, and she's wearing more makeup than usual, her eyes lined and dramatic.
Her smile widens. "Thank you."
She lets out a small sigh, her fingers playing with the stem of her drink. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. I want you to know... I know you're the new girl Steve's been seeing."
Your brain immediately goes into fight-or-flight mode. Is this a confrontation? Do you need to run? You've never been in this situation before—standing face-to-face with someone else who's sleeping with the same guy. Your muscles tense, preparing for—what? A slap? An insult?
But Polly is looking at you with something that almost looks like admiration. She must notice your anxiety because she holds up a hand, letting out a small laugh. "I'm sorry, that's a little forward. I didn't mean that to be intimidating. I just... wanted—well, I don't know." She pauses, searching for words. "You always seem so laid back. Like... to be frank, just cool. What does he call you again? Hot Shot?"
You're taken aback, completely thrown off balance. You're always the one watching others, analyzing, staying on the periphery. But now to be the one watched, to be the subject of someone else's observation—it's weird. Unsettling.
You let out a breath. "Oh... uh... so do you know the other girls too?"
Polly nods. "Yes. I mean, we're not friends or anything, but I talk with them sometimes. You know, compare notes." She says it lightly, like it's the most normal thing in the world.
You finally crack a smile, some of the tension bleeding out. "I suppose we should start having a weekly support group."
"As long as it's not about him, then sure." Polly giggles, the sound bright and genuine. "Once a month is all I need with Steve Harrington."
The words don't register at first. You're still smiling, still in the moment, but then they sink in.
"Once a month?"
Polly smiles, taking a sip of her drink. "Yeah. The rule that he won't sleep with anyone more than once a month."
Your eyes snap toward Steve. Your brows furrow, confusion knotting in your chest as you watch him laugh at something one of his frat brothers is saying, his hand coming up to run through his hair, completely oblivious to the small bomb Polly just dropped.
Once a month.
Not once a week. Once a month.
You look back at Polly, who's shamelessly looking at Eddie across the room before catching his gaze and smiling when he flips her off.
Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Steve had seen Polly the day after Thanksgiving. But then the next weekend at the party. But wait, that had been December. A new month, technically. And you hadn't really seen Polly around at parties the rest of December, now that you think about it.
But then there’s you. And then winter break. You'd hooked up in his room. Multiple times in one night, but still within the same 24-hour period. January.
The night he'd shown up at your dorm with the new haircut. Still January.
In his car after running into him. Last week. February.
Three nights ago in his room. Still February.
Once a month. Not once a week.
He'd been seeing you multiple times a month. Breaking his own rule. Repeatedly.
Polly doesn't seem to notice the internal crisis you're having, your world tilting slightly on its axis. She's still smiling, her attention divided between you and tracking Eddie's movements across the room.
"You know," she says, turning back to you, "I'd really like to be your friend. Like, actually hang out. Talk about things other than Steve."
She doesn't wait for a response, just smiles and catches sight of someone across the room—another girl in pink waving at her—and walks off with a little wave.
You stand there, drink in hand, trying to process what just happened.
How did I just become friends with one of Steve's other girls? you think, slightly hysterical. And more importantly—what the fuck does "once a month" mean? Does Robin know he’s breaking this rule? Did she know you’ve been seeing him once a week? You two don’t ever talk about it. It’s the biggest elephant in the room… but surely she must know. Right?
You find Sammy again near the refreshment table, talking to another guy from his frat—the same one from art class. When he sees you approaching, his face lights up, excusing himself from the conversation and meeting you halfway.
He kisses your cheek, the gesture sweet and chaste, and your eyes immediately find Steve across the room like they're magnetized.
Steve is watching. His jaw is set, the hand holding his drink gripping so tight you can see the tension in his forearm even from here. His eyes are locked on where Sammy's lips just touched your skin, and when he finally drags his gaze up to meet yours, the intensity in it makes your breath stutter in your chest.
Then the music shifts. The fast, pulsing beat that's been driving the crowd into a frenzy fades out, replaced by something slow and syrupy. The opening notes of "Careless Whisper" fill the ballroom, and couples immediately start pairing off, bodies swaying close together.
"Dance with me?" Sammy asks, already pulling you toward the floor.
"Sure," you say, because what else are you going to say?
His hands find your waist, and yours come up to rest on his shoulders. He pulls you close—not inappropriately so, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne mixing with the faint scent of whatever hair product he uses. He's a good dancer, you realize. Better than you expected. He leads confidently, swaying you both in time with the music, and when he spins you gently, you laugh despite yourself.
But your eyes find Steve again over Sammy's shoulder.
He's dancing with Robin, his arms around her waist, her hands on his shoulders in that same practiced position they've perfected over however long they've been doing this. They look good together—anyone watching would think so. The height difference works, Robin fitting perfectly under his chin, Steve's head bent slightly to hear whatever she's saying that's making her giggle.
But Steve isn't looking at Robin.
He's looking at you.
Even while his “girlfriend” talks to him, even while his hands rest on her waist and they move together in perfect synchronization, his eyes are locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with heat. The colored lights from the dance floor catch in his hair, those blonde streaks gleaming, and shadows play across his face in a way that makes his features look sharper, more dangerous.
The saxophone solo swells, sultry and slow, and Sammy pulls you slightly closer. You let him, leaning into his chest, but you're still watching Steve. Still caught in whatever this is between you—this fucked up push and pull that has no name and no rules except the ones he made that apparently don't even apply to you the same way they apply to everyone else.
Once a month, Polly had said. But not for you.
Steve's jaw tightens as Sammy's hand slides lower on your back, not inappropriately but enough to stake a claim. Steve's eyes track the movement, his fingers flexing on Robin's waist, and even from across the crowded dance floor you can see the way his chest rises and falls with measured breaths, like he's trying to control something violent threatening to break free.
You tilt your head slightly, maintaining eye contact, and watch as Steve's throat works in a hard swallow. Robin says something to him—you can see her lips moving—but he doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge that she spoke. He's too busy staring at you like everyone else in the room has disappeared.
The song continues, George Michael's voice crooning about guilty feet and wasted chances, and the irony isn't lost on you. You're dancing with Sammy, Steve is dancing with Robin, and yet somehow it feels like it's just the two of you in the ballroom, having a conversation without words that's far more intimate than anything happening with your actual dance partners.
Sammy says something near your ear, and you force yourself to look at him, to smile and nod even though you didn't hear a word of it over the blood rushing in your ears. When you glance back at Steve, his expression has shifted into something darker, more frustrated, like your attention being anywhere but on him is physically painful.
But then your gaze shifts, catching on Eddie and Nancy dancing a few couples away. Eddie has his arms around Nancy's waist, swaying her gently, and she's resting her head on his shoulder. But she's not looking at Eddie.
She's looking at Robin.
And when you follow her gaze back, you see Robin looking right back at her, their eyes locked across the space separating them with such naked longing it makes your chest ache. They both look incredibly sad—not crying, nothing that obvious, but there's a weight to their expressions that speaks of wanting something so badly and not being able to have it.
The song transitions into another slow one—"Time After Time" starts up, Cyndi Lauper's voice filling the ballroom—and Sammy tries to pull you closer. His hands slide up your back, drawing you against his chest, but something in you resists.
"Uh, excuse me," you say, stepping back and dropping your hands from his shoulders. "Give me one second."
"Oh, okay—" Sammy looks confused but nods. "Everything alright?"
"Yeah, I just—one second." You're already moving, weaving through the swaying couples toward where Steve and Robin are dancing.
Steve sees you first, a small smile pulling at his lips, something hopeful and questioning in his eyes as you approach. Until you grab Robin's hand and pull her away from him.
"Sorry, I'm cutting in," you say, already dragging Robin toward where Eddie and Nancy are still swaying together.
"What—" Robin starts, but then she sees where you're heading and understanding floods her face.
You grab Nancy's hand next, gently extracting her from Eddie's arms with a look that says trust me. Eddie catches on immediately, stepping back with a knowing grin and a little salute.
And then it's just the three of you—you, Robin, and Nancy—in a small circle on the dance floor. You pull them close, the three of you swaying together, and guide their hands to each other's waists while yours rest on both their shoulders.
"Put your foreheads together," you murmur, and they do, immediately, like they've been waiting for permission.
The moment their foreheads touch, Nancy lets out a small, broken sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. Robin's hand finds hers where it rests on your shoulder, fingers intertwining, and they both squeeze their eyes shut like they're trying to memorize this moment, this contact, this brief allowance of intimacy in a room full of people who can't know.
You sway with them, providing cover, and when you glance down you catch Robin rubbing her thumb across Nancy's knuckles in small, tender circles. The gesture is so intimate, so full of love and longing, that you feel like you're intruding even though you're the one holding them together.
They both look at you then—eyes opening at the same time, tears threatening at the corners—and mouth "thank you" in perfect unison.
And even though you're there, clearly and literally being the third wheel, creating this space for them, it's the most romantic thing you've ever witnessed. More romantic than any of your own dates, any of the times Sammy has been sweet or Steve has made you feel wanted. This—this desperate, stolen moment of two people who love each other being allowed to touch in a way that means something—this is what romance actually looks like.
A part of you wonders if you’ll ever have that. If you’ll even allow it, that is.
The song ends, transitioning into something upbeat again, and you reluctantly step back, letting them separate. They both squeeze your hands once more before melting back into the crowd in different directions—Nancy toward Eddie, Robin back toward Steve who's standing exactly where you left him, watching with an unreadable expression.
You make your way back to Sammy, who's been joined by a couple of his frat brothers but immediately turns his full attention to you when you approach.
"Everything okay?" he asks, concerned.
"Yeah, everything's good." You smile, and he accepts it without question.
"You want to get some air? Walk around a bit? It's getting kind of stuffy in here."
"Yes," you say immediately, grateful for the escape.
He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and leads you out of the ballroom. The hallway is cooler, quieter, the music muffled behind the heavy doors. You can hear it still—the thumping bass, the high-energy beat of whatever's playing now—but it's distant enough to feel like you've entered a different world.
Sammy finds a small alcove near the elevators, a little pocket of space partially hidden by a decorative column. He leans back against the wall, pulling you close so you're standing between his legs, his hands settling on your hips.
He tilts your chin up with one finger, and you know what's coming. "Can I kiss you?"
There it is. Again. Every single time. And every single time you say yes because you aren't going to deny what he might be into, even though the asking has lost its charm, even though you wish he'd just take what he clearly wants.
"Yeah."
The kiss is brief. A peck, really, barely more than a press of lips before he's pulling back with a smile.
Sammy clears his throat, suddenly looking nervous in a way you haven't seen before. His hands fidget on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "So, uh... listen. This might be presumptuous, or I don't know. I was just thinking..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Maybe I wouldn't drive back tonight. Maybe I could book a room? For... us?"
Internally, you're jumping up and down, screaming thank god he's finally getting the hint. Externally, you keep your face interested but not desperate. "Really?"
"Yeah. I mean, I don't want you to feel rushed or—"
You finally break. "Sammy, please. I've been thinking about it all night."
His grin widens, and there's that flirty look he's given you before—at the bonfire, when you danced earlier tonight—the one that suggests there's more underneath his polite exterior. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you flush against him. "Oh really? So you wouldn't be freaked out that I already booked it?"
He reaches into his jacket pocket with one hand and pulls out a keycard, white with the hotel logo, holding it up between two fingers. His teeth gleam in the dim hallway light, and for the first time all night, he looks less like the careful, considerate guy and more like someone who knows exactly what he wants.
You don't wait for him to ask permission. You pull him in for a kiss, setting the tempo this time—harder, faster, your mouth opening against his immediately. He responds with enthusiasm, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, pulling you against him as he pushes off the wall.
And you realize, with a sinking sort of resignation, that Sammy is a sloppy kisser when things get intense. His tongue is too eager, too much too fast, and there's no rhythm to it, no building tension. It's just wet and enthusiastic and... fine. Okay. You can work with this. You've worked with worse.
You're about to deepen the kiss, to try to guide him into something better, when you hear it.
"Oh. Sorry."
You and Sammy break apart, and your stomach drops.
Standing a few feet away is Steve. His face is unreadable—no, that's not true. You can read it perfectly. His jaw is ticked, muscle jumping beneath skin. His fists are balled at his sides, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. His gaze is burning, intense, and slightly glassy like he's had one drink too many or is fighting something back with every ounce of control he has.
But worst of all—your eyes fall on the glasses perched on his nose.
He wasn't wearing them before. You'd noticed specifically, had felt that small prick of disappointment earlier when you realized they were absent.
And your mind immediately wanders to the only explanation that makes sense: he'd come out here looking for you. Had put on the glasses because that's what he does when he wants your attention in that specific way, when he wants to hook up, and he'd come out here to find you. He was going to break his rule… for you.
And instead found you kissing someone else.
You don't have time to process, don't have time to say anything or react, because Steve is already turning around, walking back toward the ballroom with quick, purposeful strides that eat up the hallway.
And you don't run after him.
You don't call his name or make excuses to Sammy or do anything except stand there, watching Steve's back disappear through the doors, the glasses catching the light one more time before he's gone.
"You okay?" Sammy asks, his hand on your lower back, concern in his voice.
"Yeah," you say, forcing yourself to turn and look at him, to smile. "I'm good. Let's go."
He grins, pressing the elevator button, and when it arrives with a soft ding, you let him pull you inside. You let him press you against the wall as the doors close, let him kiss you again as the elevator climbs toward whatever floor he booked. You let him lead you down the hallway to the room, let him fumble with the keycard while his other hand stays on your waist.
And when the door finally opens and he pulls you inside, you don't think about Steve at all.
Chapter Warnings: slow burn friends to lovers, minor character deaths, depictions of loss and grief, discussions of wounds/scars, constant miscommunication, language, drinking
Chapter Summary: you and steve have to find a way to work together and raise your goddaughter together. that's a lot easier than figuring out how you feel about him at any given moment.
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.
It felt wrong, sleeping in Carol and Tommy's bed. The pillow smelled like her shampoo, the mattress was a little caved in where Tommy slept. You turned over and buried your face in the pillow, hiding yourself in the ugly floral bedspread that Carol had registered for. Peach and teal. What kind of lunatic picks peach and teal?
You were trying to believe that they'd be back soon to relieve you from babysitting duties and let you be on your merry way, but with what you had seen, it was hard to believe in much of anything. Grey dust was still raining from the sky when you woke up. Smoke poured from the cracks in the earth, and the night was washed in an eerie red glow.
Something was wrong with Hawkins. A rot in its very foundations, a festering disease. It had been that way for a while— a curse, maybe. That's what your parents thought, at least. The devil is in Hawkins.
And then there was the Steve Harrington of it all.
Steve, who was sleeping on the couch because there wasn't a spare bedroom. Steve, who you could hear making breakfast in the kitchen while Samantha slept. Steve, who was acting like everything was completely normal between the two of you.
You tried to remind yourself that there were more important things going on than your personal issues with Steve. That Samantha might have lost her parents, that the world (or, at least, your world) was carved into quarters and the gray gunk hadn't stopped falling down like rotten snow.
And still… you could hardly even look at him.
Being around Steve had a particular way of twisting up your insides. In making the nostalgia of having him in your life tangle with the ache of being burned by him over and over again. Sometimes you'd see him rocking the baby and there would be a second of longing, a tiny spark snuffed out by all of your anger and hurt.
Steve dropped something in the kitchen, you could hear the clatter against Tommy and Carol's cheap laminate floors. He was trying to be civil, but it just felt like putting a band-aid over a severed artery. You'd keep bleeding and bleeding and bleeding if you stayed around him.
You made yourself get up and look like a human being again. The baby was pretty much sleeping through the night before the quake, but her routine had been completely scrambled. You weren't sure if babies had the capacity to miss their parents, especially so young, but you thought that maybe she did.
But, god, you were exhausted. Your eyes hurt, your head ached, and you hadn't showered in a frankly irresponsible number of days. It felt wrong to shower in your missing friends' shower, using their soaps, drying off with their towels. But afterward, you stared at yourself in the small bathroom mirror through the thin sheen of fog, hair dripping onto your shoulders.
At least you felt a little more human.
By the time you finally joined Steve in the kitchen, he had already made you a stack of pancakes. They were slightly misshapen, and a little burnt, but you were so hungry you could have eaten a lump of charcoal. And you could always drown them in syrup.
He poured you a glass of orange juice, and leaned back against the counter while you ate. The entire time, you were conscious of his eyes on you, his constant attention. After a few bites, you put your fork down and met his gaze with a look of incredulity.
"What?" You asked.
"Finish eating first," he said. "You've barely had anything for the last few days."
You looked out the window, brows furrowing. The grass looked wrong— leached of color, brittle. Everyone was on orders from the military to stay indoors until the adverse weather event was over, but no one was listening. At least half of the street was packing up to leave.
With the way things were looking, with military trucks driving up and down streets… you didn't think that was such a terrible idea. Fences were already going up around the town's perimeter. Who knew how long until escaping Hawkins was impossible?
You took another bite of your pancakes and gave him a look. There, happy? You dropped your fork against the dish and raised an expectant brow. "Just say whatever you're going to say, okay?"
But Steve shook his head, arms crossed. "No, you're always grumpier on an empty stomach—"
"Steve, the sooner you drop the performance of being my very best pal, the better things will go for both of us," you snapped.
Jesus, his insistence on pretending to be an amazing, upstanding guy was driving you fucking crazy. Not once had he addressed the enormous elephant in the room that was your last conversation. Not even an apology, not even an acknowledgement.
Hey, sorry I called you beautiful and said I missed you then fucked you in the backseat of my car, only to go totally radio silent because I unilaterally decided that it was a mistake. Breakfast?
How were you supposed to raise a kid with him?
Babysit. You had to remind yourself it was just temporary. That it was babysitting. That there was still a shred of hope that Tommy and Carol would be fine.
"Fine," he said. His mouth formed a thin line as he looked at you. "I think we need to try to be civil for Sammie's sake."
There was a flutter in your jaw as you clenched your teeth. A flicker of restraint. Of course he would say that. "That's very noble of you to suggest, Steve," you said coolly.
It was his turn to show restraint. His eyes rolled, just a bit, and he shook his head. "I'm being serious. How we feel is at the bottom of a very long list of things to worry about right now." He ran a hand through his hair and your eyes flicked to his throat, to the bruises and cuts circling it. He winced at the minor stretch, just a bit, just tiny enough that you noticed.
Huh.
"It's not just Sammie I'm worried about. It's her parents, it's my family, it's my friends, it's the weird gray shit pumping into the air, it's my job, it's…" he shook his head and took a shaky breath. "So can we please just… not have to worry about this."
Steve made a gesture between the two of you, a casual flick of his hand. You thought it was funny that almost a decade of knowing someone could be bundled up and contained in this and a dismissive wave.
Years of one-sided pining that he knew about and never discouraged. All of the meddling into your first relationship. The wedding. How can he just pretend like none of it ever happened? Like it didn't still effect you?
A sick feeling soured in your stomach. As you put your fork down, you regretted the fact that he was right to suggest you eat first. "I think that's totally unfair," you argued. "You hurt me, and I'm just expected to be the bigger person and ignore it? Do you know how much it sucks to be around you?"
Steve, to his credit, knew not to answer that. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and sighed, looking anywhere but your eyes. The hand that rested on the table tapped restlessly, his knee bounced. He was a bundle of frayed nerves and unspoken words.
"Alright, fine," he said finally. "Hate me, scream at me, ignore me, I don't care. But none of this changes the fact that they're not going to find Tommy and Carol out there. And you know that."
Your bottom lip wobbled and you shook your head. "Don't say that. They're still finding people. They rescued Helen Parker and her dog just last night."
Helen Parker and her yappy poodle were one in a million, you knew. The National Guard had hit a wall in their recovery efforts. But still, you were insistent. The alternative was facing reality, and listening to the voice that had been whispering in your ear since the night of the earthquake.
Steve closed his eyes and sighed. "Helen Parker was trapped in rubble in her own house. It's different."
"And Carol and Tommy's car could be, like, pinned under a fallen tree, or something," you argued. "Maybe they weren't at Lover's Lake. Maybe they were on the road coming home when the quake happened. We don't know, Steve."
"It's been four days," he said, his brown eyes glossy. He sniffed, nose crinkling, but he didn't break your gaze. "I think we know."
It was hard to swallow around the huge lump in your throat. Hot tears pooled along your lash line, blurring your vision and threatening to fall. You forced yourself to look away from him, out to the dead grass in the backyard before the first tear of many fell. To your tear-filled eyes, everything looked like a sick, gray haze.
You hated that he was right. You knew. You had known since you walked into the Red Cross outpost at Hawkins High with your missing posters on special pink paper so they'd stand out in the sea of faces. Futile. Useless.
You'd spent the past few days grieving, in your own secret way, and dreaming that they'd walk through the front doors and go on and on about how crazy things were out there. But sitting at the table across from Steve, with your future staring at you down the barrel, you just felt pissed.
Carol always swore that you and Steve would end up together, just like in MASH. As her final joke, she shackled you to him forever. She really did have a sick sense of humor.
"Yeah." Your voice wavered, like it was shameful to even speak it out loud. Like as soon as you uttered the words, they'd walk through the door and hate you for giving up on them.
You'd seen the cracks in the earth— the deep wounds that cut into the town. You saw the way they bit into houses like they had been carved with a scalpel, saw the rot that bled from them.
The president had given a message from the Oval Office the night before to speak about the horrors that had unfolded in your little town. He made it clear that Hawkins was a federal disaster area. Jim next door said that pretty soon, the body count would start to rise.
It wasn't fair, you supposed, to tie up the living with the red tape of waiting seven years for someone to be presumed dead. In cases like this, you just knew.
Samantha whined, the soft noises crackling over the cheap speaker of the baby monitor. You cleared your throat and wiped your eyes. "My shift," you said firmly. "Get some sleep, Steve."
He agreed, begrudgingly, and retreated into Tommy and Carol's bedroom for sleep. You wondered if you should stop thinking of it as theirs.
Watching Samantha was the easy part. It was the quiet downtime that ate at your soul, chewing it up and spitting it out malformed and wrong.
You held Sam that night, sleeping peacefully, and you heard Carol in your mind. Her voice at sixteen telling you how she didn't want to be a mom until she was, like, thirty. You'd be a good mom though, she had assured. This assumption, of course, had been based off of how well you took care of her when she'd been drinking too much. The stick in the mud, the responsible one.
You held her daughter, and you felt so unsure. You'd never known if you wanted to be a mom before, and you really didn't even know in that moment, after the choice had already been made for you. And, god, it made you feel awful.
So much of who you were was owed to Carol. The house you had grown up in was cold and austere. You figured that they had wanted a son, but realized they didn't quite care for children after you were born. And that made you the unfortunate result of their attempt at a legacy.
Going over to Carol's house as a teenager felt like stepping into an entirely different world. They were loud and brash, open and frank. There were no secrets or holds barred. She seemed to know everything about the world, and she taught you all she could so you wouldn't be left behind.
How could you run away now when her little girl needed you to protect and guide her in the same way?
As you stared down at her sleeping face, those long lashes and her rosy cheeks, you felt the curtains closing on what might have been your life. Whether you liked it or not, you'd be playing understudy in a role you didn't even audition for.
Angst squeezed at your heart at the unfairness of it all. You heard your mother again, as you usually did in times of crisis. Life's not fair, and then you die.
You tried to be a good guardian, babysitter, parent, whatever to Samantha. You'd brush past Steve, wordless, awkward, and try to handle each task as it came up. Steve slept while you watched the baby, trying and failing to muffle out the sounds of her wails and your anxious rambling.
Here, let me help.
No, I've got it. Just go back to sleep, okay? I'm fine.
You should have accepted his help, but you just couldn't. It felt like rolling over and showing your weak underbelly, and that was the last thing you ever wanted to do in front of Steve Harrington.
It was stupid and stubborn, and neither one of you was any better for it. In fact, you were barely keeping your head above water. Stressed, grieving, and trying to put on a brave face. Babies can see feel when you're anxious. Like dogs. At least, that's what Tommy had told you once.
In any case, your method to the madness wasn't working. Sam was a mess— her sleeping schedule was off, she was irritable and whiny. It was impossible, or maybe unattainable, to make things go back to normal in this state. After a few days of chaotic avoidance of each other, you cornered Steve in the shower-foggy bathroom.
"We need to talk" you said, and really tried to keep your eyes on his face and not the low slung towel, or his chest hair, or… wait. "Oh my god, what happened?"
Each side of his torso was stitched to seal up jagged cuts marring his flesh. His back and arms were raw and scabbed in two long paths, like angel wings. Just by looking at him, you'd think he was chewed up and spit back out, but he acted like it was nothing out of the ordinary.
"Earthquake stuff," he said, eyes flicking to meet yours through the mirror. "It's fine. I'm managing. It's just kind of sore, or something."
It didn't look like he was managing. He had an open bottle of extra strength ibuprofen on the counter and a nearly-empty first aid kit. Your brows knit together. God, he was so infuriatingly stubborn.
"C'mon, Steve, have you even seen a real doctor?" You asked, brows knit. Your fingers just itched to reach out and soothe the damaged flesh. Just by sight alone, you knew things weren't fine. The skin was red and angry and swollen around his clumsily done stitches. It was grossly evident that this had been a slapdash patch up. "Steve," you said firmly. "Let me help."
He sighed, relenting, and raised a brow. "You're not going to kill me, are you?"
"No," you said with a casual shrug. "No way, I mean, good childcare is pretty hard to find. Now shut up and let me get an idea of what's going on. I'm the one in nursing school."
Well, to be fair, you were still pretty much covering your basics at college and were considering switching majors before you officially went for nursing school. But Steve didn't need to know that. Besides, your parents were both doctors, which meant you had a pretty good starting point. You would read medical textbooks for fun before you met Carol. Anything to impress mom and dad.
"So… I think a few of your, uh, gaping wounds are infected," you said, grimacing at the sight. Thick black thread haphazardly zig-zagged the gouges in his side, some of which had an oozy look that made your stomach turn. "And whoever stitched these closed did not know what they were doing."
Based on his affronted expression, you gathered that he was the one who had stitched some of them. "And you do?" He asked.
You shrugged, a tiny smile twitching at your lips. "Are you kidding? Any time there was a tear in my teddy bears, my dad taught me how to close it up with sutures." He made a face, nose wrinkling in distaste. "What? We could spend all night commiserating about parents' bad choices, but I'd rather get this cleaned up."
He braced himself against the counter with a groan as you grabbed a washcloth from a nearby cabinet. You cleaned your hands meticulously, then wet the washcloth under the warm tap. "Okay, so I'm going to just… clean the area, and it'll probably hurt, but just remember that getting sepsis would hurt way worse."
Steve grimaced, eyeing you warily as your hands got closer to his sides. "Work on your bedside manner," he said with a frown.
Noted. You took a deep breath, and wondered if you were more nervous than he was. You sure felt like it.
As soon as you began cleaning his wounds, his fingers curled against the lip of the counter and squeezed. Your gaze flicked up to meet his, apologetic. Nobody ever said taking care of him was going to be fun.
"So," you said, trying to distract him as the cloth brushed against his tender sides. "I think maybe we need to come to a truce."
A sharp hiss escaped him as the cloth brushed over the deepest gouge in his side. The muscles in his abdomen went taught, and his chest heaved with restraint. He met your gaze with flushed cheeks and bitten lips. "Is that what you came in here for? A truce?"
"Well, touching your gross, infected wounds wasn't my top priority, I'll say that much," you replied, biting your lip as you gently cleaned the scabbing at his hip. "I borrowed one of Carol's parenting books and I've been skimming, a little. And what I've gathered is that babies need structure and routine."
Steve groaned as you pressed the washcloth against a particularly tender set of stitches. His stomach quivered, and you watched as his knuckles went white against the counter. It was hard to hear him panting and groaning without your mind flashing back to the wedding and his backseat.
A sick, evil part of you wanted to apply a little more pressure, just to hear him cry out again. But you couldn't let yourself go down that path, which was a one way ticket to longing and wanting that you didn't want to revisit.
So you remembered the last time you'd both been in this position. It was the summer after ninth grade, after he borrowed and crashed the dirt bike Tommy got for his birthday. He slid across the asphalt parking lot of Bradley's Big Buy and got a gnarly road rash on his knee.
He rode on the back of your bike all the way to your house so you could use your first aid kit to patch him up. When he cried as you cleaned rocks and dirt from the bloody scrape, he made you promise not to tell anyone.
The thought had never even crossed your mind.
It seemed like he'd grown a thicker skin since you were both fifteen. He winced and groaned, but there were no tears tracking down his cheeks as you cleaned him up. Just a solid resolve and a keen ability to mask when he was in pain. You wondered when that had happened.
"Structure and routine," he echoed, his voice wavering as you moved to his other side.
"Mhmm," you hummed, brows furrowing as you took in his right side. This side was worse off for sure, but you were admittedly a little puzzled about where the injuries had come from. The flesh marred in starry, web-shaped patterns. "It's, uh, good for their development, apparently."
It was hard to look at him and not feel a little bit of pity. It all looked so painful— pink and raw. What earthquake could have caused this?
Steve didn't notice your confusion. He was probably too lost in the pain to notice much of anything. "Smart, yeah. Routines. Parenting books," he panted, swearing under his breath as you focused on the ragged, mangled flesh just above his hip. "I should do that."
You took mercy on him and made quick work of the rest. When you dropped the washcloth in the sink, he deflated with relief. His breaths were shaky, but his grip on the sink slowly relaxed.
"Well, actually, it's exactly what you tried to say in the kitchen a few days ago," you admitted. "Y'know… being civil, putting the past behind us for Sam's sake."
He nodded, swallowing hard as you wrapped his abdomen in sterile bandages. If he was pleased that you had admitted that he had been right all along, he didn't say anything. He stayed blissfully silent as you fastened the dressing.
"I just think, you know, our lives will be much easier if we're not taking day-shift and night-shift," you said, with a quick flick of your eyes from your handiwork up to his eyes. "And you're right. There are worse things going on in the world than our bullshit problems."
Steve swallowed, nodding. "Yeah, you're right. We're both adults."
Barely. You were struggling with the basic tasks of finding time to feed and bathe yourself while juggling a fussy three month old. You understood why Kimberly Wright had dropped out of school in junior year after she had her own whoopsie baby. Kids were tough.
"I just think, you know, we don't have to be best friends, but we can be a team." You looked at him and gave your best attempt at a smile. See? I'm being totally selfless right now. He smiled, just a bit, and nodded. "And that starts with me calling my mom to get you some antibiotics, and you taking the bed while you're healing. I'll be just fine on the couch."
His expression fell, and he followed you from the bathroom and into the hall, constricted a bit by the fluffy towel wrapped around his hips. "Hey, no," he argued. "No way. I'm on the couch. I like the couch."
You turned, making a face. No one liked the couch. It was springy and stiff, and you could hardly get comfortable and doze without the creaky metal waking you back up. And the constant exposure ugly floral pattern made you have weird nightmares.
You paused by the landline on the wall and shook your head. "Humor me," you said. "Just while your antibiotics run their course." He shook his head again, totally insistent. Steve was stubborn, but so were you. He put his hand on the landline to keep you from making the call.
"I'll sleep on the floor," he challenged.
"And I'll still sleep on the couch."
An impasse. It happened a lot when you spent time together.
That night, you both wound up laying in Tommy and Carol's bed with an impenetrable wall of pillows drawing a boundary between the two of you. You stared up at the ceiling, breathing slow and steady, wondering if Steve was asleep too.
The sheets rustled as you turned onto your side. Your eyes fell to the stack of pillows, and you watched as the tufts of Steve's hair that showed above it shifted as he turned too.
"I hate this bed," you finally said, cutting through the stillness of the dark room. "I hate sleeping where they slept. I hate this house, actually."
Steve sighed, and as you watched, his hand came over the peak of the pillow barricade and pushed it down so you could see each other. "Well, my uncle is still taking a look into everything," he said, his voice soft in the quiet of the night. "I'm thinking we can sell the house, pay off the mortgage, put it into an account for Sammie…"
You sighed. "And go where, exactly? I doubt either of our parents would be willing to invite a baby into their homes."
Steve shrugged. "My parents packed up and left last week," he said casually. Before you could gauge how he felt about that, he brushed it off. "But they're still wiring checks to pay utilities. I guess they didn't want me homeless. So… y'know, that's an option."
"I can't believe they just left," you whispered. Your parents really didn't have a choice but to stay. How could they ethically leave Hawkins Memorial in a time of crisis? But Steve's parents thought things were bad enough to leave and still left him behind.
He just shrugged. "Dad's financial firm has an office out of Indianapolis, and they're being put up in a hotel until they find something suitable."
You hummed softly. You'd never really cared much for Steve's parents, even when you were kids. They were grossly negligent and terribly callous. They got onto Steve's case for any minor slip-up, and didn't care to wait for you to leave before they really laid into him.
There had been so many times that you had to sit in a stunned silent while they yelled at him, saying all sorts of awful things that you didn't think parents should say to their children, especially not in front of their children's friends.
Your parents had their own issues, but Steve's… well, you really shouldn't have been surprised that they left him in Hawkins.
"Yeah, I mean…" you trailed off, brows knitting together as you imagined packing up your things and moving your things into Steve's house. "There's more space. We wouldn't have to share a bed."
"Yeah," he said, his voice softer. "She'd have a lot of space to play when she gets older. In the yard, in the pool. I could turn the basement into a real playroom."
There was something wistful in his voice, like he was already seeing a bright, happy future there. The next generation of Harringtons brooding in their nest.
You weren't sure how your future looked, or what it could possibly be. Sam was under your care— her parents had willed it so and, for better or for worse, you stepped up. You were a parent now, and anyone you dated would have to be okay with that.
If by some miracle you found a guy who was ready for that kind of commitment, he'd also have to be okay with coparenting with Steve. And, god, you'd have to be okay with whoever Steve brought around. Just the thought made your stomach turn.
"We should try to get some sleep," you whispered. "And hope that Sam sleeps through the night tonight."
"Mm, here's hoping. Goodnight." Steve rolled back over, and the pillow slowly puffed back up to seal the barrier between you. You echoed the sentiment, a soft whisper, and turned to face the ceiling.
When you were in eighth grade, Steve ran away from home. At least, that's what he had called it. Really, you weren't sure it counted if you only went one house over and no one was there to notice you were gone.
But he climbed up to your window with his backpack stuffed to the brim with his worldly possessions and asked if he could stay. It was the first time he'd ever been left alone and he didn't know what to do, but the house was big and even if he wouldn't admit it out loud, he was too scared to be alone.
That night, Steve laid next to you in your tiny twin bed. He took up too much space for your comfort, your feet were too cold against his calves, and he kept getting mouthfuls of your hair when he turned on his side to get more comfortable.
"No wonder my mom has her own room," he mumbled after your elbow dug into his ribs again. "This is the worst."
But, eventually, you found a way to sleep comfortably. Your head on his chest, his arms slung around you. He didn't even complain about your cold feet.
He did that a lot after that— just sneaking into your room and staying the night when he needed to get away. When you got a queen sized bed in Freshman year, it felt like Steve was happier than you were to have more space when he stayed over.
But by that point, you would have killed to be pressed against his side, hearing his heartbeat thrumming in your ear, squished in that tiny twin sized bed. But it was still nice, for a while, to give him a safe haven away from home.
You felt the stirrings of that with Steve across the pillow barrier. The urge to curl into his side and hear his pulse like the sweetest white noise. You were the one who needed that safety now— to be held and told that things would be fine. A quiet, comfortable place away from all of the uncertainty.
But you couldn't break down the pillow-y walls between you. They were just a physical manifestation of what had been set in stone the previous summer. The one person you wanted that comfort from was the person you could never accept it from. You swallowed and turned to face away from the pillows, letting the soft rhythm of Steve's breathing lull you to sleep.
As if rewarding your minor ceasefire, Samantha slept until morning.
April drew to a close, and in May, your best friends were officially been declared deceased. It was fair, given the circumstances. It made it so their wishes could be carried out, whether you were ready for them to be or not.
Steve's uncle had done his job perfectly— ironing out the details of the will, confirming its legitimacy, and reading it to the family. He did, however seem a little uninterested by the banality of estate law. He was used to prosecuting tax fraud and white collar crime, not reading wills to crying loved ones in his cramped office.
It was relatively simple— You and Steve had been named Samantha's guardians and conservators, and everything was supposed to be passed onto her. Not that anyone had expected anything to go differently. Tommy's Dad's focus was on his new, younger wife and step-kids. Carol's parents were older and her father had broken his sobriety.
It was the best you could all do for Sam, and no one stepped up to argue. So, in the eyes of the law, you and Steve were officially parents.
After, he sat in the backseat of your car and kept Samantha occupied as you drove. You could hear him cooing softly, jingling a little rattle while she babbled and grabbed at his hands. You caught his eyes through the rear view mirror, briefly, then looked back at the road.
The military was trying to find a way to cover up the giant chasms in the roads. A few makeshift bridges had been constructed, but Steve had insisted that you drive the back roads around them, just to be safe.
You didn't have any complaints.
"So," he said, as you turned into the residential streets. Everywhere you looked, for sale signs popped up like weeds. They must have all been empty, you figured. Quarantine had been in place for weeks, and there was no escaping Hawkins now. "I invited a couple of friends over later. Just so they can officially meet Sammie. Is that okay?"
A couple of friends. You hated that your mind immediately went to the worst possible outcome— that friends meant girls and girls meant sharing a roof with a horny, tomcat version of Steve Harrington. Not that you were jealous, or that you had a reason to be. It was just… inconvenient.
"Oh, uh, sure," you said, trying to give a totally unbothered, totally nonchalant nod. "Yeah, totally."
He smiled, and you heard him coo a soft yay to Sammie. "They're excited to meet her. Both of you."
Both of us. You almost doubted it, but Steve sounded nothing but sincere. He patted your back on the way into the house as he carried in the car seat. Affable, easy.
You wished more than anything that you had taken to your new circumstances the same way that Steve had. He made everything look so manageable, a real duck to water. He woke up in the morning before you did to tend to Sam and still seemed so chipper, like he was made for this shit.
He didn't seem to mind losing hours of sleep, or the total lack of privacy, or the living, breathing biohazard that was your tiny roommate. His skin was clear, his hair still looked perfect, he fucking glowed. It was as frustrating as it was enviable.
A couple of hours later, Steve was buzzing around the house, tidying up the kitchen, cleaning up bottles, putting away toys. For once, he was the bundle of nervous energy. You helped where you could, but nothing seemed to ease his anxiety. When a knock finally sounded at the door, Steve nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Okay, the odds of them saying something really off-putting are high," he explained as he walked towards the door, "but they're great. You'll love them, I promise."
You nodded, offering your best attempt at a reassuring smile. Samantha was perfectly content in her bouncer, kicking her hands and feet at the little spinning toys. Steve had made sure she'd just been fed, changed, and rested so everything would go perfect. It was clear that above everything, how he presented himself to these friends mattered.
He ran his hands through his hair a few times, stood a little straighter, and opened the door. And as soon as he did, there were balloons. Steve groaned, immediately rolling his eyes at the sight.
"Robin, no," he muttered, smacking a big foil balloon that said, "It's a girl!" His frown wasn't entirely genuine— he at least seemed a little amused. "What the hell am I supposed to do with all of this? And how expensive is helium under quarantine?"
Robin, who you vaguely remembered from that awful day at Scoops Ahoy and, more recently, making you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on another horrible day, pushed through the door holding a bunch of balloons in her hand with a shit-eating grin. "This isn't even me," she insisted. "This is from sweet, sweet Miss Claudia, who drove us here out of the kindness of her heart because you're too busy to be our chauffeur anymore."
The second figure at the door walked in with a limp, his expression a little cloudy and guarded. Steve took the hat off of his head and ruffled his curls with an affectionate smile. "Hey, Henderson," he greeted, and carefully placed the hat back down. "I'm glad you made it. I have your favorite in the oven."
You stood in the doorway to the kitchen, just sort of… watching. It was their moment, and that was totally fine. You figured they'd do their thing, and you'd just make yourself scarce. But Steve glanced over, eyes wide as he realized he'd forgotten to introduce you. He waved you over and you hesitantly joined them.
"You've met Robin, she's graduating in a little over a month," he said, gesturing towards her. "And this is Dustin, he's still just a freshman."
His affection towards the two of them was glaringly obvious, as was his desire for you to like them. It made sense, you figured. His friends were going to be around a lot, and you were his roommate and co-parent and… a lot more that you didn't care to explore.
You were rightfully confused about how and why he became friends with a fifteen year old, but you figured that was a long conversation that would be better served for the quiet of your bedroom. The fact that you shared a bedroom with Steve still made your insides flip uncomfortably when you thought about it for too long, but you wouldn't tell him that.
You introduced yourself to them both, but you couldn't shake the familiarity behind the name Dustin Henderson. You never babysat him, you didn't think, but something about Henderson stood out. "Mondale," you said with a snap of your fingers, expression brightening. His brows furrowed a bit, expression wrinkling with confusion. "October of '84, I phone banked with your Mom for Mondale. She's so cool."
Steve grinned and nudged the teenager. "Hear that, Henderson? Your mom's cool."
Dustin grimaced, feigning annoyance. "Okay, it's fine when someone else says it, but you're not allowed to say it."
They scrapped back and forth for a while, but you could tell that there was some sort of disconnect there— a strain. You didn't know this kid, and you hardly knew Steve anymore, but you could see the tension written on their faces and oozing from their body language.
"Steve, you left your baby on the floor," Robin called from the living room. Now sans balloons, she crouched down beside the bouncer, gawking down at the baby. She reached out with her finger, the nail painted a chipped blue, and Sam wrapped her own hand around it and pulled.
"Yeah, Robin, she's supposed to be there, it's fine," he said, almost affronted that she'd assumed he had been negligent. But still, he bounded over and settled beside her to gush over the baby together.
"You can sit," you told Dustin, patting the cushion beside you. "Hurt it in the earthquake?" You gestured towards his leg brace and he gave a curt nod. Clearly there was more to say, but he didn't elaborate, and you didn't push.
But he sat next to you on the couch, quiet and observant. Robin had taken Sam out of the bouncer and Steve was showing her how to properly hold her. She was a bit clumsy, but she managed eventually.
"I'm sorry." The comment pulled you from reality, right back into that quiet, gnawing grief that had been eating at you since the earthquake. Dustin looked at you, his eyes glistening in the dim lamplight. "About your friends."
You swallowed around a lump in your throat and gave a weak smile. You saw then what that shadow was over the teenager. The need to say something more, but the inability to. The sorrow and the anger, the empathy. He had lost someone, and the world was just moving on around him. You understood it. You were living it. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry too."
His brows furrowed. "Did Steve say something?" He asked, throat bobbing. You watched him spare a glance towards Steve and Robin on the rug, where they were jingling rattles and toys for Sam's amusement.
"No," you assured, giving a quick shake of your head. "I could just tell."
After a while, Steve approached with Samantha in his arms, smiling down at Dustin. "Do you want to hold her, Henderson? She's super calm right now, and she wants to hear all about your dungeons and your dragons and stuff."
Dustin hesitated, glancing between Steve and the baby. "No thanks," he said, then quickly added. "Maybe later." Steve's brows furrowed, but you gave him a look. Don't push it.
You hadn't realized how much you missed talking to people until dinner. The past few weeks had been fully occupied with Steve and Sam, and you were unwittingly losing your mind from boredom.
Your social life was limited to Steve Harrington, who you couldn't bring yourself to talk with about more than meaningless small talk and Samantha, and the odd neighbor or acquaintance you saw at the supermarket. Wow, sure is bleak out there. Hope the quarantine doesn't last too long.
Sure, the dinner conversation was mainly just Robin rambling about losing her job at Family Video and struggling to find any business in town that was hiring, but you'd missed talking about anything other than the baby, and dinner, and breakfast, and your dead friends.
"Steve told me you were going to nursing school before Hawkins went all Big Brother," Robin said once the plates had been cleared and Sam was dozing in your arms. "That must've been nice."
You laughed, shaking your head. "Actually, I'm still a freshman, so I was just getting my basics done," you explained. "And I was going to change majors, I think. I dunno, I guess now the universe decided the college isn't for me."
Steve's brows furrowed. "Wait, are you not going back?"
You laughed, shrugging flippantly. "Probably not," you admitted, meeting his gaze. You hadn't been aware that it was even in question. "I mean, I feel like my college fund is better spent towards Sam. And I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do, so it was probably a huge waste of money to just spin my wheels."
Frankly, you had enjoyed college, but you didn't have a good sense of what exactly you were supposed to do. Your roommate had been dreaming of becoming a physical therapist since she was in middle school. The cute guy you studied with wanted to study geology and research prehistoric bugs. There were people who dreamed of wall street and ad campaigns and plastic surgery and teaching kids…
And you… you didn't want to be a nurse. But it's what made the most sense, given your family and their priorities. Not good enough to be a doctor, apparently— they never set their sights that high for you.
"You didn't like any of your classes?" Robin pressed. "I mean, geez, you're not giving the rest of us a grand picture of college life."
You took a slow drink of your water to give yourself a moment to think. "No, I mean… I loved college. I loved my classes. I could have taken every one in the course catalogue and been happy, y'know? Maybe by the time quarantine ends I'll have figured it out and can take night classes, or something."
Steve looked a little relieved at that answer, but you weren't sure why he'd care. Pretty soon, one of you would need to find a job, obviously. And Hawkins wasn't entirely a bustling job market. It was maybe the worst possible time to be suddenly thrust into parenthood… and the best possible time to have a trust fund and rich parents.
"We're, uh… we're moving back into my place, actually," Steve said after an extended lull in the conversation. "Not sure when, but… I think it's the best thing we can do for everyone. And, y'know, we'll be rent free until Quarantine is done."
They shared a look, the three of them, and you weren't sure what it meant. But the mention of the quarantine ending made them all a little fidgety. It was strange, but the world was pretty strange.
After dinner, when the dishes were cleared from the table and Steve and Dustin were talking in the backyard, Robin sidled up to you at the sink.
"Okay, so I don't mean to overstep," she began, which was the single most obvious clue that someone was seconds away from overstepping. "But the first time I met you, you were, like, homicidal towards Steve and now you have a kid with him."
Your nose wrinkled. It felt weird to hear it described like that— having a kid with Steve. That made you think of planning and baby showers and intention, not clumsy coparenting. Technically correct? Yeah, sure. But it didn't seem to match with the reality of what you experienced every day.
"So you two, like, made up, right?" Robin questioned, leaning against the counter top. She handed you the occasional dish to rinse and wash, then dried them when you were done. It had been a while since you'd had someone to confide in, which meant your hackles were up. How could you possibly know if she was approaching you earnestly? "I mean, by the looks of it, you're both doing okay. And, y'know, Steve will give us, like, tiny details about you and Sammie, but when it comes to how he's handling everything? He's totally Fort Knox."
"What sort of details is he giving out about me?" You asked, brows furrowed. There was an itch in the back of your mind— a buzzing little sensation of need. That soft, mushy part of you that desperately wanted to know what Steve thought about you.
Robin shrugged. "You know, just that he's known you since you were kids, you really love disco, you're in nursing school. Which I guess he was technically wrong about. Oh! And you used to date Dolphin Danny."
You put down the the glass you were cleaning, brows furrowed incredulously. "Dolphin Danny? Steve called him Dolphin Danny?"
Robin's eyes went wide and she shook her head quickly. "Oh, no, that's just what some of my friends used to call him because he was so unnaturally smooth." She paused, a smile playing at her lips. "But, honestly… Steve wasn't entirely complimentary of our aquatic friend."
You scoffed. Shocker. And frankly, the fact that he still seemed to hold a grudge against Danny made annoyance creep up your spine. Part of you wanted to dig. Did Robin know about last summer? Did she know about your humiliating feelings for him before that?
But you swallowed down that curious urge and answered her original questions. "We called a truce for Sam's sake. And, y'know… we don't really talk about how we're feeling about anything. It's just easier to avoid those types of conversations."
Robin's brow knit as she dried the final glass. Your hands and sleeves were wet and soapy as you turned to face her completely. "Why? Because you guys had sex?"
"What?" Your jaw ticked as you looked out the sliding glass doors to the backyard. You wanted to grab the nearest heavy object and just—
"Wait! Steve didn't say anything!" Robin assured quickly. "I'm serious, I told you, Fort Knox. But your conversation at Starcourt last year was very loud."
You sighed and ran a hand over your eyes, still a little sudsy. On one hand, you were terrified to confess anything to this near-stranger, especially considering she was Steve's best friend. But on the other… your only other confidant was dead.
So you steeled yourself and nodded. "Fine. I mean, yeah, the fact that we had sex once doesn't help," you said finally, stepping closer. "And obviously you cannot tell Steve this, but it's this huge elephant in the room at all times and I feel like I'm the only one who sees it."
"I'm sure he sees it," she replied, casting a brief glance out the glass doors. When you followed her gaze, your heart did a little skip.
Steve was standing beside Dustin, one hand on his arm, brow knit with concern as he spoke. If you were worried about this kid you barely knew, obviously Steve was.
You watched him lift a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes, pinching his nose. It was glaringly obvious that Steve needed glasses, and by this time of night he always had a bit of a headache from concentrating too hard to read the newspaper or a recipe card or the parenting book he stole from Carol's nightstand.
It had become a habit, once you brushed your teeth, to leave out two ibuprofen and a glass of water for him. Neither of you had to say anything. For the entire time that you'd known each other, you did tiny things without having to speak about it.
Steve kept your favorite hand cream in his backpack. You always had a bag of toiletries for him in your bathroom in case he had to get out of his house for the night. He wore a hair tie on his wrist for you in middle school, and still kept a banana clip in his glove box in case you were out and needed to pull your hair up.
When you looked back at Robin, she had a tiny smile on her lips. You felt exposed and vulnerable in a way that you hadn't been in a long time with anyone but Carol. You swallowed and tucked a strand of hair back into place, feeling like you'd inadvertently exposed a soft part of yourself.
You'd been doing a lot of that lately.
The pillow barrier in your bed had been chipped away. Maybe six was ridiculous. And then even three felt like too much. One pillow between your bodies was all that remained. At night, when Steve rolled over, he pulled it into his chest anyway. Like there wasn't a wall at all.
So he looked over at you— laying on his side, down pillow tucked against his chest— and frowned. "Do you think it's weird that Dustin wouldn't hold Sammie?"
You yawned softly and gave a tiny shrug. "I refused to hold babies until Sam. It's kind of awkward to hold someone's baby, anyway. It's like, one wrong move and someone's going to freak out."
"I thought it might be good for him," he admitted. "What's more comforting than a baby?"
A tiny laugh escaped you. "Literally so many other things."
It was quiet for a while. You closed your eyes, thinking Steve had fallen asleep. You were right there too, but his voice broke through the quiet.
"You liked them both, right?" He asked. "They liked you for sure."
You nodded, meeting his gaze in the dark. You liked Dustin even though he seemed to be a mirror into your own grief. Maybe because of it. You liked Robin for her motormouth that kept the quiet from creeping into your brain. And you liked that neither of them seemed inclined to handle you with gloves on.
"Yeah, they were great," you said softly, and it was totally honest, for once.
Steve smiled at you in the dark of the room like it was the greatest news he'd ever heard.
The next few weeks moved along with an alarming sense of normalcy. The routine was almost comforting by that point— a steady ebb and flow of the day with the odd disruption.
Steve took his coffee with sugar and milk in the morning and liked his eggs fried hard with bacon and buttered toast. You learned to make it how he liked so he could sleep in since he usually cared for her overnight. But,really, there was no sleeping in for Steve— most days, he got up before Samantha did so he could go for a run around the block. He'd come back sweating, take a cold shower, then join you and Sam in the kitchen just as you started to warm her bottle.
The weather was pleasant enough that you could take Sam for walks in the stroller around the block. No more freaky gray snow rained down, which was one less thing to worry about. The rot in vegetation seemed to have been temporary. Everything seemed normal, until you saw the bare shelves at the grocery store or passed a military truck on the street.
And, sometimes, Steve would freak out about the tiniest thing. The house had bad wiring, so using the toaster made the light above the sink flicker. Every time, without fail, his breath would hitch and he'd go pale.
Sometimes, he'd have a nightmare. You'd wake up to the sound of him crying out in his sleep, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. You'd turn over, still a little bleary from sleep and hear him murmur about Russians and monsters and speak complete gibberish.
"Steve," you whispered once, when you could sense his abject terror. His breath shuddered when you grabbed his arm and stirred him awake. Wide eyed, panting like he'd just run a marathon. Not quite back into reality yet, with his eyes darting around the room. "Hey, you're fine. It was a bad dream."
You both sat up against the headboard while he calmed down, and your hand stayed against his overheated skin. Your thumb rubbed along his bicep, tracing gentle circles there. Whatever it was, he didn't talk about it, and you didn't ask. It hadn't been your place to for a while.
At the end of May, you called the Hagans and Perkins over to take whatever they wanted of Carol and Tommy's things from the house.
Tommy's dad was inclined to get in and out. He held Samantha, briefly, but just as quickly passed her back into your arms. It just hurts too much, he had said. Frankly, you weren't sure of how much you believed that. He carried out a family watch, Tommy's letterman, the TV, and the entire entertainment system.
Carol's parents didn't want to leave. They sat with you on the sofa while Steve helped Mr. Hagan pack everything away. Together, you flipped through the many photo albums that Carol had collected in her brief life. You ran your hands over pictures of you at summer camp, the photos overexposed and blurry. Then in high school, sitting on the trunk of Steve's car. That one was framed back home, sitting in your empty bedroom on top of your dresser.
God, you missed her so much it felt like she'd carved out part of your soul and taken it with her. But beyond that, it was a physical ache. A hole carved into the pit of your stomach that just hurt when you missed her.
How was she already gone? How was that fair?
Your heart sank when Mrs. Perkins opened up the wedding album. The cover was pillow-y, made with satin and lace. It framed a photo of them cutting their cake in a heart shaped window.
You had never looked at the photo album from the wedding before. It hadn't been ready until you were already at school, and even then, it was still a sore spot for you. Carol's mom turned the page with so much reverence— fingers running over the page, tracing the images of her daughter.
As she flipped through, your selfish gaze stuck on the photos of you and Steve. Posing against the floral backdrop, stiff and tense in your pink wedding clothes. Your smile was nearly a grimace, his hand was hovering over your waist. A tiny smile played at your lips as you looked at the two of you— not even a year younger, but so different.
The Steve that you spent every day with was so different than the Steve in that picture. And the Steve in the picture was so different than your Steve growing up. You felt so different too— like years had passed since the wedding.
If you knew then what you did now, would you still have done what you did? Would he?
"Do you want to keep some of these?" Carol's mom asked, tearing you from your thoughts and back into the present. You swallowed at the photo on the page— you and Steve dancing, smiling, happy. Right before you'd gone and screwed everything up.
Because you knew what you were hoping for when you asked him to go out for a smoke.
"Sure, I'd like that," you said.
They left with a few boxes of Carol's things. Sentimental items that you hadn't realized meant so much to them. The half-empty bottle of Carol's favorite perfume, a ratty teddy bear from her closet, a glass ballerina on her vanity, her class ring, the diary from her nightstand, her wedding dress. Boxes and boxes of ephemera that they felt captured the essence of their girl.
You wondered what your life could be boxed into, or if your parents would be more like Mr. Hagan. Surely someone out there might want a small part of you if you were gone.
"How are you feeling?" Steve asked that night as he fed Sam in the nursery. "About moving tomorrow, I mean."
You shrugged, picking at your cuticles. You'd felt guilty all day after giving away Carol and Tommy's things, like you were packing up one part of your life and transitioning into the other. On one hand, you couldn't wait to get out of their house so you could stop feeling like you were living in a mausoleum. But on the other, it felt serious and grown up to move into your own place to raise Sam.
"I don't know," you confessed. You sat on the floor beside the glider, just to feel close to him. You were terrified, frankly, and sad. You'd have your own room in Steve's house— his mom's old room with the fireplace. And even though you'd always felt like her room was so glamorous and chic, you couldn't help but feel a tug of dread when you thought about going back to sleeping on your own.
Steve's hand fell upon your shoulder, and you peered up at him. A comforting smile played at his lips. "Hey, it'll be fine," he insisted. "It'll be good to get out of here, right? I think it'll be good for both of us."
You nodded and looked back at the floor of the nursery, at the ugly peach rug that was definitely going in the donation pile. Steve really believed that things would be good for the two of you… and you wanted to believe that too.
In the morning, you woke up to a gaggle of high schoolers in your kitchen and Steve serving breakfast. Sam was in your arms, still sleepy and dozing against your chest.
"Moving crew," Steve explained as he passed you a stack of pancakes. "Hey, it's free labor, we've just gotta feed them."
As you ate, he pointed out each kid and named them. You tried your best to remember names and faces, but it was seven in the morning. It was busy enough that Sam stirred and cried, which signaled Steve to start warming her bottle.
Routine. It was crazy how easy it was to take care of her. Like instinct.
You knew Dustin and Robin, and you recognized Nancy from the Steve of it all. It wasn't lost on you that him ditching you to hang out with her was the straw that broke the camel's back… for you at least. Not that it was Nancy's fault— you and Steve had both been loving and hating that shared possessiveness, and it just happened to come to a head in '83.
Then there was Lucas, who Steve explained he practiced basketball with and had made a buzzer-beater shot to win the varsity basketball championship just a few days before the earthquake. Mike, who was Nancy's little brother and didn't like him that much and really didn't talk to him. And Will who… yeah, he didn't talk to him that much either, but he seemed nice enough.
But you recognized Will. Zombie Boy. Another page in Hawkins' weird history.
"You know so many kids," you said with mild amusement as Steve finally sat down and passed you the bottle. Sam began to suckle on it greedily, her tiny hands holding the bottle alongside yours.
Steve made a face, affronted but sheepish. His cheeks colored with a ruddy blush and he ran a hand through his messy morning hair . "Hey, I'm a mentor."
In his defense, you weren't sure that was entirely untrue. Why else would so many people show up for him when he needed help, if they didn't know he'd do the exact same things for them? That's what was so baffling about being around Steve Harrington.
It felt like two paradoxical versions of him lived in your head— one made up of things he'd done before the earthquake, and another based on the person you lived with. There was callous, asshole Steve who haunted you like a boogeyman. It was like any time you let yourself acknowledge that he was good with Sam, or was being sweet, your brain had to remind you of how shitty he'd been in the past.
Maybe he is a good guy, the voice in your head said. And then another louder voice would remind you, but that just means that he's only really awful to you. You weren't sure which voice you wanted to listen to more.
Anyways, packing was easy when nothing was really yours. Steve, Lucas, and Nancy made quick work of breaking the nursery furniture down and loading it into her station wagon. First trip, Steve called, and then they were driving across town to your old neighborhood.
"How are you doing?" Robin knocked on the door to the bedroom, where you sat on the floor folding some of Carol's clothes for yourself. An old concert tee she had definitely stolen from your closet, a parka you'd always liked, cute tops she'd gotten from Gadzooks.
You looked up and shrugged. "Fine," you insisted. "Just trying to save some things from the donation pile. Want anything?"
Robin sat on the floor beside you and shook her head. "Yeah, it's not really my style. No offense." She helped you fold the rest of the clothes you'd picked, only seeming to pass mild judgment through her expressions. Even so, the two of you fell into a quiet rhythm as you worked "Don't take this the wrong way, but you have anyone you can talk to? I mean, besides Steve and the nonverbal infant."
Heat flooded your cheeks as you tried to stammer your way into an excuse. It felt shameful to admit that, no, you had no friends to talk to. "I mean, Tina is at Purdue, and the military blocks communication outside of the city," you managed. "And obviously I can't talk to my friends from college for the same reasons. I'm an only child, my parents aren't the emotionally supportive type, my best friends are dead…"
You grimaced sheepishly at your own self-pity. "Sorry," you said. "No, I guess."
"I was just going to say that, y'know, we don't want you to be lonely," Robin continued. "We're a bit of a ragtag bunch, but if you need friends to help you through this… there's plenty of those to go around."
A tiny smile played at your lips. "Yeah? You sure there's room for a hopeless chump who has no idea what her future looks like?"
Robin's smile was warm and inviting. "Oh, you'd be in great company. Lots of chumps around. We're all feeling a little hopeless, but we're working on that."
A small laugh passed your lips as you closed the box of things you wanted to keep. Working on it was a better outlook than you'd had in months. "Is this a formal invitation to join the band of misfits?"
"Oh, absolutely," she said as she stood up. "I'm tired of being outnumbered by kids all the time."
That night, with the rest of the group piled around the TV watching whatever tape they could scrounge up, you slipped away to your new bedroom. It still smelled like his mother's perfume— the scent of florals and dusting powder nearly suffocating.
Sylvia Harrington put every cent of commission she made from real estate into designing her bedroom. At least, that's what it felt like. The bedroom suite was done with pink faux marble and gold accents. The mirror above the dresser was etched with frosted swans and lilies, framed with gold.
It was pretty and delicate and luxurious. It was the kind of room that someone who has their entire life in order comes home to. So as you put your picture frames and knick-knacks on the dresser, it almost felt like sacrilege. A little girl playing pretend as a grown-up.
You dropped your meager boxes of clothes onto the floor in the closet and took the moment to marvel at Sylvia's en suite bathroom. Pink tile around the tub, a glass block shower wall, the gold swan faucets. You nearly laughed, but couldn't help be charmed.
"It's pretty ridiculous, huh?" Steve stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He looked so content, so relaxed. He must've been happy to be home, especially without his parents. "This is her happy place. I'm surprised she didn't carve it out and carry it out of Hawkins with her."
A soft laugh escaped you. "I can see why," you said. You flicked the tap on with your fingers and watched the swan spit a perfect arc into the pink tub below. It was so ridiculous, but you supposed it made sense. A little slice of luxury to retreat into. "Well… her loss. I'm taking a bubble bath tomorrow. I checked the closet and she left all of her fancy soaps and lotions."
It was quiet as you stood there, the water still pouring down the drain. You shut it off and were met with a quiet drip, drip, drip as water beaded off the beak. You crossed your arms over your crewneck—the soft one you got from college orientation.
"Did you need help unpacking anything?" He offered. "I saw more boxes by the dresser. Did you stop by your parents' place?"
A tiny laugh escaped you as you nodded. "Mm… Yeah, it didn't go very well," you replied with a shrug. "They'd already packed up my things and made sure to tell me how disappointed they are with my choices. Oh, and they give their warmest regards to your parents, of course."
That conversation with them had been brutal. Maybe keeping them at arms length since the quake had been shitty, but you were trying your best to manage with the equally shitty hand you'd been dealt. And, in your defense, they never really cared if you checked in with them before.
You knew their problem wasn't with your distance— they were embarrassed that their perfect progeny was a college dropout teen mother living in sin. It didn't matter that the baby wasn't yours and that you were most certainly not committing any sins with Steve except for your own wrath and stubborn pride.
Well… there was the envy you felt when he talked with Nancy and Robin in that easy, charming way. And sure… sometimes you'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling hot all over and pulsing with need because of particularly lustful dreams about the same person you shared a bed with.
So maybe you were living in sin, but not the way that they thought.
"I like what you've done with the place so far," Steve insisted as you both walked back into the bedroom. "It feels like a real person lives in here."
You thought your lava lamps and stuffed animals and photo frames cheapened the room, just a little, but Steve's compliment felt earnest. He poked at the plasma ball on the dresser and the pink light traveled to his fingertip. His eyes went to your framed photos, and you wondered if he was searching for himself in them. He wouldn't have to look far
"I remember this," he said, turning to you with a pink frame in his hand. It was the four of you during Summer of '82. He'd had a pool party to kick off summer break and you'd made whatever girl he was dating at the time (Lori, maybe?) take the photo of the four of you on the deck chairs. "Tommy brought vodka and we mixed them into cherry ICEEs. I never understood how you could drink so much and never get sick."
You laughed and shook your head. Honestly, you'd never been particularly heavy handed, but you didn't want to spoil the illusion. He placed the photo back reverently, but his gaze softened as he noticed the pile of photos on the dresser. He picked them up, flipping through the wedding photos with an impassive expression.
Do you see what I see? You wanted to ask. How good things could have been? Or maybe you just see how badly I messed up. This would've been so much easier if all that happened between us was a stupid high school fight.
"No frames for these, huh?" He asked, meeting your gaze.
Heat bloomed in your cheeks. Just owning them felt like being caught in a lie. "Mrs. Perkins thought I should have them," you explained, even thought that didn't quite clear up why they were with all of your other prized photos and not tucked away in an album or a box.
Steve nodded and sat them back down quietly. "I'll get back to the movie, I guess." It was like a bucket of iced water had been dumped on both of you. All of the warmth and openness dashed away like it had never been there to begin with. And it was all because of the pictures.
"Yeah, I'll go check on Sam and make sure her monitors are set up right," you said, hands twitchy and fidgeting in front of you. He gave a nod, and you slipped out of the room before either of you felt inclined to say anything more.
It was better that way.
At night, you couldn't sleep. The bed was too big, the room too quiet. You'd gotten used to the soft cadence of Steve's breathing, the warmth and dip of a body on the mattress beside you. You put an extra pillow beside you, just so that you could pretend that he was on the other side, but it wasn't that easy to trick your lonely brain.
Without meaning to, you'd grown to rely on that closeness. The promise of someone else near you, the comfort of that silent intimacy. Just like sharing beds as kids, but this time you were the one who needed the company.
The monitor crackled to life and you sat up, eager for the excuse to get out of bed and away from your thoughts. You crept up the stairs, but Steve was already in Sam's room, cradling her to his chest.
You watched through the doorway as he rocked her in his arms, shushing her gently in the dark of the night. His hair mussed, his expression soft and tender. "I've gotcha," he murmured softly. "It's just a new house, peanut, you're okay."
Something wrapped around your heart and pulled. Something that traveled through your nerves like pure electricity. A funny feeling at the base of your spine and fluttering around your chest. You had to look away from the sight of them before it got too overwhelming.
Before he noticed you there, you hurried back down the stairs and into your lonely bedroom, where you stayed awake until the morning. If Steve noticed the shadows under your eyes, he said nothing. It was better that way.
In July, Steve got a job. You'd both been debating who would be leaving for the workforce, but you'd been dragging your feet. The only jobs you'd heard were still hiring were the candy-stripers at the hospital (on a volunteer basis) or the construction gigs around town. Not exactly your idea of a blossoming workforce.
And, somehow, Steve got a gig with Robin at WSQK.
"Who's even running the station?" You asked from the living room floor after he told you. Sam was crawling around the rug, chasing after a ball that she had thrown moments earlier. "I thought the DJ left before quarantine."
Steve sat on the ground next to you and Samantha immediately diverted her direction to crawl back to him. She slapped at his knees, babbling happily, and you felt a sting of jealousy. "Nancy's the station manager, kind of."
Your brows furrowed deeply, and you shook your head. "I'm sorry, Nancy Wheeler? Kind of? And how is she kind of going to be paying you?"
Just by the way he swallowed told you all that you needed to know. "Jesus Christ, Steve," you muttered. "When we talked about work, it wasn't just so we could get out of the house. It's so we can put food on the table. You can't just go play DJ at The Squawk all day without a paycheck to show for it."
"Well," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "We still have your college fund and my trust fund, right?"
"Great plan, Steve," you huffed. You grabbed Samantha and stood with an exasperated sigh. "Let's drain our savings. I mean, Jesus, you really don't think sometimes."
His jaw ticked. He stood and followed you into the kitchen, his frustration evident in the scowl he wore. "Don't talk to me like that," he said, his voice the sharpest you'd heard it. "I'm not an idiot."
"I never said you were an idiot," you shot back. Samantha pulled at your hair until you winced at the tug at your roots, so you shifted her back to your other hip with an annoyed huff. "I said you don't think. There's a difference."
He rolled his eyes, staring at you from across the room. He stood by the sink, you leaned against the fridge. Stalemate.
"What I'm helping with at the radio station is really important," he insisted. "This isn't just about money, there are more important things going on."
You exhaled sharply, expression cold. "Like what? I don't think getting a job at the station so you can spend all day impressing Nancy Wheeler is more important than providing for Sam."
Steve laughed incredulously and ran a hand over his eyes. "You're the exact same person you were in high school, you realize that? You always think you know what's best, even if you have no goddamn clue what's going on. And you're still just as jealous, and possessive, and bitter."
His words were like a knife to the gut, twisting cruelly. Your bottom lip wobbled, an you could see the flash of regret in his eyes, if only for a moment. His expression went impassive just as soon as you thought he might apologize. Your mistake.
"And you're still a self-centered asshole," you snapped back. "Congratulations on fooling everyone else, Steve. It's actually impressive, you even had me there for a little while."
Hurt flashed across his expression— that sad puppy dog face. You just wanted to scream and rile him up more. Really lay into him and dig your claws in until you were both raw and bleeding. Sam pulled at your hair again, and you remembered the little girl in your arms. You needed to get out of the house. "We're going to the store," you said firmly. "Don't follow us."
Steve, to his credit, did what he was told. You'd retreat to bury your hurt in your responsibilities, he'd lick his wounds while you were gone. But, for now, your cards were on the table. Both of you.
Bradley's was useless between restocks. Quarantine panic meant everyone rushing to the stores when they heard about restocks, leaving shelves bare between. Sure, you could get the odd can of soup and bruised apple in the interim, but you had to plan your grocery trips accordingly.
Really, there wasn't any reason for you to go to the store, but you'd needed to get out.
Samantha babbled as you pushed the cart, pausing at a shelf of strawberry cake mix. Score. The butcher counter was scant, but you managed to grab a few chicken breasts for dinner. A bag of frozen broccoli, some rice.
You turned your cart towards the baby aisles and froze. Danny Miller stood at the end-cap, debating between Old Spice and Irish Spring, his thick brows furrowed. He was still just as handsome as he had been in high school— more probably. He'd grown into his looks, his hair was styled much better, and he even seemed to have body hair.
Huh. Dolphin Danny no more.
You were considering reversing and going a different way, just to avoid confrontation, but Sam had other plans. She fussed, impatient and bored in the cart, and her soft cries drew his gaze. Danny looked up, and you watched recognition pass over his features.
Fuck it. You waved and continued on your way, pausing beside him. "Hey, I didn't know you were in Hawkins."
"Yeah, I was home for spring break and after the earthquake I stayed around to take care of my Nana," he said. He put the Old Spice back on the shelf, apparently fine with Irish Spring. "I heard you moved in with Steve."
There wasn't a question there. His gaze flicked from your face down to Samantha, and you felt a sick pit of dread in your gut. And you hated that shame you felt, the tiny, selfish urge to pretend like she was a tiny blip in your life. Like that part of you didn't matter.
"Um, yeah," you said with a long exhale. You fidgeted, running a hand through your hair just because you weren't sure what else to do.
Before you could elaborate and say yes, but… Danny laughed and shook his head. "I kind of figured that you two would get together after we broke up," he admitted. "I mean, you two always had this sort of weird thing."
Heat flooded your cheeks as you tried to laugh it off. "We're not together," you insisted. "And there. isn't a thing. I mean, we're living together, but it's because of Sam. Her parents died in the earthquake."
His gaze softened, just slightly. "Oh, well, I'm really sorry," he said.
You could feel that he was going to walk away, and you should have let him go, but it had been a weird day, and you just needed something. An itching need to be someone outside of that house. It didn't occur to you that you were doing the exact same thing you'd done at sixteen when you dated Danny in the first place— using him as an outlet for your feelings about Steve. It didn't matter.
"Um, maybe we can grab lunch sometime and really catch up," you suggested. A desperate, last ditch attempt to salvage the conversation. Samantha was overstimulated by the store and had begun to cry louder, even as you rolled the cart back and forth to soothe her.
Danny's gaze filled with sympathy, and you knew that no matter what came out of his mouth, the answer was going to be no. "Uh, maybe," he said with a half-smile. "I've actually gotta head out, but it was good seeing you. Good luck with the, uh, baby."
You rubbed your eyes with the heels of your hands until purple stars sparked your vision, and sighed deeply. Sam blinked up at you when you opened your eyes, clueless as to what you were thinking and feeling. It was nice, you thought, that she didn't seem to have a concept of what a mess you were. Yet. You kissed her forehead and wheeled into the baby aisles to grab whatever they had, just to be safe.
Steve was on the phone when you got home. Sam was asleep in her car seat, and you did your best to juggle the grocery bags and her without dropping everything. It'd just ruin your mood worse.
You dropped the bags by the front door and carried her up to her crib. Steve was still talking when you made it back down. And you shouldn't have, but you crept into the butler's pantry and listened, just a bit.
"— she's gonna figure it out," he said, sighing exasperatedly. "I mean, she's right. It looks weird for me to take a job where I'm not even getting a paycheck."
He huffed, and you heard his head thump against the wall again as Robin spoke into the receiver. You could have run to Mr. Harrington's old office and picked up the phone, but didn't want them to hear you on the line.
"I know, but…" he trailed off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But you're not the one who has to make excuses and lie all of the time. You don't have to live with her. I'm the one who has to spend every day watching her become more and more like our mothers while I'm becoming just like my dad."
He paused, and you heard the soft, frustrated exhale of his breath as he listened to the other line. "Whatever. You're really unhelpful, you know that? Alright, Rob, bye." The phone clunked back onto the receiver, and you high tailed it back to the door to grab the groceries.
When Steve passed you on his way upstairs, he didn't meet your gaze.
That night, with Sam asleep and Steve in the kitchen on the phone with another one of his friends, you took advantage of the giant, fancy bathtub and Sylvia Harrington's expensive soaps. You lit tea lights and sank into the hot water hoping you could wash away your horrible day.
Frankly, you'd never seen the appeal of wine before, but you were going stir crazy between the seven month old baby and the quarantine and Steve. You had stolen two bottles from the shelves in the basement and poured obscenely large glasses. Wine was nice when your day had been so shitty. It blurred the sharp edges of your thoughts, but hadn't taken them away entirely. At least, not yet.
Steve found you a quarter of the way through bottle number two, singing along to your The Smiths cassette. The water had gone lukewarm, and the bubbles had become more of a thick foam, but you didn't move to get out.
"I called you for dinner an hour ago," he said.
"Yeah, I couldn't hear," you replied with a shrug, avoiding his gaze. "I'm actually really busy in here, if you wouldn't mind leaving."
"You're drunk," he said plainly, staring down at you with his arms crossed and a very serious expression. And it was so absurd that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"
You shrugged and finished the last swill of your glass. Anyway, you thought his question was really, really dumb, so you didn't bother to answer it. "Yeah, actually it's a great idea. I really understand our mothers now," you said instead. "Actually… if I'm already just like them, I figured I should really commit to it. I wonder if your mom left her Valium?"
Steve closed his eyes and sighed. "Jesus Christ, you were listening to my phone call? That was totally out of context."
Before you could grab the bottle to pour another glass, Steve pulled it away. "Drink some water," he muttered. He grabbed the half-empty bottle and walked it over to the sink. You followed, head spinning a little as you stood, and wrapped yourself in a fuzzy pink towel.
"You're such an asshole," you muttered, fighting him for the bottle as he poured it down the sink. It was stupid, because it was already mostly drained and glugging down the drain, and the running water just made it slippery and hard to grab.
When he finally gave up, you pulled it to your chest and held it like it was something precious— chest heaving and a big pout on your lips. Steve crossed his arms, sleeves soaked to his elbows. Wine had splashed onto your throat and dripped in rivulets down your chest, disappearing between your breasts beneath the towel.
"You're ridiculous," he said, jaw ticking. You watched him run a hand through his hair, making it stringy and damp where it flopped over his forehead. You exhaled slowly, like you could fight the word vomit that was itching to crawl up your throat.
But, as your track record showed, you had poor judgment while drunk. "Why?" You demanded, arms crossed, lip wobbling.
Steve threw his hands up, exasperated. "Why, what? Why are you ridiculous?" He shot back. "I think the liter of wine in your system is a good enough answer. You're drunk and we have a baby to take care of."
You gestured clumsily, like you were brushing his words out of the air. It was like you were fighting to pull the words from the jumbled mess of feelings in your brain. You shook your head ardently, which made tendrils of your months-old perm fall from your banana clip. "No, no, no," you mumbled, frustrated with your own inability to express yourself fast enough. "No, that's not what I'm talking about."
Steve sighed. His sleeves left wet blotches where his arms were crossed. He waited, eyes narrowed, then he shook his head with a scoff. "I'm not a mind reader, alright? What?"
You took a slow breath through your nose and swallowed hard. "The wedding," you managed. And barely, because the lump in your throat seemed to be suffocating you. "Why?"
Steve swallowed and shook his head. "Jesus christ, I'm not having this conversation with you while you're wasted."
That only made you angrier. He wouldn't talk to you about it sober, he wouldn't talk to you about it drunk. He might have been fine stepping around the elephant in the room, but every day that room felt like it was shrinking.
You swallowed. Your mouth tasted like a vineyard, and you were soaked from the bath and dripping into a puddle on the floor. You lifted the bottle to your lips to take a long swig, but it was so hard to swallow.
"I just need to know why," you said, nearly pleading. "I've felt so crazy for the past four months. I've felt like I'm the only one who remembers what happened. I know you want to move on and ignore it, but I can't."
He sighed, chewing on his lip for just a moment before he spoke. "You were going to college, and I was sending in applications to Scoops Ahoy and The Gap. You had things to look forward to, but I wasn't even good enough to get out of this stupid town."
Your lip wobbled. You'd never thought that, not even once. You stepped back and sat on the edge of the tub. The bottle clunked against the pink tile as you sat it down and looked up at him.
"I wasn't going to be the thing to hold you back. I didn't want you to be tied to a dead-end, Hawkins loser, so I pushed you away. I thought it was noble, but then our friends had to die, and it was all for nothing. And either way, you already hated me."
You sniffled and shook your head. "I never thought you were a loser," you insisted, the easiest way your drunken mind could respond.
Steve shook his head. "You didn't have to." He sighed and shook his head. "Let's get you to bed."
After you'd gotten into your pajamas and brushed the taste of wine from your mouth, you walked back into your bedroom and watched Steve turning down your bed. He looked up, his expression unreadable, and stepped back.
You crawled into bed and watched him walking towards the door. You sat up quickly and your head spun. "Wait," you said quickly. He turned and you frowned weakly. "I just sleep really badly when I'm alone."
His mouth twitched, just a little, and he nodded. "Okay, yeah," he replied. "I'll be back."
You were already asleep by the time he came back, on your stomach, drooling into the down pillows. But in the morning when you woke up to the sound of Sam stirring over the monitor, Steve was right there beside you.
You had your answers, for better or for worse. You just didn't know what you could do with them.
Thank you for reading!! I'm really curious to know how you're all feeling about Steve + what you think about what's going to go down between them moving forward... was reader valid for her crashout, do you think reader can ever be a part of the friend group while being shut out from the truth... let me know!! i love talking with you all!
Steve Harrington x fem!reader who he goes looking for [1.9k words]
part 8 <- part 9 | series masterlist
CW: angst/fight with a surprise, anxious attachment style, Steve finally gets a chance to tell reader all about herself, it's finally happening
By the third 7/11 parking lot that Steve pulls out of, the frustration in his chest begins to morph into something closer to concern.
He’d shown up at your place at 6:59 pm on the dot to a full house. All of the teens plus your aunt and the cat were present to watch Steve stand there awkwardly in his nicest-yet-casual-enough-to-still-be-considered-cool outfit, smelling of the overpriced cologne he got last Christmas, before he was forced to ask where you were. Doubly awkward was trying not to allude to the fact that the two of you were meant to be going out tonight, unsure what you ended up telling your family about tonight’s plans.
It was Ms. Henderson who said you ran to the 7/11, to which Dustin scoffed and complained that you didn’t ask if he wanted anything before you left.
Steve figured he’d wait for a bit, thinking you simply lost track of time. Then he waited for a little longer. Then, after waiting even longer, he started to worry that the two of you were going to miss the reservation he made.
So, he decided to try and intercept you on your way home and headed towards the 7/11 closest to your house.
You weren’t there.
He went to another one. And then another.
By the time he gets to the fourth 7/11, you’re late for the reservation.
Did you forget? You don’t seem like the forgetful type. Steve also doesn't think he left any room for confusion; there was nothing ambiguous about tomorrow, seven o'clock.
That leaves only one option; you stood him up.
And so he wants to be mad. Wants to be hurt. Wants to throw his hands up and say to hell with you and go home. Except now he doesn’t know where you are and, in turn, if you’re okay. Visions of Russians and demogorgons and lab employees flood his mind and have his stomach migrating to his throat. So, he keeps driving; checking what feels like every 7/11 within a ten mile radius of the Henderson home before he finally finds you.
You’ve propped yourself up on a half-wall behind the 7/11. Your feet dangle above the concrete and sway in time with whatever music you have playing on your walkman. There’s a duffle bag on one side of you and a can of 7-Up on the other with a plastic straw through its tab.
Steve has half a mind to grab the disposable camera from his glove compartment to snap a picture of you if he wasn’t so pissed.
He parks the car and makes his way over to you, raising his eyebrows when you notice him and cautiously pull the headphones from your ears.
“An entire shop available and you still pick 7-Up over Sprite? Or literally any other soda?”
You don’t take the bait.
He huffs a bitter laugh, gesturing at the duffle bag. “Going somewhere?”
You’ve packed, as though the idea of going out with him was deplorable enough that you’d rather skip town. Steve perches on the half wall right beside said bag so you can’t feign ignorance.
“You could have just said no, you know?” he finally says after failing to receive a response. “Instead of letting me show up at your house to the kids and your aunt shooting me weird looks when I asked where you are, waiting on you, before leaving like a loser.”
You still don’t reply.
“I was worried, you know,” he laughs at himself, feeling dumber than ever. “Thought you got yourself into trouble, or trouble found you. Maybe you’d gotten lost or- or snatched up. By an actual pervert. But nope,” he pops the P, “ just couldn’t stand the thought of spending time with me.”
Your continued silence serves to bring Steve’s anger from a simmer to a rolling boil.
“Seriously?” he deadpans. “You’ve got nothing to say to me? After I waited for you? After I drove around the entire town of Hawkins looking for you? Worrying about you? You stand me up, and you have nothing to say?”
You look down at your feet that have since stopped swinging. Steve lets out a derisive scoff.
“Wow.” He nods to himself. “Well, I guess since I know you’re not dead in a ditch or anything, I’ll just let Dustin know his cousin’s fine and to expect her home soon.”
You still don’t reply and Steve’s anger swiftly morphs into a deep, aching hurt. He stands before you can see the sheen in his eyes and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows painfully.
Steve makes it only three steps before you finally break whatever vow of silence you’ve taken.
“You didn’t tell me about Nancy.”
He doesn’t turn right away, not entirely sure he’s heard you right.
“What?”
You aren’t looking at him when Steve finally turns back towards you, swallowing thickly before you repeat yourself.
“You didn’t tell me about Nancy.”
Steve catalogs the way your shoulders are hunched, as though you’re curling in on yourself to protect your most vital organs. “What about her?”
You lick your lips, shifting in your seat.
“What about Nancy didn’t I tell you?” It comes out harsher than he intends it to. He’s perhaps being cruel, forcing you to say it aloud. Steve – contrary to popular belief – is not dumb, can probably guess what your hang-up is here though he’s not sure why it’s a hang-up at all. As it stands, he doesn’t think he could stomach hearing about your exes right now either.
“That the two of you used to date.”
Steve scoffs. “You stood me up because I, at one point, had a girlfriend?”
You bristle at his tone, finally looking at him if only just to glare at him. “I thought maybe she was the one you really wanted to be with tonight.”
Steve wants to laugh, thinks you’ve got to be joking, except nothing about this is funny. “Yeah? Well, you thought wrong.”
He takes a few steps towards you which sees you slipping off the half wall to stand in front of him defiantly. “If I wanted to go out with Nancy Wheeler tonight, I would’ve asked Nancy Wheeler. And she would’ve had the grace, or maybe the balls, to tell me no instead of leaving me hanging. I didn’t make you out to be a coward, Y/N.”
Your jaw tightens. “Screw you.”
“I didn’t ask Nancy to come out tonight,” he continues unperturbed, stepping further into your space, “because I didn’t want to go out with Nancy tonight. I wanted to go out with you.”
“Because you couldn’t have her?” you throw back, meeting Steve exactly where he’s at. There’s a familiarity in this dance the two of you do; comfort in the routine of striking at each other until one of you bleeds.
“It-” Steve runs frustrated hands through his hair. “What!?"
“Because today, I had to listen about how King Steve’s been soft for the girl that got away for years, and I couldn’t help but feel like I might just be a chance for you to feel big again.”
“Oh, well, in that case: mission failed. I feel about two feet tall right now,” he deadpans as he stares down at you. “King Steve, are you serious right now? You think I give a shit about that stuff?”
“How would I know, Steve?” You bite. “I don’t know you.”
“Exactly!” he shouts, flinging his hand out helplessly. “You don’t know a God damn thing about me, that’s why I asked you for one fucking shot. I- King Steve? Fuck that guy! I hated him!
“And since you’re so curious; he’s the reason Nancy and I broke up. Alright? I was a fucking asshole. She moved on, it sucked. But you know what? So did I. And maybe you’d have known that if you talked to me instead of making these idiodic assumptions.”
The two of you are breathing hard by the time he finishes.
“How’s it feel to be wrong all the time, by the way?” he asks you, because he feels justified. “Must be exhausting.”
“Oh, get bent.”
The only bending Steve does is to grab you with a palm on either side of your face and pull you into a bruising kiss.
Your hands come up automatically, bracing yourself on his chest to keep you stable as though the force of his kiss threatens to throw you off kilter.
And then, you’re shoving him away from you.
Steve feels like he’s been running for hours, rubbing at his chest as he watches you stare at him, bewildered. He’s actually not entirely sure that he can decipher the expression on your face. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to, panic setting in that he might’ve just crossed a serious line; might’ve just become the pervert you’ve always accused him of being.
He’s just about to ask you if you want him to drive you to the police station to file a restraining order when you’re grabbing him roughly by the collar and pulling him back in.
Steve stumbles forward a few steps, hands on your hips as he forces you backwards until you’re pinned between him and the half wall.
You kiss him like you’re begging him for something. Steve doesn’t know what it is that you want but he finds himself giving anyway; pouring all of the frustration and care you’ve managed to dredge up inside of him since the moment he met you.
One hand rises to the back of your neck – his fingers weaving into the hair there of their own accord – while the other slides to the base of your spine; he spreads his palm along your hip and pulls you forward. Your arms wrap around his neck and Steve actually shivers when your fingers thread into the short hair at the base of his skull.
Steve presses his nose into the side of yours, maneuvering your face so he can run his tongue along the seam of your lips; you let out what might’ve been a sigh or a whine if Steve hadn’t taken that opportunity to deepen the kiss.
Your lips are beautifully kiss-bruised by the time the two of you separate, though Steve knows if he didn’t have basic needs like that of air in his lungs he never would’ve pried himself from you.
He doesn’t go far, though, keeping you in his grip as he rests his forehead against yours.
“You’ll have to forgive me for not thinking of mentioning my ancient history with Nancy Wheeler to you, okay?” he whispers, emphasizing his words with a bump of his nose to yours. “My thoughts have been a little preoccupied with someone else lately.”
You blink a few times, running your tongue along your lips as you work to catch your breath before looking up at him through your lashes. “Me?”
Steve rolls his eyes, wondering what he’s done to deserve having the hots for the most infuriating girl in the world.
“Idiot,” he huffs fondly before pulling you in for another kiss.
Chapter Five - Between Friends
{best friends to lovers, fake dating over Christmas}
or: Steve's super curious about something he finds in your nightstand drawer
6k words ✻ go to landing page
CW: Sexual content. MDNI
─── ✻ ───
Normally, by this time of night, you’d be upstairs, warm and cozy in your bed.
But tonight, you won’t be alone in that bed.
So you’re sitting on the couch in the living room across from your parents, reading.
Trying to, more like. Every time you think about getting up and heading to your room, Steve’s following right behind you in your head, all soft hair and low voice. Then you have to restart the page.
It’s not all that bad, though.
A roaring fire crackles in the fireplace, sending shadows dancing over the room and winking in the dark windows. Your belly is comfortably full from the hearty stew Mom made for dinner. The ends of your hair drip onto your oversized T-shirt, still wet from your shower. Dad slouches on the leather sofa across from you, typing up a scene on his laptop. Mom’s lounging beside him in a soft throw, a western romance open in her hands. Sammy was put to bed hours ago.
Steve’s sitting two cushions down from you, scrolling on his phone. Probably reviewing the latest basketball game stats from last week. You’re tucked into the far side of the couch, legs folded under you. Crystal’s curled up in your lap, purring in her sleep.
The words blur in front of you again and you frown, starting over from the top. How long have you been reading this page for? You should probably turn it, just to keep up appearances.
It’s one of Dad’s newest novels, something he’s been begging you to read for forever, but you never seemed to have the time.
Well. You have the time now.
You have all the time in the world.
“Steve,” Dad’s voice cuts through the peaceful silence. “I nearly forgot. Kristy told me you fixed our sink.” The leather couch creaks as he shifts his weight, grabbing something from his back pocket.
“No big deal,” Steve says easily, looking up from his phone. “Couple brackets were loose, that’s all. Took like, five minutes—”
He’s interrupted by Dad leaning across the coffee table and pressing two crisp hundreds into his hand.
Steve shakes his head immediately, trying to pass the money back. “I—no, I can’t take this. Really. You don’t have to do that.”
“You can, and you will.” Dad ignores Steve’s outstretched hand and settles back on the couch. “As a thank you, son.”
Steve’s Adams apple bobs on a swallow. Firelight dances across a muscle in his jaw as he clenches it once. Then again. He glances around the room, like someone else might tell him what to do. But he doesn’t look at you.
You tilt your head. Why is he—
“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, tucking the bills into his pocket. “Guess I’ll just…I’ll spend it on your daughter, then.”
“Good man,” Dad chuckles. His gaze drifts to the long empty space between Steve and you on the couch, before landing on you. “Honey, you don’t have to sit so far apart if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”
You try to laugh it off, but your chortle comes out sounding nervous as hell. Steve’s eyes flick over to you, widening briefly. Play along.
You don’t have a good excuse, or really, anything that explains why you aren’t cuddled up next to your boyfriend on his side of the couch by the fire. But then, you look down at Crystal.
You gesture to the little white fur ball in your lap. “Kinda nap-trapped, here.”
It’s a lame excuse, but it seems to satisfy Dad. A small smirk plays on Mom’s lips. You try to catch her eye to ask what’s so funny, but she doesn’t look up from her book.
Dad’s gentle typing fills the room again. The heat hums. The fire crackles and pops. And for a moment, a deep nostalgic ache settles in your chest.
This might be the first Christmas you’ve had in years that feels like…like Christmas. Like how it used to.
You stare into the fire, book forgotten. Every year after this, you’ll be sitting here on this leather couch alone. And Steve will be somewhere else. Probably living in the suburbs, with some blonde whose busy giving him his six kids. You can almost see it. The whole Harrington crew renting a van every summer, traveling the coast. Maybe learn how to surf of some shit.
And you’ll be here. Thinking about him. Wondering where he is, and if he ever thinks about this Christmas too. For a split second, you entertain the thought of giving him the choice to make this real. But that wouldn’t be fair to him.
God, this is all so complicated. And so heartbreakingly unfair.
Mom yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, I’m exhausted. Late night last night.”
Dad nods absently, eyes still on his screen from behind his glasses. She turns to look at him. When he doesn’t glance up, you see her foot bump his discreetly under the blanket.
“Oh! Right,” he says, “Late night. Yes. You can go to bed, honey. It’s alright.”
The sound of his typing fills the room again.
“We’ve got the annual Christmas tree lighting tomorrow,” Mom adds. “The whole family’s gonna be there. We should probably turn in.”
He finally looks at her long enough to slide his writing glasses off his nose. Something seems to click because he swiftly closes his laptop and moves to stand. Mom follows.
“You know,” he says as he walks past the couch, “I’m really glad you’re here, Harrington. You’re a good man.”
Steve looks up at him, startled.
“You’re good for each other,” he continues, gesturing between the two of you. “And you make her really happy, Steve.”
Steve’s eyes drop to the ground, before lifting again. “I try to. Make her happy, you know.”
“I know.” Dad smiles softly. “We see it.”
Your throat tightens.
“Night, you two,” Mom says, resting a hand gently on Steve’s head like he’s already a part of the family.
“Goodnight,” Steve says, his voice warm.
Dad drops a swift kiss to your temple as he brushes past, leaving behind the familiar scent of ink and coffee stains.
The door to their bedroom clicks closed behind them and the noise rouses Crystal. She unfolds herself from your lap, stretches, then hops down and disappears down the hallway. Probably in search of her litter box.
When you turn to look at Steve, he’s holding the cash out to you.
“Here,” he urges, when you don’t automatically reach for the money.
You stare at him. “That’s your money. I’m not taking it.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not keeping it,” he says, shaking his head like the idea isn’t even up for debate.
You squint at him in the firelight. “Why not?”
He throws a hand out toward the kitchen. “I was just doing the boyfriend thing,” he shrugs, eyes widening. “I shouldn’t get paid for that.”
You smile. “I say you should.”
He shakes his head, staring down at the bills.
You scoot closer, but as you draw near you remember your rule. His knee rests barely an inch from yours.
“If…if it really offends you Steve, I’ll take it,” you say gently. “It’s okay—”
“It doesn’t offend me,” he interrupts.
“Okay…” You study his profile in the firelight. “He didn’t mean it in a transactional way, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think he was genuinely grateful.”
Steve just shakes his head again. Like you’re not getting it.
But you want to. You ache to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder. To run your fingers through his hair and let his cheek fall into your palm. To give him the same kind of comforting, grounding touch he gave you the first night he was here.
Fuck your rules.
Fuck them all to hell.
But your hands stay in your lap. Where it’s safe.
“What is it, Steve?” you ask softly.
When he finally turns to look at you, there’s real emotion swimming in his brown eyes.
“It’s just—” He exhales through his nose. “I don’t deserve this. I show up, pretend to be your boyfriend, and then he says all that about me like it’s real.” His jaw clenches. “Nobody’s ever…said stuff like that to me.”
“What stuff, baby? I—”
Baby. You blink at him. He blinks back.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scoot back on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of his body beside yours. It’s not the pet name that makes your breath come faster. It’s how easily it slipped out. How unnervingly normal all this feels with him.
“What’d you just call me, Ace?” That teasing look is back, tugging on the corner of his lips.
“I-it’s all this pretending…” you stammer. “It’s gone to my head. Or something.”
He looks…for lack of a better word, thrilled.
“Or something,” he mutters, smiling. His eyes drop to your lips and your stomach flips. “Ready to head to bed?”
The way he says it sounds so normal. Like it’s easy. Like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you’re not standing one breath away from blowing everything up into pieces.
Yeah.
You are so fucked.
─── ✻ ───
Somehow, the two of you make it into bed without touching once.
It’s a miracle, really. But your bed is big enough that if you’re careful, you can lay side by side without an accidental brush.
Moonlight filters in through the curtains, spilling across the patterned quilt. You found your old blankets in the basement earlier and rushed to replace that irritatingly modern comforter Mom had up here.
The silence is suffocating, like it always is. But this time, it’s pulled taut like a string just waiting to snap. You could cut the tension in this bed with a butter knife.
Maybe Steve was right. This rule didn’t make anything easier. It just made your body more aware of every time he was near. Your eyes caught easily on his warm fingers, his knees, and broad shoulders, every time you were in his proximity today. So aware of everywhere he stepped in the house, so you didn’t run into him in another doorway.
You actually did it. You made it the entire day without touching. So, why do you feel so achingly empty inside?
A sudden bright light spears through the darkness into your eyes and you wince.
“Sorry, sorry,” Steve mutters beside you, turning off his phone screen again. “It’s at two percent. You got a charger in here?”
“Yeah. Top drawer of my nightstand.”
The second the words leave your mouth you realize your mistake.
“Wait! Stop—I’ll get—”
But it’s too late. His hand is already in the drawer, and when he pulls it back out, there’s something in his hand.
“Oh ho ho,” he chuckles under his breath. “What do we have here?”
“Oh, God, Steve,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “Put it back.”
“Mmm,” he hums. “Yeah…don’t think so.”
You completely forgot you brought that discreet bullet vibrator to the cottage last year. A quiet buzz fills the room and you resist the urge to turn your flaming cheeks into the pillow.
“Well, would ya look at that,” he murmurs, “Still charged.”
“Give it—” you spring up and lunge for the toy, but he holds it out of reach.
“No touching!” he tuts. “Remember?”
His knees sink into the mattress as he leans back to avoid your hands. You glare at him but he just smirks down at you. The look is so boyish and charming, it sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach.
When he’s apparently satisfied you won’t risk touching him to steal it away, his gaze drops to review the toy in agonizing detail.
It’s small and blue, about the length of his finger. He turns it in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over the blunt end you press to your clit.
You hold your breath, mind scrambling for a way to make him just drop the damn thing.
“Wow,” he mutters, brows lifting as the vibrations hum against his palm. “That’s kinda…powerful for such a tiny— wait, how many settings does this thing have?” He clicks the button at the base. The vibration stutters into a staccato rhythm. He presses it again and again, cycling through the variety of patterns. “Jesus!”
If you weren’t so mortified, it would be kind of amusing watching Steve Harrington stare down at a sex toy like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Good thing he can’t sees the other ones you have back in your dorm, he’d be scarred for life.
“Steve,” you plead. “Put it back. Please, just—put it back for the love of God!”
“Jeez, Ace,” he chuckles. “Why’re you so embarrassed? It’s just a vibrator.”
Just a vibrator. Yeah, and it’s just your best friend holding it in his big hand. Like he’s not thinking about how you press it to your clit late at night, trying desperately not to think about him while you do.
Steve clears his throat, still looking at it. “I mean, I think it’s…cool. Great, even. I guess. I’m just—I’ve never had much experience with this kind of…machinery.”
You huff out a breathy laugh. “Leave it to you to make a bullet vibrator sound like a fucking excavator. Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like…you’ve never seen one before or something?”
He looks at you through his messy brown hair, suddenly shy.
“I’ve seen ‘em, I just—” He swallows. “The girls I’ve been with…I always make them come, so…”
You stare at him. “Okay, but what—like—every time?”
He stares back at you, frowning slightly at your surprise. “What? Like it’s hard?”
Your mouth falls open. He looks genuinely confused. Brows drawn together, eyes soft, lip curled slightly.
“So you just— how?” You shrug, head spinning. “With…what?”
His eyebrows furrow deeper and he tilts his head. “What are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”
Your eyes catch like magnets, unable to separate. You’re very aware of the way both your chests rise and fall together with quickening breaths.
You really shouldn’t be discussing this. But, you’re not touching. That was the rule. There’s no rule against…talking.
Understanding dawns on his face, and his shoulders slump.
“Okay—real question,” he says quietly. “Have any of your asshole exes ever actually gotten you off?”
You swallow hard and drop your gaze to the bed, too embarrassed by the pity in his eyes to answer.
“Fuck, Ace,” he groans, tipping his head back and running a hand over his face. Moonlight spills over the hollow of his throat, and you have the traitorous thought of what it would feel like to run your tongue over it. “No wonder you hate sex.”
“Okay, see? This is exactly what I was saying last night!” you snap, scrambling backward on the mattress, your knees tangling up in the quilt. “How do you know I’m not the one who’s bad in bed?”
His eyes harden and he leans in. “Did they tell you that?”
No. Not outright. But, it has been implied that it was hard to…get you there. Like it was something about you. Something you couldn’t change. You open your mouth to answer, but no words come out. Because, deep down, you’ve always wondered if maybe they were right. How would you know any different?
“I can’t believe this,” Steve mutters, raking a hand through his hair. The vibrator still hums in his other palm, a steady constant rhythm now. “How long has it been? Since you’ve…you know.”
You scoff, cheeks flaming. ”I am perfectly capable of getting myself off, thank you very much.”
He levels you with a look. “Weeks? Months? How long are we talkin’?”
“Fuck you! Try hours—”
His eyes widen and you snap your mouth shut.
Fuck. See? How does he always get you into these situations?
“Today?” he asks eagerly. “When? Tell me.”
You scowl down at the rumpled sheets. “I’m not telling you shit.”
His hand twitches against the blanket, like he wants to reach for you, but stops himself.
“It was in the shower, wasn’t it?” he breathes. “After dinner?”
The second your eyes snap to his you instantly regret it. He’s all breathy and gorgeous in the low light. His pupils are blown wide and he’s looking at you like you’re the last cigarette in the pack he had before you made him quit sophomore year.
“Did you think about me?”
An exhale punches from your chest. Memories of the fantasies you entertained while the hot water rained down on you flash through your mind.
Those hands on your tits, his fluttering pulse under your lips, his tongue on your clit. The moan that escaped his chest when you—
Suddenly, he leans in so fast you have to fall back on the bed to avoid touching him. But he just follows you down. His knees land on either side of your hips, one arm braced on the pillow beside your head. If you relaxed even an inch, your face would roll straight into his warm skin, so you strain to keep perfectly still.
“‘Cause, I did that too,” he whispers. “Last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
Your heart slams in your chest, a distant rush in your ears. Last night, when he stepped out of the bathroom in only a towel, he’d just jacked off to the thought of you—
His teeth catch his bottom lip. You almost throw out every rule right there, just to feel the pillowy softness of his mouth against yours. Heat coils tight deep in your core, aching with his proximity.
“I’ve been so horny all fuckin’ day,” he rasps.
You know how he feels. Your body craves his touch. After an entire day of thinking about nothing else, his hands on you would probably feel better than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. You could give in. You could ask him to touch you, and he would. The thought has your lips popping open, the words at the tip of your tongue.
Oh. Wait.
You see what he’s doing. None of this is real.
You level his gaze. “You’re just trying to win the bet.”
“No. I’m not.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not touching you. See?”
He lifts up a little. The space reveals his other hand resting on the blankets beside you, the buzzing vibrator dwarfed in his palm.
“Then what are you—” you start.
“Just…give this thing a little test drive for me, yeah?” he whispers. “I just wanna see what it can do.”
You eyes go wide. “Wh—”
“Just for a second,” he insists. “I’ll even do it over your sleep shorts. Look.”
He sits back on his knees over you, and your mouth waters. He’s still so tall like that. His broad chest stretches beneath his shirt, lashes brushing his cheeks as he looks down at your body beneath him.
“It’s not against the rules,” he murmurs, almost like he’s saying it more for himself than for you.
You’re panting now. Warm, delicious heat pours off his body, and that familiar tug of desire twists deep in your hips. You can feel yourself getting wet in anticipation of the pleasure he’s promising.
Suddenly, an idea strikes like a match.
He really seems to want this. Like, really want it. And maybe if you give in just a little, you can make him lose the bet. It’s only over your clothes. You can hold out long enough for him to crack first. Then, once he starts begging, you can rub the win in his face, roll over, and go to sleep.
Good plan.
Solid plan.
You eyes meet and you give him the faintest of nods. He looks surprised, but he doesn’t question it.
You reach down to take the toy, but he pulls it back just in time.
“No,” he says firmly. “I want to do it.”
A laugh bubbles up in your chest despite yourself. He sounds like he did when you were lab partners in Biology freshman year, arguing over who has to handle the grossest parts of the assignment.
You sit up to grab at it again, but your fingers accidentally brush his arm on the way.
“Hey—hey,” he chuckles. “No touching. Don’t make me pin your hands down. ‘Cause I will.”
Oh. Shit. Your mouth runs dry at the thought.
“Let me put it on you,” he says, almost pleading. Not quite, though. “Just for a second.”
You hesitate, looking up at him. His hair is a mess, and he promptly rakes a hand through it, like the way you’re staring is enough to make him self-conscious or something. You don’t even know why you’re considering this.
It’s a terrible, reckless, completely incorrigible idea.
“C’mon Ace,” he whispers. “Where’s that little rule breaker? You know—that rebel side I keep hearing so much about these days.”
“Shut up,” you bite, but it comes out more like a breathy moan.
His arm descends, slow and careful. Both of you watch as he lowers the vibrator between your legs, resting just above your sleep shorts. Your stomach flips and you resist the urge to squirm up into him.
Remember, you’re just doing it so you can win. He will give in.
“Hey,” he murmurs, dipping his chin to catch your eyes. “If you actually don’t want me to, I won’t.”
The way he’s looking at you right now—all soft curiosity and sweet eyes—you want to give him anything he wants. You feel inexplicably safe here with him, right now. Known. Cherished. That stray strand of brown hair falls into his eyes but he makes no move to rake it back, waiting patiently for your response. And something about that look makes you give in completely.
You don’t say anything.
You just cant your hips up an inch, connecting with the toy hovering above your mound. The first kiss of vibration against your clit feels like lighting.
A soft exhale escapes him, and he freezes, watching your hips move. You arch a little higher, and this time he applies a bit of pressure to the toy, meeting you there. You moan softly at the sensation, and your head falls back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.
“You can feel that?” he whispers. “Like—even through your clothes? That’s so hot, holy shit.”
Fabric rustles. You blink your eyes open again just in time to see him pull off his T-shirt.
“Wha—what are you doing?” you gasp.
He looks at you, eyes wide, hair mussed. “You got a problem with this Ace? It’s not against your rules.”
He looks so good, you almost forget how to speak. His toned body straddles your hips, and the chest hair scattered across his pecs catches the soft light of the moon. You want to run your fingers through it, trace the lines of muscle, touch all of him. But you can’t.
“Yeah, didn’t think so,” he mutters.
God, you’ve never seen this side of him before. He’s always been a smartass, but this cocky, self-assured, sexy version of him is making you feel things you’ve never felt before.
The vibrator settles back on your clit and you sigh, tension winding tight inside you. This is dangerous game, and it’s starting to feel a lot like the one you played last night. But this time will be different. You won’t give in. He sure as hell will though, you’ll make sure of that.
“Should I turn it up?” Steve asks, glancing down at the toy. “Change the setting? How do you like it?”
You can’t tell him how you normally do it. Because he’d take it as a set of instructions. And then—then you’d really be fucked.
He studies your face in the dark, reading you. “Take your shorts off.”
“Wha—”
“Unless you want me to?” Steve shrugs. “But that would require, you know, me touching you. So.”
How is he so calm about all this? There’s a bulge straining against his sweatpants, so you know he’s not completely unaffected. You don’t know what comes over you, but the thought of getting him to crack, turning him into a desperate, moaning mess, sends your pleasure skyrocketing. Your Steve, begging? Yeah, you want to see that. Just once.
But if you want to see him unravel, you’re going to have to start playing this game right. If you take your pants off, you’ll certainly have a better chance of driving him crazy.
You look at him, hips arching into that vibrator pressed against your clothed clit. “Ask nicely.”
His eyes snap to yours. Then, he smirks like he knows what you’re doing but doesn’t even care. “Please?”
Your fingers fly to your waistband, pulling both your shorts down. He lifts the vibrator and takes over for you once the waistband hits mid-thigh, since he’s straddling you, and pulls your clothes the rest of the way off.
His eyes fall to your newly bare hips. The cool air hits the slick coating your inner thighs and you bite your lip to keep from begging for his touch.
Okay. Maybe you didn’t exactly think this through.
His Adam’s apple bobs in the moonlight and you’re about to bury your half naked self back under the blankets, when the vibrator finds your clit again.
You moan softly, body relaxing instantly into the delicious feeling of the vibrations hitting you without anything in the way.
He mutters something that sounds a lot like, so wet for me, but you’re not sure, because you’re a little distracted, trying to keep it together long enough for him to break.
When you risk a peek down at him, you’re thrilled to see his dark eyes filled with lust, pinned to your pussy. His hand clenches at his thigh, like he’s doing everything he can not to hold your hips down. The outline of his raging erection presses through his sweats.
Your mouth waters at the sight.
He shifts the vibrator slightly to the right, and you nearly groan at the wave of pleasure that cascades through you, winding you even tighter.
“Like that?” he whispers. He sounds fucking wrecked.
Your pussy clenches around nothing and he swears under his breath. He curses again as your hips swivel, catching on the toy at every upturn. Your slick coats it as it slides over you again, and you turn your head to moan into your pillow.
“God, Ace,” he groans. “I can’t take this.”
“Y-you’re gonna l-lose.” You can barely get the words out as your hips jerk, desperate for more.
He exhales sharply. “You think I give a fuck?” he pants. “Let me touch you.”
Your brain short circuits. He was supposed to beg you to touch him, not beg you to let him touch you. A thought knocks loose in the back of your mind. Why did he make that bet with you in the first place? Steve’s competitive, sure. But losing this quickly—this willingly— isn’t like him at all.
Did he agree to this with you just so you would eventually give in to each other? Because he wants you that badly?
“Please,” he begs. “Please. I just wanna make you feel g-good.”
Well, that does it.
You’re nodding before your brain can catch up to your body. Steve Harrington begging? It’s everything you thought it would be. And more. Your overheating, nipples hard and straining against your tight T-shirt.
Fuck it. What’s a little orgasm between friends anyway?
His hot palm lands on your stomach, fingers splayed along the edge of your sleep shirt. You arch into his hand and bite back a whimper at his touch.
Finally.
Instead of moving down like you expect, his hand glides upward.
You watch him, curious. A soft smile touches his mouth and his eyes catalogue your expression.
When his fingers brush your cheek, a familiar sting hits the bridge of your nose. He got permission to touch you, and the first thing he does is cradle your face, thumb stroking over your skin, like he wants to memorize this moment.
Memorize you.
Your chest tightens.
Then, his gaze returns to your body and his hand trails down again. The muscles in his back flex and he shifts lower on the bed, his shoulders nudging your legs further apart. Before you can fully process this, his hair brushes your inner thighs. You expect him to lift the toy from your clit, but he bypasses it entirely.
When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly see stars.
He moans against your pussy, his nose bumping the vibrator and sending a sharp jolt of need through you. His brows knit together as he tastes you, lashes fluttering shut.
Are you having an out of body experience? Right now, your best friend is eating you out. And you’ve never felt anything like it. His free hand steadies your hips while he lavishes you with his warm wet mouth.
He doesn’t hold back, either.
He nips, sucks, and licks every inch of you. Not shy in the slightest as he gathers your slick in his mouth, quietly swallowing before going back for more.
It’s indecent. Messy. And so obscenely hot.
“Steve—” you whimper, hands flying out to grab something. Anything.
Without warning, he turns the toy off and tosses it on the bed. His big hands slide beneath your hips to palm your ass, lifting you higher so his tongue can sink deeper.
“Holy shit, Ace,” he groans against you.“Taste so good.”
Then his tongue replaces the where the vibrator was on your clit, flicking and sucking in a pattern that has you utterly boneless in his grasp. One long finger dips into your entrance and you arch so hard you nearly spear yourself on the entire length all in one go.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against you.
You’re throbbing now, hips rocking into him, wordlessly begging him for more. And his body responds, hands squeezing your hips hard, and moaning like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. You pulse once around his finger and he immediately adds another. The stretch is so good, you feel so full just from his hand.
The mattress shakes under you as his hips grind into it, rutting his hard dick into the sheets. You think about his cock in your hand last night, the way it leaked over your fingers.
It’s so good your hands just fly everywhere—fisting the sheets, scrabbling at the headboard. He reaches out blindly until he finds your wrist, never slowing his pace on your clit, then slowly guides your hand down until your fingers tangle in his soft hair.
When you rake your fingers through it and tug, he whimpers loudly against you, and you nearly come apart right there.
You pull him closer, pressing your hips down into that wet heat. Ironic that you’re the one being eaten out, yet you’re the one having to shove your pussy into his mouth just to keep him quiet.
You’re wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. Aching.
You want to come so fucking badly. You want to let him bring you over the edge, feel him hum against you as your orgasm rocks through your core.
But can you?
A trickle of doubt creeps in, dampening your pleasure just slightly.
“You don’t have to come, Ace,” he says, pulling back long enough to murmur against your inner thigh. “I’m not expecting anything.”
Something about him saying that eases the knot of anxiety in your chest and you relax into him again. He goes back to circling your clit, then pauses agin. “But the way you’re fucking shaking right now,” he adds, “I think you’re going to whether you want to or not.”
Cocky bastard. God, why do you love it so much, too?
“And you know why?” He pants.
You glance down at him buried between your legs and your breath catches. “Why?”
“Because they didn’t know you,” he says softly, dropping an openmouthed kiss to your knee. “Not like I do.”
He doesn’t think your broken. Not for a second. And for some reason, you believe him.
When his fingers curl and press against that sweet spot inside you, your orgasm catches and drags you under. It washes over you in painfully blissful waves. Just when you think it’s over, his fingers pull another pulse from you, his mouth making you clench one more time.
Finally it fades, and when you start to squirm, he releases you.
His broad chest rises up over you, knees moving up to straddle you again. You blink up at him, watching as he wipes his face on the back of his hand. You should feel shy, but you don’t. You feel…good. So good it doesn’t make sense.
His hand dips into his sweatpants, and you watch the way his fist moves over his cock beneath the fabric. The sight is so erotic, you eagerly tug his waistband lower to see all of it.
He’s hard and heavy in his hand, the tip pulsing angrily and leaking precum. He groans softly, watching you watch him.
God, his voice. It makes you hot all over again.
He reaches down and yanks your shirt up, pinning it right under your tits, giving himself a clear view of your hardened nipples through the fabric while he wraps his hand around his dick and tugs, head tipping back on another moan, obviously struggling to stay quiet.
He’s not going to last long like this. Suddenly, you don’t want this moment to end. You want to feel him again, even if this is the last opportunity you have.
Your hand flies up and slaps his away before replacing it greedily. He looks down at you, surprised, before desperation takes over and he’s bucking into your touch.
“Please—need you,” he groans. “Ace…”
It only takes a few strokes before his abs clench, and his hips stutter. He’s whimpers, muttering broken phrases like, don’t stop, and want this.
You watch as his orgasm rolls through him and hot cum lands on your naked stomach, painting your skin in thick ropes.
When he comes down from the high, he looks down at you. Both panting, staring at each other, your eyes drop to each other’s lips at the same time. He leans down like he might kiss you, but dips his chin at the last second as he remembers.
The rules.
He rakes a hand through his hair and rolls off you. A second later, he’s cleaning you up with a Kleenex from your nightstand before tossing it into the wastebasket near the bed. He even goes so far as to collect your discarded clothes from the floor. When he tries to help you put them back on, you brush him away, embarrassed, and pull them up yourself.
You sink into the bed together, lying next to each other staring up at the ceiling.
And this time, when your legs touch under the covers, neither of you pulls away.
“Steve,” you whisper. “That was…incredible.”
“Yeah?” He sounds proud.
“Yeah.” You arch into the bed, basking in the endorphin rush and the warm memory of his mouth between your legs. And then you sober, thinking about the future. “But it can’t…happen again.”
“Yeah. No. I know.”
The room settles around you as you both just lay there, pretending to go to sleep when all you can do is replay what just happened between you.
You’ve almost managed to drift off when you hear his voice again.
“Next time,” he murmurs low and certain, “I’m making you come twice.”
─── ✻ ───
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