content warning for alcohol consumption but v cute and fluffy otherwise <3
steve is drunk.
it's the first time in awhile that he's allowed himself to let loose. he stopped partying and chugging beers and doing keg stands back in high school, when the crown of king steve got too heavy and shitty to wear, and the world was threatening to end, and suddenly there was a small group of people that he was willing to die for, even if they didn't even realize it at the time.
but it's been a few years since then.
now, most of those same friends are scattered throughout the country — jonathan in new york, nancy in boston, dustin in georgia. robin, who took up residency in massachusetts, visits hawkins the most. she claims it's so she can keep an eye on the squawk because the indiana-local radio station is too staticky to listen to all the way in northampton, but both she and steve know it's because they can't survive much longer than two months without the other.
robin, coincidentally, is how steve ends up shit-faced in your dining room on a friday night. you, being the courageous and promised designated driver of the evening, who explicitly instructed the duo to call you as soon as they were ready to head out.
after you dropped a stumbly robin off at her parents' house, you took steve to your place, who politely and cutely asked for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. you couldn't deny him — not with those wide, glassy eyes and that dopey smile on his face, so now you're sitting across the table, watching as he picks off the crust of the wheat bread.
"missed you t’night,” steve says through a mouthful of sticky peanut butter. you raise an eyebrow and push a full glass of water in his direction, resting your elbows on the worn wood of the table. he takes a sip, followed by a long, overdramatic breath. “god, water is so good.”
“uh-huh. did you happen to have any tonight, bub?”
steve cocks his head, then grins, wide and toothy. “bub. I love when you call me that. bub. ‘s cute.”
you smile, leaning forward to push some long, fallen strands of hair out of his eyesight. “you’re very cute when you’re drunk, mr. harrington. can’t believe this is the first time I’m seeing you like this.”
steve shrugs as he takes another messy bite of his sandwich, jelly globbed at the corner of his mouth. “only went ‘cos you convinced me.”
“oh?”
he nods. “love robin. love, love, looooove her — she’s my best friend for life. did you know we got drugged by russian guards at the old mall that burned down? anywhos… what was i sayin’ baby?”
you hum, leaning your cheek against your knuckles as you watch your boyfriend’s eyes grow weary. surprisingly, this isn’t the first time you’ve heard the Russian Guard Drugging Story — or the second, or third for that matter. every time robin came to town, they retold it, and every time, you listened, because steve’s face lit up like he couldn’t wait to reenact it.
“you were telling me that you only went out with robin tonight because i convinced you.”
“that’s right!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers. “it’s true, though. I used to love partying. was quite the party boy, believe it or not.”
“I think I’ve heard a few stories.”
“but… dunno, think I prefer stayin’ home with you most nights now,” steve says, polishing off the second pb&j on his plate. “‘s that okay?”
you can see the insecurity in his wide eyes and you wish you could wipe it away. instead, you smile, reaching across to take his hand into yours.
“it’s more than okay, harrington,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “I love staying in with you.”
“yeah?”
“mhm.”
“‘s good, I think.”
you laugh.
“it is good,” you agree, “how about you finish that water and then we head upstairs to change and sleep?”
“ugh, ‘s so far, baby,” steve whines, using his knuckles to squish his cheeks together. “how about we just sleep naked on the couch t’night?”
you pretend to contemplate it as you clear steve’s plate.
“hmm, how about the next time I’m drunk and you take care of me, we sleep naked on the couch?”
steve considers this, narrowing his eyes.
“you promise?”
you nod. “scout’s honor.”
“alriiiiiiight,” he moans dramatically. “let’s go upstairs then.”
your friend group thinks you and steve are hooking up ⦂ suggestive
the pattern isn't formed intentionally. you and steve don't mean to orbit around each other, it just happens on it's own.
you've been close with eddie, nancy, robin, and johnathan since high school, but your relationship with steve has always been a little more intimate. you two have held each other through breakups, anxiety attacks, other lows, but a lot of highs too. its quite obvious you're each other's favorites, which is okay, because your friends have their own biases too. nancy and johnathan are dating, for example, and robin and eddie seem to have enough inside jokes to do a stand up comedy show.
the two of you spend a lot of time together also because your schedules are so similar. a lot of the same lecture halls, same study groups where the two of you find yourselves sprawled across someone's dorm floor, late grocery runs because both of you like doing errands to take your mind off school. it's normal! normal for friends to spend a lot of time together.
except it's not, according to everyone else.
"hey, i'm gonna go grab something from the dining hall," you say one night, pushing yourself off the carpet where you'd been half-listening to robin and eddie argue about something completely unimportant.
steve looks up immediately. eyes sparkling once they land on you. "i'll come with you."
there's a split second of silence as he starts to get to his feet, before robin smirks, making an obnoxious "ooooh" noise, looking between you and steve. "here you two go."
eddie grins and chimes in. "yeah, harrington. you would wanna go with her."
you blink. "what? what are you two talking about?"
johnathan grins, not looking up from the camera he's fiddling with and showing to nancy. "you gonna walk her to the caf? that's real heroic, buddy." nancy just raises a brow and looks between the two of you curiously.
meanwhile, steve's ears have gone pink from all the attention on the two of you. "we're just getting snacks, guys. stop acting twelve."
"snacks," nancy repeats slowly, nodding like that's the most suspicious word she's ever heard. eddie laughs and chimes in. "yeah, i hear that's what they're calling it now."
you can actually feel your face start to heat up and your pulse start to roar in your ears from all the teasing you have to endure. why is it that when steve and you do anything, this happens? anyone else, no one bats an eye. hell, the two of you are getting mocked more than nancy and johnathan when they go for their walks, and the definitely fuck-
steve interrupts your thoughts. "jesus christ, can you guys not? its just some snacks for you dipshits. if i come with her we have more arms to carry more food. unless you wanna starve with whatever she brings back. she doesn't have a lot of arm-room."
"hey!"
"aw, they're flirting."
steve sucks in a breath and grabs you gently by the arm, steering you towards the door. "yeah i'm not listening to any more of this. we're leaving."
"yeah," johnathan calls after you as you grab your hoodie, "you are."
"and bring protection!" robin yells, earning loud snickers from the whole group.
you stop mid-step. "for snacks?!" but they're already dissolving into laughter, and steve tugs your arm, just enough to say come on, ignore them, and ushers you out into the hallway.
when the door shuts behind you, everything goes quiet. you both walk for a few seconds without saying anything. then steve speaks. “they’re insane. just ignore them.”
you laugh awkwardly. “yeah, no kidding…”
a little beat of awkward silence passes as you both deny whatever it is that’s going on between the two of you that’s shockingly apparent to everyone but you. your hands brush as you walk, just barely, and neither of you pull away as fast as you probably should.
-
the allegations don’t stop there. every interaction between you and steve is an indication to the group that you two have something going on. if you laugh at something steve says-
“oh wow, you find him funny now,” eddie announces. “no one thinks that but you, by the way.”
“ive always thought he was funny,” you shoot back, making everyone laugh at you harder at the speed you defend yourself and steve and how you practically gush out your praise towards him. “jeez, get his dick out of your mouth.” johnathan laughs. you rush to swat him and yell at nancy to control her boyfriend while steve groans and drags a hand down his very pink face, trying very hard not to think about you sucking his dick.
-
if steve defends you in an argument, everyone will groan and complain about how biased you are for each other.
“whatever, steve,” nancy says, raising an eyebrow. “didn’t realize you were her lawyer.”
“well, someone has to be. you guys are being ridiculous.”
“mmhm,” jonathan hums. “very passionate defense there.”
“you’re just trying to earn brownie points so you can get in her pants.”
“hey! he’s just being a good friend, you guys. i’d probably run off crying if no one here had my back, and, by the way, literally none of you do but steve. i’m your punching bag. steve’s always there for me.” your intended for them to shut up after your little speech, but after you lay it on thick how great and loyal steve is, everyone’s just more convinced that the two of you are hooking up, or at the very least have very mutual crushes on each other.
“gross.” robin wrinkles her nose as you and steve continue to ride for each other.
you throw a pillow at her.
-
all the teasing does actually get into your head a bit. as much as you resent the idea of eddie, nancy, johnathan, and robin of all people having an effect on you, you can't stop thinking about little things in your relationship with steve. you do notice the way he always saves you a seat without thinking about it, how he instinctively looks for you when something happens. or how his voice softens just a little when he says your name.
and maybe you hold your fingers against his a second too long when you hand him something, sit a little closer than you need to, and look at him when you laugh, just to see if he’s laughing too.
little things, but they're there. it's different because they're not as obvious as what your friend group has pointed out. you and steve have been doing this longer than any of them have noticed. have you liked him that long?
one night, everything sort of hits a peak when you're all crammed into the boys' shared dorm, half watching a movie none of you are really paying attention to. you're sitting on the floor, back against the bed, and steve's up on it, legs hanging off the side.
at some point, without really noticing, your head ends up resting on the mattress near his knee. he allows you to lean against him, fingers idly carding through your hair. neither of you move away from the soft touching. you think that everyone else being engaged and the low lights would allow you to get away with it, until robin slowly looks over at the two of you.
"wow,"
you both jerk apart like you've been electrocuted. "what?" you say, way too fast.
"nothing," she replies, smiling in that way.
eddie leans over, squinting. "no, no, i saw that."
"saw what?" steve snaps. "would you two stop over-analyzing us? friends can be touchy, jeez. it's just a crime when we do it, apparently. come on, let's go for a walk." he holds his hand out to you and stands, and you scramble to your feet and take it as he glares down at your friends, who're gaping at him.
"now we're gonna be gone a long time on a 'walk'" he emphasizes air quotes with his free hand. "and none of you will know if we were just strolling around or if we're sucking tongues behind the residence building, because it's none of your business." he scowls. "so go back to making fun of johnathan and nancy." he softens his voice for you. "put on your shoes, hon."
you oblige, putting your jacket on right after and skipping out of the dorm with him with a huge grin on your face while the rest of your friends stare after you in disbelief.
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: yearning steve harrington. steves pov. mostly done in the form of letters. will they wont they......... happy ending. (I CAVED. THEY BEGGED ME OKAY THEY WERE NOT GONNA DO IT BUT...) SMUT. NOTHING CRAZY soft sex. a little spit i couldn't help it.
words: 12k
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: oh.... so? this is the last chapter? this is the end of the arc besides the epi luigi.... hot shot and steve are...? wow. i have no words. this fic was probably the most taxing thing i've ever written. but so many of you guys encouraged me to keep going. it's you, the readers who kept me to continue even if you guys are insane.
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 18
3 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I just got back from dropping off Robin at the bus station for Boston. You know I’m a tough guy. I can handle not being invited. Ha…
I was thinking about the first time Robin introduced us. Spring of 87’. I wasn’t having a good night. But I remember her shouting, “She came?” Before I knew it you were in front of us and I could only stupidly think…Pretty.
That night I was supposed to meet up with a girl, and I can’t even remember who. All I remember is you.
You were dancing with Buck. You were both so drunk, stumbling into each other and laughing. But Buck must have been worse off because he threw up all over your shoes. I was only a pledge at the time, but I remember all the guys around me tensing up, getting ready for you to lay into him. Apparently this was a common thing with Buck—he'd get too drunk and puke on people, and they'd lose it on him.
So it was a surprise to all of us when you didn't even yell at him. You only took off your shoes and gave him some water. Told him to sit down and breathe. I got stuck cleaning up the mess because that's what pledges do, and I heard you jump up and pull Robin to the floor when "Hot Stuff" came on.
As you were dancing with Robin, both of you screaming the lyrics, I thought: who the hell is she rooming with? You were only wearing your socks and dancing, and now that I think about our conversation at the lake, you really don't know how to dance. You were all arms and no rhythm, and somehow that made it better.
So then I decided you were pretty and weird.
I like that you're weird, apparently, because I was pathetically asking Robin about you nonstop after that night. Where were you from? What were you studying? Did you have a boyfriend? (You didn't, thank god.) Were you always that nice to people who threw up on your shoes?
I like that you're kind too. And god, you're so selfless. I beat myself up every day about how I took advantage of that. How I let you think you weren't good enough when really I was the one who wasn't good enough for you.
If you haven't noticed by now... I miss you.
I’m going to try my hardest not to call and check in every hour this weekend. I hope you enjoy the cookies I sent with Robin. My mom made them. I helped, so they might be extra sweet. Max says I’m too corny… I guess maybe I’m the weird one.
I told my mom about you, and she said, “The pretty one, right?”
Maybe one day I can be lucky enough to be weird with you. Where we can badly dance in our socks together.
Sincerely,
Your handsome weird friend
.-.-.-.
6 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I don’t have much to say. Again, not a whole lot going on besides Family Video. Today, however, I tried to teach Max how to drive. Maybe the next time I see you I can tell you how this punk once drove my car when she was thirteen. I should have known better.
At least I survived.
Mrs. Henderson’s petunias not so much.
How was Boston? Robin won’t tell me a whole lot. I'm trying not to be jealous that you're hanging out with everyone except me, but I'm doing a terrible job of it.
Sincerely,
Steve
P.S. Max found this mixtape I had made for you months ago, made fun of me, and then convinced me to send it to you or she would. Never thought I’d be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive.
.-.-.-.
8 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Robin told me you’ve been reading my letters.
I feel... I don't know what to feel. A part of me wishes they got lost in the mail and you never saw them, that I could take back everything I've said because it's too much, too honest, too pathetic. Then there's the other part of me—the bigger part—imagining you reading them. I wonder if it's the same way you read your books.
I think it's cute how your eyes move across the pages when you're reading, completely engrossed in whatever story you're in. How your nose scrunches when you're focused on whatever's happening in the plot. Sometimes your lips move, reading whatever out loud to yourself without realizing you're doing it.
Not that I'm staring at your lips.
OK, I look at your lips an appropriate amount of time. Can you blame me? I mean, they killed me constantly. Every time you'd bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, or smile that smile that made your whole face light up, or—
Yeah, I'm not going to finish that thought.
I always had a hard time studying when I was around you and you were like that, lost in whatever you were reading. Because then I wanted to know what was going on in your book too, wanted to understand what had you so captivated. And because I wanted to kiss you. Still do, if I'm being honest. Which I guess I am, since that's kind of the whole point of these letters.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
9 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
You know when things changed for me? The moment I knew I really didn’t want anyone else?
Valentines Day.
I couldn't stop thinking about you that day. From the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep and even after, in my dreams.
You were so sick, and I remember thinking... can she get any prettier? Which is insane because you had a runny nose and messy hair and you kept sniffling. But you were wrapped up in a blanket, curled against me on your bed, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
I don't know what did it for me specifically. Your runny nose or your messy hair or the way you kept apologizing for being gross when you weren't gross at all. I do know that when you laid your head on my chest and fell asleep, I felt my stomach tie into knots. The good kind. The kind that made me think: oh no, this is it, I'm done for.
Nothing was the same for me after that moment. Every time I hooked up with someone after that, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on you even though we weren't together. Like I was looking for you in other people and obviously never finding you because you're you and they weren't.
Maybe it had never been the same. Maybe from that first night when you danced in your socks, I was already gone. Maybe I was always meant to meet you.
God, I hope so.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
12 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Did Eddie tell you Polly dumped him? He's been OK, I think. Or he says he's OK, which probably means he's not OK but doesn't want to talk about it.
Last night we went to Hawkins' finest establishment—The Hideout. It's this dive bar that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but Eddie and his band play there a lot. Except since his breakup, he's been kind of in a rut. He says he has "inspiration constipation." I call it sulking.
Then I thought… is this how Eddie and Jonathan thought about me all those months? When I was moping around about you? They both can smell my "bullshit" a mile away... ha. Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being.
Besides Eddie being a downer, I had a good night. It would have been better if you'd been there. Nancy came too, and even though her and Robin are still careful in public, I feel happy they can look at each other freely now. No more hiding. No more pretending.
The news of the "break-up" here in Hawkins was gossip for weeks. Apparently the whole town had an opinion about it. My mom's friends kept calling to check on me, asking if I was OK, if I needed anything. It's fizzled out by now, though. People found other things to talk about.
Kind of humiliating how much of a big deal we made it out to be. All that stress and lying, when we could have just been honest from the start.
The Hideout has billiard tables. If you ever decide to grace us… me… with a visit to Hawkins, maybe I can take you to play. Can you hear the desperation in my handwriting? That I kind of really want to see you?
I’m not sure how I can be more patient when the others… even Dustin? Have heard from you.
But I’m trying. I really am.
I guess I’m sulking too.
Sincerely,
A desperate man
.-.-.-.
15 June, 1988
Dear Steve,
Thank you for the letters. As for billiards. Do you remember what happened the last time we played? I don’t think you’re ready for round two.
And thank you for the cookies. That was sweet of you and they were delicious.
-Your friend
P.S. I am glad to hear about your glasses.
.-.-.-.
20 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Is it true you're coming to Hawkins for Independence Day? Robin mentioned it, but I wanted to make sure before I got my hopes up.
I can't deny that I cannot wait to see you, but I want to make sure you're OK with me being around. If you're not, I will literally chain myself to my bed until you leave town. Lock myself in my room. Avoid all public spaces. Whatever you need.
For my sake, not yours. I don't think I could handle seeing you and not being able to talk to you.
I'll be OK though. I promise.
I don’t really like fireworks, if I’m being honest. They’re too loud. When I was a kid I used to cry everytime they went off. Eventually my parents just started leaving me home with a babysitter on the Fourth of July so they didn't have to deal with it.
Remember that story Max told you about me accidentally popping a Hopper in the ass with a firework? It’s because I jumped at the noise.
Anyway, I'm also trying to act cool about the fact that you wrote back and that I haven't totally read your letter over and over again... or memorized your handwriting... or folded it up and put it in my wallet so I can take it out whenever I'm missing you most.
To paint the picture… it's a lot. I take it out a lot.
Robin caught me reading it at work yesterday and made fun of me for another twenty minutes. I'm never going to hear the end of this.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
24 June, 1988
Dear Steve,
Yes, I'm coming to Hawkins for Independence Day. It didn't take much for Robin to convince me. She says there's a huge carnival with rides and games and apparently the best funnel cake in Indiana? It sounds like a lot of fun.
I’d hate for you to miss something fun.
I can’t wait to properly catch up!
-Your friend
.-.-.-.
Steve has never been this nervous since he kissed you in the tent back in March.
Back then, he kept thinking over and over about how long it had been since he had really kissed someone—not counting that makeout session at the Mardi Gras party, which barely counts anyway. Sure, he'd kissed you then, but after confessing he only wanted you, after everything that's happened since, it had felt like his first kiss all over again. Like he was thirteen and terrified and has no idea what he's doing.
Now, his stomach is tied in knots, twisting and clenching every time he so much as glances in your direction.
You're sitting across the pool at his parents' house, and he can't stop staring.
Everyone is here to swim—the kids are running around screaming, cannonballing into the deep end and playing chicken in the shallow end. Max and Lucas are floating on inner tubes, holding hands when they think no one's looking. Dustin keeps trying to dunk Mike, who's protesting loudly. Jane is sitting on the pool steps with Will, both of them talking quietly and watching the chaos. Jonathan and Nancy even came in for the weekend, lying on lounge chairs and looking more relaxed than Steve's seen them in months.
Everyone is here, but to Steve, he's forgotten they exist.
He feels like a schoolboy with a crush. Like Tommy H. in eighth grade when he got obsessed with Carol, following her around like a puppy and blushing every time she talked to him. Steve had made fun of him for it then. Karma's a bitch.
You're trying to be polite, making an effort to talk to him. But every time you do, he stumbles over his words like an idiot, then walks away to grab another beer from the cooler just to have an excuse to escape. He's on his third beer and it's only two in the afternoon.
It's the day before the Independence Day carnival, and all Steve can think about is how much he loves you.
He was terrified you'd come to Hawkins and tell him you'd gotten over it. That the distance helped you realize you don't actually want him, that you're better off without him, that being friends is all you can manage. But the moment you walked in the door with Robin yesterday—his heart already racing because Dustin had warned him over the walkie-talkie that you'd been spotted at Benny's Burgers with Robin and Nancy—he met your eyes, and he could see it.
The flash of softness. The way your lips upturned at the sight of him. The slight hitch in your breath that he caught even from across the room.
He felt himself blush, felt his hands start to sweat like he was back in high school asking someone to prom.
But then there was another flash—recollection, memory, pain. Letting him know there's still hurt there, still wounds that haven't fully healed.
You look like nothing but sunshine right now. Feet dangling in the pool, sitting next to Max on the pool deck, talking about something that keeps making both of you laugh. Steve can't help but look at the tattoo on your hip—"Hot Shot" in slightly crooked letters, visible when your swimsuit shifts. And god, why is it the sexiest thing in the world to know that his nickname is permanently marked on your skin? His girl. Even if you're not his girl yet. Even if you might never be his girl again.
He can't help but notice how your thighs press against the pool deck, how the flesh of your ass mushes slightly on the concrete, how your shoulders are changing color from the sun despite the sunscreen you applied. He hopes his sunglasses hide the way his eyes are glued to your every move, the way he's cataloging each smile and laugh and gesture like he's studying for a test.
He wants to make you laugh again, wants your hand to fall carelessly on his shoulder like it used to. Wants to see your eyes twinkle the way they do when you're really happy—like the stars themselves, bright enough that there's no need for the sun or moon or artificial light. Like you contain all the illumination the world needs right there in your irises.
He's been a little lonely since he came home for summer, if he's being honest with himself.
His dad has begrudgingly talked to him—short, clipped conversations about Steve's GPA and his major and whether teaching is "really what you want to do with your life, son." The disappointment hangs heavy in every word his father speaks, and Steve's stopped trying to defend his choices. There's no point. Not to mention the whole lying about his long-term relationship with Robin.
He doesn't go over to Robin's house as often anymore. Her parents are accepting and understanding, they really are, they've been great about everything, but it's still a fresh wound for everyone. The revelation, the lies, the year-plus of deception. Robin doesn't come over to Steve's as often either, only showing up when everyone else is there too, when it's a group thing and not just the two of them.
It's weird. In a sense, it does feel like a real breakup. Without all the awkwardness and tension that comes with romantic breakups, but with the same sense of loss, of figuring out who they are beyond the roles they played. Trying to remember how to be just friends when they've been "dating" for so long.
It's been ages since Steve's been actually single. Technically single and not sleeping with anyone. He can admit there have been a few girls from high school who stuck around Hawkins—girls who come into Family Video and flirt with him, twirling their hair and asking for movie recommendations in voices that suggest they're not really interested in movies at all.
But he doesn't know how to reciprocate anymore. Doesn't know how to flirt back when he's not interested, doesn't know how to let them down easy without being an asshole about it.
Least to say, Keith says Steve's the worst at customer service now and makes Robin handle most of the customers. Which is probably fair.
Back at college, it was easy to fall into the confidence that comes with flirting fueled by lust. By knowing you're going to hook up with someone and that's all it is—bodies and pleasure and nothing deeper. But when he discovered the part of him that loves someone, really loves them, it rewired every bit of his brain. There's something more dangerous about approaching a girl—approaching you—with the heavy feeling of aching and longing to be something more. It rattles him, makes him nervous and awkward in ways he hasn't been since middle school.
Steve tries not to be jealous when Eddie pulls you into the pool, both of you splashing and laughing, Eddie picking you up and threatening to dunk you under. Steve knows Eddie wouldn't do anything— Eddie knows how Steve feels. Eddie's a good friend even when Steve hadn’t been for the past few years.
But Steve can't help the tightness in his chest. The same tightness he felt when you kissed Eddie as a dare in the basement of the Pike house, even though he had no right to feel jealous then either. It was just another moment to catalog— Steve Harrington being a dingus and not seeing the truth of his feelings.
Steve gets up from his pool chair, his thighs slick with sweat, the hair there clinging to his skin. He walks inside to cool down from the summer heat, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his overgrown, messy hair that badly needs a cut.
He knows he's sulking. He knows it would be unfair to pout in front of you, to make you think he wants to rush you into forgiving him before you're ready. But he can't stop thinking that maybe there's hope. That maybe the way you looked at him yesterday when you first walked in means something.
He goes to his mom's tea room—a small sitting area off the kitchen with floral wallpaper and too many decorative plates—and sits on the piano bench, pulling the blind aside slightly to see the view of the backyard through the window.
He notices you're not out there anymore. And he's annoyed with himself that he's relieved to see Eddie is still in the pool, now terrorizing the kids by threatening to throw Dustin's hat into the deep end.
"Thought you told Nancy you were getting another drink?"
Your soft voice filters in from the doorway, and Steve's heart nearly stops.
He twists around awkwardly on the bench, already smiling before he can stop himself. He's not sure what to do with his hands—they move around uselessly before he finally settles them between his legs, gripping the edge of the bench, looking up at you.
You're wearing denim shorts now, cut-offs that are frayed at the hem, and an oversized t-shirt over your swimsuit. Your hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends from the pool water. He can smell the sun on your skin, that particular scent of sunblock mixed with chlorine and something underneath that's purely you. The smell gets stronger as you walk into the room, looking around at all the different collections his mom has accumulated—teacups on shelves, decorative plates on the walls, a shelf of crystal figurines that Steve's been terrified of breaking since childhood.
You smile at him again, and his stomach flips. You point at the spinet piano against the wall. "That's cool. Does your mom play?"
Steve looks over his shoulder at the ivory keys, yellowed slightly with age. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Why do you assume my mom?"
You laugh—that beautiful laugh that makes his chest expand, that makes him feel like he could float right off this piano bench. You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Your dad doesn't really strike me as someone who could tell what a musical note is if it hit him in the face." You pause, probably thinking about that disastrous dinner. "And I only met your mom once, but... I feel like even though she likes nice things, she wants to enjoy them. Not just own them."
Steve smiles, genuinely pleased that you saw that in his mom. "She used to play. Not much anymore. It's probably out of tune by now." He pauses, choosing his words more carefully. "Robin and her would do duets when we started..." He trails off. Being friends, he finally settles on. Not dating. Not in a relationship. Because it wasn't real, and he doesn't want to treat it as such now.
He thinks for a moment, then adds, "But I took lessons when I was seven. For about six months. Never practiced, though, so it was okay because then my dad said it was a useless talent for a boy to have anyway."
Your eyebrows furrow, and Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb. He clasps his hands tighter between his legs to stop himself.
"Do you remember any songs?" you ask.
He cracks a smile, falling back into the safety of humor. "You kidding? In high school I'd bring chicks over and play them a few chords of 'Chopsticks' and they'd think I was Mozart."
You throw your head back laughing, corners of your eyes crinkling, and Steve thinks he's won at life just being able to hear it. Probably the prettiest sound in the world, better than any music the best piano player could make.
Then you say, walking closer, "Okay. Show me."
Steve's mouth falls open. He rubs the back of his neck, closing one eye nervously. "I was kidding. I don't actually remember anything."
You giggle, that softer laugh, more intimate, and walk over to the bench. He watches your eyes fall on his bare chest, then down to his stomach. The way he's sitting, the soft skin spills over the top of his swim trunks slightly, creating a small roll.
In most cases, he'd feel self-conscious. Most girls he's been with, he's always turned off the lights or kept his shirt on or made sure there was minimal interaction with his body. Billy used to call him soft, would poke at his stomach in the locker room, and even though Steve knows Billy was an asshole, the words stuck.
But with you, he wants to be seen. Wants you to look at all of him—the parts he's proud of and the parts he's not. He watches how your pupils dilate slightly, how your breathing changes when you look at how his stomach flexes as he adjusts his position. You notice. And he always wants you to notice him, wants your eyes on him like this.
You look shy now, a flush creeping up your neck as you walk to the other side of the bench and slide in, facing the piano. Steve follows suit quickly, turning to face the keys.
He's patient, or trying to be, but he still scoots a little closer, making his thigh touch yours. If you move away, he won't try again. Won't push.
He feels you tense for a moment, but you don't make an effort to move. That has to mean something, right?
"Okay," you say softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in your voice. "Put your two fingers here."
Steve looks at you instead of the piano, taking in the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyelashes cast shadows. Then he does as you said, placing his pointer and middle finger on the keys you indicated.
He hears you take a deep breath in, and then you grab his wrist.
His brain stops working at the touch. It's been so long since your soft hands have met his skin—not since that night on the swings, and even then it was brief, careful. He remembers when you slapped his cheek in Miami, then a few weeks later put your hand on the same cheek in comfort at the bonfire, telling him you love him. It still burns, both memories. The sting and the tenderness.
You start pressing his fingers down on the keys, creating a simple melody he vaguely recognizes. Maybe "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or something equally basic. But he starts laughing because he keeps slipping his fingers on purpose so the note comes out wrong, and you have to start over.
"Steve," you say, trying to sound annoyed, but you're laughing too. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Am not," he lies, grinning.
"Are too."
"Prove it."
You laugh again and grab his wrist tighter, repositioning his fingers with exaggerated care. He's finding every excuse to be held by you, to have your skin on his, even if it'll be gone in a moment. Even if this is all he gets.
He really is a dingus.
When the song is over—played correctly this time because you wouldn't let him sabotage it again—you let out a happy sigh. Slowly, carefully, you take your hands away from his wrist. You scoot over slightly, just an inch or two, so his bare thigh is no longer pressed against yours.
The loss of contact feels like a physical blow.
You're looking at the keys, not at him, and Steve makes no effort to hide that he's staring right at you. Drinking in your profile, memorizing the way the afternoon light comes through the window and illuminates your face.
He could do what he really wants to do. Could ask if you've forgiven him yet, if you're ready to give him another chance. Could reach out and tilt your chin up with his finger, lean in and kiss your lips the way he's been dreaming about for months. He’s trying not to be selfish.
But instead, he forces himself to look straight ahead at the piano keys too. Swallows hard. "We should, uh... head back out, you know? Before they wonder where we went."
There's a flicker of disappointment in your eyes—he sees it, brief but real—but there's mutual agreement in the way you say, "Yeah. We should."
So you both stand up, and Steve steps to the side, offering an awkward half-hearted smile. He extends his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture, motioning for you to go through the door first.
As you walk past him, he gets a full breath of your shampoo—something floral and sweet—and the smell of chlorine and sunscreen that clings to your skin. His other hand hovers over your lower back, not quite touching but miming the gesture he wants to make, the way he used to when he wanted an excuse to touch you. But he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So he waits for you to walk completely out of the room, nearly back toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, before he follows several feet behind.
Dingus, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.
Max looks up when you both emerge outside, her eyebrows raised knowingly. Eddie glances over from the pool, treading water, and gives Steve a look that clearly says smooth move, lover boy.
Steve ignores them both and goes back to his lounge chair, grabbing his fourth beer of the day, and trying very hard not to watch you sit back down next to Max.
He fails miserably.
.-.-.-.
6 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
You left today. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to you properly.
Stupid Keith scheduled me for a double shift and wouldn't let me leave early even though I told him it was important. He said, and I quote, "Your personal life is not my problem, Harrington." So that was fun.
I hope you enjoyed your stay. It felt like it had gone by too fast.
I know I didn't come hang out with everyone yesterday at the lake. I wanted to. I really did. But I guess I'm still figuring things out too. Figuring out how to be around you without wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless. Figuring out how to be patient when all I want is to be with you.
Can you blame me after the carnival? I mean, if you saw what I saw, you’d be in the same pathetic boat that I’m sailing right now.
I’m sorry I got all grumpy towards the end of the night, but I didn’t have the guts to ask to ride at least one ride with you, and then the closer we got to the time for fireworks, I was feeling anxious. I was even about to leave but then I looked up at the Ferris Wheel, and saw your smile.
I can always see your smile from a mile away, and it never fails to make my heart race and calm me down in equal measure. You looked like you were having so much fun up there with Max, both of you laughing, your hair whipping in the wind. Even though I wanted to be part of that fun, wanted to be the one sitting next to you in that cart, I felt my entire mood lift just watching you.
At that moment, my heart burst like the fireworks in the sky.
Hot Shot, I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me. Even if you decide us being friends is all we can be after everything, I'd be okay watching you rise above me, smiling like that. I'd be okay knowing I at least got to see it, got to know you, got to love you even if you don't love me back the same way anymore.
Seeing you laugh with Max… I wish I hadn’t been so nervous. I wish I had asked you to ride the Ferris Wheel with me.
I hope next time I see you, I can see that smile again, up close, like it’s meant only for me. Your smile where it reaches all the way into your eyes and I don’t see the glimpse of how I’ve hurt you.
Can summer go by any faster?
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
11 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I think my dad is really coming around about me being a teacher. He's still upset about the whole lying-to-him-for-two-years thing—brings it up at least once a week, usually over dinner when my mom tells him to drop it. But he's been asking more questions about what my new life timeline will look like. What schools I might want to teach at. What age group I'm thinking.
He even helped me get some volunteer hours at the Boys and Girls Club for summer baseball. Which is huge for him. He’s actually making phone calls on my behalf instead of just criticizing my choices.
You'd get a kick out of these kids, Hot Shot. They're hilarious. They call me "Coach Steve," and they take it very seriously. One girl, Via, brought me a dandelion from the outfield yesterday and made me wear it tucked behind my ear for the rest of the game. All the other kids thought it was hilarious. I looked like an idiot, but it made her so happy I couldn't take it off.
I can’t believe you were right that I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m glad you were right.
It led me to think about what my mom said about girls. “Make sure you know if your girl likes flowers or chocolates. It makes a difference.”
So, are you a flower or chocolate type of girl?
I’d round up the moon for you, Hot Shot.
Anything you want. I’ll give it to you.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
18 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I received my class schedule for this upcoming semester today. Looks like I've got Intro to Kinesiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Educational Psychology on Mondays and Wednesdays, and some other classes I'm already dreading.
I know I haven't written in a week. I’m sorry about that. Work's been crazy and I've been helping my mom with some stuff around the house. But I wanted to remind you to buy your textbooks if you haven't already.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
27 July, 1988
Dear Steve,
I finally got around to reading your last few letters. I've been working a lot. Extra shifts to save up money for textbooks, which I have now ordered. Thank you for the reminder.
I have been thinking a lot since my visit to Hawkins. Mostly thinking about you. About us.
I must admit something, the day I left Hawkins, I went to Family Video to come see you. I never liked goodbyes, but I really wanted to say bye to you. I never went inside, but like the weirdo I am, I sat in my car across the street and watched you through the window. You were helping some woman find a movie, and then you were at the counter ringing someone up, and then you were restocking shelves.
I thought you looked handsome in that green vest.
I also thought how badly I wished you had asked me to go on the Ferris Wheel with you. I had asked Max instead because I knew you hated the fireworks and I didn’t want you to be miserable.
When my mom saw me reading the letters, she asked what I was smiling so big about. She said she had never seen me like that before. So, I told her sort of the truth.
I told her the boy I like has been writing to me all summer. I also told her you like me too.
She got very excited and started asking a million questions. What's his name? What's he studying? When can she meet him? I answered what I could, and then she insisted on making you a care package.
So there might be no going back now, Steve. My mom knows about you. She's sent you Boppers and Sour Patch Kids and probably some other stuff I don't know about because she sealed the box before I could see everything.
-Yours truly
P.S. I listened to the mixtape, finally. Careless Whisper? Really, Steve?
P.P.S. Chocolate. Definitely chocolate.
.-.-.-.
31 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I first and foremost need to clarify something, sweetheart. I do not like you.
I love you.
Yes, there is a difference. So the moment you read this, you tell your mom I love you. Better yet, call me, and let me talk to her, and tell her that I love her daughter. I know you asked Robin for my phone number a few days ago.
If you don't want me to call and talk to your mom, maybe I can drive to your house and stand outside your window and yell it loud enough for her to hear. Or for you to hear. Or for the whole neighborhood to hear. I don't care who knows anymore.
You invented love for me, Hot Shot. Before you, I thought I knew what it was. I thought I loved people. But it was nothing compared to this. If I could, I'd write this entire page with nothing but "I love you" over and over until the words lost meaning and then kept going until they gained new meaning.
Better yet….
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
I’ll learn it in all the languages of the world so you know I don’t get tired of saying it.
Love,
Steve
.-.-.-.
It's the middle of a September evening, and campus is slowly buzzing back to life after summer break.
It's been two weeks since school started, but three weeks of Steve getting the Pike house back in order, organizing rush week, managing a new pack of pledges who don't know the difference between a keg and a trash can.
But finally, finally, the rest of his evening is free. And the moment he has the chance, he gets in his car and drives the short distance to Hall 11.
He slips through the open door, catching it just as some girls are leaving, laughing about something and not paying attention to him. Even though it's past curfew, past nine on a weeknight, technically against dorm rules, he sees Tessa at the RA desk.
During his fake relationship with Robin, Steve became acquainted with all the RAs. They all thought he was the perfect boyfriend, always bringing Robin food and flowers and showing up for study sessions. Tessa always looked the other way when he snuck in after hours, probably thinking it was romantic.
She waves at him now, phone pressed to her ear, mid-conversation with someone. She mouths go ahead and turns her attention back to her call.
Steve rushes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly skips down the hallway to the door he's been waiting to get to for what feels like forever. He's whistling, actually whistling like an idiot, because he's been waiting all day for this moment.
After his last letter, a few days later when he got home from work, his mom told him a girl had left a message for him. She'd had this knowing smile on her face, the one she gets when she thinks she's figured something out. "Sounds like the cookies worked," his mom had said, handing him a piece of paper with a phone number written in her neat handwriting.
Steve had rushed to his room, not even bothering to get out of his work clothes. He was still wearing the stupid green Family Video vest and his polo shirt and jeans that smelled like plastic and VHS tape dust. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number.
When he heard your soft, familiar voice say "Hello?" his tongue went completely dry.
He panicked and hung up.
What the fuck was he going to say? He hadn't had a proper conversation with you in weeks beyond the letters. And the last thing you'd heard from him was his undying love written out thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. He'd exhaled heavily, stared at the phone like it had personally wronged him, then dialed again.
"Hello... again?" you'd said, and he could hear the smile in your voice, the amusement.
"H-hey." He'd cleared his throat, trying to sound normal and not like he'd just hung up on you like a creep. "Hey, Hot Shot."
And suddenly he'd heard your grin widen over the line, heard you adjusting, hopefully laying in bed, hopefully thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. "Are you home?" you'd asked. "I mean, wait... I guess you're home since you're calling me. I meant are you home from work?"
Steve had chuckled, looking down at his green vest, at the name tag pinned crooked to his chest. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere in his room, not caring where they landed. He adjusted himself on his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Yeah. What about you?"
"I worked earlier today." He could hear you wrapping the phone cord around your finger, that nervous habit you have. "Got off around three."
"Cool," Steve had said, then immediately cringed at himself. "Cool, yeah. Did you have a good day?"
He'd taken a deep breath, settling in, and said, "I want to hear all about it. Everything."
And you'd smiled—he could hear it in your voice when you said, "Everything?"
"Everything."
So you did. You told him about your shift at work, about a rude customer who yelled at you over nothing, about your coworker who covered for you when you took an extra-long lunch break. You told him about the book you were reading, about calling Max earlier that day, about how you'd burned dinner and had to eat cereal instead.
You talked for two hours about everything under the sun, and Steve listened to every word like you were reciting scripture.
He heard you yawn around midnight, heard the shift of your body against sheets. He could imagine you curling up with the phone still pressed to your ear, eyes fighting to stay open. "Are you sleepy?" Steve looked at his clock and winced. "Shit, it's almost midnight. Didn't you say you have to wake up early?"
You hummed sleepily. "Yeah. I should probably sleep."
"Yeah, okay." Steve bit his bottom lip, cringing at his awkwardness. This used to be so easy, talking to girls, flirting, knowing what to say. "So... goodnight. Yeah."
"Steve?" you'd mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.
"Mhm?"
"Call me tomorrow?"
And he did. He called you every single day after that.
Some nights it would be the two of you talking about your days—the mundane details that somehow felt important when you were sharing them. Sometimes you'd tell each other stories from childhood, from high school, from the year you'd spent navigating this complicated thing between you. Some nights you'd both tune in to watch ALF at the same time, phones pressed to your ears, listening to each other laugh at whatever you found funny. Sometimes Steve would bite back his own laughter because he liked the sound of yours better.
Some nights Steve would keep you talking until you finally gave out, your words getting slower and slower until soft snores came through the line. He could never bring himself to hang up. He'd lay the phone down on his pillow and close his eyes and imagine you were lying next to him, breathing in sync, sharing the same space.
There was one night— a week before Steve would leave to go campus early for rush week— when you were both sleepy and Steve had been the one to say he needed to go to bed or Keith would kill him if he was late again. By kill, he meant make him do something humiliating like clean the staff bathroom floors with a toothbrush.
"Steve, wait," you'd said, and something in your voice made him pause.
"Mhm?"
He'd heard you laugh softly to yourself, a gentle exhale. And then you'd said, so gently it made his heart stop: "I love you, Steve."
And he knew then that you'd forgiven him. He knew then that you were his, and he'd always been yours, even when you weren't ready to admit it.
He'd smiled so wide his face hurt. "Hot Shot, I love you. Always." He'd grinned, gripping the phone tighter. "How about I come see you this weekend? Let me take you on a date. A real one."
"Okay," you'd said, and he could hear your smile matching his.
And now he stands outside your dorm, knocking on the oak door with barely contained excitement.
Robin opens it, toothbrush in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her lips. "What?" she mumbles around the toothbrush, looking annoyed at the interruption.
Steve leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms so his henley rides up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach. He smirks. "I'm here to see my girlfriend."
Robin rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised they don't fall out of her head, but she kicks the door open wider to reveal the room.
You're on your bed with a book in your hand, and when you see Steve standing there, you smile. Wide and genuine and so beautiful it knocks the breath from his lungs. You're still in your regular clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, almost like you've been waiting for him.
He knows you've been waiting for him.
Your eyes land on his glasses immediately, then fall to his midriff, to the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and Steve catches it. So he lifts his arm higher, resting it against the doorframe, giving you a better view. Let you look your fill.
You jump off the bed immediately, going to grab your shoes from under your desk. But Steve's inside the room before you can put them on, making you sit down in your desk chair. He kneels in front of you and slips them on your feet himself—first the left, then the right—tying the laces carefully with steady hands.
"You never did that for me," Robin says, but she's smiling as she climbs into her own bed.
Steve gives Robin a look of pure attitude, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, because you don't—" He looks up at you, his girlfriend, and god, he's never going to get tired of that word. Girlfriend. You're his girlfriend, and he's your boyfriend. Steve Harrington is an actual boyfriend in an actual relationship that's real. So real he has the hickey on his bicep from last night's makeout to prove it.
You're looking down at him with amusement, but your eyes are narrowed and one eyebrow is raised in warning. Steve has never been studious or all that smart, but he knows not to finish that sentence.
It doesn't matter anyway because Robin throws a pillow at him. "Will you take your girlfriend and leave already?" She's smiling, though, settling into her bed. "Some of us have eight a.m. classes tomorrow."
You have your fingers tangled in Steve's hair already, and his hands find your waist naturally, like they belong there. He's still kneeling in front of you, looking up like you're something sacred. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back at a reasonable hour."
"Mhm, like last night and the night before? Right." Robin pulls her blanket up, getting comfortable. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Steve chuckles, pressing his glasses up his nose, leans up and makes a soft peck against your lips. It’s brief, chaste, a promise of more later, before standing and walking over to Robin's bed.
Robin looks up at him, cautious, her expression turning warning. "Steve, don't you dare—"
He grins from ear to ear, then leans down and grabs her, planting a wet kiss on top of her short hair. "C'mon, Rob. You know I still love you."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dingus." She waves him off, but her smile is fond, genuine. "Go be gross and in love somewhere that isn't my room."
Steve notices how the freckles on her face seem to glow, sun-kissed from summer. Her eyes are a little brighter blue lately, less weighed down. All things he knows because she's in love. And it's not with him.
At one point in his life, Steve thought Robin's love was enough. That he could handle being known only in a platonic sense, that it made no difference whether someone loved him romantically or as a friend. Robin could see him and know things about him, and he wouldn't be lonely. That was enough.
He never thought he'd be so happy to discover how wrong he was.
He feels your arm loop through his, casual and comfortable. You lean against him, your head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. "Come on," you say, pulling at him gently. "Let's go."
"Night, Rob," Steve says.
As you pull him toward the door, he reaches over and flicks off the overhead light. The lamp on Robin's nightstand stays on. It’s the one he'd gifted her one Christmas, green-shaded and casting soft shadows against the wall. The girl who was there for him when his life literally burned to the ground. The one who carries a different piece of his heart, a piece that will always belong to her no matter what.
She smiles at him knowingly, and he understands. She loves him too. Even though things are different now, even though they're not pretending anymore, even though she has Nancy and he has you—she will always love him.
"Goodnight, dingus," she says softly.
You and Steve don't get in his car. There's no need for that anymore. No need to hide behind trees or meet in secret or make out in the backseat where no one can see. Not that you don't still do that sometimes, because you definitely do, but nights like tonight, Steve thinks, why waste a chance to show off his girl?
His girl.
Your arm drops slowly from around his, hand running down his forearm—soft touch, deliberate—until finally your fingers lace with his. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, exactly where they belong.
And like every time you hold hands, you giggle. You look up at him, smiling that goddamn smile that makes his knees weak and his heart race and his entire world feel right. You don't say anything, but you don't need to. He knows what the smile means.
They continue walking in comfortable silence, passing other students on the sidewalk. Some wave at both of you—people from classes, from parties, from Pike events. A few girls from your classes call out "cute couple!" and you wave back, not embarrassed or shy about it.
It was hard not to announce you as his girlfriend the second he got back on campus. He'd wanted to shout it from the Pike house roof, wanted to tell every single person he passed. But he'd needed to make sure people understood the real story first— or a version of it—that he and Robin weren't happy together, that their families wanted the relationship more than they did, that sometimes people pretend because it's easier than being honest.
Most people shrugged and didn't care. Some were supportive, understanding. But sometimes you still get one or two judgmental looks, whispered comments about Steve moving on too fast or you being the reason for the breakup.
Steve tries not to let it bother him.
With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at you. You're already looking up at him, and when your eyes meet, a grin breaks out across his face. He can't help it. He leans down and kisses your cheek, right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people around, then continues walking like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Because it is.
This is his life now. Holding your hand, kissing you whenever he wants, being allowed to love you out loud.
And he's never been happier.
There's no surprise that even though Steve's car is parked all the way back at your dorm, you've managed to walk to the Pike house instead.
Subconscious or not, neither of you made an effort to turn around and head back so he could get you to the dorm at a reasonable hour like he'd promised Robin. Your feet just carried you here, following the familiar path Steve's walked a thousand times, and he didn't stop you. Didn't suggest going somewhere else.
You've only been dating a little less than a month, but it feels longer. Maybe it's because you did everything backward—had sex before dating, said "I love you" before being together, knew each other's bodies before you really knew each other's hearts. He's not sure. But he's okay with not trying to figure it out, because all that matters is that when you walk into the Pike house now, you can walk hand in hand.
His brothers are scattered throughout the common room—some getting ready for bed in their pajama pants and t-shirts, some having late-night snacks like cereal eaten straight from the box, standing at the kitchen counter. They all wave when they see you both come in.
"Hey, Harrington!"
"What's up, man?"
"Hey, Hot Shot!"
Steve rubs his thumb across your knuckles, admiring the way you light up and ask his brothers about their day. Unlike Robin—who was always polite but never truly invested in Pike life—you genuinely want to know his brothers. You ask Buck about his Econ exam, congratulate AJ on making the intramural basketball team, laugh at George’s terrible joke about their philosophy professor.
You're still not afraid to make a face at Steve whenever they say or do something stupid. Once you whacked Buck upside the head for a sexist comment about a girl from Delta Zeta. But his brothers love you for it. They respect that you don't take their shit, that you can give it back as good as you get it.
Eddie is out with god knows who, but Steve's pretty sure it might be Polly again. They've been on-and-off since the breakup.
There's no stopping Steve from leading you upstairs, gently breaking you away from your conversation mid-sentence. "Sorry, guys, stealing her now," he says, pulling you toward the stairs.
That's one thing he's learned about you—you love to be chatty, even if it's about nothing important. You could talk for hours about the weather, about a weird dream you had, about the pattern on someone's shirt. He loves that about you.
You go inside his room and he closes the door behind you, the click of the lock loud in the quiet space.
Before you were together—back when this was still secret and forbidden and temporary—it was always rushed. Clothes removed frantically, lips on skin desperately, because it was meant to only last a few hours. To get Steve's fix and your fix and then part ways, pretending nothing happened.
But now he can't get enough of you. Wants to take his time, memorize every detail, make it last.
To be fair, the first time he slept with you he couldn't get enough either. He'd replayed that night over and over in his head for weeks—the sounds you made, the way you looked underneath him, the feeling of being inside you. In his dresser, tucked all the way behind his socks, he still has your panties from that first night. He's kept them like a talisman.
And he'd admittedly brought them out on occasion.
Like when he tried to sleep with Polly for the first time after you. He was lousy—barely present, only half harde, had to pretend he even finished. He'd faked enthusiasm while getting her off with his fingers, and afterward Polly had patted his head sympathetically and said, "Not everyone is perfect all the time, Steve. It's okay."
But his mind had immediately settled on you. The dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass and breasts, the curve of your hip. The way your plush lips say his name when he's inside you, the way your nails dig into his skin hard enough that he imagines part of his DNA living under your fingernails permanently.
When Polly left, he'd taken your panties out of their hiding place, holding them with one hand while pumping his cock with the other. So fast, eyes squeezed shut, imagining it was your soft hands instead of his own rough ones. He'd come so hard—thick white ropes shooting against his stomach, sticking to his happy trail—and he'd imagined you licking it off him, cleaning him up with your tongue.
He'd panted your name into the empty room, still gripping your panties.
Fuck, he'd really been such an idiot back then, huh?
Steve watches as you let go of his hand and immediately go to his record player. He'd finally gotten around to showing you his full collection last week, spreading albums across his floor and letting you flip through them all. Now you know exactly where everything is.
He takes off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door. Yours go right next to them. They’re side by side, like they belong there.
You're already putting a record on It’s his Queen "A Day at the Races" album. It's not even his favorite Queen album, but you love it. You always place the needle exactly where "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" starts, have the position memorized by now.
When he'd driven to see you for your first official date a few weeks ago, when he'd had to leave that night and drive back to Hawkins, you'd kissed him on the cheek and handed him a mixtape you'd made. "For the drive," you'd said shyly. This song was the first one on it. He'd listened to the entire tape three times on repeat during the drive home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.
You're humming along now, turning around to face him, but he's already close. His hands finding your hips like they're magnetized. "I have something for you."
Your eyes brighten immediately, and you reach up, adjusting his glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose. Your fingers are gentle, careful, and you smile at him before saying,"Oh yeah?"
He nods, melting when you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He clears his throat, reaching behind you to grab something from his desk. He picks up a small black box. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple jewelry box he got from the store in town.
He knew if he'd wrapped it, he would've been bouncing on his feet watching you peel the paper off. He's already doing that now anyway, shifting his weight nervously as you carefully take the lid off.
Your eyes look at the contents, squinting slightly, then look up at him. He crosses his arms, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, downturned eyes staring at you hopefully.
Inside is a sterling silver chain with a charm. ΠΚΑ—Pike's Greek letters in delicate sterling silver, dainty and shimmering in the lamplight.
He clears his throat. "Yeah, so... it's kind of a thing. That a member's girlfriend wears the letters." The words tumble out faster. "It's like a whole tradition, and it means I'm serious about us. I guess it'd make you like an unofficial sweetheart even though you're not in a sorority, and you can totally not wear it if you don't want to, or—"
You giggle, smiling wide, reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. "Steve. Shut up." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Will you put it on for me?"
Steve blushes, smiling dopily, nodding too enthusiastically. He takes the necklace out of the box with careful fingers, and you turn around, lifting your hair up and exposing the nape of your neck.
Steve's breath hitches at the sight—the delicate skin there, the small birthmark he's never noticed before, the soft baby hairs that curl slightly. He carefully drapes the chain around the front of your neck and clasps it at the back, his thumb brushing over the clasp to make sure it's secure. His fingers trail down—over your shoulder blades, down to you ribs, dangerous close to the sides of your breasts.
He steps closer, pressing his body against yours, and kisses the clasp. His lips find skin, warm and soft, and he can't stop himself from kissing lower.
You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes over holding your hair to the side, kissing down your neck with increasing intent.
His breath catches when he sees your fingers come up to brush the letters resting against your collarbone. You're his. Really, truly his.
You've made out plenty since you've been back together. Done a lot of heavy petting, put your lips in all kinds of places, brought each other to the edge with hands and mouths. But Steve had suggested waiting to have sex again. He wanted to show you that this part meant something different to him now. Wanted to prove that it wasn't the sex that made him fall in love with you. It was simply you.
And he never thought you'd be struggling more than him with this agreement.
Like now when he feels you arch backward, pressing your ass against him deliberately, but then you quickly realize what that does to him and start to put distance between you again.
This time, Steve grabs your hips firmly, fingers digging into flesh, and pulls you back against him. He sighs at how you feel—perfect, right, his.
"Steve?" you whisper, voice breathy. "Are you sure?"
Steve hums against your neck, kissing the skin softly, reverently. "I love you," is all he says.
He can hear your smile. He can feel it in the way your body relaxes against him. It makes him smile too, teeth grazing your skin.
You turn to face him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him toward the bed. You're the one to kiss him this time, and he closes his eyes as your mouths slot together in a slow, agonizing kiss.
You always kiss pretty. Soft and thorough, like kissing him is something you want to savor.
And there you go again. Your hands immediately on his stomach under his henley, palms warm against his skin, wasting no time. You squeeze the plush skin, massaging, it sends chills up his spine and his blood moves southward.
He wastes no time either, slipping his own hand under your shirt, the other squeezing your ass, then trailing up your back to feel bare skin. Up to your breasts, squeezing and massaging through your bra. Down to your belly, caressing.
You walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. You're standing between his spread legs, and you drop to your knees without hesitation.
"Hot Shot," he breathes, watching as you work open his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.
You unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard, and you lean forward immediately.
But instead of taking him in your mouth, you press your face into the soft flesh of his lower stomach. You kiss his happy trail—that line of dark hair leading down from his navel—then lick it. Suck at it. Your tongue traces patterns against his skin, and Steve's head falls back, eyes closing.
"Fuck," he whispers.
You look up at him through your lashes, still pressing kisses to his stomach, and the sight nearly kills him. Your eyes are dark with want, lips wet and swollen, and you're worshipping the part of him he's always been most self-conscious about.
He leans down, kissing you.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "Every part of you."
You bat your eyes, “Show me?”
When he calls you meek, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like you’re below him, or weak even. There’s just no other word to describe the gentleness of your voice, how shy you get. And your shyness only belongs to him. No one else sees you like this, but him. It nearly makes him come undone right there, thinking about it.
Steve's heart clenches. He reaches down and cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Come here."
You stand, and he pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans and underwear until you're standing naked in front of him.
He takes a moment to look at you. All of you. The curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, your breasts, the tattoo on your hip that belongs to him, the necklace resting against your collarbone that marks you as his.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread legs again.
His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms against soft skin, until his fingers reach your center. You're already wet—have been since he first touched you—and when his fingers brush against you, you gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.
"Steve," you breathe.
He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as pleasure flickers across your features. Then he slides one finger inside you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. "Christ, baby."
You whimper, hips rolling into his hand, seeking more. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, remembering how it's been months since you've done this.
He crooks his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle, and you cry out softly. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in.
"God, you're so wet," he says, voice rough. He can feel you clenching around his fingers, can feel how ready you are for him. "So beautiful."
He pumps his fingers slowly, trying to be patient, trying to take his time preparing you properly. But it's been so long—too long—and the feel of you, the sounds you're making, the way you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes...
"I can't wait," Steve says suddenly, withdrawing his fingers. He looks up at you, desperate and needy. "I'm sorry, I know I should—but I can't. I need you now."
You nod immediately, breathlessly. "Yes. Please, Steve. I need you too."
Relief floods through him. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you say firmly, pushing him back on the bed. "Now."
And he's never loved you more than in this moment—understanding what he needs, wanting it as much as he does.
"Lie down," he says softly, his voice rough with want.
You do, crawling onto his bed and sprawling out underneath him, hair fanning across his pillow. Steve kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and pulls his henley over his head, then climbs over you. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and you reach up with a smile, pushing them back into place with gentle fingers.
He kisses down your body—your neck, your collarbone where the necklace rests, between your breasts. When he gets to your stomach, he presses soft, quick kisses all over. Little pecks that make you giggle and squirm beneath him.
"Steve," you laugh, trying to push his head away. "That tickles."
"Good," he says, grinning against your skin. He kisses your hip bone, then lower, but you pull him back up to you.
"I need you," you whisper. "Now. Please."
Steve nods, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, and the sight of you like that—sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving, necklace glinting in the lamplight, eyes dark with want—makes his cock throb.
He wraps his hand around himself, pumping slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans at the sight.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, eyes still fixed on his hand moving over his length.
Steve throws his head back, eyes rolling behind his glasses, whimpering. He pumps himself a few more times, thumb swiping over the head where precum is already beading. Then he leans forward, positioning himself over you, he spreads your legs wider and spits directly onto your pussy, a string of saliva dripping wet from his tongue, glistening as it falls.
You gasp at the sensation. It’s warm and wet and filthy in the best way. He uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing with your own wetness, making sure you're slick and ready for him.
"Fuck. Baby," you breathe, head falling back.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pauses for just a moment. Your eyes meet his, and there's understanding there—this is different, more intimate, nothing between you.
"I love you," he says, looking into your eyes.
"I love you too," you breathe.
He pushes in slowly—so slowly, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, back arching slightly, neck elongating as your head presses back into the pillow. You let out a high-pitched moan that goes straight to his cock.
"God," Steve groans when he's fully seated inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, savoring the feeling of being this close to you. "Baby you feel perfect."
He starts to move. It’s slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp beneath him. This isn't fucking. This isn't even having sex, not really.
This is lovemaking, and he knows you or Robin would probably make fun of him for calling it that, for being so sappy and romantic. But that's what it is to him. He's not trying to get off or make himself feel good. He's worshipping you, showing you with his body what his words can't fully express.
He buries his face in your neck, pressing kisses there, breathing you in. "I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I love you so much."
"Steve," you moan, hands clutching at his back. "I love you."
He keeps whispering it. Over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times you'll feel exactly how much he means it. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the creak of his bed frame, your breathy moans, his low groans, the wet slide of him moving inside you. How his hips slap against your ass.The music still plays from his record player, Freddie Mercury's voice a soundtrack to this moment.
After a while, Steve sits up, pulling you with him. You end up in his lap, straddling him, and he guides you up and down on his cock with his hands on your hips. One hand braces on the bed next to him for leverage so he can thrust up into you, meeting your movements.
Your arms are around his neck, holding him close, and you're clutched together so tightly there's no space between your bodies. Sweat makes your skin stick together, and Steve can feel your heart beating against his chest—fast and hard, matching his own rhythm. Your pants and moans mixing together in harmony.
You're looking at him, mouth parted, breathing heavily. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, tender and gentle even as pleasure builds between you.
"I love you, Steve," you say clearly, deliberately, holding his gaze.
Steve falters, his rhythm stuttering.He kisses you fiercely, possessively, his glasses bumping against your face. He starts moving more intensely—faster, harder, deeper.
"Say it again," he demands against your lips.
"I love you," you gasp.
He uses his large hand to cup your chin, tilting your face so you have to look at him. You can see yourself reflected in his lenses. "I love you," he says back, and it comes out rough, wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."
The intensity makes you lean back slightly, back arching, and Steve groans at the sight. Your breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. You look completely gone, lost in pleasure, and he knows he looks the same. It’s desperate and needy and so in love it hurts.
He leans forward and kisses the charm of your necklace where it rests against your skin, then your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will bloom purple by morning.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close again, burying his face between your breasts. He can feel the way you pant and whine into his hair, can feel your body starting to tighten around him. He can hear himself whimpering your name against your sweaty skin.
"Baby, I'm—I'm close," you gasp.
"Me too, baby. Me too."
He reaches between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. That's all it takes—you cry out his name, clenching around him, and the feeling of you coming sends him over the edge too.
He comes with a groan muffled against your chest, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. You ride it out together, holding each other through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together and noses nudging.
When you can both breathe again, you press soft pecks to his lips. Once, twice, three times. Sweet and unhurried.
Steve smiles, tucking your hair back behind your ear with gentle fingers. "I'm happy," he says genuinely, searching your face. "Are you happy, Hot Shot?"
"Yes, Steve. I'm more than happy."
And he believes you. He sees it in your eyes, in the way you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grabs your hand and places it over his heart, wanting you to feel what he’s thinking without saying it.
He loves you.
You kiss his lips again, soft and lingering. When you pull back, your irises are glimmering, searching into his own. He sees stars twinkling in them—actual constellations reflected in the depths of your eyes. He kisses your nose, then your forehead.
And like the sun itself rising, splitting across your face, you smile. Wide and genuine and so full of love it makes his chest ache.
It doesn't matter anymore how it all led up to here—all the lies and hurt and confusion and heartbreak. None of it matters because you're here now, in his arms, wearing his letters, saying you love him.
Finally.
Finally, Steve Harrington gets to keep something good.
my masterlist | series masterlist | series paylist 𝜗ৎ
pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader ⭑.ᐟ
warnings: financial insecurity, health problems, mean!Steve (eventually) (like lowkey evil Steve), pining, poor self image, reader! is described as having getting period 5.2k
tags: best friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, mean!Steve Harrington, marriage of convenience, fake marriage, friends to enemies to lovers, slow burn, very, very slow burn
Living with Steve was easy. Sure you bickered sometimes, but all best friends did. Chores were always done, bills were negotiated, movie nights were always agreed on. Everything was perfect, existing around him was as easy as breathing. That is until he finds out that you don’t have health insurance. Mixed with the growing concerns around your health, Steve comes to the only solution he can think of. Getting married for the benefits. But somewhere in the madness, something starts to shift in Steve. something so rotten and cruel you can barely recognise him anymore, and you don't know if you ever will again.
chapter one →
Out of every day of the week, Wednesday mornings were your favourite. Not having work meant not having an alarm, which meant actually getting a good night's sleep for once. The first beams of sunlight were only beginning to filter through the mesh of your curtains, when you were awoken by the sounds outside your door. You knew without having to get up, that Steve was floundering through the house in his haste to get ready. Despite his claiming that he always tried to be quiet, his heavy footfalls and cursing under his breath told a different story. You roll over, eyes still half closed as you attempt to read the numbers glowing softly on your alarm clock. 7:30am. Not bad, considering you usually got up at 5am for work.
Deciding that you probably wouldn't get back to sleep, you stretch your arms over your head, groaning in satisfaction at the soft pop of your joints. Steve’s footsteps falter where he walks down the hallway. Realising from your groan that he woke you up once again. Even when he was trying his hardest to be sneaky– like a ninja, he had said once. It doesn't take long before a tentative knock sounds against your door, opening to reveal the sheepish face of Steve Harrington.
“Again?” is all he asks, silently hoping that he had nothing to do with why you were awake.
You brace yourself against your elbows, smiling amusedly at his guilty expression.
“Again” you confirm.
He curses under his breath, the corners of his mouth tugging down into a frustrated pout.
“But I was so quiet this time” he grumbles
“I’m a light sleeper”
He huffs out of his noise, a disgruntled little stream of air punctuating his indignation.
“Steve- it's fine, really” you let the smile drop from your face, not wanting him to feel any worse than he already does for waking you up on your day off. His arms cross over his chest as he leans against your door frame, concerned eyes flickering over your form. He seems to be contemplating if he should drop it, believe you, and go about his day. But the stubborn part of him wins over in the end. It always does.
“You always do that” he sighs
“Do what?” you ask, furrowing your eyebrows and pushing yourself into a seating potion “wake up early?”
“No-” he drags a hand down his face, trying not to let his frustration show “--You know… Forgive me too quickly”
“You woke me up, Steve. That’s hardly a punishable offence”
He sighs again, accepting that it’s too early to argue, and pushes off of your doorframe.
“Whatever” he grumbles “I’ll see you later”
You’re glad his back is to you, making it so he can’t see the amused twinkle in your eye. It didn’t matter how grumpy he acted, you knew better than to take his temper at face value.
Steve had never been taught how to show love– to ask if someone is okay, to offer his support openly, not through twisted back alleys and side streets. At first, it was hard to decipher what his exasperated sighs and sarcastic comments really meant. To see the are you ok? buried beneath aggravation for getting yourself hurt. But, once you knew what to look for, under the grumbling and the eyerolling, you'd see that Steve Harrington had more love to give than he knew what to do with. He was the first to show up when someone needed help, offering himself up as a chauffeur for the kids so they didn't have to walk home at night, cooking you dinner when he could tell you had a long day, or simply being a listening ear whenever someone needed to talk. Steve Harrington loved in gestures. Sometimes, you thought being helpful was the only way he knew how to be needed.
-
You lay in bed for a few more minutes, letting yourself exist in that hazy between state where the whole world is soft and fuzzy around the edges. You think you hear the sound of keys jingling and the front door closing, before you finally decide to drag yourself out of the comfort of your bed, and onto sleep heavy legs. Looking around the floor, you find a discarded hoodie to tug on as you make your way to the kitchen.
The first thing you register when you walk in, is the pot of coffee. The rich smell filling your lungs, dusting away the remaining cobwebs of sleep that still cling to your consciousness. The steam rising in swirling patterns lets you know that Steve had made it just before he left, wanting you to wake up to something nice. The thought makes something warm and familiar bloom in your chest, your ribs aching with fondness.
If you were still 17 years old, you might have mistaken that feeling for a crush. But at 21, you had learnt to tell the difference between romantic and platonic love. You thought you might have loved him once, a long time ago. He had been the first boy to ever treat you like a human being and not just some… thing. And for a while, there was a period when you thought he might love you back. His soft smiles and caring eyes got so muddled up in your head, you hadn't bothered to realize that he looked at everyone like that. Slowly, over time, you came to understand that it wasn’t you that made his face soften, it was everyone he cared about. He didn’t know how not to be the protector, to care about his friends more than he cared about himself. Realising this had set off a chain reaction in your head. You could finally step back from your crush on your best friend, and accept the one absolute truth of the universe. You and Steve Harrington would never work out.
The feeling after coming to this conclusion was strange. You had expected to feel the world crumbling around you, all the plans of your future being pulled out from beneath your feet. Instead, you felt relief. You could exist around him without the worries of impressing him constantly at the back of your mind. You stopped comparing yourself to the girls he went for, stopped trying to be more like them and less like you. It was ridiculous to ever think you could be his type in the first place, the girls Steve liked were so fundamentally different to you, that you might as well exist on a different planet. Steve went for girls who looked like models from bridal magazines, girls who were gentle, girls who were brilliant in that quiet, understated way that would take you by surprise.
You were none of those things. In fact, you were so notoriously you, that Steve had given you the nickname Moxie way back in ‘84. Right after you pulled a gun on him in the woods thinking he was a demogorgon. At the time it felt like being branded– your skin searing with the sting of a redhot poker saying you were too much. But overtime, you grew into it, you realised that no matter how hard you tired, you couldn't make yourself smaller. It wasn't in your nature to be quiet, or agreeable or meek. So what if you were opinionated, or if you got excited too easily or acted before you thought.
You’re pulled out of your thoughts by a soft thunk on the front door. You abandon your coffee on the counter, moving towards the sound to investigate. The cold licks at your ankles, sending goose pimples pricking across your skin. This morning’s newspaper sits on the welcome mat, its pages gently fluttering in the wind. You grab it quickly, eager to get backside to the warmth of your home. Steve had added your house to the paper route when you first moved in together, apparently remembering the time you said you liked crosswords in passing.
There’s still a pen on the table from where you had sat yesterday. It had become a routine of sorts. A routine that mostly consisted of nagging Steve when you couldn’t work out a clue, and getting annoyed when he didn’t know it either. The blind leading the blind was how Robin described you. You didn’t think it was fair, you weren’t nearly as clueless as Steve.
-
The sun has reached its peak in the sky when you feel it. The undeniable, dull ache that starts in your pelvis, spreading outward into the tips of your fingers. A frustrated whimper leaves your mouth before you can stop it. You had been so careful in tracking your cycle, convinced you had gotten it down to the exact day your period would arrive every month. But apparently, your body loves to blindsight you, so now it was here early, and you were severely under prepared.
If you were anyone else, this would be an easy fix. Take some painkillers, replace your tampon every few hours, and you're done. You however, were not so lucky. For the past six months, your periods had been getting increasingly worse, now to the point where you couldn't move for days. Your pelvis feeling like it’s splitting open inside your body, shocks of pain racking through every muscle until you are curled in a ball. Most days you couldn't even keep food down, your stomach hurting just as badly as your uterus did.
Steve had noticed, of course he did. He never asked if you needed anything, instead he would make you a hot water bottle, or grab the good painkillers from the medicine cabinet, mumbling that you might need these, before slinking away to give you space. It was nice, being cared for, even with Steve’s weird, gruff sort of way. With him away at work, you had no choice but to look after yourself.
-
The pills slide easily down your throat, the cool water soothing the bile that had already begun to rise up from your stomach. The hot water bottle is in the cupboard under the sink where Steve left it, still wrapped in its plush, fleece cover he insisted you use, convinced you would get third degree burns without it. You heat water over the stove, watching the rolling bubbles as it boils over, before making sure not to splash any on your skin as you pour it into the bottle.
-
Once you're settled in bed, curtains drawn and blankets pulled up, you somehow manage to fall into restless slumber. You sleep until 4pm when Steve gets home. The sound of his keys in the door rousing you back to the real world. You knew you had been dreaming, but the remnants of whatever world you had been living in were slipping through your fingers like sand. All that stayed was the strange, happy feeling you had woken up with, wishing you could remember the images that had just been flashing in your mind moments before. Steve calls your name, trying to locate you in the house. You can hear him mumbling to himself as he goes from room to room, something about your car being outside.
Eventually, he knocks on your door, not waiting for you to answer before he’s pushing it open.
“Mox?”
You blink sleepily at him from your spot on the bed, watching his face soften as he takes in the scene in front of him.
“Hey” his voice is careful now “you ok?”
You nod, trying to sit up, but wincing at the sudden cramp in your side.
“Woah- okay” he steps forwards, clearly trying to stop you from moving “you should, y'know, not sit up right now?”
“Wow Einstein-” you huff, flopping back against your pillow “-How’d you work that one out?”
He smiles sarcastically at you, unamused by your teasing.
“Have you taken any painkillers?” you can tell by his tone that he’s gone into full mother-hen mode, preparing to hover for however many days your period lasts for.
“Yes” you sigh in exasperation “that’s like, the first thing I did”
“Can you blame me for asking? You always do that martyr shit”
You shoot him a glare, making him hold up his hands in defence
“But- do you like… need anything?”
“I’m fine” you tug the blankets more securely around you
“Hot water bottle?”
“I have one”
He huffs a laugh “yeah? When was the last time you refilled it?”
He knows the answer when you don't respond, silently holding out his hand with an expectant, albeit frustrated expression.
You grumble, handing over the now barely warm rubber bottle.
“You’re the worst” you complain, burrowing back into your covers.
“Yeah because taking care of you makes me a real asshole” . As much as he tries to hide it, he can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. “Don’t move”
“I’ll try not to”
You think you hear him mumble smartass as he leaves your room.
-
You call out of work the next day. The strongest painkillers you can get without a prescription doing nothing to dampen the cramps tearing through your lower half. Steve is always nearby, worried but never pressing, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hormonal rage. By the third day, he can't take it anymore. Constantly seeing you immobilized and in pain makes a pit of dread settle in his stomach.
“Moxie?” His voice comes out tentative from where he stands in the doorway.
You look up from the couch, eyes landing on his nervous face.
“What?”
“Can I talk to you?”
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, he’s never this anxious to talk to you about anything.
“Sure”
He sighs in relief, taking a step towards where you're sitting.
“It’s about… this” he gestures to you, not knowing what to call your current condition.
“Steve, I already told you I’m—“
“—but you’re not.” He cuts you off, his expression hardening “you’re not fine. You’re not even close to being fine”
“Steve—“ you sigh
“I’m worried about you.”
That makes something in your chest twist, the sheer concern in his voice sending a wave of guilt through your body until your fingers hurt.
“I know, I know I’m sorry”
“Don’t do that, don’t apologise”
“I’m- shit”
You’re almost apology gets a small laugh out of him, before he apparently remembers what he wanted to ask you.
“It’s just… I don’t know why you won’t go to the doctor?”
You immediately turn to him with a blank stare, expecting him to burst into laughter and admit that was a joke. When he doesn't, you realise he’s being completely serious.
“The doctor?”
“Yeah, the doctor?” His voice takes on a defensive edge “maybe they could, I don’t know, find out what’s wrong? Give you something for it?”
You laugh, making a scowl break out across his face.
“What? What's so funny?”
“It’s just—“ you snort “—how would I go to the doctor?”
“Um… you call them and make an appointment? Like everyone else?”
“Right, because I have three hundred dollars to spend” you chuckle, not realising how his eyes had widened in horror.
“Three hundred dollars?— Mox- I- what are you talking about?”
You blink at him, confused as to how he’s gone his whole life unaware how much a doctor’s appointment costs.
“That’s how much an appointment is? How do you not know this?”
“But— how? Doctors appointments are like thirty dollars?”
Realisation dawns on his face, his eyes taking on their familiar, concerned edge.
“You don’t have insurance?” His voice is softer now “why don’t you have insurance?”
“Because my job doesn’t have benefits”
“Neither does mine but- you don’t just like… have it?”
“Who just has insurance Steve? It’s five hundred dollars a month?”
“You’re not on your parents plan?”
“My parents don’t have insurance either”
He’s staring at you now, trying to wrap his head around how different your lives really were.
“So… you just don't go to the doctor?”
“Not if i can help it, no”
He's completely dumbfounded, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, unable to find the words he needs.
“I–” he stammers “I– I’m sorry”
“It’s fine, really. You didn’t know”
“No, I'm sorry you can’t go to the doctor”
“I’ll be ok”
“But you’re in so much pain?”
“It’ll be over in a few days”
“And then next month? What then?”
Your retort dies on your tongue when you see the hurt etched into every inch of his face.
“I don't know what you want me to do, Steve" you shift uncomfortably “I don’t have the money”
When you glance back at him, he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration.
“What if I paid for it?”
“What? Steve– no way”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s hundreds of dollars?”
“But–”
“Please just– let me deal with this on my own?”
He wants to argue, he wants to shake you by your shoulders and demand you get some much needed medical attention. But the look in your eyes gives him pause, realizing this isn't an argument he’s going to be winning anytime soon.
“Fine.” His hands scrub down his face. “But if this gets any worse? I’m helping”
-
Steve seems to have dropped the topic by the time your period is over. Your being able to stand for more than five minutes and keep actual meals down seems to soothe him enough that he doesn't bring the topic up again for a few days.
That is until you get home from work one day, being greeted with the muffled sound of what you think is Steve on the phone. You don’t think anything of it, assuming it’s Robin from the way he hangs up as you pass.
“Hey” you greet on your way to the kitchen, not expecting Steve to follow, and being a little thrown off when he does.
“You’re home early” he leans in the doorway while you busy yourself with the coffee machine.
“It was a super slow day, I was doing nothing for the last hour.”
“At least they let you go”
“Eventually” you grumble, still annoyed at being made wait around for an unnecessary hour ‘just incase’
“Youre home now–” he shifts on his feet “--thats all that matters”
You turn to him with a suspicious look in your eye.
“Youre being weird…”
“What? Me? I’m not being weird you're being weird” his nervous stammering gives him away instantly
“Ok now you're definitely being weird”
“It’s nothing” he waves a dismissive hand
“Steve–”
“Fine” he huffs, crossing his arms across his chest like a shield “just promise you wont get mad?”
“I promise, now what?”
“I called my insurance company…”
“Steve!--” you exclaim in annoyance
“You said you wouldn't get mad”
“Steve, I'm serious!”
“Hear me out?”
“I–”
“Please?”
Your face twitches, fighting every instinct to argue with him. He takes your silence as an okay, and continues with his explanation.
“I called them to see how I could add you to my plan–”
“--Your parent’s plan”
“Whatever” he sighs “can I speak or not?”
“Fine.”
“So I called them to see what my options would be…”
“And?”
“Well, it would cost an extra couple hundred to add you, and I know you wouldn't want me to spend that much money on you”
“And your dad would kill you”
“Yeah, and my dad would kill me”
“So, what? Were you just telling me I can't be added to your health insurance?”
He fidgets uncomfortably with the string of his hoodie, refusing to look at you.
“Steve?”
“There is something else they said…”
“Ok? Are you gonna tell me or just stand there awkwardly?
“Its–” he trails off, hands dragging down his face as he searches for the words. “It’s kind of crazy”
“Crazy how?”
“Crazy like they said spouses get automatically added to their partners health plan”
You stare blankly at him, your brain suddenly deciding to move at two miles an hour, unable to understand what the hell he’s trying to say.
“Why are you telling me this? You don’t—” You stop, finally realising what he’s implying. Spouse, as in you. As in getting married. To him
“What the fuck, Steve? You're not serious”
“Just- think about it, ok?” he starts towards you, hands gesturing wildly
“I am thinking about it, and it’s insane!”
“We could go to the courthouse, sign a few papers and boom!” he snaps his fingers, as if that will magically make this feel like a totally normal thing for him to suggest.
“And get married!?”
“You’re making this into a big deal”
“It is a big deal, Steve!” you round on him “You’re seriously suggesting we get married for health insurance?"
“You’re making me sound crazy!”
“Because you're being crazy!” your hands rake through your hair, desperately looking for any sort of normalcy.
“Just… think about it”
“I’ve thought about it, the answer is no”
“Mox-” he sighs “-I’m serious”
“What would we tell people? Huh?”
“We wouldn't have to tell people”
“You don’t think Dustin- or- or Robin or someone would work it out pretty quick?”
“Not if we didn't tell them, no”
You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, hoping that the world might stop spinning for just a moment.
“Youre serious? About this?” your voice has softened, still reeling from his ridiculous idea.
“Yeah–” he nods earnestly. “I’m serious, I've been really worried about you.”
“I told you not to worry about me”
I know you did, but I can't help it. Your periods have been getting worse and worse for months. I know you act like they’re not but I can see it in your face.”
You look down at your hands, guilt suddenly prickling across your skin when you realize how worried you’ve made him.
“Marriage though” Doesn't that seem a bit intense to you?” you ask, attempting to move the conversation away from your health problems.
“Not a real one, just on paper”
“Just on paper” you respond, testing out how the words feel “and what happens when one of us meets someone?”
“I–” he falters “--I guess we worry about that if it happens”
You study his expression, focusing on the way he’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, clearly scared shitless by this conversation, but wanting to have it anyway. You want to agree just so his face goes back to normal, the nerves and fear you so desperately want gone still written there plain as day. But you know you can’t, so you try to let him down easy.
“Steve–” your voice is softer now, tentative “--I don’t want to marry someone I’m not in love with…”
“We wouldn't be married, not in real life.”
“You say that but you know it’s not true, there would be a piece of paper out there saying I'm your wife.”
“You wouldn't have to think about it”
“But I would. I would think about it all the time”
“Will you please just think about it? For me?” he pleads.
You know you should shut this down. Put your foot down and demand he never brings this up again. But you also know that you need help. You couldn't keep pretending you were ok while your insides were quite literally tearing themselves apart. Still, the idea of a marriage devoid of the intimacy and realness that you so desperately craved, made something rotten– something you thought you had gotten rid of years ago– rear its ugly head inside your chest. You knew why it was easier for Steve to brush the idea of a fake marriage off as nothing more than a piece of paper. There had never been doubts in either of your minds that he would settle down one day. One of his dates would finally stick, he’d move into a three bedroom house and start his nuclear family. In the beginning, he’d visit you once every few months, until eventually, you’d learn about his life through Christmas cards and Robin.
What he didn't know was that deep down you'd always carried the fear that you were fundamentally unloveable. It started back in eighth grade when you had started to notice that all of your friends were getting attention from boys. You tried not to let it bother you, pretended you didn't care, said boys were dumb and a waste of time. But after school you would go home, stand in front of the mirror and wonder what was wrong with you. What about you made you different from the other girls? Why weren't you good enough? It settled like a dead weight behind your ribs, one that only got heavier with time. You thought you’d gotten a grip on it, tamed the beast back into its cage so you’d never have to think about it again.
But Steve suggesting marriage like it was nothing, like it was something easy, and normal, something you could just get rid of with some paper work and a few signatures, made you feel sick. He didn't know about how you felt, about the fears that plagued your nightmares, how you once thought you loved him and that he loved you. How ever since you saw the type of girls he went for, it only cemented in your head how undesirable you were. You hated him in that moment. You hated how small his world was, how little he tried to break out of it, hated how he had everything handed to him, his future promised to him on a silver spoon.
“I’ll think about it” is all you say before you’re brushing past him. The pot of coffee you made being forgotten by the machine.
-
You do the only thing you can think of, and drive to Robin’s place. It wasn't unusual for you to show up unannounced. What was unusual, however, was for you to nearly break down her door with how frantically you’re knocking.
The smile she had on when she opened the door dropped the second she saw your face.
“What's wrong?” she sounds worried “Did something happen? Is someone dead? What’s–”
You’ve known Robin long enough to understand that if you don’t cut her off, she’ll just keep talking forever.
“Robin.”
“Sorry- word vomit”
She steps back to let you in, closing the door behind you.
“So…?” she draws the word out into a question “you gonna tell me what's going on?” when you look at her, she’s rocking nervously back and forth on her heels.
“Steve wants to get married” you say in a rush, not knowing how else to explain it.
“I– What!?”
“Not– I mean–” you stammer, pressing your fingers against your eyes as you search for the right words “that came out wrong”
“What’s the right way?” she’s staring at you, wide eyed and utterly thrown.
“Well, you know how my periods have been getting bad?”
“Yes?” Her voice is suspicious, confused as to how this relates to Steve apparently proposing to you out of nowhere.
“Well, Steve thinks I'm practically dying”
“So, is that…?”
“No– not that’s not why.” you huff, frustrated at yourself for how poorly you're explaining this “he couldn't understand why I wouldn't just go to the doctor, so I explained that it's because of how expensive it is”
She nods, following along but still suspicious as to where this story is going.
“So today, after I got home, he said he called his health insurance company. We both know his dad would go crazy of Steve tried to add me to it, but–”
“--If you got married” Robin finishes
“Yeah…”
Silence hangs between you, thick and poignant while both of you process Steve's idea. Your eyes flicker across Robin's face, trying to make any sense of what she might be thinking. All you can decipher is intense concentration, her brows kitting together so firmly you'd be shocked if she didn't get a headache.
“I mean,” she breaks the silence, pulling you from your thoughts “It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had”
“I’m sorry– What?”
“Think about it, Mox. It’s not like you’d have to act married, all that would change is a piece of paper saying you're legally bound”
“Does it not see, a bit… intense to you?”
She chuckles, an amused puff of air blowing from her nose “it definitely intense”
“But?”
“But you seriously need health insurance”
“I’ve told you and Steve, I’m fine”
“You don't know that for a fact!”
“Robin” you whine, wanting her to agree with you
She points an accusatory finger at you “do not ‘Robin’ me”
“You’re supposed to be on my side! Not telling me to marry Steve Harrington”
“I am not telling you marry him–”
“You literally are!”
“I’m telling you to game the system, it’s like when people get married for greencards” she shrugs
You pause, not realizing that’s how you could think of it. Not as Steve treating marriage like some careless, meaningless thing, but as a big fuck you to the system that wouldn’t let you afford health care in the first place.
You let out a resigned sigh, knowing she's won
“You really think I should?”
“Why not? All you do is sign some paper and you get free health insurance"
“Yeah but, marry Steve?”
“On paper!”
“Jesus christ you two sound like the same person sometimes”
She laughs, before asking “so, you gonna do it?”
“Im going to think about it”
-
You hadn't lied about what you said to Robin. You do think about it. A lot. You think about it while you're eating dinner, while you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re getting ready for bed, and when you lie on your back, staring at the dark ceiling of your room. What you can’t understand is how normal everyone else was being about this. Was suggesting you get married to your best friend not a completely insane thing to do? It didn’t matter how sound Steve’s reasoning was, his suggesting it still made your head spin.
You don’t get much sleep that night, plagued by thoughts of Steve as his stupid, perfect face, and his stupid, sweet concern for you. You go over every possible scenario of what could happen if you say yes. Would you go to the courthouse, sign some papers and never talk about it again? What would you do with the marriage certificate? Surely one of you would have to keep for when you finally get an annulment– but whose bed would it live under? It must have been three am when your eyes finally start droop shut, unable to fight off the restless sleep that’s pulling you under.
You dream about Steve. His face in the mornings. The way he seems to soak in the sun when he's outside. The moles that scatter his skin, creating a galaxy across the soft expanse of his back. You dream about the girls he's loved before. The girls so unlike you, about how they could never be you. About Steve leaving to start his real life, the one that doesn’t involve you.
The next morning you wake up crying. Something you haven't done since you were 17.
a/n Thank you so much for 300 followers!! he's a gift for all of you!! future chapters will be coming out on Wednesday's, but I wanted to give you all this one a little early as a treat. But I also lowkey hate this and know I would delete if I didn't post it now... whoops! if you don't hate this, maybe consider leaving a like, reblog or comment 😋 ok bye thank you.
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: angst, drinking, mean! steve, crashout, errrrrrr idk... miscommunication
words: 8.7k
summary: 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
a/n: okay so... this chapter just needed to be standalone and so the next chapter will have quite a bit...
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 16
The group spent all day Monday at the beach—Polly came back briefly around noon to ask if you wanted to join them, standing in the doorway with her floppy hat and concern written across her sun-flushed face. You claimed to be sick, probably a stomach bug from the travel and the change in water. Your voice was hoarse enough to sell it, eyes red-rimmed enough to look convincing.
Nancy and Robin came in later that evening to check on you, bringing Gatorade and crackers they'd bought from the hotel gift shop. Robin sat on the edge of your bed, hand on your forehead checking for fever, while Nancy hovered near the door looking worried.
All you asked them for was earplugs. The industrial kind, the ones construction workers use.
They gave you questioning looks—brows furrowed, mouths turned down—but you claimed it was too loud outside. The music from the beach parties, the people in the hallways, the general chaos of spring break. You couldn't sleep.
They seemed to accept this explanation, returning an hour later with a plastic package of foam earplugs from the lobby store.
But Monday night, it happened again.
Polly didn't come back to the room at all, telling you around ten that she'd give you space since you were feeling sick, that she didn't want to disturb you. Sweet, considerate Polly.
At midnight, you smelled the stench of weed—thick and skunky, seeping through the thin wall that separates your room from Steve's. You could hear the mixture of laughter, low voices, the clink of glass bottles.
And then the bed. Hitting the wall. Again and again and again.
You shoved the earplugs in so hard it hurt, foam compressing then expanding to fill your ear canals, muffling sound but not eliminating it entirely. You could still hear it—feel it, really. The rhythmic thumping transmitted through the wall, through the bed frame, through your bones.
You could see the ugly decorative paintings hanging on your wall rattling with each impact. A sailboat at sunset, trembling. A palm tree, shaking like it was in a hurricane.
As you finally drift toward sleep—exhausted, defeated—you wonder if Steve decided to break the rules with Polly too. Or is it different because it's spring break, because what happens in Miami stays in Miami, because she's not you and therefore doesn't count?
You grab your pillow and scream into it, the sound muffled by fabric and foam earplugs and the knowledge that no one can hear you anyway.
It's Tuesday when you finally decide to come out of your room. Tuesday morning, you decide to keep your head up.
You wake up early—six-thirty, before the sun is fully up, the sky that pale gray-blue of impending dawn. You brush your teeth aggressively, scrubbing until your gums bleed slightly, the taste of mint and copper mixing. You put on your bikini under your regular clothes—denim shorts and a loose tank top, nothing special. And you head down to the hotel bar before most people are even awake.
You down three mimosas before eight a.m., the champagne and orange juice going down easy, bubbles popping on your tongue. The bartender—a guy in his early twenties with sun-bleached hair and a name tag that says "Tyler"—gives you a look after the third one, but he doesn't say anything. It's spring break. Everyone's drinking at inappropriate hours.
By the time you make it to the breakfast buffet, sunglasses firmly in place to hide your slightly glazed eyes, you're pleasantly buzzed. The edges of everything are softer, less sharp. You load a plate with eggs and toast and sit at a table near the window overlooking the ocean.
Robin and Nancy come down first, both looking sleepy but happy, fingers intertwined as they walk. They separate before reaching the buffet line, muscle memory, hiding even here— where they don't have to— but you can see them stealing glances at each other.
Eddie arrives next, looking like he rolled directly out of bed and down the stairs. He's yawning constantly, scratching his bare stomach under his Metallica t-shirt, eyes half-closed as he piles food onto his plate without really looking at what he's grabbing.
Robin slides into the chair next to you, immediately putting her head on your shoulder like a cat seeking warmth. "Does this mean you feel better?" Her voice is muffled against your shirt. "It was totally boring without you yesterday."
Nancy laughs from across the table, but there's an edge to it. "Wow. Thank you, babe. Really feeling the love."
Robin rolls her eyes, reaching under the table to tap Nancy's knee—a touch meant to be private, apologetic. "You know what I mean! Steve's still in a mood, and I don't think I can take another day of Munson nearly getting us kicked out of the hotel again."
"Buckley," Eddie interjects, dropping into the seat across from you and shoving a spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth, "if someone triple-dog-dares me, I gotta do it. That's the law. And I didn't get caught, so technically it never happened."
Nancy leans forward conspiratorially, eyes dancing with amusement. "He went skinny-dipping in the hotel pool last night. Around midnight. Jonathan got a picture—he can show you later."
"Mmm... I think I'm okay," you manage to laugh, though the thought of midnight makes your stomach twist.
"So sad you weren't there, Hot Shot." Eddie's faux pout is exaggerated, theatrical. "You feeling better?"
You shrug, thinking about the past two nights, your stomach souring even as you try to maintain the smile. You push your plate away, appetite completely gone despite having barely touched anything. "Yeah. I'm ready to get out and get in the water today."
Robin perks up immediately, lifting her head from your shoulder. "Oh yeah! Jonathan gave us the word—they're filming a few miles from here on the beach, and if we show up in time, we might get chosen as extras. We're thinking about leaving in an hour."
Suddenly, Polly walks in, and the energy at the table shifts in a way you can't quite name. She's wearing a big floppy hat that looks like it belongs on a 1950s movie star and a flowing sundress in pale yellow. She looks fresh and rested and beautiful, and you hate her for it.
You notice how Eddie's mouth twitches when he sees her, how the spoon in his hand stops halfway to his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl in fat drops. He's staring at her with an expression you recognize.
When Polly sees you, her face lights up. "I was wondering if you were feeling better! I didn't see you in our room when I went in to change."
You smile politely, that tight feeling returning to your chest, squeezing your lungs until breathing feels like work. You can't help but look at her, cataloging details. Is her hair mussed from Steve's fingers? Is that a hickey barely visible under the edge of her dress? Did he kiss her the way he kissed you?
"Yeah! Much better."
Polly claps her hands together, genuine excitement radiating from her. "Great! So you're coming with us today? Wouldn't it be so fun if we were in a movie?"
Eddie snorts, reaching up to flick the rim of her enormous hat. "Might be trying too hard there, Penelope. A seagull might mistake it for a nest and try to lay eggs in it."
But he's smirking as he says it, looking up at her with soft eyes, interest written plainly across his features.
You feel a pang of sadness for him. Here's someone else caught in a cycle with someone who will never like them out loud, never claim them publicly. Eddie and Polly, you and Steve—variations on the same painful theme.
Polly's eyes shine looking down at Eddie, and you catch the way she scans him, gaze traveling from his face down to his chest, his arms, then back up. She bites her bottom lip, fighting a smile. "You'll be too pale to show up on camera, Edward. Like Nosferatu. They'll have to use special lighting just for you."
Nancy and Robin groan in unison, and Robin leans into you. "They've been flirting like this since yesterday morning. Walk away now before they start eating each other's faces."
You give them a questioning look, glancing back at Eddie and Polly, Eddie now stood, dramatically offering his seat to her, but she doesn’t go to move. They're standing too close, close enough that they must be able to feel each other's breath, close enough that the air between them feels charged.
They finally break apart when Steve walks in.
He's wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, and his plate is loaded with bacon and eggs and hash browns—more food than you've ever seen him eat at once. You can tell his gaze flicks to you even through the dark lenses, can see his jaw twitch, muscle jumping under skin.
He sits across from you without a word, slouching low in his chair and immediately shoveling food into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days. He's wearing a striped button-up shirt—vertical blue and white stripes—and black swim trunks, sandals on his feet.
You notice how the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned, hanging open enough that you can see chest hair and—
Your stomach drops.
A bruise. On his pec. Dark purple and roughly circular, with what looks like teeth marks at the center.
The bruise you left. Friday night in his room, when you bit him while riding him, when he'd whimpered and let you mark him, when everything still felt possible.
Your body betrays you—thighs tightening together involuntarily, heat pooling low in your belly at the memory. But then you force yourself to relax, to remember that you're mad at him. Sad and confused and so fucking angry.
You don't have time to examine the feeling too closely because everyone's standing up, gathering their things, ready to head to where Jonathan said the movie is filming.
Sure enough, you arrive early enough to have a chance.
The beach is sectioned off with ropes and barriers, keeping pedestrians away from the filming area. Camera crews swarm everywhere. There are massive cameras on dollies, boom microphones on long poles, lights on stands creating artificial sun. Makeup artists hover around different actors and actresses, touching up hair and powder, consulting with each other in hushed tones.
Nancy leans over to tell you it's not a huge movie. No A-list stars like Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford.
A casting person makes her way down the line of gathered onlookers. She’s a stout woman with cat-eye glasses and a clipboard, surveying everyone with a critical eye. She walks slowly, deliberately, pointing at random people.
"You. Mmm, yes, you too... you, come on."
She gets to Nancy and Robin, looks them up and down, and nods. "Yes. And yes."
She looks at Eddie, pauses, then says, "Lift up your shirt."
Eddie does as she asks without hesitation, pulling his Metallica shirt up to expose his stomach.
The woman immediately grimaces, face twisting in disgust.
You see why. His entire torso is covered in bruised hickies—purple and red marks scattered across his pale skin like he got attacked by an octopus. They're everywhere, overlapping, some fading to yellow at the edges while others look fresh and angry.
Polly laughs in genuine amusement, reaching past Steve to poke at one of the bruises. Eddie flinches but grins.
"Got carried away," he sighs, directing the comment to either Steve or Polly—you're not sure which.
The casting woman shakes her head firmly at Eddie, moving past him. But she points to Steve. "Yes."
Eddie protests immediately. "Hey! You're not gonna make him take his shirt off? That's discrimination. I demand equal treatment."
"Pervert," Steve mumbles, but there's a smirk tugging at his lips as he flips Eddie off.
The casting director looks at Polly, smiling at first, but then her eyes land on the enormous floppy hat. Her smile drops. She shakes her head and moves on.
Then she stops in front of you, looks you over once, and nods. "Yes."
She continues down the line, and you're left standing there feeling awkward.
Polly and Eddie look genuinely disappointed, matching pouts on their faces.
"I'm sorry," you offer. "I can stay with you guys if you want. I don't need to—"
Polly and Eddie look at each other, some silent communication passing between them, and then Polly smiles at you warmly. She reaches up and takes off her sunglasses—expensive-looking Ray-Bans—and swaps them with yours.
"No, you go have fun! Me and Edward will be... fine. We'll find something to do." She draws out the last words, voice going low and suggestive.
Eddie's grin widens.
"Have fun, Hot Shot." Polly winks.
You hate that even though Polly is sleeping with Steve—the boy you have feelings for, the boy who's been inside you, the boy who broke your heart—she's still so genuinely kind. It would be easier if she were awful, if you could hate her without guilt.
You join your friends—Nancy and Robin bouncing excitedly, Steve standing off to the side with his hands in his pockets—when Jonathan runs up. He's holding a walkie-talkie, wearing a headset, looking official and slightly frazzled.
"Hey guys! Is it everyone?"
"Yeah, just us four," Nancy answers.
Jonathan nods. "Okay, great. Stick together and they'll know to keep you guys in the same scenes. Might take a few hours. Go over there for waivers and releases." He gestures toward a tent with a folding table. "Are we still good for seafood tonight?"
"Yep! Thanks, Jonathan!" Robin shrieks, grabbing Nancy's arm. "Oh my god, Nancy, we're going to be in a movie!"
Nancy laughs, letting Robin pull her toward the waiver tent.
You and Steve walk behind them, very far apart but somehow still awkwardly side by side. Neither of you speaks. Not when you're filling out the small stack of paperwork, not when you're being herded with other extras toward the filming location, not when you're standing in the hot sun waiting for instructions.
The four of you listen to Jonathan's advice and stick together. But when the assistant director starts placing people, he separates you—Nancy and Robin are instructed to go into the water, to play and splash and look like they're having fun.
You and Steve are told to sit on two beach towels under a striped umbrella.
You look at each other. Neither of you protests. There's no time—other extras are being positioned, the AD is moving quickly, and you could get dismissed for arguing. You're getting paid $200 for this. You need to cooperate.
So you listen, and Steve listens, and the two of you awkwardly sit down on the towels that have been laid out in the sand.
You pull off your shorts first, then your tank top, very aware of Steve's eyes on you. You're wearing a baby blue bikini—simple, modest by spring break standards, but it still feels vulnerable sitting here next to him.
You catch Steve's eyes peeking over the top of his sunglasses, see them land on the tattoo on your hip. "Hot Shot" in slightly wobbly script. His jaw tightens, and you see him shift on the towel, adjusting his position.
But he doesn't take off his button-up shirt. Doesn't even unbutton it further. He keeps it on, and you think, probably hiding evidence from Polly. More hickies, more marks, more proof.
"Camera rolling!" someone shouts.
The scene plays out—the main actors doing whatever they're supposed to be doing in the foreground while you and Steve sit stiffly on your towels in the background, barely moving, barely breathing.
"Cut!" The director's voice booms across the beach. "Let's go again. And background actors—you need to look natural. You're at the beach. Relax."
You see the director's eyes land on you and Steve briefly before he turns back to the main actors.
Steve sighs, leaning back and propping himself up on one elbow. His sunglasses are pushed up on top of his head now, but he's not looking at you. Staring at the sand, at the ocean, at anything else.
You awkwardly mirror his position, laying back, and your stomach twists at being this close to him for the first time since Friday night. Since he told you he was bored of you, since everything fell apart.
You swallow hard, eyes tracing his profile. He looks like he hasn't slept—dark circles under his eyes, deeper than they should be after just a few days. His facial hair is growing back in, that patchy stubble you remember from before he shaved it all off. And he's still wearing that shirt, fingers playing with the fabric of his sleeve, fidgeting.
Steve mumbles, so quiet you almost miss it, "I'm glad you're feeling better."
Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth hurt. "Yep. I think it was probably lack of sleep." The words come out bitter, sharp-edged.
Steve looks at you through the hood of his lashes, hazel eyes briefly meeting yours. "Oh."
That's all he says. Just "oh."
"Yeah," you continue, unable to stop yourself. "If it continues tonight, I'm calling in a noise complaint to the front desk."
You're dead serious. You're not above sabotaging another night of their obnoxiously loud sex if it means you might actually sleep.
Steve's brows crease together, confusion clear on his face. "Uh. Okay?" He says it like he's asking why are you telling me this, but he doesn't say the words out loud.
"Cut!" the director yells again. "Reset!"
Another hour ticks by. You and Steve continue to pretend to relax, laying fully on your backs now, staring up at the striped umbrella fabric flapping in the ocean breeze.
You turn your head and can see Robin and Nancy in the water, not entirely pretending to be playful. They're splashing each other, laughing, fingers probably getting pruned from the salt water. Their joy is real. Their love is real.
Steve and you were never real.
After another reset, you prop yourself up on one elbow to face him. Your eyes finally meet properly, and you feel that tightness in your chest again—that feeling like someone's squeezing your heart with a fist.
Steve's brows furrow, then relax. With one hand, he cautiously reaches over and takes your sunglasses off, fingers gentle as they slide the frames away from your face.
He's searching your eyes, and you don't understand him. Don't understand how he could say he was bored of you, could sleep with Polly practically in front of you, but then do this. Look at you like you still matter.
And why do you let him? You're so angry, so hurt, but your body is on fire with the memory of him, aching and burning for something you can't have anymore.
"I'm sorry," Steve murmurs, voice low enough that no one else can hear. "About not telling you Polly was coming."
It pisses you off even more. Because if he was actually sorry, he wouldn't be fucking her. Wouldn't be touching her. Wouldn't be making you listen to it through thin walls.
"It wasn't your job to tell me," you manage. "You all blindsided me. Robin, Nancy, Eddie—none of them warned me either."
"That's my fault," Steve says quickly. "I told them I would tell you. And I didn't. I didn't want you to think—" He stops himself. "I'm sorry."
"Whatever." You sit up fully, hugging your legs to your chest. "I don't really care."
"Yeah." Steve's voice goes hard, bitter. "I know you don't."
He sits up too, pulling a flask out of the pocket of his shirt. But he doesn't take a sip—he tilts his head back and chugs, throat working as he swallows. Once, twice, three times.
Part of you says it bitterly, angry at him for everything. But part of you says it because you care. You care that Polly joined the trip. You care that she knows secrets you thought were sacred. You care that you haven't seen Steve sober once on this trip—not Sunday on the plane, not Monday, not now. He's always drinking, always chasing something, and it reminds you of stories you've heard about him and Billy, about the accident, about things you don't fully understand.
"Get off my back—" Steve stops himself before he can say "Hot Shot," and the absence of the nickname feels like another loss. He says your name instead, sour and sharp. "Relax a little, will you?"
"Why is she here?" The question comes out before you can stop it, jealousy dripping from every word.
You've never wanted to be this person. Never wanted to show it, especially not when you see the hopeful glimmer that appears in Steve's eyes, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to smile.
"Cut!" the director yells. "Reset!"
Steve takes another swig from his flask, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. You can smell it now—rum, cheap and strong.
"She had nowhere else to go," Steve says, not looking at you. "She was seeing this douchebag, and he left her hanging. Decided to go backpacking through Europe instead of spending spring break with her like they'd planned."
"Right." Your words are hot on your tongue, burning. "And because you're so loyal, you felt like you needed to take care of her?"
Steve's face twists, eyes rolling. He holds out the flask to you. "Here. You need this more than I do."
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
"Because you're acting like a fucking bitch right now."
The director calls cut, and it's a good thing he does, because you were about to do serious damage to Steve's pretty face.
A crewmember approaches—young guy with a headset and a nervous expression. "Hey, so... the director wants to know if you two are a couple. If you’d be okay with you making out for the next shot. He feels like something's missing from the scene and wants to try it."
You and Steve both look up at him, dumbfounded.
You glance past the crewmember's shoulder and see Jonathan, who must know what's happening. He's holding a water bottle out to the director with an apologetic look on his face, clearly trying to do damage control.
You're ready to say no—absolutely not, no way in hell—but then Steve speaks.
"Sure."
Your head snaps toward him, but he's not looking at you. He's staring straight ahead, jaw set, expression unreadable.
The crewmember doesn't wait for your agreement. He jogs back to the director, giving a thumbs up.
"Camera rolling!"
The tension between you and Steve settles like a physical thing—thick and suffocating and electric all at once. You grab his flask without asking and take a long drink, the rum burning down your throat, because you know you're not getting out of this.
And maybe a part of you doesn't want to.
You hope Polly is watching from somewhere on the beach. Fuck, you hope Robin sees. You're tired of the secrets and lies and wishful thinking. You're tired of this not being real, tired of Steve not knowing how much he's hurt you, tired of wanting him to regret everything he said.
"Action!"
Steve's hands find your waist, pulling you closer. Your hands go to his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the muscle underneath.
Your lips connect.
It's slow at first—softer than you expected, gentler than the anger between you should allow. His mouth tastes like rum and something underneath that's purely Steve, and the familiarity of it breaks something open in your chest.
His hands slide to the small of your back, settling where they belong, where they've been a hundred times before. You sigh into his mouth without meaning to, and he responds by deepening the kiss, tongue tracing the seam of your lips.
Sand is everywhere—in your hair, on your skin, gritty between your toes. The ocean crashes in the background. People are watching, cameras are rolling, and none of it matters because Steve is kissing you like he means it.
But then you remember.
The moans through the wall. The bed hitting plaster. Steve's voice saying Polly's name, or maybe not saying anything at all, just the sounds of pleasure that you recognize, that you know intimately.
A sob catches in your throat, tears stinging behind your closed eyelids. You feel them start to fall—hot and unwelcome, tracking down your cheeks.
You push at his shoulders, breaking the kiss, and Steve pulls back immediately. His pupils are blown wide, brows furrowed in confusion and concern. His eyes are searching your face, landing on your tears, and they go even wider with something that looks like panic.
Your hand moves before you can think about it—hot against his cheek, the slap echoing across the beach. Not hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough to make a point.
Then you're standing up and running, sand kicking up behind you as you flee the set, the cameras, Steve's shocked expression, all of it.
Behind you, you hear the director shout, "Cut! That's a wrap on scene forty-two! Great work, everyone!"
Eddie and Polly are nowhere to be seen when you stumble back toward the hotel. Your vision is blurred with tears, and you're planning on hiding in your room for the rest of this godforsaken trip.
But when you walk through the lobby, you see them—Eddie and Polly sitting close together at the bar, laughing about something, shoulders touching, completely absorbed in each other.
You go straight to them, sliding onto the barstool next to Polly.
You flash your fake ID at the bartender, who barely glances at it. "Tequila sunrise, please."
You reach for your keycard to give him so he can charge it to your room, but Eddie's hand shoots across you, stopping your movement.
"Nuh-uh." He flashes you a smile, pulling out a different keycard and handing it to the bartender. "Put it on this one."
"Eds, I can't let you pay for my sorrows," you drone, but there's no energy behind the protest.
Eddie laughs, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Love you, Hot Shot, but this is the key to Steve's room. Big boy is paying for us tonight." He winks.
An hour later, you and Polly are drunkenly hanging off each other as you stumble up to your room, Eddie having guided you through the lobby and into the elevator. Another hour after that, Eddie finally leaves, but not before sharing a joint between you three.
Now you're on the bed, staring at the swirling ceiling, watching the fan blades rotate slowly. Polly is sprawled out on the floor like a starfish, arms and legs spread wide, staring up at the same ceiling from a different angle.
Neither of you is talking. You should probably start getting ready for dinner—Jonathan made reservations at some seafood place for six-thirty—but moving feels impossible.
Then Polly speaks, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. "You're why Steve ended it with everyone, aren't you?"
You swallow hard, the burnt taste of leftover weed bitter on your tongue. You could say yes. Could tell her the truth, get back at her somehow, make her feel guilty.
But why would you be mad at her? She's not the one who wronged you. Steve is. Polly is allowed to enjoy sex just like you do. She didn't know what was between you and Steve—probably still doesn't know, not really.
And even if it was the case that you were the reason Steve ended things, he's taken it all back now. He doesn't want only you like he said he did.
"Does it matter?" you ask, but not harshly. Genuinely asking.
Maybe Polly understands that you know. That you've figured out she and Steve are hooking up, breaking his once-a-month rule the same way you did.
But instead of looking guilty or defensive, Polly giggles. She raises up off the floor and puts her head on the bed next to yours, looking at you with sparkling eyes. You realize you look like teenagers at a sleepover, sharing secrets about boys.
She's biting her bottom lip, grinning wide. "Is he a good kisser?"
Your brows furrow. "You saw that? On set?"
Polly laughs, the sound bright and genuine. "Before Eddie and I left to go back to the hotel," She pauses, then adds more quietly, "But also, I saw you two in his car last week. Outside the library. I'm not a creep or anything! I was just walking by and happened to see—"
Your heart drops. Everyone saw it. The kiss on set, the desperate way you grabbed at each other, the tears.
But then your brain catches up to the rest of what Polly said, and more confusion floods in.
Polly really doesn't care that you and Steve have history, does she? Or is this some weird way of pretending not to care before she eventually sabotages you?
No. Looking at her face—open, earnest, genuinely curious—you don't think so.
No one else knows what Steve's lips taste like. No one else you can talk to about boys like this, giggle about stupid things that feel important when you're young and drunk and heartbroken.
You're tired of lying about simple things.
"Yeah," you admit, a half-hearted smile tugging at your lips. "He's a really good kisser."
"I knew it," Polly breathes, and then her demeanor changes. Goes more sheepish, shy. She's picking at the threads in the carpet, not meeting your eyes. "Do you think... do you think he's a better kisser than Munson?"
You might fucking hate Steve Harrington. But he doesn't have to know your honest answer to this question.
"Yes," you tell Polly, heat rising in your cheeks. "Steve's a better kisser."
Polly grins, then asks softly, shyly, "So you don't like him?"
"Steve?"
"No." Polly's voice drops even lower. "Eddie. You don't like Eddie, right?"
You tilt your head to look at her properly, reading the hope and fear written plainly across her face.
"No," you say firmly. "He's like my brother. I think. I don't have a brother, so I can't say for sure, but—" You laugh. "No. Definitely not."
Polly doesn't laugh with you this time. Instead, her face slowly breaks into the biggest grin you've seen from her yet, and she bites her bottom lip like she's trying to contain pure joy and failing completely.
.-.-.-.
The restaurant sits directly on the beach, built on a weathered wooden deck that extends out over the sand like it's trying to reach the water. String lights are draped overhead, crisscrossing in lazy patterns, casting warm yellow light that competes with the sunset painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and pink and deep purple. The air smells like salt and grilled fish and lime, mixed with the sweet smoke from tiki torches placed at intervals along the railing.
The waves crash rhythmic and steady beneath you, loud enough that you have to raise your voice slightly to be heard. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in circles, probably hoping someone will drop food. In the distance, you can hear music from one of the beach parties—something with a heavy bass line that thumps faintly like a second heartbeat.
You're three margaritas in, seated between Steve and Polly at a long table that's been pushed together from two smaller ones. You're not sure how Steve ended up next to you—whether it was intentional or just bad luck, some cosmic joke at your expense.
You know you're being loud. Annoying. Laughing too hard at jokes that aren't that funny, your voice carrying over the general din of conversation. Your words are starting to jumble together, consonants sliding into each other, and your face feels hot—from the alcohol, from the weed you smoked earlier, from the way Steve's thigh keeps brushing against yours under the table.
Your eyes are red and glassy, and you can feel them getting heavier with each blink.
Polly was laughing along with you at first, matching you, but as the night has worn on her concern has started to show. She keeps glancing at you with worried eyes, touching your arm gently when you sway in your seat.
Your brain starts moving in slow motion, thoughts sticky and hard to grasp. You watch as Eddie, who's sitting on Polly's other side, leans close to say something in her ear. She laughs, blushing, and touches his arm—a gesture that would be casual if not for the way her fingers linger.
You know—or at least you suspect after your conversation in the hotel room—that Polly is interested in Eddie. That she wants him the way you want Steve, with that desperate aching need that makes everything else feel small and insignificant.
But she's sleeping with Steve, isn't she? Or you thought she was. Your head is starting to hurt, a dull throb behind your eyes that pulses in time with your heartbeat.
You wonder if Eddie feels like Sammy felt. Being around the girl he likes while she doesn't know what she wants, or knows but thinks she can't have it, stuck in limbo and hoping for scraps of attention.
Or maybe Polly does know what she wants but doesn't think she can have it. Doesn't think she deserves it. Doesn't think it's allowed.
Maybe you know what you want too.
You take another long drink from your margarita, the salt on the rim stinging your lips, tequila burning down your throat.
Steve is next to you, equally drunk. Maybe more drunk. His face is flushed red, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the ocean breeze. He hasn't touched his food—grilled mahi-mahi sitting untouched on his plate, going cold. He hasn't talked either, not really. Just mumbled responses when directly addressed, otherwise silent and staring at nothing.
You can tell he's slipping into that state—the one where the world goes soft around the edges, where gravity feels different, where you're floating and sinking at the same time. His eyes are unfocused, pupils blown wide and black, and he keeps blinking slowly like he's trying to reset his vision.
Robin notices when Steve's fork slips from his hand, clattering against his plate with a loud metallic sound that makes several people at nearby tables glance over.
"Shit," Steve mutters, fumbling to pick it up, his movements uncoordinated.
Robin laughs, but there's an edge to it—worry masked as amusement. She leans across Nancy to look at him. "Steve. No more, okay? You're done."
And you don't know why it pisses you off.
Why this, of all things, is what makes it all come crashing in—the weight of the past few days, the confusion and hurt and jealousy and love and loss all hitting you at once like a riptide you didn't see coming. It pulls you under, fills your lungs, and suddenly you're drowning in feeling, gasping for air that won't come.
"Geez, Robin," you hear yourself say, voice sharp and unfiltered. "Stop acting like he's actually your boyfriend."
You stab at the food on your plate casually, like you didn't say something explosive, and bring it to your mouth. Chew. Swallow. The food tastes like nothing.
You feel Steve tense next to you—his whole body going rigid, muscles locking. Actually, you can feel everyone tense around the table. The conversation dies mid-sentence. They're all looking at you now, mouths slightly agape, frozen in various states of shock.
Robin's eyes flash with hurt first, then confusion, her face cycling through emotions too fast to track. "I know that," she says slowly, carefully. "But he's been like this every night since we got here, and I'm tired of dragging his ass to bed when he passes out in random places."
Your mind is too jumbled to connect the dots, to understand what she's actually saying. You're still seeing red, vision tinged with anger and tequila and heartbreak. "Stop treating him like a kid."
"Maybe I will when he stops acting like one," Robin snaps back, and her voice has an edge now too, sharp enough to cut.
"Are we..." Steve finally speaks, his words thick and slow. "Are we going to talk about me like I'm not here?"
Robin ignores him completely. She looks you up and down, assessing, and you can see her putting pieces together that you didn't mean to reveal. "And what's it to you? You're not his girlfriend either."
Nancy kicks Robin under the table—you hear the thump of shoe against shin, see Nancy's face twist in alarm. "Robin!" she hisses, low and urgent.
Eddie and Jonathan look at each other awkwardly, having one of those silent conversations that happens when you've witnessed something you weren't supposed to see. Jonathan shifts in his seat, looking like he wants to disappear. Eddie takes a long drink of his beer.
Polly's hand suddenly grabs yours under the table, squeezing tight in what you think is meant to be comforting. But your mind is too slow and too single-minded to figure out who you want to be pissed off at.
Maybe everyone. Yes. Everyone.
"Robin," you say, pulling your hand away from Polly's. "I'm not really in the mood, okay? So let's drop it."
You reach for your margarita glass, fingers closing around the stem, but someone's larger hand wraps around your wrist. You look up and catch Steve's hazel eyes—clouded with alcohol but clearer than they've been in days, focused entirely on you. He's subtly shaking his head, a small movement that says please don't, please stop, please.
"You know what..." You snap your wrist away from his grip, and your words come out slow and drawling, heavy with alcohol and something darker. "You guys are all fucking bullshit, you know that?"
The word—bullshit—gives Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve a visceral reaction. You see them all flinch like you've physically struck them.
You point at Robin, your finger wavering slightly. "You don't even see that your own fucking girlfriend is miserable." Your head lolls to the side, mouth hanging open slightly, wet from the alcohol. "Actually... we're all miserable because our lives have to go according to the Steve and Robin show."
You can see Nancy out of the corner of your eye, her face crumpling slightly, tears threatening.
"I might like attention, Robin," you continue, and your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. "But at least I'm not selfish."
Robin scowls, and when she speaks her voice is tight with barely controlled anger. "If I was selfish, I would be pissed off that you kissed Steve today. Even though my parents could see that movie, and if they see him kissing some random girl—"
"I'm not some random girl, Robin," you snap, leaning forward.
"Oh, you know what I mean." Robin waves her hand dismissively. "If they saw him kissing someone that isn't me, they're going to lose their shit. But no, I haven't brought it up because Jonathan reminded me it's a movie and the scene might get scrapped anyway. And I'm the selfish one?" She pauses, and you can see her winding up for the kill shot. "What about Sammy? He asks you to be your boyfriend, and the moment you're away from him, you're playing tonsil hockey with someone else."
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Polly looks at you with wide eyes. You look away, unable to meet her gaze. You glance at Eddie, who has his elbows on the table, both hands covering his mouth, impossible to tell what expression he's making behind them. Jonathan is leaned all the way back in his chair, hands rubbing his face like he can erase this entire conversation through sheer force of will.
But Nancy gives you a look—her eyes wide, eyebrows lifting, something in her expression that looks almost like encouragement. Like she's saying do it, tell the truth, blow it all up. Or maybe you're imagining it because you're too drunk to read people properly anymore.
You look up at Steve. His eyes are glassing over with tears, but his expression stays carefully neutral, locked down and giving nothing away.
"We were doing the job, Robin," Steve says, and his voice is cold, flat, empty of emotion. "It didn't even mean anything."
Your chair scrapes against the wooden deck floor—loud, violent, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of waves and music and conversation. Your knees are wobbly from the alcohol, and you have to brace yourself on the table for a second before you can stand fully.
You're looking directly at Steve now. He's staring down at his plate, jaw clenched, like he can feel your eyes boring into his skull but refuses to meet them.
"Bullshit," you say again, and the word comes out quiet this time but no less devastating.
Then you turn and walk out of the restaurant, leaving your half-finished margarita and untouched food and the stunned silence in your wake.e
You walk the beach for what feels like hours but is probably only thirty or forty minutes. The sky has gone fully dark now, stars appearing overhead in clusters and constellations you don't know the names of. The moon is nearly full, hanging fat and bright, painting a silver path across the water.
Your feet sink into the sand with each step, making walking harder than it should be. You kick off your sandals at some point and carry them, letting the cool sand squeeze between your toes.
You pass parties—bonfires surrounded by college students, music blaring from boom boxes, the smell of weed and cheap beer thick in the air. Couples walk past you, arms around each other, whispering and laughing, and each one feels like a knife twisting in your chest.
Finally, you find an empty spot—a stretch of beach far enough from the parties that the music is just a distant thump, close enough to the water that the waves are loud, rhythmic, hypnotic.
Your stomach sinks as you stand there, toes in the wet sand where the waves reach, and tears fill your eyes. You're a little less drunk now—the walk and the ocean air have burned off some of the tequila fog—but your head is still heavy, pounding in time with your heart.
You feel like you're breaking apart. Like all the pieces you've been holding together through sheer force of will are finally coming loose, scattering, and you don't know how to gather them back up.
Behind you, a voice says, "We've been looking everywhere for you."
You jump, spinning around, and see Steve standing a few feet away.
His shirt is flapping in the breeze, the striped fabric snapping like a flag. His hair is mussed—more than usual, like he's been running his fingers through it compulsively. He's breathing hard like he's been running, searching, frantic.
You roll your eyes, anger blazing hot and immediate again. You turn back to look at the ocean, crossing your arms over your chest.
Steve's hand touches your shoulder—gentle, tentative, warm even through your shirt. "Come on," he says your name softly, like you're something precious and breakable. "Please. Let's go back to the hotel."
You jerk away from him, spinning around, your hair whipping across your face in the wind. Your eyes are already brimming with tears that threaten to spill over. "Go away, Steve. Like you even care."
"But I do care," Steve's voice cracks, breaking on the words. "I always care about you. I've always—"
"Why?" Your voice raises, carried away on the wind. "So I can go back and listen to you and Polly again? Is that what you want?"
"W-what?" Confusion crosses his face, brows furrowing. "What are you—"
"Every night!" The words tear out of you, raw and painful. "Every night I've had to hear you two together through the wall, and I can't do it anymore. I can't—"
"No." Steve adjusts his feet, tilting his face to look at you fully, eyes widening. He's shaking his head frantically. "No, no, you have it wrong. I—"
"Oh, please, Steve. Give me a break. I don't have time for this." You step back, but he grabs your wrist, holding you in place.
"Polly came on this trip for Eddie," Steve says, words tumbling out fast and desperate. "You have to believe me. When I ended things with her, I told her she should give Eddie a chance. But she said she was talking to someone already, and then Friday after the party, they—" He takes a breath, steadying himself. "Please," he says your name like a prayer. "You have to believe me. It wasn't me. It was never me and her."
Your lips quiver as you think, as the dots finally start connecting through the haze. Eddie's hickies covering his entire stomach. The constant flirting between him and Polly. The way you saw her hand squeeze his knee at dinner. Them being okay alone together for hours while you all went to the movie set. Eddie having Steve's keycard, charging drinks to his room.
And the voice—you thought it was Steve's voice humming in the shower, but earlier when Eddie was smoking the joint with you and Polly, he was humming too. That same tuneless, happy sound. The same toothy grin.
"I believe you," you say quietly, and you do. But your voice hardens. "But it doesn't make a difference. It doesn't change anything. Leave me alone."
You shake your head, pulling your wrist from his grip. You start walking away from him, not toward the hotel but further down the beach, into the darkness.
You hear him swallow hard, hear him curse under his breath. Then your name again, gentle and broken. "Is it true?"
You stop. Turn around. "Is what true?"
"Did Sammy really ask you to be your boyfriend?" Steve's expression is shattered, pieces of it scattered across his face—hope and fear and desperate need all warring for dominance. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
"Why do you want to know?" you challenge, even though you already know the answer.
And then he breaks. His voice is gone, reduced to barely a whisper. "You know why, Hot Shot."
The nickname feels like a wave crashing over you—sharp and painful and overwhelming. You're shaking your head again, looking away because you can't bear to see his face. Your lips purse together, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat.
"No, Steve. No, I don't." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "How could I when you said those things to me?"
"I know." He's quick, frantic, stepping toward you. "Please, I know. I messed up." Then quieter, voice cracking completely. "I messed up so bad."
He steps forward again, closer now, and his face catches the moonlight. You can see tears on his cheeks, silvered tracks running down to his jaw.
"Please don't," Steve begs, and he sounds wrecked, destroyed. "Don't do it. Don't be his girlfriend. Please say no when you go back. Please."
Your breath hitches. You're crying harder now, chest heaving with sobs you can't contain anymore. "And why not? Sammy's nice. He's good. He's—"
"But I can be good too." Steve's voice is desperate, pleading. "I've been trying. I've been trying to change, to be better. I have changed." He says the last part with slightly more confidence, but it's still broken at the edges, like he's not entirely sure he believes it himself.
"Okay? And what?" You take a step back, needing distance, needing space to breathe. "Are you trying to say I should be with you? Join you and Robin in your miserable lie?" Another step back. "Because I would never be happy. You love Robin. And that's not going to change. You're always going to pick her."
"But I don't love her." The words come out soft, broken, honest. He lifts his hand like he wants to touch your face, but instead it comes to his own chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his heart. "Not like—not in the way I love you."
Your eyes widen. You feel yourself step forward involuntarily, pulled toward him like gravity, but then you shake your head and force yourself to step backward instead.
"I thought maybe you didn't feel what I was feeling," Steve continues, looking out at the ocean now. His profile in the moonlight is beautiful and heartbreaking—the slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way tears catch the light as they roll down his cheeks. He closes his eyes, swallows hard, his throat working. "That you didn't want more. But then today, when we kissed—"
He looks back at you, and the way he's looking at you makes your heart stop. Like he's seeing you again for the first time. Like he's doing what he says he feels—loving you, wanting you, needing you more than air.
And that's what makes it hurt the worst.
"I didn't mean it," Steve says your name like it's sacred. "When I told you I was bored of you, I didn't mean any of it. It's the opposite. I could never be bored of you." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I think I became alive when I met you. That there was this missing piece of me I didn't know was missing until I realized it was you."
Your face softens despite yourself, tears flowing freely now. "What about Robin?"
Steve ducks his head, looking at his feet, and his whole body radiates pain—shoulders curving in, back bowing like he's trying to make himself smaller.
You take a moment to watch him. To really see him—Steve Harrington, golden boy, heartbreaker, your best friend's fake boyfriend, the boy who showed you the stars. You sniffle, wiping at your face with the back of your hand.
"Steve," you say carefully. "I can't deny that I've been feeling things for you. And I do want more. I—"
He looks up at you immediately, hopeful, searching for confirmation, trying to grasp onto the possibility. He steps forward, reaching for you.
But you take a step back, hands coming up between you like a barrier. You swallow hard, tilt your head, bite your lip. Let out a shaky breath that tastes like salt and tears and regret.
"But I don't love you," you force yourself to say. "Not like that."
The lie tastes like poison on your tongue.
There's that weird feeling in your chest again—guilt, heavy and suffocating, mixed with something that might be self-preservation or might be cowardice.
Steve's mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. He's crying openly now, face crumbling, and he pinches the corners of his eyes like it will stop the tears, like this moment will end if he can reset his vision.
"I should've said something at dinner," he manages to get out through the sobs. "I should've—" His shoulders shake, his whole body trembling. He looks away, unable to meet your eyes anymore.
You steady yourself, planting your feet in the sand, forcing yourself to stay upright when everything in you wants to collapse. You look at him one last time—really look, memorizing him like this. Broken and beautiful and more honest than he's ever been.
"Goodnight, Steve."
And you turn and walk away.
You can't stay. Don't trust yourself to stay. Because you want to ask him to run away with you, to let the tides carry you both far from Robin and Nancy and expectations and futures that have already been decided. You want to give yourself a chance to see if there's a possibility of knowing what loving Steve Harrington could feel like.
But you can't.
So you walk away from the boy you might love, leaving him crying on an empty beach in Miami, and you tell yourself it's the right thing to do.
You tell yourself the pain in your chest will fade eventually.
You tell yourself you made the right choice.
You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk back to the hotel alone, and you don't believe any of them.
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.
You ran out on Steve almost three years ago in the middle of a sweet fling, but now you’re back in Hawkins, and there’s a little girl on your hip that looks just like him. fem, 14k
afab reader, second-chance romance, girl!dad steve, slow burn idiots, no upside down au
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You realise how fucked you are pretty quickly.
It’s something in the way the kid is looking at you. He’s staring at you, not unfriendly but piercing, and his gaze keeps flicking to Leah like he’s trying to make sense of her, and his mouth is stuck obnoxiously with his tongue flat and pulled into that cruel letter ‘S’.
You freeze up like you’ve been caught, which doesn’t help.
And the kid spins in his Nike’s and races for the entrance, ditching a basket full of veggies and a pack of gum in the middle of the aisle.
“Okay, Lee,” you say, sweating despite the November chill. “Let’s get going.”
Leah grins in her seat in the shopping cart. “Meemaw’s?” she asks.
“Yeah. Let’s go make sure your meemaw had her dinner.”
Your ears ring all the way home. They don’t stop ringing. You spend the night waiting for a phone call you don’t get, awkward and clammy. There’s a certain way that rich families work in Indiana. You can see the coming hush money or the threat to leave town almost as clearly as you could see the loveless marriage years ago. You and Leah need to get out of dodge before you’re stuck having conversations you never wanted to have.
I mean, who could’ve predicted that? One of Steve’s teenagers recognises you in the grocery store three years after your fling, how’d they even remember?
The phone doesn’t ring, that night.
Or the next.
Maybe Steve didn’t believe the kid. Maybe the kid had an emergency completely unrelated to Leah. Maybe Steve believed it and didn’t care. You deem yourselves safe from harm in a venture to the grocery store when your mom asks for chicken noodle soup.
It’s there you recognise your mistake. Steve Harrington’s shiny BMW sits parked in the bay by the sign for the laundromat and the man himself sits inside with a paperback bent open on his thigh. He’s glaring at it like it killed his whole family.
You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”
You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face.
—
So.
How did you end up where you are?
You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened.
It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler.
Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there.
The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him.
Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.”
You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.
In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen.
It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been.
Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby.
She grumbles on your hip.
Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed.
He stands there in quiet.
Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person.
“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air.
His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born.
“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat.
You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him.
“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous.
He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest.
“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”
To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.
“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.
You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you.
Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly.
He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation.
“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask.
Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”
You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce.
“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say.
“Yeah.”
You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace.
“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath.
“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car.
You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.
“Why?” she murmurs.
“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick.
“Okay.”
You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think.
Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings.
You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked?
Where’s your backbone?
Where’s your common sense?
With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright.
You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life.
“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change.
“Mommy?”
“Mm?” you ask.
Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks.
“Two minutes.”
“Off.”
“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”
She whines long and loud.
“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”
Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?”
“Yes!”
You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood.
She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.
“Better,” she echoes.
Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Who?” she asks.
Uhhhh.
“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“Yeah?”
Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire.
“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”
“Can we talk, first?”
You don’t blame him for asking.
“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?”
“I’m not going to yell.”
“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.”
“Are you angry?” he asks.
“No.”
“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”
You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows.
The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her.
She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV.
Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now.
“How old is she?” he asks finally.
“She’s turning two soon.”
Steve seems to be holding his tongue.
“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”
“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”
You flinch. “What?”
“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”
“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”
“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”
This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?”
“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”
“She’s my baby.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”
“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean.
You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.”
“I can be best for you both.”
You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means.
“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says.
“If?”
He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.”
“She’s looked after.”
“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”
“You might not actually want her, Steve.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”
You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur.
“I needed to see her for myself.”
“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”
“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”
“Keep us?” you ask indignantly.
“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”
He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips.
“Yeah,” you say quietly.
“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”
You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe—
“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.
“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”
“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”
Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to.
A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee.
After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours.
“She’s beautiful,” he says.
“Looks like her mom,” you mumble.
“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”
You huff a weak laugh.
“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks.
“You want to be her dad?”
For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.”
“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”
He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault.
You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time.
In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair.
“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table.
Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in.
You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”
“Y’okay.”
“This is daddy.”
You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return.
“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.”
“Huh?”
You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”
“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high.
“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely.
“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?”
“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve.
“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.
“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength.
“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”
Leah gives him a good shake.
—
“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”
Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle.
“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound.
“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”
Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks.
Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”
“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.”
He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby.
He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers.
Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby.
He pauses on the spot.
Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult.
He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend.
Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence.
“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one.
Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.
“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”
“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but.
“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”
“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”
He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”
“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”
Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.”
Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby.
“She’s mine,” he says.
“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”
He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”
“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”
“I’m still gonna go!”
“With what money?”
Steve will save again. It’s community college.
Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”
“I’ll going, Rob.”
“Fine. I believe you.”
“Can you help?”
She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly.
Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac.
He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway.
You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all.
“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon.
“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”
“Is it cool that I’m early?”
You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”
“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”
“Right. Okay.”
You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself.
“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”
“You want me to go grab her?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”
“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”
You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”
“I wanted to.”
“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”
He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”
“I…”
“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”
“No.”
“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”
“I don’t think she knew.”
Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years.
Steve Harrington does not love by halves.
“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks.
“We are leaving.”
“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”
“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”
His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”
“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”
“Exactly.”
You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again.
From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!”
He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck.
“Hi, Leah,” he says softly.
Leah hums her content.
“Good nap?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”
She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word.
She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you.
“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”
Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.”
“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly.
Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.
“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks.
You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum.
“Yeah, of course she can.”
“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”
“Can have?” she asks.
“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking your face to make sure he’s not being weird.
Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”
Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”
Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee.
“Barbie!” she cries.
“With a puppy!”
“Oh gosh.”
Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”
Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open.
“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection.
“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.”
You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.”
“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.”
“It’s nice of you.”
He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home.
—
“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.”
Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building.
“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?”
“Think so. Why?”
“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”
The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video.
It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay.
The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”
“Hi, Robin.”
“Hi,” she says.
The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap.
“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.”
“Hi, bubby,” Leah says.
Robin snorts.
“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?”
Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”
Leah looks up at her with huge eyes.
“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?”
“The duckies,” Leah says factually.
“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.”
You don’t question for a second that she means it.
You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.”
“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin.
“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.”
“Oh.”
“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”
“You’re not busy?” you ask.
“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.”
You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.
You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.
“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”
“The music, bubby,” you say.
Leah gives a neck-breaking nod.
“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?”
“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say.
“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”
Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles.
“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”
Her hitting doesn’t slow.
“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.”
Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines.
“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”
The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!”
Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?”
“Hi,” Leah says.
“Hi.”
“Hug me now?”
Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”
She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life.
“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”
“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose.
“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.
Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back.
Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware.
Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again.
You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry.
“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No, yeah.”
“You sure?”
He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.”
It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her.
You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid.
His eyes widen at the sight of you.
“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”
“Uh– did I?”
“I know it was you.”
Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”
“I saw you.”
“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”
You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”
“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”
“Well, thanks for trying.”
Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”
“We’re working things out.”
Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”
Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”
Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”
“Hi!” Leah says.
“What’s up?” Steve asks.
“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.”
“Where to?”
“Max’s.”
“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“I’m not!”
“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?”
“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”
Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”
“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.
“For once.”
“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”
Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks.
His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room.
And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people.
Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”
“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.”
“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”
Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”
“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name.
“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say.
Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”
“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil.
Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?”
Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves.
“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats.
Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard.
He is startlingly capable.
You are startlingly hot.
You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts.
—
Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks.
This is my baby, Leah.
The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home.
Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!”
She sobs.
You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”
She sobs louder.
Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.
“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.”
Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage.
“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”
“Not going,” Leah says.
“Just for now!”
“No!”
You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”
“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?”
You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.”
Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”
Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob.
“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”
You falter.
The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”
“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”
“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“You got a car seat?”
“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.”
Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek.
“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?”
Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”
“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave.
You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask.
“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?”
“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”
“Are you okay with me taking her?”
You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you?
Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me.
He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride.
Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have.
But it’s not everything he wants.
“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?”
“Okie dokie.”
Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah.
“See you later, mommy,” Leah says.
You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”
He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back.
Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.
It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin.
“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.
“Right, right!”
He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out.
Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.”
“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles.
“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”
“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”
“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.”
“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her.
“Wonky?” she asks.
“Does daddy look wonky?”
“Mm,” she says.
“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?”
She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.”
He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears.
“Mom!” Robin says.
“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.”
He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.
It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.
Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear.
Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth.
“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully.
“Right? She has my eyes.”
“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly.
“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says.
Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says.
Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?”
“Yessss.”
“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?”
“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”
“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says.
Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand.
Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.”
“Kill?”
“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.”
“Y’okay.”
“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”
She giggles worse.
He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out.
Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?”
He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says.
“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”
He urges you to take Leah.
The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself.
“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly.
“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”
Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white.
—
Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless.
“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”
You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean.
“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear.
“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask.
“Sleeping.”
“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”
Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”
“Yeah, do you want one?”
Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?”
He groans. “Just a migraine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Feels like one.”
“You get them a lot?”
“More since you left.”
You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”
“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”
“Not my first one.”
You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask.
“Had three.”
“You never told me.”
“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”
You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”
Steve covers his mouth with a big hand.
You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.”
He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.”
“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.”
“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”
“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”
“Steve.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–”
“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.”
You pull his hand off your face. Not without care.
“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.
“I don’t need one.”
“How do you know?” you whisper.
He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”
You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came.
You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife.
“Can I get you anything?”
He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”
“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”
His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”
“When?”
“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet.
“The other times?”
“They can last for days.”
You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.
“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”
“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”
He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”
“I didn’t mean to–”
“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”
“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says.
“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.”
You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck.
“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”
“We don’t have to do this again–”
“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.”
“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.”
“I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.”
“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”
You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.”
“It wouldn’t have been like that.”
“I realise that now.”
His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth.
“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples.
“You don’t have to–”
“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”
You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either.
“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.”
His throat bobs.
“S’it still hurting?” you murmur.
“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.”
“I can’t do this with you.”
He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.”
You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue.
But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.
A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his.
“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.”
He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”
—
The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze.
“What side do you sleep on?”
Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering.
“Left.”
“Left side’s all yours.”
He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers.
“Make room for me?” he asks Leah.
She grins around her bottle.
You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful.
You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space.
Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you.
“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly.
“You okay, daddy?” she asks.
“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”
“Sleep?” she asks.
“With you, if that’s cool?”
“Cool,” she says decidedly.
When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest.
“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior.
Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap.
Refusing to think on it is the best way forward.
“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath.
Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked.
“Steve.”
He blinks to attention. “Huh?”
“Pull the blanket up over yourself.”
He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted.
Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough.
“Can feel you staring,” he whispers.
Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”
“Staring at me.”
“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.”
“Still ‘live.”
You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.”
He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says.
“Missed you, too.”
You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain.
“You did?” he asks.
“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling.
He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”
“I wasn't.”
“Would’ve looked after you, though.”
“Steve…”
“I would’ve.”
“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”
He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.
“Do you still want that?” he asks.
You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”
He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him.
“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down.
You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath.
“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly.
He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you.
You press your forehead to his chin.
“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss.
Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip.
“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words.
—
In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows.
“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually.
“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”
“Yeah.”
“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”
“Am’ my toes,” she says.
“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”
You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep.
This is not going to go how you’d first thought.
—
thank you for reading!! so excited I love steve and I know he could be bitchier and angrier here but I’ve decided to make him whipped instead cos he’s cute when he’s in love and if it’s not implied enough he’s still whipped for the reader lol. hope you enjoyed it thank you very much for reading and taking the time
pairing: brother's best friend!bucky barnes x f!reader, AU setting
summary: It doesn't matter that you're obsessed with your brother's best friend - the one you have had a very complicated relationship with since childhood. It doesn't matter that you fantasise about him, nor does it matter that you keep a diary of all your dirty thoughts because he will never, ever know.
warnings: 18+ mdni!!, smut with minor plot, childhood frenemies to lovers, fingering, unprotected p in v, dumbification, creampie, dacryphilia, mean bucky, size kink, brat taming, bigdick!bucky, tummy bulge, general filth and debauchery, jealousy, use of petnames (sweetheart, baby, angel etc.), reader described having hair bucky can twirl and as being smaller than bucky, no use of y/n, lots of cursing, bucky convinces reader to let him hit it raw (idk if that's a warning lol), moodboard pics do not depict reader
word count: 11.1k
a/n: idk if this is deranged in a hot way or just deranged but i hope you enjoy lmao. bucky is very mean in this and invades reader's privacy so stay away if that's not your thing!!
The abrasive, thrumming buzz of the lawnmower lets you know he’s back. You stop tapping on your phone, pausing for just a moment while you try to resist the urge. You fail. You pull up to your knees and peer out the window beside your bed.
Bucky is in your back garden, driving forward the shabby rusted lawnmower that lives in your shed. The one that has likely never been used by anyone but him. He’s not shirtless like he sometimes is - he’s in a black t-shirt - but you swear you can make out the muscles of his strong back even from this distance. The way they clench and tense with mild exertion. A heat settles low and deep in your stomach.
He’s waving before you realise you’ve been caught. You roll your eyes - exaggerate it a bit so you know he can see - and slump down on your bed again when he gives you a slanted smile.
The air around you feels damp and raw now in a way that has very little to do with the early summer heat. You force yourself onto your stomach and stuff your face into your pillow.
You can’t keep doing this to yourself.
Or, rather, he can’t keep doing this to you. However excruciating his presence is when your family is around, it’s so much worse when they’re not.
Most of the time you want to throttle him. It had been that way since you were kids. You can still feel the grovelling embarrassment of being somewhere close to ten years old and begging him and your brother to let you tag along with them to do something stupid like peeking through the dirt-grimed windows of a neighbour’s house or sneaking into a derelict, moss-eaten hotel until someone called the cops. In defiance of all stereotypes, your brother never had a problem with it. He has doted on you since you were in the cradle.
Bucky, though. He was never receptive to it. He would let you make your case, watching you humble yourself with calculating, amused eyes that looked slightly wrong on a boy of only twelve years. You can still remember how he would make a big show of deliberating, before simply handing out a ‘no’, and moving away. Your brother would shoot you a remorseful grin but always followed after him without hesitation.
On the rare occasions he did let you trail after them, he made you regret it. He would poke and prod at you, pulling lightly at your hair or making fun of you until big, fat, brutally-resisted tears would well up in your eyes. Oh, you remember how much he used to enjoy that - the mean smile he wore while he called you a crybaby. It always ended with your brother sternly telling him to lay off, before walking you home.
Your parents refused to hear a bad word about him. They still won’t.
You’re not really sure what is up with Bucky’s family and his home life. You just know that he had always spent more time at your house than his own. Once summer rolled around, it was like he forgot he even had a house of his own to begin with.
Your parents treat him less like a guest and more like a favourite son. The guest bedroom became Bucky’s room when you were eleven. When he tinkers around and puts together your mom’s overly-complicated coffee machine or fixes the hot water or - the very worst - mows the lawn, your parents treat him like a king. They rave in public and private about how they don’t know what they would do without him. When you had tried to tattle as a kid, the most you would get was a patient rub on the back.
It was a push and pull between the two of you. Always had been. Bucky was either acting bothered at your presence, poking and prodding at you cruelly - or irritating you with his own presence and annoying taunts.
And all of that was annoying. Is annoying. But nothing compares to that feeling. The one you’re experiencing right now.
It started when you were pushing sixteen. You had stopped asking to tag along a few years ago but that summer was different. Bucky was told by your brother, firmly and categorically, that you would be hanging out with them whether he liked it or not. He stared at you with odd fixity but made no protests and suddenly you were part of the friend group. Your brother had a crush on your best friend Wanda, who was also hanging around a lot that summer. That played into it. But you took it as a win regardless.
You spent most of your time that summer hanging out in a clearing in the woods by your house. There was nothing else to do and even if there was, you had no money to do it. Most of the details of the day itself now evade you - they’re blurry around the edges. There was a new addition to the group whose name you cannot now remember. A persistent, uncomfortable pass made for you. Your brother distracted by Wanda. A few coarse comments made, before the new guy began to touch.
What you do remember - what you well and truly cannot forget - is what happened after that touch. The way Bucky propelled up from where he sat on tree branches and lichen. How he grabbed the collar of What’s-his-name and flung him to the ground with one heavy, solid punch. The silence afterwards. The crawling shameful pang of excitement in your gut.
You never looked at him the same.
It’s not for lack of trying.
God - you try. You try so hard. You have tried for so many years. But every fling you had in college ended up wearing his face when you closed your eyes.
Thoughts of him run through your mind while you fill your pillow up with gasps. You’re sure that if you wrung out the fabric or pressed down hard, those sighs would have to spill back out, surround the room with breathless cries of his name.
But you have graduated now. You’re back home until you find a full-time job and this childhood crush will no longer do. It’s remarkably inconvenient, the way your knees go weak and wobbly when he walks in the room, even while you paint a snarl on. The way a hot, sticky warmth begins to flood the space between your thighs when you watch him work like he is today.
And you’ve tried everything there is to try. You’ve tried dating other people - it usually ends sour. You made a trip or two to the counsellor on campus. You had even left stop-sign stickers around your dorm room as a reminder to snap out of it when you are thinking about him.
At Wanda’s recommendation, you have started a diary. Every time you think about him or let yourself get stupidly, fantastically turned on by him, you create a new entry. Not all of the entries are about him - some are flimsy little notes to distract yourself - but they all lead back to him one way or another. Once the book is full, you will burn it. You started it just before you left campus three weeks ago and the book is almost half-way full.
You know it’s a stupid idea. It won’t work, which is why you have already sought out a witch on Etsy for when this fails.
The deep, low tingle at the bottom of your stomach hasn’t ceased, because even while deep in thought, the image of Bucky’s strong back and his bold, lopsided smile are still running behind your eyes. You become suddenly aware that you’re lightly sweating. Your underwear is warm and damp.
You glance over at your diary on your bedside table - most recent entry late last night, courtesy of your traitorous imagination. You sigh and pick it up.
Bucky sees you in the window to your bedroom. You’re just a little floating head above the window sill. He can’t make out an expression very clearly. He waves and forces back a laugh when he sees your bratty eye-roll, the way you flop away dramatically.
You’re back home. For the summer, at least. Until all those fancy graduate jobs in New York or Boston or Philly start opening up.
He doesn’t need to be here, if he’s being honest. Has no reason to be. The lawn has no need for mowing and there’s not a damned thing left in the house to be fixed. His own apartment isn’t exactly a paradise, but it’s not bad either.
You won’t be here forever, though. He’ll take what he can get in the meantime.
He likes how it feels to annoy you without a buffer. With no parents to be on his best behaviour in front of, no brother to shoot him warning glances when he pokes too hard.
He regresses slightly every time he floats back into your orbit. Falls out of adulthood and back into the familiar rhythm. The push and pull.
His childhood crush has matured into something deeper, but his actions haven’t. He still tugs your pigtails in a metaphorical sense. It’s much too late to get you to see him as anything but an annoying, big brother-type figure now, but he can deal with that. He likes watching you get riled up, anyway.
You regress around him too. He takes great satisfaction in that. You walk into the house after months of being away, haughty and put-together, like you had finally done all your growing up in college. A few grating words from him can make you twitch a little bit while you fight the urge to snap, irritation spilling through the cracks. And you eventually do crack. All the way. Every single time.
He mows until the short tufts of grass turn to clippings. He spares no blade, weed or flower and thinks about you, lying up on your bed. Probably doing something dumb. Probably scrolling on your phone or flipping through some magazine. He remembers when you were thirteen and he found that stash of teen-pop magazines in your room, the pages with boyband members dog-eared, hearts circled around their pictures. He smiles, thinking about the way you screamed when you caught him red-handed. How you told him to “stop being such a pain in my ass”, pushing him out your bedroom door and slamming it shut behind him while he laughed. You were sulky at dinner afterwards.
He rolls the mower back into the shed, ties the padlock and tugs at it twice before walking into the house through the sliding glass doors.
He’s sweating lightly. He takes a quick swallow of water from the glass on the counter - whether it’s yours or his, he can’t remember - and licks a few beads of moisture from his upper lip. He feels good.
He flops down on the couch, puts on some show indiscriminately and wonders what you’re doing right now. He wonders if you’re on the phone with your college friends. Or with that Matt guy he had heard about through the grapevine. He wonders if you’re wearing the same tight shorts you had on yesterday.
He considers going upstairs to annoy you but thinks better of it. He will wait a while to see if you come downstairs on your own.
He imagines Matt as some football player. He can’t picture a face - just some obscure blur - but he’s probably handsome. Definitely blonde. Social butterfly. Good grades. He can’t see you going for someone without good grades.
Bucky’s grades were never great, but you were such a little swot. He used to sit alongside you while you did your homework. When you would tell him to get lost, he would shoot back that he had homework to do too. It’s probably the only reason he graduated high school.
Matt is probably biding his time right now until you both have steady jobs so he can propose. He’s probably boring as shit. Fucks you missionary for thirty seconds before rolling over onto his back. He probably asks you whether you came afterwards, and you probably talk to your stupid college friends about how much he cares and how respected you feel.
But that’s a dangerous avenue to walk down. Because now he’s thinking about how you would look afterwards, naked and unsatisfied. Would you ever think about shooting him a text when Matt drifts off to sleep after getting his rocks off? See if he could sort you out any better than your boring fuck of a boyfriend?
Obviously not. But it’s a nice thought.
You probably don’t do any of the things that Bucky would want to do with you - and definitely not with Missionary Matt. You’re too fucking prissy. No way in hell are you letting anyone take you the way Bucky wants to.
He doesn’t even understand why his brain has chosen you of all people to be the star of every daydream he has had since he was old enough to know what a crush was. You’re arrogant and spoiled and you think that just because you attract men like flies to shit that you can bat your eyes and get whatever you want. (You absolutely can. Bucky has tried to be the one exception to that rule, but he’s also just a man.)
Unfortunately, he knows all of this and still desires you desperately. And the want that pours out of him in waves isn’t strictly sexual - in fact, it’s mostly something else - but he’s not sure how to define it. He likes you, except ’like’ doesn’t seem strong enough to cover all he feels. So it’s easier to focus on the sex. Maybe that way he can convince himself it’s all he wants.
He has run out of patience. You still haven’t come downstairs and he can only deny himself for so long.
He takes the stairs two-at-a-time, but paces himself so you don’t hear his footsteps and think he’s eager. Your bedroom is at the very end of the hall. When he approaches your white door - still adorned with stickers and tags from every phase you ever went through - he thinks about knocking. He doesn’t.
He can’t remember the last time that he was in your room, but it is exactly as it always was. Pink wallpaper. A white desk in the corner armed with perfectly positioned sticky notes and neat, alphabetised folders. Stuffed animals perched in a line atop your bed like marching soldiers. Posters on the walls from films you thought made you seem edgy when you were fifteen, in direct opposition to the frilly pink decor of the room.
The only thing missing is you, but he can hear the shower going in your ensuite.
He goes to sit down on your bed and focuses deeply on not getting a hard-on while he watches the bathroom door. But he lands on something solid.
Reaching underneath his thigh, he picks up a little pink notebook, turns it over in his hands. More little stickers plastered to the front, hearts scribbled onto it with a pink gel pen. He knows instantaneously that he has gold dust in his goddamn hands. He expects to feel at least a little guilt or shame for what he is about to do and is mildly surprised to find he doesn’t.
This is your diary.
The first entry is from three weeks ago.
22 May
I just broke up with Matt. It was awful. He kept asking me why. I had to say that I didn’t want to live in Boston like him. He said he would find a different internship and we could go to New York instead, and then I really had no idea what to say. It’s not like I could tell him the real reason. He cried. I’m just glad it’s over.
I think I should feel at least a little bit sad about it, but I don’t. I’m just relieved and feeling awkward. I don’t think I could let him fuck me one more time without going out of my mind. This really is a curse. I hope he moves on quickly. I think Suzy is into him.
Bucky can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out across his face. Looks like Missionary Matt was too boring, even for prim little you. No engagement on the horizon after all. He shifts around slightly on the bed in the guest bedroom and tries not think about what might have been so lacking in the bedroom with Matt for you.
23 May
My family are ditching me. They’re all heading off to the south of France for three weeks, but I won’t be home from college early enough. They fucking suck. I wonder if Bucky will still be hanging around. Three weeks of torture incoming.
He laughs, loud and long, at that. What a spoiled little brat. Still, it’s kind of cute.
Bucky was asked to join your family on their holiday and declined. Partially because he still, after all this time, doesn’t quite believe them when they say it’s not a bother. But it was mostly because of a selfish hankering to be able to hang out with you alone. To not have to check himself when his gaze lingers a little too long or when he presses you a bit too hard to be able to convincingly feign disinterest. He reads on.
23 May
Now that I have thought about it, I can’t stop. Bucky is going to be hanging around the house. He always hangs around the house, even when nobody else is there. Dad said he’s going to help him with building a new shed outside. I wonder if he will be doing that while they’re gone. I remember that one time he helped Dad with that old vintage car he bought on a whim. I could see him from my window. He was shirtless and working under the car from a skateboard like something out of a goddamn porno. I think I’ll die if I have to see him do something like that again.
Bucky’s grin is frozen on his face, skin heating up around his bones. The shed would be a good excuse to stick around now that he’s done everything else - he had forgotten about that.
He wasn’t aware you had been watching him fix up that car from your window. That must have been, what - two? three? - years ago. Old Pontiac runs like new now. His eyes catch on the word ‘porno’, scribbled in your pink, curly writing. He thinks about you watching him from above.
24 May
I might be going insane. I shouldn’t have let myself think of the visual of Bucky under that stupid car last night. I think it’s a good thing I dumped Matt. I would have let him fuck me and felt so guilty afterwards for imagining someone else. I handled it myself but I woke up feeling just as riled up. My fingers aren’t big enough. Maybe I should buy a dildo or something. Bucky’s fingers are huge. One time he put his hand over my mouth because he said I was whining too much and it covered more than half of my face.
The blood rushes to his cock so fast it leaves him lightheaded. He has to read the entry twice to make sure he didn’t black out and invent something out of wishful thinking.
25 May
This stupid diary isn’t doing shit. It’s making it worse. Every time I write something down, it just makes me think about it more. I spent all of yesterday thinking about Bucky’s stupid fingers. I hate him so much. I want him to bend me over something and fuck me until I’m an inch from passing out. Maybe that’s all I need to get this out of my system.
26 May
Today I thought about that time last summer when we were at the bonfire and I made out with that guy in the Bulls jersey and snapback. I forget his name.
Bucky looked so angry. I think that’s why I did it. I think I wished he was jealous, even though I know he was just pretending he’s my fucking brother or something. It made me think of that time he punched that other guy in the clearing in the woods just for touching me. I forget that guy’s name too.
Bucky hasn’t forgotten either of their names. The bonehead from the bonfire was Jon and the asshole from the woods was Robby. And he was jealous. He was so fucking jealous. His dick is hard as a rock in his jeans, head spinning.
28 May
Yesterday was ok. I kept myself busy. Today has been terrible. Mom sent me a group picture of everyone eating dinner out in the back garden and Bucky was wearing a tight, white t-shirt. He looked so big, even bigger than when I last saw him. I just kept wondering if his cock would be big too. I zoomed in and took a screenshot like some fucking pervert. I got myself off so many times and I still feel like I haven’t gotten it out of my system. I literally fingered myself until my sheets were-
“Fuck,” he grunts, strained even to his own ears. His eyes squeeze shut and his dick throbs violently at the idea of your little fingers pushing themselves into your pussy at the thought of him. He’s not sure how much more of this he can read before jizzing in his pants like some kind of virgin.
Who knew? Who fucking knew? His stuck-up little priss isn’t so prissy after all. He’s a bit dizzy with want and some other unidentifiable sensation. Something warm and gooey in his chest.
He almost likes how ashamed you are of it. It makes it that much more satisfying - like he’s won some game that he didn’t even know he was playing. He’s dimly aware of the fact that he lost the very same game himself, but he ignores it.
You would be so embarrassed to find out he is reading this. You would yell and scream and throw shit around the room in a tantrum like a toddler. You might never speak to him again. Even so, he can’t help himself but flick over the pages to the most recent entry. It feels like a spoiler to a book he hasn’t finished.
14 June
He came around with the lawnmower again. It’s getting harder every day not to get myself off to the thought of him-
He clearly missed that part. He wonders how long ago you made that resolution. He will find out soon enough.
-when he looks that good. I could literally see the fucking muscles in his back through his t-shirt and it was black. I’m so fucking wet. I’m going to have a long, cold shower and tonight I’ll cum to the thought of someone else. Literally anyone else.
Then and there, Bucky decides that won’t be happening.
You feel better after your laborious shower but only for a matter of minutes. You walk into your room wrapped in your bathrobe and notice that you can no longer hear the lawnmower. Bucky must have finished the job. He’s probably in the shower now, washing off the pollen and sweat.
And that does it. You sigh at the stickiness forming between your legs and reach over to your bedside table for your diary.
Except it’s not there.
You open and close the small drawer underneath. Ruffle around in your sheets and pick up your stuffed animals one-by-one to look make sure they’re not sitting on it. Eventually you get up and remove the duvet from the mattress, pull the bed frame away from the wall, crawl to the floor. You even go to the bathroom to make sure you didn’t carry it in with you. It’s not there. It’s not anywhere.
You must have left it lying out somewhere outside. Your stomach lurches into your throat. Except that’s not possible, because your last entry was written right here on this bed just before you went in for your shower. You had left your room to get a towel and steal some of your mother’s hair stuff - maybe you had inadvertently carried it out with you. You had been severely distracted.
You dress as quickly as you can physically manage, ignoring the way your wet hair is soaking through your cotton sweatshirt, but when you leave your room your footsteps are hesitant and careful. The idea of Bucky picking up your diary somewhere and deciding to give it a browse sends a cold sweat of terror up the knobs of your spine. Oh god, don’t let him find it. Please don’t let him find it.
You tear the linen closet apart. You even pick up the piles of towels that you know you didn’t touch and shake them out. Nothing. You fold them in a way that would make your mother wince and put them back.
Your parents’ room wields no results either. You run your fingers over the wooden bannister faintly while you walk down the stairs. Bucky isn’t there - thankfully - but neither is your diary. You hadn’t even come downstairs between writing your last entry and going for your shower. That, you’re absolutely certain of. But you’re running out of options.
You have one room left to check, but you will have to play your cards carefully. One wrong move, a bit too much information, and you could find yourself on the receiving end of questions that you would really prefer not to be asked. Or of a bit too much curiosity for your liking.
Your fingers linger over the wood of Bucky’s bedroom door for a whole minute before you can bring yourself to commit to a small, tentative knock. Bucky grunts on the other side and it’s untranslatable but you take it to be an in invite.
He’s lounging on his bed, one ankle hooked over the other, head reclined back to rest lazily on the headboard. He doesn’t move his bored gaze from the television, where some reality television documentary about the daily lives of zoo veterinarians is playing. You’re distracted by it momentarily. You didn’t think this would be his sort of thing.
“What’s up?” he asks you, still not looking your way. He didn’t shower. He’s still sweaty and tense, the smell of grass sticking to his clothes and skin. You try not to look.
“Just saying hi,” you say, shifting feet. You look at the door for a brief moment before deciding to close it awkwardly behind you.
He looks at you then, one eyebrow and one side of his lip quirking upwards in tandem. “Just saying hi.”
You nod. His smile breaks free then, but it’s not altogether a nice one. “Well, hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you mumble back. You continue to look at each other while you fidget, stepping forward cautiously until your knees hit his bed. You look at him expectantly and he rolls his eyes before moving his own legs so you can sit.
“What’s got you all buggy?” he asks sardonically, giving you a light tap on the side with his foot. He’s not wearing his boots anymore, but some grass still rubs off on you somehow. You rub your side and shoot him a look as if it hurt, even though it didn’t.
“I’m not buggy.”
“Yeah y’are. You got bugs.”
“You got bugs,” you snap. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He laughs. “Alright, you don’t got bugs. I have bugs ‘cause I was out there mowing all day. Now what do you want?”
Your stomach gives an odd jerking motion at the memory of him out there mowing the lawn. You try to keep any guilt from showing on your face. “Maybe I just wanna talk to you.”
“Oh yeah?” He doesn’t seem convinced. You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, picking at a loose thread his bedsheet. “So what have you been up to?”
“Sweetheart, what’s goin’ on?” he chuckles, turning slightly on his side so he can see you. “You know what I’ve been up to. You saw me out there.”
“Duh,” you say. You roll your eyes again and you can feel him laugh more than you can hear it - the minute little vibration through the sheets. His skin is inches away from yours. If you reached out just a little bit, you could touch his hand.
“Duuuhhh,” he mimics you with an exaggerated Valley-girl drawl. “Why’d you ask then, smartass?”
“I meant, like, after that.”
“After I finished the lawn?”
You nod. You are so desperately bad at this.
“Not much. Watched this,” he says, pointing at the TV. He gets distracted by something there and begins to watch it again. “Did a bit of light reading. What about you?”
Your heart is moving up in a slow but steady elevator to the base of your neck. “I’ve been in the shower,” you say casually. “What are you reading?”
“Long shower,” he says.
“Well it was an everything-shower,” you say defensively, forgetting yourself for a moment.
“The hell is an everything shower?”
“Don’t be dense. It’s literally in the name. It’s called an everything shower because you do everything in the shower.”
His gaze flies back to you then, dark and questioning, eyebrows raised slightly. It takes for his lip to twitch into a small smile before you come to your senses.
“A-as in,” you stammer. “You do all your self-care stuff. Like shaving and exfoliating and hair masks. That kind of everything.”
His smile widens and he nods, half sarcastically. “Right. That kind of everything.”
Your face heats up. There’s a brief pause.
“So what are you reading at the mo-”
“Y’know I think you’d like this,” he says, pointing over to the TV again. You glance over distractedly. A giraffe is giving birth standing up. You can’t help the way your nose twitches slightly as you take in all the blood and goo onscreen.
“Why is that?” you ask.
“There’s this one girl who cries every time an animal dies. She’s been working there five years and she still cries every time. She’s like you.”
“I’m not like that.”
“Yes you are,” he laughs and the sound travels through you. “Remember that one time you cried because your dad asked me to catch and kill that mouse?”
You do. He had been strangely nice about the whole thing. He made a makeshift humane trap and brought it to the old railway line a few miles away instead.
“I was sixteen-”
“And if you’re tryna tell me you wouldn't react the same way right now, I say you’re full of shit.”
You look at him resentfully. “Like you’re any tougher. You’re the one who saved him.”
“Well you know I can’t help but give you what you want once the waterworks start. You’re a pretty crier, sweetheart.”
You just look at him, feeling a bit dazed and uncomprehending. Saliva floods your mouth and you’re forced to swallow. He just glances over at you for the smallest of instances. You like the handsome, self-satisfied smile he gives himself before turning back to his programme, even though it’s at your expense. You know instinctively that you’ll be failing at your new resolution tonight.
“Shut up. Don’t be weird,” you say, because you can think of nothing else. He huffs with humour and there’s something in his expression that you don’t like.
“So you said you were reading something?” you say. You’re aiming for a casual tone but you think you might be overselling it.
“Mhm,” he says, nodding once. The programme can’t be that interesting, but he seems absorbed in it.
“I didn’t think you liked reading.”
“I have a newfound appreciation for it.” He smiles at the screen and maybe you’re feeling a little jealous. You snatch the remote out of his hands, careful not to let your fingers brush, and blackness eats the image of a family of monkeys. His eyes snap to you with amused surprise.
“What are you reading?”
Your heart is pumping while Bucky appraises you for a second, eyes sliding their way around your flustered face. He licks his bottom lip slowly before sucking it into his mouth. He speaks low.
“Don’t worry about it. ’S’too dirty for you, sweetheart.”
You really fucking hope that doesn’t mean what you think it does. He has the book. Oh dear god, don’t let him have the book.
Your voice comes out weak and fractured. “Are you… reading smut?”
He laughs again, face lit up. Eyes still on you. “That what you call it? Sure. Something like that, at least.”
“Bucky,” you say, voice no more than a horrified whisper. There’s a brutal heat curling in your gut - embarrassment and something else. “What are you reading? Please.”
He looks at you for just a second longer before reaching under the blanket beside him. His hand reaches out again, fingers curled around a book that looks incredibly small in his large palm.
You blink at it for just a second, as if concentrating hard enough might make it disappear. Please make it disappear. Please make it nothing at all.
But then you’re rolling forward, hardly aware of what you’re doing until your back is bowed, a low, despairing groan escaping you while your limbs slip away from you. Eventually you’re played across the bottom of the bed, face firmly pressed to the soft memory foam. If you stay here long enough, your face might imprint itself there. A garbled, monotonous litany is spilling from your lips. You’re not even sure what you’re saying.
Your stomach is going haywire. Bucky is laughing like you knew he would - you fucking knew he would be an asshole about this - and you would go running from the room if it didn’t mean that you would have to move your face from the bed and look at him.
You suppose it’s better that he’s laughing than looking at you with the raw kind of disgust that you had pictured whenever you imagined him finding out about your feelings towards him. Maybe it means that you two can go back to normal at some point, even if the humiliation raging through your body begs to differ.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Bucky says and you hate him. Your face pops up to look at his. Still amused. Still wicked and gleeful.
“Where did you get that?” you bark.
“Your room,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “Interesting read. You should be a writer with that vivid imagination. What did you call it, smut?”
“Fuck you!” you screech, and Bucky physically recoils at the loud noise, irritation crawling onto his features for the first time in this interaction. “You had no right to go into my room and invade my privacy. What the hell is wrong with you? You are such a piece of shit!”
Bucky rolls his eyes while you make your way up the bed and take a swing for his chest. He catches your wrists in time and your traitorous body pauses at the touch.
“Like I said,” he says sternly. “Don’t be such a baby. You need me to help you get this out of your system? What was it you said again? Bend you over and fuck you until you’re an inch from passing out?”
You give one last valiant jerk to break free, but he has a death grip with seemingly minimal effort. You go still while the fight leaves you. Hot humiliation and more than a little arousal course through you.
“Fuck you,” you say again with considerably less vitriol.
“I will,” he says, eyes locked on yours punishingly. “If that’s what you want.”
Your breath stutters, heat rising up the length of your face. You’re not sure if he’s messing with you, but the words are having the intended effect regardless. Your thighs press together gently to alleviate some of the pressure that his words and his eye-contact are creating. His eyes flicker down quickly, following the movement, before moving back up to meet your own gaze.
“Got nothing to say now? That’s ok, baby. I saw enough in that little book. Let’s look.”
He lets go of your wrists and you immediately lurch forward to grasp the diary, but he gets there first. He opens it at a random page.
“I came home from college today,” he starts to read, voice low. “Everyone else was gone, but Bucky was here. I don’t know how it’s possible but he’s so much hotter since I last saw him. He wears a bit of stubble now and his muscles were almost bursting out of his t-shirt. We bickered a little bit in the evening, but the whole time I was just wondering what he’s like in bed. I don’t think he would be sweet and soft all the time, like Matt. Maybe sometimes but I think he would be so mean and rough most of the time. He seems like he knows how to make a girl cum.”
He looks up at you. You feel tears prickle behind your eyes, shame steamrolling through you. You reach for the book again but he moves it out of your reach effortlessly.
“You’re goddamn right I do,” he says, smiling as if he’s talking about something totally innocent. “You want me to show you, sweetheart?”
Your brain is scrambled and the only thing escaping your lips is a garbled mess of vowels. You’re still suspicious. It wouldn’t be entirely unlike him to get you to admit to this and then pull the rug out from under you a moment later.
He huffs an impatient sigh. “Don’t go dumb on me already, silly girl.”
He flicks to another page in the book, smiles, and finally hands it over to you. You take it uncertainly.
“Why don’t you read that for me? Out loud. Jog your memory a bit.”
You’re not sure what you’re doing, but at this point it’s easier to follow instructions than to figure out what to do yourself. You look down, take another hesitant glance at an encouraging Bucky and begin to read with a sheepish, shameful tone. Your face is burning.
“I want him so bad. I think I’ll die if I don’t have him. The orgasms I’m giving myself aren’t enough. I need him to fuck me, even just one time. I’ll never ask for anything else again in my life if I can get his cock inside me just once. I’m going so deranged, I actually pictured him choking me yesterday with those huge hands and it made me cum so hard.”
Your own words have done a number on you. You are stupidly, ridiculously turned on by his eyes on you and your own words echoing around the room. You raise your eyes slowly and sheepishly to meet his and the look on his face is nothing short of starving.
“Fuck it,” he breathes, pulling you forward and into a kiss.
Your unsuspecting mouth meets his with short, stabbing gasps. His right arm moves to the back of your neck, pulling you against him firmly, while the prosthetic arm pulls you onto his lap. His lips move against yours and the only word to describe it is filthy. His lips are still wet from licking them and his tongue is sliding over yours delicately but expertly.
You’re in a state of euphoria. Part of you always wondered whether you had played this up too much in your head. You wondered - if you were given the chance to finally touch him like this, whether it might be a bit disappointing after all you had imagined.
If possible, it might be the opposite. Your body is shaking with adrenaline. Without thinking too much about it, you grind down on his lap and feel his hard length through his jeans. A bolt shoots up your spine. Has he been hard this whole time?
He grunts at the friction, calloused fingers tightening their hold on you. His hand glides slowly down from your neck, through the valley of your breasts and over your stomach, playing with the waistband of your cotton shorts. You’re already so riled up, it makes you press down on him again, clutching at his shoulders as if you could possibly pull him any closer. You’re high off the feel of him when he pulls away, just a few inches.
“You ready to admit it yet? That you want me?”
“I want you,” you breathe. It’s almost embarrassing how automatic the response is. How little you even have to think about it.
You feel his smile spreading against your own face. “I know, sweetheart. Of course I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you.”
Bucky is on the warpath, tearing your sweatshirt and his t-shirt off in quick succession. He takes a second to zero in on your breasts and you feel mildly self-conscious about your plain black bra, but he seems adequately distracted by them.
He slows down. Unclips your bra with languor. You shove away the sick, jealous feeling that creeps up when he doesn’t fumble even remotely with the clasp.
Once you’re bared to him, he seems to move slower. His hands go up to fondle them with uncharacteristic gentleness and you suck in a breath. His eyes darken to black, shiny knobs at your reaction and he maintains eye-contact with you while he presses a gentle kiss over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth.
A moan slips out at the sensation. So that’s what that should feel like.
“Wanna know a secret?” he murmurs between kissing and sucking, moving over to your other breast. You nod, uncertain whether or not he can see you.
“Want you too. Wanted you since we were kids.”
You look down at him. He is seemingly avoiding your eyes. Your brain is a little hazy but still operational for the most part.
“Since when?”
“Just fuckin’ told you,” he says, moving a warm hand up your thigh. It’s a distraction tactic.
“No but when? What age?” Your voice is coming out breathy with the way his thumb is creeping underneath your shorts, stroking the sensitive crease between your thigh and the hem of your underwear. You wonder with some apprehension if his fingers can sense the warmth radiation from you. You’re soaked through.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, moving back up to kiss you. His thumb strokes over your panties now and you gasp into his mouth.
“Yes it does. Tell me,” you say. Because you’re muddled and jittery and incredibly fucking worked up, but more than all of that - you’re stubborn.
He gives you a hard look for a second, likely deciding whether he will be able to get you to let this go. You’re not.
“Was sweet on you when I was ten,” he says, rubbing you over your underwear harder now. Stars are exploding in your eyes, but the heavy, sluggish machinery that is your brain in its current state still chugs along at its steady, slow rhythm.
“Isn’t that when we first-”
“Yes.”
The shock almost overrides the sensation of his thumb slipping under the waistband of your underwear. But not quite. A loud, whining moan makes Bucky smile, but you still haven’t lost your head completely.
“You’ve liked me since we first met as little kids?”
He makes a loud, frustrated noise that vibrates through you and flips you over so you’re on your back. It happens so quick that it makes you dizzy. He folds himself over you and presses a vigorous kiss to your lips.
“Can you shut the hell up for two seconds?” he grunts, yanking your cotton shorts and underwear over your legs until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Tryna do something here.”
You laugh at him, but it doesn’t last long. He palms your breast briefly before trailing his fingers down, down, down. His fingers just barely graze over your clit and you buck up with a moan. All the humour is gone - you’re struggling to remember what you even found funny in the first place.
He brings his fingers up then to show them to you, glistening with your wetness. “You see how fucking desperate you are?” he asks. “Barely touched you and look how you’re reacting. Nobody’s ever touched you right, have they?”
You shake your head unthinkingly and his smile widens. It’s almost predatory.
“Poor thing,” he says with a smirk, lowering his hand once again to stroke over your clit. “I can tell. All jerky and twitchy. Just wait ‘till I get my cock in you.”
The whine you emit at his words slowly turns itself into a moan as he dips a finger into you. Slow, just feeling. He adds another when he sees how easily you accept the first. You had been right in everything you had ever thought about his fingers and how good they would feel inside you, how much they would stretch you out. Except it didn’t quite cover it.
None of the other college boys you had fucked had fingers like this. Calloused and big and rough. You clench around him when he begins to stroke, expertly curling into the perfect angle to hit that spongey spot inside you. Where the fuck did he learn to do this?
He presses you down with his other hand splayed over your stomach, stopping your hips which are moving down, trying to meet the rhythm of his fingers. The pressure it puts on your lower stomach makes you clench around him.
“Y’feel so fucking tight,” he grunts, eyes on your lips. “This what you wanted, huh? This what you touched yourself thinking about?”
You nod, but it’s not enough. He pauses his ministrations and raises his eyebrows for an answer.
“Yes, I- fuck, yes keep going - I thought about this when I got myself off.”
“For how long?” he demands.
“I- what?” you ask, feeling a bit dumb. His lip twitches impatiently.
“How long have you been thinking about me like this? With my fingers stuffing your tight little pussy?”
Your face heats up with shame, but you know if you don’t answer him, he will stop again. And that’s a lousy deal.
“A long time,” you say, hoping he will accept it as an answer. Thankfully, he does.
“Fuck, sweetheart. Should’ve told me. Wouldn’t have let you go unsatisfied like all these other assholes. Would’ve kept this pussy so busy, you wouldn’t have had the time to write in that silly little book. Would’ve put you in your place.”
“Put me in my place?” you spit, dragged out of the floaty headspace you had been in. Unfortunately you can’t concentrate too much on your anger and indignation. The pleasure he’s giving you is too much to hold on to anything else but him. It does nothing to stave off your incoming orgasm - if it wasn’t so fucked up, you might admit that it probably brings you closer to the edge. His fingers push into you smooth and hard. He grinds his palm against your clit.
“Yeah, put you in your place. Such a fucking spoiled brat, always throwing tantrums and bitching. Whole time you just needed a good fuck. Well I’ll give you plenty, baby. Sort you right out. Your family can thank me for your good behaviour when they’re home.”
There’s something fucked up about the way his mean - and undoubtedly problematic - words push you over the edge. You clench down and all but explode over his fingers, bright spots in your eyes. You’re not sure if you’ve ever come so fast before, or so intensely. Your head is still spinning while you come down, twitching around his fingers until he draws them back out.
Your vision is still slightly blurred, but you see Bucky sliding his fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t even make a show of it - he’s not even trying to make you watch him. He’s just tasting you for the pleasure of it. Your pussy jumps.
When he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You should be spent by now, or at least somewhat less horny but you’re not. Your brain and body have clearly made a pact to make the most of your time with the man who has been driving you crazy for years. You begin to gush again when he bites your bottom lip. He releases a smoky chuckle against your mouth when your hips twitch against him.
He pulls up, standing over the bed to unbutton his jeans.
You’re still a little mad at him over that boorish ‘putting you in your place’ comment, but it does not stop you from getting dizzy when his cock is bared to you.
He’s the biggest you’ve ever seen and it’s not even close. Part of you knew he would be, but you didn’t think it would be this pretty. You didn’t even know a cock could be pretty.
It’s huge and rock hard where it presses up on his stomach. It’s very slightly curved with veins running up the flushed, heavy length. Your arm raises upwards unconsciously just to see how it would look in your hand, but you think better of it and quickly tuck it away again.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks and you realise he has been watching your reaction the whole time. Your face burns. “Feelin’ shy?”
Your mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know how much…” you trail off, uncharacteristically nervous. You’ve never had a problem butting heads with Bucky before. Why is he so intimidating like this?
“Y’don’t know if it’ll fit?” he asks. You nod lightly and watch his cock give a small, light twitch. He takes it in his hand and gives it one slow pump. It makes your mouth hang open.
“Don’t worry, angel, we’ll take it slow. Don’t want to break you. Not this time, anyway.”
Feeling brave, you reach forward and take his warm, heavy cock in your fingers. It looks so much bigger in your hand than it does in his own and the sight makes your gut curl in both dread and excitement. He throws his head back, eyes half-lidded and dazed.
You give him one small pump and he grabs your wrist, shaking his head at you. You glare up at him.
“What the hell, Bucky? Don’t-”
He leans forward, grabbing your jaw in his hand roughly. “I know you wanna play with it so bad, sweetheart, but you can do that later. I’ll let you play with it as much as you want. But I’ve waited long enough and I’m not wasting another second. Gonna fill that tight cunt now. You hear me?”
You’re back in that floaty headspace, body feeling light, head feeling dreamy. You nod.
He smiles, using his leverage on your jaw to bring you in for a kiss while he climbs on top of you. You can feel the head of his hard cock pressing against your stomach.
“Good girl,” he says, moving away to lather kisses over your neck. His hips move to press the tip of his cock against your clit and you gasp. “My good girl You’re so sweet when you’re doing what I tell you to. Wish I’d known I could shut you up like this.”
You’re trying to be pissed off. You really are. But if you can be completely honest with yourself, it’s just turning you on more.
Your brain is almost gone, but you have one last spark of sentience. “Condom,” you gasp. “In my room.”
Bucky laughs against your neck. “You think I’m wearin’ a rubber with you?”
“Wha- yes?”
“Don’t fuck with me, sweetheart, I know you’re on the pill. Seen it in your bathroom.”
“What were you doing in my-”
“I’m clean, just got checked. And I’m willing to bet you’ve never let anyone use this prissy little pussy without a condom before.”
You take a second, trying to assess how you feel about this. He really is such a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag you know incredibly well - he wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re sure you could talk him into wearing a condom, but it might take a lot of back-and-forth. And his cock is teasing your hole now, and you’re squeezing around nothing, trying to suck him in. His cock is fully lubricated, all from the wetness between your thighs. You don’t say anything, but your body goes a bit limp.
“Yeah?” he says, celebrating his victory with a smile. You feel it against your collarbone. “You gonna let me skip the rubber?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just stop fucking around Bucky. Please.”
He laughs lightly and begins to press in, the tight ring of muscle protesting against his size. You seize up while he stretches you out. It’s leaving a tight and uncomfortable sensation in your abdomen and you let out a quiet yelp.
“Such a good girl,” he says, reaching down to stroke your clit. He’s thrusting in slow, giving you just a little bit more with every press. His voice is low, as if he’s trying to comfort you, but it’s still coming across slightly patronising. “Letting me fuck you raw. Gonna take my cum like the good girl you are.”
You’re loosening up with the help of his dirty words and his fingers on your clit, drawing tight circles. It’s starting to feel good - more than good. But he’s still not in all the way. You have no idea how you’re going to take him.
His cock is insistent inside you, pressing in further and further while he whispers filthy praises and encouragements on your sweat-glistening skin. You brain is becoming jumbled with pleasure and the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“This what you pictured when those other limp-dick assholes used to fuck you?” he grunts, bottoming out. You yelp at the angle he hits, body squirming around him. You thought you knew what getting fucked deep felt like, but you had never felt this.
He pulls out and presses another punishing thrust into you. You gasp. “Answer.”
“Yes,” you say and you might be on the verge of tears. You can’t wrap your head around what’s happening. Everything feels a little blurry and his finger on your clit is still drawing tight circles. You just know that you need him to move. “Pictured you every time.”
He rewards you by beginning to slowly pull out and in, gently getting you used to his size. You’re filled to the brim with him. “I know. Read all about it in that dirty little book. Made them take you doggy so you could pretend it was me. So fucking desperate.”
Shame and pleasure are amalgamating in your stomach. It’s creating something more powerful than just the feeling of him moving inside you. It’s all becoming a bit too much, but in a way that you can’t help but love.
“It’s okay, angel. I’m no better than you. You turn me into such a fucking creep. Picking up girls who look like you. Leaving the dinner table to jerk it in the bathroom when you get all bratty and whiny.”
Just the thought of that makes you startle, pussy clenching around him. He looks so pretty, blue eyes dark with want, pink lips crushed between his teeth, gaze zeroed in on where you’re taking him, the light imprint in your tummy. The pleasure of it - the culmination of all your want - has you gasping, tears leaking from your eyes and trickling down your cheeks.
He sees it and startles. You can read it all on his face now - the awe and adoration.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he cooes, thumb reaching up to brush a fat tear from the corner of your eye. “Always been such a crybaby. You’re so pretty like this, such a pretty crier.”
It makes the tears puddle faster, the pleasure bordering on too much.
“I know, baby. It’s so much, isn’t it? I know,” he soothes you, while his hips work in direct opposition - fucking into you with brutality. It’s not just the pleasure, but the overwhelming emotion. You can’t work out exactly what you’re feeling, and you know that now isn’t the time to figure it out anyway.
Instead, you just let yourself feel it. The way his hips grind against yours, the feeling of him stretching you out, the crescendo of all that pent-up want finally bursting into song. You can’t stop looking at him, how pretty and fucked-out he is above you, even when he’s still pretending he hasn’t lost an ounce of control.
“Stop with those fuckin’ eyes,” he grunts, catching your gaze. You’re still teary-eyed and pouty. “Gonna make me lose it early.”
The thought of him spilling inside you does nothing to curb the feeling. Your eyes widen and he grunts, pulling out of you and sitting up with his eyes squeezed shut. He takes a deep, dogged breath.
“Turn around,” he bites out.
With the way his face is pinched, eyes squeezed tight, he might be greatly suffering or experiencing a euphoria of pleasure. You don’t disobey a man at either point.
You spin around, face-down on the bed. You can hear him shuffle around, but seconds pass where you don’t feel his skin on yours. The anticipation makes you shiver.
When you finally do feel his touch, it’s his two hands slowly stroking down your hips. You lean backwards into his touch, whimpering just a little.
“What you whining for now?” he asks from behind you. You hear the smile in his voice.
“Put it back in,” you moan, pushing back on him until you feel his cock prod against your ass. You’re no longer feeling any shame at your desperation. You’re too far gone.
He takes your hip firmly with his prosthetic hand, the other moving down to give your ass a loving pat. “You need it that bad?”
“Don’t be a dick.”
He laughs low. “Still so fucking bratty. Think I can fuck it outta you?”
You can do nothing but nod, head rolling forward while the thick tip prods your entrance, sliding in slowly once more.
“That’s it,” he groans. He feels so much deeper like this. You can feel him all the way up your stomach to your throat. “Knew you’d take my cock like this. Knew you’d feel this good, just didn’t think you’d be this fucking dirty.”
“Fuck, Bucky, I need you,” you moan. You’re obscurely aware of the fact that you’ll probably be cringing at the memory of saying those words later, but it matters very little to you in this moment. “Needed you so bad.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. “Why don’t you tell me what you needed so bad?”
Your brain is moving like slow, heavy machinery again - too slow to come up with anything. “I- no, Bucky, I can’t-”
“Let me help you out.”
His arm reaches out in front of you, pulling out the godforsaken book that started this entire mess in the first place. You’re still a bit dumb, watching him pull open the book and flick to a page he has ear-marked - like a significant page in his favourite book. He slams it in front of you palm pressing it open until you take it from him cautiously. You look down at the book uncomprehending, body still jostling with the force of his thrusts.
“Read.”
Your head spins back, even though you can’t see him from this angle. He can’t be serious.
One firm pinch to your ass confirms that he is.
Face burning and stomach clawing with shame and arousal, you clear your throat. Your voice comes out breathy and high.
“Matt always wore a condom but I think Bucky would be such a jerk about it. I wouldn't even mind. The thought of him coming inside me turns me on so- ooh!”-
Bucky’s hand reaches down below you, stroking at your clit.
“- so much. I really want him to fill me up. I wonder if he - fuck, Bucky - cums a lot. Whenever I think about him fucking me, I picture him filling me up to the brim until I’m dripping with his…”
You can’t go on any more. It just gets filthier from then on and you’re already on the verge of coming again. Thankfully, that seems to do enough for him.
“Jesus, you have a thing for this shit? That’s real fucking dirty, sweetheart. I promise I got a big fucking load for you. You’re the only one who is gonna take it from now on.”
You want to snap that he clearly has a thing for it too, judging by how riled up he is. He’s panting behind you, losing his rhythm. But you can’t do any such thing. All you can do is moan unintelligibly. You feel the familiar prickle behind your eyes, tears spilling out while you sniffle.
“Aw angel, you know what those tears do to me. Can’t help but give you what you want. You want my cum?”
You nod enthusiastically, spasming around him. You just wish you could see his face right now, but you can picture it.
“Fuck, yeah you do,” he growls. “Such a good girl for me. My good girl, all mine. Gonna give you my cum now, never gonna let you go empty from now on.”
With a firm hand between your neck and shoulder, he drags you upright against him. Your hands reach out to balance yourself against the headboard and he moves your jaw back until your mouth meets his. The kiss is brutal and sloppy, the angle not-quite-right, but just the feeling of his lips on yours and the movement of your tongues against each other makes you tumble off the edge.
A surge of unbridled want courses through you. You cry into his mouth, tears spilling between your lips until you can taste the salt. It’s either the taste of your tears or the sensation of your walls fluttering around him that causes Bucky to grunt, dick twitching once before spilling deep inside.
You had thought about this almost obsessively since you were old enough to understand the possibility. Somehow, you underestimated what it would do to you.
You might be floating or flying or drifting out of consciousness, but you are very conscious of the fact that you had never really known what it means to experience true pleasure until this moment. The noises he makes are filthy while he pumps you full of him, but you’re sure you’re likely giving as good as you’re getting. Not that you have the faintest awareness of what you’re saying.
Bucky wasn’t lying. You can feel his heavy load dripping out of you you, messing your thighs and the sheets. He continues to bounce you on his cock slowly and gently even after you have both come down from your highs. You’re sensitive and sore, but there’s something comforting about small, shallow thrusts, even if the squelching noises it’s making are obscene.
Eventually, he slides himself out of you and wraps himself around you instead. He envelopes you in a sort of gentle tackle, pulling your exhausted body with him deeper into the sheets.
“You still with me, sweetheart?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You can feel his stubble against your temples, his breath on your skin.
“Uh huh” you try. It comes out as more of a garble. He laughs, light and airy.
You open your eyes, take in his tired, happy grin. His blue eyes have gone bright again.
“Thought you said you weren’t gonna break me,” you say sardonically.
He plays with your hair, twirls it around a finger. “Might have gotten carried away.”
You roll your eyes. He does a poor imitation of you, rolling his eyes all the way back into his skull in mockery. You try to glare but it doesn’t work against your smile. You settle back down against his chest. Feel it vibrate while he laughs.
“You really meant that?” you ask after a moment. You cough away a scratch in your voice. “About wanting me since we were kids?”
“Hell yeah,” he chuckles. Your head bounces against his chest lightly. “I was so crazy about you when we were kids. Can’t believe you didn’t know.”
“How could I know? You were always so mean to me.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what that means in kid-language.”
“You still are. Sometimes.”
He raises his head to look down at you, searching your face. “Old habits.”
You nod, but you’re still working through everything in your head. Your post-orgasmic brain is working no faster than it was ten minutes ago.
“I’m sorry for reading your diary,” he says after a few seconds and you swear you might see the raw edge of panic sitting somewhere there on his face. “It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t regret it, because I don’t know that I would have ever had the balls to make a move otherwise, but I am sorry.”
It’s so bizarre, so completely unexpected, you can only stare. He’s looking back at you with an uncharacteristic nervousness that makes you slightly uncomfortable. Truthfully, you had forgotten you were even mad about the privacy violation in the first place. Maybe it’s the two orgasms.
You still don’t want to have a heart-to-heart with Bucky - that might be pushing things a bit too far, a bit too early. Instead you lean forward to give him a small, chaste kiss. He smiles.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, pressing small kisses to your lips, moving down your cheek and on to your neck. “Just wait ‘till I get my tongue on you.”
You tense up, resolutely ignoring the heat pooling low in your stomach. There is no way in hell you can endure another round right now. Your limbs are still shaking.
Whatever expression is on your face makes Bucky laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll give you a couple hours. We got two long weeks in this house by ourselves.”
a/n: the diary entries are basically just my dms with my moots lmao
this is so insanely hot i feel like i should be giving a warning when i reblog so people know that they need to take their time and fully sit with this, maybe have a few rounds with it 😭
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: smut, creampie... squirting? idk... lying... denial... FLUFF! subtext angst... sorry... lots of making out. mentions of underaged sex. two idiots obviously dating but not saying it but spending a lot of time together. ... erm... sort of semi-public sex but no one is around in the empty building
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: look... im really sorry if this is boring.... also i know planeteriums are probably a newer/modern thing but i just had to okay and it's also my fic idc!
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
chapter 14
You had no idea you could be this happy waking up next to someone.
It's not that you hated waking up with other hookups in your life. Those mornings were always fine. But they came with bad breath you could taste from across the pillow, and that after-sex sweat smell that clung to sheets and skin, making you want to shower immediately, to wash away the evidence. You're a light sleeper too. Sometimes Robin will talk in her sleep during the night, full conversations with people who aren't there, and it jolts you awake every time.
But this morning, when you wake to a soft glow filtering through the tent fabric, the air smells different. It smells like morning dew and rain-washed earth, like pine needles and something warmer underneath—cedar and Steve. The rain has stopped completely, leaving behind that clean, fresh scent that only comes after a storm. You can hear birds starting their morning songs, water dripping from leaves outside, the distant sound of the stream swollen from overnight rain.
There's a pinch in your chest.
Steve is face-down beside you, one arm sprawled above his head like he's reaching for something in his dreams. But his other arm is wrapped tightly around you, his hand splayed possessively across your stomach, fingers spread wide like he's trying to cover as much of you as possible.
You're tucked against his side, lying on your back, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. His hair is a mess in the most adorable way. It’s sticking up at odd angles, falling across his forehead, the blonde highlights catching what little light filters through the tent. His bare back glows golden in the dim morning light, and you can see the constellation of freckles and moles scattered across his shoulders, his spine.
You shift slightly, testing, trying to gently roll out of his grip without waking him. But Steve's arm immediately tightens around you, pulling you closer even in sleep. His fingers flex against your stomach, holding on.
You try again—slower this time, more careful—but Steve stirs. His head flops to the side to face you, eyes still closed, but a frown pulls at his lips. He makes a grunting noise deep in his chest, displeased.
You can't help but chuckle, smiling at his sleepy face, at the way his hair falls into his eyes, at the pout forming on his mouth. You try once more to move, to slip free, but one of his eyes snaps open—just one, squinting at you accusingly in the dim light.
"Uh-uh," he mumbles, voice rough and gravelly with sleep.
"Steve..." You keep your voice soft, not wanting to fully wake him. "I need to get up."
"No..." He shifts his entire body lazily, like moving through honey, throwing a leg over yours to pin you down. His nose nuzzles into your neck, breath warm against your skin. "Five more minutes. Please." The last word comes out almost dreamlike, slurred and soft.
You bite back a laugh, feeling his lips brush the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Steve, I need to pee."
He groans into your neck, the sound vibrating through you. "Okay. One more minute, then."
You sigh, giving in because what's one more minute? You scoot closer into him, fitting yourself against his body. You feel him smile against your neck, his lips barely grazing your skin—just enough pressure to make you aware of them, to make goosebumps rise across your arms.
His hand slowly creeps, palm warm and slightly rough against your bare stomach, traveling higher until it finds your breast. He doesn't do anything beyond a small squeeze—gentle, almost absentminded—but then he cups it, his thumb brushing once across your nipple, and he nuzzles even deeper into your neck. You can feel him hardening against your hip, the thick length of him pressing insistent.
You move slightly, deliberately, letting your ass press back into his cock. Steve's hand grips tighter around your breast, no longer gentle. His thumb starts rubbing lazy circles around your nipple, making it pebble and ache.
You sigh, pressing harder against him, heat already pooling between your legs despite the early hour. The ache from last night is still there—a pleasant soreness, a reminder of how many times he'd made you come, how thoroughly he'd taken you apart.
Steve moves with more purpose now, snaking his other hand underneath you, fingers brushing through the thatch of pubic hair between your legs. Goosebumps prickle across your thighs. A light moan escapes when his fingers find your clit, barely touching, teasing with the lightest pressure.
"Good morning," he says breathily against your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice. His fingers slide lower, testing, and he groans. "So wet already." He plants a kiss on the nape of your neck, lips lingering, teeth grazing. "Five more minutes."
His fingers slip inside you—slow, deliberate, curling to find that spot that makes your vision blur. You're already slick from sleep and want, and he circles that spot lazily, like he has all the time in the world. Your head lulls back against his shoulder, giving him better access to your neck. His hot breath fans across your skin, raising more goosebumps. His hips start bucking slightly, grinding against your ass, seeking friction, relieving his own ache.
"Stevie," the nickname comes out soft and breathy, and you feel him freeze for a split second before a muffled growl vibrates through his chest and into your back. You say it again, testing. "Stevie, please fuck me."
It doesn't take long for him to fully adjust your position. He lifts your top leg, hooking it over his, your back flush against his chest. Every inch of you touching every inch of him. He kisses your neck—soft, then harder, sucking. "You really want to?"
"Yes." You bite your lip, feeling the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance, sliding through your wetness but not entering. The anticipation makes you whimper.
"Spit," he commands, but his voice is sweet despite the demand. He brings his hand up in front of your face, palm open.
You follow his order without hesitation, spitting into his hand.
He grunts as he wraps his spit-slick hand around his cock, giving himself a few slow pumps before lining himself up. Then he's pushing inside—slow, so slow you can feel every inch of him stretching you, filling you, the burn and pleasure mixing until you can't tell them apart.
He wastes no time starting to pull out and thrust back in. His movements are lazy, unhurried, like he's still half-asleep and wants to stay in this suspended moment forever. He's gripping your breast as his pace gradually quickens, his fingers pinching and rolling your nipple.
Heavy breaths fill the small tent. Soft moans that you try to muffle. The sleeping bag rustles beneath you with each thrust, and you're grateful for the sound of birds chirping outside, of water dripping from trees, providing cover.
His hand travels up from your breast to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat—not squeezing, only holding. But before any sound can escape, he props himself up on his elbow, using his leverage to force you to turn your head back toward him. He captures your mouth in a sloppy, desperate kiss, both of you panting into it, tongues sliding together with no finesse, just need.
You throw your arm back around his neck, fingers immediately finding his hair and pulling. His teeth leave your mouth to dig into your jaw, your cheek, marking you in places that will show.
"You gonna let me come in you again, babygirl?" he whispers against your ear, voice wrecked and rough.
You whine in response, words failing you.
He tightens his grip on your throat, applying light pressure that makes your head swim pleasantly. "Use your words." His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide, but then they soften. "Please," he adds, and the vulnerability in that single word undoes you.
"Yes," you gasp, pulling him into another hungry kiss. You can taste morning on his tongue, can feel his nose pressing into yours as he whines—actually whines—feeling you clench around him.
You let your free hand slip down between your legs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing quick circles. The sounds in the tent become obscene—the schlick of his increasingly frantic thrusts, your labored breathing, his quiet grunts of effort. You angle your leg higher in the air, opening yourself more, and Steve takes full advantage, plunging into you harder, deeper, the new angle letting him hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
You let out a wanton moan—too loud—and Steve's hand immediately clasps over your mouth, his palm huge across your face, covering from your nose to your chin. The action makes you let out another sound of pleasure, muffled now by his skin. You can smell yourself on his fingers from earlier, can taste the salt of his palm.
He nips your earlobe, tugging it between his teeth. "Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet."
His hips start to stutter, rhythm breaking down. "Baby, please come for me," he begs, voice cracking with desperation. "Please, I need to feel you."
He drives into you again—ruthless now, chasing both your pleasure and his own. Your orgasm hits you like lightning, sudden and devastating. You're writhing against him, gasping his name into his palm, coming so hard that warm liquid gushes out around his cock, soaking the sleeping bag beneath you.
"Fuck," Steve throws his head back, groaning loud enough that you're certain everyone outside can hear. "Fuck, that was so hot. You're so hot. God, you're perfect."
His own orgasm follows immediately after, hips slamming into you one final time as he fills you up, warmth spreading inside you. Hot breaths fan across your neck and shoulder as he comes down, his whole body shuddering.
He uncovers your mouth, turning your face back toward him for another messy kiss. You're both panting into each other's mouths, tongues moving lazily now, all the urgency gone and replaced with something softer, sweeter. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek while he kisses you like he has all the time in the world.
Not long after, once Steve cleans you up, wiping between your legs while pressing soft kisses to your shoulder—he was face-down asleep again. Out like a light, snoring softly, completely spent.
You took your time, propped up on one elbow, just looking at him. The morning light was stronger now, painting him in gold flecks. You placed soft kisses on his shoulder where his moles are scattered like stars, connecting them with your lips, mapping a constellation only you know. Then you put your pajamas on from last night and went to the shower building with your toiletry bag.
Eventually, Steve was the last to wake up, finally trudging out of the tent around mid-morning wearing his pajama pants and a fresh shirt—probably to cover any evidence of last night, any marks you might have left.
He went straight to the shower building without a word to anyone, but he caught your eye as he passed. That arrogant smile spread across his face—the one that says he knows exactly what you're thinking about, exactly what you can still feel between your legs. It pulls a shy smile from you in return, and you watch him walk away, unable to help yourself.
Eddie creeps up next to you, appearing out of nowhere and speaking way too loudly for someone who's supposed to be subtle. "Ah, you two kissed and made up?"
Your eyes go wide, panic flooding through you. Does he know about the kiss? The one from weeks ago? Your eyes shoot to Robin, whose expression is stony but curious, like she's trying to figure out if there's information she's missing.
But then Eddie adds with a cheeky grin, waggling his eyebrows, "Or I guess boned and made up? Heard a lot of rustling last night in your tent. Thought it was a raccoon getting into our food." He winks, completely shameless.
"Shut up," you mutter, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He just laughs, dancing away from you.
Later, you're sitting in your lawn chair talking to Nancy, who still looks sad—her shoulders curved inward, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. She and Robin clearly still aren't talking properly. You're trying to distract her with a story about a professor when you feel a tap on your left shoulder.
You turn to look, but no one is there. You turn to your right, and Steve is standing there with guilt all over his face—freshly showered now, hair still slightly damp and darker from the water, wearing a pair of shorts and a green t-shirt that brings out the hazel in his eyes. He smirks at you, shrugging innocently like wasn't me, before bending down to pick up a paper plate and pile it with scraps of breakfast—a piece of bacon, some eggs that have gone cold.
"You can have the rest of mine," you tell him, holding out your plate with its single piece of bacon and small pile of scrambled eggs.
He smiles, but instead of taking the plate, he leans down and opens his mouth expectantly, eyes twinkling with mischief.
You don't hesitate. You pick up the piece of bacon from your plate and place it between his teeth, watching his mouth close around it, holding it delicately. A grin spreads across his face even while his teeth grip the bacon, and you gently push his cheek away, shooing him. "Go away, I'm talking to Nancy."
Nancy is clearly biting back a knowing smile, eyes dancing between you and Steve.
Without a word, Steve takes the entire plate from your hands and walks away. You look over your shoulder briefly to see him throwing it away for you in the trash bag, saving you the trip.
You look back at Nancy and see she's no longer looking at you. Her gaze has drifted to Robin, whose head has found purchase on Steve's shoulder now that he's returned to the fire. Robin is saying something to him, and he's nodding, hand coming up to squeeze her arm. Nancy watches them with such naked longing it makes your chest hurt. She looks down quickly, blinking rapidly.
"Tell me what's going on," you say quietly, scooting your lawn chair closer like it will somehow block your conversation from reaching other ears.
Nancy sighs, staring into her coffee mug like it holds answers. The liquid has gone cold, a film forming on the surface. She shakes her head. "It's so silly..." Another sigh, longer this time. "I asked her why we hadn't made plans for spring break yet. Just to have something to look forward to, you know? And she got really weird about it."
She pauses, collecting her thoughts. "Turns out she already has plans. A vacation with her parents. And apparently..." Nancy's voice drops even lower. "Apparently they asked you to tag along. She just hasn't invited you yet because you two are, you know... not talking." Nancy's lip trembles slightly. "But I got upset because I was like, well, why didn't you ask if I could come instead? Why is it automatically her? And she looked at me like I was crazy."
Nancy looks away, brows furrowing, jaw tight with the effort of not crying. "And then she said, 'Babe, they just know she's my best friend. That's the only reason.' So I asked, 'What does that make me? Do you even talk about me to your parents?'" Nancy's eyes go wide, shining with unshed tears. "And she gave me this look, and I realized—she doesn't. She doesn't talk about me to them at all. I don't exist in that part of her life."
"Please don't think I'm mad at you or blame you," Nancy adds quickly, reaching out to grab your hand. "This isn't about you at all."
You shoot your other hand out to cover hers, squeezing. "I don't feel that way. And I'm sorry that happened. That's not fair to you."
"I just hate fighting with her about this because I understand. I really do." Nancy's voice cracks. "But we don't get to spend time like this. Like normal couples. I don't know..."
You nod slowly, thinking. "You know... I wonder if it'd be hard for her. Being on vacation with her parents where she can't do things like hold your hand or kiss you good morning. She'd be walking on eggshells the whole time because she's so infatuated with you." You lean in conspiratorially. "You like... mesmerize her. It's actually kind of gross how much she stares at you."
Nancy lets out a tearful laugh, a weak smile finally breaking through. "I guess... you're right. Yeah. I didn't think about it like that."
You let a beat go by, both of you sipping your coffee, listening to Eddie and Jonathan bickering about whether hot dogs count as sandwiches. Then you ask quietly, "What did you mean yesterday? About no one truly being happy in this arrangement?"
Nancy's face goes soft, searching yours. She looks past your shoulder, probably at Robin and Steve. "I'm in love with Robin," she says simply, like it's the easiest and hardest thing she's ever admitted. "But I haven't told her because part of me knows that when it comes down to it, she'll always choose Steve first. She has to. It's the deal they made."
Nancy looks back at you, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you want to look away. There's pity there, but also understanding. "Steve doesn't know what he wants in a girl because he'll always choose Robin first too. He has to. That's their future."
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight. The truth settles in your stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. You recall Steve saying last night in the tent, his voice rough with emotion, "There's no one like you, Hot Shot." You'd replied, "There's no one like you, Steve Harrington," and you'd meant it with every fiber of your being.
But maybe he'd only said it to you because of the heat of the moment. Maybe you were just his only chance to pretend his life could be normal, that he could have something real with someone. Maybe you were practice for a life he'd never actually get to live.
You didn't like each other. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. He didn't owe you any promises. This was just sex, just physical, just breaking rules that were already bent beyond recognition.
So whatever buzz and electricity you felt when he looked at you—whatever made your stomach flip and your chest tighten and your brain go fuzzy—you pushed it down. Buried it deep where it couldn't hurt you.
It was better that way.
.You tighten your grip on Nancy's hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, the slight tremor that says she's barely holding it together. "Let me talk to her," you say firmly. "You can still be disappointed, but don't punish yourself by not talking to her. I know it's killing you both. Especially when we're about to go home in a few hours."
Nancy closes her eyes, nodding slowly. Another smile breaks through—small and fragile but genuine. She squeezes your hand back, hard enough that you feel her wedding ring dig into your finger. "Thank you," she says your name like it means something, like you've given her permission to hope.
Eddie whistles sharply, the sound cutting through the morning air. "Hey! Jonathan needs his mandatory group photo before we all scatter to the winds!"
You and Nancy look toward the group. Jonathan is crouched by his camera, which he's set up on a flat rock, angling it strategically to capture the campsite and lake in the background. Eddie is waving both arms over his head like he's trying to flag down a plane. "Come on, ladies! We're losing the light!"
Nancy and you smile at one another—something passing between you that feels like understanding, like friendship solidifying into something real. You both stand, brushing dirt and pine needles off your jeans.
Nancy wastes no time once you reach the group. She pulls Robin into her immediately, wrapping her arms around her and kissing her cheek—soft and lingering, the kind of kiss that says I'm sorry and I missed you and I love you all at once.
Robin looks startled, eyes going wide, but she immediately melts into Nancy's embrace. Her gaze finds yours over Nancy's shoulder, and there's gratitude there, understanding. She knows you said something.
Steve watches them with a soft smile, shaking his head fondly at their dramatics. Then his head turns in your direction. His smile grows wider when he catches your eye, something warm and bright lighting up his features. The morning sun catches in his hair, turning the blonde streaks to gold.
The five of you try to arrange yourselves in the camera frame, shuffling around, trying to make room for Jonathan to run back and join after he sets the timer. But there are too many of you this time, bodies overlapping, someone's head always blocking someone else. Everyone's laughing, the sound bouncing off trees and water, when Steve finally turns to you.
"Hot Shot, get on my back."
You laugh, startled. "What?"
He flashes his teeth—that full, genuine smile that makes your stomach flip—and pats his back, bending his knees in invitation. "Come on. We're running out of time."
So you do, still giggling as you hop onto his back. His hands immediately grip your thighs to steady you, warm and firm, fingers spreading wide across your skin. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you can smell him—pine and lake water and that cologne that's become so familiar it feels like home.
Jonathan peers through the camera lens, giving an enthusiastic thumbs up before clicking the timer. He sprints over, throwing an arm over Eddie's shoulders and nearly knocking him sideways. Nancy and Robin press into one another, Robin's arm around Nancy's waist, Nancy's head on Robin's shoulder. Everyone's smiling—real smiles, not posed ones.
Click.
Steve doesn't make any move to set you down after the photo. In fact, he holds you tighter, his grip shifting from steadying to possessive. Then his feet start moving—slowly at first, then faster, breaking into a run around the campsite.
"Steve!" you shout his name, but it comes out in a fit of giggles, your arms tightening around his neck as he picks up speed. He's laughing too—that full-bodied laugh that makes his shoulders shake, that you can feel reverberating through his back into your chest. He runs past the fire pit, nearly trips over a tent stake, spins in a circle that makes you shriek.
The moment is short-lived. "Hey, dingus!" Robin's voice cuts through your laughter, sharp and summoning. "We need a photo. For our parents."
It's immediate. Steve slows to a stop, breathing hard from the running, and gently sets you down. His hands linger on your waist for a beat longer than necessary before releasing you. You feel your face fall slightly—something deflating in your chest—when he turns to you, ruffling your hair affectionately like you're his kid sister or his buddy, then jogging back over to Robin.
They sit on a wet log near the extinguished fire pit, Robin settling into his lap with practiced ease. They angle themselves for the camera Jonathan is now holding, smiles sliding into place like masks. But they're still good at pretending—convincing, even. You fell for it in the beginning, after all. Though maybe it's because there is true love between them, even if it's platonic. Maybe that's what makes the lie work.
You catch Nancy's eyes watching them too, something complicated passing over her face before she looks away.
You head back to your tent to pack your things, rolling up Steve’s sleeping bag, erasing the taunting evidence, folding clothes that smell like campfire smoke.
The group is all packed up. Tents collapsed and stuffed into bags, coolers loaded, trash collected, but you decide to make one last stop. There's a cliff overlook about a ten-minute drive from the campsite, and Jonathan insists it's worth it for the view.
He's right. When you reach the top, the sight steals your breath. The lake stretches out below, blue-green and glittering in the late morning sun. You can see the curve of the shoreline, the dark shapes of fish moving in the shallows, the ring of mountains in the distance. The sky is so clear it looks like someone took a cloth to it, wiping away every cloud, every imperfection. Birds wheel overhead, their calls echoing across the water.
You're all standing there, looking, breathing in the clean air that smells like pine and water and freedom, when Eddie pulls out a cigarette. He lights it, takes a long drag, then flicks it to the side where it lands in dirt.
And then he starts stripping.
"Munson, what are you doing?" Robin asks with disgust, but she can't help laughing as he stumbles trying to remove his boots while also attempting to pull his shirt over his head. It's a disaster of flailing limbs and cursing.
He gets down to his boxers, plaid and riding dangerously low on his hips, and flashes a smile at the group, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Then he's running toward the edge of the cliff, legs pumping, arms windmilling, letting out a loud "WHOOOOP!" that echoes off the rocks as he spins mid-air and crashes into the water far below.
The splash is enormous, water fountaining up.
"Oh my god," Robin groans, but she's smiling.
Jonathan and Steve exchange a look—eyes lighting up with matching mischief, that silent communication of boys who are about to do something stupid together. They follow Eddie's lead, stripping off their clothes down to their underwear.
You feel heat flood your cheeks looking at Steve standing there bare-chested in the sunlight. His belly is soft, that slight curve you've traced with your fingers. The scars on his torso are pale against his tan, thin white lines you've learned by heart. And there, on his collarbone, are small bruises forming, purple and tender, shaped like your mouth. Evidence from last night.
The two boys don't hesitate. They run together, legs pumping in sync, and launch themselves off the cliff with matching yells—limbs flailing wildly in the air before they plunge into the water below.
Nancy, you, and Robin all look at one another. A beat passes. Then you shrug simultaneously, a silent agreement passing between you.
You start stripping down to your underwear and bra—practical cotton, nothing sexy, but you're still self-conscious as Nancy's eyes land on the marks scattered across your neck and chest.
"Wow! When did you get that?" Nancy laughs, pointing at the small tattoo on your hip that you keep forgetting about.
You groan, covering it with your hand. "Never let me be drunk around Eddie's friend Gareth again. Or drunk in general. Or around tattoo equipment."
All three of you dissolve into laughter. Robin hooks her arm through yours, then grabs Nancy's hand, linking all three of you together in a chain.
You don't run immediately. Instead, you walk to the edge of the cliff and look down. It's farther than you expected—the boys look small from up here, treading water and looking up at you expectantly. They start cheering, voices carrying up on the wind.
You see Steve looking at you specifically, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. He whistles—loud and appreciative—and splashes water toward the sky.
"Now or never?" you ask, heart pounding in your ears.
The other two nervously laugh, repeating your words like a prayer or a dare. "Now or never."
You take a step back together, still linked, then break apart as you run. Your feet pound against rock, legs pumping, and then there's nothing—you're flying, suspended in air with the sun on your face and the wind rushing past your ears. For a moment you're weightless, free, untethered from everything that's complicated and heavy and confusing.
Then you're plunging into the water—cold shock stealing your breath, the world going muffled and blue-green. You kick toward the surface, breaking through with a gasp, hair plastered to your face, laughing because you're alive and exhilarated and this is perfect.
Everyone is laughing, smiling. The water is cool but not freezing, the sun warm on your shoulders.
Eddie lays on his back, floating away with his arms spread like a starfish, face tilted toward the sky. Steve does the same, drifting in lazy circles. Jonathan starts swimming toward something that caught his eye. Nancy follows him, their heads close together as they talk.
Leaving you and Robin treading water a few yards apart. You watch your friends scatter across the lake, all of them in their own worlds.
Robin looks sideways at you, then down at the water. "I'm sorry."
You look over at her, surprised. "What for?"
Robin sighs, the sound heavy. "About... getting mad at you for something you can't control. I know you were being safe, and I know it could've been Sammy's as much as Steve's." She pauses, gathering courage. "I was pissed off because Steve tells me everything, and... whenever I ask about you, he never wants to talk about it. Like you're this separate part of his life I'm not allowed into."
She looks at you now, eyes earnest. "Steve was the first person I came out to. And I don't know, I felt maybe a little threatened? Like you two were closer friends because you're sleeping together. And I know that's selfish, but I've been feeling left out. And I know that's partly my fault because of me spending so much time talking to Nancy, and we both agreed we're only going to do two phone calls a week now instead of every night—"
Robin is rambling now, words tumbling over each other, fast and panicked and so quintessentially her that you can't help but laugh.
You surge forward, engulfing Robin in a hug that nearly dunks you both underwater. "I'm sorry too," you mutter against her wet hair. "I should've told you. About all of it."
"God, I've missed you," Robin cries into your neck, her arms wrapping tight around you.
"I've missed you, Rob." Your own voice cracks, tears mixing with lake water as you hold onto her tighter.
You break apart after a moment, both teary-eyed but laughing now, the heaviness lifting. You splash Robin lightly, and she immediately retaliates, sending water into your face. You shriek and splash back harder.
Robin's laughter fades slightly, her expression going more serious. "I hate being an asshole sometimes. I guess I was getting worried you have feelings for Steve."
Your stomach knots immediately, tying itself into complicated shapes. You keep your face carefully neutral, not letting anything show.
Robin laughs—incredulous, like the idea is absurd. "I mean, you don't, right? Nothing's changed in that area?"
Your gaze drifts across the water to where Steve has found his way onto a flat rock with Eddie. He's sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, dripping with lake water, head tilted back toward the sun with his eyes closed. The light catches on the water droplets sliding down his chest, turning them to diamonds. Your heart stutters looking at the way the sun gleams down on him, painting him in gold and making him look like something out of a painting.
You think back to your conversation with Nancy. He'll always choose Robin first. That's their future, their deal, their life. The thought is cold water poured over the warmth blooming in your chest, extinguishing it.
You shake your head, forcing a scoff. "Nope. Still don't like him like that." The lie tastes bitter on your tongue. "We're friends. That's all."
Robin blows out a puff of air, visibly relieved, and starts floating on her back. "Thank god. That would make everything so complicated."
You follow her lead, floating backward partly to cool off but mostly because you don't want Robin to see your fallen expression, the way your mouth wants to turn down at the corners, the way tears threaten again for entirely different reasons.
You hear Robin speak again, her voice drifting across the water. "Thank you for talking to Nancy, too. I know I should have told her myself, but I felt so embarrassed." She pauses. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to tell my parents it'll be just me. As much as I want you there, I think... I think it’ll be better to go by myself."
You nod. "It’s really okay, Rob."
A beat goes by, both of you floating in companionable silence, the sun warm on your faces. Then you sit up suddenly, eyes lit up with an idea. "Wait. Are you required to go on this vacation?"
Robin furrows her brows, treading water now to stay upright. "Uh... no, I guess not. Why?"
You smile big, excitement bubbling up. "Who's stopping us from doing our own spring break trip?"
As if on cue, Jonathan and Nancy swim up to join you. Jonathan's camera is safely back on shore, but he looks happier than you've seen him all weekend. "You guys could come see me in Miami," he offers. "I'm flying out there for a few weeks. Working on a film. There's beach access and everything."
Robin's eyes glimmer, her whole face lighting up. She looks at Nancy, who looks equally enthralled, practically vibrating with excitement. They squeal in unison, coming together in a flurry of kisses—quick pecks all over each other's faces, hands cupping cheeks, foreheads pressed together.
"Let's do it!" Robin practically shouts.
You and Jonathan laugh at their enthusiasm.
Robin turns and looks at the boys lounging several yards away on their rock. "Hey, lovebirds! Spring break in Miami?"
Steve and Eddie look at one another. You can't hear what they're saying, but you see Eddie's exaggerated gestures, see Steve's mouth moving in response. Then they both look back at your group and put their thumbs up in perfect synchronization.
A few minutes later, Robin and Nancy decide to climb back up to the parking area. They need to change into dry clothes, and you suspect they also want a few extra minutes alone together before you all depart, probably catching up on all the time they wasted being upset with one another, probably kissing where no one can see.
Jonathan and Eddie decide to head up too, stomachs rumbling. When Eddie asks if Steve and you are coming, Steve gives a small shake of his head and a knowing look. Eddie and Jonathan exchange smirks before climbing up the cliff path, their laughter echoing back down.
When they're out of sight, Steve still makes no move toward you. He remains on his rock, water dripping from his hair, running in rivulets down his chest. You can see his sun-kissed nose, turned slightly pink from exposure.
You slip back into the water, but you don't swim away. Instead, you wade over to his rock and slot yourself between his legs, hands coming to rest on his knees. The water is cool around your waist, but his skin is warm where your fingers touch.
Steve leans back on his hands, looking down at you with a soft expression that makes something flutter in your chest.
"Can I ask a question?" you say finally.
"Shoot," Steve answers, tilting his head.
"When was the last time you kissed someone?"
Steve opens his mouth, brows furrowing slightly.
"The last time you kissed someone before me," you clarify.
Steve thinks, his eyes going distant. "I dunno... maybe senior year? Prom, I think. Some girl whose name I can't remember." He focuses back on you, suddenly looking uncertain. "Why? Am I... a bad kisser?"
You laugh, the sound bright in the quiet space between you. "No, Steve. You're not a bad kisser." Your brow quirks playfully. "Am I?"
He kicks one foot lazily in the water, splashing you lightly. "'Course you're not, Hot Shot," he teases, voice going warm and affectionate. He tilts his head, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
"Another question."
"Nuh-uh, it's my turn," he argues, a smile tugging at his mouth.
You roll your eyes, but there's no heat in it. Your hands fold on top of one of his legs, and you lay your head there, looking up at him. "Fine. What?"
His playfulness fades, replaced by something more serious. "Did you really mean it? When you said you would've said yes about only sleeping with each other?" The words are delicate, fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly. His eyes are soft and searching, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart ache.
"I don't know." You hold his gaze. "Did you really end it with the others?"
"Yeah," Steve says firmly, no hesitation. Then more cautiously, "Did you really end things with Sammy?"
You bite your lip, nodding. "Yeah."
Silence settles between you. Your head is still resting on his leg, and Steve starts throwing small rocks into the water—plink, plink, plink. Each one sends out ripples that catch the sunlight, creating patterns across the surface. You can hear birds calling and Eddie's distant laughter carrying down from the parking area.
The water laps gently against the rocks, a rhythmic sound that's almost hypnotic. You can smell the lake. It’s all fresh and clean with a hint of algae underneath, and the sunscreen from earlier that's mostly washed off but still clings faintly to your skin.
"What are you thinking about?" you ask quietly.
Steve smiles, throwing another rock. It skips once before sinking. "About how nervous I am about the test I need to take. To see if I can get into the College of Education." He pauses, jaw working. "I'm not exactly a great test taker. Gonna be studying my ass off this week and through spring break."
"I can help," you offer immediately, lifting your head to look at him properly.
"Yeah?" His eyes light up, hopeful.
"I'm a great tutor," you say with mock arrogance, grinning. "No one's ever complained before."
"Yeah, I'm sure it's because of your tutoring skills," Steve says dryly, but his mouth is twitching with suppressed laughter.
"What's that supposed to mean?" You splash him, genuinely offended now.
Steve laughs outright, the sound echoing across the water. He leans forward, his belly folding slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. He reaches out and moves a strand of wet hair from your face, fingers lingering on your cheek. "You're cute, Hot Shot."
And there's something different about the way being called cute makes you feel coming from him. Your cheeks warm despite the cool water, and your head feels dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the sun or the altitude or the fact that you just jumped off a cliff.
Steve cups your face with one hand, thumb stroking your cheekbone. "You're always asking others what they're thinking, what they want to do. Why don't you ever talk about yourself?"
Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You shrug, trying to deflect. "I talk about myself."
His other hand comes up to cup the other side of your face, holding you gently but firmly, making you look at him. His eyes are deep pools of hazel—gold and green and brown all swirling together. "Yeah, but I want to know you."
"You do know me," you say with a small laugh.
"You know what I mean," Steve mumbles, his eyes pooling with something you're afraid to name.
Your face cracks into a smile despite yourself. "I used to want to be a ballerina."
"Yeah?" Steve asks, genuinely interested.
You laugh, nodding. "Yeah, but I never made it because, believe it or not, I have two left feet. Can't dance to save my life."
He barks out a laugh, disbelieving. "Bullshit. I've seen you dance."
"Steve, dancing at parties or clubs is way different." You grin up at him. "Dry-humping to music is not the same as actual dancing."
They share a laugh—genuine and unguarded—and Steve brushes his thumb across your cheek again, touch feather-light. "Well, I think you would've looked cute in a tutu anyway."
You finally close the distance, stretching up to place a soft, chaste kiss on his lips. He tastes like lake water and sunshine and something sweeter underneath.
.-.-.-.
You weren't ready to say goodbye to Nancy when the time came, but you promised to actually call this time—not to let weeks go by in silence. You told Jonathan it was nice meeting him, that you'd see him in Miami for spring break.
You're walking toward Eddie's van, bags in hand, when Robin grabs them from you. "I'm going to ride with Steve on the way back!" she announces brightly. "We need to talk spring break plans, figure out flights and hotels and all that boring adult stuff." She kisses your cheek, already bouncing with excitement. "I'll see you when we both get back!"
You catch Steve's eye over Robin's shoulder. He smiles at you, soft and private, meant only for you, before climbing into his BMW.
You get into Eddie's van, settling into the passenger seat. The drive home is quieter than the drive there—Eddie is clearly sleepy, yawning every few minutes, and you're exhausted too, bone-deep tired in the best way. You watch the landscape blur past, trees giving way to fields giving way to the outskirts of campus.
Eddie helps you get your bags when you pull up to your dorm. And laughably, absurdly, your forgotten tent and sleeping bag are still on the sidewalk where he'd left them days ago. You both stare at them for a moment before dissolving into laughter.
When you get to your room, Robin is already there—sitting cross-legged on her bed with a fresh pizza box open and two face masks laid out on her desk.
You spend the evening catching up properly, no more walls between you. You tell her about getting wasted when she left after their fight, and she tells you about how she miserably hung around Eddie and Steve. You eat pizza until you're uncomfortably full, do face masks that smell like cucumber and make your skin feel tight, and laugh until your stomach hurts.
When you're both tucked into bed, lights out, Robin sighs wistfully into the darkness. "Please don't tell her, but I think I'm in love with Nancy."
Your smile is immediate, heart bursting with happiness for her, but also sad, thinking about Nancy saying the same thing to you at the lake. Two people in love who can't fully tell each other because of circumstances beyond their control. Or maybe that was just an excuse everyone keeps putting out there instead of facing their fears.
Robin starts snoring within minutes, but you can't sleep. Your mind won't shut off, replaying moments from the weekend. Steve's laugh, his hands on your face, the way he looked at you in the water.
Tap.
You groan, rolling over. Probably someone pranking the dorms.
Tap. Tap.
You sit up, annoyed now, and tiptoe to the window so you don't wake Robin. You look down, and your eyes go wide. A smile breaks across your face so suddenly it almost hurts.
Standing below your window is a boy with glasses, grinning up at you like an idiot, rocking back on his heels.
You run to your bedside lamp and turn it on—just bright enough to see by. You come back to the window and mouth dramatically, exaggerating each word: What are you doing?
He motions at you, then points down at the ground, telling you to come outside.
You make a show of looking at your wrist, pointing at an imaginary watch, mouthing, It’s late!
Steve shrugs, then clasps his hands together in front of his chest, lip puckering out in an exaggerated pout. Begging.
You roll your eyes, sighing loud enough that he probably can't hear but can definitely see. You hold up one finger—one minute—and watch his smile get impossibly wider, lighting up his whole face.
You throw on your robe to cover your pajamas, shove your feet into slippers, and creep out of the room as quietly as possible.
You find Steve outside, hands shoved in his pockets, still rocking back on his heels like he's nervous. "Steve," you whisper-yell, approaching him. "It's midnight. What are you doing here?"
"I..." He looks around like someone might be listening. "I wanted to see you."
Your smile is immediate, soft and helpless. Steve glances around one more time, then grabs your hand and pulls you behind a big oak tree that shields you from view of the parking lot and any windows that might have nosy people looking out.
He leans back against the rough bark, pulling you toward him until you're standing between his legs. His hands come up to brush your hair behind your ears, fingers lingering on your jaw.
He smells like lake water still—like he didn't bother showering when he got back. But underneath that is your scent too, clinging to his skin from this morning, from last night, from every time you've touched.
Steve doesn't say anything. He messes with the tie on your robe, rubbing his hands up and down your arms over the fabric. You plant your hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat under your palms, then move them up to his neck, burying your fingers in his hair. It's still slightly damp.
"Hi," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
"Hi," you answer, leaning in to peck him on the lips. You giggle when the sparse hairs on his upper lip tickle your skin.
The kissing is languid, slow, neither of you in any rush. Steve pulls you closer, hands spanning your waist, thumbs rubbing circles on your hipbones. Your hands trail across his shoulders, down his back, sliding into the back pockets of his jeans to pull his hips flush against yours.
"Steve," you murmur between kisses, his lips chasing after yours every time you pull back even slightly. "I have an early class in the morning."
He sighs against your mouth, gripping your waist tighter. "Can I see you tomorrow?" He pauses, then corrects himself. "Or I guess later today, technically."
You smile against his lips, eyes fluttering open to look at him through your lashes. "When?"
"After Pike's chapter meeting? We get done at eight." His thumbs are still drawing those circles, making it hard to think. "You can come over after. Quiet hours start at nine on weekdays, so most of the guys go to their rooms to study. We'll have the common area to ourselves."
He brings your joined hands up, rubbing his thumbs across your knuckles in that way he does when he's nervous or thinking hard about something.
You nod, biting your lip to contain your smile. "Okay. But only because I'm making you study."
"Right," Steve says, but his eyes are on your mouth. "Study. That's definitely what we'll do."
"I'm serious, Harrington." But you're laughing, pulling him down for another kiss.
He kisses you like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like tomorrow might not come, like this moment is all that exists.
And for now, standing under the oak tree with Steve's arms around you and his heart beating under your palm, maybe it is.
It was a lie.
Monday night finds you in Steve's lap on the edge of his bed, the study materials scattered and forgotten on the sheets beside you. His textbook has been tossed to the floor, spine cracked from landing face-down on the carpet.
You're straddling him, legs bracketing his hips, and his hands are on your waist—have been on your waist for the past twenty minutes—gripping and releasing in rhythm with your kisses. He's wearing his glasses, and you can see your reflection in them when you pull back for air.
This is entirely your fault. You'd made the grave tactical error of telling him he could have one kiss for every answer he got right on the practice questions.
Steve, it turns out, is much smarter than he lets on.
He'd gotten the first three right immediately, claiming his kisses with a smugness that should have annoyed you but instead made you laugh. By question seven, you'd abandoned the notecard system entirely and ended up here—on his lap, his mouth on yours, everything else forgotten.
His room is dim, only one lamp on in the corner casting warm yellow light across. The house is quiet around you, the faint sound of Buck’s stereo bleeding through the walls through the bathrrom, bass thumping in a rhythm you can feel in your chest. Outside, a car passes on the street, headlights sweeping across the windows before disappearing.
His mouth moves against yours slow and thorough, like you're both teenagers discovering what kissing is for the first time—all exploration and wonder and the thrill of something new. His lips are soft, slightly chapped, and when he parts them to deepen the kiss, you taste mint gum and the Coke he'd been drinking earlier.
Your hands are in his hair, fingers threading through the strands and tugging gently. Steve makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—and his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you closer until there's no space between your bodies.
"You're supposed to be studying," you murmur against his mouth, but there's no conviction in your voice.
"I am studying," Steve says, and you can feel his smile against your lips. "Human anatomy."
You laugh, pulling back to look at him. His glasses are slightly crooked, hair mussed from your fingers, lips pink and swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, eyes dark behind the lenses, pupils blown wide.
You tug his hair in retaliation, and he groans—properly this time, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. His hands slide from your waist to your hips, thumbs pressing into the divots there, and when he kisses you again it's slower, deeper, more intense.
The room feels smaller somehow, the air thicker. You're hyperaware of everything—the heat of his body beneath you, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the slide of his tongue against yours, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something underneath that's purely him.
"Steve," you breathe, and you're not sure if it's a warning or a plea.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked, and when you open your eyes his are already on you, searching your face.
"You need to pass it."
"I know," he says again, softer this time. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "But right now, I need this more."
The house settles back into quiet, and you stay there in Steve's lap, kissing him like you have all the time in the world, like there's nothing else that matters beyond this moment, this room, this boy— your very good friend— looking at you like you hung the moon.
.-.-.-.
On Tuesday, you're in the library with Robin, hunched over your shared American Literature textbook, halfway through an essay on Hemingway's symbolism when a shadow falls across your notebook.
You look up, eyes widening slightly when you see Sammy standing at the edge of your table. He's readjusting the leather strap of his satchel across his chest, shifting his weight from foot to foot in a way that broadcasts his discomfort.
Robin glances between you and Sammy, then back down at her paper with exaggerated focus, pretending she's not listening even though you can see her ears practically perked.
"Hey," Sammy says, and his voice is careful, measured.
"Hey," you greet, setting your pencil down, giving him your full attention because it feels like the least you can do.
Sammy clears his throat, eyes darting to Robin for a second before landing back on you. He swallows. "Look, uh... I was cleaning my room and you left some stuff there."
"Oh," you say, and the word comes out flat. "Okay."
He continues quickly, like he needs to get the words out before he loses his nerve. "I didn't really want to bring them to class and make it a big deal. George would never let me hear the end of it." A small, self-deprecating smile. "So whenever you want, you can come pick them up."
"Right. Okay." The awkwardness sits heavy between you, thick enough to cut.
"Okay. Yeah. See you later then." His mouth twitches at the corner—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace—and then he glances at Robin who was definitely staring. Her head snaps back to her paper so fast you're surprised she doesn't get whiplash.
Once he's gone, disappeared between the stacks of books, Robin watches his retreating form, tracking him until he's completely out of sight. You look back down at your paper, trying to refocus on Hemingway's iceberg theory, but you can feel Robin's gaze boring into the side of your head.
"What?" you ask without looking up.
Robin sighs, the sound heavy and pointed. "I don't get you."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, look—I'm not into boys, I've made that clear." She gestures vaguely in the direction Sammy disappeared. "But Sammy is objectively hot, and he's clearly still totally into you." She shakes her head, genuine confusion coloring her features. "And you're... what? Not interested?"
You look up then, stomach sinking because you know what she's not saying. You know that even though Sammy never said it explicitly, he never actually wanted casual. You saw it in the way he looked at you, the way he asked you out properly instead of suggesting you hook up. You've played around with the idea—the what if. What if you gave him a real chance?
But for what? To be another dead-end relationship that runs its course and leaves you both awkward around each other for the rest of college?
What you have with Steve—being friends who sleep together, no expectations, no pressure—that's better. Right? You don't want to be serious with anyone. Right?
So you make up an excuse, shrugging like it's simple. "I mean, sure, he's cute. But there really wasn't anything there when we were seeing each other. I don't think he actually knows me. Like, he probably couldn't tell you what my favorite color is."
Robin snorts, mumbling something under her breath that you don't quite catch.
You set your pencil down, eyebrows raised, arms crossing over your chest. "Got something to say?" you ask, amused smile playing at your lips.
But Robin's face shifts—serious and playful at the same time, like her lips are ghosting the edge of a smile but her eyes look sad. "Babe, you don't really give people the chance to know you." She pauses, voice gentling. "I mean, you're my best friend and I'm still trying to figure you out."
Your stomach drops, Robin's words echoing Steve's from the lake. You're always asking others what they're thinking... Why don't you ever talk about yourself?
Later, when you've both packed up your things and the library has started its closing announcements, you glance at your watch. Eight.
You walk out of the building together, cool evening air hitting your faces, and you slow your pace. "You go on ahead. Don't wait up—I'll be back to the dorm later."
Robin's eyebrows shoot up, a knowing grin spreading across her face. "Oh, I see. You're going to do a late-night 'get my things from Sammy' run?"
The lie sits on your tongue, ready and waiting. "Yeah."
Because really, twenty minutes later you're pushing through the unlocked front door of the Pike house, climbing the familiar stairs, your heart rate picking up with each step. You can hear muffled music from behind closed doors, voices and laughter echoing through the halls.
When you reach Steve's room, you tap lightly on the doorframe. He's sitting at his desk, feet propped up on the edge, phone pressed to his ear, and when he looks over his face breaks into a grin that makes your chest feel too tight.
"Yeah," he says into the receiver, holding out his free hand and waving you over.
Steve plants his feet on the ground as you close the door behind you and cross to him. You don't hesitate, settling yourself on one of his legs, his thigh warm and solid beneath you. You look at the scattered papers on his desk. There’s practice questions, flashcards, his textbook open to a chapter on educational psychology.
His free hand finds your back immediately, scratching up and down absentmindedly, nails dragging lightly over your shirt. You can hear the faint voice on the other end. It’s high-pitched and animated, rambling on about something, but Steve doesn't look bored. If anything, he's listening intently, nodding even though the person can't see him.
"Yeah, I'm good. Was studying before you called." He pauses, then says your name casually. "She's here."
A beat of silence, then he rolls his eyes. "No, shut up."
You can hear loud, exaggerated kissing noises coming through the receiver. Steve groans, face flushing slightly. "Stop it, Max."
A loud cackle on the other end makes you smile. Steve listens to whatever she's saying, then, "Yeah, sure. Hold on." He holds the phone out to you. "Max says she wants to talk to you."
You take it gladly, bringing it to your ear. "Hey, Max!"
"Hey! How are you?" Her voice is warm, familiar, and you smile when Steve wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you closer against him, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Good. I'm ready for spring break, though." You sigh, then jump slightly when Steve places a kiss on the junction where your shoulder meets your neck. You swat at his face when he chuckles, clearly planning to do it again.
Max sighs on the other end. "I'm stuck working at the arcade all week. But Steve tells me you guys are going to Miami?"
"Yeah, I've never been, so I'm excited." This time when Steve kisses your neck, you stick your finger in his mouth. He bites down gently, laughing, then licks your finger, making you pull it out and wipe it on his polo shirt with a disgusted laugh.
Max hums knowingly. "I'm sure you are," she says, sing-song and teasing.
You don't have time to ask what she means before she continues. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, what's up?" you ask, mouthing stop it to Steve who's started getting handsy, his fingers walking up your ribs.
Max hesitates. You hear her soft sigh, the sound of her chewing on her lip. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more private. "How did you know you were ready?"
"Ready?" Your eyes go wide as understanding dawns. "Oh!"
Panic flutters in your chest. Is this appropriate? Should you be having this conversation with her?
Max's breath is shaky on the other end. "I'm sorry. I don't really talk to my mom about this stuff, and I don't have a big sister or anything. And I feel weird asking Steve." She rushes on. "You don't have to answer—"
"No," you interrupt gently, looking at Steve who's clearly gotten the hint to back off. He's returned to concentrating on his schoolwork, though he still drops soft kisses on your shoulder occasionally. "It's okay, really. I don't know... I was about your age, I guess. Are you... wanting to?"
Steve looks at you then, brows furrowed, confusion clear on his face.
You hear Max groan, followed by a thump like she's thrown herself onto her bed. "No... yes... I don't know. Prom is coming up and..." She trails off, then continues quietly. "I don't want to have sex with Lucas because we're dating and I love him, you know? Like, I don't want that to be the only reason."
You smile to yourself, standing from Steve's lap despite his immediate protest. You hold up one finger—one minute—and take the phone into his bathroom, closing the door behind you so you can talk more freely without freaking Steve out.
"Has he been asking?" you ask, settling on the edge of the bathtub.
"No, he's really respectful. He knows not to push boundaries. But I can tell he wants to. I mean..." She laughs, slightly embarrassed. "He is a boy."
You think for a moment, choosing your words carefully. "It's okay to talk to him about it, you know? To get on the same page. And it doesn't have to be this big thing because of prom. It can happen whenever you want. No pressure. You're never really ready—in a relationship or not—but that doesn't mean you shouldn't do it."
You hear hesitation on Max's end, the sound of shifting blankets.
"Look," you say softly, "you're right that loving him and dating him doesn't mean you owe him sex. The bigger question is: do you trust him?"
Max thinks, and when she speaks again there's a smile in her voice. "Yeah. I do."
"Then I think you're ready to at least talk about it with him. And it sounds like he loves you enough to be okay with whatever you want. Sex or no sex."
"Yeah... okay. You're right. Thank you."
"No problem."
A beat passes, comfortable and easy, before Max asks, voice careful, "Do you love Steve?"
Your breath hitches. You swallow hard, fingers tightening around the phone. "He's my friend," you say slowly, "and I trust him."
"That's not what I asked."
You close your eyes, and behind your lids you can see Steve—hunched over his desk, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, one hand running through his hair in concentration. "Probably," you admit quietly. "But not in the way you love Lucas."
Even as the words leave your mouth, something twists in your chest. Guilt, maybe, like you're lying. The same feeling you got when you lied to Robin earlier about going to see Sammy instead of Steve.
But you're not lying. You don't have romantic feelings for him. And if you don't like him romantically, how could you be in love with him?
.-.-.-.
On Wednesday, after Steve finishes his volunteer shift at the rec center, you end up in his room again. You're sitting cross-legged on his bed, wearing one of his sweatshirts because you claimed it was "cold," even though the radiator is pumping heat into the small space.
Steve is in his desk chair—deliberately positioned far away from you—wearing only pajama pants, chest bare, hair damp and darkening the pillow when he tips his head back. He showered after volunteering, and you can still smell his soap, clean and fresh.
You have his study guide in your lap, asking questions, and he's getting most of them right. One or two trip him up, but overall he's improving.
Finally, you look at him, smiling. "Why are you so worried about this?"
Steve has been staring up at the ceiling, but at your question his eyes find yours. His mouth parts slightly, and in the lamplight you can see how much his hair has grown out, the blonde nearly gone now, absorbed back into dark brown like highlights fading with the seasons. The mustache he hasn't shaved is more prominent, and you spent an embarrassing amount of time in the rec center parking lot earlier kissing him, tracing your finger over his upper lip while he laughed.
His face falls slightly, jaw ticking. You watch the nervous way he breathes, see him tuck the pencil in his hand behind his ear.
"My dad isn't too happy I decided on this," he says finally, voice quiet. "But my mom talked him into at least accepting it. He said if I screw this up, he's gonna stop sending checks to the school." He pauses, and you see the weight of it in his eyes. "And sure, I have some money saved. I could get a job, try to make it work. But I'd probably have to drop out of Pike."
His eyes droop at the thought, and even though he wouldn't say it out loud, you can see it—he actually enjoys being in the fraternity. Not for the parties or the status, but for the brotherhood, the structure, the way they hold each other accountable.
Months ago, you would've believed it was all about popularity and beer pong. But Robin mentioned a few weeks ago that Pike was in talks about becoming the number one fraternity on campus because of their successful philanthropy events and the way their collective GPA had spiked since Steve became president.
You frown, something protective and angry rising in your chest. "Why do you let him do that? Make decisions for you. Dictate your life."
Steve shrugs, the gesture trying for casual but landing somewhere closer to defeated. "I don't blame him. I've never really shown him any reason to believe I'm hardworking." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I was a lost cause in high school. Probably only graduated because my mom was on the PTA and people respected her. Honestly, I think I'm scared of her a little more than my dad." He pauses. "But it doesn't help that he had to do damage control when the accident with Billy happened. I'm sure he's tired of me being a screw-up."
The anger bubbles hotter inside you, pressing against your ribs. You don't know why this bothers you so much—why hearing Steve tear himself down makes you want to shake him, or his father, or both of them. You can't force Steve to see the truth, and you can't force his father to either. Like father, like son—they're both stubborn, both set in their ways.
"How does your mom feel about you choosing this?" you ask, voice gentler.
Steve's face softens, a real smile appearing. "She thought it was great. I think she's already talking to people at Hawkins High, making sure they'll have a student teaching spot for me when the time comes." He chuckles. "I think she wants me back home, though."
"Your mom sounds nice."
"Yeah." He sighs, and then—like the words slip out before he can stop them—"She'd like you."
Your cheeks heat, warmth spreading down your neck. "You think?"
"Yeah," he says, matter-of-fact, but there's a shy quality to it too. A blush creeping up his cheeks. "She'd appreciate that you don't put up with my shit but also let me figure things out on my own." He laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "That you call me out when I need it."
He looks at you shyly, and for a second you're both imagining the same thing—you can feel it hanging in the air between you.
Taking you back to Hawkins one weekend. Introducing you to his parents. His mom pulling you away while Steve and his dad watch a game, showing you embarrassing baby photos. Maybe sharing a glass of wine while she tells you stories about Steve as a kid, the trouble he got into, the sweet things he did that he'd never admit to now.
Steve stands from his chair abruptly, breaking the moment. He gets on his knees at the end of the bed, and there's something predatory in the way he moves—slow and purposeful, eyes locked on yours. He crawls up the mattress toward you, hands and knees pressing into the comforter, muscles in his arms flexing with each movement. His chest is bare, skin golden in the lamplight, and you can see every rise and fall of his breathing.
He grabs your ankle gently, thumb pressing into the bone there, and places a kiss on the inside of your ankle. Then he kisses up your calf, slow and reverent, his mustache tickling your skin. He pauses at your knee, then continues up your thigh, and you can feel the heat of his breath on your skin.
He hovers over where you want him most, smiling up at you with that cocky grin before deliberately skipping it entirely. He kisses your stomach through his sweatshirt instead, then burrows his face there, wrapping his arms around your waist and laying his weight between your legs.
"Stay over," he mumbles into the fabric.
"Why?" you ask, and in your head you're thinking maybe he wants to have sex, wants to finish what he's started.
"'Cause I want to wake up to you again."
Your stomach flips, a smile spreading across your face that you can't control. You bite your lip. "Okay," you whisper.
The next morning, Steve does what he promised. He wakes you early enough that you'll have time to go back to your dorm and get ready for class. The room is still dim, early morning light barely filtering through the curtains.
"Hey," he says softly, and you feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge. "I have breakfast for you."
You rub your eyes, expecting to see another sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit from wherever Sammy and Eddie got it. Instead, he's holding a plate of Eggo waffles covered in melting butter and thick, warm syrup.
You eat them right there in his bed, sitting up against his pillows, watching him get ready for his morning class. He moves around the room in his boxers, pulling on jeans, finding a clean shirt, running his fingers through his hair in the mirror.
When it's time to leave, Steve drives you back to your dorm. He can't get out to walk you to the door—too risky, too visible—but when the coast is clear he pulls you close and kisses you softly, his hand cupping your jaw.
"Hey," he says when you pull back, fingers catching yours. "Can I take you... I mean, can we hang out tonight?"
"I have plans with Robin to study in the library," you say, frowning slightly.
"Okay. After?" He's persistent, thumb rubbing circles on your knuckles. "Unless you're sick of me."
You laugh, leaning in to kiss him again. "No, it's cute. Okay, after. I'm all yours, Harrington."
When you and Robin are deep in your textbooks that evening, buried in a corner of the library surrounded by highlighters and note cards, Steve drops his backpack next to Robin with a soft thud. His eyes catch yours immediately—a private smile, a shared secret—before he leans down and kisses Robin's cheek.
It turns into them finalizing details about spring break. Robin's parents didn't mind her skipping the family vacation to Canada, were actually relieved they wouldn't have to navigate a political dinner with their daughter's restless energy. Tickets and hotels have been booked. A few nights ago, Steve had asked if your rooms could be next to each other, and you'd both known without saying it that one of those rooms would never be slept in.
Nancy and Robin have their own room. Eddie is sharing with Jonathan. And you and Steve have rooms that share a wall.
You fly out Sunday.
During their conversation, Steve's hand sneaks under the table. His arm reaches, fingers brushing your knee in a touch so light it could be accidental. Your eyes catch across the table when Robin isn't looking, both of you smiling shyly, like teenagers passing notes in class.
You slowly move your hand under the table too, placing it on your knee next to his. His finger traces circles on your knuckles, and the simple touch sends warmth radiating up your arm.
Robin finally sighs, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Okay, Nancy's waiting for my call, so I'm heading out."
She quirks an eyebrow at you, catching the way you're smiling at your homework—not because of Hemingway, but because Steve's fingers are now fully laced with yours under the table. "Are you going to be out late again?" She winks. "Or like last night when you didn't come home at all?"
You realize Robin probably still thinks you're doing late-night visits to Sammy's room, not sneaking off with her pretend boyfriend who she thinks is still an occasional hookup.
Steve lets go of your hand, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. His cocky smile spreads across his face, head tilting, and you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes.
You roll your eyes. "I don't know. I'll see if I feel like it."
Steve bites back a laugh, lips pressed together.
Robin snorts. "Yeah, okay." She kicks the leg of Steve's chair. "Drive me back, please."
Steve furrows his brows. "Why can't you walk?"
"Because it's dark and I don't feel like it," she says, already standing and gathering her things.
Steve looks at you before grumbling something under his breath, quickly scribbling a last-minute note on his homework and shoving things into his backpack. His hand settles on Robin's back, ready to guide her out, and as they turn to leave he catches your eye.
"See you soon, Hot Shot," he says, winking.
His eyes dart meaningfully to the paper he left on the table—deliberate and unnoticed by Robin who's already calling goodbye over her shoulder.
Once they're gone, and after you've shamelessly watched Steve walk away (the way his jeans fit around his ass is truly unfair), you pick up the piece of paper.
parking lot. fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes later, you're sliding into the passenger seat of Steve's car, throwing your book bag behind you. He laughs when you plant a wet kiss on his cheek, and the sound fills the small space.
"Have a good day?" you ask, finally able to talk freely without Robin around.
"Yeah." He grabs your hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing your knuckles. "And now it's even better. What about you?"
You smile. "Same here."
You linger there, caught in the warmth of shared smiles, basking in whatever the hell is happening between you. It's starting to cross a dangerous line—the line between friends and something more—but you push the thought down, bury it deep.
"I want to show you something," Steve says.
"Okay," you answer, clicking your seatbelt into place.
Steve doesn't take long to drive you across campus to the STEM building. It looms in the darkness, all glass and modern architecture, completely dark except for a few security lights glowing near the entrances.
It's after hours, but Steve still takes your hand, pulling you toward the doors with purpose.
"Steve, what are you doing?" you whisper. "The building is locked."
He chuckles, pulling out a keychain with a single key, swinging it around his forefinger with a cocky smile. He slides it into the lock and the door opens with a soft click. He holds the door open high, his other hand motioning you forward. "Ladies first."
You hesitate, looking at him, scoffing at his audacity. But despite yourself, you duck under his arm and enter the dark building.
The door shuts behind you, engulfing you both in pitch black. Steve comes up behind you immediately, hands on your waist, breath warm against your ear. "Come on, this way."
He grabs your hand and pulls you forward, fishing a flashlight out of his jacket pocket to guide the way. The beam bounces off walls and floors, creating strange shadows.
You don't question it until you approach a white dome structure in the middle of the lobby. You look at him, confusion clear on your face, and he opens a door in the side of the dome, motioning for you to go inside.
You do. "Okay, what's going on?"
He kisses your cheek before jogging over to an area filled with technical equipment—panels of buttons and switches and screens that look like a spaceship control panel.
"I'm kind of friends with this nerd at the Student Success Center," Steve explains, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He shines his light on it, squinting at what looks like handwritten instructions, then at the panel, then back at the paper. Even with his glasses on, he looks completely lost. "He helps me with my essays, and I get him into parties. Introduced him to his current girlfriend, actually. So he had no problem doing me a favor." Steve leans closer to the panel, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "Aha!"
He bites down on the flashlight to hold it in his mouth, freeing both hands to press a sequence of buttons.
Suddenly, the dome above you lights up.
Stars and galaxies explode across the curved ceiling—thousands of them, millions maybe, twinkling and glowing in constellations you recognize and some you don't. The Milky Way stretches across the center, a river of light and color, purples and blues and whites all bleeding together. Nebulae bloom like flowers, and planets hang suspended in the artificial cosmos.
"Take a seat, madam," Steve says, gesturing grandly.
You can't help but smile—the kind of smile that takes over your whole face, makes your cheeks hurt. You find a seat in the front row, dead center, and lean back to look up at the dome. The stars are magnified and glowing, moving in slow rotation like you're actually out in space watching the universe turn. Some twinkle, some pulse, some trail across the darkness in shooting arcs. It's beautiful in a way that makes your throat tight.
Steve joins you, settling into the seat next to yours. His arm rests on the armrest between you, elbow brushing against yours, creating a point of contact that seems to conduct electricity.
You stay silent for a long moment, both of you watching the artificial sky rotate overhead. The only sounds are your breathing and the quiet mechanical hum of the projector.
You feel something jolt in your chest—like someone sparked you with jumper cables, like your heart needed to be restarted and Steve somehow knew how. You turn to look at him instead of the stars. His profile is illuminated by the glow from above, casting his features in shifting light and shadow. The slope of his nose, the curve of his lips, the way his glasses reflect the starlight.
He's beautiful. That's the word that comes to mind, unbidden. Not handsome, not hot—beautiful.
You lay your head on his shoulder, fitting yourself against him, and lace your fingers through his. The confession comes out before you can stop it, quiet but heavy with truth. "I don't like people getting to know the real me."
The words hang in the air between you, admission and vulnerability all at once.
Steve's head comes to rest on top of yours, and you can feel him breathing, feel the slight vibration when he speaks. "Which is weird," you continue, needing to explain now that you've started. "Because I obviously want people to understand me. I like being noticed, being seen. But I'm okay with people knowing what I'm good at—not the cracks. Not the broken pieces."
You're both still staring at the stars above you when, as if the universe is listening, a supernova explodes across the dome. Light flares brilliant white, then cascades outward in expanding rings of color—orange and red and gold, fragments flying in all directions before slowly fading.
"Do you think a star is any less of a star when it explodes?" Steve asks quietly.
"What?" You laugh, the sound soft and surprised in the enclosed space.
"Like... that one that went kaboom. Yeah, it's in all these fragmented pieces now and it's different and could turn into a black hole. But there's still pieces of it drifting out there that can eventually turn back into stars. New stars. Different, but still stars."
You pull back fully to look at him, tilting your head. "How do you know so much about stars, Harrington?"
He blushes, the color visible even in the dim light. "I hear Dustin talk about this shit a lot, okay?" He gives you a sideways look, defensive. "I am not a nerd."
"I don't know, Steve. You bring me to the nerd building, talking nerdy to me with those glasses on..." You grin. "I think that qualifies you as a nerd."
"Shut up," he says, but he's smiling.
"Or what?" You poke his chest.
He leans in, voice dropping low. "Or I'll kiss you."
Your mouths slot together not long after. It starts slow—soft presses of lips, gentle explorations—but quickly builds into something more desperate. Steve's hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift in your seat to get a better angle.
His tongue traces your bottom lip and you open for him, the kiss deepening. One of his hands slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other grips your hip hard enough to leave marks.
You gasp when his hand slides higher, cupping your breast through your sundress, thumb brushing over your nipple. The touch sends heat flooding through you, pooling low in your belly.
"Steve," you breathe against his mouth.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, wrecked already.
"Touch me."
His hand slides down your body, over your stomach, your hip, your thigh. When he reaches the hem of your sundress, he doesn't hesitate. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, skimming up your inner thigh, and when he reaches the apex he groans.
"Fuck," he whines.
His fingers find your center, stroking through your underwear, and you whimper. The planetarium stars wheel overhead, painting you both in celestial light as Steve works you open with his hand.
"Need you," you gasp, reaching for his belt.
The two of you move to the floor, Steve shrugging off his jacket and laying it down beneath you like a gentleman. The carpet is rough against your shoulders, but you don't care. All you care about is Steve above you, between your legs, his weight a comfort and a promise.
You stay in your sundress, but he pulls the straps down your shoulders, exposing your breasts to the cool air and his hot mouth. His shirt comes off, revealing the expanse of his chest, and his jeans are pushed down low enough to free his cock.
He moves above you with careful thrusts, and the starlight plays across his face—his closed eyes, his parted lips, the furrow of concentration between his brows. The projector hums its mechanical lullaby while you rock together, while you map each other with hands and mouths and bodies.
Above you, the stars continue their ancient dance. Light spills across Steve's skin, turning him golden, ethereal, like something carved from starlight itself. His glasses catch the glow, reflect it back at you, and when he looks down at you there's something in his eyes that makes your heart stutter.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes, and it doesn't sound like a lie. It sounds like truth.
Your orgasm builds like a star forming in space—matter collecting, pressure increasing, heat rising until suddenly you explode outward in a burst of light and sensation that leaves you gasping. And as you come, gasping Steve's name, you feel it. The pieces of you scattering, drifting, and some of them—maybe all of them—now belong to him.
Steve follows moments later, burying his face in your neck, your name bright and starry on his lips.
Suddenly, the door opens. A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness.
"Who's there?"
You squeal, squirming out from under Steve, panic flooding through you. He's pulling up his pants with one hand, grabbing his shirt with the other, and somehow you're both laughing—quiet, hysterical giggles that threaten to give you away.
"Campus security!" the voice calls. "I know someone's in here!"
You grab your bag, Steve grabs his jacket, and then his hand finds yours and you're running toward the emergency exit, the alarm blaring to life as Steve slams through the door. Behind you, you hear the security guard: "I don't get paid enough for this shit."
Steve is running ahead, looking back at you with his shirt still off, hair wild, the biggest smile you've ever seen splitting his face. He's laughing, and you're laughing, and your heart is swelling in your chest, maybe even glowing like the stars you just left behind.
And that's when it hits you with the force of a supernova, with the clarity of starlight—
You're in deep shit.
You like Steve Harrington.
Not as a friend. Not as a hookup. You like him in the way that matters, in the way that changes everything, in the way that means you're absolutely and completely fucked because this was never supposed to happen.
Knight Steve taking your virginity little monkey in a red dress gif
this is so deeply serious to me...
knight!steve accompanying you on a journey to a neighboring kingdom where you're being married off, absolutely tormented by the fact that in transporting you there, he's complicit in this unwilling marriage. Maybe your journey gets sidetracked by an attack or a storm or something insane, so you wind up on foot with one horse and whatever you could carry, going town to town where no one recognizes you as the princess and you can be a "normal" girl for once.
Sharing a bed at the inn (he insists on taking the floor at first, but you command him to join you as his princess). Watching closely as he removes pieces of his armor, until he's in simple clothes and he looks so handsome in the firelight. His facial hair is stubbly, and he's just so dreamy.
You stay up late and talk about the future. You say you don't want to get married to the other kingdom's prince because he's a drunk, lazy philanderer, and you've had the most fun you've ever had just going from inn to inn with him. you lean over and give him a kiss that's so chaste and sweet that it nearly destroys him.
Because he knows that poverty isn't fun, and eventually you'd run out of coins and you'd miss the life of luxury that you're used to. he doesn't want to spoil this marriage for you, or put you in a position that would ruin you, but you're looking at him with this soft, needy look and moving his hand over the silky chemise you wear that's so thin it's like water over your curves.
I want it to be you, you insist, moving his hands beneath the silk onto warm, soft, unmarred, rich girl skin. Skin that's felt nothing but the finest fabrics and luxurious soaps and oils traded with far off places. His hands are rough, calloused, working hands. They've held lances and swords, and now you. They part your thighs and touch the slick, sensitive flesh there and bring pretty moans bubbling past your lips.
And he knows he doesn't deserve it, but how can he let such an awful man ever touch something so perfect?
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.
i dont know how you do it but this has to be my favourite chapter so far. oh my god, every reveal, every dynamic’s clash, the tattoo? all of it, oh my god. that being said, hot shot better be getting plan b tmr 🩷
synopsis: you bite the bullet and ask out your best friend, eddie, whom you have feelings for. only eddie doesn’t think he deserves you and does what he does best - self sabotage.
warnings: angst, eddie is dumb as hell in this I’m sorry, eddie’s abandonment issues, reader is described to wear makeup and a dress, a little dash of fluff in the beginning but it goes down hill fast, angsty ending, probably mediocre writing because it’s been years and I’m rusty, lmk if I missed anything! inspired by the line from washing machine heart by mitski.
a/n: my first time posting a fic in a while so apologies if it’s not up to par with my older writing. the new st season has me wanting to write so I’m hoping this gets the ball rolling. I was originally writing this as a spencer reid fic but I thought it fit better for eddie. though i’m not opposed to posting the spencer one. the ending to this is a little sad but I’m open to writing a part 2 if enough people want it! (edit: part two has been posted!)
masterlist
♫ I’m not wearing my usual lipstick / I thought maybe we would kiss tonight ♫
You were gonna do it.
You were gonna ask out Eddie Munson.
After months of pining and lamenting to your friends about how cute and sweet Eddie was, they had finally convinced you to take the plunge and ask him out.
“Eddie is literally head over heels for you! I swear there’s nowhere you go that his big baby cow eyes don’t follow you.” Robin says, sitting upside down on Steve’s couch, head of mousy blonde hair hanging off the edge.
Steve shoots her a weird look, repeating the phrase “baby cow eyes” under his breath until he thinks about it enough to raise his eyebrows in agreement. “Robin’s right-and I don’t say that often. Munson worships the ground you walk on, it’s kinda pathetic actually.”
He lets out an oof at the pillow you throw at him. “He’s not pathetic!” You defend. “He’s kind, he’s always giving me rides even though I know my car takes way less gas than his van and he won’t let me pay him back. He visits me at the diner to keep me company on my breaks, he always lets me picks the movie when we have movie nights even though I know he can’t stand to watch The Breakfast Club again but he sits through it because he knows I love it.”
You unconsciously end your rant with a little sigh, a cheesy smile on your face. There’s a beat of silence and you look at your two friends who stare at you with matching, knowing expressions.
“You might have a point.” You reply with pursed lips.
And thus the decision was made. You were going to bite the bullet and ask out Eddie Munson, because there was absolutely no way he was going to say no.
It was a few days before you got the chance to ask. During your weekly movie night where the two of you were watching (you guessed it) The Breakfast Club, you approached the subject with caution, still jittery with nerves despite your friends insistence that Eddie was into you.
The credits were rolling, soda cups empty and popcorn bowl down to the last few kernels. You watched Eddie sit up and stretch his arms, your voice coming out quieter than you meant for it to. “Hey, Eds?”
“Yeah?” He replies through a yawn. You took a second to admire his messy head of curls and the heaviness of his eyelids that told you he’d be crashing soon.
“I was just wondering-“ You swallowed, wiping your suddenly sweaty palms onto your pants. “Would you, maybe, wanna go see a movie? This week?”
Eddie suddenly looked more awake than he was ten seconds ago, big brown eyes open wide as he processes what you’ve asked. “The movies?”
You nod, a shy smile on your lips. “Yeah, I was thinking that new movie Labyrinth? The one with David Bowie I think you’d like!”
Eddie melts inside, because the first time you mentioned to movie to him you said he would like it, and he watched the previews to find out that you were right, because you knew him that well.
He nods dumbly. “I recall.” His arm reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “I think i’d be down. We can do Friday?”
Your heart leaps in your chest, unable to keep the grin from blooming on your face. “Friday is good! Friday’s great actually! Pick me up at seven?”
There’s a surge of adrenaline coursing through you as you realize that you finally did it. You asked our Eddie Munson, your best friend who you have feelings for, and he said yes!
Before he can even answer your question, you look up at the clock hung above the door of the trailer, realizing how late it was. “Oh shit, I should’ve been home like an hour ago. I have work early tomorrow!” You curse, scrambling to collect all of your stuff.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna stay? It’s late for you to be driving?” Eddie asks, a little concern seeping through his tone.
You shake your head, slipping your shoes back on. “No can do, the emergency work uniform in my car has had one too many spills and smells like grease.” You tell him with a scrunched nose.
Eddie chuckles, following you to the door. “Okay, well, be careful. The roads are probably still wet from the rain earlier.”
Your stomach flutters at his care for you. “I will, Eds. I’ll see you Friday?” You grin at him once more, taking the leap and jumping to press a kiss to his cheek.
You’re already halfway in your car, waving goodbye to him and don’t see the rush of color that floods his cheeks. You also don’t see him hold his hand where your lips had touched as you drive out of the trailer park.
The memory of the sweet kiss you left on his cheek burned for the rest of the night. The dopey smile on Eddie’s face stayed in put until he was in bed, replaying the night in his head, just as he did every time the two of you hung out.
Only this time Eddie has an epiphany, shooting up in his bed, eyes blown wide. “Was she asking me on a date?”
-
Eddie spends the next few days reeling after the realization that your invitation for the movies had been you asking him on a date.
In hindsight, it also explains the cheek kiss that damn near brought him to his knees.
He can’t even let himself be excited, instead his mind is choosing to turn on him. He should be on cloud nine, ecstatic that the girl of his dreams wants to go on a date with him.
No, his years of abandonment issues choose right now to pull him down.
Why would she ever want to go out with you? You can barely afford to feed yourself, how do you expect to pay for all of your dates? You have a twin mattress in a trailer, a room you can’t keep clean and a van that break down more often than it drives. What about you screams boyfriend material?
She’s just confused, mistaking your kindness for something with longevity. She deserves better than a loser who can’t even finish high school on time.
The thoughts keep him tossing and turning until he’s gone days without a good nights sleep. He gets lucky that you’re swamped at the diner and have no time to see him. The couple of instances that you ask to see him, he makes up an excuse about too much homework, or doing something for Wayne.
And you, of course, don’t get upset at him. You tell him it’s okay, in your sweet voice, and bring up how excited you are for Friday. It only makes him feel worse.
He starts to believe his brain is right. You deserve better than he could ever provide for you.
So the morning of your date, Eddie decides to make a phone call.
-
You were walking on air the days leading up to your date with Eddie.
You were a little bummed you couldn’t see him before then, but you’d both had a busy week and you just couldn’t wait for tonight.
“Got a hot date or something?” Rhonda, your fellow waitress and the sweetest woman alive, asks. “You’ve been floating around here for days now. You didn’t even get upset when the four top last night left without leaving a tip.”
Heat flooded your face, a shy smile appearing without your control. “Or something…” You trail off, placing all of the dirty dishes on your serving tray into the sink.
Rhonda cocks an eyebrow at you, smirking knowingly. “I hope this something is happening with that scruffy boy that’s always in here for you.”
“It might be.” You shrug coyly. “It’s just a movie date.”
“We all know what happens on movie dates.” Rhonda teases, bumping your hip as she moves past you into the kitchen.
You sputter at her retreating figure, flustered at the idea that anything intimate might happen between you and Eddie tonight. Your mind starts to spiral and you work the rest of your shift on autopilot, too busy trying to shake the images of Eddie in more promiscuous positions.
-
Your heart refuses to steady as you sit in your living room. You’ve smoothed out the fabric of your dress a million times, and your lips sting a little from how much your teeth have pick at the skin. The layer of wax typically on your lips, your usual lipstick, is significantly missing from your makeup.
You left the tube untouched on your vanity, silently hoping that maybe the night would end with a kiss. A kiss that would be better without lipstick smeared on both of your chins after.
It’s a few minutes before seven, but you’d been sitting tensely for the last twenty minutes, the anticipation for the night influencing you to get ready extra early.
A mistake you’re learning, because it leaves you stewing in your anxiety while you wait for Eddie to pick you up.
After what felt like forever, a flash of headlights spills through the front windows. You shoot up from your seat, now stuck standing in the middle of your living room.
A few seconds later a knock sounds on your door and you almost lunge to open it before you realize that you don’t want Eddie thinking you were waiting at the door. Even if that’s exactly what you were doing.
You wait a beat, take a breath, then reach for the door with shaking hands.
The door opens and Eddie stands there, clad in one of his many band t-shirts, his leather jacket and dark jeans. It isn’t anything different from his everyday wear, yet the sight of him is enough to release a wave of butterflies in your stomach.
Similarly, Eddie freezes when the door reveals you. You, in your pretty dress, standing there with the kitchen lights behind you making you glow like an angel. It actually knocks the breath out of him.
He glances to your mouth, noting the absence of your signature color. He has no time to dwell on that detail.
“Hi.” You say, hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you are. Even though you have no reason to be. This is your best friend Eddie. You have movie nights all the time, you’ve stayed over at his trailer a dozen times, why does this feel any different?
“Hi.” He chokes out. “You look beautiful. I mean-“ His eyes go wide. “You always look beautiful, just right now-it’s like…extra?”
You bite your lip to keep from laughing, “Thank you, Ed’s.” You chuckle despite your efforts. “Ready to go?”
To keep his dignity, Eddie refrains from trying to speak again, instead waving his arms towards his awaiting van.
You think him quietly when he opens the passenger door for you, something he does all the time, yet the action makes you smile.
“Excited for the movie?” You ask as the van exits your neighborhood. It breaks the silence that had fallen over you.
Eddie hums in confirmation, “Yeah I think it’s gonna be good.” But says nothing else. You frown, finding it weird that he’s so quiet. Eddie usually can’t go five minutes without going on a tangent, it’s one of the things you love about him.
Maybe he’s just nervous, you tell yourself.
Little else is said in the few minutes it takes to get to the Hawkins Theater. A couple mumbles of how your respective days were is the extent.
By the time you’re parking, the butterflies in your stomach had been replaced by an odd feeling, one that you couldn’t name because you didn’t know what was making Eddie act so weird.
Was he already regretting the date? It had barely even started.
Still, he slips out of the car and jogs to your side to open the door for you, a gentlemen despite his out of character behavior.
Already the night isn’t going like how you envisioned. You thought by now your usual banter with Eddie would have put you both at ease, maybe even holding hands on your way in.
Eddie, though, seems to not want to get any closer to you than a couple feet. His hands stay buried the in pockets of his jacket and he hasn’t said a word in the last few minutes.
You both reach the ticket booth. “How can I help y’all?” The woman behind the counter chirps.
“Uh, yeah, two tickets for Labyrinth. Please.” Eddie replies, pulling his wallet out.
The woman beams. “Great choice!” She slips two tickets through the plastic slot. “Two tickets for the happy couple. Y’all enjoy!”
You flush at the title, but when you look over at Eddie he’s frowning, mumbling a thanks as he grabs them.
He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, already heading towards the door. You send a friendly smile to the employee before jogging to catch up with him.
He seems to be in a hurry to get inside the theater, his long strides making it hard to keep up. “Eds-“ You huff. “Eddie, wait up!”
Your pleas fall on deaf ears, but you do eventually make it to the theater where he wordlessly holds the door behind him.
You let out a breath, following him into the dimly lit room. You’re walking behind him up the stairs, so close to his back that his shoulders block your view of the seats.
Everything seems normal, until an all too familiar voice calls your names.
“Hey! There you guys are!” It’s none other than Dustin Henderson, flanked on either side by Lucas and Mike, Max, El, and Will next to them. In the row above them are Steve, Robin, Nancy and Jonathan.
The entire gang is taking up a good chunk of the seats, and you have a sinking feeling them being at the exact same showing as you and Eddie isn’t a coincidence.
“The movie’s gonna start soon! We bought some popcorn for you!” The teenager grins, holding up an untouched bucket of popcorn.
You force out a laugh. “Yeah, I-I didn’t know you’d all be here.” You cross your arms, eyes bouncing from one friend to another.
“Oh Eddie didn’t tell you? He called this morning, said you wanted all of us to come see the movie. Guess the diner was really busy this week?” The innocence in Dustin’s tone is what really has your heart sinking.
Your friends aren’t here by accident you realize. Eddie invited them. He invited your entire friend group to what was supposed to be a date.
A wave of humiliation washes over you as you finally put two and two together. Eddie was acting weird because he clearly didn’t want this to be a date. And what makes it so much worse is Steve and Robin, the only people who knew of your plan to ask out Eddie, seem to also realize what’s happening, their stares morphing from confused to pitiful.
You glance at Eddie and his eyes are everywhere but you, landing the final blow to your heart.
You look back at Dustin, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah, it was busy.” You don’t wait for Eddie to sit, shouldering past him instead to claim the seat next to Robin.
He takes the seat next to you but you don’t dare look at him.
Robin and Steve both turn their heads towards you, the blonde leaning closer to mumble to you. “Are you okay?” They both look at you with concern clear on their faces.
You can’t look at them, fearing the eye contact may break you entirely. “Ask me tomorrow.” You say, blinking away the tears that stung in your eyes.
Chapter Warnings: slow burn friends to lovers, more miscommunication, language, depictions of loss and grief, brief descriptions of sex dreams, brief makeout session (no smut this chapter sorry oomfs), mild gaslighting, slightly toxic dynamics, a little drinking, plot heavy
Chapter Summary: following your fight with steve, you try to make the house a little less frigid, fix your dry spell, work through your conflicting feelings about parenthood, and learn more about what he's been hiding.
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.
Carol and Tommy got Samantha for three short months. Not even the good months, really. They got the wrinkly, whiny, boring months with no sleep and no fun. You'd had Samantha for longer than they had by that point. Four months, to be exact, and the gap would only grow and grow and grow.
You weren't sure at what point you'd be able to stop thinking of her as theirs and start seeing her as your own. Your little girl. It didn't seem fair to call her your daughter or say you were her mom. That would always be Carol, and you didn't want to just pretend that wasn't the case.
But wasn't she?
She was starting to come into her personality— smiley and sweet. In the beginning, it had been so hard to take care of her and not think about your friends, but things had changed as she started becoming her own little person. Even if it felt wrong to accept it, deep down you knew how you really felt.
There were lots of things you were feeling at the moment, and yesterday had only muddied up your feelings more. As you sat in the kitchen and fed Sam some cereal, which was unfortunately covering her entire face and bib, you ruminated on everything that had happened the day prior and felt a pit of dread in your stomach.
Maybe you did treat Steve like he wasn't smart enough to make decisions on his own. Maybe you were being bitter and jealous. And maybe he was being self-centered by taking a job with no pay just to…
To what? Your brow furrowed as you thought of what he'd said. More important things going on, things you didn't know. The call with Robin about lying to you and how you were bound to figure it out.
And then there was his confession about the wedding. How he hadn't wanted to hold you back and saddle you to a Hawkins loser. If you could trust him, which you weren't sure about, that rejection had never been for lack of wanting on his part, but what did that mean for you now?
Maybe the damage was already done. Maybe you'd both done too much that you couldn't come back from. You sighed and tightened your scrunchie so the tumbling locks of your hair stayed out of the splash zone of Sam's breakfast.
"He's sleeping late today, huh?" You cooed, pushing some of the cereal that had slipped down Sam's chin back to her mouth. You glanced out of the breakfast nook and towards the living room, brows furrowed.
Living with Steve for four months, hell, knowing him for years meant that you knew he was an early riser. You had left him in the bedroom— still fast asleep with his face buried in his pillow— expecting him to join you shortly. But you'd nearly wrapped up Sam's morning routine and he hadn't shown his face.
God, maybe he was angry with you still. The previous night had been so heavy, and you both had a lot to own up to. You wrapped up breakfast and carried Sam on your hip into the bedroom, ready to at least apologize for your drinking if it meant he'd leave the bedroom.
But Steve wasn't sulking, or hiding from you. He was tucked beneath the blankets, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. At the sound of your voice calling his name, he winced.
"What time is it?" he asked, his voice raspy and deep from lack of use. He sat up on his elbows, brow knit in obvious discomfort as he sat against the mirrored headboard.
"Half past eight," you said, lips turning into a frown. "I'm supposed to be the one that's hungover, not you." It was supposed to come out teasing, but he groaned and pinched at his brows.
"It's just a headache," he insisted, but his eyes stayed squeezed tight. "Ah, god, I'm sorry that I made you do the whole morning routine alone. I should've been there to help."
"Hey, don't worry about it," you said gently, and when he opened his mouth to protest, you interrupted. "I'm serious, okay?Just sleep it off for a couple of hours to see if it gets better. Sam and I will have ourselves a girls day, maybe go on a walk to the park on Birch Street and watch the ducks, and we'll see how you're feeling at lunch."
Steve nodded and flopped back against the pillows with a weak groan, and you knew he was secretly grateful for the break. You'd taken care of your mother enough times to know that he had a migraine, and a bad one.
And part of you felt like maybe it had been your fault that he wound up bedridden. That the stress from your argument the night prior had triggered the migraine this morning. And you hated that you might have had a hand in it.
So you gave Steve his break. And, anyway, it was nice to get out of the house.
You knew the streets of your old neighborhood better than anything. Growing up, you and Steve would escape your houses in the morning and find any possible way to occupy yourself until dinner time. You knew every climbable tree, every perfect spot for hide-and-seek, the names of all of the dogs that got walked, and the shortcuts you could take through gardens and alleyways to reach the park or town square faster.
You didn't need any of those for Sam, but you thought about how nice it would be when you could teach them to her. You and Steve.
You and Steve. You'd been wondering if you would have done anything differently if you knew then what you did now. Steve was right about his worries of holding you back— in the end, none of it mattered. You were stuck in Hawkins with him, like it was always supposed to be this way and the universe had to intervene.
You thought, maybe, that the universe's methods were a little extreme.
Sam sat between your legs on the picnic blanket, mouthing at the Care Bear that Dustin (and Claudia, of course) had gotten her from an estate sale. Some lucky bastards who packed the essentials and left everything behind for the vultures. Friend Bear, with its peachy fur and two sunflowers on its belly. Carol would have loved it.
The ducks were swimming in loops around the pond, their green heads like jewels in the sun. A five year old boy threw the crusts of his bread and they flew over to swarm him, which made him cry and run away. A yappy dog broke free of his elderly owner's hands to chase the ducks into the water, its leash trailing behind.
Sometimes things just happened. People did things that caused other things to happen whether you wanted them to or not.
You ran a hand over Sam's soft hair and closed your eyes. The summer was hot, but you had taken refuge under a big oak tree. Up high, on one of the branches you had to climb up to see, you and Steve had carved your initials in fifth grade. Maybe one day you'd add her initials too.
A handsome stranger dove into the pond to rescue the little old lady's dog. He returned soaking wet, holding the waterlogged puppy. The little old lady pinched his cheek affectionately and accepted her wet rat.
He shook out his dark hair like a golden retriever and bounded over. "Did you see that back there? Really heroic stuff." It took you a few moments to register not only that he was talking to you, but that he was flirting with you.
It sent a thrill through you after four months of living like a hermit. So you sat up a little straighter and smiled in the way that Carol had taught you Freshman year. Coy and flirty enough to show that you knew you were hot, but bashful enough that you didn't come off too conceited. "Oh, yeah," you said. "You're a real Superman, huh?"
"Would you believe me if I said I was here doing volunteer work?" He asked, and you nearly called bullshit, but there was something honest behind the teasing. "I'm with a nonprofit, we're fixing up damaged houses in a few areas for the next few months. We just got started on Brown Street."
Your brows raised, and you tried not to look too impressed. "Well, if I find out there are orphans trapped in a burning building, or a kitten stuck in a tree, I'll know who to look for."
He nodded, scuffing his soaked sneakers against the grass. "If that's what it takes to see you again, I'll go find a helpless damsel right now." Your chest fluttered a bit, and you had to fight against the urge to blush. So you rolled your eyes and shook your head. "Or we could avoid putting more citizens in peril and you could let me take you out sometime."
"I have a baby," you said, nodding down to Sam. Your way of testing the waters and making sure he understood that you weren't just a babysitter. "It's kind of hard to get out of the house."
He shrugged, and that charming smile stayed on his lips. "I can be very patient."
A smile turned at your lips. Fuck. You reached into Sam's stroller and grabbed the book you'd meant to be reading and a pen. You introduced yourself, then added, "I have a roommate, by the way," as you handed the pen and book over.
He smiled and scribbled something quickly. "Great, she can watch the baby and we can go out… Saturday?"
If only it were so simple. You left it with a, "we'll see," and he headed off to change out of his wet clothes that smelled like pond water and dog. You opened the book when he was far enough away that he wouldn't catch you and traced the ballpoint pen scribbled over the author's note.
Nick AKA Superman, and his direct line. You didn't know if you'd ever find the time or confidence to call him back, but it was nice for your back pocket. Maybe one dinner. Maybe just a quick hook up wherever he was staying so you could break out of the awful funk you'd been in.
Sam went down for her nap when you got back home, and you were grateful for the break. Your plan was to sit on the couch, watch a soap opera, and finally have a moment to think clearly about the day before. That plan was disrupted by the sound of Dustin's voice in Steve's bedroom.
Crackly, like through a radio, over and over again. "Steve, do you copy?!"
Your brow furrowed as you stepped into his bedroom, which looked a lot different than you'd last seen it. To be fair, it had been three years since you'd been inside, and you'd both clearly changed a lot since then.
His plaid wallpaper was (thankfully) long gone, and in its place were clean white walls. A back to the future poster hung on the wall by his bed, replacing the ugly bikini model that had once been there. Above his desk there was a bulletin board where the car painting he'd had since he was eleven had been.
You took a step forward and the sound of Dustin's voice over the radio became background noise. The bulletin board was crowded with photos and ephemera, so tightly packed that there were no glimpses of the cork beneath.
Your gaze softened at the numerous photos of Steve and Robin, countless Polaroids of Sam, and some of Dustin when he was younger. A photo booth strip of Steve and Nancy was pinned beneath a hand drawn photo of some sort of creature, which was tacked beneath a Scoops Ahoy name tag. A newspaper article about Lucas Sinclair's championship winning shot stuck out from behind a plain envelope that simply had Steve written on the front.
And there were people you didn't recognize too. A red haired girl standing with Lucas, and then again with another brunette girl about Dustin's' age that you didn't recognize. Then there was Steve with the entire group of kids in his backyard after graduation, if his cap and gown were any indication.
And, maybe most shocking of all, was that you were there. Your eyes caught the old photos first, maybe because you had half-expected him to hold a nostalgic fondness for them. Pictures of you and Steve in that orange-y tint that your childhood photos shared, and Polaroids of you both in high school.
You would have expected it to end there— you, buried beneath the mountain of newer, shinier, better things in his life… but there you were. Your class photo, which your parents had presumably sent along with your graduation announcement, was tucked into the bottom of the wooden frame alongside an old, faded ticket to Pete's Dragon.
Almost hidden, you could spot the pink of your bridesmaid dress behind an old family video receipt. You lifted it up and swallowed hard at the picture, straight from the wedding album. A solo portrait in front of one of the large flower arrangements.
It might have sent a thrill through you, if it wasn't so confusing. How long had he had that? And why had he kept it after how awful that night turned out to be?
You had your fair share of memorabilia from your friendship with Steve— a whole box of it tucked away and hidden in your closet— but nothing from the wedding. You couldn't let yourself remember it fondly. At least, not consciously.
"Steve! Do. You. Copy." You blinked a few times, searching for the source of the voice. Eventually, on top of his dresser, you found a walkie talkie.
You pressed the button on the side, briefly, and furrowed your brows. It was a little different than the ones you'd seen before— a lot more complicated, like a police radio. "Um," you stammered, brows furrowed. "How does this… huh…"
Before you could figure it out, the phone rang on his bedside table. You sighed and dropped the walkie to pick it up. "Hello?"
"Why are you in Steve's room? Where is he? He hasn't been answering."
"Okay, first of all, you could say hello back," you replied. "And anyway, he's downstairs in bed with a migraine right now. So if you're needing a ride, or something, I can help out later, depending on how long Sam's down for."
Dustin sighed heavily and swore under his breath. "He's supposed to be at the station to learn how to use the sound equipment today. Can you just wake him up and tell him to be here soon?"
"No," you replied plainly. "I just said he's in bed with a migraine, Dustin. Trust me, I'm sure he'd love to get out of the house right now, but that's not happening today."
Dustin sighed heavily. "Son of a bitch, fine. Tell him he needs to be here first thing in the morning."
You frowned again, almost feeling a little guilty. Almost. "First thing won't work either," you sighed. "We have our stupid mandated health exams tomorrow at eight, but I can bring him by after." You paused, then added, "And we'll bring donuts."
Steve had never seemed like a pushover when you knew him. That was always your job, it seemed. If Steve wanted to watch The Cubs, you watched the Cubs. If Carol wanted to sneak out to go to a party, you snuck out to go to a party.
But you got the distinct impression that Steve didn't tell his friends no very often. Or ever. If you had to do that for him, so be it. Dustin seemed to relent, at least. He sighed deeply, clearly annoyed, and said goodbye.
Downstairs, Steve was going through the wringer. Face down, head buried in his pillow. You kept the lights off as you crept into the en-suite and grabbed him a glass of water and ibuprofen.
"Steve," You whispered, kneeling at his bedside. He slowly turned over, frowning lightly. "I got you some medicine. How are you feeling?"
He shook his head, and even that looked like it took a lot out of him. "Shitty," he replied. He took the pills and washed them down with a big swig of water. "I actually have a prescription for when I get migraines like this, but the pharmacy ran low and they haven't gotten a restock in a while because of the quarantine."
He sat up, just a bit, and watched as you walked back into the en-suite. "How's Sammie?" He called as you found a washcloth from the cabinet and ran it under the cold tap.
"She's asleep," you said as you made your way back to his bedside, voice soft as you could manage so it didn't bother him too much. "We sat around and watched some MTV, read a few books together, then went to the park. Really tuckered her out."
"Mm… good," he said, scooting over to accommodate you as you sat on the edge of the mattress. You brushed his hair from his forehead and he sighed softly, blinking up at you. His gaze could be so disarming, so soft and warm. It was hard to be frustrated with him about much of anything when he turned his big brown eyes on you.
You wanted to keep your dignity and spite about yesterday's argument, so you placed the cool washcloth over his eyes and tried to push the warm fluttery feeling in your chest deep, deep down. "Um, does that help a little?" You asked.
He nodded, and you watched the wrinkle between his brows smooth out. A smile played at his lips, just barely twitching at the corners. "You really should reconsider nursing school," he said. "You're great."
You chuckled softly and shook your head. "Well, we can't exactly afford that," you said. It was so bizarre, talking to Steve like you were already an old married couple, especially considering you weren't married, or a couple, or old.
He sighed, and that furrow returned. "I really want to talk about money when my head isn't about to explode."
Part of you wanted to tell him not to bother, because obviously he wasn't going to get a paying job and there was nothing to discuss. But you were trying not to be an asshole. And, frankly, you thought if you started laying into him right then, you'd never stop.
"Yeah, I have some things I want to talk about too," you said, then quickly added, "After you're feeling better."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Sam was agreeable enough, you got a few chapters into the book you'd been trying and failing to read for months, and you made a casserole for dinner that you could eat for leftovers the next day.
God, when had your life gotten so boring?
The sound of Steve opening the bedroom door made you glance up from your plate. He still looked a little worse for wear, but he immediately lit up at the sight of Sam in her highchair. And sure enough, Sam's face split into a gummy smile as soon as she saw Steve too.
Well, you knew who the favorite was.
"Aw… my little peanut," he said, and planted a kiss onto the crown of her head. "I missed you so much."
The sight made something uncomfortable flutter in your chest, something you kept trying to push down and ignore, to no avail. That fondness and comfort. Like you were a real family and not just pretending to be one.
He grabbed a plate and sat down across from you at the table. You swallowed and pushed the leftover food on your plate around with your fork.
"So, I wanted to—"
"How are you f—"
Both of you spoke up at the same time, which made you laugh nervously. "I was just asking, uh, if you're feeling better?" You looked up, meeting his gaze with a tiny smile.
"Yeah, it's manageable," he insisted. "And I was just going to, y'know, apologize for yesterday." He sighed and put his fork down, and his gaze was so genuinely remorseful that it was hard not to break it. "I understand why you'd be mad about the radio station, and I got defensive. I was really shitty for saying the things that I said, and I would totally get it if you're still angry."
You took a deep breath and tried to search for all of the words that you'd practiced in your head during the day. It was just your luck that you'd come up blank. "God, Steve, I'm not mad," you insisted finally, because he had started to squirm in the extended silence. "I just… I don't understand, I guess. What's so important at the station?"
Steve took a deep breath, but his gaze wavered. "It's… it's hard to explain," he said, but he couldn't even be man enough to look you in the eye.
All that you could think about was the phone call that you had overheard the day prior. How he'd talked to Robin about having to lie to you and how bad it looked for him to take the job. You felt awful, like an outsider looking in. Even Dustin knew about whatever they were doing at the station, and he was only fifteen.
Finally, he looked up at you. "Can you just trust me on this, please?"
You exhaled and looked down at your hands. How could he even ask that of you? What had he done lately to earn your trust? Especially after yesterday.
"Why would I do that when you clearly don't trust me?" You argued. Whatever he was going to say died on his tongue. He closed his mouth and pinched at the bridge of his nose again. "Steve, I can't just be on an island here, y'know? It doesn't work like that."
The table went quiet. You managed to get Sam to eat a little more of her baby food, and rewarded her with a little bit of banana, just to wash the gross taste of mashed peas away. You wiped at her face with a damp cloth and kissed her forehead.
"I think Sam would love to have some Steve-time before she goes to bed tonight," you finally said. "And I would love a hot shower and an early night. Are you feeling up for handling the nighttime routine?"
Steve swallowed and nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I can do it. And I want to… I mean, I don't want you to feel like you're alone in this."
But you did. It wasn't his fault, entirely. It was being stuck in the house, in Hawkins. It was dropping out of school suddenly and having no outlet to turn your brain on except for Sam, and daytime TV, and grocery shopping, and needling into Steve's private life.
Maybe that's what it was. You were inventing problems out of nothing. You had enough money to provide for Sam. You had no rent, you didn't have to pay for childcare. Things were fine.
But Steve got his outlet. And you were stuck at home. Your best friends were dead, your other close friends were outside of the city, and you could just imagine them having the times of their lives in college— meeting new people, having new experiences.
And you had fallen into a boring, soul-crushing monotony. You had no one to talk to except for Steve, who you didn't know if you could trust enough to really open up to, and Steve's friends, who you couldn't talk to without worrying that it would make it back to Steve.
You were totally isolated, and you didn't know what to do to dig yourself out of the hole you'd found yourself in. So you thought it was best to just stop digging for a while, or you'd just wind up covered in dirt and miserable. "Can we just talk about it sometime tomorrow?" You asked. "It was just a really long day and I want to get into bed."
"Yeah, yeah," he acquiesced, trying to bring things back to normal. Whatever that was. "You can have the night off. I can manage."
You doubted it, sincerely. But for once, you didn't argue with him.
You remembered him being warm. The soft graze of his lips on your throat, big hands moving over hot skin. Gasping into a mouth that was already panting against yours. Knees straddling a lap, digging into leather.
You feel so good, moaned into your ear as he sheathed himself inside of you, so goddamn good. Thick fingers rubbing at slick, oversensitive flesh. Teeth on your throat, nipping at your ear. A rough, masculine voice groaning into your ear as he came.
You woke up overheated and slick between your thighs. Panting softly as you sat up, trying to shake the memories of the dream you'd just had. Steve dozed beside you, unaware of the role he'd played in your subconscious.
Dreaming of Steve was becoming annoyingly frequent. And, worse than that, the dreams were vivid. Each time that you would wake up, you could swear that you felt the ghost of every sensation. Hands and mouth and… everything.
"Jesus christ," you murmured under your breath. You took a cold shower.
Later, you all received a clean bill of health at your mandatory checkup. Well, everyone except for Steve, who had been given a fail on his eye exam and had been directed to the hospital's optometrist to order frames.
"It's stupid," he insisted in the car as you drove him to the station, donuts in hand. Your nerves buzzed with latent energy, still wired from your dream. "I can see just fine. It was a dumb test. No one could have possibly passed that."
You rolled your eyes and shook your head. "You squint," you said plainly, thumbs tapping irritably against the wheel. "All the time. You're nearsighted."
Steve groaned and tossed his results onto the floorboard of your car. Whatever, you'd grab the prescription and call the optometrist yourself. Like a nagging wife. Which you had to remind yourself daily that you weren't.
You were not the new Mrs. Harrington. You weren't the old Mrs. Harrington. You were just you, and you were doing your best given the circumstances. If you repeated it enough, it might feel true.
When you finally pulled up to the gravel lot of the station, Steve turned to you and softened his expression. "I'll see if Nance can drive me back later, yeah? Good luck with Peanut."
"Oh, I wanted to come in and have a donut, if that's okay," you said, pulling your lips into a little pout. "I picked the jelly filled for me."
He blanched, just a bit. "Oh! Uh… sure. Yeah. Not even a problem."
You smiled your prettiest smile and unfastened your seatbelt. "Cool, I'll grab Sam and meet you inside."
Starting at twelve, you quickly learned how to make Steve give you whatever you wanted. A little bit of puppy dog eyes, a hint of a dejected tone, the tiniest jut of your bottom lip… he couldn't resist it.
It was a power that you used sparingly, otherwise he would've caught on too quickly. Like when you wanted to see Grease, and he wanted to see Jaws 2. Or when he wanted to get Taco Bell instead of Burger King. Or when you were feeling jealous and he wanted to go out with Linda… or Rhonda… or Amy… or Diana…
So maybe you'd been manipulative when you didn't get your way, but you'd been well behaved and hadn't guilt-tripped Steve since '83. Well, technically the last time you tried to guilt him into skipping a date, it ruined your friendship forever. But it felt fair enough to try to emotionally manipulate him when you knew he was hiding something from you.
Steve had been right about one thing— you were insecure, and you hated being left out of things. But really, all you wanted was an inkling of proof that what Steve was doing was above board, and that you didn't have to worry about him.
The station was mostly-empty when you walked in with Steve and Sam. But the few people that were inside stared at you like you were trespassing. Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Jonathan (who you still hadn't formally met), and Mike followed you with their eyes as you meandered into the reception area and sat on the sofa with Sam. "We brought breakfast," you said with your prettiest smile as Steve placed the open box of donuts onto the scratched coffee table.
Dustin sat down beside you, now boot and limp free. His broken ankle had healed up relatively well, and his hair was in a strange in-between stage of growing out past his shoulders. Like a weird, curly mullet. He grabbed a plain glazed and poked at Sam's socked feet.
"How'd the mandatory health check go?" He asked as Sam kicked at his hand, smiling happily. She loved Uncle Dusty, even more than she loved her Auntie Rob, and that was a lot.
You had liked the past month in their company— a few movie nights here and there, a pool party, a cookout. You didn't exactly fit in cleanly, but you were at least welcomed. That's what made the lying and secrecy cut in that much more painfully— the awful realization that you'd never been accepted to begin with.
You shrugged, pausing as you swallowed and replaced the bitter taste of suspicion with fried dough and jelly. "Well, Steve needs glasses."
Steve huffed and took a huge bite of his chocolate with sprinkles. "I do not," he insisted around the mouthful. "I can see just fine."
Dustin gestured to the poster across the room, an ancient Steely Dan tour poster. "What does that say?"
"No one can read that, asshole." Steve kicked Dustin's foot, and Sam giggled happily. Neither of you commented about the fact that all of you could definitely read the poster, or Steve would have started pouting, and no one wanted that.
"Steve, you're needed in the booth, please." Robin didn't give him time to respond before pulling him by his arm into the glass recording booth… which was soundproofed… and had closed blinds.
And there it was. The weird, closed door conversations. That itching feeling of exclusion and ignorance.
Robin had invited you into the group out of some semblance of concern… but you were still being iced out when it seemed to really count. What good was a friend that didn't see you as an equal? What good was a friend that you couldn't trust?
"I was just here to eat my donut while it was fresh, so, uh… good luck with the radio training and stuff," you told Dustin as you stood. Coming inside had been so pointless— all you'd learned was that the radio station existed and his friend group had situated themselves inside, and they were definitely hiding things from you. "Tell Steve I'm running errands for the rest of the day, and he'll have to find another ride later, okay?"
You drove irritably. Static buzzed in the car as you scanned the stations, pausing on 94.5 to see if they were actually testing the station. Nothing but a low, droning buzz of dead air.
It stayed on as you ran your few errands. Back to Hawkins Memorial to visit your parents and pull some strings to get Steve's glasses ordered without his permission. C'mon, Dr. Gilbert… you've known me since I was four, can you just let it slide this one time?
Dr. Gilbert looked at you with a baby on your hip and the prescription in hand and did you the favor. You picked some thin wire frames, because you knew Steve would hate everything else. Who knew if he'd even wear them?
Your parents were busy, as they usually were, and still pretty pissed with your life and choices. You got a curt wave from your father as he passed through reception in cardiology, and a tight lipped smile and kiss on the forehead from your mother when you visited her in neurology. Neither of them seemed to want to acknowledge Samantha.
On your way out of neurology, you passed Lucas in the hallway at a snack machine. Your eyes widened as he turned and saw you, and even though it was an accident, you felt like you had intruded somehow.
"Hey, Sinclair," you greeted. Sam reached for the blue bag of chips in his hands, now mesmerized by anything brightly colored. "I figured you'd be at the radio station with everyone else today."
He shook his head. "I'm here to visit Max," he said, then realized you would have no idea who that is. "She's my girlfriend. She's been in a coma since the earthquake."
Your heart sank. Your own grief following the earthquake had been so insular, and you felt guilty for missing it. "Oh god, Lucas, I'm sorry," you said. Losing Carol and Tommy had been hard, but when they were gone, it was final. You couldn't imagine being able to see someone you love and know that they weren't still there with you. Not entirely. "Hey, I don't want to overstep, or anything, but do you want someone to sit with you?"
He swallowed, and gave a small nod. That's all it took. He led you into the austere room, where a few deflated balloons hung near a window, and some handmade cards grew dusty on the windowsill. An illustration, presumably of Lucas and this girl was taped to the wall.
You looked at her, so small and fragile in the hospital bed, connected to wires and monitors that kept a steady rhythm of her pulse and brain function. A soft beeping faded into the background behind the sound of a Kate Bush song. Her red hair was twisted into two plaits on her shoulders, and her pale lashes rested against her freckled cheeks. You recognized her then, as one of the two kids from the bulletin board that you couldn't place. Whoever she was, she meant a lot to Steve.
"She's really pretty," you told him as you sat down in one of the hospital chairs. "Let me guess, you impressed her with your basketball prowess? Or was it the DND stuff you guys do?"
Lucas sat down and held onto her hand, his thumb rubbing along the back of it. "Neither," he said, and a small smile played on his lips. "I guess I don't know what it was."
"I'm sure she has a ton of reasons. And whatever it was, she locked down a great guy. Not many boyfriends would stick around in dire straits," you said. Sam chewed on the ends of your hair and twisted the drawstring of your shorts around her hands. '"Anyways, tell me what's she like."
You sat and listened for a while, learning all about Mad Max. The good parts— her biting wit, her love for skating, her fierce loyalty and bravery. And the bad parts— her shitty home life, her struggles after her brother died, her penchant for isolating herself. It felt like there was more, but you let him leave it at that.
You stayed until nurses came in to perform a bit of physical therapy and you were both politely asked to leave. In the hall, you bounced an antsy Sam in your arms and walked back towards the reception area. "Thanks for sitting with me," he said. "I know you don't know any of us that well, but it's cool that you care."
"Yeah, of course," you said, brows knitting with concern. "Did you bike here? I can just throw it in my trunk and drive you home, if you want." He brushed off your offer and headed away with a wave.
You wondered why Steve had never told you about Max, why she had remained a mystery for so long. You would've bought some flowers, or a nice card, or a less-sad balloon. Maybe a teddy bear for the bare table beside her bed.
But you had an entire day ahead of you, and Sam was starting to get overtired.
You ran by Bradley's, where you caught a rare cosmetics restock, so you grabbed a few bottles of nail polish and a couple of eyeshadow singles. You called your hair stylist, and scheduled another perm in a week, because you thought it might make you feel like a human being again if your hair was back to normal.
When you finally got home, you tuned the fancy stereo system in the living room to 94.5 and let the static serve as white noise. Sam fell asleep in your arms as you watched game shows, drooling onto your shirt while you played along with Alex Trebek.
This is the feeling that has stricken a certain college dropout that resides in Hawkins, Indiana.
What's is the crushing feeling of boredom?
Things had been fine when you were out running errands, like you had managed to outrun the cloud hanging over you. But alone in Steve's house, the gloom started to set in. The big quiet house and the secrets it held. Steve's, his father's, his mother's. Yours.
You just got this strange buzzing inside when you were alone— an ache. An emptiness.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, you finally heard something more than a crackle in the static. You turned down the TV and held your breath for a moment, and then Robin's rasp rang through the speakers.
"Hello, my quarantine compatriots— I hope you haven't been too bored. Jimmy Fast Hands may have left us in our hour of need, but never fear, Rockin' Robin is here." Right on cue, Michael Jackson's cover of the song by the same name played over the speakers and your face twisted in confusion.
Was it seriously just a radio station?
You listened to the next few songs mindlessly as you reheated your dinner. The Bangles, Blondie, Bowie. You wondered if they were working alphabetically through the record collection at the station for practice, or if it was just a funny coincidence.
The broadcast was a little clunky— dead air and uncomfortable pauses as sound effects played through the speakers. Then there was the timing of the songs after Robin's lead-ins… But it was fine for day one.
By the time Steve finally got home, dropped off in a station wagon you could only imagine belonged to Nancy Wheeler, Sam was already down for the night. That left you to try out the new polish you'd gotten at the grocery store and watch a little Magnum for the eye candy.
"Sorry that took so long," he said as he hung up his jacket and kicked off his shoes. He flopped onto the couch, which made the hand holding the polish jolt and miss your nail entirely. You stared down at the streak of hot pink polish on your skin and had to close your eyes and take a deep breath. "How was your day?"
"My parents still aren't speaking to me, your glasses will be ready on Saturday morning, and I would've won twelve thousand dollars on Jeopardy today," you droned. You wiped at your painted skin with your still-unpainted thumb, but it did little more than smear the polish around and stain your skin.
Steve frowned over at you as you finally put the cap back on the bottle and gave up on your dreams of a nice manicure. His expression was a little forlorn, but he didn't push. And god, you were glad he didn't.
"I talked to Robin," he said, and you felt his gaze flick between you and the TV. "I explained that I can't just ditch my responsibilities here. So we agreed that Jonathan or Nancy will work the soundboard and help out with most of the afternoon broadcasts."
There was a tiny flutter in your chest that made your heart feel funny. You turned to look at him, brows furrowed. "I thought you said it was really important?"
He shook his head. "Yeah, but I'm helping in the mornings, and this is important too." A tiny smile played at your lips. "The afternoon broadcasts shouldn't be too often, so I'll have plenty of nights with my girls."
A laugh escaped you and you shook your head. God, you dreamed of Steve calling you that for so long, but now that you'd finally earned the title, it felt dulled by reality.
Your feelings for Steve Harrington haunted your subconscious like a ghost. And you tried to make yourself remember how awful it could be to be with him, how mortifying and painful. And it worked, for a while… but he crept back in. In fluttery feelings in your stomach, in fleeting visions of the future, in your dreams… especially in your dreams.
And still… you were overwhelmed by relief. Of course you loved Sam, but the day had taught you that being the sole caretaker was draining. You needed Steve around, you needed him as a partner, at the very least.
The rest could be sorted out later.
"I saw Lucas at the hospital earlier," you said finally as you picked at the paint around your cuticles. You chipped away at the drying paint, wincing when your nails dug into tender skin. "Why hasn't anyone mentioned Max before? I mean, one of your friends being comatose is a pretty big deal."
"We've mentioned her before," he insisted. "She's the one that I built the ramp in the driveway for. She used to skateboard here after Deputy Callahan nearly gave her a citation for skating in the square."
You shrugged. "Yeah, but you left out a pretty big piece of information," you argued. "I would've gone with you to visit her, you know. Or you could've gone while I watched Sam."
"I just don't like to talk about it, okay?" He said finally. "I feel like it's my fault that she's in that hospital bed. I should've been able to keep her safe. And I couldn't."
His answer sucked all of the lightness from the room. You swallowed and looked at your lap, abashed.
That was the most he'd spoken about the night of the earthquake. You'd cleaned his wounds, you'd seen them slowly scab over, then heal into scars. The lines on his throat, the strange starry marks on his sides.
There just seemed to be so much you didn't know about Steve now, so much that was driving you crazy. What happened the night of the earthquake? What is it that he and his friends were hiding?
"Sorry," you said, and turned back to the TV. He nodded and swallowed hard.
"Maybe someday," he said. "I don't think I'm ready yet. But I know you want more honesty. Trust me, I want to be honest with you."
Then do it, you wanted to say. But you had plenty of experience with hiding the truth from Steve Harrington. You'd spent years pining after him silently before things spilled out.
But being the odd one out was lonely. Like the time you got the flu and missed Tommy's birthday party. You came back to school only to be met with inside jokes and confusing references.
It wasn't just Steve. It was Robin too. It was everyone. And there was nothing to do about it. You'd get nowhere demanding honesty and whining until you got it. You'd have to wait this one out.
You were in it for the long haul.
"Robin wanted to come over and hang out with us on Sunday," he said, sparing a glance over. You kept your eyes glued to Tom Selleck on TV, which wasn't a hard ask. But you could feel his gaze on you, itching in your periphery. "The kids wanted to play their weird music one day a week, so we figured that was the perfect time. We could rent a movie, maybe find a sitter for Sammie. Could be a really nice night."
And that was exactly what you needed— get in, build rapport, build trust. Bury the rest deep down until it boils over later, just like everything else in your life. "Yeah, sure," you agreed. "Sounds like fun."
On Sunday night, Sam was at the Henderson's and Steve was running to grab a movie and dinner, which meant you and Robin had the house to yourself. It was goddamn blissful to have one night with no responsibilities, totally guilt free.
No worrying that Steve was overwhelmed at home alone, or feeling like you needed to get home as soon as possible. Claudia worshiped Steve for taking such good care of her Dusty. It was, she said, just her way of returning the favor.
"You're thinking too much," Robin said, and poked the furrow between your brows. It wasn't your fault, that wrinkle had become damn-near permanent. "I can see it in your eyes, you're somewhere else."
A tiny laugh escaped you and you shrugged. "Sorry, it comes with the territory," you replied with a feeble smile. "I'm worrying about Sam or Steve in every waking moment."
You grabbed your glass of wine, which you'd stolen from the Harrington's basement, and took a long drink. Robin stuck to a shitty beer from a case that Steve had picked up from the grocery store. The taste of the wine brought you back to your argument in the bathroom and all of Steve's confessions.
He had a good time. It could've been such a good thing for both of you… it still could. You could still fix things and make it work out, if that's even what you wanted anymore.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Robin offered.
You sighed and raised a brow. "Are you going to tell Steve what I say?"
She had the grace to look offended at the suggestion, and you didn't really have any other options except talking at a headstone, so you sighed and turned on the sofa to face her. Your legs curled beneath you, and you ran a hand through your hair as you tried to think of where to begin.
"A few days ago, Steve came clean about why he, like, disappeared after we hooked up," You said. "And we haven't spoken about it since."
You worried a curl around your finger as you spoke, and your eyes searched Robin's expression for any sign that Steve had already told her. But she just sat forward eagerly, without any hint that she might have already known.
You sighed and continued. "But basically, like, he said he pushed me away after because he didn't want me to get tied down to a Hawkins loser when I had things to look forward to."
Robin sighed and ran a hand over her eyes. "God… poor Steve," she groaned under her breath. She met your gaze and gave an apologetic grimace. "I mean, definitely poor you also, in this situation, but… I mean, that's just about the saddest thing I've ever heard."
You made a face and exhaled sharply. She held her hands up in apology and cleared her throat. "So… do you want to see if it can work now?"
"No," you insisted. "No, I mean, there's way too much going on to even…" You trailed off and rubbed a hand over face, which had gone hot with embarrassment. "I don't really understand how you've avoided the emotional deathtrap that is falling for Steve Harrington, but I made it out with a few festering wounds of my own. I'd prefer to avoid adding more."
You finished your glass of wine and placed the pretty crystal back on the table. Probably a fancy gift from a fancy business partner, just siting unused in the china cabinet. Same with the wine. Same with everything.
"Besides," you said, brushing a hand through the air with a casual wave. You had to pretend it all meant nothing, or it meant everything. "I was drunk and acting like an idiot, and he would've said anything to talk me down. I'd be an idiot to read into it beyond it being a convenient excuse."
She didn't respond, and you didn't know whether she was covering for Steve, or if she genuinely didn't know. You sat forward and refilled your glass, maybe overfilled, and took a long drink.
Robin put her empty beer can on the table and leveled you with her gaze. "What are you doing for you?" She asked. "You're kind of full-on Stepford right now."
You rolled your eyes and groaned. "I have a hair appointment next week," you argued. "And a really hot guy that I have absolutely no history with wants to take me on a date, but I haven't gotten laid since..." You exhaled sharply, embarrassment making your cheeks flush. "Jesus. February."
Sure, you'd had a few quick shower sessions, but weak, rushed orgasms after particularly heated dreams weren't exactly anything to write home about. Nick looked sweet, he seemed like a giver.
"God… that sucks," she said with a sympathetic frown.
"Yeah, it does."
Robin was right. You needed to do something for you. You needed someone else to do something for you.Even if it was a handsome stranger who could be totally lying about building houses for the needy.
And, frankly, you needed a distraction from Steve Harrington.
"Hey, can you excuse me for a sec?" You asked. "The wine is, like, going right through me, or something." Robin nodded, but looked a little confused about your sudden departure.
You hurried into the bedroom and shut the door behind you.
You grabbed your stupid book from your bedside table and grabbed the phone sitting there. Carefully, you dialed his number and chewed your bottom lip as you waited. It was late, he should've been available. Or maybe he'd forgotten who you were, in which case you should just hang u—
"Hello?"
You sat up straighter and called upon every drop of liquid courage in your body. "Hi, it's—"
"I know who it is," Nick said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "I don't run around giving my number to just anyone. You're the pretty girl from the park."
You smiled softly at his casual charm. "Yeah, I guess so," you replied. "I know I left you hanging for a while, but I wanted to see if you were still interested in going out soon."
"Are you kidding? I'm very interested. How does dinner on Friday sound? You can show me what's good around here."
A smile turned at your features. "That sounds really good," you said. "I'm the big house at the end of the street on Bradford. I can be ready by 6:30?"
You listened as he scribbled down the details. "Alright, it's a date," he said. "Don't miss me too much until then."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't fight the smile. "I'll try my hardest. Goodnight."
He echoed the sentiment, and you hung up with a light, giddy feeling for the first time in a very long time.
You opened the door and saw Robin giggling on the sofa as Steve tried on his new glasses. His cheeks were ruddy with embarrassment as he looked at her.
"They're ridiculous."
"No! She picked a good pair! You just look so grumpy right now, it's adorable."
Robin snorted again, and he frantically pulled the glasses from his face. It would be a miracle if Steve ever wore them again.
He shifted his focus to arranging the tapes he'd rented, laying them out beside the 2 liter of Coke and the two boxes of pizzas he'd gotten.
"Hey, I got your favorite," he said, holding up a cheap box of movie candy. "Everything good?"
You swallowed and nodded, bringing an easy smile to your face. "Yeah, everything's great."
For the next few days, you really meant to tell Steve about the date… but you didn't. It wasn't like it was a secret— he wasn't your boyfriend, you didn't owe him fidelity. But there was something keeping you from telling him about Friday. You pushed and pushed and pushed.
On Wednesday, when you came back to Steve and Sam after your hair appointment, he poked at your curls and smiled. "Looks pretty," he said. "I thought you were done with perms."
You laughed and shook your head. "Well, I needed a change," you said.
Speaking of change, you thought, I'm going on a date so I can hook up with a hot stranger and dig myself out of this awful funk that I'm in. You could workshop it, a bit, but you knew you needed to tell him. Just rip off the band-aid and lay your cards on the table.
Someone had to be the first one to start dating, after all. And, really, why shouldn't it be you?
But Steve got the jump on you first. "Hey, I have to cover at the station on Friday," he said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up, since I'll be gone the whole day and won't get back until it's pretty late."
You swallowed. Oh… well… "Yeah," you agreed. "Yeah, that's… that's totally fine." And convenient. It would give you time to feel it out, see if it was even serious enough to mention.
So… you didn't tell him.
You wanted to, really. You brushed your teeth side by side, with his hair still wet from his shower, and you figured he deserved to know if Sam was going to be with a sitter on Friday. But it was just going to be Claudia. You trusted her, so did Steve. It would be fine.
Steve slept on the other side of the bed, and you stared up at the ceiling. There was no reason to even feel guilty, you told yourself as uncertainty gnawed at your gut. So stop feeling guilty.
Steve wouldn't feel guilty. He'd go on his stupid date, the same way he got the stupid radio job. You could stand to be more like him— just do, and worry later.
So on Friday morning, with Steve at the station, you called Claudia to get everything arranged. She was more than willing to help, and seemed downright giddy at the thought of you going on a date. It gave you a pause, but Claudia was an angel in human form, so you didn't think much of it.
When you let her in that night, she beamed at you like a proud mother would. "Oh, you look so precious," She cooed. She might as well have pinched your cheek and given you a kiss on the forehead. With a furrow in her brow, she glanced over your shoulder. "Is Steve still getting ready?"
Your brows furrowed for a moment. "Steve's at work," you explained, and at her confused expression, your eyes widened in mild horror. "Oh. I'm not… I'm not going on a date with Steve. We aren't… it's not like that. I'm going on a date with someone else."
Her cheeks went ruddy and she laughed nervously. "Oh. Silly me, I just assumed… " She gave a quick shake of her head. "Nevermind. I hope you have a nice time tonight."
You nodded and exhaled slowly as you shut the door behind her. "Sam has some mashed sweet potatoes and banana in the fridge, they're already portioned for her dinner. You can supplement it with formula, if she's still hungry. But really she's been super calm and had a great day."
You glanced at the clock— Nick would be arriving any second, so you rattled off the rest of your instructions. "If she won't sleep, she calms down pretty quickly if you sit with her in the glider. I'll be at dinner, so if you need anything at all, just call the radio station— the number is on a pink post-it near the phone… And I trust you, of course, so help yourself to any food, drinks, the TV… whatever you need."
A knock on the door made you stand up straighter. You glanced back at Claudia with a little smile and walked towards the door.
Nick was on the front steps when you opened the door, with a small bouquet in hand. You sighed softly when you noticed it, and frowned gently when he pushed it into your hands.
"You didn't have to do this," you insisted. You nodded him into the house and placed the flowers in the nice crystal vase by the door.
"You look so beautiful," he said, with a quick glance at you that didn't even feel like he was leering. He whistled low, looking around. "Wow… nice place you've got here," he said. "Did you win the lottery or something?"
He took a few steps around, marveling at the fancy furniture, the vases, the mirror on the walls. He glanced deeper into the house and gave Claudia a wave. "Hi, I'm Nick."
"Okay, no need for introductions," you said softly, then loud enough that she could hear, "Bye, Ms. Henderson."
Nick smiled down at you as you walked to his car. He was a gentleman— he opened the door for you so you could ease into the passenger seat. The interior were upholstered in red, and you spared a glance towards the backseat that you planned on familiarizing yourself with later. Sure, it looked a little cramped, but you could manage.
In Steve's first week at the station, you hadn't yet tuned into one of the evening broadcasts. The morning ones were great, but you got the sense that Jonathan Byers' tastes wouldn't exactly be aligned with yours. But with Steve at the helm with Robin, you figured it would be a nice backdrop.
You tuned to the station, but all you got was static. You kept trying on the drive over, wondering if it was just the positioning to the tower, or a weird military interference, but nothing ever came through. Huh.
Nick took you to Enzo's, which he'd apparently asked around about in his desperate attempt to make the date nice for you. You'd gone there before Prom, and then for Carol and Tommy's rehearsal dinner. You looked at the big table in the back, and could almost see yourself glaring in Steve Harrington's general direction.
It was so pointless and petty, but those feelings had a way of lingering. And wasn't that what you were doing with Nick? Trying to replace those feelings with something new?
Nick Marshall was twenty-one, spending his summer doing charity work, and planning on going for his masters in architecture. He lived in Massachusets, in a quaint little town that he swore you'd never be able to find on a map. He had an older sister, a dog, and wanted to build his own house on a nice piece of land his grandad willed to him.
You did you best to keep to the surface level at first. You talked about college and your indecision about pursuing nursing. You talked about your favorite musicians and books, and stupid pointless things that you were supposed to talk about on first dates, it was so easy to talk to him. The night got darker, and the restaurant mostly cleared out. You and Nick were among the last few stragglers.
"So, is Ms. Henderson your roommate?" He asked eventually, brows furrowed.
You laughed and shook your head. "No, actually," you replied. "She's a friend's mom, but I trust her with Sam. My roommate is… a very long story."
He took a small bite of tiramisu and nodded. "I'm a good listener."
You sighed and got into the real meat of it… with some exceptions. You skipped the years of pining and the wedding hookup. For all Nick knew, you and Steve were two old friends who were, unfortunately, raising a kid together.
"Huh," he said, brows furrowed. You swallowed nervously as he met your gaze. "You know, I'm sorry for your loss, but I did kind of think that baby looked nothing like you—"
"Shut up," you replied with a roll of your eyes. "Are you worried that I'm damaged goods yet?"
He shook his head. "No," he replied easily. "Is it hard? You know, having to raise your friends' kid with some guy you lost touch with?"
Hard was an understatement. Impossible was a better word. "Yeah, actually," you admitted. "But he's really good with her, and I'm getting better every day."
"I'm not talking about the baby stuff, I'm talking about just living together. There must be something underneath it all."
You couldn't have shaken your head faster— like the thought appalled you. "No, I mean… no," you said feebly. "Not at all."
You tried to believe that, but whatever doubts you had didn't seem to phase Nick. A few minutes later, when the waiter was giving you both exasperated looks, Nick gave a charming smile and nodded towards the door. "Hey, do you wanna get out of here?"
You switched it to 94.5 in the car, as you directed Nick down dark forest roads towards all of your old hookup spots. Static, still. It made something cold burrow in your gut, a knowing. Steve had been Steve again. He lied about where he was, what he was doing.
Your jaw ticked at the low buzz of static in the car. You gave it a second, wondering if it was just bad reception. But the radio tower was too close, and you could pick up the others just fine.
It was obvious what he was doing. His plan was to keep you at home, watching the baby so he could sneak out and get his dick wet. He probably had his stupid Beamer parked on one of the other dark roads in town and was feeling up some—
"Hey," Nick dragged you from your thoughts. "Find a good station?"
His hand was on your thigh, warm against your skin. You shook your head and changed it to a station out of Indianapolis that was decent. "Sorry, yeah. Um, next right, you'll pull into a little gravel driveway off this road. House is abandoned, so you can just kill the car."
You were both quick to climb into the backseat. There were no pretenses anymore— you'd had your dinner and conversation, but you both knew what this was about. He made it clear he was leaving soon, and you weren't going to beg him to stay. You just needed an outlet, for as long as you could have one.
You straddled his lap, denim skirt hiking up your thighs as he kissed you hungrily. With each hungry lap of his tongue against yours, your heart beat harder and harder. Being wanted like that was a head rush, and you felt the rest of the world melting away. "Is this okay?" He panted in your ear.
God yes, you thought. You nodded, smiling against his mouth, and kissed him harder.
And maybe the backseat was a bad idea. Even with his mouth on your throat and a hand sliding up your skirt, your thoughts were of last summer. Nick tugged down your top and kissed down your chest, and still, your thoughts were stuck on Steve Harrington.
His mouth, his hands, the heat of him beneath you. The cool leather of the backset, the rush of desire licking at your veins. But it wasn't leather, it was red upholstery beneath you, rubbing uncomfortably at your knees. The backseat was cramped, smaller— Nick drove a sports car. Sports cars were cool. Nick was really hot, and his hands were warm and nice and rubbing you over your panties just right.
Steve didn't matter. Steve was a flash in the pan— a stupid, mistake of a hookup over a year ago.
Steve, who? Steve was probably getting awful head in the front seat of the beamer right now. You hoped it was bad head. You hoped she was making him do all the work, and that he got a cramp, and—
"Oh, fuck—" You gasped, head falling back. His fingers slid beneath the elastic of your panties, circling your sensitive clit. Your eyes fluttered weakly at the stimulation, and you felt your tummy going molten. "Steve—"
And just like that, all of the oxygen was sucked out of the car. Fuck.
Nick furrowed his brows, but froze beneath you. "Steve? Like your roommate, Steve?"
You swallowed. "It's not like that," you insisted. Lie. "I'm just really in my head right now. Like, he's supposed to be at the radio station, but there's no broadcast on and it was just static, so—"
Nick ran a head through his hair. "You're thinking about a radio station right now? And you were trying to put on your roommate's radio station before we hooked up?"
You sighed. "No," you insisted. "I mean, yes, I was trying to put the station on, but not because of him." His expression fell further. You could sense the irritation and confusion, it was palpable between you as you dug yourself a deeper and deeper hole. "And obviously the station is off, so he's probably just hooking up with someone and lying to me about it."
Nick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. You felt his hand move from your thigh and drop onto the seat beside him. He ran a hand through his hair and met your gaze. "I don't want to hook up with someone who can't stop thinking about her guy roommate's radio show and who he's screwing while I'm touching them. I should get you home."
You slid from his lap and into the bucket seat beside him. As you pulled your shirt back up, and shimmied your denim skirt back into place, you felt shame settling hot in your gut, replacing every ounce of desire and excitement that you'd felt.
On the ride back to the house, you kept your head resting against the window as you watched Hawkins pass by outside. It was late, already far past when Claudia would be expecting you, and you didn't even have anything good to show for it.
Nick would never want to see you again, your dry spell still had no end in sight, and you'd have to be around a stupid, smug Steve who wouldn't even know how he totally ruined your night.
"I know I spoiled everything," you began, sparing a glance over at him, "but I didn't mean to. I really wanted this to work out."
He shrugged and gave you a weak smile across the car. "Don't sweat it, alright?" He said simply. "There's no bad blood here, I swear."
And maybe there wasn't, but that didn't make you feel any better. You could feel yourself pouting, and you'd already begun planning an evening of moping and sulking until Nick turned onto Bradford Street and you saw the Beamer in the driveway instead of Claudia's sedan.
There was a nagging feeling in your gut that you should have asked Nick to do a couple of loops around the block, but he parked in front of the door and your stomach turned. You offered another weak apology for how the night had ended, which he graciously shrugged off, and you went for the door.
In your periphery, you could have sworn you saw the blinds open and close quickly, which meant Steve had the audacity to spy on you. Steve. Of all people was digging into your life.
When you got inside, he was leaning against the doorway into his dad's old office, arms crossed, expression tense. "Fun night?" He asked, and you were floored by the audacity to be mad at you.
"Why do you care?" You muttered, as you pushed deeper into the house. The lights were off, except for the lamp in the corner of the living room. It took you right back to high school and being caught sneaking in after a party by your parents.
Except it wasn't your dad, sitting in his La-Z-Boy and smoking a cigarette while waiting to lecture you. It was Steve, who had been lying and lying and lying for months, and still thought he had the right to judge you.
Steve followed as you headed towards the bedroom, and gave an irritating shrug that played at nonchalance. "I care because I came home to Ms. Henderson asleep on the sofa because you were late getting home. Probably because you were hooking up with that loser in the stupid IROC."
"Okay, to be totally fair, I never really told Claudia when I'd be home," you argued. You did feel a little bad, but you'd send her flowers and a card apologizing, but Steve didn't need to know that. "And so what if I was hooking up with him? I'm an adult, and I can sleep with whoever I want. You're being weird about it."
Steve huffed. Actually huffed. When you went into the bedroom, he followed, visibly irritated.
You dropped your purse on the vanity and checked your reflection in the mirror. You looked fine. Sure, your lipstick was a little smudged, and your shirt was a little haphazard. And, well, your skirt was twisted into the wrong spot, but it was fine.
You turned to face him and exhaled sharply. "Fine, I didn't tell you that I had a date tonight, and I'll own that. But Sam was with Claudia, who we both trust, safe and sound. I don't understand the problem."
You raised a brow, crossed your arms, and waited to see if Steve would take the bait. Anything he wanted to accuse you of, you were willing to throw back tenfold. His capacity for hypocrisy floored you.
Steve ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his temples. "You should've been here with Sam," he insisted. "I have enough to worry about without you lying about where you're at and who you're with."
A scoff escaped you, which only made Steve's irritation grow. "Lying? That's what you want to talk about right now?"
He swallowed, but stood firm. "Yeah, you lied by… by—" he exhaled, hand waving as if he was grabbing the air from thin air. He snapped suddenly, looking proud of himself for finding the word. "Omission. You lied by omission, which isn't cool."
He looked so proud of himself, like he'd backed you into a corner that you couldn't wiggle out of. You pushed off the vanity and sucked your teeth as you looked at him. He withered just a bit under your gaze, but tried his best not to show it.
"How was the broadcast?" You asked, cocking your head slightly.
"It was fine," he insisted.
You pursed your lips and nodded "Right," you said with a mocking smile. "No problems at all? No disturbances, dead air…?" He shook his head and you laughed wryly. "That's really weird, because when I turned it on there was nothing but static."
Steve blanched, and stammered as he tried to grab at straws and come up with an excuse. "You know what? There was a bit of a technical… like, a little blip of dead air," he said quickly. "That's what you heard."
"When?"
"What?"
"When was the dead air, Steve? What time?" He swallowed, and you could see the guilt creeping into his expression, the inability to meet your gaze. "Right, but you want to accuse me of lying about where I'm at and who I'm with?"
Steve was gratefully, frustratingly silent. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and stood with his back against the dresser. The silence grated on you with each passing second. And your morbid curiosity coupled with the resentment over your spoiled date, creating an awful, jealous beast.
You'd never been one to let sleeping dogs lie.
"So who was it this time?" You questioned, and the words tasted as bitter as they sounded. "Anyone important, or did you just go for the first skank willing to open her legs for you?"
"God, I wasn't screwing anyone. I was at the station— call Dustin, call Lucas, call Mike," He crossed his arms, and you swallowed hard at the way his shirt pulled and stretched around his biceps. You felt your heart beat a little harder, and not because you were frustrated.
Well, you were frustrated… in a manner of ways. You knew that all of the tension and need that you'd felt for Nick was just repackaged and repurposed from something much older. Something you were too scared to engage with, something that felt like it was finally reaching a boiling point.
"And honestly, you're one to talk," he pressed. "You took Mr. IROC's backseat for a spin tonight."
"Why would you even care if I did?" You demanded.
"He didn't even walk you to the door!" He argued, and the tone of his voice made you freeze. It was so honestly frustrated that your brows knit together. "He didn't kiss you goodbye, or fix your clothes, or fix your hair."
A weak huff escaped you. "Well, neither did you."
That night, in the back of Steve's car, everything had ended so unceremoniously. He didn't clean you up, or help you with your dress, or kiss you— not after you'd both come. And you hadn't cared then, not when you were so wrapped up in the excitement of finally being with him.
Steve swallowed hard. Your eyes followed the way his throat bobbed. "I should have," he insisted. "And I should have talked to you after. I mean, I should have taken you on a date every day until you left for college, then written you every day when you were gone."
He met your gaze and your heart stuttered. You couldn't tell if it was good or bad, that feeling. But your heart squeezed, tightening in a way that pulled all of the air from your lungs until it felt like you couldn't even breathe. All of your resentment and longing twisted up inside of you, until it felt like there was nothing else left.
He moved closer, only a couple of paces away, and your head spun.
"I wasn't out with a girl tonight. And I haven't been out with anyone since the earthquake because you're the only person I can think about. Even Phoebe Cates and Brooke Shields are total duds compared to you."
You wanted to believe that. God, you really wanted that to be true. But you knew Steve. Your palms pressed against his shoulders as you shoved him back, and he made a soft sound of surprise.
You felt your bottom lip quiver, and you shook your head with a weak scoff. "You're awful." Your voice was wobbly as the words came out. "If you think you can just deflect everything by giving me a crumb of affection, you're wrong. I'm not stupid, Steve. I know you, and I know what you do to keep me hanging on."
His brows knit, and he looked at you like you'd just driven a knife into his gut. "Hey, that's not what this is," he insisted. "I know I've screwed up, and I owe you honesty and I want to give it to you."
He looked around, exhaled sharply, and grabbed your hand. Your brows furrowed as he tugged you to the foot of the bed and made you sit down beside him. "I wasn't at the station tonight," he admitted. "And there wasn't a broadcast, because no one was there to do the broadcast."
Your brows furrowed. "But you just said you weren't—"
"I wasn't with a girl. I was in the Squawk van with Henderson, because we were tracking Sheriff Hopper."
"W-what?" You stammered, and you were sure your expression showed your sheer bafflement, because Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You were ghost hunting? With Dustin Henderson?"
He groaned. "No," he said, and you could tell he was toeing the line between exasperation and patience. "Hopper didn't die in the mall fire. And it wasn't even a mall fire, really. There were these Russians beneath, and a gate, and it was destroyed by this freaky fleshy monster."
You blinked at him. Once, twice. You grabbed brow and lifted it so you could look in his eyes. "Are you on drugs? Were you doing drugs with Dustin Henderson tonight?"
He shook off your touch and huffed. "No. I wasn't doing drugs with Dustin." He exhaled sharply and grabbed your hands in his, squeezing tight. "Haven't you wondered about all of the bad things that have happened in Hawkins since Junior year?"
Benny. Two hunters in the woods. Barb. Zombie boy. Carol and Tommy used to talk about that week that he was gone, how weird Steve had been afterwards. Sure, they'd all apologized and gotten over their drama, but you knew things were different.
Something happened with Steve that week. Carol and Tommy just figured it was about Nancy, but what if it wasn't?
And maybe you'd always wondered why he walked out of a mall fire looking like he'd just gotten out of the ring with Mike Tyson. And maybe you wondered why the Holloway's, who had always been family friends before, were so weird and different before they died in the mall fire.
And then there were the weird fissures in the ground, the people Eddie Munson allegedly sacrificed, the weird scars on Steve's body, the things he couldn't talk about.
Maybe Steve was crazy, and maybe he was on drugs and imagining things, and Hawkins was just extremely unlucky. Or maybe something bigger was going on— maybe you'd always suspected something was deeply wrong.
So you exhaled slowly and gave it a beat. "Let's say I give you the benefit of the doubt here," you began. "How exactly were you tracking Sheriff Hopper?"
A tiny smile played at Steve's lips, relief. "Can I start from the beginning?"
By two in the morning, both of you were three cups of coffee in and still not awake enough to deal with what he was saying. You sat at the breakfast nook with the quiet baby monitor between you as you sipped at a fresh mug of coffee. Your nails drummed against the ceramic, tapping out a staccato rhythm.
Monsters, Russians, secret government plots, gates to another dimension. You were still so unsure, but you doubted Steve would have been able to concoct something so insane, so elaborate and talk about it for hours with no contradictions. He wasn't that good of a liar, or that creative.
Steve had his new glasses on, which made his eyes look a little bigger in the low light of the kitchen. He kept pushing them up with his fingers, which left small smudges at the corners that you figured had to be bothering him. You doubted he would have been wearing them if not for the killer headache he got an hour and a half prior, when he had to start fielding your questions about the underground tunnels.
"So the demon-bats—"
"Demobats," he corrected.
You gave a weak nod and cleared your throat. "They're like, little flying versions of the flower face things? The big one with razor teeth that you said was as tall as Michael Jordan?"
"Taller," he interjected. "Like, way taller. Giant."
"And they're the ones that…" you gave a weak gesture to his throat and sides. He sipped his own sugary coffee and nodded. "Jesus."
You rubbed at your eyes and exhaled softly. Vecna. Slash One. Slash Henry. He'd been the one to put Max into her coma, and the one to open the gates that took Tommy and Carol.
You weren't brave enough to ask Steve what might have happened to them, but the questions were there. Do you think it was instant, or did they get transported to that place? If we can go in… what can come out?
"If this is all true, I want to help," you insisted. "With the demo-stuff. With the crawls and the station."
His eyes widened incredulously. "What? That's what you took from all of that?" When you nodded and furrowed your brows, he groaned and wrung his hands. "I told you all of this so you'd know why I wanted to keep you and Sammie away, not to recruit you."
That was fair, and you knew that, but you couldn't just sit back and let Steve and his army of children save Hawkins, or the world, or whatever. "Says the person who recruited Lucas' baby sister."
"Well, Erica isn't the person I'm—" He cut himself off and took a long drink of his coffee. "No. No way. Everyone's already going to kill me for even telling you all of this."
You scoffed. You were going to kill them for hiding all of this shit from you, knowing it's what killed your friends. When you finished the last dregs of your coffee, you pushed the mug across the table with a low scrape and put your head in your hands.
You heard the thump of Steve's mug settling back on the table, then the soft ahem of him clearing his throat. "So… are you going on a second date, you think?"
You looked up, eyes narrowed. "Are you seriously asking that right now? You just told me there are freaky, extra-terrestrial things in our town, and you want to know if I'm seeing Nick again?"
He had the good sense to look sheepish. "I'm just trying to be conversational," he said. "And they aren't from another planet, they're from… I don't know, actually."
"Our world but way worse… right… I remember that," you said. You paused, looking down at your nails. You'd partially picked off most of the pink nail polish you'd worn, but there were a few flakes of polish remaining. You wore at the paint on your thumb, then met his gaze. "There's not going to be a second date with Nick, alright? Tonight barely even qualified as a date, I mean, I totally ruined it before we even got past second base."
He smiled, like a total asshole. You rolled your eyes. "Okay," you said. "You got to ask a question, now it's my turn." He nodded and sat forward. "How much of what you said earlier was bullshit? Not about… the weird freaky stuff. The stuff about, uh…"
You scratched the back of your neck, timidly. It felt like. a stupid time to ask, but maybe it was time you were both honest. All cards on the table, good or bad. And, really, how much worse could things get?
Steve scratched his neck, and you watched his cheeks go ruddy. Somehow, this conversation felt harder than anything before. More complicated than Russian torture and creepy monsters. He swallowed, searching for the words. "I feel bad bad, because the world is ending and our friends died, but waking up next to you every morning, seeing you with Sammie… it's the most sure about anything that I've ever been. And it's not just the circumstances, it's just you."
You laughed, shaking your head. "That is pretty crazy," you said, meeting his gaze. "I mean… I've never felt less sure of anything. I don't even know if I should have Sam call me mama, or if I should just be Auntie for her whole life. You know? Is she going to be Samantha Hagan forever, are we going to change her last name so it isn't confusing when she gets to school?"
There were just so many questions. Was there anything you were really sure about? Not being a mom, not Steve, not even the assumed security of the universe anymore. And for someone who said he felt so certain, Steve's brows furrowed.
His fingers drummed on the table for a moment, then he met your gaze. "Do you remember Gary Reeve from summer camp?" He asked. You shook your head and he shrugged. "Well, he was in my cabin, and he talked all the time about being adopted from Sweden when he was, like three. And every week, he was first in line to call his mom and dad back in the suburbs."
And realistically, you knew that was true. You knew that you were Sam's mom, even if she wasn't yours by blood. She was yours in every way that counted, even if it felt like a betrayal to admit it.
"Don't you feel like you're replacing them?" You asked. "Don't you feel guilty? Like you're living the life they were supposed to?"
Steve shook his head. "Sometimes, she'll do something and I'll think about how much Tommy or Carol would've loved to see it," he says. "Like last week, when you were in the shower and I was in the nursery with her, I swear she nearly crawled.
There was something in his gaze— a wistful sort of pride. You remembered it from being little, sitting at the table while your dad taught you how to do sutures. Thick black thread and a Raggedy Anne doll that Carol's mom's chihuahua had ripped the arm off of. When you tied off the stitches and showed him your handiwork, he had beamed.
"I think Tommy and Carol picked us because they knew we could find a way to be the parents that Sammie needs. They'd want us to be mom and dad, and make all of the tough calls that freak us out now."
You wished, more than anything, that you could be that sure. That you could wake up and approach every day like you were born for it the way Steve did. You hadn't needed Steve's permission to think of yourself as Sam's mom— you just needed someone to tell you it was fine that you did.
"I have a question," he said, and you looked up from your hands to see him watching you fondly. "I've never heard you call her Sammie."
That wasn't a question. "I've never heard you call her Sam." He shrugged, as if to say, that's fair. "And if you have to know, Sammie makes me think of a boy from preschool who used to eat ladybugs at recess to traumatize me."
Steve grimaced at the thought, and the way his expression twisted made a smile play at your lips. "Sam was my grandad's name. Samuel Harrington. But my grandma always called him Sam." He paused, and you watched a wistful expression pass over his features.
You'd met his Grandad once, at a Fourth of July party when you were both very young. He was a slight man, so he still fit into his old army uniform. He was a sweet man, but lonely. Once he'd gotten too old to take care of himself properly, the Harrington's moved him into a nursing home, but Steve biked over there weekly to visit.
"I dunno, maybe I would've named her Samantha if I had the choice," he said. "After him, you know?" He looked at you curiously. "What about you? If you had to pick a name."
You exhaled slowly, brows knitting together as you thought about it. You'd never thought much about being a mother, and you'd never thought about what you might name a potential future child. "Um… I don't have a list, or anything," you began, giving a tiny laugh. "I guess when I was little I always named my baby dolls Dawn. I thought it was pretty."
A smile played at his lips. "It's awful," he said with a tiny laugh.
You rolled your eyes. "What? Did you want me to say I named them all Steve Jr.?" He shrugged, but the smug expression on his lips told you otherwise. "Sorry to burst your bubble, but I didn't develop those feelings for you until freshman year."
"Really? You were into me when we were freshmen?" He asked, brows narrowed. "For me it was senior year."
Your eyes narrowed accusingly. "Bullshit."
"It's not," he insisted. "I mean, I was always a little territorial over you. But it just hit me on a random day in first period when you were doing a presentation about the endocrine system."
Your brows furrowed. "I don't even remember that" you admitted.
"Well, it made a big impression on me," he said, and you could tell by the sheepishness in his voice that he was being earnest. "I just looked at you talking about hormones and glands and stuff, and I thought, geez, I was a total dumbass. Like, here's this beautiful, smart girl who saw through all of my bullshit and was still into me."
"Well, I wasn't into you then," you corrected. "I didn't even talk to you."
He shrugged. "Well, they say absence makes the heart go farther." You snorted— close enough. "But y'know, I still managed to screw things up even more. I'm kind of good at that."
"You didn't screw things up entirely," you said. "I mean… I think we're both alright." A tiny smile played on his lips and he nodded.
Across the kitchen, the clock on the oven read a quarter until four, blinking green in the dark of the room. You yawned and rubbed at your eyes.
In the morning, you'd be an absolute zombie, but you didn't make a move to get up from the table. After a few hard blinks, you glanced at the empty coffee machine longingly.
"C'mon, let's get you to bed," Steve said. "Anything else we want to say can wait until the morning."
You frowned. You were going to have the worst nightmares, you were sure of it. Images of freaky tall flower-faced beasts and gooey fleshy monsters and limbs snapping and eyes popping. Now you understood why Steve woke up in a cold sweat, thrashing and panting. He'd seen some awful things, and he'd kept them secret to keep you safe.
He fell asleep with his glasses still on, askew where his face smushed against the pillow. You sat up and lifted them from his face gently, doing your best not to wake him. He stirred, blinking blearily as you stretched over him to put them on his nightstand.
"Thanks," he murmured, closing his eyes once more. "G'night."
"Night," you whispered back.
Even if you could sleep, you'd be exhausted in the morning. But you'd wake up to WSQK playing over the radio, and you'd tell Sam that was her dad doing the rubber chicken sounds and cuing up the applause. You'd take her to the park to watch the ducks, and when an old lady complimented you on your beautiful little girl and how you were such a good mom, you wouldn't feel inclined to correct her.
And you'd think about the monsters lurking in the shadows, the portals carved into the ground, covered by a flimsy metal band-aid. You'd think about whatever Steve and his friends were doing, and how you weren't sure if you should try to help, or if you should keep yourself and Sam far, far away.
Your life— Steve's life— was split into two warring halves— a false sense of normalcy and a haunting reality. What kind of mom would you be if you didn't try to make things right for Sam? But what kind of mom would you be if you and Steve got yourselves killed and left her orphaned again?
You closed your eyes and tried to focus on the sound of Steve breathing instead of your racing thoughts. You rolled over, leaning onto his chest. He stirred and lazily wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. His heart thrummed in a steady cadence. Strong, sure. Eventually, it lulled you to sleep.
Thank you for reading!!!
Yayyyy!!! She finally (unfortunately??) knows about all of the fucked up bullshit, she's feeling more stable in her new role as a mom, AND she knows steve's head over heels for her... but how are they going to figure out what's next for their family with months of crawls and apocalyptic nonsense going on??
Let me know what you're hoping to see in part 4, and maybe I'll tell you if you're on the right track!!
"Tilt your head to the side a little more, please. Great." he instructs as he captures another shot and it takes everything in you to not let out a bored sigh.
Earlier when you'd agreed to help him with his project it seemed like a good idea. But now, sprawled out on the cold floor you've started to rethink that decision.
"How many more?" you groan out.
He fidgets with the lens. "Just enough to use up the film."
"I'm bored."
You can only make out the corners of his mouth behind the camera as they tug up into a small smile you've come to know so well. "Don't be."
Your eyes narrow. "You aren't taking my agony seriously."
He's standing over you, feet planted on either side of your waist. You flick the material of his jeans as he hunches over while snapping another shot.
When he doesn't react in the slightest at your teasing, a new idea forms in your head. With one smooth move you pull your shirt over your head, leaving you in your black lacy bra and your jeans.
He stills, just as you expected, then lets out a small sigh. "That's not even remotely fair."
You simply shrug and urge hin to continue. "Hurry up, then."
"Don't you think it's a little immature of you that you can't stay still for thirty minutes-" he mumbles as he reaches down to rearrange your hair, his fingers brushing over your collarbone in the process.
You take the opportunity and grab onto the front of his shirt, giving it a good tug with a grin. He curses under his breath as he stumbles downward, practically crashing into you. Somehow he manages to save his camera, holding it up in the air even as his body rests on top of yours and his face is merely an inch away.
"You promised you'd help" he murmurs against your mouth the next moment, and you can't take him seriously, not when you can hear the smile in his voice.
"But I am helping" you smile before finally kissing him.
You get the feeling that he'd love to complain if he could, but his resolve is only so strong and before either of you know it, he's kissing you back and pushing his camera aside.
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!
Chapter Warnings: SMUT (brief fingering/handjob, car sex, p in v sex), slow burn friends to lovers, miscommunication, one-sided (?) pining, language, period-typical slut shaming, minor character death
Chapter Summary: from childhood, you and steve were best friends, until your stupid infatuation with him ruined it. then you were something else, until he ruined that too.
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.
Steve didn't know how you'd managed it. But there you were, sitting in front of your turntable with a copy of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. You held onto it like it was the holy grail, eyes wide with pure awe. There was still a scrap of candy striped wrapping paper taped to the back.
Just a few weeks prior, the two of you had gotten caught sneaking into the showing of the movie after buying tickets to Pete's Dragon. The manager at The Hawk called your parents, and both of you were dragged home by your ears.
"How the hell did you get this?" He asked, brows knit. At eleven, he'd only just started trying out swearing, and it didn't entirely feel right on his tongue yet.
You smiled and took it from the sleeve, the black vinyl glistening in the warm light of your room. "I asked my grandma," you explained as you placed it on the turntable to start playing it. Immediately, the familiar disco music began to play over the speakers. "She doesn't know about us getting in trouble at the movies. She just thinks John Travolta is cute"
Steve's face wrinkled. "John Travolta isn't cute, he's cool," he argued, but you weren't listening.
The door to the bedroom was closed, which neither of you thought about. The sounds of the Christmas party downstairs were muffled— boisterous laughter, the swing of an old Bing Crosby record, a bottle of champagne being popped. It was fine, you were to be seen and not heard, and Steve was right there with you.
You had met Steve at a party just like this a few years back, right after your family moved back to Hawkins. Another party where you and any other children were ushered into a room to entertain yourselves while the adults did their own thing. You bonded over a mutual love for The Muppets, and shared a plate of cookies away from all of the other snotty, bratty kids.
Steve, very quickly, became your favorite person in the whole world.
Without knowing it, you only had a few good months before your parents would step in and lecture you about what's proper and how ladies don't close the door when there's a boy in the room.
By thirteen, you'd have to stop letting him in your room altogether. He'd be relegated to the living room under your parent's watchful eyes. No sharing blankets, one cushion between you on the couch, stiff side-hugs only. He would go from walking through the woods to your window, to going up the path to your door. All formality.
But, for the time being, Steve was in your room, and Steve was your best friend. And you had the top item on your wish list.
You exchanged the small gifts you'd managed to buy each other from the dollar store. You got Steve a Muppet Show lunchbox, and he got you a stuffed bear. Steve snuck you slices of fruitcake, which you both hated, and cups of eggnog, which were disgustingly spiked. Everything was warm and nice and it felt like the best night of your life.
Next year, you'd start middle school. Steve would meet Tommy Hagan, who would steal away most of his attention. And the year after, you'd meet Carol Perkins, who would steal away most of yours.
"So, who do you like?" She'd ask, laying on your bed while her fingernail polish dried. Her parents had dropped her off with ten bucks for the two of you to spend at Melvald's, which you'd splurged on candy and makeup.
"I dunno," you replied with a shrug. Really, no one at school caught your eye. You'd rather spend time with friends than worry about dating. Even at fourteen, your mother was already belaboring the fact that you were a dreaded late bloomer.
Carol's expression lit up. "We can play MASH and figure it out," she suggested. She grabbed your precious Snoopy stationery and a ballpoint pen, and quickly scribbled out your future.
"Magic number?" She asked. You closed your eyes and tried to will the universe, or god, or fate, or whatever to speak through you.
"Ummm… Nine."
A few minutes later, Carol sat up with a smug grin. "Okay, the oracle has spoken," she said with all of the grandeur she could muster. "You're going to be a doctor, have a pet turtle, have two kids, and live in a house with… Steve."
The searing, gut wrenching heat of embarrassment flooded your system. Married? And to Steve? "That's so stupid," you replied, but Carol kept digging.
"Aw… you're totally blushing!" She teased, as your face grew hotter and hotter. If you could have, you would have crawled under your bed to die. "No, it's sweet! No wonder you don't have crushes on anyone. You're totally crazy for Steve."
You didn't think that was true. Steve was a gross boy. He spat on the sidewalk and puked up Slurpees on your shoes over the summer and when the weather turned he got really snotty and disgusting.
Sure, you hadn't really had any crushes yet, but that was because you were such good friends with Steve, and it was hard to find someone who you'd rather spend time with. What was a crush if not a really good friend? A friend who you'd want to kiss?
Had you ever wanted to kiss Steve? Had you wanted to kiss anyone yet?
"I don't want to have two kids with Steve either," you argued, but Carol just grinned.
"Do you even know how it works?" She questioned. At your silence, she laughed. It didn't feel mean, just that she was grateful to finally know something you didn't already. "Aren't your parents doctors, or something? They're totally sheltering you. It's fine, I can tell you. My sister told me all about it. She says it's the best thing in the world."
Freshman year, you discovered that you did want to kiss people. Steve. You wanted to kiss Steve.
Steve had gotten taller over the summer, and his voice was deeper, and just being around him had started making you dizzy. You stole your mother's Avon perfume and begged her to order you more after Steve commented on how nice it smelled. Carol snuck you makeup, which you had to put on in a tiny mirror hidden inside of your locker, and take off before your parents got home.
Because of the constant surveillance, you spent more time at his house. His parents didn't care if he brought over girls, and they figured since he'd known you since you were both in grade school, nothing would ever happen. You tried not to feel insulted.
So you sat in Steve's room and listened to your favorite records. And after all of this time, you still loved the Bee Gees. Steve still preferred Queen.
"What are you wearing to Carol's birthday party?" He asked from behind a copy of Sports Illustrated. "And what are you gonna get her? Girls are so hard to buy for."
You looked up from your spot by the window, where you had lost yourself staring out into the woods. "Uh… I bought her some eyeshadow and nail polish," you said absently. "It's kind of hard, she's so different than me."
Steve grinned. "That's 'cause you're still a baby," he said, and you hated the way your stomach twisted at the words. You knew he didn't mean anything hurtful by them, but it still made you feel a little pathetic. "Speaking of… Tommy said Brian's coming. And he told me that Brian thinks you're really pretty."
You fought back an expression of disgust. Brian was in your biology lab and got detention for tying the poor dissection frog's limbs to pencils and playing with it like a marionette. Brian was a stupid meathead, and he wasn't even very cute.
"Brian is disgusting," you said weakly. "And everyone Tommy tries to set me up with is a total dud. I wish he'd just stop trying.
Steve put the magazine down and sighed. "Tommy's just trying to help," he insisted. "He doesn't want you to feel left out."
There was a lump in your throat that you couldn't swallow down. "I'm not left out," you said, but it felt so defensive and pathetic. "The only people dating right now are Carol and Tommy. You're single too."
Steve made a face then, but you tried to ignore it. Baby, baby, baby. Your inexperience was beginning to feel like a scarlet letter, not that Steve would have understood the reference if you tried to explain.
You loved Steve, and Carol, and Tommy, but a lot of the time you felt like you were just dead weight around them. The baby of the group. The responsible one. The stick in the mud.
Carol's birthday was supposed to change that. Her parents were out of town, and her older sister, Debbie, bought her wine coolers since Carol had promised not to snitch the next time she snuck out to go be with a boy.
The wine coolers gave you a little liquid courage, Carol let you know that you'd all be playing seven minutes in heaven later, and she'd rigged it so you and Steve would go into the closet together. Foolproof, in her eyes. Terrifying in yours.
Steve went into the closet first, blindfolded because Carol thought it would be more fun that way. His cheeks were pink, and everyone jeered as Carol tied the bandana over his eyes.
She held up the next name silently, winking in your direction. There were giggles and snickers, but you stood, wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans, and stepped into the closet. This was it, you thought. You'd kiss Steve, he'd immediately realize it's you, and you'd be boyfriend and girlfriend.
The door shut, you took a shaky breath. You felt like you were going to pass out, or something. Your mouth tasted sickly sweet like the wine coolers, and you could hear a crowd gathering around the door. Footsteps and giggles.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Steve's voice cut through the dark of the room. You swallowed hard and leaned forward.
It was a simple, if not a little boring kiss. But you really didn't know any better. A chaste, prolonged peck. Mouths closed, hands at your side.
You pulled back, heart racing eyes wide in the dark of the room. You could barely make out the shape of him.
"Y/N?" He pulled off the bandana, brows knit. "You didn't have to do that. We can just talk."
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Even in the dark, he was so handsome. You wanted to tell him that you wanted to kiss him, that you wanted to try again, if that was okay.
But Steve beat you to the punch. "Man, I wish I got paired with Lisa," he mumbled. "No, offense. I just mean, you're my friend, and we don't like each other that way."
Then softer, "Was that your first kiss?"
It was a miracle that the closet was dark enough that he couldn't see the sparkle of tears in your eyes. Humiliated, mortified tears.
There were five minutes left that you used to collect yourself, but everyone outside knew how it had gone. When Lisa giggled at your forlorn expression, Carol pulled her aside to bitch her out and send her home.
That was Carol— she'd never let someone hurt you. Not on purpose, at least.
By Monday at school, Carol told Tommy everything, which meant his expression held an amount of pity in it that made you sick. Steve was sitting with Lisa at lunch, which made it all worse.
"It's just a tough break," he said, with that typical boyish attitude. He believed everything he'd been told growing up— Walk it off, Hagan. Be a man. "You know how Steve is. The sooner you get over him, the sooner things'll be back to normal."
The implication behind his words was clear enough— Steve's not interested, so move on, or suffer through. What choice did you have but to move on? To shed your cocoon and fit in with your friends?
But you knew well enough that each time you told Steve about a new date or a guy you were interested in, it was all with the hopes of making him burn with jealousy. Steve didn't burn for you, he just wanted you to be happy.
Steve was your friend. That's all he'd ever be, all he wanted to be. You could learn to live with that. You tried to live with that and shove every bitter, nasty feeling down deep.
Sophomore year, you came into your own. A few months at summer camp with Carol meant a world of development. Your first perm, and all of the trials and tribulations of learning to style the big, bouncy curls. A cabin of girls who loved nothing more than teaching you the right ways to apply makeup. Your figure finally took shape, and Carol's sister was happy to pass along hand-me-downs to accentuate it.
Danny Miller was your first real boyfriend. He was co-captain of the swim team with Steve, and, sure, he wouldn't have been your first pick, but he was a cute guy. Despite attending all of Steve's swim meets, you had never paid attention to him before. You doubted he noticed you until then either.
"Danny is a total tool," Steve told you over a plate of cheese fries from Benny's. You made a face, and stole a bite from his plate, but he doubled down. "Hey, I'm serious! He's dumb as rocks, you're way too smart to be with him. What do you even talk about?"
You scoffed. "I dunno," you said with a shrug. "Same things we talk about, I guess. Everything? I don't know."
Steve scowled, rolling his eyes. "He's a total loser, I'm serious. You're so out of his league it isn't even funny. You shouldn't waste your time with a guy like him. Don't even let him touch you, alright? I mean it."
Your face wrinkled in annoyance. His protectiveness felt stifling and infantalizing. You weren't a baby, you could make choices about your love life without Steve butting in.
Besides, Danny was a total sweetheart. He brought you flowers, and walked you to class. Sure, he wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he was good to you, and that's all you could really ask for.
And, really, It felt nice to be into someone after spending so long pining after Steve.
By your junior year, you'd gotten pretty serious. Steve still hated to hear you talk about Danny, just like you never liked any of the girls he brought around. The only difference was that Danny had staying power, which just pissed him off even more.
"You used to tell me stuff," he said one weekend, when you sneaked away from a neighborhood party to avoid your parents in the woods. Smoke curled from his lips on the exhale as he smoked a cigarette. A new nasty habit that had developed over the summer, which only drew attention to how full and kissable his lips were.
He was only getting more handsome, which you needed to stop thinking about for Danny's sake. "Why didn't you tell me that Daniel Miller popped your cherry?" He grinned, and you could smell the beer on his breath from your spot beside him.
Your eyes widened and you nearly choked on your wine cooler. "Oh my god, Steve," you gasped. "Jesus, don't say it like that."
"Aw… don't be embarrassed," he teased, nudging you clumsily.
It wasn't like you were actually embarrassed about it. What was there to be embarrassed about? You slept with your boyfriend of nearly a year, which was longer than anyone else you knew had waited. You felt sure, and you really did care about Danny.
"It's just… personal," you said. You crossed your arms, wrapping them around yourself, and looked anywhere but at Steve.
"You used to talk to me," He said, and the hurt was evident in every syllable. "Why didn't you tell me? I mean, I had to find out from Tommy. How the hell does Tommy know more about my best friend than I do?"
"Well, I didn't tell Tommy," you insisted. "I told Carol and Tina. And, I mean, I guess I should have known Carol would tell Tommy, and that Tommy would tell you. But… I dunno, I thought it would be weird to talk about with you. You can't stand him anyway."
And there was that word he'd said. Best friend. For a while, you had wondered if that was even a fair title to put on each other. If you were honest with yourself, Carol had been your best friend since you were both thirteen. And Steve was more like a safety blanket from childhood— comfortable, familiar, safe. You had grown apart since you were kids.
"Yeah, maybe," he replied, and took another swig of beer. You leaned against a tree and drank your stolen wine cooler. It tasted sickly sweet and made your head feel a little fuzzy. Steve definitely had the better tolerance of the two of you, but even he was pretty buzzed by now.
"It was kind of lame, honestly," you admitted. "Nothing to write home about. Carol says it'll get way better."
Steve wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, on second thought, I really don't want to talk about it." Fair enough. You stole his cigarette and took a drag. It sucked, but it gave you something to do.
When you looked back, you'd find it hard to remember what started the fight. It had been a few weeks since the block party, and things had just felt off.
And Steve, being Steve, was flaking on your plans. The Hawk had finally gotten Eddie and the Cruisers, and he had promised he would go with you. And, sure, it wasn't a huge deal. They'd have showings for the next month at least, but something about it just really pissed you off.
"I can't believe you're bailing on me for some girl, Steve," you pressed. "This is so typical, you know that? All you do lately is think with your dick."
"Oh my god," he groaned, throwing himself back on his bed with exasperation. "I'm going on a date with a girl I really like, not screwing some hooker. Not that you seem to care."
You bristled, brows drawing together. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Steve threw a hand over his eyes, rubbing at his temples like it was giving him a headache to even entertain the argument. "You get weird every time I have a girlfriend, like you want me to just ignore them for you or something. And it's been like this for a while, and I never say anything because Carol always tells me to drop it."
A scoff of disbelief escaped you as you shook your head. What? You'd been totally supportive of all of his stupid, pointless, dead end relationships. And he was talking shit to Carol? "You are such a goddamn liar, Steve," you argued. "I'm always so welcoming and nice to all of the girls you bring around. Like Becky, Laurie, Amy, Stacey—"
"Oh, right! Stacey. The same Stacey that you, Carol, and Tina told everyone had chlamydia? That Stacey?"
Your face felt hot. "Well, one, that was actually true and she only got treatment after we called her out, so she should be really grateful. And two, it wasn't my fault she was a total skank."
Steve had a problem. He picked women like an act of self-sabotage. Becky was beautiful, but was really using him to make her ex boyfriend jealous. Laurie seemed sweet at first, but was a total social climber. Amy seemed really perfect when they first started going together, but her laugh was ridiculous and she totally harshed the vibe at every party. And, well, Stacey maybe, allegedly, potentially had chlamydia.
Maybe he should have just picked better.
Or maybe you were the problem. The bitchy, judgemental friend who never saw any of them as good enough for Steve, because none of them were you. You knew the answer, even if you would never admit it to him.
Steve rolled his eyes, and you watched the flutter of muscle in his jaw as he bit back whatever it was he wanted to say. It fucking infuriated you.
"What?" You demanded. And you doubled down, because the alternative would be to admit you had been sabotaging his love life any way you could. Starting rumors, whispering in his ear until he convinced himself that something was wrong. "You're just mad because you know I'm right and you totally abandon our friendship whenever you start fucking around with whoever is next on your roster."
"Abandon you? Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Like you didn't totally toss me to the curb when you started dating Mr. Perfect last year."
Your face twisted in annoyance— a little furrow between your brows, a frustrated scowl. Steve always said you looked adorable when you were pissed off, but he didn't look too fond of you now. "What the fuck is your problem with him, huh?" You demanded. "You act like he's this horrible guy, but you can never tell me why you think he's so terrible."
Steve rolled his eyes and finally sat up to meet your gaze. "Okay, fine. He's annoying. His laugh makes me want to blow my goddamn brains out. He always smells like chlorine because he doesn't shower after practice, and sometimes it makes you smell like chlorine. And when he doesn't smell like chlorine, it smells like he bathed in cologne. Also, he thinks that he's so much better than me, when he barely beat my record in freestyle."
Steve paused, like he was debating whether or not to really round it out and say what he was thinking. Finally, he laughed and met your gaze. "Or maybe it's just that you don't really love him and it's really obvious to everyone but him," he said. "Or maybe, you should just accept that the person you really want doesn't want you back."
A sick feeling rose in your gut. There was something in his expression, in the mean cut of his stare, the sharp way he held his mouth. Like he knew. Carol would never say something, but Tommy…
"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, but even you didn't believe that. You liked Danny, but you didn't love him the way Carol and Tommy loved each other, even as tumultuous and messy as that could be. And the most frustrating part of all was that you wanted to love Danny, but your frustrating infatuation with Steve had burrowed into you and festered into a romance-killing parasite.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Steve insisted. Your heart thrummed, and you felt dizzy with embarrassment and hurt.
Had he known the entire time? Didn't he owe it to you to shut you down sooner? Of course not. Of course Steve would milk your doting affection for him until it got inconvenient for him.
"You know what? I don't have to put up with this shit. I don't have to put up with you."
You grabbed your bag and headed for his door, but you wanted him to stop you. But he just ran a hand over his face and sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. I have to get ready for my date anyway. You know the way out."
Carol thought it was stupid. She told you as much over the phone, as you cried into the receiver about how permanent the argument felt. Sure, you'd fought with Steve over the years, but it never felt so personal.
All you'd learned from the argument was that you were always going to put Steve first like a total chump. And you'd known for too long that he wouldn't do the same. Well, and that he was totally uninterested in your girlish fawning anymore.
"You're probably mad because he's right," Carol said. "Not about everything, but about you not being super into Danny. You know you don't have to just stick with him because he's nice and he's into you, right?"
You sighed, lip wobbling. Your other choices seemed to be waiting for lightning to strike Steve and change his mind, or being alone forever. "I guess," you mumbled.
"I'm serious, you're a total catch, and you don't need to stick with the first good guy to give you attention." You could hear the smack of bubblegum on the other side of the line. "Just don't do it right away or it'll make Steve think he's right."
You laughed, a weak, watery sound. "When do you think he realized?"
Carol sighed. "Look…" He said, trailing off. The quiet on the line felt tangible and thick until her voice cut through again. "He's mentioned it to Tommy a few times since Sophomore year, but Tommy would have never said anything. But maybe he has a point about moving on."
You swallowed hard around the lump in your throat… or tried to. "Yeah," you murmured. "Maybe. Maybe I just need a break from Steve to clear my head. Like, a week or two, or something."
"Aw, hon…" Carol trailed off. "Hey, I'll go see the movie with you! I was supposed to go over to Tommy's for dinner, but this is way more important."
A few days later, some kid went missing in the woods. Then Benny died and your favorite burger place in the world shut down. Steve had a party that he didn't extend an invite to, and his new girlfriend's friend went missing too.
Then there was the fight with Tommy and Carol, lashing out after he got cheated on, or when he thought he got cheated on. It was hard to know when everything was secondhand from Carol.
"He had a real attitude, I'll say that much," Carol muttered. You both curled up in her bed, staring up at the sticky stars on her ceiling. "He's probably freaked because the cops told his dad about the drinking, and Barbara went missing after his party, so… I mean, you know how his dad is. Me and Tommy tried to cheer him up, but he got mad at us for that too. I dunno, I think we all just need to cool off."
You didn't need to cool off. You threw yourself into Danny, hoping you could prove Steve wrong and make yourself fall for your boyfriend with distance.
Even without seeing Steve, his words echoed in your brain. Skipping lunch to make out in Danny's car, you nearly gagged on the smell of chlorine as it flooded your senses. And god… his laugh really was ear-splitting. Like a cackle.
By the start of senior year, Carol and Tommy had pretty much made up with Steve, but Steve was dating Nancy, who didn't want anything to do with the pair. You were newly single, but still giving him the cold shoulder.
It was nice, to see him in the halls and feel nothing. Not the tug of attraction or the spark of interest. You looked at him from your locker and just saw plain old Steve Harrington. Steve who was just as flawed as anybody else.
You took comfort in that.
Senior year passed like any other. Carol didn't care to apply for colleges, and Tommy had a job lined up at his dad's dealership. You got accepted into a state school on scholarship, and you told your parents that you were going to study nursing, just like they had, but you had no clue if that's what you really wanted.
Carol and Tommy decided to get married in June of 1985. They'd been dating since 1979, so even though it was sudden, you figured it was about time.
"Shotgun wedding," Carol explained. Well… that made more sense. "The doctor says it was conceived on Valentine's Day. What a gift, right?" She rolled her eyes.
Your bridesmaid dress was pink, with big princess sleeves and a full skirt. Carol loved it… you tolerated it. That's what a maid of honor was for.
Carol was a beautiful bride, though, and you just wanted her to be happy. Which is why you didn't say anything about Steve being the best man. You could tolerate him for Carol and Tommy's sake. It was a small town, anyway, and you had learned that he was totally unavoidable.
"You look nice," Steve said at the reception. He'd cornered you at the dessert table. You knew that was objectively untrue— you looked ridiculous in your bridesmaid's dress and your perm was just on the wrong side of too crispy.
Steve, on the other hand, looked great. It was annoying how much more attractive he'd gotten. Broader, and just older. He'd grown into every feature, and he looked so handsome you couldn't stand it. "You got highlights," you said, because it was easier than complimenting him back.
"Uh… no, it's just… I've been in the sun," he said. Liar. He tried to recover, bless his heart. "Tommy told me you're going to study to be a nurse," he tried again. "That's… y'know… kinda cool. You can practice on me, if you want. I'm always managing to get myself hurt."
You closed your eyes and sighed. Carol's dad was a recovering alcoholic, and she was knocked up, so it was a dry wedding. You wished there was at least some champagne. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
He swallowed. "Are you mad at me?"
You scoffed. It would have been embarrassing to say yes so far removed, but the answer wasn't entirely no either. You weren't sure how you felt about Steve in that moment. Maybe you were still the same jealous, bitter girl you had been at sixteen. "I'm not mad."
"Yeah you are, you have your mad crinkle," he accused. He poked you between your brows with a familiar smile on his face, which made you feel hot all over. Anger? Excitement? Who's to say. "You are mad. What are you mad about?"
With a huff and a roll of your eyes, you grabbed a slice of wedding cake. Steve did the same, and followed you back to the table for the wedding party. You took a bite and enjoyed it as best you could while still maintaining the annoyed furrow in your brow.
"I'm not mad," you repeated. "We just don't have anything to talk about."
His brow knit and his expression twisted in confusion. He took a bite of his cake, and you could see the way his expression softened at the taste. God, it was really good cake. "We haven't talked in almost two years, so I think there's a lot we can talk about."
"Fine, I don't want to talk to you, is that better?" You asked. It was a miracle that you didn't have to school your expression or your volume. The lights were low and the band onstage was doing their best not to butcher Duran Duran… very loudly. "You were a total dick to me."
That seemed to strike a nerve. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he pressed. "I was a great friend to you. I don't think one stupid argument changes that."
"One stupid argument is so rich," you pressed. "You knew I was, like, in love with you and you just let me dote on you like a lovesick puppy until it got inconvenient. You could have shut me down when we were fourteen."
"I thought I was," he argued back. "But, yeah, maybe I thought it was cute how into me you were. I was an asshole who liked the attention, alright?"
He ran a hand through his hair, and you could feel the irritation rolling off of him in waves. The band was now butchering Cyndi Lauper, which only seemed to irritate him further. He turned away from you, scowling, but didn't leave.
Why wouldn't he just leave you alone?
"And, okay, fine. I was a dick about Danny, but you were actively sabotaging every single one of my relationships," he said. "So I think we're even."
You were, notably, not even. As you sat, angrily stabbing the delicious wedding cake that you wouldn't be finishing, Tina approached with a wary expression. She looked ridiculous in her bridesmaid's dress, so you were sure you looked equally clownish. Her eyes flicked between you and Steve, briefly, before she pulled two flasks from her clutch.
Your eyes brightened at the sight. Like an oasis in a goddamn desert.
"Paul and I snuck in flasks for the rest of the bridal party. Can I trust you two?" You nodded and immediately reached out, but she pulled back. "I don't want you guys to do anything to ruin this for Carol and Tommy. Promise?"
You glanced at Steve, who was already looking at you. "Yeah, Tina, we promise," you insisted.
When you looked back on that night, the first sip of whatever liquor Tina and Paul had poured into the flasks was the beginning of the end.
It was an hour later, with a bitter taste on your tongue and heat burning through your veins, that you found Steve on the dance floor. The wedding was already dying down, giving the last few feeble twitches of energy like a dying animal. Carol's little cousins were dancing to Paula Abdul, or requesting Weird Al songs to no avail. A few of Tommy's cousins were getting a little hot and heavy on the dance floor which was odd for a dry wedding.
Carol had one final request before she got to head off to the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn off the interstate. The only pictures I have of you and Steve are the awkward wedding party photos you two took this morning. Can you just dance with him or something so the photographer can get some candids?
After a deep breath to steel yourself, you tapped Steve on his shoulder. "Can I cut in?"
He turned, brows furrowed. "You're only supposed to say that if I'm dancing with someone," he replied, but without saying anything, he eased his arms around your waist.
Carol whispered something to Debbie's newest boyfriend, who was manning the sound system in the absence of the live entertainment. You watched curiously as she fumbled through 45s, until a new song crackled over the speakers.
Crazy for You had been the final slow dance at prom. Carol had sworn that you and Steve were the only people to resist the pull of the dance floor, but she had a penchant for exaggeration. And a sick sense of humor.
You looped your arms around Steve's neck and swayed to the music. He was hot at his neck, hair curling and damp beneath your fingers. You braved a look up at him and felt a rush of ice through your veins and into your rapidly beating heart.
"What was in your flask?"You asked, trying to think of the least offensive topic of conversation that you could. "I got bourbon, or whiskey, I think. I smell like Mr. Holloway from the country club."
"I think I got gin," he said, and your nose wrinkled in distaste. Your first taste of gin had been at ten years old after you stole his mother's martini at a country club party. Neither of you had much interest in stealing drinks after that— not for a while, at least. "It's disgusting, but being sober at a wedding should be illegal."
You would drink to that if you could stomach it. You both moved in a soft cadence— step, hold, step, hold. There was something about the comforting pressure of his skin against your body. The way his hands slid from your waist down to your lower back, just above the bustle of bows at your hips, the pressure of your chest against his body. It made everything else sort of melt away.
You weren't sixteen anymore. You didn't have to keep holding onto your childish grudges. So, Steve Harrington wasn't madly in love with you? What was it your mother used to say? Life's not fair, and then you die. You were both dumb kids, but things could change. Life wasn't fair, and you didn't know if you wanted to keep existing without Steve somewhere in your life.
"Your hair looks nice, actually," you said, after swallowing your pride. "It's really long, actually. I can't believe your dad isn't on your case about it."
He laughed and shook his head. "Well, I'm giving him plenty of other things to totally hate me for." He paused and met your gaze, hesitating. You watched the slow twitch of a smile on his lips, then a tiny eye roll as he got over his own ego. "And it's not highlights. It's sun-in. What about you, huh?"
"Me? Oh, this is all Darlene at Hair Flair. My usual stylist was out, and Darlene is really new to perms. She promised it would be fine, but…" You blew a very crisp curl from your forehead. "I think I'm done with perms forever."
He shook his head. "It's not so bad," he insisted. "You should see my new uniform for work. That's pretty bad. If you're sticking around for the summer, you might even get to see it."
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't fight the amused smile on your lips. This was the Steve that you missed— charming, goofy Steve. But it was also the Steve that gave you butterflies and made you feel like a girl with a stupid crush. It was absolutely devastating how quickly a brief conversation could dig up all of those buried feelings.
"Yeah, well, if it's that bad I have to," you said, biting down on your bottom lip to fight a giddy, girlish smile.
It was hard to look in Steve's eyes for long. You could easily get lost in the softness of them, the earnestness. You had before, until he snapped about how you weren't even listening and you had to clumsily string together what he had said with the odd words that crept through your trance. His lips twitched into the tiniest smile, and you couldn't help but mirror it. You had really missed him.
A camera clicked— once, twice, three times. Some kid Tommy got cheap for the job since he worked for the school paper and was building his portfolio. Steve spun you until you laughed, then pulled you back in. The photographer walked away, satisfied. Your heart thrummed, pulsing, pulsing.
Steve. Wedding. Bourbon. Madonna.
"Hey, do you want to sneak out for a smoke?"
You sat on the trunk of his beamer, satin heels kicking mindlessly. You took a slow drag and relished in the subtle head rush before you exhaled. Steve's hand brushed yours as he took the cigarette from you.
"I don't really do this anymore," he said, holding the cigarette between his teeth. But he took a drag of his own, and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. "Nancy thought it was gross, and this kid who hangs around me all the time is on my ass about cancer and secondhand smoke, so… y'know."
"I don't really smoke either," you said with a tiny grin. "Just wanted to get out of there."
He nodded, stepping forward until his leg brushed the bumper. "Yeah? That's fair." He took another drag before handing it back. You watched him as you placed the filter between your lips, where it was already stained pink with your makeup.
Earlier, he had mentioned that there were two years worth of conversations you could be having, but in that moment, your head was woefully empty.
Steve was standing so close, and the cigarette could only last so long. "You look really beautiful tonight," he said. "I mean it, seriously. I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore so I can actually tell you."
You raised a brow, blowing out a thin plume of smoke. "I could still be mad," you insisted, cigarette dangling between your hot-pink nails.
"Your crinkle is gone." He stepped closer, so his knee was between yours, and smoothed his thumb between your brows. "Not mad."
His hand moved into your hair, until he was cupping your jaw. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was racing against his fingers. A tiny bit of pressure at your jaw, and he had your face tilted up to meet his.
The moment his lips pressed against yours, you could have sworn you were fourteen and back in Carol's basement, with all the same fluttery, yearning feelings.
And then his tongue slipped past the barrier of your lips and those butterflies turned molten in the pit of your stomach. Heat licked down every nerve, until your entire body felt alive with excitement and need.
He moaned into your mouth, one arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you to the edge of the trunk so your bodies were flush against one another.
It felt like you were on fire— burning up from the outside in. Each lap of his tongue against yours, each moan buzzing against your lips, it just made you feel alive. Sure, you'd been kissed before, but it had never felt quite like this.
The dull thrum of pop music inside of the venue, the June heat persisting even in the dark of the night. His lips tasted like berries and his tongue like gin, and if were possible to get drunk off of that, you would have. You could have stayed there forever, just kissing and kissing until you ran out of air.
"Ah, Fuck," you gasped, pulling back. You dropped the cigarette butt, which had burned down to your fingers, and brought the mildly singed skin to your lips.
You laughed shyly as he stepped back, his lips and cheeks pink as he scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry, I don't know if I should have done that."
"No, no," you said, nodding as you tried to find the words to insist it's totally fine, if your stupid, clumsy tongue would cooperate.
His brows knit together, and he gave a sheepish laugh. "You're nodding, but you're also saying no, so it's kind of confusing me."
You pulled him in by his stupid, pink bow tie, until his nose bumped yours and your lips were barely brushing. "Don't think too hard."
He closed the distance.
You kissed Steve until your lips felt a little numb against his, until his hands were under your skirt, squeezing your soft thighs, pushing them apart so his hand can slip higher and higher.
"Steve," you breathed, his name like a prayer.
He pulled back, pupils blown. "Yeah?" His voice was breathless and a little raspy. You'd never heard him like that before.
"Should we get in your car?"
"Yeah," he says, helping you hop down from the trunk. You had lost one of your satin heels somewhere beneath his car, and stood awkwardly as Steve fumbled with his keys. When he finally got his car unlocked, he opened the door to the backseat with a small flourish that he seemed to immediately regret. "After you."
With the doors closed, the backseat was cramped. The bridesmaid dress was bulky with the tulle underskirt, which made getting comfortable a bit of an issue.
"Maybe if you sit up, I can just…" You pushed his shoulders against the backseat and swung one leg over his lap. "Like this?"
He nods eagerly, and immediately runs his hands up your thighs. He leans in, kissing along your throat with hungry, wet smacks. "You know," he began, sucking just beneath your jaw. "I didn't think this was how my night would end."
"No?" You panted, sitting up to help him work your panties down your thighs. He gave up halfway and just tore them where he could, which sent a thrill through you.
He grinned like a dopey idiot and shook his head. His fingers found your slick, needy core and you both moaned at that first touch— exploratory and revealing. "Jesus, not at all."
Your brows knit as you bucked against his fingers, eyes fluttering as his thumb teased over your clit. You weren't totally oblivious—plenty of Steve's girlfriends had come to you and Carol to spill about their exploits. Steve Harrington knew exactly what he needed to do to make his partner melt into a puddle.
"You're so sensitive," he murmured against your skin. "Wish I could just touch you everywhere."
"We don't have time," you panted, breath stuttering as he slid a finger inside of your cunt. You whined at the intrusion, walls fluttering and clenching. "Have to get back for the send off or people will notice if we're missing."
Already, you wondered if Carol and Tommy had noted your absence. Maybe the excitement of the wedding had distracted them, which would give you a little more time. The thought of being caught fucking around outside of their wedding was a little mortifying.
But Steve wasn't in a hurry. His hand moved between your thighs, working you open on his thick fingers. It was hard to complain about timing when it felt so good.
"We can skip foreplay," You panted, head lolling back. "It's fine."
He shook his head, pulling back to meet your eyes. "Are you always this bossy?" He asked, and curled his fingers to rub against a spot that made your eyes roll back. You watched his lips curl into a smirk.
The smug asshole. "Don't be a dick," you murmured. You unsnapped his stupid cummerbund and tried your best to unfasten his pants, but your stupidly big skirt was in the way.
You huffed, trying to push the tulle layers to the side, while Steve watched with thinly veiled amusement. "Looks pretty annoying," he said. He finally pulled his fingers from inside of you and licked them clean. "You could always take it off."
A laugh escaped you, and you shook your head. "No way. This stupid, ugly bridesmaid dress is staying on in case we get caught."
You finally worked the button and zip of his pants open, and immediately pulled his cock from the confines of his briefs. Your stomach did a goddamn somersault at the sight.
Junior year, Amy Davis had talked to you and Carol at a party after she and Steve went all the way. When you asked how it went, she grinned and said, well, he's really big. You had sorely underestimated what that meant.
"Oh, fuck," you murmured, circling your fingers around the base of him. "My hand barely fits around you. How the hell are you going to fit inside of me?"
It wasn't hard to notice the flicker of pure pride in his expression, the sheer ego boost you'd given him. "Well, that's why I wanted to get you stretched on my fingers first. I was being a gentleman."
You gave a slow glide of your fist, heart pounding in your ears. God, you'd fantasized about this so much, and now it was actually happening. He moaned beneath you, hips bucking into your grasp, twitching and leaking precum with each pump.
"Okay, Jesus," he groaned. His eyes were half lidded as he watched you jerking him off. "Fuck, that's good. Like that, just like that."
Your core ached with need, just listening to him moaning beneath you. You bit your lip as you tried your best to hold up your skirts and position yourself to sink down on his cock. "Fuck, can you hold my dress?"
He obeyed quickly, gathering up your dress and holding it so you could see what you were doing. Your thighs were already shaking, so were your hands. God, you were trembling all over with nerves, anticipation, want.
You sank onto his cock slowly, letting yourself adjust to his size. The stretch was uncomfortable at first, but you were so wet and desperate for it that any ache just melted into background noise. The hand that wasn't holding your skirts wrapped around your waist to support your descent.
"God, look at you," he groaned, forehead pressing against yours. "Taking it like a champ, yeah? You feel so goddamn good." You whined softly, taking the last few inches until his cock was fully sheathed within you. He dropped your skirt and just held your jaw so he could plant soft kisses on your lips.
"Steve," you panted as you began to move against him. It wasn't slow or sweet— it was desperate and hungry and carnal. The beamer rocked on its axles in time with your movements, each glide of your hips sent it careening forward.
Your hands dug into the backseat on either side of him to balance yourself as you moved. He kissed you again, slow and sweet, in total juxtaposition to the needy way you fucked yourself onto him.
"Fuck—" His hands slid down to your hips, guiding your movements and giving himself leverage to fuck into you. "You feel so good. So goddamn good."
The windows had gone foggy, so the street lights outside became a dim, golden glow through the windows. You silenced his rambling mouth with another kiss and relish in the feeling of his tongue lapping against yours.
He pulled back, a dopey smile on his lips before he popped a thumb in his mouth to wet it. "Hold on," he panted as he moved his hand beneath your skirt and rubbed your clit. You cried out softly, tightening around him. You could feel your rhythm going jerky and clumsy with just that simple touch. "That's better, isn't it?"
"God, yeah," you moaned, fingers dimpling the leather of the seats. Your thighs shook with the effort to maintain your rhythm as your body wanted to cave to pure pleasure. He grinned, kissing along your jaw and throat as he played with you. "Fuck, Steve. Feels so good."
He moaned against your throat, nipping gently as you rode him desperately. You were so close, and, god, you'd never felt like this in your life. Danny had been fine— good, even! But Steve was so attentive and affectionate, so skilled. Or, god, maybe skill had nothing to do with it. Maybe the wanting was the important part.
As you got closer, your moans got whinier. Sweat dripped down your spine, disappearing into the low back of your bridesmaid dress. The car felt hot and clammy, and you could see trails where moisture dripped down the foggy windows.
"C'mon," he goaded, nipping at your jaw. "I feel you squeezing around me, I know you're right there."
Your stomach flipped, and you whined as you buried your head in his shoulder. Close. So fucking close. You turned your head to kiss him again, and then you were gone.
Your body trembled with the intensity of your climax, as you moaned and gasped into the kiss. He worked you through it, guiding your hips the way you needed, until he came right along with you with a rough groan against your lips.
"I've missed you," you panted against his mouth, breathing hard as you came down. "I've missed you so much."
He closed his eyes, cheeks pink, chest heaving. He kissed your cheek, soft and sweet, and rubbed your thigh beneath your skirts.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I missed you too."
You stayed there for a moment longer, with Steve still buried inside of you. You kissed his throat affectionately, until you finally climbed off of him.
Both of you were wrecked. The pink sateen of your dress was irreparably wrinkled, and the humidity in the car had deflated both of your hairdos. And that wasn't to mention Steve's cum dripping out of you.
"So," you said, sparing a shy glance. "Tommy said you're sticking around Hawkins this fall."
Steve nodded, still a little breathless. "Oh, um, yeah. It's totally lame, but—"
"No," you insisted. "No, I mean, it sounds really nice to me. Definitely better than going to nursing school. I don't even want to go."
He swallowed, and a flicker of something passed across his features. He sat in the silence for a long moment before he cleared his throat. "We should probably head back in before Carol and Tommy send a search party, yeah?"
You bit your lip and nodded. "Yeah, of course." You couldn't hide the giddy affect to your voice, the hope in it.
Maybe this was just how things were always supposed to be. Maybe you had found each other again at just the right time.
But then a week passed, then another. You waited for him to call, or to stop by your window, or even just give you a sign that something had happened. That what you did meant something to him, the way it meant something to you.
Radio goddamn silence.
Tommy and Carol weren't any help. They hadn't heard anything, apparently, but Steve was busy with work, and there's this crazy stuff with his Dad, and it's probably just not top of mind.
It didn't make you feel any better. You couldn't go to Starcourt without feeling like you were navigating a mine field. You'd see Steve, mopping sticky floors or scooping ice cream, but the second he'd notice you, he would tuck tail and flee into the back room.
What an asshole.
When you finally found the will to visit Scoops Ahoy, you could see Steve hiding in the back through closed, frosted glass window. Very clearly watching you as you waited in line to get to the counter.
"Hi, I'm sorry, but could you tell Steve to come out, please?" You asked the girl, Robin, when you reached the front. You thought you'd had French with her one year, but you couldn't remember exactly.
She sighed and pinched her nose. "Why not?" She said with a shake of her head, then smacked the window so he'd come out. "Can you at least buy something?"
You sighed and handed over two dollars. "Uh, flavor of the month. And you can keep the change."
She sighed and handed you the cone. When Steve didn't emerge, she gave a vague gesture towards the door. "Just go on back, I guess."
The back of Scoops Ahoy smelled saccharine and sweet, like waffle cones and sprinkles. It was plain, with a little table and white boards and boxes of supplies stacked around. You knew you shouldn't have been back there— it was invasive and totally crazy of you to just show up at his workplace.
But then there was Steve, leaning against the window pane separating the back room from the storefront, and your heart did a stupid fluttery thing at the sight of him, even in the dumb uniform.
Steve didn't want to look at you— that much was clear. He stared at the sticky tiled floor and scuffed his feet on the floor. You licked your cone of the flavor of the month and wrinkled your nose. Salted coconut? Disgusting.
"Going radio silent after the wedding was a total dick move," you said finally. "Like, that meant something to me, Steve."
"Look, I screwed up, I—" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. When he finally met your gaze, your heart sank. There wasn't a glimpse of the guy you were with at the wedding there. It was like you were back in his bedroom in Junior year arguing again. "I shouldn't have let it go that far."
Shouldn't have let it get that far? Like he wasn't the one to kiss you first and slide his hand under your skirt.
"Let it?" You challenged. "You initiated everything, Steve. I mean, I thought you had a good time. I thought we both did."
Humiliatingly, your lip began to wobble. There was the awful, sick feeling in your gut of mortification and shame. God, you'd been so easy. You hated him hours before, and you still made it so easy for him to get between your legs.
He sighed and shook his head. "I'm not trying to hurt you," he said. Bullshit. "But it shouldn't have happened. It was a mistake, and we both know that."
"If you thought it was such a terrible mistake, you should have called me and told me," you said, your voice thick with the threat of tears. "And you know what? You were exactly right. It shouldn't have happened. I'm a total idiot."
He didn't make a move to stop you as you left. It was sheer luck that you managed to make it to your car before the tears fell in earnest.
A week later, Starcourt Mall burned in a fire. That night, with smoke pouring into the sky, you watched the light to Steve's window click on through the trees. A faint yellow glow in the distance. You hadn't even realized you were worried about him until you felt like you could finally breathe again. How fucked up is that?
You left for college in August. Tommy and Carol were there to see you off. You promised to call every day so you could swap gossip with Carol, and she made you swear that you wouldn't find some new college girl that you thought was way cooler than her.
It wasn't until finals that you got the call. Carol had gone into labor in the morning. The labor was long, but the baby totally healthy. Samantha Renee Hagan, who, according to Debbie, was kind of wrinkly and red and weird looking, but would hopefully get cuter.
When you met her over winter break, you totally disagreed. Samantha was already beautiful— pink cheeks, big brown eyes, soft fair hair. Sure, all babies kind of had that scrunchy, awkward look for a few months, but she was way cuter by a mile.
You sat in their living room, bouncing her in your arms, marveling at how tiny she was. "You sure you don't want to pick a better godfather for her?" You cooed, smiling as she wrapped her hand around your finger.
Carol just laughed. "I swear, you two are absolutely ridiculous," she said. "Both of you, just…" She shook her head and laughed.
"What is that look?" You asked, shifting Samantha in your arms. She cooed sleepily, and you felt a little bit of pride at the fact that she wasn't screaming and wailing like your little cousins did.
She sighed. "It's not a look, it's just my face."
You rolled your eyes, lips turning into a frown. "No, Carol, it's a look. You want to say something, so say it."
There was a tiny glance between her and Tommy, but she just shook her head. "No, it's… it's just, this back and forth thing you both do is really adorable. You're both just so… serious about it."
God, of course you were serious. Steve was a serious asshole and he seriously hurt you. Again. And sharing a godchild meant an entire lifetime of seeing each other at birthdays and holidays and you didn't know if you could stomach it.
In March, you came home for spring break. A quick trip to visit Tommy and Carol and the baby, and to just get away from the pressure of school for a little while.
And, really, you should have known better. Things were never normal in Hawkins, and they hadn’t been for a long time. There were murders, and then the drug dealer guy you had homeroom with in '84 was the suspect.
Things were fucking weird.
And through it all, you were babysitting. Stuck in Tommy and Carol's little starter home with a three month old who didn't do much other than sleeping and crying for formula. At least she was still young enough that you could get away with watching whatever tapes you wanted.
She dozed in your arms as you watched a VHS tape of St. Elmo's Fire. Rob Lowe was pretty dreamy, but Carol thought Jud Nelson was way hotter. You weren't sure that you could trust her taste if she married a guy who impressed her by burping the alphabet.
After the movie ended, you eased a sleeping Samantha into her crib and turned on the monitor. You laid down on their couch and grabbed a coke from the fridge and watched a late-night game show with a yawn.
Just as you began to doze, the house rattled a bit. You sat up, heart thrumming as the rattle began a full on quake. The baby wailed in the other room, and you tried to keep your footing as you hurried down the hall to grab her.
What were you even supposed to do in an Earthquake? Get in a bathtub? Hide under a table? How the hell were you supposed to know?
So you sat, huddled among all of the bath toys and soap bottles that had come crashing down and held her tightly until the shaking finally stopped.
You ran to the phone once you were sure that it was safe to get out, but the lines were down. A fallen phone line, probably, but it was awfully inconvenient. You wrapped Samantha in a blanket and walked out onto the lawn. Car alarms wailed into the night, but no one knew what was happening.
By morning, you still didn't know, and there was still no sign of Tommy and Carol. All they'd been doing was parking at Lover's Lake to fool around, which, Carol had confessed, was an all-too-rare occurrence with a baby in the house. You just figured they would have rushed home to check on the baby if it were possible.
Maybe there were fallen trees or debris, or something. Maybe they just physically couldn't get home.
One of the neighbors said he tried to drive into town and saw a weird, red chasm in the ground that cut through Olive Street. He said he threw in a brick from his work-truck and it just fell and fell and fell. He didn't even hear it stop.
Another said he saw military trucks coming in, that something bad must've happened, like an attack or something. Who knows? Just another day in Hawkins.
Two days, and you hadn't heard from Carol or Tommy. Their car was missing, and there was a gash through the lake that led into the town.
You put up missing posters with their parents at the Red Cross checkpoint in Hawkins High School. The gym was packed of displaced people, and you kept hoping you'd see a flash of red hair or freckles or just hear Tommy's obnoxious laugh.
Steve saw you first. You felt his eyes before you saw them. He dropped the box of clothes he'd been donating and rushed over, one hand on your arm, one hand on Samantha's back.
"Hey, what're you doing here?" He asked, eyes scanning over your face. "You okay? Why do you have Sammie? Is she hurt? Are you?"
You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, we're fine," you insisted. "We're safe, just… I was babysitting while Tommy and Carol went out, and then the earthquake happened…" Your throat felt tight as you let yourself think the worst for the first time. "No one's seen or heard from them since Thursday. I put up posters, but if they aren't here…"
You both knew what that would mean. You bounced a squirming Samantha. It was noisy and hot in the gym. People were crying, and injured, and everything about it just felt wrong. Like this wasn't really Hawkins anymore. Like you'd woken up in a terrible dream.
"Hey, they brought in the national guard, and FEMA, and shit," he said, giving a weak smile. "I'm sure they're just… a little lost."
He didn't sound very convinced. You didn't feel very convinced either. Samantha cried in your arms, but Steve carefully eased her into his own. "Hey, why don't I take Sammie for a bit? You can go get some rest somewhere. Who's taking her tonight?"
You shrugged and shook your head noncommittally. "Uh, Carol's mom doesn't think it's a good idea for them," you said softly, with a scant glance towards here parents. "Her dad's barely sober… and now with Carol missing…" You cleared your throat, sniffling. "And I know Tommy wouldn't want his baby girl in that house with his asshole dad, you know? So I guess that leaves it to me."
Steve shook his head. "No, that's bullshit," he argued. "Call Debbie and tell her you have to go back to school, and she needs to get her ass back into town."
"No way, Debbie is a total mess," you pushed back. "No. I can handle Samantha. I'm her godmother for a reason. Carol and Tommy trust me to take care of her."
"And me," he insisted. "They trusted both of us. So don't be a goddamn martyr. You go back to school, and I'll take care of Sammie."
You scoffed. "A martyr? Steve, her parents are missing. I'm just trying to do my best to keep her safe and loved and happy. I can re-enroll in the fall after everything in Hawkins is back to normal."
Steve made a face. There was a flash of knowing, of fear there that made your pulse quicken. "I'll stay with you." Before you could argue, he held up a hand. "Don't say anything. I can tell you haven't gotten any real sleep in days. Have you even eaten?"
"No, not really. She's been really freaked out since the earthquakes, she's hardly slept either."
Steve nodded. "Alright. Why don't I handle her, and you can go grab a sandwich from my friend Robin over there?" He pointed across the gym. "Go eat, grab a cot and take a nap. We'll figure everything out when you wake up. Maybe Tommy and Carol will be here by the time you're conscious again."
He gave a weak smile that you couldn't return.
You had the sandwich and sat on a cot, and outside of the window, you watched the sky turn ashen. As you watched the thick gray snow fall from the sky, wondered if you should have taken Steve up on his offer to get out of Hawkins after all.
Thank you for reading!!! This is basically all set up for the rest of the fic, which revolves around them raising Sammie during the events of season 5... and maybe after?
Please let me know if you're interested in seeing more of these two!
