𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧
pairing: steve harrington x reader word count: 12k summary: five-year-old steve harrington hates the hamptons—until he meets a barefoot girl with a bucketful of shells and becomes stevie. a coming-of-age story about first friendships, pinky promises, and falling in love, one summer at a time. warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), childhood best friends to lovers, oldmoney!steve, coming-of-age, vignette storytelling, first kiss, loverboy baby steeb!, heavy angst, slow burn, canon divergence, his parents are godawful in this one, character study as always, happy ending | playlist | moodboard
Steve Harrington is 5 years old when he decides that the Hamptons are the worst place in the entire world.
He knows this because he’s been here for one whole hour and he already wants to go home.
At least, he thinks it’s been an hour. The numbers on his new watch are shiny and hard to read, and the leather strap feels too heavy on his arm. It keeps sliding down like it’s trying to escape.
Steve kind of hopes it does.
If it slides off completely, down through the cracks in the porch and into the sandy dirt below, then maybe the ocean will take it. The ocean takes lots of things. Shells, seaweed, shiny bits of glass, baby turtles.
Maybe it could take him, too.
Maybe he could float on the blue waves all the way back home.
Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?
No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.
His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.
He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.
His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.
“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”
He tries. He really, really does.
But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.
Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.
Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”
Steve frowns.
Why would he do that?
He likes hearts.
Hearts are for loving, not hurting.
He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.
He wants it.
Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.
Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.
His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”
He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.
“I am standing straight,” he mutters.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He wants to run.
Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.
So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—
Steve sneaks away.
He’s fast and light, like a ninja.
He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.
The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.
The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.
The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.
On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.
A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.
It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.
He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.
He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.
The sand slides back in.
He digs again.
Slides back in again.
He huffs and tosses the stick away.
“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.
He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—
When a shadow falls over his hole.
“What’re you doing?”
Steve looks up.
It’s a girl. About his age.
You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.
You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.
A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.
Steve jerks back. You don’t.
Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.
“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.
He blinks. “…I’m not?”
“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”
“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”
Nobody ever asks him that.
Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.
He nods fast. “Yeah.”
You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.
“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.
You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.
“Can I call you Stevie?”
“Stevie?”
“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”
Steve thinks about it.
Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.
It feels special. Like a secret.
“Okay,” he nods, smiling.
You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”
Stevie.
He likes it.
Loves it.
It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.
The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.
They become you.
Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.
Every month of the school year, Steve waits.
And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.
When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”
But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.
The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.
He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.
If he sees you.
What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?
The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.
He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.
The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.
He can’t wait. He can’t.
He barely waits for the car to stop.
“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”
He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.
He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.
He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.
He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—
“STEVIE!”
He spins around so fast the world blurs.
You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.
Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.
You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.
“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”
You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.
“See?”
Steve blinks.
The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.
“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”
Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”
He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.”
“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”
Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.
“…What’s it do?”
“Just listen.”
He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.
And then—
Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
His eyes go huge.
“Whoa,” he breathes.
“Cool, right?”
“It’s loud.”
“That’s the ocean.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”
You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”
He frowns. “But… you found it.”
“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”
He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.
“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”
Of course he does.
⚓︎
You drag him everywhere.
To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!
To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!
To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!
You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.
You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.
You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”
Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.
“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.
Steve blinks. “Why?”
“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”
“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”
“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”
He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When?”
“Next summer.”
He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.
“You promise?”
“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.
He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.
“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.
“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.
You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.
You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.
You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.
Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”
“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”
“What’s that?”
You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”
Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.
Flying… but on water.
He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.
And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.
His mouth twists.
“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.
You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”
You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.
For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.
He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.
But you’re laughing.
Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.
Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”
And you’re gone before he can say wait up.
The tight feeling in his chest disappears.
He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.
It’s perfect.
It’s the best day of his whole life.
Until you fall.
It happens so fast.
One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.
The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.
“Ow!”
Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.
He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.
“Your... your knee,” he whispers.
You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”
It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.
“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”
You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”
He nods hard. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.
“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”
“O-okay.”
Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.
“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”
And then he sprints.
He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.
Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.
He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.
You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.
“I got it!” he pants.
He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—
You hiss and pull back.
“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”
He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.
“Better?”
“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”
He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.
“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”
When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.
“Hey, are you oka—oof!”
All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.
A warm, squishy, full-body hug.
“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.
Steve freezes.
His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.
No one’s ever said that to him before.
“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.
He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.
And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.
Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.
It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.
He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.
His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.
He knows you’re there, waiting for him.
You always are.
Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.
You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.
When you see him, your whole face lights up.
“Stevie! You got it!”
“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”
“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”
He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.
Closer than last year, he thinks.
Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.
The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.
You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.
Your fingers slide between his.
Steve looks down, startled.
Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.
You don’t let go.
He definitely does not let go.
“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”
“Yeah,” Steve says.
But he’s not looking at the sky at all.
The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.
So he squeezes back.
Carefully at first. Then a little braver.
Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.
You’re brighter.
You’re always brighter.
When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.
“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.
“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.
You smile at him.
“You’re my best friend.”
His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.
He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.
“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”
Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.
A hug.
It feels familiar. But also different.
Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.
He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.
“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”
That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.
“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.
Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.
Barely there.
But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.
His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.
Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.
You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.
Steve freezes.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.
The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.
Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.
Something big.
It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.
Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.
He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.
And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.
But none of that really matters.
Because you’re here.
You’re back.
And you’re different, too.
Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.
But now...
Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.
The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.
You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.
Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.
He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.
You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.
“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”
Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.
But he can’t stop staring.
At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.
He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.
He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—
You go quiet.
Really quiet.
Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.
You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.
There’s nothing.
You’re just… looking at him.
“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.
His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”
You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.
Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”
He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.
“O-okay,” he manages.
You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—
And you kiss him.
Right on the mouth.
His first kiss.
Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.
You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.
Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.
“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”
He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.
You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”
He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”
“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”
He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.
When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.
Steve turns his head to look at you.
Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.
“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?
Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”
This time, he leans in first.
And this time, he’s ready.
He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.
“Oh my god, your face is so red.”
“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.
“Nope. It’s you.”
You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.
“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.
You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.
You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.
Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.
The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.
After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.
He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.
“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.
“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”
Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.
“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”
Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”
“It’s a secret.”
You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”
“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”
You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his.
“I hate you.”
He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.
“No you don’t.”
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.
It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.
He starts the day happy.
He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.
On his desk sits a small shoe box.
He pauses in front of it.
Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.
The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.
He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand. Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.
The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.
Then he picks up his gift.
It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.
But this year feels different.
This year, he thinks he can give them to you.
He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.
He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.
He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.
Hey, these are for you. Too boring.
You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.
You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.
He settles on a smile instead.
You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”
No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.
He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.
“Stephen? Breakfast.”
“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.
His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.
“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”
She doesn’t look up.
“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”
The world stops.
“...Huh?”
She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”
For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.
His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.
“What?” Steve croaks.
“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”
“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”
“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”
Lovely.
Like the sound of your laugh.
Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.
Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.
“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”
“You’ll make new ones.”
“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”
His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”
Steve flinches.
“I’m not whining,” he whispers.
His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”
Something hot and awful swells in his chest.
He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.
Instead, he tries again.
“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”
He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.
Anything.
“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”
Something inside Steve drops with it.
Falls.
Cracks.
Shatters.
⚓︎
He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.
He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.
That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.
Stevie, look!
He cries until his pillow is soaked.
⚓︎
The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.
On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.
He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.
He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.
There is no treasure map back.
Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.
He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.
Waiting.
Maybe you’re mad.
Maybe you’re worried.
Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.
That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.
⚓︎
In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.
He tries not to cry.
Some nights, he fails.
But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.
In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.
In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.
Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.
You’re my best friend.
He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.
In dreams, he is flying.
The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.
The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.
So Steve pretends, too.
He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.
By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.
“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”
He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.
It works.
High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.
⚓︎
One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”
It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.
Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.
“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”
Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.
Harrington. Not Stevie.
Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.
And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.
He’s not alone.
⚓︎
Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.
He laughs, because it sounds stupid.
But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.
He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.
His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.
Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.
He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.
Everyone loves the parties.
Everyone loves King Steve.
⚓︎
Steve has a drawer that no one opens.
Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.
The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.
Inside it is a shoe box.
Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.
Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.
Most nights, he leaves it alone.
But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.
Lifts the lid.
He doesn’t touch anything.
Just looks.
He wonders if you remember him.
If you still call him Stevie in your head.
If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.
Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.
In the morning, he is Harrington once again.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.
It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.
The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.
He isn’t sure if he is.
On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.
His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.
“California,” he says flatly.
Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”
His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.
“A public university. On the other side of the country.”
“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”
The look he gets says more than words ever could.
“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”
Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.
“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”
“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”
His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”
Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.
“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”
The room shrinks.
For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.
Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.
Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.
He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.
Something quiet settles inside him.
“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”
His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”
Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.
Possibility, distance, risk.
Hope.
“I’ll figure it out.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer.
He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.
⚓︎
Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.
The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.
He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.
It won’t be easy.
But it will be his.
⚓︎
He loads his entire world into the BMW.
It doesn’t take long.
For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.
Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.
The last thing he opens is the drawer.
It sticks, like it always does.
Inside is the shoe box.
And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.
He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.
His father doesn’t come outside.
His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.
Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.
It’s heavy.
He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.
Closes the trunk.
Gets behind the wheel.
Looks west.
⚓︎
Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.
He likes California.
The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.
College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.
He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.
He still gets tired sometimes.
Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.
The house is packed tonight.
Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.
An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”
Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.
Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.
He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.
Then, he hears it.
A laugh.
Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.
Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.
Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—
There’s a girl.
Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.
Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.
He stares without meaning to.
You turn.
Your eyes find his.
Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.
Then recognition.
Disbelief.
“...Stevie?”
Something in his chest detonates.
The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.
You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”
Steve can’t speak.
His throat closes. The world narrows.
He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.
He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.
He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.
He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.
He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.
And you did.
You always did.
The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.
He whispers your name.
A decade of wanting, released in one sound.
⚓︎
“...Hi.”
“...Hi.”
“How—”
“What—”
He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.
“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”
You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.
“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”
For a second, Steve just stands there.
Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.
Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.
He doesn’t say I missed you too.
It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.
Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:
“I’m sorry.”
You don’t say it’s okay.
But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.
And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.
⚓︎
The place is called Scoops Ahoy.
Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.
The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.
He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.
At this hour, it’s dead.
Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.
But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.
Because you’re here.
You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.
He can’t stop staring.
The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.
Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.
But the details are all the same.
The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.
And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there.
You smile. “What’re you getting?”
Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.
“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”
“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”
He smiles before he can stop himself.
His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.
The Triple Decker Extravaganza.
“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”
You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”
Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.
Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.
When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.
“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.
“Don’t mention it.”
He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.
The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.
You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.
Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.
Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.
You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.
“What’s your major?”
“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”
“Really? What kind of psych?”
“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”
You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”
He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”
“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”
He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.
“Thanks… uh, what about you?”
You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.
“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”
Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.
“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”
He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.
Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.
“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”
He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”
You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.
A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.
Edge of Seventeen.
Stevie Nicks.
He meets your eyes.
Feels something click, then.
He’s never really believed in fate.
But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.
⚓︎
When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.
June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.
Steve’s heart stutters.
What happens now?
He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.
He rubs the back of his neck.
“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”
You’re smiling when you kiss him.
Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.
The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.
This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.
He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.
When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.
You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.
He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.
You both speak at once.
“So—"
“Would you—”
He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”
You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”
He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.
“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”
You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.
You don’t let go.
He definitely does not let go.
⚓︎
You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.
There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.
Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.
Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.
Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.
It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.
Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.
You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.
Steve looks down.
Feels it hit him all at once.
He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.
Nothing that felt like this.
Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.
“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”
He swallows.
Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.
“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.
Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?
“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”
Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.
And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.
⚓︎
What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.
A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.
Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.
He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.
But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.
And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.
It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.
A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.
He wants to know everything.
He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.
He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.
He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.
And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.
He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.
But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.
He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.
When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.
There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.
That you’re here.
He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.
He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.
He only fights it long enough to get the words out.
Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.
But he’s tired of pretending.
And with you, he doesn’t have to.
He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.
The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.
With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.
“I love you.”
The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.
But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.
“I love you, too.”
And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.
⚓︎
The rest of the night is spent talking.
Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.
He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.
Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.
He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.
He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.
That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.
He’s never been built that way.
He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.
You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.
Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.
He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.
When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.
“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.
“Hm?”
“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”
He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”
You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”
He blinks. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”
Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.
Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.
Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.
You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.
You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.
How to fly, just a little.
Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.
The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.
Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.
A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.
He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.
He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.
He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.
Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.
He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.
And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.
He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.
A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.
He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.
Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.
But eight years is also nothing.
Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.
You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.
Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.
He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.
For now, he has tomorrow.
⚓︎
In dreams, he is thirteen again.
He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.
He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.
And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.
June 24th, 1979
Hi!
I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.
I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.
I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.
I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.
Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.
I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.
P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001
P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?
Your best friend, Stevie
