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love will tear us apart

c/w: some fluff at the beginning. but then more tension. mutual pining. angst. violence description. wounds description. injuries description. alcohol use. smut (+18). dirty talk. p in v. orgasm (i think nothing else omg i'm so bad at this) words: 27k summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining. between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid. turns out, it isn't. a/n: HEY. hi... so... a few things. first of all, i know, i've created a monster. i sat down to write and by the time i realized how long the chapter had gotten it didn't make much sense to split it in half, so here we are. i'm sorry (not really). i'm also leaving you with a longer chapter cause my exams are coming up, and there's a good chance i won't be updating next week. and finally, i have to admit i'm so bad at writing smut, but i promise i'll try to get better at it. again, thank u so much for all the lovely interactions and support. it really means a lot to me. now, enjoy !!

chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world

The silence of the downtown public library is only punctuated by the occasional, rhythmic ticking of the grand clock on the far wall and the soft, agonizing sound of pages turning.

On Wednesday afternoon, you have finally hit your breaking point. You have practically begged Roy for the rest of the week off, your voice bordering on desperate as you explained that the week of midterms is actively draining the life force out of your body.

Roy, surprisingly sympathetic for once, waved you off with a grunt, muttering something about the youth being unable to handle a little stress. You didn't care what he thought; you just knew that if you had spent one more hour staring at the shelves instead of your notes, you were going to lose your mind.

But now, sitting in the dimly lit corner of the library’s second floor, you aren’t sure this is any better.

Of all your career electives you could have chosen to take this semester, you have somehow managed to pick the absolute worst, most notoriously unforgiving class in the entire syllabus. The one that sounds impressive on paper, but in reality, it’s a walking nightmare.

You are currently barricaded behind a fortress of heavy, dust-smelling textbooks, surrounded by endless sheets of loose-leaf paper covered in frantic, barely legible diagrams of connections, frequency response charts, signal flow paths, and God knows what else.

The harsh, fluorescent lighting above is doing nothing to help the throbbing headache building behind your eyes.

The information simply isn’t entering your brain anymore. The black text on the glossy pages blurred together, looking more like an army of disorganized ants than actual words. You are acutely aware that if you tried to force your exhausted neurons to process one more paragraph about impedance matching or balanced audio cables, your brain is going to literally short-circuit and explode.

Thankfully, you aren’t suffering in complete isolation.

It’s midterm season for everyone, a collective misery that hangs over the student body like a dark cloud, so Robin is sitting directly across from you. Her side of the table is in a similar state of chaotic disarray, though hers is covered in massive, daunting anthologies of literature rather than technical manuals.

Earlier that morning, after spending the entire day cooped up in your cramped, stuffy apartment — breathing in recycled air and driving each other crazy with nervous pacing — the two of you reached a mutual agreement: you needed a change of scenery; and the downtown library, with its high ceilings, stained-glass windows, and strict noise policies, seemed like the perfect sanctuary.

Robin also had to pull strings to get the afternoon off, though her situation is slightly different, because Stella is calling her from the library's front desk every half hour to ask her how to reboot the computer system or how to find a specific French novel in the foreign section.

You let out a long, heavy sigh that ruffles the edges of your notebook paper. Defeated, you close your eyes, letting your heavy head drop forward until your forehead rests against your crossed arms on the cool wood of the table.

"It's impossible," you mumble into your sleeves, your voice muffled but dripping with absolute exhaustion. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to fail, and I'll have to drop out, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box behind the diner."

Across the table, the sharp thud of a heavy book snapping shut echoes slightly in the quiet room. Robin stretches her arms high above her head, leaning back in her wooden chair until it groans in protest.

"Tell me about it," she groans, rubbing her tired eyes. "I am in my senior year. My senior year, and I still cannot, for the life of me, tell you the fundamental differences between the literary epochs. Classical, Romanticism, Modernism… don’t get it”

You lift your head just enough to peek at her with one eye.

"At least your dead people speak in English. My book is trying to convince me that electricity has a personality, and I'm supposed to know how to fix its mood swings."

Robin snorts, a sharp, ungraceful sound that earns a harsh "Shh!" from a student three tables away. She waves an apologetic hand in the girl’s direction before leaning in over her literary anthologies, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper.

"Look, we just need to survive until Friday. Once Friday at four p.m. hits, we are officially on Spring Break, and I’m not looking at a single word printed on a page for a solid week. I might even forget how to read."

Before you can agree with her brilliant plan, a sudden, heavy thud makes you jump in your seat.

A worn, olive-green canvas backpack has just been dropped onto the empty space at the end of your table. You startle, sitting up straight, your heart doing a quick, nervous stutter in your chest. Your eyes snap up to meet the newcomers.

Nancy and Jonathan are standing there. Nancy’s offering a sympathetic, knowing smile, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, while Jonathan gives a tired but friendly wave.

They promised to come by and keep you both company during the grueling final hours of your study session, bringing the promise of moral support and, hopefully, caffeine.

But your breath catches in your throat, and your stomach plummets into a cold, terrifying free-fall.

You hadn't expected to see him.

Following closely behind Jonathan, stepping out from behind the towering bookshelf, is Steve.

Your heart does a violent, painful flip against your ribcage. The air in your lungs suddenly feels too thick to breathe.

You haven’t seen him properly since that weekend.

You can’t stop the memory hit you like a physical blow, flashing behind your eyes with terrifying clarity: the warmth of his room, the way the moonlight spilled across his bedsheets, the feeling of being entirely, completely wrapped up in him, believing that maybe, finally, things were shifting between you two.

But then he left.

And although you have seen him here and there since then — the times he left the store, or hearing his voice while he talks with Robin in your apartment — you have to admit you have been spending the last four days actively avoiding him, ignoring his attempts to start a conversation, dodging his smiles and gazes, trying to build your walls back up.

Yet, looking at him now — standing in the middle of the dusty library, wearing a simple gray sweater that hugs his shoulders perfectly, his hair effortlessly brushed — something inside you involuntarily softens.

Despite the hurt, despite the messy, unresolved chaos swirling in your head, seeing him here feels... good. Dangerously comforting. It’s a twisted, pathetic realization of just how much power he holds over you with just his presence.

Jonathan and Nancy pull out chairs, their quiet laughter blending into the hushed atmosphere as they begin whispering with Robin. Jonathan asks about her thesis, and Nancy immediately starts organizing her own pristine, color-coded notes.

Steve steps closer to the table. He moves toward Robin first. Resting a hand on the back of her chair, he leans down and presses a quick, affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. Robin instantly scrunches up her face in feigned disgust, aggressively rubbing the top of her head as if to wipe the kiss away.

"Ew, germs. Get away from me, dingus," she hisses playfully.

Steve just rolls his eyes, a fond smirk playing on his lips, and gives the back of her head a gentle, teasing smack. "Show some respect to your elders, Buckley."

Then, he turns. And he starts walking toward you.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to look down. To stare at the intricate diagram of a mixing console until your eyes bleed. To look anywhere but at him. But you are paralyzed. You can’t tear your gaze away from the way his eyes lock onto yours, pinning you in place.

He pulls out the wooden chair directly to your right. It scraps loudly against the floor, and he winces apologetically, murmuring a quick "sorry" to the glaring student before sinking into the seat next to you.

He’s close. Too close. You can feel the subtle, radiating heat of his body cutting through the drafty chill of the library.

He turns his head to look at you, his expression softening into a gentle, slightly tentative smile. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the heavy, unspoken tension lingering between you since… God knows how long.

"Hey," he whispers. His voice is low, a smooth rasp that sends a traitorous shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, forcing your throat to work, fighting desperately to keep your tone completely neutral. "Hi."

It comes out in the exact same quiet register, cautious and guarded.

Steve doesn’t push. Instead, he shifts in his seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. He points with his chin toward the massive, intimidating textbook open in front of you.

"Looks intense," he notes quietly. "Too difficult?"

You let out a shaky sigh, the exhaustion of the day momentarily overriding the complicated knot of feelings in your chest. You slowly shake your head, staring down at the pages.

"It's killing me," you admit, the frustration bleeding into your voice. "I feel like I'm trying to read ancient Greek. None of these signal flow paths make any logical sense."

"Let me see," Steve murmurs.

Before you can react, he shifts his weight, sliding his chair an inch closer to yours and leaning his upper body into your space. He angles his head to look down at your textbook, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. The contact sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, freezing you in place.

He’s staring at the complex diagrams of audio interfaces and transducer mechanisms with an expression of intense concentration, as if Steve Harrington — a guy who barely survived high school chemistry — could suddenly decipher senior-year sound engineering acoustics.

But you aren’t looking at the book anymore. You’re completely overwhelmed by his proximity. His cologne completely floods your senses. It’s the same scent that had been buried in the pillows you woke up alone in that morning.

Your breath hitches, and you find your eyes fixed on the sharp line of his jaw, the way his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheekbones under the harsh overhead lights.

You are so entirely, hopelessly absorbed in his profile that you completely tune out the world around you. You don’t even register that someone has been calling your name until a hand suddenly waves wildly in front of your face, breaking your trance.

"Hello? Earth to whoever is there?"

You blink rapidly, startled, snapping your head up and pulling back from Steve slightly.

You look across the table. Robin is staring at you, her eyebrows raised so high they are practically disappearing into her messy bangs. She has a distinctly unimpressed, knowing look on her face.

"Mmh?" you manage to hum intelligently, your cheeks burning with a sudden, fiery flush. You pray the dim library lighting hides your blush. "What?"

Robin sighs, leaning her chin on her hand.

"I asked, are you going to the party this weekend?"

You blink, trying to force your brain to reboot and switch from “panicking over Steve's proximity” to “casual social conversation.”

"Oh. Mmh. I don't know..." you trail off, genuinely unsure. You haven’t even thought about the weekend. You are barely surviving Wednesday.

Next to Robin, Nancy rolls her eyes playfully, tapping her neat pile of flashcards on the table to align them perfectly.

"Oh, come on. You have to go. If you don't go, you're going to leave Jonathan and me alone with this crazy person," she says, gesturing to Robin with a fond smile. "You know how she gets at these things. She'll spend the whole night over-analyzing interactions and trying to psychoanalyze the frat boys."

"If I wasn't so deeply intimidated by your terrifying competence, Wheeler, I would kick you under this table right now," Robin shoots back without missing a beat.

You can’t help but laugh softly at their dynamic. The tension in your shoulders eases just a fraction.

"I really don't know, guys. It depends on how I feel that day. If this exam actually destroys my soul on Friday, I might just hibernate until Monday."

Robin isn’t having it. She immediately launches into a rapid-fire spiral of conversation, passionately detailing exactly why this party is going to be the event of the semester. She explains how several guys from the university's upper-level art and business departments have pooled their funds to rent out a massive warehouse to kick off the break. She talks about the bands they have booked, the supposed elaborate lighting setup, and how it’s mandatory for their mental health to attend and just let loose for one night.

You try to concentrate on what she’s saying. You really, genuinely try to nod along and offer the appropriate reactions. But it’s an impossible task.

Steve's body is still pressed agonizingly close to yours. While the girls talk, he hasn’t moved away. In fact, he seems to have settled into the position, his arm brushing yours every time he breathes.

He hasn’t stopped staring at your textbook, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The sheer, magnetic pull of his presence right beside you is so distracting, so entirely disconcerting, that Robin's words begin to sound like they’re coming from underwater.

Suddenly, Steve sits up a little straighter.

"I think I get it," he announces, his voice slicing through Robin’s monologue and immediately capturing your full attention.

You turn your head slowly, staring at him in disbelief. "Get what?"

He turns to look at you, and that signature, devastatingly confident smile spreads across his face. It’s the smile that usually means trouble.

"This," he says, tapping a long finger against a particularly complex schematic of a multi-band compressor. "I think I actually understand it."

You furrow your brow, a skeptical, incredulous laugh bubbling up in your throat. "Excuse me? You, out of nowhere, just casually understand a senior-year acoustic engineering module just by looking at the pictures?"

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and leans even closer to you, closing the meager distance you have tried to put between yourselves. The scent of him envelopes you again, making your pulse race.

"Maybe it's just not as difficult as you're making it out to be," he teases, his eyes dancing with mischief.

If it were literally any other person sitting in that chair — some arrogant frat boy or a condescending classmate who had the absolute audacity to question your intelligence and belittle your major — you would have been furious. You would have slammed the book shut, stood up, delivered a blistering lecture on misogyny and likely stormed out of the library, but not before giving them a piece of your mind.

But it’s Steve.

And as he looks at you, that soft, teasing smile playing on his lips, the affection in his eyes completely neutralizing the arrogance of his words, anger is the furthest thing from your mind. All you can focus on is the way the library lights caught the amber flecks in his eyes.

You cross your arms over your chest, leaning back slightly and raising an eyebrow, accepting the challenge. "Is that right? Alright, Harrington. Enlighten me, then. Explain the mechanism."

Steve doesn’t back down. To your absolute shock, he clears his throat, points at the page, and actually begins to explain the mechanism.

"Okay, so look. The audio signal comes in here, right?" he starts, tracing the input line with his finger. "And it hits this... this splitter thing. The crossover network. And that divides the frequencies into your lows, mids, and highs."

You blink, genuinely taken aback.

"Then, each of those separate bands goes into its own independent compression circuit," he continues, his tone turning surprisingly earnest. He stumbles slightly over the technical jargon, but he’s pushing through. "So, you can, like, squash the bass without affecting the vocals in the mid-range. And then this part here," he taps the output stage, "sums it all back together at the end."

He keeps going, elaborating on the attack and release times, using clumsy but surprisingly accurate metaphors about water flowing through pipes to explain the electrical current.

Of course, you don’t stop him. You don’t interrupt to tell him that you already know exactly how a multi-band compressor works. You don’t confess that you have spent four hours the previous nights memorizing every single component of this exact diagram until you could draw it in your sleep. You haven’t been trying to learn it today; you were just exhaustedly reviewing it.

But you can’t bring yourself to shut him down.

Listening to him explain it to you — hearing those heavy, technical terms slipping past his lips, watching the way his brow furrows in deep, genuine concentration as he searches for the right words to make it easier to understand — leaves you completely captivated. You are utterly entranced.

If any other guy tried to “mansplain” your own degree to you, you would have slapped him. But watching Steve try so hard, just to engage with you, just to share this moment, melts the icy walls you have spent the past days building.

Your eyes wander freely over his face, tracking the movement of his lips as he speaks, counting the freckles across his nose, noting the moles on his cheek. You watch the way his expressions shift, the earnest desire to help you radiating from him.

Suddenly, Steve stops talking. He turns his head to look at you, catching you staring intently at his lips.

"Right?" he asks, his voice suddenly much softer, lacking the bravado from a moment ago.

You blink, dragging your eyes up to meet his. You can’t stop the fond, genuine smile from breaking across your face. You nod slowly.

"Right," you whisper.

He watches your face carefully, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widens, transforming into something entirely knowing and slightly wicked.

"You're laughing at me," he accuses gently, dropping his voice to a whisper so only you can hear.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head.

"No, I'm not. Not at all. Why would you think that?"

Steve tilts his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the rest of the library completely fade away. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin — they’re all gone. It’s just the two of you, suspended in this tiny, electrified bubble.

"You already know all of this, don't you?" he asks quietly.

You bite your lower lip, fighting a grin, and slowly nod your head.

Steve lets out a dramatic, frustrated huff, though the smile never leaves his eyes. He leans back in his chair, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

"Then why did you let me keep going?! I was sitting here sweating, trying to remember what a transducer is!"

"Because," you reply softly, leaning in just a fraction of an inch, "I wanted to see how far you would take it."

The air between you instantly changes. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by something incredibly heavy and thick with the unspoken tension.

"Did I take it too far?" he asks.

His voice is barely a rasp now, incredibly low and intimate. As he speaks, his eyes dart down to your lips for just a fraction of a second — a millisecond, barely perceptible, but you catch it. It sends a wild flutter of panic and desire straight to your stomach.

You hold his gaze, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You think about the way he held your hand that night. But you also think about the empty bed. The confusion. The sting of his absence.

"You always take everything too far," you whisper back.

Your voice is trembling slightly, fragile. You speak the words as if they’re made of glass, terrified that if you say them too loudly, they would shatter. Terrified that he won’t understand the double meaning, the underlying accusation, and the desperate plea hidden within them.

Steve doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He absorbs the weight of your words, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he clenches his teeth.

"Is that a bad thing?" he asks, matching your hushed, fragile tone.

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. He’s asking about the textbook, yes, but he’s asking about so much more.

He’s asking about boundaries, about pushing lines, about the shared but unfinished moments that happened between you two in the shadows and what they mean in the harsh light of day.

You open your mouth to answer, to finally address the elephant in the room, to tell him that you don’t know if it is a bad thing, but that it terrifies you—

SLAM.

The violently loud sound of a thick book slamming shut echoes like a gunshot through the silent library.

You and Steve both jump, violently ripped from your private bubble. You spin your head around.

Robin has closed her book with unnecessary, aggressive force. She’s already pushing her chair back and standing up, her posture rigid.

"Well, I think that is more than enough studying for one day," Robin announces, her voice entirely too loud for the setting. Her tone is sharp, clear, and undeniably pointed. "My brain is fried. We should probably get out of here, shouldn't we?"

She looks directly at you, her eyes wide and commanding. It isn’t a suggestion. It is a rescue mission. Or an intervention. You can hear the underlying accusation in her voice. She has been watching. She has seen the whispering, the leaning in, the tension. And her interruption is entirely, unapologetically on purpose.

You clear your throat softly, suddenly painfully aware of how hot your face feels and how close Steve still is to you. The spell is broken.

"Yeah," you stammer, awkwardly pushing your chair back and breaking the physical proximity to Steve. "Yeah, sure. I'm... I'm done."

You stand up on shaky legs and immediately begin gathering your scattered papers, shoving the acoustic diagrams into your folders with far less care than they deserve. As you zip your pencil case and reach for your heavy textbook, you pause.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can’t help but notice the silent, intense exchange happening beside you.

Robin is staring down at Steve. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is fiercely protective, almost glaring at him. It’s a look of pure accusation. What are you doing? her eyes seem to scream. Don't mess with her.

Steve is looking back up at her. He doesn’t look angry, just caught. He offers a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head — a silent denial, a plea for her to back off, an insistence that he isn’t doing what she thinks he is doing.

You can’t decipher exactly what the silent argument is about, but you know it’s about you. The weight of the unspoken, of Robin's fierce loyalty to you and her complicated best-friendship with Steve, all hangs heavily in the air.

Feeling like an intruder in your own life, you quickly tear your eyes away from them. You grab your heavy textbook, shoving it roughly into your backpack. You pull the zipper shut with a sharp, final zip, slinging the bag over your shoulder, leaving the heavy tension completely unresolved as you prepare to walk out into the cool air. Spring has arrived already, but the cold afternoons still hang around.

After hours trapped in the stagnant, paper-scented purgatory of the study halls, the crisp breeze is an absolute salvation. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting the chill settle into your lungs, hoping it would somehow cool the frantic, nervous heat still radiating just beneath your skin.

The transition from the suffocating silence of the library to the ambient noise of the city streets is jarring. Cars rumble past, their headlights cutting through the fading twilight, and the distant hum of evening commuters create a steady backdrop of white noise.

The sky above is bruising into deep shades of purple and indigo, the streetlights flickering one by one in a cascade of hazy yellow glows.

The five of you huddle on the concrete steps for a brief, somewhat awkward moment as everyone adjusts their bags and jackets. The tension from the table has followed you outside, clinging to the group like a heavy, invisible fog.

Robin is standing rigidly closest to you, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her oversized corduroy jacket. She’s still shooting subtle, sharp glares at Steve out of the corner of her eye, practically vibrating with the urge to say something. But Nancy, blessedly oblivious to the radioactive energy crackling between the three of you — or perhaps highly aware of it and tactfully choosing to diffuse it — steps right into the middle of the dynamic.

"So," Nancy begins, adjusting the collar of her neat cardigan and turning her bright, focused gaze onto Robin. "About this party. Are they actually bringing in proper sound equipment, or is it going to be another disaster where they just hook up a blown-out speaker to a cassette deck? Because if it's the latter, I'm bringing my own earplugs."

Robin blinks, torn away from her staring contest with Steve. She hesitates for a fraction of a second, glancing back at you as if to check if it is safe to leave your side, before her natural enthusiasm for complaining about frat-boy incompetence takes over.

"Oh, it's supposedly a full setup," Robin scoffs, falling into step beside Nancy as they begin walking down the wide pavement. "But you know how these business majors are, Nance. They think throwing money at a problem fixes the fact that they don't know how to plug in an amp."

Jonathan chuckles softly, falling in quietly beside Nancy. He offers you a brief, polite smile over his shoulder before turning his attention to the girls’ conversation, occasionally chiming in with a dry, sarcastic comment that makes Robin snort with laughter.

And just like that, the natural rhythm of the sidewalk forces the group to split. Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan take the lead, their shoulders brushing as they navigate the evening foot traffic.

Which leaves you trailing a few paces behind.

With Steve.

You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the worn heels of Robin’s boots, walking at a brisk pace in a desperate attempt to close the gap between you and the trio ahead. But your apartment is still five blocks away, and Steve’s long legs easily match your frantic, nervous stride.

He walks on your right, positioned between you and the street. It’s a subtle, protective gesture that you have noticed he always does without thinking, and realizing he’s doing it now sends a fresh, sharp ache straight through your chest.

For the first block, neither of you say a word. The silence between you is agonizingly loud, thick with the weight of the library, the unresolved questions, and the terrifying words you have exchanged just minutes prior.

“You always take everything too far.”

“ Is that a bad thing?”

The words echo in your mind with every step you take. You hug your arms across your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed despite your heavy sweater.

“How is your project going?” Steve’s voice suddenly cuts through the quiet, deep and resonant in the chilly night air. He breaks the silence like the hull of a massive ship breaking through a frozen sea, sudden but oddly comforting.

You instinctively wrap your arms tighter around your torso, burying your chin into the thick wool of your scarf. It’s a defensive gesture, a way of protecting yourself — though from the freezing wind or from the sudden warmth of his attention, you aren’t entirely sure.

“Good. It’s going really great, actually,” you reply, your voice muffled at first before you lower the scarf. “This week I already managed to interview two people. My professor told me that with two more solid interviews, I’d be completely set. So, the radio show is going to end up being a three-episode mini-series, which is honestly pretty good for a final project.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. A spark of genuine surprise flares in your chest. You hadn't expected him to remember your radio project. But lately, you are beginning to realize a quiet truth about Steve Harrington: he pays far more attention to the small details than you ever gave him credit for.

“That sounds awesome,” Steve says, slowing his pace just a fraction so he walks shoulder-to-shoulder with you. He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, turning his head to look at you. The amber glow of a passing streetlight catches the rich, brown tones of his eyes. “What kind of interesting story did you get told this time?”

A soft, irrepressible smile touches your lips as you think back to the afternoon you spent in the dusty, vinyl-scented backroom of the record store. You remember the makeshift interview you conducted with Roy. He told you all about what it was like growing up in New York. How he scraped together every penny he had to found the record store, the crazy gigs he worked, and how he literally had to carve out a place for himself in the music industry just to get the right contacts.

It’s a story built on so much blood, sweat, and tears. There were some really dark moments he shared, times when he almost lost everything. It walks this perfect line between being deeply interesting and incredibly inspiring

“It was incredible, honestly,” you say, your voice brightening with sudden passion. “But I can’t share it with you yet”

Steve watches your face intently as you speak, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on his own lips.

“What? Not even the highlights?"

“Nope, sorry,” you tease, a playful lilt entering your tone. You look up and meet his gaze, feeling a sudden rush of boldness. “You’ll just have to wait until the episodes are edited and done, just like everyone else.”

He laughs softly, a warm, rich sound that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks down at his boots, shaking his head slightly before his eyes find yours again, crinkling at the corners.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be waiting patiently, then,” he concedes, his voice dropping an octave, sounding almost like a promise.

You both continue walking in silence, but the atmosphere has shifted entirely. The heavy, suffocating tension has melted away, leaving behind a comfortable, shared quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels like a warm blanket, safe and familiar.

After crossing another block, Steve’s pace slows even further. He clears his throat, a sudden nervous energy radiating from him.

“You know… I’ve been meaning to tell you something—”

His words hang in the air, fragile and full of weight, but before he can finish the sentence, a voice calls out from across the street.

“Hey! We’re heading out!”

You both flinch slightly, the spell broken instantly. Nancy and Jonathan are standing by the corner, shivering under the awning of a closed bakery.

“Jonathan has a shift in the darkroom, so we have to go,” Nancy explains, pulling her coat tighter around her slender frame. She offers a polite, albeit strained, smile.

“Yeah, nice seeing you guys,” Jonathan mumbles, offering a brief wave, his hands immediately returning to his pockets to fight off the chill.

“Get home safe!” Steve calls out, stepping back into his usual, easy-going persona so quickly it almost gives you whiplash.

You offer a quiet wave as Nancy and Jonathan turn the corner, their figures disappearing into the dark of the night. Their departure leaves you alone with Steve — and, of course, Robin.

Robin drops back to join the two of you. She doesn't waste a single second reading the room. Instead, she immediately launches into a rapid-fire monologue about her upcoming exams.

“I swear to God, Steve, if Professor Walton asks me to analyze one more piece of post-modern French drivel, I am going to throw myself off the campus library roof,” Robin groans, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s impossible. It’s literally designed to make us fail. I was staring at my notes for three hours today and the words literally started rearranging themselves into a mocking, demonic language.”

You watch as Steve seamlessly redirects his attention to her. He listens patiently, nodding at all the right moments, interjecting with a sympathetic hum or a quiet laugh.

A wave of complicated emotions washes over you. On one hand, a profound sense of tenderness swells in your chest as you witness the care he gives her. The platonic affection they share is beautiful, a deep-rooted bond that they try to mask with sarcasm and bickering.

You know Robin well enough by now to understand her. You know she cares deeply for both of you. You know exactly why she sometimes gets abrasive or blunt with the things she says, or how she says them — it’s her defense mechanism, her way of fiercely protecting the few people she has allowed into her inner circle. She is incredibly careful with you and Steve, even if her delivery is a bit rough around the edges.

But despite knowing all of this, despite loving Robin in your own way, you can’t completely suppress the tiny flare of annoyance that sparks in your chest.

Every time Steve gets close, every time the conversation between you two brushes against something real and raw, an interruption occurs. Usually, it’s Robin. But what can you realistically do about it? You can’t fault her for caring about you, and you certainly can’t fault Steve for caring about his best friend.

As they continue to bicker about French literature, your steps naturally fall a little slower, letting you trail slightly behind them. You use the distance to simply admire them under the glow of the streetlamps.

Robin says something wildly exaggerated, throwing her hands in the air, and Steve bursts into genuine laughter. He reaches out, wrapping a heavy, affectionate arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walk. Robin swats at him, but she leans into the embrace anyway.

The sight of it makes you smile.

It’s a pure, unadulterated display of love. But as Steve’s eyes briefly flick back over his shoulder to check on you, catching your gaze, you feel a sudden, intense rush of heat flood your cheeks.

You quickly bury your face back into the thick wool of your scarf, pretending that the sudden wind has made you colder than you actually are, hoping the darkness hides your blush.

When the three of you finally reach the old brick apartment building, the blast of the lobby’s forced-air heating hits you like a physical wall.

Steve walks in first, shaking the evening chill from his shoulders. He throws a casual wave toward the front desk.

“Evening, Arthur.”

Arthur gives Steve a curt nod — of course. However, as you and Robin step through the doors behind him, Arthur’s eyes instantly narrow, and he actively looks away, blatantly ignoring the two of you.

Robin rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath about Arthur’s lack of manners, while you just sigh, used to the routine.

You walk past the front desk and head down the poorly lit hallway toward the elevator. Miraculously, the heavy doors are opened, and the light is illuminated. For the first time in what feels like weeks, the piece of shit is actually working.

Steve hits the call button, and the doors slide open with a terrifying, metallic screech. The three of you step inside the small, wood-paneled box. It’s meant to fit four people, but with heavy winter coats, it feels suffocatingly intimate.

Steve reaches up and pulls his beanie off his head, shaking out his thick hair. The movement releases the faint familiar and specific brand of cologne into the enclosed space, making your heart skip a beat.

Trying to distract yourself, you begin to unwind the heavy scarf from your neck, sighing in relief as the stifling heat of the elevator begins to get to you. You reach up, attempting to smooth down the static mess your hair has become from the wind and the scarf.

Before you can fix it, Steve reaches over. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he intentionally ruffles his hand through your hair, messing it up far worse than it was before.

“Hey!” you gasp, laughing as you playfully smack his arm.

He chuckles, a low, breathy sound, and doesn't pull his hand away immediately. For a fraction of a second, his knuckles graze the side of your cold cheek. The air in the elevator suddenly feels ten degrees hotter.

You both turn your heads at the exact same time, only to find Robin staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows are raised high, her expression a mix of knowing amusement and exhausted exasperation. She doesn't say a word, but her face screams, “Really?”

Caught in the spotlight of Robin’s piercing gaze, Steve quickly clears his throat. To deflect, he reaches out and aggressively ruffles Robin’s hair too, trying to mask the thick tension with chaotic sibling energy.

“Don't touch the hair, Harrington!” Robin yelps, slapping his hand away and desperately trying to smooth down her messy bob.

The elevator shudders to a violent halt, the bell dinging as the doors slide open to your floor.

Robin doesn't waste a second. She storms out of the elevator, but not before turning around and delivering a swift, precise flick to the center of Steve’s forehead.

“Ow!” Steve complains, rubbing his brow.

“That’s for the hair,” Robin calls out over her shoulder, already marching down the hallway toward the apartment. “See you tomorrow, weirdo.”

And just like that, she’s gone, leaving you and Steve alone in the elevator once more. You step out into the hallway, your boots quiet against the old floor. Steve holds the door open with his hand, standing right on the threshold between the elevator and the hall.

You hesitate. You stand a few feet away, fiddling with the fringe of your scarf, your eyes tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The silence returns, but the comfortable warmth from the street is gone, replaced by a nervous, fluttering anticipation.

“Do you… want to come in?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “We have some leftovers from lunch. We could heat it up.”

Steve’s lips curve into a soft, tired smile. He leans against the doorframe, looking at you with an expression that is painfully gentle.

“Tempting,” he murmurs.

He steps just a fraction closer. He reaches out, and this time there is no teasing, no playful ruffling. His fingers are careful, incredibly gentle, as he tucks a stray strand of your hair securely behind your ear. His fingertips linger against your skin for a heartbeat too long, tracing the curve of your earlobe before pulling back.

“But I can’t,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a heavy note of regret. “I have things to do.”

You swallow hard, nodding your head slowly. Things to do.

It’s always the same vague excuse, the same sudden departures into the night. Weeks ago, hearing those words would tie your stomach into painful knots of anxiety and suspicion.

But now? Now the knots are gone. The doubt still quietly gnaws at the back of your mind, a persistent ache, but… you are slowly beginning to accept that this is simply who Steve Harrington is. You are beginning to accept his secrets. You are learning to live with the shadows that constantly seem to pull at his heels, the mysterious bruises, the exhaustion he can’t explain.

You realize, as you look up into his sad, beautiful eyes, that if this complex, guarded version of him is the one who is willing to look at you the way he does, if he’s willing to risk his own guarded heart for you in whatever broken way he can… you are willing to accept the shadows. You are willing to take all of him, secrets included.

But you don’t know if he’s willing to let you in.

“Bye, then,” you say softly, forcing a small smile to reassure him.

His shoulders relax slightly, relieved that you aren’t pushing for answers he can’t give. He smiles back, a genuine, blinding thing that makes your breath catch.

“Bye.”

He steps back into the elevator, letting his hand drop from the door. The heavy panels begin to slowly slide shut.

Panic suddenly seizes you. The realization that he is leaving, that the moment is slipping through your fingers, overrides your common sense.

You spin around.

“Steve, wait!”

He immediately throws his arm out, catching the heavy door before it can close, forcing it back open. He looks at you, surprised, his chest heaving slightly.

“Yeah?”

You take a tentative step forward, closing the distance between you until you are standing just inches from the elevator threshold. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“You… you were going to tell me something,” you stammer, the confidence fleeing you the moment the words leave your mouth. “Earlier. While we were walking back, right before Robin and the others interrupted us. You said you’d been meaning to tell me something...”

Steve blinks, staring at you for a long moment. Then, realization dawns on his face. He lets out a short, breathy exhale, running a hand nervously through his hair.

“Oh. Right,” he says, his voice suddenly thick. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a rare display of true awkwardness from him. “I was going to say… my shirt—”

Your heart drops into your stomach, plummeting so fast it makes you dizzy.

The shirt.

That next morning, you had worn the shirt he gave to sleep under your sweater, taking it home with you without a second thought. You had sworn to yourself that you would wash it and return it immediately. But the truth was, you hadn't. The shirt was still sitting, perfectly folded, hidden away in the very back of your bottom dresser drawer. It still smelled faintly of him. You hadn't even worked up the courage to pull it out and look at it, terrified that admitting how much comfort it brought you would make the reality of your feelings undeniable.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you rush out, the words tumbling over each other in your panic. Your face is burning hot now, an absolute inferno of embarrassment. “I swear I was going to give it back! I literally meant to bring it today, but between the radio project and studying for midterms, it completely slipped my mind, and—”

“Keep it.”

His voice cuts through your frantic rambling. It isn't loud, but it is steady and incredibly firm.

You freeze, the words dying in your throat. The silence stretches out between you, heavy and thick. You stare at him, your brain short-circuiting as it tries to process what he just said.

“What?” you whisper, entirely sure you must have misheard him.

Steve smiles. It’s not his usual cocky grin, and it’s not the tired, gentle smile from earlier. It’s a slow, devastatingly fond smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, crinkling the corners. He steps right up to the edge of the elevator, bridging the gap so completely you can feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“I said, keep it,” he repeats softly, his voice a low, raspy murmur. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again, intensely locked onto yours. “You looked really cute in it.”

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You can’t stop the furious blush from spreading across your cheeks, down your neck, burning hot under your collar.

You quickly drop your gaze to the tips of your boots, desperately trying to hide the sheer, overwhelming joy and embarrassment washing over you. But it’s a useless effort. A massive, foolish smile breaks across your face, ruining any chance of playing it cool.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to compose yourself as you slowly lift your head to look at him. He’s still watching you, his expression open and incredibly soft, waiting for your reaction.

You take a deep breath, the scent of him and the old hallway air filling your lungs.

“Goodnight, Steve,” you whisper, the words practically glowing with unspoken affection.

Steve’s eyes soften even further. He doesn’t look away.

“Goodnight…” he murmurs, his voice wrapping around your name like a physical caress, gentle and deeply intimate.

You take a single, slow step back into the hallway, yielding the space. Steve lets his hand drop from the door frame. Slowly, with an agonizing finality, the heavy doors of the elevator begin to slide closed. You stand rooted to the spot, watching his face until the very last second, until the doors finally meet with a loud, echoing clack, leaving you alone in the quiet hallway with a racing heart and a secret tucked safely in your bottom drawer.

—

When the clock on the wall finally clicks to the top of the hour and the professor’s gruff voice announces that it’s time to hand in the final exam, a profound, almost intoxicating wave of relief washes over you. It is the kind of relief that sinks deep into your bones, loosening muscles you didn’t even realize you were clenching.

At this exact moment, you genuinely couldn’t care less if your exam went perfectly or if it was an absolute disaster. If you confused the impedance of Cable A with the frequency output of Cable B? So be it.

To hell with sound engineering.

To hell with acoustic physics, mixing consoles, and late-night study sessions fueled by terrible, lukewarm coffee.

Even if it is just for one short, fleeting week of spring break, you can finally just lie on your bed, stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling, and do absolutely nothing.

Well, perhaps nothing is an exaggeration.

Ever since you and Robin first bumped into each other — literally colliding in the campus dining hall and sending a tray of questionable macaroni flying — she has been relentless.

For years, she has been begging, pleading, and using every weapon in her chaotic arsenal of persuasion to get you to visit Hawkins with her. And because it’s your last spring break together before graduation scatters everyone to the winds, you finally caved. You promised her you would go.

Now, sitting in the hard wooden chair of the lecture hall, you are feeling a healthy mix of deep regret and undeniable, gnawing curiosity.

Hawkins. The way Robin talks about it, it sounds less like a town and more like a myth.

You’ve heard endless stories about its dense, sprawling woods, the eerily quiet lake, the small-town diner, and the video store where she and Steve used to work. You want to see the exact places where this bizarre, fiercely loyal makeshift family first collided. You want to meet "the kids" they are always endlessly complaining about yet fiercely protecting.

But mostly, if you are being entirely honest with yourself in the quiet confines of your own mind, you want to see where Steve grew up.

A sudden, sharp jolt of electricity courses through your veins just at the thought of his name.

It always happens.

The prospect of finally putting real, physical images to all the stories they’ve told you is thrilling. But the idea of seeing Steve in his natural habitat? Of peeling back another layer of the former high school "King" that you haven't yet been privy to? It is both incredibly exciting and terrifying at the same time.

You know the city version of Steve — the one who is surprisingly tender, fiercely protective, and hides a startling amount of emotional depth and secrets behind his perfectly styled hair and a cocky smirk.

But the Hawkins version of him? That is uncharted territory.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you gather your things. You sling the strap of your backpack over your shoulder, the weight of your textbooks serving as a final reminder of the half semester you are leaving behind.

Pushing open the heavy double doors of the engineering building, you step out onto the campus grounds. The crisp spring air hits your face, a welcome contrast to the stuffy lecture hall.

You start the familiar, tedious trek toward the bus stop, keeping your eyes on the cracked pavement.

"HEY! OVER HERE! HEY!"

You flinch, your train of thought completely derailed. You frown, blinking against the afternoon sun. Even through the ambient noise of hundreds of students leaving class, you can instantly decipher that loud, chaotic, and entirely un-self-conscious voice.

It’s undeniably Robin. But what on earth is she doing on this side of campus at this hour?

You scan the busy street, your eyes finally catching a flurry of frantic movement. There she is, standing on the opposite sidewalk, aggressively waving both of her arms in the air like she's trying to flag down a rescue helicopter.

As your eyes adjust and focus past Robin's flailing limbs, your breath catches slightly in your throat. She isn't standing at the bus stop. She’s standing next to a vintage burgundy BMW. And leaning casually against the hood of that car, looking like he just stepped out of an achingly cool 1980s catalog, is Steve.

He’s wearing his favorite worn-in Levi’s, a blue t-shirt that fits him entirely too well, and his signature sunglasses. One arm is crossed over his body, while his other hand holds a cigarette, and even from across the street, you can see the cocky, fond smile playing on his lips as he watches Robin make a fool of herself to get your attention.

Confusion battling with sudden, sharp intrigue, you check for traffic and walk across the street.

"Uhm... hi?" you say as you approach, fixing your backpack. You point your chin toward the gleaming vehicle. "And what exactly is this?"

Steve’s smile widens into something incredibly genuine and overwhelmingly boyish. He turns slightly, giving the rich burgundy hood of the car two affectionate, rhythmic pats.

"Do you like it?" he asks, his voice carrying that familiar, warm rasp that always seems to settle directly in your stomach. "I brought my baby up the time I went back to Hawkins. I haven't wanted to use her until now, because honestly? I don't trust the absolute maniac taxi drivers in this city not to sideswipe her. But…" he pauses, pushing his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you directly in the eyes, "considering we are heading out to the outskirts of the city tonight to celebrate a little bit, I figured it was finally time to take her out for a proper spin."

You try — and completely fail — to hide the complicated expression on your face. It’s a ridiculous mixture of mild disgust at how dramatically he talks about a piece of machinery, and undeniable admiration for how ridiculously good he looks leaning against it.

"Right. Of course," you say, a dry, sarcastic edge to your voice that you know he loves. "Your baby."

Steve chuckles, a low, rumbling sound.

"Come on, get in. Your chariot awaits."

Robin, vibrating with her usual excess of caffeine and nervous energy, immediately sprints around to the passenger side. "Shotgun!" she yells, throwing the door open.

You roll your eyes affectionately, opening the heavy, solid back door, you toss your bag onto the leather seats and slide in after it.

The drive from the campus back to the apartment building isn't incredibly long — certainly much shorter and infinitely more pleasant than the cramped, sweaty city bus.

The interior of Steve's car smells like old leather, a hint of expensive cologne, and something distinctly him. You have to admit, begrudgingly, that it’s a beautiful car. The engine purrs smoothly, gliding over the city streets with an effortless grace.

And then there is the driver.

Good Lord. Seeing Steve drive shouldn't be a spiritual experience, but somehow, it is. You hadn't realized that watching him casually steer with one hand resting lightly on the bottom of the wheel, the other arm propped casually on the window sill, was something you needed to witness in your lifetime. The muscles in his forearm shift under his skin every time he takes a turn.

You try to look out the window.

You try to focus on the blur of passing coffee shops and brick buildings. But time and time again, as if pulled by some inescapable magnetic force, your eyes drift back to his reflection in the rearview mirror.

You watch the way his brow furrows slightly in deep concentration as he navigates a tricky intersection.

You watch the way the corner of his eyes crinkle when Robin launches into a rapid-fire, breathless rant about a pretentious guy in her class.

For a few blissful minutes, you think you are getting away with your secret staring. Until suddenly, the car idles at a red light. Steve shifts his gaze up to the rearview mirror, and his dark eyes lock perfectly, undeniably, with yours.

The air in the car seems to instantly evaporate. Steve’s lips part slightly, the teasing smirk completely melting away into something much softer, much more intense. He holds your gaze, unapologetically, for three agonizingly long seconds. Your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Panic setting in, you violently snap your head to the side, staring intently out the passenger window at a perfectly unremarkable fire hydrant, pretending that you had been looking at it the whole time.

You can hear Steve let out a soft, knowing exhale from the front seat, but he mercifully says nothing.

A few hours later, the apartment is a scene of absolute, concentrated chaos. The air is thick with the suffocating scent of aerosol hairspray, floral perfumes, and the faint smell of a curling iron that has been left on just a minute too long.

You and Robin are darting back and forth between the bathroom and the bedroom, tossing clothes over chairs and stepping over discarded shoes. Vickie and Nancy are here too. Even though they came over already "ready" for the party, they have somehow been sucked into the vortex of anxiety, entirely second-guessing their carefully curated outfits and hastily attempting new, elaborate hairstyles in the cramped bathroom mirror.

"Do these earrings say “I’m fun and approachable” or “I will aggressively critique your music taste”?" Robin yells, holding up two massive geometric shapes against her ears.

"The second one, definitely," Vickie laughs, standing behind her and gently adjusting the collar of Robin’s jacket. "But I think that’s why I like them."

Meanwhile, amidst the hurricane of female preparation, Steve and Jonathan are the eye of the storm. They are both slouched low on the worn-out living room sofa. Their arms are crossed defensively over their chests, staring blankly at the dark screen of the television, clearly having dissociated from reality at least forty-five minutes ago in complete silence.

Finally, miraculously, consensus is reached. Clothes are chosen. Eyeliner is applied perfectly.

"Alright," Nancy announces, clapping her hands together with her usual authoritative efficiency. "We’re ready. Let's move out before someone changes their mind about their shoes again."

Everyone practically herds toward the front door, grabbing keys and jackets. As you step out into the hallway of the apartment building, the group naturally stretches out into a line heading toward the stairwell.

Without anyone saying a word, as if bound by some unspoken, gravitational pact, you and Steve simultaneously slow your pace. Within seconds, you naturally fall into a rhythm, walking side-by-side, lingering just a few feet behind the chaotic, chattering mass of the rest of the group.

The hallway is quiet, the only sound the muffled thud of footsteps on the old floor. Steve walks with a lazy, athletic grace. He turns his head to look at you, really look at you, taking in the outfit you spent entirely too long agonizing over.

His eyes slowly drag from the hem of your clothes up to your face. He looks away for a split second to ensure the rest of the group is out of earshot, and then leans his tall frame slightly toward you, invading your personal space just enough to make your pulse spike.

"You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant strictly for your ears.

The heat is instantaneous. A furious blush violently invades your cheeks, burning hot against your skin. You swallow hard, forcing your legs to keep moving, willing yourself not to stumble over your own feet or fall completely behind.

You glance up at him through your eyelashes, deciding to fight fire with fire.

"You don't look too bad yourself, Harrington."

Steve smiles. It isn't his usual, practiced charm. It’s the genuine, slightly shy smile that he usually reserves for moments when he’s completely caught off guard. He bites down hard on his lower lip, turning his head to look straight down the hallway again, clearly trying to suppress his grin.

But you can't let him win that easily. You decide to pluck the string.

"So," you start, your voice feigning casual indifference. "Are you meeting up with Gabriela there tonight?"

You know exactly what you are doing. You know that simply putting that girl's name on your lips is going to drive him absolutely insane.

Steve’s step falters for a fraction of a second. He turns to look at you, his jaw clenching slightly. He shakes his head, his eyes darkening with a sudden, fierce intensity.

"No," he says, his voice completely stripped of its previous playfulness. "No Gabriela tonight." He holds your gaze, making sure you understand the subtext,

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a victorious smile. You don't want to be too mean, but the rush of adrenaline is intoxicating. You simply give a small, nonchalant nod.

"Good to know."

When the group finally spills out of the stairwell and into the cool night air of the parking lot, the brief bubble of intimacy shatters. Chaos reigns once more as the battle for car seats commences.

"I'm riding with Vickie!" Robin shouts, immediately grabbing her girlfriend's hand. She practically drags Vickie toward the car, aggressively claiming the back seat by throwing herself into it.

"There is absolutely no chance in hell I’m riding in the trunk again," Jonathan deadpans, moving with surprising speed. "You guys pull this on me every single time, and my knees can't take it." Without waiting for an argument, he wedges his way into the back, unceremoniously pushing Robin and Vickie flush against the far door so that Nancy has enough room to slide in beside him.

You stand on the pavement, watching the ridiculous clown-car routine with a mix of amusement and exasperation. You feel a presence beside you.

You turn your head to see Steve standing by the passenger door. He has it pulled wide open. He offers you a slow, devastatingly charming smile, gesturing with his free hand toward the empty leather seat.

"I guess you'll be my co-pilot this time," he says softly.

You press your lips together tightly, trying desperately to hide the massive smile threatening to break across your face. You nod, stepping past him. As you slide into the low seat, his chest brushes briefly against your shoulder. The scent of him is dizzying.

"Thank you, Harrington," you whisper.

He shuts the heavy door behind you with a solid thud, and within seconds, he’s sliding into the driver's seat next to you.

The drive to the party is pure, unadulterated chaos. Steve cranks the radio up loud, the heavy, synth-driven baseline of “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” by Tears for Fears vibrates through the floorboards.

Nobody in the car stops talking for a single second. Robin is shouting an unfinished story from the back, Jonathan is arguing with her about a movie director, Nancy is trying to organize the timeline of the night, and Vickie is laughing at all of them. They are constantly talking over each other, voices rising and falling in a cacophony of overlapping jokes and sudden bursts of loud, uninhibited laughter.

But sitting there in the passenger seat, surrounded by the deafening noise, you feel a profound, settling wave of tranquility.

You rest your hands on your lap, feeling Steve’s eyes on you from time to time. In the midst of all this noise, you are exactly where you are supposed to be. You are with your people. You are safe, you are grounded, and the crushing weight of the semester feels a million miles away.

When Steve finally navigates the BMW down a dark, winding road on the edge of the city, the destination comes into view. You sit up straighter, peering through the windshield.

It looks like an entirely abandoned industrial building. The brickwork is crumbling, the massive windows are either boarded up or shattered, and there is a rusty chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. However, it’s immediately clear that the post-apocalyptic exterior is merely a facade for tonight. The place is glowing with lights spilling from the cracks in the doors, and the deep, rhythmic thumping of heavy bass is literally shaking the gravel beneath the tires. It’s thoroughly equipped to host a massive, unsanctioned college rager.

As Steve parks the car in a muddy makeshift lot, you look at the massive crowds of people filtering through the heavy doors. At least from the outside, it seems Robin wasn't exaggerating. The senior class had clearly pooled a ridiculous amount of money and pulled every string they had to secure a professional sound system and a live band.

You all pile out of the car, the chill of the night air immediately replaced by the radiating heat of hundreds of bodies. The group begins to slowly carve a path toward the entrance, pushing through a sea of people. It’s a wild, eclectic mix — frat guys in polos, art students in ripped denim, townies who clearly don't go to the university, all blending together under the flashing lights.

The sheer volume of people is overwhelming. You are suddenly pushed hard by a guy stumbling backward with a plastic cup in his hand. You lose your balance slightly on the uneven gravel.

Before you can even attempt to catch yourself, you feel it.

A large, incredibly warm hand settles firmly, immovably, onto the small of your back. The touch burns right through the fabric of your shirt. The long, strong fingers grip your waist just tight enough to steady you, pulling you slightly backward against a solid chest. You don't even have to turn around. You don't have to guess. You would know the weight and the warmth of that hand anywhere.

Steve guides you forward, acting as a physical shield between you and the crushing tide of drunk college students. The tension that has been simmering between you in the car suddenly boils over, the physical contact sending sparks shooting up your spine.

"I’m going to look around the warzone and get us some drinks!" Jonathan screams at the top of his lungs, barely audible over the roaring bass of the band that is currently shredding on the makeshift stage inside. Without waiting for a response, Jonathan grips Nancy’s hand like a lifeline and physically drags her into the crowd.

You feel Steve lean down, the side of his face pressing so close to yours that his breath ghosts over the sensitive skin of your neck.

"I'll be right back," he talks directly into your ear. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that sends a shiver down your entire body. "Don't move."

You turn to nod, but before you can even formulate a response, the crowd surges. The pressure of his hand vanishes from your lower back, leaving a cold, empty space in its wake. You watch his broad shoulders disappear into the suffocating mass of jumping, sweating bodies.

You stand on your tiptoes, trying to keep track of him, but it's useless. You let out a breath, turning back to where Robin and Vickie were just standing.

"Hey! Robin!"

A tall guy with a shaggy mop of hair suddenly materializes from the crowd, throwing a heavy, friendly arm around Robin’s shoulders, pulling her into a brief, aggressive hug. You recognize him instantly. It’s a guy from one of your seminars. He’s usually the one hauling amps and managing the mixing boards at these parties.

"I haven't seen you in forever!" He yells, grinning widely. "Hey, I heard through the grapevine that you guys are heading back to Hawkins this week. That's awesome." He pauses, taking a swig from his red cup. "Hey, do me a favor? Tell that absolute bastard Eddie to make a trip out here to the city someday, huh? Tell him we actually miss his crazy ass."

Because the music is vibrating so violently through the floorboards, you can't hear a single word of Robin’s response. Just then, two girls giggling hysterically shove past you, forcing you to step sideways and turn your back to the conversation. Slightly irritated, you adjust your jacket and turn back around.

In the five seconds you were distracted, the music guy has completely vanished into the ether.

You step closer to Robin, having to practically shout over the wailing guitar solo tearing through the speakers.

"Who is Eddie?" you ask, your curiosity genuinely piqued. You know almost all the names in their Hawkins lore, but that one is entirely new.

Robin freezes. It’s subtle, but you catch it. Her eyes widen fractionally, a flash of something unreadable — surprise? panic? grief? — flickering across her features. But almost instantly, the mask slams down. She aggressively furrows her brow, leaning in close and cupping her hand over her ear, playing the oldest trick in the book.

"WHAT?!" she screams, looking at you with exaggerated confusion.

"I SAID, WHO IS EDDIE?!" you yell louder, annoyed by her sudden theatricality.

You can literally see Robin’s mouth open. You can see her brain scrambling, trying to formulate a lie or an explanation. But before a single syllable leaves her lips, a hand reaches out from the crowd, grabbing her wrist. One of her many chaotic college friends pulls her backward, and with a helpless shrug that looks entirely too practiced, she lets herself be dragged away onto the makeshift dance floor.

You let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. You cross your arms securely over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold air drifting in from the broken windows.

You look around. The flashing lights illuminate hundreds of faces, none of them familiar. Steve is gone. Jonathan and Nancy are swallowed by the crowd. Robin has fled the scene of an uncomfortable question.

You are entirely alone in the very center of a deafening, throbbing party, armed with a brand new, glaringly obvious secret about the town you are about to visit. Another one to the list.

You look toward the dark corners of the warehouse, waiting for one of your friends to reemerge.

It’s going to be a very, very long night.

—

After half an hour of standing practically rooted to the exact same sticky spot on the floor, waiting for your friends to finally show up, you are on the verge of completely losing your mind.

They have vanished entirely into the ether of the college party, swallowed whole by the pulsating sea of bodies. With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are inching closer together. More and more people keep pouring through the front door of the warehouse, laughing loudly, spilling cheap beer, and crowding the already suffocating space.

Even though the place is massive you can’t help but calculate the structural integrity of the floorboards. How much weight can this place actually take? You look up at the ceiling, already telling that the top floor is full of people as well.

The bass from the oversized speakers vibrates up through your sneakers, rattling right into your ribcage. The thought of a crowd crush, of a sudden panic where people trample each other to reach the single visible exit, begins to spiral in your mind, painting a terrifying picture of catastrophe.

No, stop it. Enough. You mentally scold yourself, taking a sharp breath of the stifling air. Don't be ridiculous. You're just spiraling.

Desperate for a distraction and a change of scenery, you slowly begin to murmur apologies, gently but firmly pushing your way through the dense throng of sweaty college students.

You navigate the maze of dancing bodies and drunken conversations until you finally reach the drinks island, or at least, the sticky wooden surface that is currently serving as a makeshift bar. Behind it stands a guy wearing a backward baseball cap and a stained fraternity shirt, haphazardly pouring liquids into red plastic cups. College parties are always exactly like this: everyone casually adopts whatever role seems fun in the moment, only to completely shed it and become someone else by the next weekend’s blowout.

You ask him for a drink, pointing vaguely at a bottle of clear liquor. He slides a generously filled cup across the counter. Offering him an appreciative, exhausted smile, you take a long, desperate sip of the cold beverage. The liquid burns slightly on its way down your throat, but almost immediately, you can feel the warmth of the alcohol begin to spread through your tense muscles. The loud thumping of your anxious heart slows down just a fraction. You lean against the edge of the counter, closing your eyes for a brief second to just exist in the noise without letting it overwhelm you.

“Of all the places in the world, I never thought I’d find you here.”

The sudden, familiar voice cuts through the booming bass and the chaotic chatter, startling you so badly that you physically jump. You spin around so quickly that a splash of your drink sloshes over the plastic rim, landing with a wet splat on your shoes and the grimy floor.

But the spilled drink instantly vanishes from your mind. When your eyes travel upward and connect with those striking, unmistakable green eyes, you swear you can feel your soul violently detach and leave your body. Your fingers go numb. The red plastic cup almost slips entirely from your weakened grasp, plummeting to the floor and spilling the rest of its contents over there.

“D-Dylan…”

Your voice breaks. It’s barely a whisper, a fragile sound entirely swallowed by the loud music, but he reads your lips. You can't help the stutter; your brain has completely short-circuited.

He smiles. It’s that same, perfectly crafted, devastating smile that used to completely disarm you. Deep dimples form on both sides of his cheeks, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He tilts his head down slightly, and that familiar, messy lock of brown hair falls perfectly into his eyes. Just like he always used to do, he casually sweeps it back with his fingers, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“It’s like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he says, his voice a smooth, melodic hum that instantly transports you back to cramped dorm rooms and late-night acoustic guitar sessions.

Well, in a way, I have, you think to yourself, your mind racing, but you force the words down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Sorry, it’s just… I didn’t expect…” You stumble over your words, desperately trying to regain your composure. You wipe your damp palms on your jeans. “When did you get back to the city?”

You can feel the heat slowly creeping back into your cheeks, the color returning to your pale face, even though your heart is still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribcage. It’s not a panic attack anymore; it’s the sheer shock of confronting unresolved history.

He shakes his head lightly, the smile turning a bit more wistful.

“It’s just for a couple of days. My band and I are doing a mini-tour of the state.” He nods his head toward the far corner of the massive living room, right next to the makeshift stage where instruments are set up. You follow his gaze and spot several guys — his bandmates — laughing loudly, drinking, and flirting with a group of girls.

“I didn’t know you were back together with the band.” You say, genuinely surprised.

His smile widens into something incredibly proud, and his green eyes hyper-fixate on you, glowing with an eager, boyish excitement.

“We finally signed the contract.”

Your eyes widen in genuine shock. All the bitterness, all the complicated feelings temporarily take a back seat to the monumental news.

“Dylan! That’s incredible!”

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, suddenly looking a bit shy despite his rockstar aura.

“Yeah, well, it’s with a small indie label for now, but it’s exactly what we needed. It gets our foot in the door. We’re playing a couple of venue shows in different cities, and since we were passing through town anyway, I figured I’d do a favor for the guys at the university. You know how it is.”

You nod slowly, lowering your head as a wave of heavy nostalgia washes over you. Dylan and his band had always been the staple entertainment at these university parties. That was exactly how you met him. He was the charming lead singer with the raspy voice; you were the girl who spilled beer on his setlist. That was the spark that ignited the intensely complicated, emotionally draining relationship that followed — a relationship defined by incredibly high highs and agonizingly lonely lows.

Suddenly, the space between you evaporates. His hand reaches out, his warm fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a jolt through your system. His index finger lightly hooks under your chin, tilting your face up just a fraction. You feel a sudden, intense heat flush across your cheeks, and your eyes lock onto his once more.

In a fraction of a second, thousands of memories crash into you. Memories you had spent the last eight grueling months actively trying to bury, repress, and forget since the day he packed up his guitar and left town without saying goodbye. They hit you now like a train crashing everything in its path: the way he smelled like leather and cigarette smoke, the sound of his laughter against your neck, the crushing disappointment of waiting for him at dinners he never showed up to, the realization that he was always too cowardly to fully commit.

But as you stand there, physically close enough to feel his body heat, a strange revelation washes over you.

It doesn’t feel the same.

It feels intensely nostalgic, yes, but almost like watching a movie of someone else's life. It feels like an old, worn-out sweater that no longer fits. It just doesn't make sense anymore. Because while Dylan's fingers are on your skin, in the deepest, most guarded corners of your mind, another name is echoing.

Your skin silently protests, craving the heavier, more demanding touch of someone else. Your lips, pressed in a thin line, are quietly yearning for another pair of lips — a pair you know are infinitely more dangerous, and a pair you know you absolutely cannot have.

“It’s really good to see you again,” Dylan says softly, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with an unspoken question, a lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, you might still be waiting for him.

But your eyes betray him. Instead of staying focused on his perfectly green eyes, your gaze instinctively drifts away, drawn by an invisible, magnetic pull toward the front door of the building.

And there he is.

Steve.

He’s standing by the open doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, smoking. One hand is tucked deep into the pocket of his perfectly fitted denim jeans, while the other holds a cigarette with an effortless, almost arrogant professionalism.

You watch, utterly transfixed, as he takes a drag, the glowing amber tip illuminating the sharp contours of his face in the dim light. He nods at someone standing just out of your line of sight, exchanging a few brief words with a person you can't identify. He looks entirely aloof, dangerously handsome, and entirely untouchable.

“I gotta let you go, we’re up next.”

Dylan’s voice breaks your trance. He casually slips his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, forcing your attention back to him. You blink, suddenly feeling guilty for getting caught looking away.

“We’re only going to play a couple of songs tonight, so don’t miss them, okay?” Dylan adds, flashing you a hopeful, familiar wink that used to make your knees weak.

You offer him a polite, practiced nod and a smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your lips press together into a thin, tight line.

“I wouldn't miss it.”

As Dylan turns and weaves his way through the cheering crowd toward the stage, you take a deep, shaky breath. You tell yourself to stay put. You tell yourself to go to the bar, get another drink, and watch your ex-situationship perform the songs he probably wrote about you. You try to suppress the burning, clawing curiosity in your chest. You really, genuinely try.

Over the heads of the crowd, you manage to watch Dylan hop onto the stage. You see him grab the microphone stand, confidently introducing himself and the band to the roaring crowd. You hear the drummer tap the sticks — one, two, three, four — and the first familiar, melancholy chords of their opening song ring out through the massive speakers.

But before your rational mind can fully process what is happening, you are already moving. You leave the remnants of your spilled drink by the bar, and your feet begin taking autonomous, unconscious steps forward.

You are weaving through the crowd, your eyes locked on the front door, pushing past dancing couples and shouting frat boys, making a beeline for the exit.

When you finally push through the heavy wooden door, the biting chill of the night air smacks you right in the face. The sudden drop in temperature makes you curse under your breath but it doesn’t even slow you down. You wrap your bare arms around your chest, shivering violently in your thin top, and frantically scan your surroundings.

There are plenty of people out here on the massive front lawn, too. Groups are huddled around the entrance, sitting on the hoods of parked cars, smoking, chatting, and laughing loudly into the dark night.

But as your eyes dart from face to face, your stomach plummets. There is absolutely no trace of the person your eyes are so desperately searching for.

Steve is gone.

Behind you, muffled by the heavy walls of the house, the band’s song hits its first chorus. You can hear the crowd cheering, the collective joy vibrating through the air. You should be in there. You shouldn't be out here freezing, chasing a ghost of a man who barely acknowledges your existence outside of the strange, domestic moments you’ve shared in private.

But you swear you saw him turn to the right as he flicked his cigarette away.

Without giving yourself a second to think, to talk yourself out of this incredibly stupid idea, your feet start moving. You step off the entrance and begin to walk down the side of the building, your steps determined and fast.

Where are you going? your brain screams at you. What are you going to say if you find him?

You don't have an answer. You just know you need to see him.

You push past a group of guys shotgunning beers, navigating around tightly parked cars sitting on the overgrown grass. Slowly, you approach the dark corner of the massive warehouse. The front is bathed in the warm, yellow light of the streetlamps, but as you near the side alley, the light cuts off sharply, swallowed by thick, impenetrable shadows.

Your feet come to a sudden halt at the edge of the darkness.

No, you tell yourself, staring into the almost pitch-black pathway that leads behind the building. It’s way too dark down there. There’s absolutely no way he went this way. Why would he?

You try to rationalize. He probably walked back inside through the side door, and you just missed him in the chaos. Or maybe he walked down the street to his car, heading in the opposite direction, and you simply didn't notice.

Yes, that makes sense.

You should just turn around. You are entirely certain he went to the right, but you are also certain that if you had crossed paths out here, you would have seen him.

It is physically impossible to not notice Steve Harrington. His presence demands attention; it shifts the gravity in a room.

You let out a heavy, defeated sigh. You turn around, looking back toward the brightly lit front where a group of people are laughing at a joke you can't hear. You take a step back toward the light, toward safety, toward the loud, uncomplicated college party.

But there is something — a primal, inexplicable tug in your gut, an instinct you can’t quite name or understand — that screams at you to turn back around and keep walking into the dark.

From inside the house, the muffled music shifts. The tempo slows down.

Dylan had told you they were only playing a "couple" of songs, which means this melancholic ballad is probably their last one before they pack up and leave town, before you lose the chance to see him again for who knows how many more months or years.

You stand frozen in the freezing night air, listening to the muffled sound of Dylan's voice.

You realize, with a striking sense of clarity, that you genuinely don't care.

Perhaps two months ago, you would have traded your own life just for a chance to look back into those bright green eyes that used to keep you awake until 4:00 AM. You would have given anything for him to play you those songs, to whisper sweet, empty promises against your collarbone. But the harsh reality was that the bond was never official. He was always, inherently, too cowardly to call you his girlfriend. He loved the idea of you, but he loved his freedom more. You realize now that you shouldn't have spent so much of your life waiting for his leftover crumbs of affection.

Besides, it’s not his green eyes that keep you tossing and turning in your bed at night anymore. It’s not Dylan's acoustic songs that make your heart hammer against your ribs, and it’s certainly not his whispers that make the hair on your arms stand up.

It’s the dark, brooding, impossible mystery of Steve. It’s the way Steve cooks pasta for you and your friends on a Friday night. Is the way you can be around each other in complete, comfortable silence. It's the heavy, intense way Steve looks at you when he thinks you aren't paying attention.

Taking a deep, resolute breath, you turn your back to the party. Before you can fully process the danger of your own curiosity, you are turning the corner, stepping fully into the oppressive darkness of the alleyway behind the building.

And then, you stop dead in your tracks.

You brake so hard your sneakers squeak faintly against the damp concrete. You instinctively press your back flat against the cold, rough brick wall of the building, shrinking into the shadows as if your body knows, long before your brain does, that you are absolutely not supposed to be witnessing the scene unfolding in front of you.

The alley is dimly lit by a single, flickering security bulb hanging over a rusted back door.

You immediately recognize Steve. He’s standing with his back rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest, his posture radiating an intimidating, coiled tension.

Standing right beside him is a figure that makes the blood in your veins run ice-cold. Your skin instantly erupts in goosebumps. It’s him. The absolute scumbag who had aggressively stopped you and Steve on the street a few weeks ago. The guy who had harassed Steve, getting up in his face, while Steve had aggressively pushed you behind him, refusing to tell you who the guy was or what he wanted.

And standing directly across from Steve and the thug is a younger guy. You don’t recognize him at all. He doesn’t look like he belongs on campus; he looks young, terrified, wearing a cheap, oversized hoodie. He’s probably just a random kid from town who heard about the college party through friends of friends and wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

Your heart pounds furiously in your ears, making it difficult to hear over the distant thumping of the bass from the party inside. You strain your ears, holding your breath, but you can’t quite make out the exact words being exchanged. The voices are low, sharp, and aggressive.

But you don't need to hear the words to understand the severity of the situation.

You watch, eyes wide with mounting horror, as the terrified guy reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie with trembling hands. He pulls out a thick, brown paper package. He extends it toward Steve, his hands shaking so violently you can see it from where you are hiding.

Steve doesn't even uncross his arms. He merely tilts his head, and the scumbag beside him — the thug from the street— steps forward and snatches the package from the boy's hands. The guy rips the top of the paper open, pulling back the flap. Even in the dim, flickering amber light, the contents are unmistakable.

It’s a massive stack of cash.

The man who seems to be Steve’s associate, or friend, or muscle, or whoever the hell he is — you are so incredibly sick and tired of constantly guessing who the people in Steve’s life are — flips through the bills with his thumb. After a few seconds, he stops. He looks up at Steve, his face twisting into a nasty scowl, and shakes his head sharply.

Steve lets out a heavy, visible sigh. He uncrosses his arms, running a single, frustrated hand down his face, tilting his head back to look up at the starless night sky.

It’s a deeply cinematic image, one that, in a completely different context, would have probably made your heart skip a beat with pure attraction. His sharp, prominent jawline is highlighted by the flickering bulb. The dark jacket stretches tight across his shoulders and biceps as he moves. The collar of his shirt shifts, revealing the familiar, delicate smattering of moles on the side of his neck that you had caught yourself staring at over too many times to count.

But right now, standing in the cold, oppressive darkness of this isolated alleyway, surrounded by the stench of garbage and impending violence, that same image doesn't make your heart flutter. Instead, it sends a jagged shard of ice dragging slowly down your spine.

You have absolutely no idea what is happening, but every survival instinct in your body is screaming at you to run.

The low murmur of voices suddenly spikes into a loud, vicious argument. You still can't decipher the exact words — the thumping bass from the frat house and the distant roar of a passing car muffle the dialogue — but the tone is unmistakably violent.

Suddenly, Steve takes a slow, deliberate step to the side, allowing the other guy — the thug — to step directly into the younger's personal space.

The young guy immediately crumbles into a state of complete, pathetic vulnerability. He drops to his knees, raising both of his hands in a desperate gesture of begging. He’s pleading for his life. The sheer terror in the boy's posture hits you like a physical punch to the gut, tying your stomach into a nauseating knot.

Do something, Steve, you plead in your mind. Stop him. Tell him to back off.

Inside the house, Dylan’s song reaches its dramatic climax. The muffled sound of a heavy, distorted guitar chord rings out loudly through the walls.

And at that exact, horrible second, the thug pulls his arm back and unleashes a brutal, full-force punch directly into the kneeling guy’s face.

The sickening CRACK of knuckles hitting bone echoes sharply against the brick walls of the alley. The poor guy is sent sprawling backward, his head snapping to the side as he hits the dirty asphalt with a heavy thud.

You violently flinch. Both of your hands fly up to clamp over your mouth, stifling the scream that tries to rip its way out of your throat. Your eyes are wide, unblinking, brimming with shock, profound anguish, and an all-consuming, paralyzing fear. You are trembling so hard your knees threaten to buckle.

“Please! Please, man, I swear to God I’ll have the rest of the cut by next week—” the guy begs, spitting blood onto the pavement as he scrambles to push himself up on his elbows.

His desperate sentence is viciously cut short by a second, even harder kick to the ribs from the thug. The younger guy groans in agony, collapsing back onto the ground, curling into a tight fetal position.

“We already gave you an extra week, you little prick! Did you just magically forget the terms of the deal when we made it in the first place?!” The thug’s voice is a venomous snarl. He raises his heavy boot, preparing to stomp down on the boy’s head.

“Enough.”

Steve’s voice cuts through the alleyway like a blade. It isn’t a yell. It isn’t a scream. It’s a low, quiet, profoundly cold command that carries an incredible amount of authority.

The thug freezes mid-motion, his boot hovering in the air.

Steve steps forward, positioning himself directly in front of the bleeding, trembling guy. He looks down at him, his face completely devoid of any emotion. It’s an expression you have never seen on his face before, an expression you never, in your wildest dreams, believed he was capable of making. It’s absolute, chilling apathy.

“One week,” Steve says, his voice devoid of any warmth, cutting sharply through the cold air.

The thug behind him scoffs, dropping his foot and glaring at Steve with frustrated disbelief.

“Come on, Harrington! Are you kidding me? Your father is going to completely lose his mind and kill us both! You heard what he said, he said that we—”

In a flash of movement so fast it makes you blink, Steve pivots and shoves the thug squarely in the chest with one arm. The force of the push is massive, sending the guy stumbling backward until his back slams hard against a metal dumpster with a loud crash.

“Shut your damn mouth, Tommy,” Steve snarls, his voice dripping with lethal warning.

He doesn't even wait to see Tommy's reaction. He slowly turns his attention back to the younger guy, who is currently trembling violently and wiping a thick smear of dark blood from his split lip.

“Get up,” Steve commands quietly.

The boy hesitates, letting out a whimper of pain, but the sheer terror in Steve's presence forces his body to obey. Slowly, painfully, he drags himself up from the asphalt until he is standing, hunched over and favoring his ribs.

When they are standing face-to-face once again, Steve looks at him. And the look in Steve’s eyes — even from twenty feet away in the shadows — radiates a profound, terrifying darkness that is utterly impossible to hide.

“One. Week.” Steve repeats, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.

Before the guy can even nod in terrified agreement, before he can even open his mouth to gasp out a 'thank you', Steve's leg snaps out. With brutal, calculated efficiency, he delivers a devastating kick directly to the side of the boy's kneecap.

The sickening sound of the joint popping echoes off the brick walls. The boy lets out a blood-curdling shriek of pure agony, instantly collapsing back onto the pavement, clutching his ruined leg and sobbing hysterically.

This time, it is physically impossible for you to contain the reaction. A sharp, loud gasp escapes your throat, a sound of pure horror that cuts through the night air. You clamp your hands over your mouth a second too late.

Steve freezes.

Slowly, terrifyingly, he turns his head toward the entrance of the alley.

For one agonizing, suspended millisecond, his dark, dead eyes lock onto yours through the shadows.

The man staring back at you is not the Steve you know.

It’s not the sweet, goofy Steve who makes you laugh until your stomach hurts. It’s not the Steve who slow danced with you some nights ago. It’s not the Steve that stands in the kitchen and annoys you and Robin about which movie to rent next.

It’s not even the Steve you had only ever caught fleeting glimpses of in your worst, most paranoid imaginations. It’s not even the Steve that Robin had sometimes — very rarely, and always after a few too many drinks — alluded to in hushed, frightened tones when she spoke about the dark side of Hawkins.

No. Your mind races, rejecting the comparison entirely. Not even close.

This Steve is so much worse than anything Robin had ever implied. This Steve is a monster, a ruthless, violent enforcer capable of shattering a guy’s leg without batting an eye. This Steve is entirely unimaginable, even in the absolute darkest depths of your worst nightmares.

Before he can utter a single word, before the shock can fully register on his handsome, terrifying face, your survival instinct entirely overrides your paralyzed brain.

You spin on your heels, your sneakers slipping for a frantic second on the damp floor, and you launch yourself forward. You are running blindly, sprinting away from the alley, tearing back toward the noise and the lights of the party as if the devil himself is chasing you.

Your chest heaves, your lungs burning as you drag in desperate gulps of the freezing air. Behind you, over the thumping rhythm of your own panicked heartbeat, you think you hear his voice shout your name.

Or maybe it was just the wind. Maybe your terrified mind just imagined his voice calling out to you in the dark. You don't look back to find out. You don't dare. If you turn around and see him chasing you with that same dead, violent look in his eyes, you know your heart might actually stop beating.

You round the corner of the building, practically throwing yourself back into the crowded front entrance. You push violently through a group of bewildered students, ignoring their angry shouts of protest as you blindly stumble toward the street. Your vision is entirely blurred by unshed tears of sheer terror and catastrophic heartbreak.

Suddenly, your body slams hard against something solid.

You let out a cry of panic, stumbling backward. Two strong, familiar arms shoot out and wrap securely around your waist, catching you firmly before you can hit the ground.

“Woah, hey! Careful there!”

Your breath catches in your throat. You flinch aggressively, expecting the smell of his perfume, cigarette smoke, and violence. But instead, the scent of cheap cologne and old leather fills your senses.

You quickly tilt your head up, your wide, tear-filled eyes scanning the face of the person holding you. An overwhelming, pathetic wave of relief crashes over you, and it actually makes you angry to admit how glad you are to see who it is.

Dylan has his guitar case strapped to his back, looking bewildered and slightly alarmed by your erratic state.

“Take me home,” you gasp out instantly, the words tumbling from your lips in a desperate, breathless rush.

Dylan furrows his eyebrows, his hands still resting lightly on your waist. He looks down at you, clearly confused by the sheer panic radiating from your trembling body.

“What? Are you okay? What happened—”

You don't let him finish. You reach out, your cold, shaking hands desperately grabbing onto his forearm. Your grip is painfully tight, your knuckles turning white.

“Please.” Your voice breaks into a pathetic, terrified sob that you can't suppress. “Please, Dylan. Just take me home. Right now.”

Dylan’s casual, laid-back demeanor evaporates instantly. He looks at your tear-streaked face, sees the raw, unadulterated terror swimming in your eyes, and his jaw sets. He glances up, his green eyes scanning the dark perimeter of the house, looking toward the shadows you just emerged from. For a second, he looks like he wants to go investigate, to fight whatever it is that put this look on your face.

But you yank on his arm again, snapping his attention back to you. The desperation in your gaze is all the answer he needs.

“Come on. Let's go,” he says firmly.

He shifts his grip, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around yours, squeezing it tight. Without asking another question, he quickly leads you away from the house, guiding you swiftly down the street toward where his battered sedan is parked.

You don't look back. You keep your eyes fixed on the pavement, letting Dylan pull you toward safety, leaving the thumping music, the crowded party, and the terrifying, shattered reality of Steve Harrington far, far behind you in the dark.

—

The sharp, metallic slam of the car door shatters the heavy, suffocating silence of the night. It is a violent sound that echoes down the empty street, yet it barely registers over the ringing in your ears.

Silence is all that had accompanied you during the agonizingly long drive from the blinding lights of the party to the shadowed entrance of your apartment building. Not a single song on the radio. Not a single whispered word.

Dylan walks beside you, his footsteps a steady, grounded rhythm against the concrete, a stark contrast to the chaotic, erratic thumping of your own heart. You walk until you reach the main glass doors of the building, the cool glow of the streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement.

You turn around. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your own torso, hands gripping your elbows in a desperate, physical need to keep yourself from falling apart. At the very least, the tears had stopped flowing a few miles back, leaving your face tight and your eyes burning with a dry, exhausted ache.

And thank God — thank whatever merciful force exists — that Dylan hasn't asked a single question. He hasn’t pushed. He hasn’t demanded to know why you came running out of that party looking like you’d just seen a ghost.

You stand there, turned away from the glass doors, your posture screaming defense. Your arms wrap your body like a protective shield against the biting chill of the night air, and your eyes are stubbornly glued to the cracked pavement beneath your feet.

You let out a shaky breath, swallowing the lump in your throat, and finally gather the courage to look up at him.

"Thank you," your voice is barely more than a raspy whisper, fragile in the cold air. "For bringing me back, I mean."

Dylan nods slowly. His posture is relaxed but guarded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. He looks at you with a mixture of pity and lingering affection that makes your stomach twist with guilt.

"It's no problem," he says softly.

A few heavy seconds of silence stretch between you, filled only by the distant hum of city traffic. He shifts his weight, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Are you sure you're—"

"I'm fine," you cut him off quickly, the words tumbling out of your mouth before he can finish the question. You can't let him dig. If he digs, the dam will break again. "I'm fine, I swear. I'm just... I'm so tired. Midterm week completely ran me over."

You force a smile. It feels completely unnatural, a tight, plastic stretching of your lips, but you offer it up anyway, praying it’s enough of a mask to make him believe the lie.

He nods, his jaw setting. He’s clearly not convinced. His eyes search yours, looking for the cracks in your facade, but he is kind enough — or perhaps just tired enough — not to press the issue.

"Right," he murmurs, clearing his throat. The awkwardness hangs in the space between you, thick and palpable. "Do you think I could..." He gestures toward the brightly lit lobby of your building with his chin, a silent request to come up. To come in.

You instantly understand what he is asking. And for a fleeting, desperate second, a loud, rational voice in your head screams at you to say yes. Let him in, it whispers. Have a quiet, normal night with him, just like you used to. Let him hold you. Let him erase the nightmare you witnessed in that alleyway barely an hour ago.

It would be so easy to fall back into the comfort of Dylan. It would be safe.

But as you look at his hopeful face, something visceral and absolute stops you. It feels wrong. The very idea of pretending everything is okay, of letting him touch you when your skin still feels branded by the ghost of someone else, makes you feel physically ill.

You shake your head slowly, keeping your focus locked on his eyes, offering him the most genuine apology you can muster without words.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Dylan."

He nods, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as he presses his lips together in a tight, disappointed line.

"Right..." he sighs, looking down at his boots before meeting your gaze again. "Listen, the band is coming back to town to wrap up the tour here. I'd really like to see you, yeah? Maybe we could actually talk? Even just for a coffee?"

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, the sharp sting grounding you in the present moment. You nod your head, a jerky, automatic motion, not even truly processing the implications of agreeing to see him. You just want to be alone. You just want to escape.

A soft, relieved smile touches his lips. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, and slowly leans in.

You freeze as his face nears yours, his lips brushing softly against your cheek. Your stomach does a sudden, violent flip, but it isn't butterflies. It's a harsh, immediate rejection from your own body, because the lips pressing against your skin don't feel right. They aren't the ones you actually, desperately want kissing you.

"Dream of me, yeah?" he murmurs, pulling away and taking a step backward into the shadows of the street.

You can't even manage to fake another smile. You simply turn on your heel, pushing through the heavy doors and rushing into the empty, fluorescent-lit lobby.

Your feet hit the stairs with frantic urgency, taking them two at a time. You don't wait for the elevator; you need the physical exertion, you need to burn the adrenaline that is suddenly spiking through your veins.

You reach your floor breathless, your hands trembling violently as you fumble with your keys. You jam the metal into the lock, twist, and shove the door open, slipping inside and slamming it shut behind you with a deafening bang.

You lean your back against the solid wood of the door, chest heaving, gasping for air as if you’ve been drowning. You don't give yourself a second to think. You can't think. If you stop moving, the images will catch up to you.

You violently shrug off your jacket, tossing it onto the floor. You march straight into the kitchen, the hardwood cold through your feet. Your arms reach up, blindly yanking open the cabinet above the fridge — the designated spot for the liquor you and Robin save for house parties, or for those rare, quiet nights when you just want to sit on the counter and talk about life until the sun comes up.

You aren't even fully conscious of your own movements. Your hands grab the first bottle they find. You don't bother with a glass. You uncap it and bring it directly to your lips, tipping your head back and swallowing the burning liquid in large, desperate gulps. You drink as if the alcohol possesses some magical, corrosive property that can burn away your memories.

You want to erase the desperate, visceral need you have for Steve. You want to scrub away the phantom sensation of his large, calloused hands on your body. You want to obliterate the memory of his crooked, intoxicating smile that has somehow embedded itself permanently in your mind.

But no matter how much it burns going down, it isn't working. The scent of him seems to cling to the very air of your apartment, wrapping around you even when he is miles away.

You slam the bottle down onto the granite counter, the loud clink echoing in the empty kitchen. You brace your forearms on the edge of the counter and drop your head down, burying your face in your arms. You close your eyes, desperately trying to stabilize your ragged breathing and force your racing heart to slow its frantic, terrified rhythm.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself. He's not here. You're safe. It's over.

Suddenly, three sharp, authoritative knocks rap against your front door.

You physically jump, a startled gasp escaping your lips. You spin around, your eyes locking onto the door.

You let out a frustrated, angry sigh. A sudden, hot flare of irritation ignites in your chest. You are instantly annoyed that Dylan, even after you explicitly told him no, has the nerve to come upstairs and insist. Who does he think he is?

He was the one who left the city first, wasn't he? He packed up and went away without even giving you a proper chance to say goodbye. He left you stranded, standing in the emotional wreckage of your “relationship”, holding all your stupid, unrequited feelings in the palms of your hands. Why the hell does he think he can just waltz back into your life tonight and demand your time?

These angry, bitter thoughts swarm in your head like angry hornets as you stomp down the short hallway. You reach the door and rip it wide open, a rejection already locked and loaded on your tongue.

"Dylan, I said—"

The words die instantly in your throat. You freeze, every muscle in your body locking up as your eyes meet a pair of deep, frantic brown ones.

It isn't Dylan.

Without a single second of conscious thought, survival instinct takes over. Your hand grips the edge of the door, and you violently shove it forward to slam it in his face.

But Steve is faster.

His large hand shoots out, his forearm hitting the wood with a heavy thud, effortlessly stopping the door's momentum.

"Steve, leave." Your voice is trembling, betraying the sheer panic bubbling up inside you.

"Please..." he breathes out.

He says your name so softly, with such raw, unadulterated desperation, that it makes your chest ache. You look at his face. His hair is a wild, disheveled mess. His lips are bleeding a little bit but you're sure it is because he has been nervously biting it for the past hour.

But his expression... his expression is completely shattered. It looks absolutely nothing like the cold, terrifyingly violent mask you saw him wearing in that dark alleyway just an hour ago.

"Steve..." your voice cracks, the tough exterior crumbling instantly. Tears immediately well up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. "Steve, leave. Please, just go."

"Please," he whispers again, his voice breaking.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowers his arm from the door. But instead of backing away, he steps over the threshold. He takes one slow, deliberate step into your apartment, the sheer presence of him forcing you to stumble backward in retreat.

You can feel a massive, suffocating knot forming in your throat. It’s a sickening mixture of profound heartbreak, sheer terror, and the harsh burn of the alcohol threatening to come back up.

He takes another step, crossing fully into the entryway, and uses his free hand to gently push the door shut behind him. The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room. He looks at you, his eyes silently pleading, and slowly shakes his head.

"Don't be afraid of me," he begs, his voice cracking. "Please. Not you."

A sound rips its way out of your throat. You couldn't describe it if you tried — it is a horrific, broken noise, somewhere between a bitter laugh and a strangled sob.

You shake your head wildly, backing up until you are standing dead in the center of your living room, putting as much distance between you as the space allows.

"I can explain—" he starts, taking a half-step toward you, his hands raised in surrender.

"No!" You shake your head violently, throwing your hands up to stop him. "I don't want to hear it, Steve! I don't want to listen to you!"

Steve stops. He looks up at the ceiling, jaw clenching tight as he rests his hands on his hips, letting out a long, ragged sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.

The sensations invading your body are entirely contradictory, and it terrifies you. You should be afraid. You just saw him beat a guy as if it was usual business. You should be running for the fire escape. You should be locking yourself in your bedroom and dialing the police. You should be screaming for help until your lungs give out.

And yet... the sight of him, standing and broken in the middle of your living room, brings an inexplicable wave of calm over you. His presence floods your system with a bizarre, twisted sense of safety that is completely devoid of logic and entirely removed from fear.

You hate yourself for it.

He drops his head, dragging a heavy, shaking hand down his face.

"You shouldn't have seen that," he mutters, his voice thick with shame.

You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. The sound is sharp and biting.

"Oh, really?" you snap, the anger finally overriding the shock. "Yeah. Sure. I shouldn't have seen that. Just like I shouldn't have seen anything else, right? Just like I shouldn't have seen you completely battered and bleeding out on my doorstep that night two months ago! Just like I shouldn't have ever met that other guy — what's his name? Oh, right, Tommy! The one who looked at me like I was a whore! Just like I shouldn't have heard every single person in my life whispering behind my back that I shouldn't get close to you!"

You step forward, closing the distance you just created, driven by a furious, blinding need for answers. You can feel the heat flushing your cheeks, your blood boiling beneath your skin.

All the agonizing questions, all the crippling insecurities, all the silent doubts you have swallowed down and choked on for months are suddenly erupting from your throat like a volcanic release. You couldn't stop the words now even if you tried.

"Tell me, Steve! What are you?" you scream, your voice bouncing off the walls. "Are you a thug? Is that what you are? A grown man who spends his time harassing college kids? Bullying people for money in dark alleys? Extorting people? Is that it?!"

Steve’s jaw ticks. The muscles in his neck jump as he grits his teeth, his eyes darting away from yours, unable to hold your furious gaze. He stares at the wall, his chest heaving.

"I can't... I can't tell you everything—"

"Then get out!" you shriek, launching yourself at him. You cross the room in two strides, closing the gap completely. "Get out! Leave me alone!"

You raise your hands and shove him hard against his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall; he barely stumbles back an inch, but you keep going, fueled by pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

"Stop pulling me toward you!" you cry out, hitting his chest again. "Stop confusing me! Stop saying all the beautiful, perfect things you say to me! Stop looking at me like I'm the only thing that matters, stop touching me the way you touch me, just to violently push me away and shut me out the next second!"

You grab handfuls of his shirt, shaking him, demanding he look at you.

"Stop ruining my life without even letting me see half of the person you truly are!"

You let go of him, taking a step back and raking your trembling hands through your hair, pulling at the roots in absolute desperation. You are hyperventilating, the tears finally spilling over your lashes and streaming hot and fast down your cheeks.

"You know what you are?" you spit, stepping forward to push him again. "You're a coward."

You shove him harder this time, putting your entire body weight into it.

"You are a fucking coward, Harrington!"

The words tear out of your mouth without a filter, meant to wound, meant to make him feel a fraction of the agony tearing you apart inside.

You raise your hands to shove him a third time, but as your palms hit his chest, his hands shoot up. His large, warm fingers wrap securely around your wrists, stopping your momentum instantly. His grip is firm, inescapable, but surprisingly gentle.

"Stop," he pleads, his voice low and urgent. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself."

"I don't care!" You thrash against his hold, trying desperately to yank your wrists free. "Why would I care, Steve?! Nothing I do to myself will ever hurt me more than you do! My God, I've only known you for a few months, and I already feel like you have completely and utterly ruined my life! Don't you understand that?!"

A violent sob rips through your chest, breaking your voice into a pathetic whimper. You stop fighting him, your body suddenly going entirely limp as the fight drains out of you. He doesn't let go of your wrists; instead, he pulls you a fraction of an inch closer, supporting your weight as your knees threaten to buckle.

"I have never felt like this with anyone," you sob, looking up into his tortured eyes, letting all your vulnerability bleed out onto the floor between you. "I have never yearned so deeply just to know a person. It's making me crazy! There are days when you won't even look in my direction, when you walk right past me like I'm a stranger, and then... then there are moments where you look at me like you would give me the entire world."

"I would give you the world."

His voice is sudden. It isn’t a whisper; it is a firm, heavy, absolute declaration that rings through the quiet apartment like a vow.

The absolute certainty in his tone makes you freeze. You stop crying. You stop breathing. Your eyes snap up to his, wide and searching, desperately trying to comprehend the magnitude of his words.

"What—"

Before you can formulate a sentence, he moves. He lets go of your left wrist. His hand slides up your arm, over your shoulder, and his long fingers tangle deep into the hair at the nape of your neck. He grips you firmly, holding you in place, making it impossible for you to look away from him.

"Whatever you saw in that alley tonight," he speaks in a low, vibrating whisper, stepping so close that his chest brushes against yours. "Whatever you heard people saying about me. Whatever you saw that night I showed up bleeding..."

He ducks his head, closing the final inch of space between you, and rests his forehead heavily against yours.

The contact is electric. It sends a blinding shockwave through your entire nervous system. The warmth of his skin, the frantic, jagged rhythm of his breathing mingling with yours, the heavy, intoxicating scent of him — it entirely short-circuits your brain.

For a terrifying, beautiful second, you completely forget everything. You forget the violence. You forget the secrets. You forget the rumors, your fears, and your crushing anxiety. You forget that the foundation of whatever this is between you is built entirely on secrets rather than answers. All that exists is the pressure of his forehead against yours, and the thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"None of it changes anything," he whispers, his breath hot against your lips. "I would give my life for you."

You let out a broken gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head, rubbing your forehead against his as you make a monumental, agonizing effort to stop the fresh wave of tears from falling.

"Don't say that," you whisper back, your voice cracking with heartbreak. "Don't say that to me when you can't even tell me half of the things that have happened in your life. Don't say you'd die for me when every single day you become more of a complete stranger to me."

Slowly, tenderly, he turns his head. The tip of his nose brushes softly along the curve of your cheek, a ghost of a touch that makes your breath hitch in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, digging your nails into your own palms, desperately trying to maintain whatever tiny shred of willpower remains inside you.

"That guy... out there," he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "That's not me."

"It clearly was," you whisper back, a tear escaping and tracking a hot path down your face. "The man I saw standing there, watching someone get beaten into the pavement... that was you, Steve."

He shakes his head against your cheek. His hand tightens slightly in your hair, holding you closer, like he is terrified you will evaporate into thin air if he lets go.

"You don't understand."

You shake your head, stepping back just an inch, breaking the contact of your heads so you can look at him. Your chest heaves. Another tear falls, then another, a silent cascade of absolute defeat.

"No," you say, your voice hollow and completely devoid of hope. "Sadly, I don't understand at all."

He stares down at you, his eyes scanning every inch of your tear-stained face. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at the jagged rocks below, knowing he has to jump.

Slowly, he leans in again. This time, his lips don't brush your ear. They graze lightly, agonizingly slowly, across the tear-streaked skin of your cheek. He kisses the salt away, a gesture so impossibly tender it makes your knees weak.

You let out a long, trembling sigh, your hands coming up instinctively to rest flat against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that matches your own.

"Please..." he breathes against the corner of your mouth.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You don’t need to ask what he wants, or what he’s begging for. You understand it with perfect, terrifying clarity, because the ache in your own chest is identical to the one in his. You need exactly the same thing. You need to bridge the gap. You need to feel him, to know that beneath the secrets and the violence, the guy who looks at you like you hung the moon is still there.

Slowly, you tilt your head up. You open your eyes, and his are already waiting. You lock gazes, the remaining inches between your faces charged with a static electricity that makes the air crackle.

It’s a silent, profound surrender. In that single, drawn-out look, souls connect, communicating a desperate, undeniable truth that words could never capture.

You don't know if it is the alcohol buzzing warmly in your veins, the sheer adrenaline crash of the night, or the overwhelming, suffocating tension that has been building between the two of you for months. But suddenly, your mind goes completely, blessedly blank.

The world drops away.

The next conscious sensation you register is the impossibly soft, warm press of his lips against yours.

The kiss starts slow. It’s tentative, a fragile, trembling question. He presses his lips to yours with a reverence that breaks your heart all over again, testing the waters, deciphering just how much you want this. His free hand drops down, coming to rest with warm, solid possession flush against the curve of your waist. His other hand remains buried in the hair at the nape of your neck, his fingers tightening slightly, tilting your head to the perfect, agonizing angle to deepen the connection.

You let out a soft, involuntary whimper against his mouth.

That tiny sound is the spark that ignites the powder keg.

When he realizes you aren't pulling away — when he feels your hands slide up from his chest to wrap tightly around his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt to pull him flush against you — the hesitation shatters.

The kiss explodes.

It surges from a tender question into a desperate, hungry demand. Steve groans, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and his mouth opens over yours, urgent and commanding. You gasp, welcoming the slide of his tongue, meeting his fierce passion with a desperate hunger of your own. The taste of him is intoxicating. It acts like a drug, instantly addicting, making you crave more, making you pull him closer until there isn't a millimeter of space left between your bodies.

His arm tightens like a vice around your waist, lifting you slightly onto your toes, completely enveloping you in his warmth. His mouth is everywhere, devouring yours, angling his head to deepen the kiss until you are entirely breathless. It’s no longer just a kiss; it is a battle for dominance, a physical manifestation of all the unsaid words, the anger, the longing, and the profound, terrifying yearning that has been festering in the dark.

Your hands move frantically, sliding up into his messy hair, gripping the thick strands tightly to anchor yourself in the storm. You kiss him back with a ferocity that matches his own, pouring every ounce of your frustration and desire into the collision of your mouths.

He takes a sudden, staggering step forward, forcing you to step backward to keep your balance. The momentum is unstoppable. He walks you backward through the living room, neither of you breaking the kiss for even a fraction of a second. You stumble together, a tangle of limbs and desperate, gasping breaths.

Your leg violently clips the edge of the wooden coffee table. You don't even feel the bruise blooming; you don't care. Steve's hand immediately drops from your waist, his arm wrapping around your lower back to catch you, his grip bruising and possessive as he hoists you up, preventing you from falling.

He spins you, the world blurring in a chaotic swirl of colors, and the backs of your knees hit the edge of the couch.

With a breathless, ragged gasp, you tumble backward onto the soft cushions, pulling him down with you. He follows you instantly, seamlessly, his heavy body caging you in, pressing you deep into it. He catches his weight on his forearms, hovering just inches above you, his chest heaving against yours.

He breaks the kiss, but only to drag his mouth roughly down your jawline, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his lips press open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive column of your neck. You let out a breathless, shattered sigh, your head falling back against the armrest, arching into his touch.

"Steve..." you pant, your hands sliding down his back, feeling the hard shift of his muscles beneath his jacket.

"Tell me to stop," he mutters fiercely against your skin, his teeth lightly grazing your collarbone, sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. "Tell me to get out. Tell me to leave right now, and I will."

His voice is entirely devoid of its usual arrogant confidence. It’s raw, shaking with a violent restraint. He lifts his head, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his dark eyes blazing with an unholy mixture of lust and desperate adoration as he stares down at you, waiting for your verdict.

You look up at him. You see the guy who hides in the shadows, the guy who is terrified of his own darkness, the guy who just confessed he would die for you.

You reach up, cupping his jaw, your thumb gently brushing over his cheekbone.

"Don't you dare stop," you whisper.

A ragged breath tears from his lungs. The last thread of his control snaps completely. He crushes his mouth to yours again, hotter, harder, and infinitely more passionate than before, consuming you entirely as the rest of the world fades into absolute nothingness.

In this exact moment, you can’t think of a single rational thing. You don’t even have a fraction of a second to catch your breath, let alone process the sheer magnitude of what is happening.

The realization of just how agonizingly long you have been waiting for this exact moment — months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between you — is entirely lost in the haze of the present.

It’s finally happening.

After all the near-misses and all the quiet moments where you both pretended not to stare at each other, it is happening right here, right now, in the dimly lit living room of your apartment.

Your hands, moving entirely on their own volition, slide frantically beneath the heavy fabric of his jacket. Your fingers grip the material, desperate to pull it off, to eliminate any barrier between the two of you.

Steve senses your urgency. He breaks the kiss for just a few agonizing seconds — seconds that leave your lips feeling cold and needy — just long enough to shrug the jacket off his shoulders. He tosses it blindly, not caring where it lands, the fabric hitting some unseen piece of furniture in the shadows of the living room. Before you can even open your eyes, his hands are framing your face again, pulling you back in, and his lips crash against yours with a renewed, desperate hunger.

Your fingers find their way into his hair. You tangle them in the thick strand, messing it even more. You tug at the roots, a little harder than you intended, pulling his head closer to yours. The sudden friction draws a low, rough sound of deep satisfaction from the back of his throat. The vibration of that groan travels directly from his chest into yours, sending a wild, electric thrill straight down your spine.

Suddenly, as if communicating through some silent, primal frequency, you both pull apart just enough to kick off your shoes. They hit the hardwood floor with heavy thuds that echo briefly in the quiet apartment. Steve’s hands move to the waistband of your jeans, gripping the denim tightly. With a firm, decisive pull, he drives you backward until your shoulders hit the back of the sofa again with a soft, muffled thud. He follows you down instantly, slotting himself firmly between your thighs, pinning you in place with a weight that feels both grounding and intoxicating.

His hands, large and gentle, slip beneath the hem of your shirt. His palms are warm, rough with calluses, yet as they slide upward over your ribs, they leave a trailing path of undeniable goosebumps in their wake. Your breath hitches, the sensation so sharp it borders on painful.

His lips abandon your mouth, tracing a hot, wet path along the edge of your jawline before diving into the crook of your neck. If your mind wasn’t so entirely clouded by the intoxicating scent of him you might have the presence of mind to warn him. You might playfully tell him to be careful, to watch out for leaving marks that you’ll inevitably have to hide tomorrow. But you can’t think. You really, truly cannot form a coherent thought.

It’s utterly impossible for either of you to ignore the fundamental, magnetic need to press your bodies together, seeking friction even through the thick layers of your clothes.

Steve shifts his weight, his hands gripping your waist to tilt your hips upward, aligning yours perfectly with his. When he presses down, a sound escapes your mouth — a soft, breathy whine that instantly makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You want to swallow it back, but you can’t stop it. The sound only seems to encourage him, his breath ghosting hot against your collarbone as his grip on your hips tightens and he grinds down again.

Seeking out that same skin-on-skin contact, your hands begin to blindly map his chest through his shirt. You grab the hem of it, intending to pull it up and off, to finally feel the bare heat of him against you.

But instantly, the atmosphere shifts.

Steve’s hands shoot down, his reflexes terrifyingly fast, and his fingers wrap around your wrists like iron bands. He stops you dead in your tracks.

The abrupt halt sends a jolt of confusion through you. He pulls back slightly, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy and falling over his forehead. He looks down at you, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The dim light from the streetlamp outside casts long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the sudden, intense vulnerability swimming in his dark brown eyes.

You look up at him, the fog of desire clearing just enough for understanding to dawn.

You know exactly why he stopped you.

You understand that he doesn’t want you to see his torso. He doesn’t want you to see the scars. It doesn’t matter that he’s already shown them to you once before. In this context, in the intimacy of a dimly lit room where the air is thick with desire, exposing them makes him feel bare. It makes him feel entirely vulnerable, and he has spent the last years building walls so high and so thick that vulnerability terrifies him more than anything could.

And looking at the hesitation in his eyes, a sudden, intrusive thought pierces your mind. You can’t help but wonder if the other girls have seen them. The other girls in Hawkins. The girls he has been with briefly in the city as he tries to run away from his past. Gabriela.

There’s a selfish, possessive part of you that desperately hopes they haven't. A part of you that prays he kept the lights off, that he kept his shirt on, that he never let them see the true, broken extent of what he has survived. You want to be the only one who gets to see all of him.

But there is another, much larger part of you — the part that feels for him entirely — that absolutely breaks at the thought of Steve walking through the world feeling so incredibly exposed and ashamed. It shatters your heart to think of him feeling like he can’t trust anyone enough to just be himself, to show the roadmap of his survival etched into his skin. To show the scars on his body, and by extension, the deep, jagged scars on his soul.

The silence between you stretches, heavy and thick with unspoken fears. He’s waiting for you to pull away. He’s waiting for you to decide if it’s too much work, too much baggage.

"Steve..." you whisper into the quiet space between you.

"I…" he mutters, his voice thick, his gaze dropping.

"Look at me," you say gently, refusing to let him hide. When he finally drags his eyes back to yours, you hold his gaze steadily. "Please..." you whisper softly.

Slowly, deliberately, you test his grip. Your hands turn slightly within his grasp, and your fingertips brush against the skin of his forearms.

Steve lets out a long, shaky sigh. It sounds like a physical surrender. The iron grip on your wrists loosens, his fingers uncurling, letting you go.

Your hands immediately resume their upward journey. You slide your palms under the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up slowly. As your hands travel upward, your fingertips brush over the raised, uneven textures of his skin. You feel the jagged lines into his sides, the marks, every scar tells a story of him bleeding God-knows-why.

But while your hands read the braille of his past, your eyes never leave his face. You stay completely locked onto his deep brown eyes, watching the emotions flicker across them: fear, anticipation, and an overwhelming, desperate relief.

You push the shirt all the way up to his chest. Steve swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His jaw clenches so tightly you can see a muscle feathering beneath his skin.

Then, with a sudden, fluid movement that speaks of a sudden burst of courage, he grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks it over his head, tossing it aside to join his jacket on the floor.

He sits back on his heels, entirely exposed to you.

Finally, you allow your eyes to drop down to his torso. It doesn’t matter that you have seen it before. The sight of it still makes your chest ache with a profound, twisting tenderness. Your heart physically squeezes at the sight of every silver line of scar tissue, some old and faded, others still terrifyingly pink and recent.

He looks like a battlefield.

He looks like a boy who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and taken the hits so no one else had to.

You raise your hand, intending to press your palm flat against the center of his chest, right over his racing heart, to ground him. But before you can make contact, his hand shoots out again. This time, however, he doesn't push you away. He catches your wrists gently, his large hands encompassing your delicate bones.

You look up at him, questioning.

Without ever breaking eye contact, Steve brings your wrists to his mouth. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your left wrist, right over your pulse point. Then your right. He maps his way up your forearms, his lips soft and warm, leaving a trail of reverent kisses along your skin. He moves closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, his breath mingling with yours once again.

For a split second, you see his lips part. You see a terrifying sincerity in his eyes, and you think he’s going to say it. You think he is going to say something profound, something that will shatter the fragile glass house you’ve both been living in, maybe even a confession.

But just as quickly as the moment arrives, you see him swallow the words down. He stops himself, the walls coming back up just a fraction of an inch.

Instead, he leans his forehead against yours.

"Can I...?" he whispers against your lips, his voice barely a breath. As he asks, his hands drop from your wrists and catch the bottom edge of your t-shirt, giving it a gentle, questioning tug. He’s asking for permission. He’s giving you the choice to stop, to keep your own armor on.

You nod, not trusting your voice. You begin to sit up, lifting your back off the cushions to give him more room to maneuver the shirt over your head.

But suddenly, something shifts inside you. A sudden, inexplicable surge of confidence — a fierce, burning need to take back control, to show him that he isn’t the only one who wants this with an overwhelming desperation — possesses your body.

Instead of just sitting up, you push your hands firmly against his shoulders. You use his surprise to shift your weight, sliding forward until you are straddling his lap entirely. You drop your knees onto the sofa cushions on either side of his hips, towering over him slightly.

Steve lets out a sharp intake of breath, clearly startled by the sudden change in dynamics. But the surprise quickly melts into a dark, heated gaze of approval. He accepts the new position instantly. His large hands immediately drop from the hem of your shirt down to your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. He grips you firmly, pulling you downward, pressing you flush against him so that your bodies meet again in that exquisite, maddening friction.

You bite your lower lip hard. Usually, when you do it around him, it’s a nervous habit — a telltale sign that he has flustered you. But this time, it’s purely instinctual. You bite down to keep from crying out because you honestly have no idea how to react to the sheer sensory overload of straddling him, of feeling the hard planes of his body beneath yours.

Determined, your hands find the hem of your own shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you pull it up and over your head, tossing it over your shoulder.

The cool air of the apartment hits your bare skin. Your shirt had been so tight, almost like a second skin, that you had made the bold decision not to wear a bra to the party tonight, knowing the underwire would just dig into you uncomfortably all evening. When you had looked in the mirror hours ago, you wondered if it was a terrible idea. But right now, seeing the way Steve is looking at you? It might have been the best idea you’ve ever had.

For Steve, it is unequivocally the best idea in the history of the world. He stops breathing. His hands freeze on your hips. His brown eyes go impossibly wide, filled with a mixture of absolute awe and raw, unfiltered hunger. His gaze drops, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your chest, and slowly, deliberately tracking back up to your flushed face. He looks at you as if you are something divine, something he has no right to touch but can’t possibly stay away from.

"Christ," he breathes out, his voice hoarse, sounding like he’s in physical pain. "You can't be... you can't be this fucking beautiful. It's not fair."

Your cheeks instantly flood with heat. You blush a deep, dark red — a reaction that is completely, annoyingly inevitable whenever Steve Harrington looks at you like that, let alone when he speaks to you with such profound, undisguised adoration.

Before you can formulate a response, Steve drops his head back against the backrest of the couch. One of his hands leaves your hip, traveling up your back to tangle deeply into the hair at the nape of your neck. With a gentle but unyielding pressure, he pulls your face down to his.

The kiss is different this time. It’s no longer just frantic; it’s deep, consuming, and territorial. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside.

Unconsciously, your hips lift just a fraction of an inch, seeking relief from the building tension.

Steve groans into your mouth. His free hand immediately snaps back to your hip, his fingers digging into your skin as he forces you back down, flush against him.

"Keep going, please..." he whispers frantically against your lips between open-mouthed kisses. "Don't stop."

This time, the sensation of his hard bulge pressing against the seam of his jeans is much more prominent beneath you. Driven by your own escalating need, you begin to move your hips, grinding down against him in a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. It’s a delicious, mind-melting friction, but with every passing second, the barrier of your denim jeans turns the pleasure into a torturous ache.

Steve lets out a ragged, stuttering breath.

"God, I need you so much," he gasps, breaking the kiss to look up at you. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so much there is barely any brown left. He looks at you with absolute, puppy-dog desperation.

He leans forward. His lips pressing wet kisses over your left chest, while his thumb softly brushes over your right nipple. You can’t stop the moan that leaves your mouth.

But suddenly, loud noise from the hallway outside your apartment door cuts through the heavy air like a knife.

You jump violently, a squeak of absolute panic escaping your throat. It’s as if your soul has instantly slammed back into your body. The haze of lust vanishes in a heartbeat. You scramble backward, instantly crossing your arms over your bare chest to cover yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"Oh my God," you gasp, staring wide-eyed at the apartment door. "Robin is—"

Steve is faster. He doesn’t even flinch at the noise. He reaches up, his large hand gently but firmly gripping your jaw, forcing you to look away from the door and back down at him.

"Hey," he says, his voice remarkably steady, though his chest is still heaving. "Hey, relax. Look at me."

You blink down at him, still vibrating with adrenaline.

"Robin is not out there," he assures you, a small, amused glint returning to his eyes. "She told me she was crashing at Vickie's tonight. It's just a neighbor."

You let out a massive, shaky sigh of relief, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder. Your arms, however, remain crossed tightly over your chest, a sudden wave of self-consciousness washing over you now that the immediate spell has been broken.

"Are you sure?" you mumble into his skin.

Steve bites his lower lip, trying to suppress a smile, though you can see the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

"I'm sure," he says softly.

He uncrosses your arms gently, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. Then, his arms wrap entirely around your waist. With a sudden shift and a display of strength that seems to require zero effort on his part, he stands up from the couch, lifting you entirely off it.

You let out a loud noise of surprise, your legs instinctively flying up and wrapping tightly around his waist to keep from falling. Your hands fly to his shoulders, gripping his bare skin tightly.

"Steve!" you yelp, your heart skipping a beat.

"What?" he chuckles, his voice rumbling against your cheek. He adjusts his grip, holding your thighs securely as he walks effortlessly down the short hallway toward your bedroom. "I figure you'll be a little more relaxed in a room with a door we can lock, right?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He kicks your bedroom door open with his foot and, once you are both inside, kicks it shut behind him. The sound of the latch clicking into place feels incredibly definitive.

Instead of just dropping you onto the mattress, he walks right up to the edge of the bed and lets himself fall forward, taking you down with him. You bounce against the mattress, a gasp escaping you. Steve hovers over you, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you, slotting his legs perfectly between yours once again.

He wastes no time. He leans down, reconnecting his lips with yours, swallowing your laughter. The kiss is slower this time, sweeter, lacking the frantic panic from the living room but replacing it with a deep, simmering intent.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy. His hands move to the button of your jeans. He pops it open with practiced ease, slowly pulling down the zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and begins to pull them down your hips.

There is something utterly indescribable in his gaze. It’s intense, focused, and completely reverent. Usually, being looked at like this would make you want to crawl out of your own skin with discomfort. You've never liked being perceived so intensely. But with Steve, nothing about this makes you feel uncomfortable. It’s strange, the absolute safety you feel under his heavy, heated stare.

As he pulls your pants completely off, discarding them onto the floor beside the bed, he doesn't immediately move back up to your lips. Instead, he ducks his head down. He begins to leave a slow, agonizingly soft trail of kisses starting from your knee, moving up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, stopping just agonizingly short of the edge of your underwear.

Your breath stutters violently in your chest. Your hands grip the bedsheets on either side of your body, your knuckles turning white. You look down at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your entire body trembling with anticipation.

Before he can make his next move, before his lips can go any deeper, reality crashes over you again. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his messy hair, and gently but firmly pull his head up.

"Wait..." you pant, your voice breathless.

He stops immediately, looking up at you with slightly glassy eyes.

"What is it? Are you okay?"

"I..." you swallow hard, a flush creeping up your neck. "I don't have any condoms."

Steve freezes for a singular, terrifying second. Then, slowly, a devastatingly arrogant, deeply amused smile spreads across his handsome face. He shifts his weight, reaching down into the pocket of his jeans for a moment before bringing his hand back up, holding a small, square, metallic blue packet between his index and middle finger.

He holds it up like a trophy.

The realization hits you like a physical weight in your stomach. Your eyebrows knit together, a sudden flare of indignation cutting through the haze of lust.

"Do you always carry a condom with you?" you ask, your tone a mixture of disbelief and irritation.

His smile only widens.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to.”

There’s something about his words that, although playful, unsettles you for a second, and there’s a voice in the back of your head suddenly telling you how wrong it is to be doing this with him after what you saw tonight.

But you roll your eyes shoving the feeling away, so hard they almost hurt.

"You are absolutely impossible, Harrington."

Steve lets out a soft, breathy laugh. His head is still positioned low, and the puff of air from him hits your underwear directly. The hot breath sends an involuntary shudder wracking violently through your entire frame.

Before he can take advantage of your distraction and lean down to replace that breath with his lips, you grab his chin firmly. You pull him up, dragging his body back up the mattress until he is face-to-face with you again. The sudden spike of irritation has vanished, replaced entirely by the all-consuming, desperate need to simply have him. You cannot wait another second. You need him.

He reads the urgency in your eyes instantly. The playful arrogance drops from his face, replaced by a dark, serious hunger. He moves with startling speed, pulling down his jeans and boxers at the same time and kicking them away, not giving your brain a single second to catch up or overthink the reality of what is about to happen.

The sight of his prominent length twitching against the air of the room sends a shiver through your entire body. But when he tears open the small packet, you instinctively turn your head away, staring at the ceiling. A sudden wave of intense shyness washes over you, making you feel as though you are intruding on something incredibly private, something you shouldn't be watching.

Then, you feel his hands. They wrap around your waist, large and warm, pulling you physically closer to him on the center of the mattress. His thumbs press into your skin, a silent demand for your attention. He makes you look at him again.

Steve moves over you, a shadow blocking out the dim bedroom light. He lowers himself, his lips returning to your skin. He leaves soft, open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, lingering over your ribs, trailing up between your breasts, tracing the line of your collarbone, and finally pressing a tender kiss against the pulse beating frantically in your neck.

He moves up, his face hovering right above yours. His lips are swollen and red from kissing you, slightly parted as he breathes heavily into your mouth. His brow is slightly furrowed with concentration and restraint, and a thick lock of brown hair has fallen across his forehead, clinging to a sheen of sweat.

He looks into your eyes, searching them deeply.

His hand wraps around himself, brushing the head of his throbbing cock against your folds, testing the waters. He bites his lips noticing how ready your body is for him.

"Tell me if this is okay, alright?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "Tell me to stop if you need me to."

You nod frantically. You bite your bottom lip, your hands reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. You are anxious, yes, but you are absolutely desperate to feel him, to finally cross this line that has been drawn in the sand between you for months.

Steve lifts his hand. His thumb gently brushes over your lower lip, coaxing it out from between your teeth. He leans down, connecting his lips with yours in a deep, slow kiss.

And then, before you can even brace yourself, before your mind can catch up with the physical reality, he’s pressing forward, sliding inside of you.

It’s impossible to hold back the sound that tears from your throat. A loud, shocked gasp that quickly turns into a deep, sustained moan. The sensation is entirely overwhelming — a feeling of being stretched and filled completely. You have to break the kiss, turning your head sharply to the side to bury your face in his shoulder, biting down on his skin to muffle the groan vibrating through your chest.

Steve freezes instantly. His muscles lock up, his arms trembling as he holds himself perfectly still above you.

"Shh, shh, hey," he whispers frantically into your hair, his voice laced with sudden panic. "Are you okay? I can pull out if—"

You silence him instantly, shaking your head vigorously against his shoulder. You pull back just enough to look at him. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and filled with a profound, aching longing.

"No," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "Don't stop. Please, Steve. Keep going."

He exhales a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he slowly begins to move.

His movements, at first, are agonizingly slow. They are deliberate, firm, and incredibly careful, giving your body the time it needs to adjust to the overwhelming sensation of him.

But you realize he isn’t completely in yet, so you wrap your legs around his hips, sinking him deeper, showing him you can take him all.

“Oh, f—,” your curse gets stuck on your throat. It isn't just the physical reality that it has been months since you were last intimate with anyone. It is the startling, profound realization that Steve seems to fit you in a way no one else ever has. He seems to fill not just the physical space, but an emotional void you didn't even know you were carrying. It feels terribly, wonderfully right.

Before you even realize the shift, the slow, agonizing pace changes. His restraint finally snaps. His hips begin to move faster, the gentle rhythm replaced by deeper, more urgent thrusts. His body collides against yours with a heavy, rhythmic sound that echoes in the quiet room.

One of his hands drops from your waist, gripping your hip bone with a bruised, desperate strength to anchor you to him. His other hand reaches up, tangling fiercely in the bedsheets right beside your head, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip.

"Fuck... God..." The words are torn from his throat, soft but strained with intense effort.

His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, his brow furrowed so deeply it looks painful. Watching his face contort, a sudden, fleeting stab of insecurity pieces through your haze of pleasure.

You find yourself wondering, in the back of your dizzy mind, if there is some part of him that is regretting this. If, through the haze of adrenaline and lust, the reality of the situation is settling in and he's wishing he was somewhere else, with someone else. Someone less complicated. Someone who didn't know all his ghosts.

But every single one of your doubts is violently shattered by the low, guttural growl that rips from his chest.

The hand that was tangled in the sheets beside your head drops down, sliding down the back of your thigh. He grips the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher, hooking it over his forearm to open you up even further, pulling you flush against him so he can sink impossibly deeper.

"You feel so fucking good, God..." he grits out, throwing his head back toward the ceiling, the cords in his neck straining. His thrusts become rapid, completely uncontrolled. He looks back down at you, his eyes blazing. "Are you okay?" he demands again, needing reassurance.

You can't form words. The sheer sensory overload has short-circuited your brain. You can only nod your head frantically against the pillow, letting out small, broken gasps with every thrust.

The sensation is too much to process coherently. You act entirely on instinct. Your hands slide down from his shoulders, tracing the hard, sweat-slicked muscles of his back. You let your fingertips glide over the raised skin of his scars, tracing the lines of his trauma.

In the back of your mind, a quiet, desperate prayer forms: you hope that somehow, through this profound union of your bodies, you can offer him some measure of healing. You want to absorb his pain. You want to love the broken pieces of him until they don't hurt anymore.

Your hands continue their exploration, moving over his arms, feeling the coiled tension in every single muscle of his body. He’s wound tight as a spring, but you know, with a thrilling sense of power, that this tension is born entirely of pleasure, of a desperate need to hold on for just a little longer.

"God, I’m gonna..." Steve gasps out, his voice cracking, his rhythm stuttering as he loses the battle against his own body.

You look up at him, your vision blurred with tears of overwhelming pleasure, and you understand perfectly. You understand because, for the last several minutes, every time he thrusts forward, he has been hitting a spot deep inside you that sends electric, blinding shockwaves through your entire nervous system. It has been building and building, rising higher and higher like a tidal wave, and it’s entirely impossible to stop it from crashing.

Steve's hand moves from your leg, sliding up your chest until his fingers gently wrap around the front of your throat. It's not tight, just a firm, possessive grounding pressure. He leans down, crashing his lips against yours once more, swallowing your moans. Your hand immediately flies to the back of his head, your fingers burying into his thick hair, pulling him flush against you as you brace yourself for the edge.

For one long, suspended minute, the only sounds existing in the universe are the wet, obscene sounds of your desperate kisses, the heavy, rhythmic slap of your sweat-slicked bodies colliding, and the ragged sound of your shared breathing. In this suspended bubble of time, it feels as though the act is systematically burning away the rest of the world. It incinerates the fears, the deeply rooted insecurities, the anxiety of tomorrow. There is nothing left but him, you, and the heat.

"F-fuck."

The curse breaks from his lips against yours. He doesn't need to say another word; his body telegraphs everything.

Suddenly, every single muscle in Steve’s back goes rigid under your hands. He lets out a loud, breathless groan, a sound of absolute defeat and profound release, and thrusts forward one final, deep time. He holds himself there, trembling violently.

The sheer intensity of his release is the final push you need. The tension inside you snaps violently, sending wave after blinding wave of pure, white-hot ecstasy crashing through your body. You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the mattress as you follow him over the edge, entirely consumed by the sensation.

Slowly, as the shockwaves begin to subside, his strength gives out. He collapses forward, his heavy, damp weight pressing you deep into the mattress.

You lie there, tangled together in the messy sheets. Both of your bodies are violently trembling, your chests heaving in perfect synchronization as you fight to pull oxygen back into your lungs. His face is buried deep in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breaths fanning across your damp skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms wrapped tightly around his back, trying desperately to process what has just happened, how entirely your world has shifted on its axis.

After a few seconds, when his breathing finally begins to slow to a somewhat normal rhythm, Steve shifts. He presses his hands into the mattress on either side of your head, slowly pushing himself up on his arms to look down at you.

He looks exhausted, thoroughly wrecked, and breathtakingly handsome. He has a soft, incredibly goofy, completely unguarded smile plastered across his face. He lifts one hand, gently brushing a damp piece of hair off your forehead, his thumb lingering on your temple.

You look up at him and can't help the soft, breathless laugh that escapes your lips.

"God..." you whisper, your voice hoarse.

"Yeah..." Steve replies, his voice equally rough, filled with a quiet kind of awe. He stares at you for a moment longer before asking, softly, "Are you okay?"

You hesitate. You don’t even know why. But you nod, a genuine smile breaking across your face.

"Never better."

His smile widens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. His thumb drops from your temple, tracing the curve of your cheek down to your lips. He leans in and presses a soft, incredibly tender kiss to your mouth. It’s the polar opposite of the frantic, teeth-clashing kisses from the living room, but somehow, the gentle reverence of it makes your heart hammer even harder, making you blush all over again.

Reluctantly, he pulls away. He pushes himself up onto his knees, carefully pulling out of you. The sudden emptiness makes you whine in protest, a soft sound you try to bite back too late.

Steve just smirks at you, tossing the used condom into the small trashcan beside your nightstand with a terrifyingly accurate throw that you don't even have the energy to roll your eyes at.

You are utterly drained. Your limbs feel like lead. You simply lay there, spread out on your mattress, staring blankly up at the ceiling above you. You don't move a muscle until you feel the soft weight of a blanket being pulled up over your bare chest.

A second later, the mattress dips, and you feel the solid, radiating heat of Steve’s body as he slides under the covers and lays down flat on his back right next to you.

You turn your head to look at him. He’s staring up as well, his hands resting on his stomach.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely different. The adrenaline has faded, the lust has been satiated, and what remains in its wake is a heavy, complicated silence. It’s as if, in this quiet aftermath, you have both simultaneously crashed back down to reality.

You both realize the massive, irrevocable implications of what you have just done, of the line you have crossed, but neither of you has the slightest idea what the consequences will be.

Slowly, seeking comfort, you roll onto your side. You slide across the mattress and rest your head flat against his bare chest, right over his patch of hair, where you can listen to his heartbeat.

Steve reacts instantly. He lifts his arm, wrapping it securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rests on your bare back, his fingers lazily tracing idle circles against your skin. It’s comforting. It’s intimate. But neither of you speaks a single word.

It’s as though you both know the truth without having to vocalize it. You both know that even though you have finally satiated this massive, consuming need that has been chasing you for months; even though the physical act managed to completely obliterate the rest of the world and silence the demons for a few fleeting minutes; it didn’t cure anything.

There’s still something fundamentally, deeply broken inside him. And you still have absolutely no idea how to fix it.

As your eyes begin to droop shut, the exhaustion finally claiming you, you find yourself being lulled to sleep by the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the strong, comforting sound of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Ironically, it feels like the safest place in the world.

But deep, very deep down in the recesses of your tired mind, as the darkness of sleep begins to pull you under, a flash of memory violently intrudes.

You see the dark alleyway behind the building. You see the terror in that guy's eyes.

And you see Steve.

His jaw tense while he saw the guy getting beat up, his face unreadable as the younger one begged for mercy. You see him kick on the guy’s knee until he could stand up again.

You squeeze your eyes tighter, burrowing closer to his warmth, desperate to chase the memory away.

But as you drift off to sleep in the arms of the guy that has you completely wrapped around his finger, you realize with a cold — sinking dread — that perhaps you will never be able to forget it all.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

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