in a constant state between wanting and needing

25 | imo

[soulshaped]

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[2886beaconstreet]

ao3 asking if i want to see mature content. do i want to see birds in the sky. do i want to feel the wind in my hair and the grass under my feet

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader | angst | hopeful ending? | smut | fwb

warnings: CW: DRUG USE (coke) i already warned you, mention/description? of underaged sex, fwb, reader does it too, high sex, smut, porn with little to no plot, unprotected sex, drug mention A LOT, sad steve harrington, fingering, overstimulation, sort of body worship??internally??? idk it's in steve's pov and he really likes reader and her body... so boy, ROUGH SEX, steve has a hard time getting it up because u know... drugs, brief assplay.... (what have i become), biting, SPANKING, ambiguous ending. family video steve!!!! post s3-pre s4??? words: 8.3k summary: After the Russians and everything else the past couple of years, Steve finds himself needing an extra kick throughout his day. He's good at hiding it, until one night he calls you over for a hook-up. a/n:okay hello. this is purely because i read this fic about steve high on coke and i couldn't get it out of my head. this is me not condoning hardcore drugs but also sadly i wanted to write about steve having high sex 😧 please ignore this... just pure smut and filth... i cannot believe myself. also rip my search history for multiple things.

Steve Harrington doesn’t sleep anymore.

Not really. 

He closes his eyes sometimes, when the sun comes up and his body finally gives out, collapsing into something that resembles rest but feels more like drowning. He surfaces hours later. Three, maybe four if he’s lucky— with his heart already racing, shirt soaked through with sweat that smells wrong, chemical and sour.

The nightmares don’t stop when he wakes up. That’s the thing nobody tells you. They linger in the corners of his vision, in the fluorescent flicker of the Family Video lights, in the static hum of the television playing previews on loop.

He keeps moving. That helps. Movement means he’s not back there, not strapped to that chair with his face throbbing and blood in his mouth and Robin screaming his name through the drugged haze. Movement means he’s here, now, stocking shelves and rewinding tapes and pretending he’s a person who works a normal job in a normal town where normal things happen.

The coke helps too.

He’s not proud of it. That’s the thing— he knows what it is, knows what he’s doing, knows the way his hands shake when he’s been too many hours without a bump, knows the way his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. He knows his mom would die if she knew. His dad would probably laugh, then disinherit him properly this time instead of just threatening it.

He's done it once or twice in high school. Tommy H and Carol would bring it over— back when they were still speaking, back when Steve's house was the designated party spot because his parents were never home and nobody cared what happened to the furniture.

He remembers those nights in fragments. The way the high made everything sharper, brighter, faster. How his fingers would drum relentlessly on the armrest of his dad's leather recliner while some movie played that none of them were watching. Tommy and Carol would start making out on his parents' couch within twenty minutes, every time, like clockwork. Then they'd escalate— clothes coming off, Carol straddling Tommy's lap, the wet sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Steve would try to focus on the TV, but Tommy would catch his eye. Would grin at him, wolfish and mean, and force Carol to look over too. They'd give him a show— moaning louder, moving slower, making sure he saw everything.

And Steve would sit there, half-hard at best despite his sex drive being kicked into overdrive, palming himself through his jeans because that's all his body would cooperate with. The coke made him want it but wouldn't let him have it properly, and that made him feel even more pathetic, more lonely. So he'd sit there listening to Tommy and Carol fuck on his couch, high off coke, nursing whiskey stolen from his dad's cabinet, feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

But it keeps him awake. Keeps him sharp. Keeps the edges of everything bright and manageable instead of soft and suffocating.

He does a line before his shift. In his car, in the Family Video parking lot, because he’s run out of places where he feels safe enough to let his guard down for the thirty seconds it takes. His hands don’t shake when he does this part. Muscle memory, maybe. Or maybe this is the only thing he’s good at anymore— the efficient mechanical process of self-destruction.

The powder burns going up. Always does. He tips his head back, pinches his nose, blinks hard against the sting. Then comes the drip, bitter and medicinal down the back of his throat, and he swallows it down with the dregs of yesterday’s Dr. Pepper from the cupholder.

The world sharpens. Everything gets louder, brighter, faster. His heartbeat kicks up— too fast, probably dangerous, definitely not sustainable— but god, it feels better than the alternative. Better than the gray nothing that settles over him when he’s sober, the weight that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s still somehow alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

When he walks into Family Video, he’s smiling. It’s not real— hasn’t been real in months— but it’s there. Keith barely looks up from his magazine. Robin does, though. Robin always does.

She’s behind the counter, reorganizing the candy display with the kind of focused intensity that means she’s either avoiding her own thoughts or overthinking his. Probably both. She glances up when the door chimes, and her eyes do a quick assessment, that flash of concern she tries to hide but never quite manages.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s careful. Everything with Robin is careful now, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong word will shatter whatever’s holding him together.

Maybe she’s right.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice comes out too bright, too fast, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane. Well, not insane, but you know, backed up near the… anyway, I’m here. I’m good. We good?”

Robin’s mouth does something complicated. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him either.

But he moves, because that’s what he does now. Stocks the returns, alphabetizes the new releases, helps a middle-aged woman find something “fun and sexy” for her Pamper-Chef party. His hands move too fast, fumbling tapes, dropping things. His jaw works constantly, chewing nothing, grinding teeth, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.

He talks too much. Knows it, can’t stop it. Words pour out of him like water from a broken faucet. It’s jokes that don’t land, observations nobody asked for, rambling tangents that lose their point halfway through. Robin listens, responds when she can, but he sees the way she watches him. The way she’s always watching now.

“You okay?” she asks during their break, sitting on the curb behind the store, watching him smoke a cigarette he doesn’t actually want.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good. Great, actually. Feeling really good today.”

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Robin.”

“Steve.”

He takes a drag, hands trembling slightly, and doesn’t meet her eyes. The sun is too bright. Everything is too bright. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore, like he’s wearing someone else’s body and doing a shit job of pretending it’s his.

“I’m handling it,” he says finally.

“This isn’t handling it.” Her voice cracks slightly. Even though she probably has no clue what “this” entails, she knew it was something to worry about. She saw right through him now, even when they’ve only been friends for less than a year. 

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and knowing doesn’t change anything. Knowing doesn’t make the nightmares stop. Doesn’t make the mall go away. Doesn’t bring back the version of himself who existed before that summer, before the Russians, before he learned exactly how much pain a human body can endure before it stops feeling like a body at all.

He finishes his shift. Smiles at customers. Makes change. Recommends movies he hasn’t seen and probably never will. When it’s over, when he’s back in his car in the empty parking lot, he does another line because the crash is coming and he can’t face it sober.

The high doesn’t feel as good the second time. Never does. But it keeps him moving, keeps him functional, keeps him from having to think about the fact that he’s nineteen years old and his life has already ended twice.

He drives home with the windows down, radio too loud, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. The Harrington house is dark when he pulls up. It’s always dark. His parents are in Indianapolis, or maybe Chicago, or maybe they’re dead and nobody bothered to tell him.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he sits in his car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, and tries to remember what it felt like to want something. Anything. A future, a purpose, a reason to keep doing this day after day after day.

Nothing comes.

So he turns the car back on and drives until the tank is almost empty, until the sun starts coming up, until the coke wears off enough that exhaustion finally drags him under.

And tomorrow he’ll do it again.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.-.-.-.

Another thing Steve Harrington is strung out on is sex.

Steve Harrington has been fucking. A lot. It gives him almost the same rush as the coke does— that brief obliteration of self, that momentary escape from his own head.

Steve loves sex. Loves the heat of it, the mechanics, the way bodies fit together in configurations that make sense when nothing else does. He loves watching a girl take him, the way her face changes when he pushes inside, the small adjustments her body makes to accommodate him. He loves when they call out his name— proof that he exists, that he's real, that he's here. He loves the pretty sounds they make, the gasps and whimpers that mean he's doing something right. He loves when they tell him he's good at this, that he's making them feel good, because it's the only thing he's still good at anymore. He loves giving those praises right back, feeling them tighten around him when he calls them “pretty” or a “good girl.” He loves pleasing them, loves the focused simplicity of it—read the signs, adjust accordingly, make her come. He loves the rush, the high, the brief euphoria when he finishes, that thirty-second window where his brain goes mercifully quiet.

Then it's over and he's alone again and nothing's changed except now he's sticky and tired and the girl is getting dressed and he has to pretend he'll call.

Tonight when he gets off work, the loneliness hits him the moment he steps inside his empty house.

Robin didn't work today— had the day off, probably spending it with her mom or locked in her room listening to records. He'd been stuck with Keith for the entire shift, and Steve had tried his hardest to handle it. 

He can quit anytime he wants. That's what he tells himself. He knows how and when. So it's no big deal that he kept disappearing to the bathroom to get a bump, something he needed to survive eight hours of Keith's breathing and Keith's commentary and Keith's existence.

On his third trip, Keith had made some joke about him shitting his pants— loud enough that the pretty customer Steve had been on his way to help could definitely hear. The girl he'd been planning to flirt with, get her number, take her out, fuck her, forget her.

Now it's Friday night and Robin is busy. Dustin is busy with whatever nerdy shit he does nowadays. And Steve is bored and alone, still wearing his Family Video vest and polo and jeans, standing in his kitchen that echoes with emptiness.

He'd taken another hit twenty minutes ago and he's never felt more alive, more awake, more like his skin is electric. And unfortunately, with the wake comes that desire— low and insistent in the bottom of his belly, pooling heat that demands attention.

It's almost ridiculous that he doesn't question who to call.

It's not like you and him are anything. You're a good friend. Kind. Pretty in this understated way that sneaks up on him. And maybe if things were different, if he were different, if the world hadn't ended and restarted and ended again—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

He dials your number, the one he knows by heart now. 

"Hello?"

Soft. Slightly cautious because it's late.

His eyes are already dilated but he feels them expand wider when your voice comes over the line.

"Steve?" You sound surprised but not unhappy. He hasn’t even said anything to let you know who it was. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that he’s the only one who calls at this hour. "It's almost midnight."

"I know, I know." He laughs, pacing across the kitchen, cordless phone pressed to his ear. "Are you busy?"

"I'm reading." There's a smile in your voice. "Why?"

"Come over."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm bored out of my mind and—" He stops, switches tactics, drops his voice lower. "Come on, honey. You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you?"

It's code. You both know it's code. This isn't about drinking and it never has been.

You sigh, but it's fond. "You're ridiculous."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me twenty minutes." You arrive in twenty-two, and he's still wearing his Family Video vest because somewhere between hanging up and you knocking on his door, he'd decided— high and wired and restless— that the kitchen needed to be deep cleaned.

Now.

At 11 PM on a Friday.

He's reorganizing the spice cabinet when you walk in, letting yourself in because he always left the door unlocked for you. He can hear you giggle when you find him in the kitchen. 

"Were you cleaning?"

"Maybe." He grins, abandoning the paprika to pull you into the living room. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Within thirty minutes you've killed three bottles between you and migrated to the couch, your legs tucked under you, his arm stretched along the back cushions. The conversation flows easy. It’s of work stories, Robin's latest drama with Keith, the new arrivals at Family Video, but there's an undercurrent humming beneath it all.

You lean in and kiss him.

It starts slow, exploratory, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. But it escalates fast. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap. Your fingers grip the green fabric of his Family Video vest, clutching it tight for leverage as you deepen the kiss.

Steve groans into your mouth, hips already rolling up against you. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, thankfully, and he grinds against your thigh desperately, seeking friction. The vest bunches under your grip, polyester crinkling, and his hands slide up your back under your shirt.

Your skin is so soft. The coke makes him hyperaware of every texture—the cotton of your shirt, the smoothness of your back, the slight roughness of the couch fabric under his knees. But mostly it's you. The heat of you. The way you feel pressed against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, humping your leg like a teenager, unable to stop himself. "You feel so good."

You make a small sound. It’s like a half-laugh and half-moan, and you grind down on him harder. 

In one swift move he lays you down. 

Now you're kissing him harder, your back against the cushions and him half on top of you. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, pushing up under your shirt to feel bare skin. Your mouth tastes like beer and something sweet— gum, maybe, or chapstick— and he chases the flavor of it with his tongue. 

He's hyperfocused on every detail. The way your lips are slightly swollen already from kissing. The way your chest rises and falls with your breathing, faster now. The little sounds you make when his tongue finds yours. You're so responsive, so fucking perfect under him, and the high he’s on makes him feel like he could do this for hours, could map every reaction, could learn exactly what makes you gasp and whimper and moan.

You're still holding tightly to the green vest, as he desperately humps your leg, his cock aching. He can feel the heat of you even through layers of clothing and it's driving him insane.

God, you're beautiful like this. Hair mussed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He wants to memorize this. Wants to burn this image into his brain so he can recall it later when he's alone and the house is too quiet and he needs something good to hold onto.

But he's jittery. Coming down from the last high, and his hands are shaking as he tries to unbutton your blouse. The buttons are small, slippery, and his fingers won't cooperate. He fumbles, curses under his breath, tries again.

"Fuck," he mutters, laughing awkwardly because he can feel you watching him struggle. "Sorry, I…long day. My hands are—"

He can't sit still. The exhaustion is creeping back in around the edges, that bone-deep tired that the coke usually keeps at bay. He's desperate for you, wants you. He wants to see more of you, touch more of you, taste more of you, but his body isn't responding the way it should and his brain won't slow down and he needs—

"I need—" he starts, then stops himself.

He stands up abruptly, crosses to where his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His hands find the baggie in the inner pocket— muscle memory, autopilot— and he's back at the coffee table before he's fully processed what he's doing.

He pulls out his dad's credit card. The one they left behind with a note: For groceries and bills. Don't spend it on anything stupid.

He cuts sharp, clean lines on the glass surface with practiced efficiency. One swipe, two, three—the scraping sound of plastic on glass loud in the quiet room. He leans down. Inhales one line, quick and sharp, the burn immediate and familiar. His throat closes around the drip, bitter and chemical.

He notices the silence then. How quiet you've gotten.

He freezes, finger still pressed to his nose, and slowly looks over at you.

You're watching him. Not moving. Not speaking. Your eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. They’re still swollen from kissing him, and even now, even caught like this, he thinks about how good you look. Hair messed up from his hands, shirt rumpled, sitting there looking at him like... he can't read the expression on your face. Something between shock and concern and something else he doesn't want to name.

Steve sniffs hard, licking his lips where the drip is already coating them. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops, swallows. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

You should leave. He knows you should leave. He's shown you the ugliest part of himself and now you're going to walk out and he'll deserve it and he'll be alone again and—

"Can I try?"

The words don't compute at first. He stares at you.

"What?"

"Can I try it?" you ask again, and your voice is steady, certain.

His eyes dance across your face, trying to see any inclination that you don't mean it. But all he sees is you. You’re pretty and patient and here and you’re looking at him like you actually want to understand this part of him too. The coke makes his heart race faster, makes the moment feel surreal and heightened, makes you look almost ethereal in the low lamplight.

His buzz has his mind like mush, thoughts moving too fast and too slow simultaneously. He should say no. Should tell you to go home, to forget what you saw, to stay away from him and his shit and everything he's become.

Instead he hears himself say, "Yeah. Come here."

You move from the couch to the floor, kneeling beside him at the coffee table. And god, the sight of you like that. On your knees next to him, looking at him with those wide eyes. It sends a bolt of heat straight through him that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with how badly he wants you.

He cuts another line for you— smaller than his, because you've never done this before and he's not completely gone yet. The scraping sound seems louder now, more obscene. He watches you look at it, sees the slight tremor in your breathing. Even nervous, you're gorgeous. He wants to touch you, pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck.

"Like this?" you ask, leaning forward slightly, and the movement makes your shirt gape at the neckline. He can see the curve of your breast, the shadow between them, and he has to force himself to focus.

"Wait." His hand comes up, gathering your hair back from your face. The strands are soft, slipping through his fingers, and when his knuckles brush the nape of your neck you shiver. He feels the goosebumps rise on your skin and it makes him want to put his mouth there, feel you shiver under his lips. "Yeah. Like that. Cover one nostril with your finger. Atta girl... now inhale through the other. Quick and sharp. Don't stop halfway or you'll waste it."

You hesitate for a second, and he can see the war happening behind your eyes. Then you lean down and do it.

The sound— the sharp inhale, the slight catch in your throat— makes his cock twitch. There's something so intimate about this, watching you do this, teaching you, sharing this fucked-up thing with you. He shouldn't find it hot. Knows he shouldn't. But the coke strips away his ability to lie to himself and the truth is he's never been more turned on in his life.

When you come back up, your face is already changing. Eyes watering immediately, nose scrunching, one hand flying up to cover your face. Even like this— eyes red, nose running— you're beautiful to him. Everything about you is beautiful to him right now, heightened and perfect and his.

"It burns," you say, voice strained and slightly nasal.

"Yeah. That's normal. It'll pass." He reaches out, thumb swiping at the residual powder dusting your nostril. Your skin is so soft under his touch. He wants to touch you everywhere. "Open your mouth."

You do, lips parting, and the sight of your mouth opening obediently for him sends heat pooling in his gut. He rubs the powder on your gums— slow circles with the pad of his thumb that make your eyes go darker, pupils starting to dilate. The bitter taste will hit your tongue, will numb your mouth slightly, and you'll chase that feeling for hours after.

He's watching your face so intently. The way your eyelashes flutter. The way your lips look wrapped around his thumb. The pink of your tongue visible behind your teeth. The coke makes him feel like he could stare at you forever and still find new details to fixate on.

As he starts to pull his thumb back, your lips close around it. Your tongue swirls, wet and warm, cheeks hollowing as you suck, and the sight of it punches the air from his lungs.

When his thumb comes out it's with a wet pop that goes straight to his cock.

"Christ," he breathes.

You're going to ruin him. He knows it with absolute certainty. This moment, this image of you on your knees with your pupils blown wide and your lips wet and swollen, is going to live in his head rent-free for the rest of his life.

Then you're on him, kissing him hard, and it's different now. Rougher. More desperate. You're both chasing something— the high, the heat, the obliteration of thought— and your mouths crash together with bruising force.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and yours meets it immediately, tasting him, and the kiss is wet and open and obscene. The sounds fill the room— gasping breaths, the slick slide of tongues, the wet smack of lips separating and meeting again, small desperate noises from both of you that might be pleasure or might be something else entirely.

Steve's hand finds your cunt through your jeans and even through the denim he can feel how wet you are, heat radiating through the fabric. "Fuck," he groans against your mouth, voice wrecked. "So wet already."

But the coke has him in its grip, and despite how badly he wants you, his cock is only half-interested. The blood hasn't rushed south yet, too busy keeping his heart racing at dangerous speeds and his brain firing in every direction.

You rock your hips against his hand, seeking friction, and he helps you. He guides you from the floor back onto the couch, positions himself under you, between your legs.

You grind against him, desperate and needy, your hips rolling in a rhythm that's almost violent. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, gripping through your shirt, holding you steady as you drag your pussy against his growing bulge. The denim-on-denim friction is too much and not enough, the scrape of it audible in the quiet room. The fabric on fabric, your breathing getting harsher, small gasps punching out of you with each roll of your hips.

He's getting harder now, finally, blood responding to stimulus even if delayed. But you don't stop. You keep moving, keep grinding, and he keeps pulling you down harder, rougher, the sounds getting wetter somehow even through all the layers. Your arousal soaking through your jeans, his cock straining against his zipper.

His mouth finds yours again. It’s sloppy and open, tongues sliding together, panting into each other's mouths. He can taste the chemical bitterness on your tongue, mixing with beer and something that's uniquely you. He pulls back to kiss down your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping skin. You whimper and it’s high and needy. The sound makes him grind up into you harder.

He pulls your shirt aside roughly, mouth finding your collarbone, and sucks a mark there. Hard. Intentional. His teeth close on skin and you moan, back arching, pushing your breasts toward his face.

His lips find them through your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it's wet and you're squirming. His eyes when he looks up at you are completely blown. His pupils are so wide the hazel is almost gone, swallowed by black, and when he sees your face he knows you look the same. Wrecked and wild and desperate.

"Need to touch you," he mumbles against your breast, words slurring slightly. "Need to feel you come."

His hand works between your bodies, fumbling with the button of your jeans. He finally gets it open. The pop loud in the room, zipper rasping down, and slides his hand inside your panties.

You're soaked. Swollen and hot and so wet his fingers slide through your folds with no resistance, the obscene slick sound of it making him groan. He finds your clit, circles it with firm pressure, and you cry out loudly.

"Steve!"

He fingers you fast and rough, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb works your clit, and it's frantic— the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you mixing with your gasps, the squelch of it indecent and perfect. He’s still kissing you open mouthed and sloppy. The pace of his fingers are too quick, the pressure too hard, but you're there, you're close, he can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, can hear it in the pitch of your moans climbing higher.

"Come on," he urges, voice rough and desperate. "Let me feel it. Come for me. Come on my fingers."

You do, crying out his name. "Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your whole body goes rigid before the orgasm tears through you. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight it almost hurts, and he works you through it, fingers gentling slightly, the wet sounds continuing as he draws it out.

When you finally go limp against him he pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining, coated in you, and without thinking he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. The taste of you— salt and musk and something sweet underneath— makes him groan.

You're both panting, sweating, hearts racing from the coke and the exertion and the need that still hasn't been fully satisfied.

He's still only half-hard, the coke keeping his body from catching up to his mind, and he needs more. Needs the friction, needs the build, needs something to chase.

"Keep going," he rasps, hands gripping your hips. "Don't stop."

This time when you grind down the angle is different. It’s harder, more focused. He can feel himself getting there, blood finally rushing where it needs to go, his cock filling out properly against the confines of his jeans.

The sounds are obscene. The fabric scraping, your breathing harsh and ragged, the small mewls punching out of you with each roll of your hips. He's gripping you so hard his knuckles go white, bruises blooming under his fingers, and you're chasing it too, chasing that edge you can't quite reach through the chemical haze.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, keep going. Almost there."

When he's finally fully hard, aching and straining against denim, he doesn't wait. Can't wait. He lays you down on the couch, your back hitting the cushions, and you're both fumbling with clothes. Buttons, zippers, fabric pulled and shoved and discarded until you're bare beneath him.

He can't even wait. Can't take the time to appreciate the sight of you spread out on his couch, can't slow down enough to make this good. He lines himself up and pushes inside in one thrust.

You cry out. It’s sharp and high, and he groans, the sensation muted but present. He can barely feel it, knows it's the same for you, but he can tell you're being stretched. Can see it in the way your mouth falls open, the way your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders.

One pump. Two. Then his pace is fast. His hips slapping against yours, the wet crack of skin on skin filling the room, rhythmic and filfthy and loud in the quiet house. He's gripping the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, knuckles white, the other splayed across your hip hard enough to bruise. One knee is up on the cushions, giving him the angle to really take you, to drive deep, and the couch creaks beneath the both of you with every thrust.

It's rough. Unrelenting. The coke has numbed you both out and he's chasing sensation through a fog, trying to feel anything beyond the muted pressure. So he goes harder, faster, like he can fuck his way through the chemical wall if he just doesn't stop.

The little punched-out ah, ah, ah sounds you make with each drive, involuntary and breathless, building on top of each other like a song he wants to memorize.

"Feels so good," you moan.

He changes angles, dropping his weight onto his forearm, bending over you to kiss you. Your tongues sliding together, wet and messy, his mouth swallowing the next gasp before it can escape. Then his mouth finds your neck, and he sucks hard. His teeth scraping skin until you twitch beneath him. Another hickey blooms under his mouth, darker than the first, and he drags his lips lower.

His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until you arch up into him with a sharp cry that echoes off the walls. He does the same to the other. It’s so wet a string of salvia between his lips and your tit, leaving matching marks. He then pulls back to watch.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the movement hypnotic, and he could watch it forever. Your mouth is forming shapes. Os and gasps and his name broken into syllables, “Ste—, Steve—, oh—” the sounds dissolving into each other. You look so sexy like this. Wrecked and flushed, sweat already clinging to your skin, hair fanned out across the cushions, whiny little gasps punching out of you with each drive of his hips like you can't help it, like he's making you make those sounds and you have no say in it.

You're trying to grab at him, trying to match his pace, nails raking down his back hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.

Then he stops.

The sudden absence of movement is almost violent. The room goes quiet. It’s only your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch settling. 

You're so oversensitive, so lost in it, that you don't notice at first. Your hips roll forward chasing friction that isn't there anymore. Then your eyes snap open. They are confused, glazed, pupils swallowed whole by black, and you're about to ask what, why, please— when he slips out of you and reaches for the baggie on the coffee table.

He's back in seconds.

He makes a line between your breasts— careful, practiced, the white powder stark and almost pretty against your damp skin. Then he leans down, nose pressing into the valley between them, one hand splayed flat against your sternum to hold you still. 

He inhales sharp. One smooth, practiced drag, the burn immediate, his exhale warm and humid against your chest. The excess dusts your skin in a fine scatter and he doesn't pull back. Just presses his nose into you, sniffing, breathing you in, his face buried between your breasts, moving it back and forth. His stubble dragging rough against your skin, and you laugh, startled, the sound bright and real and so you that something in his chest does a complicated thing he doesn't have words for.

Then his mouth finds your nipple again and the laugh cuts off into a moan.

He sucks hard, and you cry out, "Steve!" The sensation cutting through the numbness for one sharp moment.

You catch him off guard then, both palms flat against his chest, and push. He goes easily. He falls back against the couch with a breathless laugh, sprawling, looking up at you with blown pupils and that crooked grin that does something unfair to his face.

"Your turn," you say, voice sweet and breathless, and the combination of the two— the sweetness, the breathlessness— makes his stomach clench.

He's grinning as he reaches for the baggie. Makes a line at the curve of his stomach— right above where soft meets the trail of dark hair leading down, the skin there pale and vulnerable. His hand shakes slightly, the powder scattering more than he means it to, and he struggles to concentrate because he can already feel the ghost of your breath against his skin as you lean in. 

"Hold on," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don't hold on.

Your tongue licks up his happy trail first, wet and warm, and he gasps. His abs contracting involuntarily, the baggie nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Christ—"

You smile against his skin. He can feel it.

You kiss the bottom of his belly— the soft part he's always been self-conscious about— and the second he finishes the line his hand is in your hair. Fisting the strands, gathering them back from your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. He can feel his own pulse in his palm where he grips you. 

You come up to his chest, kissing his pecs, your tongue circling his nipples, and god he wishes he could feel it properly but you look so fucking hot when you glance up at him. Eyes wide and innocent, pupils blown to black, lips parted and shining.

He hasn't told anyone. Wouldn't be doing this with anyone else. The thought hits him like a truck and he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s messy and wet and desperate. You bite his bottom lip hard enough that he should feel pain but the coke has stolen that too.

He gets you on all fours then, your knees dipping into the couch cushions as he kneels up behind you. He worships the curve of your spine with his hands, the nape of your neck with his mouth. The fat of your ass fills his palms and he grips it, spreads you open, then slips back inside.

And he's unrelenting again. Thrust after thrust, your body jolting forward with each one, gasps punching out of you in rhythm with his hips. He can feel you come again— the clench and flutter around his cock— as he circles your clit with determined fingers.

Your body shakes and he flushes his chest against your back, bicep coming around your throat in a loose headlock, his mouth finding your neck. The sounds are dirty— wet and slapping, skin on skin, your ass meeting his hips with each brutal thrust. He's being rough but it's controlled, purposeful, chasing something neither of you can quite reach.

"You feel so good for me," he whispers against your ear, breath hot and harsh.

You whimper.

"You're so fucking hot like this."

He knows his breath against your ear makes you feel something because you whisper, "Fuck, more Steve, please." the words broken and desperate.

He's gripping your ass now, guiding you to an even faster tempo, and he can feel the head of his cock brush against something deep inside you. His heavy cock twitches, finally getting close.

He lets out a curse when he feels your teeth sink into his bicep as you cry out. You give a loud moan muffled against his skin. The high makes him feel like he has to return it and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard.

He whimpers loudly back in your ear when he feels himself finally reaching the edge, that coiled tension in his gut starting to unravel.

Then his hand finds the middle of your back and presses. Flat and firm, pushing you down. Your hands clutch the armrest, knuckles going white, your forehead bowing down to meet it too as your back arches. The new angle wrings a sharp gasp out of you.

He pulls out.

The noise you make is immediate. High and bereft, hips rolling back on instinct, searching, finding nothing. Your ass lifts and wavers in the air and he watches it with dark blown eyes and says nothing for a moment.

"Stay still."

You don't.

You wiggle back toward him and it’s shameless and chasing. Steve’s palm cracks down.

"Harder," you gasp.

You wiggle again. Deliberately.

He spanks you harder, the sound sharp in the room.

"Steve." His name wrecked in your mouth. "Harder."

So he gives you harder. Everything he has behind it, palm connecting with a sound that's almost too loud, too much. The welt rises fast. The whole spread of his large hand mapped out on your skin in one angry blooming mark that he stares at for a beat too long. It feels like he has done another line right then and there of how euphoric he feels.

Then both hands grip you, nails biting in, spreading you open, and he drops his mouth to you.

His tongue finds your cunt first and he doesn't ease into it. The coke has him wired and single-minded, every nerve lit and humming, and it makes him relentless. His tongue works fast and hard, licking into you with a focused feverish energy that makes you cry out and scrabble uselessly at the armrest. He doesn't let your hips move. Holds you open with both hands and just goes, like he's trying to take you apart, like his brain has locked onto this and won't release until you're shaking.

Then he drags his tongue up to your rim and the sound you make is startled and high and desperate. He presses the tip there and works. It’s fast, hard circles that don't let up, his tongue pushing insistent and relentless, the coke driving him past any point of subtlety. A thumb keeping you open for him, as your other hand finds your cunt and rubs with the same frantic energy and you cry out something that might be his name or might be nothing at all. 

Your hand flies back, grasp his hair. Your grip is hard, fingers twisting into the roots and pulling, and the sharp tug sends a bolt straight down his spine. His breath stutters against you. Even through the coke the sensation cuts through, immediate and grounding, and something low in his chest clenches at the fact that you're holding on to him specifically. Not the couch, not the cushions. Him.

Then he guides you down. Fully flat, stomach to the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric. He lines himself up and drives into you in one stroke and the sound you make punches out against the fabric. It’s breathless and broken and loud.

He doesn't stop. Flesh against flesh, the wet slap of it filling the room, mixing with his grunts and the broken syllables he's making of your name, incoherent and desperate and not quite swearing but not quite words either.

Finally he can feel the numbed-out bubble popping in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he's coming. He can't quite tell through the haze, but he continues making faltered thrusts into you anyway, riding it out. 

He pants between your shoulder blades, forehead dropping there too, both of you completely still for a moment except for the heaving of your lungs. His hands are braced on either side of you, trembling slightly. Beneath him you're still clutching the cushions, knuckles slow to release, fingers uncurling one by one as the tension drains out of you. 

He thinks about the mess underneath you both. He's going to have to flip over the cushions later, hide the evidence.

He can feel the aftershocks moving through you. Little waves, involuntary, your body still working through it. You’re twitching and shivering under his weight, hips making these tiny helpless rolls that you probably aren't even aware of. Like your body hasn't gotten the message yet that it's over. Like it's still chasing something, still wringing the last of it out.

He watches it happen. Stays still and just lets you ride it out beneath him, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath evening out slowly while yours does the opposite. Those soft broken sounds still escaping you, little exhales that aren't quite moans and aren't quite sighs.

Your whole body is flushed and damp, trembling in waves, and he can feel every shiver of it against his skin.

He presses his lips to your shoulder blade. Then between them. Quick and soft and almost reverent… almost. A string of kisses down your spine that don't match anything that came before them.

Eventually the trembling slows. Your breathing deepens. The grip on the cushion finally releases completely.

He eases back. Offers you his hand without thinking about it.

You both sit up slowly, carefully, like the room might tip if you move too fast.

He's still high but he looks at you with concern. "You okay, right?"

"Yeah." Breathless. Smiling. Your voice still hasn't fully come back.

He hates how good you look like this. Wrecked and soft, hair tangled, lips swollen, that particular fucked-out looseness in your expression that the high and the orgasm have conspired to put there. If he really tried— another bump, maybe two— you could probably go again. Go all night. His body is already filing the suggestion away somewhere dangerous.

But something in his chest twists at the sight of you.

The mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes. The marks blooming across your collarbones, your shoulders, your neck— purple and red and unmistakably his. Your hair messed beyond repair. All of it his doing, every bit of it, and the high isn't quite enough to make that feel uncomplicated.

"You sure you're okay?" He asks it before he can stop himself, and he hears it—hears the shift in his own voice, that particular register he falls into. Concerned. Careful. The boy who checks on people, who makes sure everyone got home safe, who asks twice because once never feels like enough.

There he goes again. Falling into it with someone he considers his friend. Someone he secretly, quietly, in the part of himself he doesn't examine too closely… wishes could be something more.

At first it's just the high and the afterglow doing the looking— soft eyes, dopamine-loose smile, drinking in the sight of him equally wrecked. You find the bite mark on his bicep, already darkening. The hickies scattered across his neck and chest that he didn't feel forming, that his body couldn't register through the chemical wall. You look at all of it with something warm and unhurried.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's subtle— only a flicker behind your eyes, there and gone— but he catches it. He's been watching your face all night. He knows its geography now.

Sadness. Worry. Something that looks uncomfortably close to longing.

He knows. Doesn't want to know, but knows anyway— the way you always know the things you're trying hardest not to. You're worried about him. Have been for a while, probably. Tonight wasn't just want, wasn't just the hour and the high and the phone call pulling you here. Some part of you came because you didn't want him to be alone with it.

And some part of him— the part he keeps quietest— knows you want more too. Has known for a while. Files it away in the same place as another bump and just one more night and all the other things he tells himself he'll deal with later.

"I am," you say.

But you aren't looking at him when you say it.

You end up going upstairs to his room anyway, leaving behind the mess. He turns off the lamp. The two of you navigate the dark staircase side by side without touching.

He wouldn't have asked you over if he didn't have the house to himself tomorrow. That's what he tells himself.

He'll probably stay awake anyway while you sleep.

Neither of you shower. His bed is unmade, same as always. You crawl in from opposite sides, the mattress dipping, and normally there'd be talking. There's usually talking. It’s the easy, rambling kind that fills the dark, nothing important, everything comfortable. But the crash is already pulling at him, heavier than usual, the coke's debt coming due all at once. His eyes go leaden. His thoughts slow and blur at the edges.

He thinks, distantly, that he should stay awake. Keep watch. Old habit.

He doesn't.

.-.-.-.

Sunlight hits him first.

White and merciless through the gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he surfaces with a groan already forming in his chest. His head is a closed fist. 

Migraine.

It’s the specific kind that lives behind his left eye, the kind that's been his companion since that summer, another reason the sunglasses are never far, another thing he doesn't explain to people.

He turns over slowly.

Stops.

You're still asleep. Your face is toward him, lashes dark against your cheek, mascara tracked down in faint smudged lines you don't know are there yet. Your brow is slightly furrowed even now— not peaceful, not quite. Like sleep hasn't fully convinced you to let go of something.

That feeling in his chest does what it always does when he looks at you for too long. Pinches. Pulls. Fills up with something warm and complicated and shot through with shame— at the marks on your skin, at the smudged mascara, at the furrow in your sleeping brow that he put there. That he caused, one way or another. The mess downstairs. All of it.

He gets out of bed carefully. Doesn't let himself look at you again.

The living room is exactly what he left it. The coffee table. The scattered clothes. The cushions are slightly out of place.

His hands are shaking before he's fully reached the bottom of the stairs. That familiar morning tremor. He’s anxious before he's had time to think of something to be anxious about, dreading the day before it's started, bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't touch.

He crosses to the coffee table on autopilot. Sits on the ground, his back against the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

There’s still white lines on the surface of the coffee table, patiently waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time.

He thinks about you upstairs, brow furrowed in sleep. He thinks about Robin behind the Family Video counter, watching him with that careful, knowing look she tries to hide. He thinks about Dustin calling him Steve the Babysitter like it's an insult that's actually the best thing anyone's ever said to him. He thinks about all the kids. Max and El, even sometimes Mike. All of them. They look at him like he’s someone to look up to. 

He thinks about the mall.

His eyes sting. He pinches at the corners hard, jaw working, forces it back down. He's not doing this. Not right now. Not here when it’s seven in the morning.

He swipes his hand across the table.

The powder catches the light as it goes. It’s white and fine, almost pretty, and scatters into the carpet like snow that's already melting.

He sits there for another moment.

Then he gets up. Finds the vacuum in the hall closet. Runs it methodically over the carpet until the floor is clean, until there's nothing left to see.

After, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out ingredients to make breakfast. 

Pancakes. He can do that.

He hears you pad softly into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes sleepily. You're wearing one of his shirts and it falls to mid-thigh on you.

"Good morning," you say groggily.

"Good morning," he answers back, voice rough from sleep and chemicals and whatever else.

You hop up on a bar stool, cheek in your hand, watching him. He asks, "How do you feel?"

You mumble, "I'm tired."

Steve smiles softly. Nods. "Yeah. Me too."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."

He turns back to the stove. He watches the batter spread slow and pale in the pan.

And he lets himself have it. The tiredness, the quiet, the strange aching ordinariness of standing here while you sit there. He doesn't reach for anything. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t feel like he has to to get another bump to get through the morning. 

He stands in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning and lets it all be exactly as heavy as it is.

It's enough. Somehow, improbably, it's enough.

[djob00bies]

the art of patience.

— ✶⋆.˚ gator tillman x fem!reader

after being stood up at a party, you run into your old college fling.

warnings: 18+ MDNI — smut, semi-public sex, car sex, oral (f!receiving), rimming, unprotected sex (do not try at home please), creampie, (a little bit of) cockwarming.

wordcount: ~9.2k

hello! welcome to my first post! this fic is dedicated to my dear friend @keer-y, you make me insane and i love ya for it bud, this one’s for you. anyway, vv nervous to get back out into the writing scene— this is my first fic back after a really rough couple of months :) hope y’all enjoy!

The music thumped loudly against the floor as you stood with your back pressed against the wall, patient eyes trained on the door. House parties were never your scene— and living in such a small town, not to mention the one you grew up in, house parties were basically just a petri dish for regrets, rumors, and worst-case scenarios.

But tonight was different, you hoped. At least that's what you told yourself in your bathroom mirror as you doused glitter onto your eyelids.

The guy you were seeing, James, had invited you out tonight to his old college buddy’s house party. You agreed to meet him under the guise of finally being introduced to some of his friends. He told you he’d meet you right after he ran a few errands straight from work and yet, an hour into the party, two weak ass drinks later, James was nowhere to be found.

You sighed with your eyes still glued to the front door, hoping it would just swing open and reveal the face of the person you were waiting for. Someone you knew, at the very least. 

Your dress clung to your back like it resented you, sweat beading at the base of your neck. Could have been nerves, could have been the clear lack of air conditioner running through the house. Either way, you weren’t a fan of sweating like this. Who told them it was wise to host a party in mid-August with no AC?

Your little silver clutch was slung over your shoulder, the chain pressing into your collarbone in the most irritating way; you hadn’t noticed it when you first arrived, nor when you put it on at home. And now, since you’d started waiting, you could feel every single sliver of fabric that stuck to your skin, every piece of jewelry that dawned your chest and wrists, every stroke of nail polish painted onto your fingers. It was wildly overstimulating. Your head was pounding in time with whatever shitty Top 100 song was playing over the speakers, and when you pulled your phone out to check the time, the pounding got worse.

9:47. An entire hour and a half of waiting. You ran your thumb down the side of your phone, tracing the volume buttons absentmindedly and squinting down at the time in disbelief. You were just about ready to let your fingers fly in the text bubble beneath James’s contact but he, unfortunately, had beaten you to the punch.

He had finally responded to the where are you text from an hour ago. And his reply was short– whether it was sweet can be left up for debate:

Look, you’re really sweet and this has been fun but, I don’t think this is gonna work out. Sorry.

As your eyes scrolled across the screen, a familiar prick of embarrassment, no, humiliation, stings at your tear ducts. Rejection almost never phased you, you were smart enough to know that the number one rule of playing the field required thick enough skin to get pushed into the dirt. But for some strange reason, you took quite a liking to James. He was sweet, and well mannered. He worked a quaint job as a bank-teller and wore ties that matched his pocket squares. He took you out on ice cream dates and drove the long way home to watch the sunset.

Sure, James lacked some of the more rugged attributes that you fancied in a guy, but in this moment, at your age now, stability was something you’d felt like you needed in your life. He wasn’t a tornado that ripped through you and left you beaten, battered, and heartbroken.

James was normal.

Now attempting to fight the burning sensation that rose up in your throat, you furiously shoved your phone back into your clutch, your back still stuck to the hallway almost hoping that the door would swing open, James would be standing there, and this entire thing was just a fluke in your imagination.

People were still funnelling into the party fashionably late, you felt nailed down to the floor as you helplessly watched yet another large group of girls funnel over the threshold. You expected there to be some stragglers, a piece of you still thinking this was all too fucked up to really believe.

However, you didn’t expect to look over that sea of party updos and messy beachwaves and lock eyes with your worst nightmare.

Gator fucking Tillman.

You froze at the sight of him; those familiar hazel eyes not once leaving yours as the pack of girls he was herding all squished their way down the hallway. You wanted to think he looked away because he didn’t recognize you; though the coil that snapped in your stomach as he licked his lips and fought a smile made you certain that that wasn’t true.

“A’right ladies, keep it movin’,” he shouted above the music at the girls, all of their high pitched, phony giggles reaching your ears and making them ring, “We’ll getcha’ all fulla’ liquor in no time.”

With wide eyes, you scanned his frame; he was in his civilian clothes. The typical cargo pants and a simple black tee that strained against his biceps, the fabric curling up a little as he ushered the bottle blonde that walked in front of him, his hands pressed wrists-up into her back. She squeaks when his fingers slip down to pinch her ass, your stomach immediately performing backflips at the sight.

The playful, cocky smirk that dawns his face makes you want to cave in on yourself even more. You took notice of the backwards trucker hat he wore, the one that he’d probably had for at least five years and hasn't washed since he was given it by the station. His combat boots commanded the floorboards as they thumped when he walked; if there was one person who knew how to make an entrance that made the room groan, it was Gator Tillman.

The history between you and Gator was complicated— if you could even consider it history at all.

The two of you met in your freshman year of community college, you being the smartest person in your 300 level English class and Gator being half a letter grade away from flunking out entirely, the two of you were paired up in a peer tutoring program.

It was chaos at first sight.

He would constantly tease you, crumpling up the notes you’d taken for him, telling you that you were ‘wound too tight’ and needed to ‘live a little’ when all you wanted to do was study while he had your back pressed against the autobiographies section in the library, trailing open mouthed kisses down your jaw. You weren’t sure how things had escalated so quickly. Gator was cute, sure. And you were more than willing, hungry for the rush that came with sneaking between library shelves for a hook up. 

Your attraction was merely transactional. Every time you saw Gator on campus, he acted like you didn’t exist. Not in a way that was intended to hurt you, but simply because he was too much of an airhead to consider how that might make you feel. He was offputting, bleeding the Tillman family heirloom of cockiness, but was somehow still a gentleman about it. He walked with a potent arrogance that made you want to scream yet there were, undeniably, butterflies floating around your stomach every time your phone pinged with a message from him.

we studyin tonight little lady?

u should wear them gray shorts u got. drive me fuckin crazy.

As much as you tried to push back on Gators advances, attempting to recenter your studies once that dreaded peer tutoring program came to an end before the last bit of the fall semester, you simply couldn’t stay away. The more he persisted, the more he grew on you. 

Sneaking out at odd hours and trying not to wake up your roommate to meet Gator in the parking lot, letting him drive the two of you in circles for hours in his truck before pulling off into a deserted overlook and fucking your lights out. How sometimes he would walk you back and forth between campus buildings when your art classes ended late, not dropping you off without stealing a sloppy kiss or pulling an orgasm or two from you with his fingers in the vacant dorm hallways.

It was all too enticing to give up; he was the vice between your virtues. The slice of your life that you let Gator into was sweet.

Until it wasn’t.

Once Gator had dropped out of his associates program to join the police academy, your casual (yet towing the line about it) relationship had seemed to just crumble beneath your feet. What was once an occasional hookup had turned into something off kilter, with Gator becoming less and less courteous of the fact that you were, indeed, a human too.

As you finished off your studies, building yourself a respectable resume and a bulletproof reference list, Gator lost himself in the power trip of law enforcement. He was less respectful, more demanding, expecting everything he wanted, when he wanted it. You were too busy to entertain a dumb ego death, and Gator couldn’t wrap his head around it. It had only taken seeing him once after he graduated the academy to realize just how much he’d really changed. The first time you actually built up the courage to stick up for yourself when it came to him bit you right in the ass, leaving three and a half years of your weirdly-tumultuous situationship to end with a screaming match in the general store parking lot.

That was the last, and final, time you spoke to Gator Tillman. From that night on, you had decided that you hated his guts.

Surely, he felt the same about you.

“Long time no see, little lady.”

The smell of strawberry kiwi fogged your senses, a puff of vapor fanning across your face as the figure stood before you made himself known. He was propped up like there was a hand up his rear, his thumbs slung into the pocket of his stupid cargo pants.

“Gator,” you address him, your expression lifeless, as if he were simply a familiar stranger.

Technically, he was.

“That ain’t no way to greet an ol’ friend. S’been a while, hasn’t it?”

You swallow at his words, dodging his eye contact like it were bullets shooting from his face.

“It has.”

Gator lets a dry chuckle slip past his plump lips as he puts his hand up to prop himself against the wall above you. You shiver at the closeness— wondering how he could be so forward after all this time. Especially after the way things ended.

“Has ta’ be years since I last seen’ ya. What were ya’, twenty? Y’ were real cute n’ sweet back then.”

You fold your lips in on themselves, still avoiding eye contact by any means necessary. The last thing you needed after being stood up by a man who felt like he could’ve been your calm before a storm was to be approached by the storm in question.

“What do you want, Gator?”

His eyes darted down at the way you were still clutching your purse, smirking down to himself at the way your fingers twitched. You were always slightly trembly when it came to him, and Gator remembered it well.

He always used it to his advantage, anyway. How could he forget?

“Don’t want nothin’ but yer’ time, little lady,” he says, “Y’don’t think I’ve been curious about what’cha been up to?”

“Nothing to be curious about.” Your arms are now crossed against your chest, acting almost as a shield. He hasn’t changed a bit since college, and the realization was hitting you now.

“Don’t be too sure, missy. This town ain’t that big, y’know. I‘ve got eyes ‘n ears everywhere.”

Gator’s hand had dropped from the wall, back into his pocket. You stiffened when he stepped a millimeter closer, hoping that the uncomfortability of your body language would be the hint he needed to back off.

Hint not taken.

“Shouldn’t you be following around that flock of birds you came in with?” you ask, the bitterness and sarcasm oozing from your tongue.

“Birds,” he scoffs, tongue clicking against his teeth, eyes finally disconnecting from yours for a moment, “Yer’ sense a’ humor ain’t changed a bit.”

There’s a pause in your interaction, but it isn’t awkward. There was just simply nothing that could fill the space of three years of history. Three years of dancing around the obvious and however many more of pretending it never happened. It was a silence that only you and Gator knew, and it somehow decided to come back to haunt you at the worst possible time. 

Your body was more relaxed as you stood there, silently, watching Gator as he looked behind his shoulder at the crowd of girls he came in with while taking a long pull of his vape. You could tell by his body language, he didn’t care for any of them— they were simply just pieces of ass to distract from how fucked up of a life he has. Despite feeling satisfied in coming to that conclusion, you resented the fact that you could still read him like a book.

God, you fucking hated it.

“So, yer’ here alone tonight, eh,” he lets out a deep breath, chest falling, “where’s Jamsey boy?”

Gator breaking the silence, and mentioning James, made your entire body tense up. Stiff as a board, you raise an eyebrow, the words barely tripping off your tongue, “H– How do you— what?”

He laughs, yet the smile on his face quickly recedes into his signature snarl, “How do I know about James? Yer’ askin’ dumb questions, lil’ lady. Told ya’ I got eyes n’ ears everywhere. Hell, I got ‘em on the front and back of my fuckin’ head.”

You frown, your brows woven into a tight line.

“Who told you about James?” You felt your blood start to pump red hot, Gator’s knowledge of your personal life feeling like the utmost intrusion.

“Nobody told me shit.”

“Gator,” you warn, the anger you felt making headway to tinge your cheeks pink, “I’m not fucking around.”

“Neither ‘m I.” He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, hand curling around his jaw before speaking again, “Friend’a mine’s hostin’ this party. May ‘er may not ‘ve gotten some insight. Y’d know that if ya’ socialized a bit. ‘Stead’a standin’ in the corner n’ starin’ at the door like a weirdo…”

He’s close enough now for his breath to fan across your face, his condescension permeating through the warmth of his chest as he ducked down to whisper in your ear.

“...Waitin’ for a loser that you know damn well ain’t comin’.”

Without much of a thought, you splay out your hands onto his chest and shove him backwards. He stumbles a few steps, not phased much by your force, and puts his hands out and up to feign innocence. The side of his mouth curves into a smirk, the gum he was chewing on poking out between his teeth.

“Fuck off Gator, I mean it,” you spit, your tone bratty. Bitchy.

“What did’ja see in that dummy anyway? Just an uptight prick, workin’ at the bank like some lame ass.”

“He was a good guy,” you murmur, your voice much weaker than you intended, “Had his head on straight, worked a decent job; he was good to me.”

“Yeh? That right?” Gator’s hand is back on the wall above your head. He is completely unphased by you pushing him, completely unmoved by the fact that you told him to leave you alone several times within a few minutes. He continued egging you on, something he always found joy in doing, even before the police academy fucked his personality sideways.

“Yeah, he was— nice.” You reiterate. You aren’t sure how else to say it.

“Hm. Nice. That’s what y’decided t’ settle for?”

You don’t reply.

Gator scoffs, the hand of his that wasn’t against the wall moving to sit against his hip. He’s closer to you now, as close as he was when you pushed him away, “Little lady settlin’ for nice after she used ta’ let me bend ‘er over th’ hood’a my truck n’ fuck her ‘till she couldn’t stand up. Ain’t so inta’ nice back then, huh?”

Your entire face was flushed red, your fists balled up at your sides. You wanted to walk away, the hurt from James standing you up still lingering like a fresh wound, Gator’s colorful tongue just digging the knife deeper, a knot of heat forming in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about me like I’m one of those bimbos you walked in here with Gator,” you finally snap, your head jerking towards his face, “you know damn well I meant a’ hell of a lot more to you than that.”

For once, Gator stammers, the loudest man in the room at a loss for something to say. He lets his tongue jut out to wet his bottom lip, leaving it pouty, glistening. You hone in on it for a moment, but shake your head upon remembering exactly where you were.

“Yer’ enterin’ dangerous territory here,” he says, voice subdued and hoarse as ignores the weight of what you said, “‘nd when’d’ja get so bitchy, huh? Jamsey boy couldn’t fuck the sense outta’ ya like I could?”

You gasp softly when his hand connects to your waist— a lightning bolt of electricity shocking you the same way it did all those years ago. His hands felt larger now; more weathered, more experienced. His index finger danced between one of the side cutouts of your dress. 

You had no choice but to let him.

“This isn’t about that,” you mumble, your hip leaning into his touch involuntarily. Like you couldn’t dial it back and control it.

“Then what’s it about?”

For a moment, you see the glass in his eyes shimmer— the browns and greens that swirled together, deepened by a lack of sleep and the haze from a beer or two. Gator Tillman was the king of intensity, the champion of eye contact. The heat rising between your legs as he blinked slowly was proof of that.

“Be honest with yerself now, sweetheart. Did ya’ think that you were gonna’ come t’ this party tonight in this tight little thing, with ‘yer eyes all sparkly n’ yer tits practic’ly screamin’ t’ get outta that dress… t’ go home to Jamsey boy?”

“I didn’t know you were gonna’ be here, asshole.” You let the insult hang in the air for a minute. But Gator’s eyes just widened, a shit-eating smirk followed. You’d just given yourself away.

“C’mon little lady, I ain’t talkin’ t’ a wall here. If y’ say that sex ain’t what this is about, then what is it?”

Your jaw ticks as you begin to mutter, “Nothing. This– this is– nothing. This is stupid and dumb and I cannot believe you, of all people, have me fuckin’ cornered here right now. God I— I should’ve just fuckin’ stayed home.”

Gator laughs. He laughs at your internal struggling, the pain you once felt now twinging into something deeper. A little more existential. Truth was, you really just wanted this to be over.

Even though the both of you knew exactly how this night was going to end.

“James’s a fuckin’ jerkoff.” Gator’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to study you.

“So are you, Gator.”

“Y’know what, maybe we do have that ‘n common. You’ve got yerself’ a type,” he shrugs, that hand of his still ghosting around your waist, letting his pinky slip just below the fabric of your dress to press against your hip, “But you know damn well he ain’t makin’ you scream the way you know I can.”

Without even a second to collect yourself, your body is betraying your mind and any sense of reason you had left. You grabbed a hold of Gator’s wrist, wrapping your fingers around it tightly as you made a beeline for the door that you’d been staring at for the better half of two hours now.

Gator’s boots thump clumsily behind you, attempting to keep up with your angry strides as you guided him through a short sea of drunken partygoers. He mumbled and laughed from behind you, watching you swing the door open out to the cool summer breeze and wincing to himself when the knob practically made a dent in the wall inside.

“Slow th’ hell down lil’ lady,” he grunts, forcing you to skid to a stop at the lip of the patio stairs, “Gotcha’ all worked up f’no reason.”

“You drove here?” you pant, ignoring the pleasantries, still unsure of what demonic spirit was possessing you at the moment.

“Shit, yeh, I drove here. Always fuckin’ do. Why?”

You shake your head and wince, as if the angel and devil on your shoulder were fighting to the death right in front of your nose. Were you still recovering from the blundering awkwardness of being stood up by a guy you really liked, at a party that he invited you to? Sure. What’s not to be embarrassed about.

However, the desire to leave that suffocating party wasn’t because of the bile that rose up in your throat when you read a text that let you down so awfully gently, no. You knew you wanted to leave this party the instant you saw those honeyed, hazel eyes. The ones you’d sworn off the existence of. The ones that helped you through some of your toughest days, your most sleepless nights. 

The ones that you didn’t realize still meant anything to you at all.

Gator rests his hand on your elbow, that cocky, devil-may-care attitude slightly faltering as he watches your eyebrow twitch whilst you contemplated existence.“The fuck’s gotten inta’ y’—”

But before you could even stop yourself, tell him to fuck off or shut up like you normally would, your lips were on his.

After all this goddamn time.

Gator’s shoulders tensed when you cupped his cheeks, the action much more tender than you’d hoped, your lips pressing against him roughly enough to push him back a few steps. Despite the initial shock, he molds against you, the concerned grip he had on your elbow loosening and dropping down to hold your waist. He sighs, almost melting, a faint dreamlike sound vibrating against his throat.

The party continued on around you, though neither of you seemed to care.

The kiss deepens and in no time at all, your arms are tangled around his neck, your body pressed flush against his front, the strong, woodsy smell of his signature mahogany teakwood cologne flooding your nostrils.

His broad arms held you upright, palm splayed against your spine, your back curving slightly as he leaned in to meet the fervor you kissed him with. His tongue pleaded entrance, albeit much politer than you were used to, prodding against your lips and parting them as he slid his tongue across yours.

You couldn’t help but let your hands fall to the nape of his neck, down past his shoulders, pressing against his chest. Not necessarily to push him away, but to keep yourself grounded in the fact that what you were doing with Gator right now was, more than likely, a huge mistake.

“Y’— y’ain’t changed one bit,” Gator blurts, the words knocking against your teeth as he comes up for air, only to occupy it, “eager lil’ thing, ain’t’cha?”

You pull away from him, making sure your eyes sparkle with eagerness and a hint of something more— sinful.

“If I were you, Tillman, I’d stop talking and get me to your truck before I change my fuckin’ mind.”

Like a soldier at ease, Gator salutes you, motioning for you with his head to follow as he thumped down the porch steps and practically jogged down the front walkway.

“Parked a bit down th’ street. Hope ya’ don’t mind walkin’,” he comments, spitting out his gum a few steps ahead.

You follow behind and before you know it, you’re approaching a blue pickup. That same one he’d driven all those years ago, with that same dent in the front bumper and that same scratched up—now sun-bleached and weathered—heart shaped bumper sticker on the passenger side door. Your stomach lurches as you recall the day you slapped it on without Gator knowing, after buying it at a gas station that he brought you to to grab a Redbull before one of your study sessions.

Once he found out, he was, of course, pissed. But had gotten over it mere seconds after you’d tucked his dick into your cheek that same night.

“You still drive this hunk of shit?” you ask him as you jiggle the back door handle, hearing its familiar squeak and chuckling in disbelief.

“With style n’ grace, lil’ lady. They say Fords ‘er s’posed t’ run forever.”

You hold back an endearing chuckle as Gator steps beside you, “Yeah? Who’s they?”

“Dunno’. The people who put test dummies in their driver’s seats.”

“From test dummies to real dummies,” you tease, pressing your finger against his chest between his pecs, “they know their consumer market well.”

“Yer’ bullshit vocabulary don’t intimidate me no more, missy,” Gator’s eyes narrow, “I know y’ just wanted a reason t’ call  me a dummy.”

“Insulting you is free therapy.”

You hum when Gator’s closeness forces your back against the side of the truck with a thud, his eyes low as he dips in close, lips ghosting over yours, “So is lettin’ me fuck ya’ ‘till ya can’t remember how t’ talk.”

Gator scoops his hands in yours, pressing them against your chest as he kisses you again. You groan, a delayed reaction to his comment, but are quickly shut up by him wedging his knee between your thighs.

“Gator—” 

You immediately fold at the pressure, his name knocking off your lips onto his.

He hums, merely reactionary to hearing his name, giving you a moment before nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth.

In a flurry of sloppy kisses, wandering hands and shifting body weight, Gator opens the backseat door without disconnecting once. He backs away from you when it flings open, his eyes wide, and hazy.

“Gonna’ feel like old times,” he comments lackadaisically, making your stomach hurt, “haven’t had a chick in th’ back seat since the night we called it off.”

“I find that hard to believe. You walked in with like, 10 different girls.” You suck in a deep breath. You hadn’t intended to be rude but— that was your gut reaction.

“I know,” Gator scoffs, stepping one foot up onto the platform of his truck, his hand gesturing for you to hop in, “Who said I ain’t have one or two of ‘em up in the front?”

You smack him on the shoulder before stepping up into the truck, the scent of old leather and cologne in the backseat hitting you like a train. Nostalgia is one hell of a drug.

Gator slides in shortly after you, wasting no time in taking hold of your sides and pushing you into the opposite door with a rough kiss.

“Gator,” you can’t help but giggle, “the door’s still open.” 

“So what? Let ‘em see. They were all in our business in college, askin’ questions n’ shit. How ‘bout we give ‘em somethin’ new t’ talk about?”

That first part was true. Living in such a small town caused rumors about you and Gator to spread like wildfire. The sheriff's cocky son, and the only journalism major in the entirety of the city. The amount of bullshit lies that had gotten told at your expense within the three years you were casually seeing Gator were enough to turn a small village upside down. 

Most of them got back to Gator right away; though he never denied nor confirmed them. He was the more infamous half of the two of you, knowing more people through his last name, and through the countless girls who would attempt to throw themselves at him.

But he never picked any of them.

Not that you knew of, at least.

When his cool hands slid beneath the side cutouts in your dress, you shivered; the open door essentially creating a wind tunnel for the summer breeze. You groan, Gator’s mouth sloppily disconnecting from yours and trailing down to your jaw. Down to your neck. Down to your chest. The only thing he’d noticed is the way the cold air perked up your nipples through your dress.

“Gate– fuck, Gator. The door, please. It’s— ‘m chilly.”

“It’s August.” He deadpans, his face halfway buried in the crook of your shoulder.

With a huff, you pull his face up to meet yours, but rather than looking into his eyes and telling him off like you intended, he’s swooping back in for another kiss. It’s much rougher than the first few, his body somehow slotting between your legs perfectly, despite being propped awkwardly in the back seat.

“Y’ were always so fuckin’ stubborn. Never let shit jus’ happen. Always used ta’ get on ya’ fer bein’ too uptight. Thought I’d squeezed that last bitta’ stubbornness outta’ ya’ in school but, shit. I dunno’.”

“I– I’ve changed a lot, y’know,” you say, breathless from his lips knocking the air out of your lungs, “Learned to stand up for myself.”

“And who do ya’ have t’ thank fer that?”

When you intend to reply, the sound is swiped right out of your mouth. Gator is pawing at the straps of your dress, dropping one, then the other, off your shoulder. Wordlessly, you watch him as he attacks your chest with openmouthed kisses and scratchy love bites, assisting him in his travels by lifting your back off of the door so he could shimmy you out of the top half of your dress. 

Gator always had a thing for marking you up; you figured it was just a machismo thing. But one night cozied up in your twin XL dorm bed, after an athletic post-study fuck session, he admitted how much he loved, not liked, loved, everyone on campus knowing exactly who you belonged to.

“Y’eard me?”

You shake your head out of its daze, completely enraptured by the way his tongue dragged across your collarbone just seconds ago, “Huh?”

“I asked who ya’ had t’ thank fer growin’ a damn spine.”

“You’re fucking annoying,” you scoff.

Gator eventually shimmies your top half out, leaving you in a lacy bralette— the only one that looked good enough to wear under this sad excuse of fabric that they called a dress.

“Say it,” he persists, eyes honed in on yours, the contact intense enough to make you dizzy.

“No.”

His hand slides down your side, all the way to the bottom hem of your dress. His fingertips curve around it, hesitating for a moment.

“You know I hate it when y’ don’t listen, little lady.”

“Gator.” Your warning packs absolutely no heat, face flushing when his hand finally slides over your thigh. You wanted to curl up into a ball of embarrassment at just how worked up you were from a few kisses and his fingertips running feathery lines up and down your legs. You were swimming in his eyes, a sea of gold and green. 

If you drowned, you wouldn’t fucking complain.

“Wanna’ hear you say it. Wanna hear’ ya admit I made ya’ into this new little firecracker y’are now.”

Without saying anything, or egging you even more, Gator frees your breasts from the bralette. He massages them for a moment, mirroring your stammering, open mouth as he circles one of your peaked nipples with his thumb.

“C’mon, baby— shit, missed these fuckin’ tits.”

He interrupts his own train of thought by taking that same nipple he’d been teasing fully into his mouth, your stiff peak aching as he soothes it with the swirl of his tongue. You moan on impact, getting a glimpse of the outside when he ducked his head down. There was not a person, nor a car in sight. Nobody to walk by and hear the obscenities flying from your lips into Gator’s ears, the hushed rhapsodies egging him on enough to let him know just how eager you were for him.

Maybe he was right. You were still a bit uptight.

“You, Gator,” you finally moan when he gives one last rough suck to your nipple, disconnecting from it with a pop and glancing up at you, satisfied, through his lashes. “It was always you.”

“S’what I thought,” he smiles, the faint freckles splattered across his nose and beauty marks that dusted his cheeks more prominent than ever in the moonlight, “Love it when y’say my name.”

Your eyes flutter closed, the arousal that pooled in your panties getting harder and harder to ignore. You rolled your hips and let your dripping pussy grind slightly against the leather as Gator slid down your body. He inched lower, and lower, taking that same hand from before and using it to fully push up the lower half of your dress.

“Haven’t missed this,” he joked, now on his knees on the floor, crammed in the backseat, eye level with the— now soaked —underwear that you had misfortunately chosen to wear beneath this dress.

He pauses for a moment and admires you, reaching down, arms crossed, pulling off his shirt as he just stares at the wet spot that had formed against the heather grey.

“Jesus, lil lady. Really gotcha’ worked up,” Gator puffs, while you just can’t help but trace your index finger gently against the beauty marks smattered on his shoulders.

“Yeah.” Was all you could manage. You’d soon realized that he’d taken his shirt off because of how much you hated being the only one exposed. It was mindless. Inherent, even. The fact that he remembered made your head spin.

Gator immediately moves into action, he cups your thighs with his hands and yanks you forward, a quiet squeak falling from your lips as you shift down in your seat. He smiles up at you, tongue peeking out to wet his bottom lip. The only thing separating his mouth from where it absolutely wanted, needed, to be was a thin layer of cotton. He eventually hooks his fingers around the waistband, sliding your panties down and off. Your legs are quickly tossed his shoulders, his face now caged between your thighs.

“‘Bet Jamesy boy ain’t getcha’ wet like this while countin’ pennies at th’ bank. I’ve barely fuckin’ touched ya’.” Gator’s astute observation makes your face hot. 

You cup your face in your hands. “Shut the fuck up,” you murmur, before reaching down and knocking the trucker hat right off of his head. The brim thunks when it hits the floor, and Gator just smirks, his hair now tousled and pomade free.

Just the way you liked it.

Gator wastes no time diving into your throbbing heat, his tongue languid and loose as he licks a long stripe up your slit. He savors the taste of you, after being deprived of your essence for all these years.

“Fuckin’— shit.” He curses, more or less under his breath, but your body reacts viscerally upon hearing it; the sound of his voice so unadultured and saccharine. You grab a handful of his hair, your cunt clenching around nothing as he continues his torturous drawl.

Gator was always a giver; skilled with his tongue, even more of an ace when his fingers were involved. He never held back, including now, lapping up your juices like a man starved as they continuously dripped out of your needy slit and made a mess of his leather interior. The hums and quiet moans of delight that he let slip past the concentrated expression on his face made your stomach heave.

“Gator, fuck, feels so— ah.” You can barely form a coherent string of praise, his clipped brown locks spread between your fingers. You give them a tug at the root, earning yet another sweet mewl from deep within Gator’s throat.

You nod, your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, biting down on it so roughly that it was sure to be tender later tonight and into tomorrow. The obscene sounds of your arousal being lapped up by Gator’s eager tongue makes your legs shake. He stiffens his tongue and dips it into your heat, fucking it in slowly and drawing it back out within a second. You whine, even the slightest feeling of him filling you being ripped away was making you needier than you ever wanted to admit.

He fucks his tongue into you a few more times, alternating between that and suckling at your clit; the sensitive bud shooting lightning bolts up your back, causing you to tug even tighter against his hair.

“Fuck.”

That was the only word uttered as Gator came up for air; he was panting, his face glistening with a mix of saliva and your secretions, dawning his chin and lower lip like a trophy. He smiles and his lips shine, not long before he’s gathering more saliva from his cheek, taking two fingers to spread you open, and spitting directly onto your already needy cunt.

“God,” Gator puffs, concentrating now on the way his two fingers sink into your pussy with ease, “she’s a fuckin’ greedy thing, ain’t she?”

“Gatorrr,” you whine, tossing your head back against the car door. He begins to pump his digits within you, scissoring them open every so often and curling them just enough to press against the sweet spot that made you see stars on the backs of your eyelids.

You’d wondered what he was doing to occupy his mouth, since he’d kept quiet for a few minutes. But your question was soon answered as you felt him press a few feathery kisses onto your inner thigh, still curling moans out of you like he was mining for gold.

“Fuckin’ soaked fer’ me, huh? Can’t believe how long it’s been since I got a good taste a’ ya’, sweet girl.”

Sweet girl. That fucking nickname. You could've come then and there. You remember so vividly the first night he’d pulled that one out; a similar scenario to the one you were in right now. Your legs were tossed over his shoulders as he coaxed a second orgasm out of you. “Come for me, sweet girl. Can’t believe this pussy’s all fuckin’ mine.”

Distracted by your own reminiscing, your body jolts when you feel a welcomely familiar sensation; down past your dripping heat, Gator took his time and lapped slow circles around your rim. You moaned in pure shock, in delight, in bliss, that handful you had of his hair becoming more of a lifeline than just a habitual thing.

His tongue worked in tandem with his fingers, their relentless paces syncing up to drive you nearly up the wall. His tongue prodded at your hole while his fingers fucked into you deeply— you couldn’t help but glance down and watch the concentrated notch in his brow turn into a face of pure ecstasy the moment he felt your walls tighten up around his digits.

“Gonna come fer’ me, sweet girl? Yeah, I know— feels good, don’t it? C’mon baby gimme’ a good one. Let it aaaaaall out.” 

And just like that, you were coming undone. Adding to the list of hundreds of orgasms that Gator had coaxed you through with only his mouth. Your body falls limp, your back slick with sweat and sticking uncomfortably to the leather. You felt tangled in your dress; Gator could tell.

“Y’good?” Gator asks, his hands pressing against the tops of your thighs and massaging the last bit of pleasure through your veins.

“Fine,” you choke, shifting up in your seat and reaching up to shimmy yourself out of your clothes. Gator sits back on his knees, watching you undress.

He chuckles to himself, sounding appalled simply by the sight of you, “Ain’t seen ya’ naked in a long time.”

“No shit,” you quip back, kicking your dress off of your ankle and letting it stay where it landed; draped over the driver’s seat headrest. Gator hadn’t moved much at all, only shifting his weight back on his heels to watch you. You felt overexposed; his eyes alone sending shock waves down your spine as heavy silence hung in the air. You swallow hard, looking over his shoulder to the outside, then back to him.

“Gator—” 

You bat your eyelashes, your knees now tucked to your chest, legs crossed at the ankle. He takes you addressing him as his permission to slide back up to the seat, crowding your space once more with his broad frame. His hand slides down to part your legs again, humming in delight as they relax when his lips attach to your neck. You writhe beneath him, your own hands crawling up and down his arms, settling against his shoulders.

“Could’ taste y’ fer hours. Every last bit’a’ ya’. Missed it. Missed ya’.”

His last words were more muffled than the others, giving you the impression that they were ones you weren’t meant to hear.

Your hand tangles in his hair when he sucks on your neck, finally getting around to leaving the bruises you know he just couldn’t get enough of. Gator took his time with you, he always did, worshipping your body like you were Venus herself. It didn’t take much to get Gator worked up when it came to you, though— you felt his cock straining against the dual layers of fabric that kept him confined, his hips rutting it only slightly against your thigh as he engulfed your lips in yet another kiss.

“Gate—” you say, easing him to sit with his back against the seat, you now on your knees. He unexpectedly reached up to grab your face, calloused palms gently scraping your cheekbones.

“Want y’ t’ ride me,” he admits; shameless, voice hoarse and wanton, “Like old times.”

You don’t reply, only cracking a seductive smile and nodding as you reach down and begin to undo his belt. He joins you in doing so, lifting his hips to let you slide it out of the belt loops. He chuckles, but it seems impatient, less condescending than usual.

“Takin’ yer’ sweet ass time,” he teases, though there’s a rawness to his voice that feels like a punch to the gut.

“You just fucking whipped me through space and time, Gate’. A minute to catch my breath would be appreciated.”

A cocky smile breaks through onto his cheeks, your face still being held now by only one of his palms as the other mingled with yours to undo his button and fly, “Ladies first.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman?”

You eventually get his pants down, but not fully; he stopped halfway to reach into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a clunky, neon green vape. You watched with a slack jaw as he leaned forward to toss the vape into the cupholder in the front seat, then flip open his wallet and pull out a familiar black and gold wrapper.

“‘Came prepared, I see,” you comment, gesturing towards the condom as he discards it at his side for a moment, “unless you’ve got a magic condom in there that regenerates every time you use it.”

“Y’know I ain’t like that.”

“Do I really?”

“I really oughta’ shut up that big mouth a’ yours.”

The rest of Gator’s undress continues through a sloppy, frantic kiss. Your hand that rested against his chest, tangled within the patch of thick chest hair, slowly slid down towards his stomach. You sighed, pawing at the bit of muscly pudge that sat right above the band of his boxers. Gator hissed when your fingertips breached just below the elastic, his teeth knocking against yours.

“Yer’ a fuckin’ tease,” he murmurs into your lips, his hands unable to keep still as the traced every curve of your body like it were muscle memory. He stopped in all of the right places, groping and giving attention to the ones that made you shiver.

“I got mine,” you shrug, voice languid and sultry, stretching your leg over his hips to straddle his waist, “I guess I better I help you get yours.”

“You want this as bad as I do, lil’ lady. ‘S written all over that gorgeous face.”

You blush, the compliment making this feel all the more real. Surely you weren’t dreaming when you locked eyes with Gator as he walked through the door tonight. And you definitely weren’t dreaming now.

You palmed Gator’s aching cock through his boxers, his mouth falling open and letting airy breaths tumble from within him. His head falls back, eyelashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open.

“Fuckin’— can’t do this slow shit no ‘more. Need ‘ya on my dick. Now.”

You raise an eyebrow, still palming at him, now making it a point to squeeze his shaft through his briefs, watching with a satisfied, almost evil smile as his face contorts in pleasure.

“Listen, you may have taught me how to stand up for myself,” you begin to say, stroking him still, managing to find the head of his cock through the fabric by the stain of pre that graced them, “but who taught you the art of patience?”

“Fuck ‘re you sayin’?” Gator strains, the words sounding almost painful coming out of his mouth, “Buncha’ bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Gator. You’d be a fuckin’ bottle rocket if it weren’t for me. I taught you to be patient, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna be for me now. You hear me?”

Gator’s eyes shoot open. You think he’s about to bite back, raising that spiteful, malicious tongue that you worked so hard with him to manage. But rather than letting loose on you, using his words as armor, he simply settles in his seat.

“Loud n’ fuckin’ clear.”

He pulls you in by the back of your head for yet another deep and desperate kiss, fumbling around blindly to aid you in getting his briefs off. You waste no time in straddling his hips as his tongue licks into your mouth, the hand that cradled the back of your head moving down to lay flat against your spine.

You break away for a moment, glancing down between your eager, sweaty bodies. His cock was already fully perked up, tip red and angry, glistening with the bit of pre-cum that was already evident through his underwear. You take a hold of it, and Gator practically whines.

“Gonna’ kill me, little lady,” he pants, your hand jerking him slowly and watching his stomach contort with wide, hungry eyes, “I fuckin’ mean it. Y’keep lookin’ at me like that n’ I’m gone.”

You meet his eyes, already looking fucked out yet without even having a taste; his hair is mussed up with a few rogue strands framing his russet eyes like curtains. There was something different about Gator in this moment; he was pliant and timid, a stark contrast to how he usually behaved. You almost felt like reaching up to pinch his cheek, rewarding him for good behavior.

But you felt like that may ruin the moment.

“C’mon baby,” Gator cuts the silence, the moment you’d taken to admire him interrupted, “fuckin’— please.”

“Patience, Gator,” you accentuate your sentiment with a roll of your hips, letting his cock slide between your slick folds as you let out a deep breath of your own, “patience.”

Gator shudders, the bare minimum of contact seeming almost too much for him. He tilts his head back to rest against the leather, still slightly panting as you start a slow rhythm, rocking your hips. He grips your waist tightly, squeezing the soft flesh like it were the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth.

He just can't help but pull you in, attaching his lips to yours with fervor that packs a punch. His tongue glides across yours, exploring your mouth as if to memorize exactly how you taste, holding you close, chest to chest.

You let out a few wracked moans of your own at the feeling of his length sliding between your folds, the ridges of his cock nudging against your clit at just the right angle. You could tell that Gator’s patience was wearing thin; he had detached himself from your waist to blindly feel around for the condom. He grabs it, and you hear the crinkle. But you grab his wrist, stopping him before anything.

“What’dja do that fer?” Gator asks, eyes wide.

“A lot’s changed since we last saw each other,” you say crudely, plucking the condom from his fingertips and holding it between your faces, “Tonight’s your lucky night.”

Gator can’t do anything but laugh, jaw slack in astonishment as you toss the condom aside, “Holy shit. You’ serious? Yer’ messin’ around, ain’t you? That’s fucked up if y’ are—”

You really didn’t feel like explaining that you’d started taking birth control a few months after you’d stopped seeing him. So instead, you took his face in your hands, his eyelashes fluttering when your nose brushed slightly against the tip of his.

“Just— shut up and fuck me, Gator.”

Soon enough, Gator is lifting your hips, and reaching down to angle his cock against your entrance. The both of you sigh; Gator at the newfound feeling of fucking you raw, yourself because it’s been a few weeks since you’d gotten any action.

James was far less generous than Gator was.

“Oh my God,” Gator breathed, watching his cock disappear as you sank down onto his lap. The initial pressure of his girth stretching you made your face pinch, attempting to savor that first stroke with everything inside of you. But Gator was just too eager; too willing and ready to find out just how much he actually missed you.

“Gator, oh my—” you moan, bracing your hands on his shoulders, beginning off slowly by rolling your hips, rather than bouncing. You were afraid Gator might explode if you moved any faster.

“Holy shit. Holy fuckin’— yer’ so tight ‘round me, sweet girl. Missed fuckin’ this pussy.”

You kiss him, seemingly for the millionth time tonight— eager, amorous, starved. You craved this feeling again more than you ever considered. Gator pants into your mouth, his lips disconnecting momentarily only to latch right  back onto your neck. He suckles at the taut flesh, leaving more bruises in his wake. Your head falls back as though it weighed a ton, while Gator takes it upon himself to start to bounce you onto his cock.

“Gator,” you sigh, it’s almost a plea, “you feel so fucking good. F–feel you everywhere, baby.”

Your walls tighten around him when he kisses the tops of your tits, the lewd sounds of your arousal combining with that of his mouth as he sucks at your nipple. If there was one thing Gator was good for, it was paying attention to you, to the signs that you wanted— needed —more.

“That’s it,” Gator praises, watching you unravel and fall apart, piece by piece, “ride my fuckin’ cock, sweet girl. Ain’t so sweet now, are y’?”

You could tell that now, after getting acclimated to the feeling of you with no restraint, with no small layer of latex holding him back, he was gaining his confidence right back. You never doubted it, not for a second, that vulgar mouth of his was still very much alive.

“Ridin’ me like a damn’ cowgirl, shit. Milkin’ me fuckin’ dry, lettin’ me fuck you raw? Jesus Christ, lil’ lady. Jamesy boy don’t know what he’s fuckin’ missin’.”

“Don’t—” you stutter, the feeling of him filling you whole a bit too distracting, “don’t bring him up. N-not now.”

He groans, and it's borderline pornographic. “Y’don’t like when I talk bad ‘bout yer’ little boyfriend, huh?”

“Gator, fuckin’ stop it,” you bark, though you didn’t sound tough at all.

You pinch your eyes shut, Gator’s bouncing you fast, and hard, his hips bucking up to meet yours as yours come down.

“Bet he don’t know ‘ve got his girl in my truck… Fuckin’ her senseless. He ain’t know how good he had it.”

You whine, the words he spoke into the crook of your neck making you dig your fingernails into his back. That only egged him on to fuck into you harder, his tip plunging against your g-spot with each and every stroke. You were so, so close to your second orgasm of the night; Gator attaching his thumb to your clit and rubbing it in quick circles was exactly what you needed to get you there.

“Cum inside me Gate— need t’ feel you.” You blurt it out before you could stop yourself, him filling you to the brim and fucking you within an inch of your life had driven any and all logic and reason to leave your body.

“M’so close. So so close.”

Gator’s blubbering, you’re whining, the sound of his hips snapping against the backs of your thighs was echoing around the inside of his truck and making your ears ring. Everything about this was so overwhelming— you had gone from not seeing Gator in almost five years straight to this. You’d sworn to yourself all that time ago, you hated his guts from then on out.

But with the way his eyes sparkled, drunk on your essence and completely enamored with the way your face melted, not once breaking eye contact as the two of you chased your orgasms and let loose in perfect synchronicity—

Maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

Your body finally relaxes, your rhythm coming to a slower, more managable pace. Gator’s release shooting out in hot spurts, filling you up and dribbling out as he stays tucked inside of you. Your own orgasm had left you seeing stars, Gator milking the last bit of those aftershocks out of you by gently circling your clit, amused as he watched you twitch.

“As good as y’ remember?” he asks quietly, as if not to disrupt the peace of the afterthought.

“Better, somehow,” you admit, smiling at him through the hair that had fallen in front of your eyes. He reaches up and pushes it away, letting his thumb linger on your cheek.

“Yeah? That right?”

“We’re older now,” you shrug. It was obvious he’d kept things pent up since you called it off, but you humored him, “maybe it’s that.”

Gator nods, completely unphased by still being inside of you, unperturbed by the open truck door. “You’re prob’ly right.”

You chew at your bottom lip, your hands still slung lazily over his shoulders.

“I always am,” you smile, before swiping one last kiss from his pouty lips.

—

A few hours passed and you were still in Gator’s truck. Only now, you were perched in the passenger seat, dawned in the emergency clothes that Gator kept in his gym bag— a loose and worn Stark County Sheriff t-shirt and a pair of sweats with a couple of holes in the thighs.

The two of you did nothing more than just talk, catching up on the years of news you’d missed in your time apart. Gator was leaned back in the driver’s seat, cargo pants back on, his legs spread comfortably as he took a pull from that strawberry kiwi vape you’d seen earlier.

“I know I kept sayin’ y’ain’t changed but, I think y’did. ‘Think we both did.”

You pause for a moment, but nod nonetheless, “As I said, we’re older now. Both having lived more life did us in, I’m sure.”

Gator’s hands fidget mindlessly down in his lap, the black tee from earlier replaced with a grey one that almost matched yours identically. “Y’know, maybe livin’ more life did a good thing.”

He seemed apprehensive, the thought coming out not as complete as you expected. Gator was always sure of himself but right now, that wasn’t the case.

“What are you trying to say, Gator?”

His hand reaches up behind his neck, scratching it gently, before adjusting the brim of his hat that he had annoyingly put back on after you told him you’d preferred him without it. The sound of crickets and summer night’s ambiance took the reins for a moment as Gator collected his thoughts.

“Y’think y’ might be willin’ to give this another try? Y’know,” he points vaguely at the space between you, “us?”

Your eyes widened; that was the last thing you were expecting to hear from Gator Tillman tonight. Hell, it was the last thing you’d ever expect to hear from him at all. 

You hadn’t considered what you had with Gator a relationship in the slightest, and that was back when the two of you thought your on again, off again hookup phase was more important than Gator’s failing English grade. You weren’t willing to have a boyfriend who wasn’t dependable, who would vanish like a ghost and leave you guessing. But you kept him around because you knew he was capable of being that sweet and caring guy you’d dreamed about.

You had to just peel back the surface and you, unfortunately, realized that a little too late.

“I don’t mean t’freak y’out but, I dunno’. I’m real different now. I was a piece a’ shit back then. Y’ain’t deserve a man like that. Y’don’t have to answer me now, give yerself some time t’think on it. Maybe sleep on it. Y’still have my number, r—?”

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

You swallow, taking a second to process your own affirmative before doubling down, “We can try again, if you really want.”

You locked eyes with Gator, his face had lit up ten fold, the boyish charm he exuded when you first met him flooding in hues of brown and green as the moonlight lit up his irises. You smile in return, blindly reaching for his hand. He takes it without a question.

“Serious?”

“Serious, but— don’t fuck it up. I’ll kill you. For real, this time.”

Your small hand is engulfed by his larger one as he pulls it to his lips, tenderly kissing your knuckles. He shakes his head, pure disbelief written all over his face.

“Won’t fuck it up, promise. I’ll be real, real good…. If ‘yer willin’ t’ be patient.”

[mcybank]

Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (2)

pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count — 16.9k

summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.

warnings — (18+ Minors DNI!!!) sexual content, no intercourse, fingering, me also being really bad at writing smut, heavy making out, crying, SO much crying, both of them, multiple times, breakdown during intimacy, ongoing emotional trauma, public emotional moments, alcohol mention, intimacy while intoxicated, breakup scene, second chance romances, he fell first AND he fell harder (eventually), right person wrong time -> right person right time, small town, forced proximity (??), jealous steve. yearner steve. like so badly yearning i’m sorry i got so carried away.

author’s note — this was probably the worst Almost Hookup aftermath. i also got so carried away writing this and i know i’ll look back on it and realize how bad it was lmao but steve is such a yearner in this. i also would loveee to write an epilogue or something for this + drabbles because i’m thinking so much about them and don’t wanna let them go just yet so lmk if that’s of any interest !! ♡

part one

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin. He took in a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide. 

He shuddered, the tremor beginning in his shoulder and rolling down through his chest, his stomach. His hands left your face and slid down to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow as he hauled you against him.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.

“Just tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”

Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—” 

“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.” 

You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should. 

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms. 

“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air. 

He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."

"We're still by the door."

“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.

Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. 

You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.

Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones. 

"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”

"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"

"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.” 

His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”

“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”

“Clearly.”

“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”

Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.

“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you. 

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”

"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.

"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.

"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."

"Hi."

His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"

"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"

“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."

He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.

"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."

"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.

“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?” 

He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.

"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.

"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin. 

His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped. 

A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”

“Yeah.” 

“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”

“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”

His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.

"Steve—"

"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—

Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body. 

Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well. 

It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning. 

“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.

Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.

But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—

“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”

The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps. 

“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”

You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”

"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"

"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"

You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.

"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"

"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."

"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."

Steve went very still. "What?"

“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”

“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer. 

You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…

Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.

"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”

“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”

You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."

You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.

“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”

“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.

“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”

“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”

"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."

“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”

He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”

The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?

"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."

"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.

"I know how that sounds—"

"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"

"No—"

"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"

"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.

“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.

“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—” 

“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh. 

He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”

The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face. 

As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed. 

You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that. 

You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking. 

“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried. 

His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”

You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.

"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"

“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."

"Steve—"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—

"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.

His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"

"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."

"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."

You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"

"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."

You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.

"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."

Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.

"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."

"Okay."

He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."

Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.

He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.

"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.

He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—

"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."

His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."

The door closed softly behind him.

Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again. 

But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.

Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.

You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.

And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.

And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember. 

He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars. 

A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening. 

His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.

You were leaving.

The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—

His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.

You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—

“You just gonna sneak out?”

You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?

You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”

And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did. 

“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. 

“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”

“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”

“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” 

“You’re right.” He held up his hands. 

“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”

You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life. 

He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”

You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”

Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.

You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.

Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.

You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered. 

You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere. 

What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.

There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.

“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”

Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air. 

“Is it Nancy?”

You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out. 

His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”

Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart. 

“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.

“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”

His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now. 

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.

“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”

“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”

“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.

“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.

"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”

You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.

“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”

“I know—”

“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”

“I don’t know—”

You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”

“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!” 

The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways. 

You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”

“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?” 

“That is not what I meant—”

“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”

“No—”

“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”

His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”

You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.

“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”

“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”

His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there. 

He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier. 

But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this. 

“I should go,” you said quietly.

“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”

You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”

You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.

You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.

You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.

You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm. 

So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.

You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.

But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.

Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.

Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.

You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.

Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”

“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.

Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.

He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.

"Hey."

The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.

Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.

“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.

“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.

“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.

“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.

Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”

“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”

Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.

"I should—" you started.

"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.

You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"

It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.

You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.

So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing. 

When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?” 

“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.” 

“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed. 

Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when. 

“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve. 

The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.

It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"

"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."

Emily took her position. The music started.

And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.

"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."

"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.

“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”

“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”

Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him. 

“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.” 

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”

“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”

“It’s good.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.” 

You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.

"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."

"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.

Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”

You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”

He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”

You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym. 

You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot. 

“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you. 

Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”

“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”

“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”

“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”

"Emily, I swear to god—"

Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.

“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."

"Steve—"

"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."

You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.

[mcybank]

Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (1)

pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader

word count — 17.1k

summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.

warnings — high school sweethearts gone wrong, rekindling, reader and her sister have a 10 year age gap, small town romance, implied past emotional cheating on reader by steve, no demogorgons or veca or anything supernatural but there are still mentioned dynamics canon to the show, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, jealousy, referenced past breakup, alcohol consumption, semi/public makeout, quarter-life crisis, reader’s implied to be mean in the past, cheerleader in high school, job hunting, referenced childhood dance training, friends to lovers to exes to (??), sexual tension, making out, heavy heavyyy petting, cliffhanger ending

author’s note — this got so much longer than intended but i promise the second part is coming so soon. robin and vickie are still together bc i love them!! and eddie and steve in my mind are besttt friends with them and the entire group and everyone is alive! please let me know what you thought feedback is truly the most rewarding part of sharing a fic. i hope you enjoyed this ! ♡

part two

The baseball diamond at Hawkins Middle School looked just the same as it had when you were twelve, which was comforting or depressing depending on how you wanted to spin it. You were going with comfort today because depressing required a lot more energy than you had, and you’d already spent most of it smiling through your sister’s overly-concerned questions about job applications over breakfast.

Your nephew—Carter, age eleven, gap-toothed and a little shorter than his age—was easy to spot in the cluster of kids near the dugout. He looked exactly like your sister, Devon. He was the one trying to balance the bat on his palm, which seemed counterproductive to actual baseball but probably made sense to his eleven-year-old brain. You told your sister you’d pick him up. Easy favour that took out forty-five minutes of your afternoon in exchange for continued free housing and the implicit agreement that you were trying to get your shit together. 

You leaned against the chain-link fence, going through the mental list in your mind of possible next ventures. Three retail positions, two receptionist jobs, one assistant manager role at a mattress store that required "three to five years of customer service experience with a passion for the product." You wouldn’t consider yourself particularly passionate for mattresses nor did you have three to five years of customer service experience. 

"Alright, bring it in!" 

The voice cut across the field, and it was so familiar that it made your stomach drop before your brain could catch up. You looked in the direction.

Steve Harrington stood near the pitcher’s mound in a faded Hawkins baseball tee and a backwards cap, whistle around his neck, gesturing at the kids to huddle up. For a second—one stupid, depressing second—you thought you were hallucinating. Were you in some weird time-slip situation? Because that was Steve. That was Steve-fucking-Harrington from high school, from makeout sessions in his BMW and terrible milkshakes at Bennys. That was Steve who used to kiss your shoulder while you were sleeping, and that was the cutest possible thing you thought could happen to your sixteen-year-old self. 

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin.

[morninglesss]

hm hm hm ok so how about gator coming to terms with the fact that he caught feelings, probably mid-fuck :) love keer-y on main

Baby boy’s in love and he’s a ball of confusion!

NSFW/MDNI

tw: canon-typical mild misogyny, one use of bitch as a slur.

✉️ I am open for asks/prompts/requests this weekend.

It was a good arrangement. That was what Gator told himself, in the beginning. Clean. Uncomplicated. She didn’t ask him questions he didn’t want to answer, she didn’t look at him like she was trying to figure something out. She just let him show up when he felt like it, and he did, and afterward he left, and neither of them made anything bigger of it.

Good arrangement.

He was still telling himself that when he showed up on a Thursday with no reason except that he was horny and she was the only one he’d thought of, which he didn’t examine. She’d answered the door in just an oversized Nirvana shirt and no particular surprise on her face, just stepped back to let him in, and that was that.

****************

He had her on her back with her smooth thighs over his and his teeth on her throat, and she was making these small, bitten-off sounds that drove him fucking crazy, and Gator was not thinking about anything except the immediate, which was how he preferred it. No past, no future. Just the heat of her cunt around him, the slick drag and press of it, the way she arched up into him like she couldn’t help it.

That was the thing about her. She didn’t perform, she just responded, honest and eager, and he’d told himself early on that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just how she was, and he’d mostly believed it.

He bit down lightly at her throat and she gasped out his name, her fingers tightening in his hair, hips rolling up to meet him, and he groaned against her skin and moved harder, faster, chasing that particular feedback loop they’d gotten good at over the last few weeks. She knew what she liked and she wasn’t shy about it - a hand guiding him, a shift of an angle, a quiet “there, harder” that went straight to his cock - and he liked that about her, the lack of performance, the directness. He liked her -

He cut the thought off. Rolled his hips and felt her clench around him and focused on that instead, on the physical, which was simple and easy and good and the only thing he was here for.

Right, he thought. It’s just fucking. That’s all this is.

Then she shifted.

Her hand moved from his hair to rest against his jaw, and he felt her thumb at the corner of his cheek, and fuck he was about to - he was in the middle of - and then despite him being balls fucking deep she said it, quiet and easy like it just spilled out of her -

“God, Gator, you’re so good…”

He turned his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. He hadn’t decided to do it. It had just happened, like something in him had answered her praise without asking his permission first.

The half-second immediately after was very very loud in his head.

He didn’t do that. He didn’t - that was not something he did. He was a mouth-on-the-throat man, a hands-and-dick-and-momentum man, a fuck-them-and-move-on man, not - not that. Not something that careful. Not something that gentle.

He felt her go still beneath him. Just for a split second. Then she exhaled, something soft and hopeful escaping with it, and her fingers pressed a little harder against his jaw.

She didn’t make anything of it. That was almost worse.

Shit, he thought, with great clarity, and then he didn’t think about it again - or, at least, he tried not to. He tried to put it back in the box and nail the lid down shut - and then he finished, inside her, because if nothing else he was a man who finished things, and that was fine, that was normal, everything was completely normal and fine and not weird at all.

****************

He was fully dressed in four minutes. Possibly three.

“Headin’ out,” he grunted, which was not a question and barely an announcement.

She was sitting up against the headboard, watching him pull his jacket on, and she had that look on her face - the one he’d noticed on her before and had chosen not to catalogue - something quiet and a little careful, like she was deciding whether to say something big. She didn’t. She just said ‘okay, see you later’, low and casual, and didn’t ask him to stay.

He told himself, on the drive back to Lehigh, that this was exactly why their little arrangement worked.

****************

He didn’t text her.

Three days. Four. He kept his phone in his back pocket and didn’t look at it more than necessary and when her name floated to the surface of his mind he pushed it back down with the focus of a man who had been managing the pieces of himself for a long time.

This was fine. This was, in fact, the correct move. He’d gotten… a little mixed up. Turned upside down, somehow. Let something get under his skin that had no business being there. The solution was obvious and clean - space, distance, the gradual return of perspective. He’d done harder things than this. He’d done considerably harder things than this before breakfast. Ghosting a bitch was a no brainer.

By day five he was miserable.

Not restless - he knew restless, and this wasn’t it. Not frustrated either, which he also knew, and which had a solution. He’d jerked himself raw over the first three days before he’d realised that wasn’t what he needed - and since when was that not what he needed? This was something different, and worse. This was a specific, nagging absence, like a song he’d gotten used to that had suddenly stopped, and now the silence was its own kind of noise.

He caught himself, on the sixth day, thinking about something she’d said three weeks ago. A throwaway comment about someone from the office, funny in a dry, understated way that had surprised a real laugh out of him. He’d thought he’d forgotten about it immediately. Apparently he hadn’t.

He sat with that for a while.

Then he thought about her wrist. Her exhale. He’d been thinking about both of those things, on and off, for six days, which was… that was the part he couldn’t get a handle on. Why those two things? Why did they keep coming back? She hadn’t even made anything of it, and he couldn’t get them out of his head.

Shit, he thought, again. A sequel. Part two of Gator Tillman’s pathetic, fucked up, emotional boogaloo.

****************

He drove to her street on the seventh night and sat outside in his truck for longer than he was going to admit.

The lights were on in her house. She was home.

He could leave. He didn’t have to be here. He could put the truck in drive, go home, pour a drink. It’d be fine. Nobody was waiting on him. She didn’t even know he was out here, sitting in the dark like a fucking stalker, so it wasn’t like he’d be letting anyone down or freaking anyone out. He could just go. He’d done it before - walked away from things that weren’t worth the complication, and this wasn’t any different, really. He’d be fine. It’d work itself out.

He sat there.

The thing about need - and Gator had spent considerable effort in his life actively not needing things - was that it didn’t negotiate. Want you could starve out. Want you could redirect into someone else, and he had. His need just waited. It sat in his passenger seat and looked at the light in her windows and did not pretend to be anything it wasn’t.

Fuck it. He was going to have to go up there.

He was going to have to knock on her door with nothing in his hands and nothing to offer except the fact that seven days without her had felt like something he didn’t want to repeat. She was going to open the door and look at him, and whatever was on his face was going to be true, and he wasn’t going to be able to do anything about that.

He’d done harder things.

He kept telling himself that.

Gator Tillman sat outside her little house in the dark, hating this with both hands, and reached for the door handle anyway.

****************

She answered on the second knock, wearing the huge Nirvana shirt again, her hair left messy, and for a half-second something moved across her face before she got it under control and careful.

“I’m not fucking you, Gator.”

Not cruel. Just a fact, laid out there on her doormat and left for him to decide what to do with it.

He stood there in the porchlight and thought about turning around. Thought about laughing it off. Thought about the twelve different versions of himself that would have done exactly that, would have held up both hands and said “fuckin’ fine, whatever” and walked back to his truck and been fine by morning.

“That ain’t what I need,” is what he said instead.

The words fell out of him, and he watched her take them in. Watched her try to work out if he meant it, if this was some new angle, or some play she hadn’t seen yet. She knew him well enough to check. He didn’t blame her for that.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her, even though his hands hurt from not touching her. Just stood there with nothing else to offer and let her look at his face, which was telling the truth whether he liked it or not.

She looked at him for a long time.

Then she stepped back from the door, and let him in.

[chestharrington]

things can only get better || part four

Previous Parts: one || two || three

Fic Rating: Explicit (18+)

Chapter Rating: Explicit (18+)

Word Count: 16.9k

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Warnings: SMUT (sweet lovemaking, f!recieving oral, unprotected p in v sex) slow burn friends to lovers, repressed feelings, mild peril, steve breaking promises, wound tending, depictions of grief

Chapter Summary: after learning the truth about the upside down and all of the horrors that have taken place in Hawkins, you face an even scarier threat— owning up to your feelings for Steve Harrington.

Fic Summary: You and Steve can't stand to be around one another... but you have to learn to coexist and raise your goddaughter together in the face of the apocalypse.

Sophomore year, after you'd started the rumor about Stacey Cooper having chlamydia, you were called into the principal's office to say your piece and defend yourself against the ridiculous accusations.

You sat on a springy, uncomfortable couch and turned on your charm. I would never say that about Stacey, Mr. Higgins. She's a really good friend of mine. But I think if it is true… maybe she should get help before she causes a major outbreak. I would never speak badly of a friend, but she sleeps around a lot, and it could be a major health hazard for the rest of the class.

The attempt at faux concern hadn't worked, and you'd sat there getting berated about the damage that you could do to a girl's reputation and how you were lucky her parents weren't pressing charges, like that was even possible. Chief Hopper was there, just to scare you straight with a steely, exasperated glare. You walked out with a month of Saturday detentions and an order to write a written apology.

Dear Stacey, I hope you get the help you need. Sorry Steve dumped you.

It felt a little bit like that then, with all of Steve's friends staring at you, including a very alive, unamused Jim Hopper. Steve had been lectured at for nearly thirty minutes— about danger and risk and selfishness and how he just never thinks.

"Did you forget the part about the government threatening our lives?" Dustin pressed. "Tell anyone and you'll disappear doesn't mean tell your girlfriend and get a slap on the wrist, Steve."

You cleared your throat, and immediately regretted your choice to draw the room's attention to you. Even Sam, who was sitting contently on Steve's lap, looked over and gave you a gummy smile at the sound of the noise. "Okay, not that it matters, but just to be clear— I'm not Steve's girlfriend. And you know that, Dustin."

"You're right, that doesn't matter," Hopper said with an annoyed scowl. He was a lot scarier when he was living off the grid and was unbound by laws. And in that moment, he was looking at you like you were a liability. Which, to be fair, you kind of were. "What matters is that by getting involved in this, your life will constantly be in danger."

Robin sighed and gave you a sympathetic frown. "I hate to say it, but Hopper's right. This doesn't just put a target on your back if you slip up and say the wrong thing around an MP… all of the creepy, otherworldly shit out there tends to circle this group like sharks."

Max, Barbara, Billy. Eddie Munson, who you bought weed from once before a party. Mr. Newby, who fixed your Walkman when you dropped it out of the Beamer's window on the way back from a party it wouldn't stop skipping. So many people who tangentially crossed paths with the group had died. Heather and her parents. Carol and Tommy.

Maybe the pattern would keep. Maybe you'd become monster food, or have your bones snapped, or something even crazier that they'd yet to experience. Maybe a demo-thing would lay eggs inside of you and they'd come popping out like in Alien. Just your fucking luck.

You swallowed. "I feel better knowing," you insisted. "I mean, sure, my instinct was that you were selling drugs or something, and now I'm going to nightmares about freaky monsters for the rest of my life, but I'd rather know what's out there than go on thinking everything is normal, especially with Sam in the picture."

Sam squirmed, irritable, and reached over for you. With a soft smile, you pulled her into your lap and pressed a kiss onto the crown of her head. You didn't mind playing the baby card when you needed to, and you watched Jim Hopper's brow soften slightly.

You could work with that.

"Alright, can we cut it out with the third degree now?" Steve said with a sigh. "I think we all get it by now. I shouldn't have said anything, I never think, I'm hurting the sanctity of the group… can we move on?"

The group dispersed, and you could tell by the tension in Steve's shoulders that he needed an escape route. You bounced Sam on your hip for a second, watching as he combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

Steve didn't want to be seen as impulsive or careless, but in telling you, that's how he came across. And, sure, people would get over it and understand eventually, but it didn't make it any easier on him then.

Right then, it looked like he wanted to be as small as possible. So you nudged him gently and pulled his mind back to reality. And that reality wasn't the millions of things that could possibly go wrong and prove his friends right— it was on you and Sam, right there, safe and sound. "Hey, I think Sammie wants her dad," you said with a gentle smile. "See? I'm working on it. Nicknames, being parents… huge swings for me."

A tiny attempt at a smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he accepted her into his arms. "I'll feed Peanut, then we can hit Bradley's on the way home. Lucas said his mom managed to snag some Pringles after this morning's restock."

You widened your eyes in exaggerated excitement and gasped. "Wow… our lucky day, huh? We should buy a lotto ticket and get out of here."

Steve rolled his eyes and brushed past you, heading towards the small kitchenette where he could get Sammie's bottle warmed. You watched him fondly, then swallowed hard as you were left alone in the lion's den.

Quickly, you surveyed the room, looking for your best course of action. Robin had already grabbed a few records and closed herself into the booth with Jonathan, which left Nancy Wheeler as your only other peer.

It wasn't that you didn't like Nancy, you were just very, very intimidated by her. She was so confident and determined, which were two traits you were lacking. And at the moment, she was heads down with a series of maps, marking down some findings from their mission the night before.

The boys were all in their own little huddle, going over the details of the previous crawl. There was no real desire to interrupt them, so, instead, you sat down on the springy, uncomfortable couch and picked the last few flakes of your manicure off into your lap. The couch dipped after a few minutes, and you looked beside you to be met by curious brown eyes peering into yours.

Eleven, Jane, El. You still weren't entirely sure if there was a preference in how she should be addressed. She sat close, turning so her knees nearly pressed against yours. She wore boxy, formless clothes that you figured were boys' hand-me-downs. Her hair was a mop of thick curls, short cropped, just begging to be styled.

"I know that you are not Steve's girlfriend," she insisted. "Mike and Dustin say that you are, but you say that you are not. And you would know better than stupid boys."

A smile split your features and you nodded. "Well, Steve and I are confusing," you admitted. "He's not my boyfriend, but we live together and have a baby. Too difficult for stupid boys, I guess, but obviously not for you."

El laughed, scooting closer. "I like your hair," she said. She reached out hesitantly, and touched a curl under her fingers. It was a little sticky with hairspray and fried from consistent use of heat tools, completely different than her glossy, natural curls. "It's so pretty."

"Not as pretty as yours," you countered. "I have to pay for this, yours just grows out of your head. But if you want, I can teach you how to use hot rollers to style yours. It's super easy."

She nodded happily. "I can use the tunnels," she offered. "Will says there is a tunnel in the woods behind Steve's house, so I can come over."

A tunnel? You wracked your mind to try and remember where the tunnels had come from. You remembered, vaguely, Steve mentioning tunnels the night before. But they'd never been brought up again, so you just figured they'd collapsed, or disappeared, or something.

You nodded and shrugged. "Yeah, sure, you can come over tomorrow, if you want," you offered. "And when you do, you can take a look at my friend Carol's clothes and see if there's anything you like. You're about the same size, so you can take whatever you want."

El gave a giddy nod. "And maybe Nancy and Robin can come over too," she suggested. "Girls Night. No boys allowed." The giddy, hopeful look in her eyes was so endearing that you couldn't tell her no.

"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," you said. "It's been a while since I've had a girl's night, it'll be fun."

When she finally got up to leave with Hopper, she sent a tiny wave in your direction, which you quickly returned. And with your one companion gone, you stood and slowly approached Nancy and her maps.

"I'm hosting a girls night, apparently," you began, trying not to mess up any of the pages laid out as you brushed against the table. Her gaze snapped to yours— icy blue and intense. "For El. And she wanted me to— I wanted to— extend the invite."

She looked back at her maps and gave an absentminded, "Uh-huh… I don't know if a girls night is really what I should be focusing on right now, you know?"

You swallowed, nodding. Right. "Oh, yeah, of course. End of the world stuff, sorry," you said, stumbling over your words. "But, um, if you change your mind, it'll be tomorrow at my place— Steve's place. Our… place…"

She gave a thumbs up and a tight lipped smile, and you took the hint to walk away and lick your wounds. With a sigh, you stood against the wall and watched everyone talking and planning their days.

Everyone had their roles, even Steve. Steve was the muscle, the big brother. It was like he'd totally grown and shaped himself around what he could do for these kids and to help keep everyone safe. And you were… Steve's not-girlfriend.

Hey everyone, you wanted to say. I know I seem kind of purposeless now, but I can be super helpful! I was the one who patched Tommy up after he rode his dirt bike into a tree and got a nasty gash in his side. I can be useful to keep around!

That probably would have been more humiliating than sitting through another half-hour of being lectured at, so you swallowed your pride and accepted that, for now, you had no real place in the group dynamic. Outside of being Steve's… something.

You glanced into the kitchenette and your expression softened at the sight of Steve holding Sam in his arms and rubbing her back gently as her meal settled. He grabbed the empty bottle and diaper bag in his other hand and joined you in the sitting area.

"All good?" He asked. You eased the diaper bag from his grip and tucked the empty bottle inside as you nodded weakly. "Good. 'Cause no one is mad at you for knowing. They're just worried."

You nodded. "I'm all good," you insisted, but the itching feeling of wanting to do something crept up your spine until the words spilled out. "I just feel kind of useless, you know? I should be contributing somehow. I'm, like, the only person here who has one semester of college under their belt, and that's… y'know… something."

Steve's expression tightened, and he shook his head. "Hey, you don't need to do anything," he insisted. "I don't want you anywhere near any of this."

You sighed and crossed your arms. You find out that the world is ending, and you're expected to just… ignore it? Wasn't that crazy?

Or maybe it was that gnawing feeling of being on the outside looking in that made you want to shove yourself into the fray. To make yourself show that you were supposed to be there, and not just because of Steve.

God, that was stupid. Wanting to risk your life just to prove you fit in… but you'd never really sat well with being shoved to the side.

You exhaled and swallowed. "I'm kind of hosting a girls' night tomorrow. And you're not invited, because Eleven said it was no boys allowed."

He grinned. "You sure? I can do face masks, and paint nails, and watch John Hughes movies and all of that other girly shit," he said, nudging you with an elbow. You rolled your eyes and bit back a smile.

"God, you're a total chauvinist," you teased. He blinked a few times, brows furrowed, but eventually just shrugged. "C'mon, let's get your stupid Pringles."

He smiled and twirled his keys around his finger. Sam followed the shiny movement with an amused smile and reached out to grab at it with her soft, clumsy hands. You leaned over to kiss her forehead, which made you step even closer to Steve.

He was wearing cologne that he didn't usually wear—a soft, warm, spicy scent that made your heart flutter a little. It was nice, inviting. "Is that new?" You asked, meeting his gaze. "The cologne, I mean."

Steve's cheeks went a sheepish shade of pink, and he gave a bashful nod. "Oh, um… yeah," he stammered. "Well, not exactly brand new. I found it under my dad's sink and stole it. He probably got it as a gift and hated it and put it away. I just felt like trying something new, I guess."

He paused, eyes scanning your face as you stood back up. There was the tiniest flicker of disappointment at the distance placed between you two again, as infinitesimal as it was. "Do you like it?" He asked.

"Oh, um… yeah," you said, instinctively crossing your arms as best as you could with the diaper bag hanging from the crook of your elbow. "Yeah, it's really nice."

Steve smiled again, and gave his keys another twirl before heading out to the car. Your heart thrummed as you watched him go. He had a crewneck on, a dark color so if Sam drooled it wouldn't be too obvious. His Levi's were fitting a little tighter, clinging to his thighs and ass. Which you weren't looking at, obviously.

On your way out, you tapped on the glass to the recording booth and grabbed Robin's attention.

Come over tomorrow, you mouthed. She squinted, so you repeated it, again and again until Jonathan stepped in and translated. Once she understood what you were asking, she offered a thumbs up.

The radio station had been crowded and a little overwhelming. It wasn't usually that hard to be around Steve's friends, but the knowing threw a wrench into everything. They weren't playing pretend for your sake anymore— you saw through to the gritty reality. The planning, the worry, the desperation.

Maybe Nancy was right. Maybe the girls night was frivolous and stupid in the face of imminent danger via inter-dimensional forces beyond your comprehension. Or maybe giving them one night to put aside their fears and relax was charitable work.

Either way, you were glad to finally be in the car. Steve was driving for once, which meant you were reacquainting yourself with your old friend, the Beamer. It was hard to sit in the front seat and not think about the ever-relevant memories made in the backseat. Memories that inconveniently ruined your date the night before.

As he drove, he slung an arm around the back of your seat while his hand gripped the steering wheel. Every once in a while, he'd spare a glance at you; at a stoplight, or when he was on a long stretch of road.

This tiny, stirring look that said you were on the same team, that he was right there. Your tummy fluttered uncomfortably, and you had to turn to look out the window before your face got too hot.

Things felt different— charged. Every neuron that wasn't firing off about crazy monsters or Sam was thinking about Steve, Steve, Steve.

Earlier that morning, you woke up with your head resting against his chest and his warm arms around you. His soft breath fanning across the crown of your head, the lightest ghost of his lips there. Big, strong hands tugging you closer as you slowly woke up, like he didn't want you to pull away.

It was nice, but you were still so hesitant to let yourself give in to that feeling. Both you and Steve were so impulsive at times— so quick to feel things in big, overwhelming ways that you'd regret later. Fuck, even Steve's admission of his feelings came from you two blowing up on each other. You couldn't just let yourself do something because it felt good, you had to think about the long term— about Sam.

At the grocery store, while you bought the only decent looking lemons in the scant display, Steve juggled oranges to make Sam (and you, admittedly) laugh. He caught them all and gave a bashful smile when one of the clerks called him out for bruising the produce. You rolled your eyes and grabbed the oranges from him, biting back a smile.

"You're so annoying," you muttered with a shake of your head as you dropped them down into a little plastic bag and put them in the cart.

"You have a cute laugh," he said, and you felt that stupid, persistent flutter in your chest. "I'm just trying to impress my girls."

Oh, fuck off, you wanted to groan. He made it so impossible to be the responsible one. "Why don't you go find your precious Pringles, huh?" You asked, giving him a nudge. Like a well-trained golden retriever, he went to fetch.

The nearest entrance to the tunnel was dug inside Steve's pool shed, just narrowly missing all sorts of pipes and pumps that led to the pool. You were really glad that they had managed to avoid those when they dug up through the earth, because you thought Mr. and Mrs. Harrington would literally kill you if something happened to their precious home on your watch.

Eleven crawled up from the tunnel with bits and pieces of dirt and earth clinging to her hair and smiled happily at you. Jim Hopper kept his jaw set tight as he helped her up the ladder.

"She does not go outside, you keep the windows drawn, you do not invite anyone who wasn't at the station yesterday, and if anything happens, you radio immediately," he said firmly.

You swallowed and nodded. "She's in good hands, I promise," you insisted. "I mean, when I was her age you were busting me and my friends for underage drinking so, I feel like we could be doing much worse…" He narrowed his eyes and you nervously cleared your throat. "Um… sorry, not important. I won't be giving your underaged daughter alcohol. I'll take good care of her."

He must have believed you, parent to parent, because he nodded and let her join you in the house. He'd be back to pick her up at 9:30, no later. You listened to him muttering about the goddamn hike back to the cabin as you shut the sliding doors.

"Your house is so fancy," El said as she looked around. "It's even bigger than Mike's house."

You'd never been to the Wheeler's place, but you nodded and accepted the compliment. Since moving in, you'd done your best to warm the place up. A few framed photos, lamps, and throw pillows could work wonders… as could the constant clutter of raising a baby. It turned the Harrington mausoleum into something that felt like a home.

You led her into the bathroom— all pink tile and gold fixtures, and her eyes widened in amazement. "C'mere, sit on this stool here and I'll fix your hair." She sat on the plush pink velvet and crossed her legs beneath her.

Gently, you combed her hair with your fingers, picking out the little specs of dirt that clung to her brown curls. "Your hair is so healthy," you said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "It's so soft and shiny. Are you sure you want me to put it on rollers? I can always just clip it back."

El shook her hair ardently. "I want to try the hot rollers, please," she insisted.

You nodded and grabbed a comb to remove any small snags and knots. "Alright, the rollers really are hot, so just tell me if I catch you with it and burn you, okay?" She nodded and you smiled. You reached over and pressed play on your cassette player, and Madonna played through the speakers. "M'kay, let's see what we can do, yeah?"

Fifteen minutes later, her hair was twisted up and pinned in the rollers, and you were sitting on the pink marble countertop so you could dust makeup over her face. "Stop squinting, hon," you chided as you swept a tiny sponge with the lavender pigment over her lid. She giggled and tried her best to relax. "So, you and Wheeler, huh? He's your boyfriend?"

She blushed, and it was only accentuated by the pink powder you'd previously dusted onto her cheeks. "Yes," she answered, and peeked her eyes open to look at you. "Do you like a boy?"

There was something endearing about her curiosity, like you were sharing secrets at a sleepover. Steve told you that he was pretty sure that she and Max had been close before she moved to California, but you wondered if she had very many girl friends in her life. But it felt like she was relying on you to provide that for her now, so you leaned in entirely.

"There's a guy, but it's complicated," you said. You pulled a frosty blue eyeshadow single from your makeup bag and swiped it onto your finger. She closed her eyes so you could dab it onto her lid.

Her brows furrowed. "Who is he?" She asked. "Steve?"

"What? No," You insisted. When you finished applying the eyeshadow, she peered up at you. "Let's just say his name is, uh… Stan."

"… Stan," she echoed.

You decided, impulsively, that she needed more blush, so you grabbed the compact and ran the fluffy brush through the startling pink. "So, let's say me and Stan have a lot of history, and it's mostly bad," you began, and swept the blush over the apples of her cheeks. "Like, I spent so long pining after him, and he rejected me constantly. Like, he was a total asshole and we got in this huge fight and didn't talk for about a year, but then we finally…" You squinted and thought for a moment, "kissed, and it was like… super exciting and could have totally been something, you know?"

El gave a tiny nod. "Kissing is good, right? It means he likes you."

You huffed. "Okay, not quite, because he totally went radio silent on me and then I went to college, and when I came back, we were suddenly…" You sighed. "Sharing this puppy. And we both love this puppy, and it's very charming to see each other interacting with this puppy, but do we really have a future, or is it just this puppy making us totally see things that aren't there? Because all of a sudden, Ste— Stan is making these, like, confessions of love and it's, like, how can I believe him if what he says is the total opposite of how he's acted before?"

El's eyes flew open. "You have a puppy?"

You dropped the blush brush on the counter and sighed. "Hypothetically." Her brow creased further and you tried a better explanation. "Um… it's like, making something up to explain. The puppy represents something else."

"You are right," she said with a frown. "Complicated."

You gave a wry laugh and grabbed a pink lipstick. "Yeah, tell me about it. " You held her chin between your fingers and gave a weak smile. "Alright, lipstick, then I'll show you my best trick for putting on mascara."

El was a perfect student; she gave every tip and demonstration her rapt attention. She let you talk color seasons, because she was totally a true autumn, and you helped her sift through some of Carol's clothes from the boxes growing dust in the garage.

Robin arrived bearing gifts not soon after El's makeover was complete. A rented tape, pizza, and Nancy Wheeler. Well, really Nancy Wheeler had arrived bearing Robin and her gifts, because Robin still couldn't drive.

Apparently, you were unable to school your expression, because Nancy gave a tight lipped smile at your confusion and offered a meager explanation. "Robin said I needed to relax and let myself think about something completely unrelated to the Upside Down," she explained as she sat on the couch. "And I love Pretty in Pink."

When you were all settled in the living room and the tape was in, you relaxed as best as you could on the sofa. It was your first girls night without Carol, and it just felt like there was this hole in the night. A blurry shape in the periphery of your vision that disappeared when you looked directly at it.

But if Carol were still here, you would have gone back to school, she would be back in her little starter home with Tommy, and you never would have spent time with any of the people under the roof. You were beginning to accept that things happened for a reason, and for whatever reason, you were supposed to be here.

The pizza wasn't incredible— quarantine meant food shortages and subpar ingredients. But, really, it was a marvel that a pizza place was even open at all. The soda that Steve had grabbed for you was the best he could do— Tab.

But El seemed so content to be participating in what you felt was a boring girls night. When the credits rolled, she turned and looked at you expectantly, like you were the final word on what to do.

"Um…" You took a sip of your soda and wrinkled your nose in discontent. "We can play truth or dare. Have you played?"

El nodded and drummed her fingers on her knees as she thought. "Nancy, truth or dare?"

Nancy took a slow sip of her Tab and gave a tiny shrug. "Uh… truth, I guess," she said, and offered El an encouraging smile.

El thought for a moment, and looked a tiny bit disappointed that Nancy hadn't chosen dare, but her eyes widened and she smiled. "Are you happy to have Jonathan back in Hawkins?"

You glanced back at Nancy, who took another long sip as she thought for a moment. "Yeah," she said finally, but you could hear a hint of hesitation. "I mean, obviously we need him and Will and Joyce back home for everything."

"And, you know, he's your boyfriend," Robin chimed in.

Nancy's cheeks went a soft pink and she nodded. "Well, yeah, of course. That's… that's a given." She shook her head like she was shaking away some secret thought and turned to Robin. "Alright, Buckley— truth or dare."

Robin smirked and sat a little straighter. "Dare."

"I dare you to do fifteen push ups."

Robin's expression twisted in annoyance. "What? You're supposed to tell me to eat something gross, or make a prank call, or go jump in the pool. This is just punishment" Nancy shrugged and nodded towards the floor.

Begrudgingly, Robin managed, but her face was pinker when she sat up. She said your name and your stomach sank in anticipation. "Truth or dare?"

You didn't want to eat something gross, or jump in the pool, or do pushups, so you took the boring route. "Truth, I guess."

Robin thought for a second and met your gaze. "What is the worst date you've ever been on?"

"Oh, god," you muttered. El sat up, eyes wide with interest. Your lips turned into a grimace as memories from your date a few nights ago flashed through your mind. "Um… okay, Friday night—"

"What? Who? The hot guy?" Robin demanded. You waved a hand in her direction and continued on.

"So I was on a date with the hot guy, and the dinner went great. I mean, he took me to Enzo's and it felt really easy. But we were making out in his car, and I said another guy's name, which totally killed the mood and ruined everything. That awkward ride home was one of the low points of my life."

Nancy's brows furrowed. "Whose name did you say? Steve's?"

You forced a laugh and shook your head. "That would be so dumb, no."

"I bet she said Stan," El supplied. "The boy she shares the hypothetical puppy with."

Robin's eyes narrowed, and the slow smile that spread across her lips made you burn with mortification. "A puppy, huh?"

You groaned and hid your face in your hands. "Okay, El, your turn— truth or dare?"

By the time Hopper arrived back in the pool shed, El had a fresh manicure, a duffel bag full of clothes, and a box of hot rollers to take back to the cabin and try out herself. "I had so much fun," she said as she climbed the rickety ladder back into the tunnel. "Thank you for the clothes, I love them."

You smiled and brushed it off like it was nothing. Really, it was comforting to know that Carol's clothes were going to this sweet girl instead of sitting in a donation bin to rot. "Hey, you're welcome any time, okay?"

Hopper gave a wave, and you thought he seemed at least a little thankful that you had included Eleven and let her have one night as a normal teenager. Even if Hawkins was in danger. Even if the world was slowly ending.

You stayed outside a little longer and watched a pond-skater glide along the surface of the pool. Glide, stop, glide, stop. It left pretty v-shaped paths as it moved along the surface. In the woods, the crickets chirped, and you could swear you heard the rustle of raccoons or opossums. With a sigh, you left the warm summer night and opened the sliding door back into the house.

Nancy and Robin waited on the couch, and you steeled yourself for the delayed interrogation as you settled onto the left cushion and tucked your legs beneath you.

"So… You said Steve's name, huh?" Robin grinned and nudged you. "You two are so insanely stubborn, you know? You should just get over your drama and get together already."

With a snort, you shook your head. She sounded so much like Carol and Tommy that it was almost laughable. You understood their shared knowing glances and exasperation in hindsight, but that was before. Things weren't as easy as just forgiving and forgetting anymore.

"It's not that simple," you said defensively. "I mean, Steve says he's interested now, and no one else is turning his head, and that's great. But who's to say how he'll feel in a few months? In a year? Maybe quarantine gets lifted, and Steve goes back to being Steve, and then I'm the bitter co-parent who hates to be around him and only talks to him in passing when we hand off Sam in a parking lot."

You hated that you could see that so clearly, because it mirrored the rest of your experience— You love Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fuck Steve, Steve breaks your heart, you forgive Steve, you fall for Steve, Steve falls for you…

You knew what came next.

Call it cynicism, call it realism, but you couldn't risk caving to those impulses. Not when you both had a rotten track record. What was best for you, for Sam, was to remain friends, and nothing more.

"I think it's smart," Nancy insisted. "Practical. You're giving yourself time to figure out if these feelings are real, or… if you're being too hasty."

You nodded, relieved to have someone supporting a decision that felt like a form of self-punishment. It wasn't just that you were keeping yourself from being happy, it was a logical course of action. You could always change your mind, give in, decide that this is what's right.

Unless Steve changed his mind and it was already too late. A frown pulled at your lips and you sighed. "What about you and Jonathan?" You asked. "I felt a little hesitation earlier."

Nancy laughed and shook her head. "What? No." But her tone was pitchy and defensive. "Of course I'm happy he's back, but living together is an adjustment. I mean… one second he's across the country, and the next he's sleeping in my basement with his whole family. That'd be… an adjustment for anyone."

A wry smile spread across your lips. "God, tell me about it."

It turned out, you had a decent amount in common with Nancy Wheeler. Dead best friend? Check. Unfortunate living circumstances? Check. Tumultuous history with Steve Harrington? Check.

You weren't going to immediately be best friends, but it made you feel like you weren't so alone anymore. Sure, you had Steve, but that was an entirely different can of worms.

In the middle of your next movie, the front door swung open and you watched as Steve lugged himself, the diaper bag, and the baby carrier over the threshold. He dropped the carrier onto the coffee table and eased a sleeping Sam out. She stirred, expression crinkling, and nuzzled into Steve's chest.

You watched as he rocked her slowly, soothingly, and then frowned down at the crumby, smudged glass of the coffee table. "Gross, you're all animals," he huffed. "I can't believe this is the state of the house when I'm gone. I'd expect this from Henderson, but not you guys."

"Sorry, mom," Robin teased. "We'll clean up after ourselves so we don't get grounded."

Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Thin ice, Rob."

His gaze fell on you and he gave you that doe-eyed, smitten look that had been driving you so crazy. You swallowed and tried to ignore the way your heart started to flutter. He bounced Sam and turned to look at her, and that buzzy feeling dissolved away like cotton candy on your tongue. "I'm gonna take Peanut up to bed and get out of your hair. I'll just make a note to vacuum in the morning."

When he was gone, Robin and Nancy gave you a look. You tried to focus on the movie.

A few days later, and neither of you had been brave enough to address the comically large, heart-eyed elephant in the room. Which was inconvenient, considering every time Steve gave you that sappy, lovey expression, the elephant just got bigger and bigger.

It was simple evasion— you knew that. The irrational, squishy part inside of you didn't want to tell Steve that you didn't trust either of you to jump into a relationship, because that same part of you was just aching to give in.

"Hey, be careful!" Steve yelped. You narrowed your eyes as you looked at Steve in the mirror, a comb in one hand, the other working through his damp hair. A smile played at your lips as you ran the comb through his hair again, which made him wince. "Ow!"

"You're so tender-headed," you said when he winced again. You parted the hair just above his left ear and your eyes went wide. "Holy shit… you have a bald spot here."

His eyes widened and he smacked your hands off. "I do not," he insisted, fingers going up to touch at the bare spot on his scalp. You pushed his hands away again and parted the hair to look at it.

"Yeah, it's a jagged little spot. Maybe it's a cowlick, or genetics, or the stress of fatherhood taking its toll," you teased, tracing the line with your fingers. He shivered at the contact, shoulders tensing.

"My dad has great hair, it's not genetics," he said defensively. He was almost pouting. He loved his hair, and that's why you were surprised he even let you attempt the quick trim over the sink. But he sat on the pink velvet stool with a fluffy towel around his neck, his hair damp and hanging in his face.

Although, teasing him about the bald spot was probably not helping his trust in you. "I think it's a scar," you said finally, squinting down at the shape of it. "Who do you think did it? The Russians or the bats?"

His expression soured. "Billy Hargrove," he said, and looked a more than a little bitter. "Fall of senior year. One second he's smashing a plate over my head… the next I'm in his car with the kids and a thirteen year old girl driving. I still can't remember much of what happened."

You parted his hair normally and the scar was covered, like it wasn't even there. It was kind of a wonder he'd never noticed it before. "Well, apparently he got his chest hole-punched by a gross gooey monster, so…" you trailed off and shrugged. "Karma. Besides, he was a total asshole and a pig and you're still here."

He huffed. "With a bald spot."

"With a scar." You grabbed the scissors from the countertop and bit your lip as you looked at his hair. Just a little trim. You could handle that. "Alright, don't move or I'll slice your ear off and give you a new scar to worry about."

You stabilized his head between your hands and tilted his head down, just slightly. You held your breath and took the scissors to the long hairs curling at the nape of his neck. For a moment, you thought that it was probably what your father felt when he performed heart surgery. Or… probably not.

By the time you were done, Steve was left with a wonky, choppy cut. He shook it out and ruffled it with his fingers, and tried not to look to alarmed. The right side of his head was cut a little shorter than the left, and overall it was a lot shorter than he'd worn it since graduating. Hell, since Junior year.

"Oh, fuck… It's bad," you said, eyes wide as you looked at the fucking hack job you'd done. "Shit, I feel awful."

"No!" He insisted. He grabbed a bit of mousse and worked it through his damp hair, but there wasn't much to be done until it grew out a little. "No, it's actually fine, I promise. I can find a good way to style it, and maybe I'll actually like it like this better."

You sighed and ran a hand through your own hair with a skeptical look. "Are you sure? You can be mad. I'd throw a bitch fit if I were you."

He just shook his head and there it was, that goddamn lovey expression that made you want to melt into a puddle. There were no defenses against it— like it was a look engineered to cut through every instinct and burrow into the vulnerable parts of your soul.

"Why don't you let me take you out to make up for it?" He suggested. "It'll be just you and me. We can, uh, do a picnic at that nice park by Loch Nora. Or, I mean, I can cook us a nice dinner at home. But I just figured you'd want to get out of the house for once."

You swallowed and felt your stomach go fluttery. "Steve," you began. A frown creased your features as you tried to find the words you wanted to say. "I just… I don't think I'm— that we're ready for that yet."

He visibly deflated, and you thought he looked even more pathetic with the awful cut you'd given his hair. "What?"

"I'm just… not entirely confident that this is the best idea right now," you said. "Like… I think we're both feeling a lot of things, like, chemically—" He tilted his head, his confusion at your words was palpable, but you pressed on. "And I feel like jumping into this when there's no real way of knowing if these feelings are real or just circumstantial is irresponsible. Especially with Sam in the mix."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Um… right," he said, but his disappointment was evident in the sullen tone of his voice. "Yeah, of course. You know Sam is the most important thing in my life. Not thing, she's a baby, but I mean— don't we owe it to her to try? And not because we have a baby and it's what we should do, but because we want to be together and it'll be good for all of us. And we can give her a home that's warmer and better than the ones we grew up in."

"Steve," you said softly. "I'm not saying never. I just have to make sure that whatever this is has staying power."

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. "That's… yeah," he agreed. "Smart. You've always been the smart one between the two of us." Before you could say anything more, he kissed your forehead and went for the door.

You grabbed his hand quickly, and the flash of hope in his eyes made your heart hurt a little. "You're gonna get hair everywhere," you said softly, and eased the towel from around his neck.

He swallowed hard and gave a wry laugh. "See? Smart one."

You watched him walk out of the pink bathroom and wondered if this was how Steve had felt in the stock room of Scoops Ahoy just a year ago. It was funny, how quickly things could change.

The rest of the summer was tense. Not in a particularly bad way, really. Steve would never punish you for turning him down. But those feelings, those secret wants lingered.

Things were normal, or as close as you'd ever been, but with a new flavor of repression that tasted like you were back in high school. Bitter and full of longing.

Steve offered to move into his old room to give you space, but you didn't want space. You wanted the right answer to fall into your lap, even though it felt like whatever you chose, something would go wrong.

"He's not dating anyone," Nancy told you over the phone one day. It was meant to be a reassurance, but it made you feel a little worse, like you were holding him hostage emotionally. "I mean, you'd know if he was. The second he leaves the station, he's practically sprinting to his car to get home to you two."

Any sane person would take that as a sign— he was committed, even if you weren't. He could've been drowning his sorrows in any girl who looked his way, but he wasn't. But distrust and insecurity was rooted inside of you, rotten and unshakeable. There was some part of your brain that swore that the second you got something good, it would be ripped right out of your hands. You'd gotten used to that feeling— it had grown up alongside you.

Summer turned to fall, and Sam changed more with every day. She crawled, then she stood. Her hair was longer and had darkened into a warm auburn that you clipped on top of her head to keep out of her face. You wanted to give her a haircut but… well, you'd seen how that could go.

Steve's hair had grown out well enough, and from then on, when he needed a trim, he called Mrs. Byers, who was more than familiar with a pair of shears. In fact, he was annoyingly good looking, and seemed to look better and better every day. The comfort of domesticity softened his edges, his body, his face. It just suited him.

The routine you settled into had been simple. Steve worked the station in the morning, and he got the rest of the day with you and Sam. You divided up chores and tried to give each other a bit of time during the day to take a break, but, usually, you both wanted to spend every waking moment with Sam. Every other Friday, the military went through the gate in the square, which meant there was time for another crawl and Steve would be out all day.

"I hate you doing this," you finally said in October. They'd made it to crawl number seven, and it was beginning to feel like they were all pushing their luck. How was it that no one else seemed to feel it too?

But Steve was standing by the door, twirling his keys around his finger while you picked at your cuticles and worried. The sun was going down— honestly, he was already late— but you didn't want to let him leave. "You have a history with the lab, your name is probably on a government list, and you're driving around tracking Hopper in the world's most conspicuous van."

"I'll be fine," he insisted. "I just drive the route with Dustin and let him complain about how I'm driving, and the music I'm playing, and how annoying I am to be around. Even if we got stopped, there's nothing for them to hold us on. It's radio station business."

You swallowed hard and sighed. Sam tugged at your hair, winding a curl around her chubby hands. "Promise me you're not going to do anything stupid," you said, his expression tightened and you met his gaze as you continued. "I'm not saying you're stupid, I'm asking you not to take any unnecessary risks. Don't volunteer to go into the upside down, or… I dunno. Just don't do it."

"I won't," he said. "I'm driving a car, that's all." He stepped forward and pressed a kiss to Sam's forehead. "If you need me, I turned the walkie to the right frequency."

What choice was there but to let him go? He twirled his keys and waved to the both of you. Sam had just learned to wave back, which made him smile happily as he backed out of the drive and headed to the station.

"Just us girls, huh?" You said softly, nuzzling against her hair. "How about we practice walking… and dance to some good music… and have some butter noodles for dinner… is that a good plan?" You mimed nibbling her hand and she laughed giddily and wiggled in your grasp.

Sam had gotten pretty good at walking when she was assisted. You held onto her little hands and helped her waddle around the entire first floor of the house. She'd get tired, plop down on the floor, and crawl around while you chased her.

Her appetite was endless since she was growing up so fast. She'd eat anything you put in front of her, but was particularly fond of noodles. You wouldn't be caught dead complaining about a baby who wasn't a picky eater, especially considering your own habits as a kid. It was probably something she got from Tommy, who'd been easily convinced to eat actual dirt for five bucks.

Anyways, the night routine was easy. A quick bath and a few books in the rocking chair. You read Oh, The Places You'll Go and cried, then cheered yourself back up with Peter Rabbit. She dozed off to the sound of your voice, one hand still wrapped around your finger.

Just a few months ago, you'd felt so crushed by boredom doing this same sort of thing. But there was a comfort to it now that you relished in.

With everything awful going on, the simplicity and routine made you feel grounded in reality. You couldn't exactly stop the apocalypse from crashing down on Hawkins, and frankly, you knew it was best if you didn't try. But you could do your best to keep your promise to Carol and Tommy by taking care of your girl.

Steve got home after midnight, sneaking in like he expected the house to be sleeping. You waved at him from the bed, where you were flipping through an old Cosmo and waiting for him, and tried to stifle a yawn.

"You didn't have to stay up," he said, but the smile on his lips betrayed his gratitude. "It's late and you had Peanut all to yourself tonight."

You shook your head and dogeared the magazine. "No, it's not that late, really," you insisted. "Besides, she had a really good night. She's always having a good night. And she's getting so good at toddling around with help and cruising around the living room. I think she'll walk before her first birthday."

Steve smiled proudly at that. You watched him strip his clothes off— a bulky sweater tossed into the hamper on his side of the bed, followed by the plain white tank he always wore beneath.

The sides of his abdomen were covered in delicate, scarred skin— Bat bites, you had come to know. You could see the spots where their teeth had sunk in deep, and others where they'd just torn at the flesh.

Worst of all, you remembered seeing it when it was fresh and raw, when you had to touch the swollen stitches. Your lips turned and Steve's eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes.

"It's bad, huh?" He asked. When your head tilted in confusion, he nodded down to his body. "Yeah… Not a pretty sight."

Your eyes widened and you shook your head. "I wasn't thinking that." You swallowed and put the magazine onto your nightstand and sat up straighter. "I'm just thinking about how much it must have hurt. And how sorry I am that it happened."

Steve swallowed and glanced away. "No, it's uh… y'know… comes with the gig."

"But it can't," you said firmly. His gaze flicked back to yours and you tried to look at him as gravely as you could manage. "I— we need you home safe and sound. Okay? I want you to promise me that."

There was a flicker of hesitation… but he nodded. "I will come home safe and sound every time. I promise."

That had to count for something.

He ambled towards the en suite kicking the door shut behind him. He hummed as he brushed his teeth, a habit you'd grown quite fond of. When he came out and flopped lazily onto his side of the bed, you turned over to look at him.

"How'd it go tonight?" You asked.

He shrugged and sighed, then rolled over to meet your eyes. "Total dud," he huffed. "Hopper came up empty handed, and Dustin was being a total asshole the entire night. The good thing is, Hopper searched this neighborhood and it was totally quiet so…"

A wave of relief washed over you at that. It was reassuring to know that there weren't any demogorgon nests… or lairs… or whatever lurking on the opposite side of the covered rifts. That couldn't stop them from moving, or creating new rifts… but it meant there wasn't an imminent threat lurking and growing underneath Sam's feet.

"Well… no news is good news too, right?" You asked. "I mean, seven months ago the ground split open and there was freaky red lighting. And now… y'know… no demo-anythings, no trances, no people dying in freaky ways."

Steve sighed. "Well, Hawkins is big, he could still be out there." He swallowed and rolled over to stare at the ceiling.

The clock on your bedside ticked over to midnight. You exhaled and rolled over onto your back. Your childhood bedroom— just a small stretch of woods away— had glow stars stuck to the ceiling. They were put up when you were twelve, so you and Steve had to jump on your mattress to slap them up high enough. When you laid in your bed at home, you looked up at a galaxy of clumsily, thoughtlessly arranged stars and thought about simpler times.

You missed it then. Simpler times.

You should have known that things could only go right for so long. That eventually, your number would come up and the comfort of routine and stability would be rattled.

Crawl nine was late in November, the day after Thanksgiving. There hadn't any turkey, or macaroni and cheese, but you'd made really great mashed potatoes and Steve had roasted a chicken. You missed the fancy Thanksgivings at home— pumpkin pie, Brussels sprouts, a big juicy turkey, fresh cranberry sauce, creamy mac and cheese.

You had wondered if your parents were having that— if they'd somehow bought their way to a traditional, picture perfect meal. You called them before you ate just to wish them a happy Thanksgiving and tell them you missed them. The call was cold and strained, but, then again, so was most of your adolescence. They loved you, you knew, but there were conditions to it. And for that moment, you weren't meeting those conditions.

As for your thanksgiving, it was small and close knit. Hopper and El came over since there was nowhere else for them to go. It might have been nice… under different circumstances. A nice, happy dinner, a little football, and a really shitty batch of brownies that you and El butchered in the kitchen during halftime.

You were still sleepy and full from the big day before when Steve kissed Sam's forehead, then promised not to do anything stupid, the same promise you made him give for the past few crawls. And, really, you should have known that it was an empty promise when he couldn't meet your eye and was wearing camo, but you brushed it off.

You watched Sleeping Beauty with Sam, which really meant Sam toddled around the living room while Sleeping Beauty played on the TV. By nine, she was asleep in her crib and you were trying to follow along to the very vague instructions on making sugar cookies that Steve's Mimi had left in a recipe tin.

Later, you laid on the couch as you flipped through a "new" copy of Cosmo. It was two months outdated, and the best Bradley's could do, but it had piqued your interest on the shelf.

The articles, "why friends make the best lovers," and, "the joy of resuming an old romance," probably wouldn't solve your problems… but they couldn't hurt either. Every sign seemed to point towards just giving in— including the cheesy advice from magazines.

By the time you were crawling into bed, you'd made a too-crispy batch of cookies, finished the bodice ripper you'd borrowed from Claudia, and done all of the laundry in the house.

And even though you'd read Cosmo cover to cover, you were no less confused.

In the morning, you wanted to take Sam to the makeshift library operating out of the abandoned church on Miller Road. She'd never been before, but you could both stand to branch out your reading selection. You'd love to have a new bedtime story other than Hop on Pop, and Robin told you that Carrie was actually really good and not overrated at all.

The radio on the bedside table buzzed to life after midnight. It stirred you from a shallow rest, and you blinked the sleep from your eyes as Dustin's voice rang through the speakers.

"What's going on?" You asked sleepily. "'s everything okay?"

"Can you get to The Squawk? Soon, please?"

You sat up. "The station? Sam's already down for the night."

"Yeah, it's just... we— uh— need someone who can give stitches. And—"

"I'll be there," you said, cutting him off.

You scrambled to pull on clothes. You grabbed the first things in the dresser— an old Hawkins Basketball crewneck that may have belonged to Steve and a thick pair of flannel pajamas.

Shamefully, you felt a little excited to be looped into everything, despite Steve's warnings. But then you remembered that Hopper might have gotten seriously hurt in the crawl and forced yourself to ignore that feeling.

With your tennis shoes quickly thrown on, you hurried up the stairs to ease Sam from her crib. She wailed, angry to be roused in the middle of the night, but you couldn't exactly wait to call Claudia at this hour.

"Sorry, Peanut," you said gently as she screamed in your ear. "I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise."

By the time you made it to the station, Sam was red in the face and exhausted from her crying. You had a sinking feeling of dread as you approached the glass double doors with your arms full of your daughter and your bags.

Maybe being involved wasn't so great after all.

Dustin was waiting, flushed and avoidant of your gaze. Still, he opened the door and ushered you in. You bounced Sam as you walked alongside him, trying to soothe her a little. "Sorry it took so long, but I had to get Sam buckled up, get the diaper bag, pack my first aid kit— where's Hopper?"

Dustin stopped you with a hand on your arm before you could go down into the basement. "Okay, don't be mad, but—"

You pushed past him before he could finish that sentence, hurrying down the stairs as quickly as you could without jostling Sam too much.

At the bottom of the steps, you paused and exhaled sharply. Because there was Steve, bloody and bruised on the couch, surrounded by the rest of the party. He lifted a hand weekly in greeting, which only added insult to injury.

"Someone take my baby," you said, not breaking eye contact with Steve. "Right now."

El was the one to step forward and ease the crying Sam from your arms. In your periphery, she retreated back to Joyce. Hopper was nowhere to be seen but no one seemed too bothered by that, whatever the hell that meant.

You gritted your jaw and took a deep breath through your nose, then crossed the room to the little metal sink in the corner to wash your hands. "What happened?" You demanded.

At once, multiple voices rang out— Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Mike, Lucas. You shook your head and tried to keep control of your temper. Deep breath, in through your nose, out through your mouth. "No— One person."

You dried your hands and knelt at Steve's side. His shirt clung wet and sticky to his torso, which made you grimace. You lifted it and had to close your eyes at the sight of a deep slice across his ribs.

"Steve and Nancy filled in for Hopper tonight because he's sick," Robin explained, slowly, like she was trying to avoid punishment. "They were searching sector K— which are the really old, creepy houses off of Old Cherry. And we kind of figured, like, well, Vecna was in a creepy house before, so it would make sense for him to be in one now—"

Dustin sighed and spoke up. "Steve fell through the ceiling when he was searching an attic."

"Because he saw me about to step on a rotten board and pushed me out of the way," Nancy interrupted. "But he got a pretty bad cut on his side."

Steve huffed and struggled to sit up. "I'm not dead, I could have explained it myself," he muttered. He met your gaze and swallowed. You thought he looked a little guilty, which served him right. "I'm fine. Everything was going just fine, we just weren't thinking about... uh…"

"Structural instabilities," Nancy supplied.

You swallowed, because you couldn't talk to him in that moment, and pulled out your first aid kit. Everything was housed in a pink Caboodles case, which felt a little tonally inappropriate with an injured Steve bleeding beside you, but you'd been thinking this kit was going to be for scraped knees and minor kitchen accidents, not this.

You grabbed your needle and thread, and your rubbing alcohol and gauze. You closed your eyes for a moment to collect yourself, but all you could hear was Steve continuing to go on and on about how he had it handled and this was a freak accident and how could he have known—

"For the love of god, shut up, Steve," you snapped. You watched his mouth shut and his throat bob as he did exactly that. The rest of the room went deathly quiet too, save Sam, who was still weakly crying as she fought her sleep. "We'll talk later."

You uncapped the rubbing alcohol and met his gaze. Without warning, you doused the cut, which made him cry out in pain. He panted, torso rising and falling rapidly, cheeks pink. It might have made you feel something if you weren't so angry.

You used a bit of cotton gauze to clean up the area around the wound, jaw ticking as your thoughts just grew more and more bitter. He winced, glaring up at you for a moment as you dabbed at the tender skin.

"Can we have the room, please?" You snapped, glancing back at the literal crowd of people watching as you cleaned up the wound. "I've got it handled."

There were soft murmurings and the ambling shuffle of feet as the group dispersed. You exhaled slowly and met Steve's gaze. "I'll warn you before I go in," you said as you threaded the nylon thread through the needle. He swallowed and nodded, watching as you prepared the needle.

You'd never actually given a human being sutures before… but there was a first time for everything. You steeled yourself and swallowed hard… then pierced the needle through his skin.

He swore loudly and his stomach tensed at the feeling of the needle going through his skin. "What happened to warning me?" He panted.

You gave a faux sympathetic pout and pushed the needle through the other side of his skin. "Stop talking, I'm trying to focus."

Ten minutes later, the laborious process was over. You'd gone slow— partially to torture Steve, but mostly because you wanted to make sure you did everything right. He was stitched and bandaged and sulking, and you weren't feeling too cheerful either.

You grabbed a WSQK crewneck from across the room and threw it at him. "If you leave your bloody, dirty clothes on you'll get an infection. And I'm not dealing with that again."

"I'm sorry," he called after you as you climbed the stairs, but you weren't listening. It was just so like him that you should've expected it.

Upstairs, Sam was sleeping in El's arms, and everyone else just seemed to be waiting for you to come back. You dropped your caboodle and the diaper bag onto the coffee table and sighed. The adrenaline of being woken up in the middle of the night to be involved in one of their schemes had worn off, leaving you tired and frustrated.

"Don't worry, the patient survived the operation," you deadpanned, and ran a hand through your messy bedhead. No one said anything. Tough crowd. "El, do you wanna help me get Sam into her car seat? We're heading home."

She nodded and stood quickly. Dustin grabbed your things and followed you outside to your car. It was messy, and dinged up from shitty parking jobs. Someone keyed it in high school (probably Stacey), you never bothered to fix it. The paint job was scuffed at your bumper from backing into a mailbox… it was overall a great representation for how you felt lately.

As El eased Sam into the car seat, Dustin found a spot for the diaper bag and Caboodle on the floorboard, beside a winter coat, two empty purses, and a box of clothes you'd meant to donate a few weeks ago.

"You can't be mad at him over this," Dustin said as he shut the car door, gently so Sam didn't stir.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. You had a million reasons to be mad, and absolutely none to be surprised. "He promised me," you said. "This isn't just about him anymore, and he knows that. I lost my best friends to this shit without even knowing, and now—" Your voice cracked, and you felt a little mortified at how upset you really were.

How come he seemed to bear all of the scars? It wasn't just the emotional weight of it all, it was a physical toll. You hated that for him. You hated that he was all-too willing to martyr himself for the cause, even with Sam counting on him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew how you felt, how scared you were of finally getting something that you could lose just as quickly. And still…

He ambled out of the station with Robin not far behind. It was amusing, you thought, that they apparently thought he needed a bodyguard to come outside.

"Car," you snapped. "Now."

Robin's expression softened, and you watched her look guiltily between the two of you. She gave a small wave and disappeared back inside. Steve obeyed, slipping into the passenger seat with a heavy sigh. He winced as he pulled the seatbelt over his chest. Served him right.

Dustin said nothing as he went back in, but you thought he should at least understand your fears. Hadn't he just lost a best friend? Was he seriously okay with risking another?

"Bye," El said, and wrapped you in a tight hug. You sighed and hugged her back just as snugly. Over the past few months, you'd grown so fond of her. You wanted to surround her in bubble wrap and keep her from all of the bad shit going on. But, like Steve, she resisted.

They wanted to be in the thick of it, whether you liked it or not.

Inside the car, it was silent. Sam slept in her seat, her breathing slow and steady. You cranked the car and pulled out of the gravel drive, heading back towards the town center. Once the roads went from uneven deathtraps to neatly paved, Steve looked over at you. "Are you mad at me?" He asked.

You scoffed at the audacity and rolled your eyes. "Oh my god, what do you think?" The leather of the steering wheel squeaked as you readjusted and tightened your grip. You had no good reason to white-knuckle it, but you were seriously holding back from yelling with Sam sleeping in the back.

You never wanted to yell around her. Not now, not ever.

"Yeah," he said dejectedly. "You have your crinkle again."

"Oh, fuck off, Steve. I do not want to talk to you right now," you snapped. At a stop sign, you glanced over at him. "Seriously, can you just sit and think about why I might be mad right now? Silently, for the love of god."

He huffed, turning towards the window, and watched Hawkins outside. By the time you pulled into the driveway, you were still seething and he was still pouting. You grabbed Sam, he grabbed the bags, and you both walked into the house without a word.

Sam stayed asleep, even as you nestled her down in her crib. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent apology for the chaos of the night. "Sleep tight, Peanut," you whispered.

You shut the door on your way out, squinting in the dark of the house as you padded your way downstairs and into the bedroom. Steve was sitting on the bed already, wringing his hands. The WSQK crewneck was stripped— vibrant blue peeking from the laundry basket. He was left bare chested, the white of his bandage visible even in the low light.

Just before he opened his mouth to speak, you gave a firm shake of your head. "Not tonight," you said sharply. "It's half past one, and I'm tired, and I'm so fucking angry at you."

"I said I'm sorry," he said weakly. He scratched the back of his neck and rubbed at the bandage on his ribs. "I mean, really sorry."

You laughed wryly as you stripped off the clothes you'd hastily thrown on so you could change back into your real pajamas. There was no need to worry about modesty when the person you were sharing a space with had literally been inside of you. "You're sorry, huh? For what? Because I have a whole list of sorrys I'm still waiting for."

"Give me a list, I'll apologize for everything," he insisted, his gaze locking on your eyes so they didn't wander. "I'm sorry for going into the Upside Down without telling you. And I'm sorry for getting myself injured."

You pulled on your discarded pajamas and rolled your eyes. "You should be sorry for doing it at all, not just keeping it from me," you groaned, annoyance and hurt coursing through your veins in equal measure. "You promised me, you asshole."

"I know," he said. His voice was earnest, his eyes so soft. It tugged at something in your chest. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said, and you exhaled shakily.

Because that's what it was, wasn't it? You were scared from the moment Dustin stopped you in the station until you tied off the sutures. Your heart still held that fluttery feeling— the rush of adrenaline fading as you accepted that he was okay.

"So don't do it again," you said, and you were embarrassed that your voice wavered. "I mean, what if this all goes on for another few years? Five? Ten? Do you just expect me to be okay with you risking your life until everything is settled? If it's ever settled? It seems like you all just assume the problem is solved, then a year later all of the nasty, evil shit comes crawling out of the woodwork."

Steve's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he said. "But it's unfair of you to ask me to pick between what you want and what I need to do to keep you safe. Sure, Hopper's got it covered most of the time, but if you're making me choose between risking the Upside Down and putting off a crawl for another two weeks because he's benched, I'm taking the risk to keep my family safe."

The words deflated the anger— popping it like a sad party balloon. With a sigh, you sat at the foot of the bed beside him, legs tucked beneath you. Before you could react, Steve's hand was on your jaw, big and warm and rough. Part of you wanted to joke about how he needed to borrow some of the hand cream his mom left behind, but it felt like the type of moment that you shouldn't cheapen with nervous jokes. Your throat clicked as you swallowed hard and met his gaze.

A small, scared voice inside wanted to argue more and insist that he give it all up, but maybe he was right. Maybe, for the sake of everyone you cared about, you'd have to worry for a while. And maybe you'd have to let yourself trust him. Maybe you owed it to the both of you.

"Apologize again," you said weakly, nearly pouting. "I'm still mad at you for lying and going out in stupid army gear. And I'm mad I didn't even question it."

A shiver ran down your spine as he ran his thumb along your cheek, stroking gently, fondly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I felt bad lying, but if I dropped the ball and it got you or Samantha hurt… I couldn't live with that. Honest to god, that would kill me."

You closed your eyes as he brushed a curl back behind your ear. You knew that your perm was overdue for a touch up, but Steve didn't seem to notice, or even mind. The tiniest smile played on his lips, and you felt oddly shy when you noticed it.

"I'm really lucky to get to come home to you, even when you're angry at me," he said. That expression came back— that soft, affectionate one that made something tug inside of you. It didn't feel so bad anymore. "I feel sorry for all of the other chumps who don't, and I want to make sure I can keep coming home to you, and to Sam.

"So I'll stay in the van with Dustin from now on. And if there's an emergency and I have to go through the gate I'll tell you about it. I'll keep you posted on the walkie, I'll check in every two minutes, I'll even let you come with me if you w—"

He made a noise of surprise against your lips, but relaxed just as quickly. His mouth softened, parting as you pressed a slow, sweet kiss to his lips.

You'd kissed Steve on two very different occasions. Once, in the closet in Carol's basement— stiff mouths and all nerves. Then again at the wedding— desperate and hungry, full of intention. This was different, it was loving and affectionate, mournful, angry, absolutely infatuated. It was a decade of knowing each other in one kiss, and you felt the intensity of it down to your bones.

The hand on your face moved into your hair, tangling into your curls, holding you against him. Your hands would have fisted into his shirt, if he was wearing one. Instead, your palm rested on the soft hair at his chest and felt the steady thud of his heart against his ribs. If his hand moved down, if it rested at your throat, he'd feel your own heartbeat racing at his fingertips.

You pulled back, just to look at him for a moment. The line drawn between his brows, the way his lips still pursed, like they were frozen in the kiss you'd just interrupted. And his pretty eyes, dark with wanting.

"Did I do something wrong?" He asked.

A tiny smile pulled at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. "Usually? Yes. But right now? Not at all," you answered.

His head tilted to the side, and he laughed nervously. His nails scratched gently at your scalp, and he eased you forward until your lips met his again. Steadier, hungrier. His tongue eased into your mouth and you let him deepen the kiss.

A soft noise of contentment vibrated against his mouth, and he must have taken that as a sign to keep going. His free hand moved into the small of your back and pulled you closer, until your knees bracketed his thighs and you were settled on top of him.

The rational part of your brain told you to slow down. End the night with a kiss, deal with everything else later. But, for once in your life, you didn't want to be rational. You were so tired of stealing the joy from your life before you even got a chance to embrace it.

Steve was infuriating. He could be careless, and selfish and impulsive. But he was also so kind and nurturing, loving and devoted. He made you laugh, he brought a lightness to your life that felt impossible after the rifts opened and your life changed forever in ways you never knew that it could. He made you feel loved and wanted, and you wanted to give him all of that and more.

It was his turn to pull back and meet your eyes, searching. "Maybe we should slow down," he whispered, his lips brushing yours with each syllable. "Like… take a breather and just… make sure this is what we really want."

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to your lips, briefly, before meeting your eyes again. "It's like you said before, about… staying power, or whatever. I remembered because of the Queen song, and—"

You laughed and his brows furrowed with mild offense. "Sorry, it's just… do you want to stop?" He flushed, and you heard the softest huff escape his lips as he shook his head. "I don't either. And so you know… I've been torturing myself for months by keeping myself from being with you."

A smile broke across his features, and you sighed softly as he leaned in and kissed along your jaw. "You're so stubborn," he mumbled against your skin. "Can you believe I love that about you?"

Your tummy flipped at his words, a soft, light feeling that rushed through your veins. He moved his mouth to your throat, lips brushing against the ticklish spots at the hollow of your throat. "You're so stubborn," kiss, "and smart," kiss, "and beautiful," kiss, "and stubborn."

You laughed softly as his tongue traced over a spot that gave you chills. Goosebumps pebbled the skin on your arms, and you trembled slightly. "You said that already."

"Worth repeating." He kissed his way back up to your jaw, then to your lips. You smiled into the kiss, and you laughed when his teeth knocked against yours clumsily. "God, sorry, I'm nervous."

He was nervous? You wanted to laugh. God, you were shaking with nerves and anticipation. Your palm flexed against his chest, where his heart was pounding. You leaned back, meeting his gaze, and moved his hand from your back and under your shirt.

Slowly, you slid his hand up, over your stomach, until it rested warm and steady over your heart. His fingers flexed against your overheated skin, and he swallowed hard. Your forehead knocked against his, and you planted a slow kiss to his lips.

"This is exactly what I want," you said softly. A smile spread across his lips, easy and charming. "But I'm still kind of mad at you for almost dying."

His smile fell into a pout, and you grinned as he flipped you onto your back and pinned you beneath him. His knee pressed between your thighs, and you exhaled shakily at the slightest pressure. "I didn't almost die," he insisted. Hiss mouth moved back to your throat, moving closer to the neckline of your top. "I got a scratch. It barely even hurts."

He moved his fingers to the buttons of your top, and you were suddenly really embarrassed to be wearing thick flannel jammies. His mouth pressed against your sternum, tender and sweet. He popped the top button and the pale pink fabric parted slightly, granting him access to more of your body.

Another button, another kiss. Over and over until your shirt fell open and you had to shiver at the chill of the room. His hands moved up, burning hot against your skin, just to grope at your exposed tits. You squirmed, arching to meet his touch, and he moaned soft, just above your waistband.

He sat up, squinting down at you in the dim light. "Jesus christ," he hummed— he might as well have wolf-whistled. "I didn't get to see these last time."

"Can you even see them now?" You teased. He rolled his eyes and reached over to the bedside table, and you giggled when he fumbled with putting his glasses on one-handed.

He blinked a few times and nodded. "Oh, yeah. Much better. Perfect, beautiful, gorgeous…" He lowered himself back down and moved his mouth to your breasts, worshiping the newly exposed flesh with hungry kisses. The metal of his frames knocked against you, and you thought that his lenses must've been smudged to hell.

You whined at the feel of his hot mouth sucking on your nipples, the graze of his teeth against the hard bud. He moaned against your skin as you ground up against the knee between your thighs, rocking unsubtly as your body sought friction.

"You need more?" He mumbled against you. "I'll give you anything you want, beautiful. Gotta take care of my girl."

As soon as the words left his lips, a thrill ran through you. For once, you let yourself embrace that title entirely. Steve Harrington's girl. The thing you'd dreamed about for all of your early adolescence made reality.

And, somehow, it was better than all that you'd imagined. This wasn't a meaningless high school fling, or a thoughtless hook up. There was gravity to it, a seriousness that you felt in your chest as you looked up at him and nodded.

You can take care of me, you thought as he kissed down your torso, leaving a wet trail of kisses as he went. Now, forever, as long as we can. If Hawkins broke open again tomorrow and one of the freaky monsters made you their lunch, you'd go out with one less regret.

He slid your pants down your legs, and your pulse quickened as he kissed over the cotton of your panties. A sly grin spread across his lips as he looked up at you. "These are cute," he said, running a thumb over the soft embroidered butterfly on the front.

A shiver ran through you as his attention went lower, so he rubbed over your clit through the fabric of your panties. The muscles in your thighs twitched at that tiny amount of contact, and you watched his eyes darken as his gaze moved to the saturated patch covering your core.

"Stop staring, you're embarrassing me," you huffed, only half-serious. You reached down, easing the frames from his face so he didn't mess them up somehow. He laughed weakly and muttered a soft, thanks as you placed the glasses onto your nightstand.

His thumbs hooked into the waistband and he slowly eased your panties down your thighs. "Pretty girl," he said, and you felt yourself go hot as he spread you open on his fingers, you could feel how wet and sticky you were, so you knew he could see it. "Just let me do this. Gotta show you how sorry I am."

His lips pressed against your clit once, twice… soft and sweet. Your toes curled at the sensation, and you sighed weakly as his lips wrapped around the sensitive bud and suckled. And you knew he relished in the way he pulled soft gasps and whines from your lips.

His tongue parted your folds, feasting on you. You gave a keening cry as he licked a broad stripe from your dripping entrance back to your clit. When gripping the bedsheets weren't enough, you moved your fingers into his hair. One little tug and he was a goner, eyes fluttering, moans vibrating against your cunt.

Of course guys had gone down on you before. You tried to date gentlemen, but none of them had seemed to relish in it the way that Steve did. Eyes closed like he was savoring the taste of you on his tongue. Moaning and mumbling praise against your slick flesh as he nuzzled closer and devoured everything you had to offer.

"You taste so good," he murmured, and you felt the words more than you heard them. Your head lolled back against the pillows as he eased a finger inside of you, sinking deep inside of your tight, hot center. It curled, pressing against the spongey, sensitive spot inside and you choked back a desperate moan. "That's it, just take what I'm giving you."

Every nerve in your body felt alight with desire. Your nails scratched dully against Steve's scalp as he eased a second finger alongside the first, fucking you slow and deep while he practically made out with your cunt.

It had been a while since you'd felt anything like this, and even then, your exes weren't exactly cutting it. Pleasure licked at your nerves like fire, and you felt hot all over as he brought you to the edge with his mouth and tongue. "I'm almost— god— I'm so close, Steve," you panted.

He moaned against you like he was the one seconds away from cumming, or maybe just that getting you there was the hottest thing he could imagine. Either way, his enthusiasm really did it for you. His lips sealed around your clit and he gave you just the right amount of suction as he rubbed over your g-spot. Really, you would've loved for it to have lasted longer, but you were careening towards your finish and it had been months since you'd been touched like this.

And, suddenly, the band in your stomach snapped and wave after wave of euphoria washed over you. Your thighs twitched, clamping on either side of his head as you ground against his hot, eager mouth. You felt your walls squeezing around his fingers, tightening as he gently worked you through your orgasm.

He laughed weakly when he finally pulled back, mouth slick with your release, wearing a dopey, lovey smile. He planted a sweet kiss to your inner thigh and eased his fingers from inside of you. "You know I've been dreaming about that?" He asked, and kissed his way up your body and back to your mouth, settling comfortably between your legs.

You grinned and leaned up, kissing his hungrily. You felt warm and floaty, which you partially contributed to the orgasm he'd pulled out of you, and mostly contributed to just letting yourself relish in the nice, warm feelings you felt towards him. It was a marvel, what releasing yourself from self-implemented shackles could do for your soul.

"Actually dreaming," he continued, the words mumbled against your mouth. You could taste your own release, heady on his tongue as he licked into your mouth, like he couldn't get enough of any part of you. "It makes sharing a bed with you very inconvenient."

You grinned, thinking of all of the times that you had woken up tormented by sex dreams about him. It was funny that the entire time, you'd been having the exact same problem. But, y'know, you weren't going to say that.

"Usually, I'd have offered to return the favor," you said, peering up at him. "But… you did something really reckless and thoughtless today, so I don't think you deserve it."

"That's probably for the best," he said, and he had a certain sheepishness to his expression that endeared you. "I, uh, haven't slept with anyone since before… everything."

Your brows furrowed. Because, yeah, technically that made sense— you hadn't exactly seen Steve go out and hook up with anyone. Reasonably, you knew he'd been either at home with you and Sam, running errands with the baby, or at the station.

It was almost impossible to imagine that Steve, your Steve, who seemed to have an endless line of girls begging for a chance to sleep with him, had been effectively celibate for at least eight entire months.

"Wow… call Guinness." He rolled his eyes, but there was a ruddiness to his cheeks that pulled at your very tender heartstrings. "This has to be the longest you've gone since you lost it in the first place. You're practically a virgin again."

He scoffed, but he didn't argue. "I'm just saying, like… I'm in a dry spell, and I've been wanting this so bad, I just don't want to disappoint you if I…" He swallowed hard and a wry smile spread across your lips.

"If you blow your load too fast?" You teased. "Honestly… after all of this build up, I'd be offended if you didn't."

He rolled his eyes and pressed a fleeting kiss to your lips before sitting back to undress fully. You watched with unabashed hunger as he shucked off his pants and briefs, until he was completely bare before you.

You let yourself gawk at him— at the man he'd become while you were too busy resenting him. The softness of his body that masked the strength beneath, the pale scars spotting his sides, the hair that tapered down to the part of him that your memories somehow didn't manage to do justice to.

He was bigger than you remembered. You thought that maybe your brain had to ignore how perfect his dick was so you had a chance of moving on. But, god, when you weren't crammed into the backseat of the Beamer and trying to see around the tulle, he was annoyingly perfect.

"Now you're embarrassing me," he said, as he shifted on top of you again, blocking your stare. His arms rested on either side of your head, caging you in entirely. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm not lasting a minute."

You glanced over at the night stand and frowned. "I didn't exactly plan for this. All of my condoms are at my dorm," you admitted. The flash of jealousy in his eyes sent a thrill through you that you'd have to explore later. "Do you have anything?"

He swallowed, blinking out of his thoughts. "Uh, I could go grab one from upstairs," He offered. And then the thought of him sleeping around before spring break flashed in your mind, and you were flooded with a sting of possessiveness.

You were both deeply insane people.

You shook your head. Sam just went down, and the thought of Steve accidentally waking her and setting off another wailing fit was enough to make you frown. "We'll be fine. Just try to pull out."

He groaned, burying his head in your shoulder. "Try?"

"Try," you echoed. "I mean, I'm not ovulating or anything, but better safe than pregnant."

His cheeks flushed and he nodded. "Yeah," he panted. "Yeah, okay."

His warm hands grabbed your thighs and spread them further. You wrapped them around his hips and let your ankles lock around his lower back. Your breath caught as he rocked his hips, just a bit. The head of his cock nudged at your clit, slick and hot and hard against you.

It was so different than it had been in his car. There was a certain intimacy to fucking in the bed you shared— bodies bare and warm, pressing against each other. But then his eyes met yours, soft and eager, and you knew it wasn't just fucking. It never had been.

He kissed you just as he pushed inside, nice and slow, as if either of you could take much more. You gasped into his mouth, eyes fluttering as you tried to hold his gaze. One hand grabbed onto yours, fingers tangling, squeezing.

The stretch was a dull ache, but not unpleasant. It made you think of being sore after a workout, the promise that it would get easier with time. And you had time.

When he was fully sheathed within you, he kissed you, slow and deep. His tongue tangled with yours, hungry, as his hips rocked deeper. It felt like every nerve in your body was alight, until you were overwhelmed with pleasure and with raw need. "God, Steve," you panted. "Feels so good."

His forehead knocked against yours, and your free hand grabbed at his bicep as he built up a solid rhythm. His moans vibrated against your lips, and it felt like there was no end or beginning to either of you. A stupid, cheesy feeling like you were two parts of one soul, or whatever you had read in Cosmo.

"I love you," he panted softly. In the dim light of the room, his eyes almost shone with feeling. With a strange tug of untraceable emotion, you realized he meant it. And you knew that even though you couldn't say it back, you felt a stirring of something in your chest— old and unmistakable.

So you kissed him again and hoped he could taste everything you couldn't let yourself say on your tongue. Your legs wrapped around him tighter, and you pulled him closer, forced him deeper. He groaned into your mouth and tightened his grip on your hand.

He was so deep, grinding against those sensitive spots inside with each shallow thrust. Your head was thrown back, so Steve moved his mouth to your throat, where he peppered your skin with small nips and kisses. "Jesus, you feel perfect," he whispered against your skin. "So fucking perfect."

With each thrust, you ground up to meet him, until you were both moving in perfect harmony. You moved your hand between your bodies to rub at your oversensitive clit, aching for just the tiniest push over the edge.

It overtook you like a slow burn, but completely unavoidable. Soft, choked sobs of pleasure escaped your lips as a sweet euphoria washed over you. "Steve," you panted, and he shuddered above you. You felt him give a few clumsy thrusts before he pulled out and came onto your tummy with a shaky moan.

You expected him to make an excuse to save his ego, about usually lasting longer, or his long dry spell, but he just collapsed beside you and laughed breathlessly. "God, you're perfect," he sighed. "I haven't come that hard in… like, ever. Definitely not since the wedding."

He leaned over and kissed you again, soft and slow. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

You sat up on your elbows and watched him go, leering at him as he disappeared into the en suite and grabbed one of the fancy, fluffy towels within. When he came back, he wiped the mess from your stomach and between your thighs, then placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

"How're your stitches?" You asked, sparing a glance to the white gauze bandage.

He grimaced and glanced down. "Uh… fine? I don't feel anything bad. Must be the adrenaline, or hormones or something. I'm on cloud nine."

A fond smile played on your lips as Steve flopped onto his stomach. You reached over, playing with the ends of his hair until he got a full body shiver and groaned. He turned his face to look in your direction and his lips twitched in amusement.

You took a manicured finger and ran it along the slope of his nose, then traced along his mouth. He had a small scar on his bottom lip… and another on the bridge of his nose. A tiny one at his cheekbone… And his freckles were another thing entirely. You traced them with your nail like you were playing connect the dots, all while Steve's eyes got heavier and heavier.

You nestled into his side to sleep, and it felt like you belonged there. Maybe you always had.

You slept through Steve leaving— which you took as a sign that he had really worn you out. He'd scribbled a message on a sticky note on the fridge, which you couldn't help but smile at when you saw it.

Good morning, beautiful. Couldn't wake you up, you looked so peaceful.

In the morning, with Sam in her playpen, you worked on addressing the invites to her first birthday. You'd given Will forty bucks to design it, with little anthropomorphized peanuts dancing around a cake, and had made copies at the high school since the library and office supplies school didn't exist anymore.

It was hard to believe that in two weeks, your little peanut would be one. In a few more months, it would be a year since everything happened, since you became her mom. You took the pen to paper and addressed one invite to your parents, and wondered if they'd bother showing up. You hoped so, at least.

The phone rang in the kitchen, so you hopped up and promised Sam you'd be right back. You yawned as you leaned against the wall and grabbed the phone. It had been a very late night, and you were fucking beat.

"Harrington residence," you answered.

"You sound so hot saying that." Steve's voice rang through the line and you couldn't help but laugh. "I wanted to tell you that I'm getting to cover an hour of the radio station. Robin has to go to a lady doctor or something, I dunno actually. But I'm going to be DJ-ing starting at noon."

"That's a good time slot," you said. "Lots of ears. Are you nervous?"

He laughed softly. "Uh, no, not really," he said. "I have it all planned out. Robin gave me notes, but… I'm just gonna go for it. Will you listen?"

You always listened, even when he was just playing random sound effects or switching tapes. But there were some things you didn't need to tell him. "Mhmm, are you gonna dedicate a song to me, loverboy?" You teased. "That'd be so corny."

"Just listen. Twelve o'clock. I'm starting with Hall & Oates."

"Alright, I'll listen."

He did, in fact, dedicate a song to you. Two songs specifically, but the entire set was so corny and mushy that you felt your face go hot just listening to it.

Steve Harrington was a loverboy at heart, and now everyone you knew would know that you were together. And it wasn't that you were planning on hiding it, or changing your mind. It was the thought of him changing his mind and everyone knowing that you weren't enough that scared you.

After lunch, you put Sam in the car and drove somewhere you neither of you had been before.

Their headstone wasn't even in place yet. The Perkins' and Hagan's had picked it out together— a joint headstone with a little marble heart between their names. But there were a lot of headstones for the small funeral parlor in Hawkins to have to make, and a limited amount of materials available in quarantine. You figured your friends must have been pretty low on the list.

In its absence, their empty plot was marked by a sad plastic marker with water-spotted paper. The damage made their names nearly illegible smudges, their birth and death dates inky streaks on the cardstock. There was nothing to bury, no part of them that was particularly tethered to this plot, but there you were.

You were wrapped in a puffer jacket, and Sam was bundled up in a coat and held tight against your chest. It was the first time you'd brought her to visit them… if there was a part of them tethered to this spot at all.

"Carol Perkins, you fucking bitch," you began, with a sad smile at the inky smudge on damp paper. "I bet you'd both really be loving all of this, you know? If you were here, you'd be sharing those stupid, smug glances and playing dumb about how long you've known."

Sam babbled and nuzzled closer. The cold made her nose go an adorable shade of pink, and you thought she was the most precious thing in the world.

There was a certain comfort in talking to your friend, even if you had no way of knowing if she could hear. "I think it's what you both would want though," she said. "Steve says he loves me, and I… don't know. I mean, we've never been on a date, we're doing everything backwards…"

You sighed. "But I care about him, and I want this to last, and I want Sam to grow up in a house where she's loved, and she's surrounded by love. I want her to have what I didn't, you know?"

The wind whistled through the trees. A few yards away, the plastic wrapping of a bouquet crinkled in the wind. It felt a bit like a hug, you thought. Or maybe you just missed them so much that you'd imagine anything to feel them that close ever again.

"Tommy, you'd give Steve so much shit for his nicknames," you said with a grin. "And honestly, Peanut is sticking. Like, she kind of is our little peanut, y'know? We're having a peanut themed birthday party for her, and on Halloween she was Mr. Peanut."

You sighed. She was getting fussy from the cold, so you knew you'd have to leave soon. "Anyways… it's just been too long. I guess I thought today of all days, I needed to see you." You put your fingers to your lips, and touched that soggy marker with a wobbly smile. "I really wish you'd just told me. You know I've always been stubborn."

Steve was waiting at home with a slightly wilted bouquet and a sleeve of Oreos. You grinned and kissed his cheek fondly as he eased Samantha from your arms. When you opened the sleeve, there were already three cookies missing.

"Sorry, I got impatient," he said, bouncing your girl on his hip. "But Murray got them for you. He can get whatever you want, so… y'know. Just tell me and I'll tell him."

You couldn't help the smile that warmed your features. "Wow… this is the Steve Harrington girlfriend experience, huh? Showered with gifts and attention and song dedications."

He lit up, his smile growing. "You're my girlfriend? 'Cause I was going to ask, and it was going to be a whole thing. A nice date, more flowers, more gifts, more songs—"

You shut him up with a sweet kiss. "I think that all sounds great," you said. "I can pretend I'm not your girlfriend until then, if you want."

He shook his head insistently. "Oh, no, that's… I think girlfriend is perfect. That didn't… I mean you being my girlfriend is perfect." He scratched the back of his neck and kissed your forehead. When Sam whined at the lack of attention, he leaned down and kissed the crown of her head.

It was all so easy, you wanted it to be easy. You wanted to let yourself fall in love with Steve Harrington. But, for the time being, just this felt like what you needed.

A/N: YAYYYYYYY!!!!

Now it's Steve's turn to get walked like a dog and beg for scraps while reader works up to acknowledging their feelings!!! Everyone cheered!!

I hope you enjoyed this!! I had the best time writing this, it was truly a labor of love. I wanted to throw in a new reader friendship, so of course I had to pick my beloved angel El Hopper <3 I just felt like she needed an older mentor to take her under her wing!!

Please let me know what you think!!! I love talking to y'all about this story <3 one more chapter + epilogue left <3

[mischievousmoony]

coming up roses steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: you and steve attend the only wedding you probably ever will ⊹ 1.2k warnings: angst, reader is characterized as not wanting kids or marriage or small town life, inspired by coming up roses by harry styles

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

The pews creak as the crowd stands in unison, turning at the beginning notes of the wedding march on the organ. The grand doors at the back of the church lurch open, revealing a beautiful bride in an ivory gown, her teary smile hidden behind sheer lace.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

Steve has imagined this many times. Standing at the altar, hands shaking with nerves, waiting for the love of his life to make her way down the aisle of this very church. The same one his parents used to drag him to every Sunday, ignoring his huffs and puffs and muttered remarks. He stopped going when he turned eighteen, but he always figured he’d be back, if only for the one event.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

As the bride glides past him, taking measured steps over pink petals, he’s reminded that this perfect day does not belong to him.

Steve’s features melt into a look of longing as he turns his head in your direction. Your lips are pursed. When you catch him staring, you offer him a tight-lipped smile and take his hand. Your fingers squeeze around his. He doesn’t know if the gesture is a silent “hello” or an act of comfort. He chooses not to dwell on it as the officiant begins to speak.

The wedding is lovely. Beautiful, and everything Steve would want for his own.

Thinking about his own wedding should fill him with anticipation. Instead, he feels a sinking sense of dread. Even if he were to have the most lovely wedding, with all his loved ones filling the pews like those that have shown up for his old friends today, the one true wish he has may never come true.

While he may be gazing around this church, fondly imagining a similar future for himself, the ceremony is surely having a different effect on you.

For you, this wedding serves as a reminder of everything you’ve never wanted.

It was easier to ignore your differences when you and Steve were younger. Marriage and babies and settling down were such fantastical notions. Things for a future version of yourself to consider. Things that didn’t even cross your or Steve’s minds when he took you to the prom or snuck you into movies.

Now, there are things you can’t seem to avoid. Not when all your high school friends are mailing wedding invitations to Steve’s address with your name on them too. Not when past teachers and parents of old friends ask when Steve’s gonna pop the question whenever you run into them at the grocery store.

Your misalignment has been weighing heavily on you regardless, but these constant reminders certainly don’t help.

Sometimes, when you're particularly impulsive, or Steve can’t swallow his anxiety, one of you will say the quiet part out loud. He’ll mention how affordable the three-bedroom Craftsman on Sawyer Street is. You’ll say you’ve finally saved enough to transfer from your little community college to that big school in New York.

You’ll both end up guilty and sad, and you’ll drown it with a few drinks and easy conversation that reminds you why he became your first love.

The small glasses of champagne from the bar are not nearly enough to make you forget your troubles tonight, as you all toast to the newlyweds.

Steve sees the look on your face when the bride gushed about the babies in her near future. You don’t miss the glint in his eyes, and you feel like you want to cry.

You push around bits of white cake on the plate in front of you. Your appetite disappeared sometime between the couple’s first dance and the groom's parents asking Steve if he’s next.

“I wonder how much the band cost them?” He tries to make casual conversation, not intending to sound like he’s planning already, but he sees his mistake in the way you clench your jaw. He swallows the last few sips of his drink. “Let’s dance.”

You don’t move when he stands from his chair and offers his hand to you.

“I think we should…”

Talk. The word is right there, but you can’t spit it out.

“Not tonight,” he pleads, his thick brows pinching together beneath the chestnut strand that has fallen from his otherwise perfectly behaved hair.

You steel yourself with a deep breath and place your hand in his.

On the dance floor, Steve cracks a few jokes to see you smile. Your laughter carries him through three whole songs. The tempo drops on the fourth, and you rest a hand on his chest, the other arm wraps behind his neck. He draws you in by the small of your back and doesn't say a word until the second chorus.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips pressed against your hairline. “New York’s gonna love you.”

“Steve…”

“Shh, it’s okay.” One of his hands comes up to the back of your head, cradling you against his chest. “I know I said we wouldn’t talk about it, but-” Steve swallows. “But I need you to know that I believe in you. You’re the smartest, most capable person I’ve ever met. And I’m not gonna stand in the way of your dreams.”

“But if I leave…” you whisper. Your voice trembles on every word, “I’ll be getting in the way of yours.”

Steve’s breath is momentarily caught in his throat.

“You’re happy in all of my dreams,” he murmurs, holding you tighter.

You can read between the lines. No matter what you choose, his dreams will never come true. Not when they involve keeping you in this town, making your future a marriage and kids you never imagined yourself having.

“I love you so much,” you choke out, his rented tuxedo dampening with your tears as you turn your face into his chest.

“So… dance with me for a little longer.”

Steve shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine a first dance he'll never have with you. You'd be in silvery white. Or maybe not. Maybe something softer. Maybe even something less traditional. He would have thought you were the picture of beauty, no matter what it looked like. Your hair, done up but natural, the way he loves it most. And your hand in his would have a ring on it. Simple, modest, because he'd been setting money aside since he was seventeen and held his first job lifeguarding at the local pool, and it still hasn’t amounted to much.

He imagines the song they'd play. Whether you'd cry. Whether he would. He knows he would.

He imagines leaning down and saying something stupid in your ear to hear you laugh. He can’t think of anything now.

He sways you gently, back and forth, no matter what song plays. No matter how many people abandon the dance floor around you. Too afraid that when he stops, when he lets go, that means it’s over.

Maybe it does.

Wedding guests begin to filter out. Jackets are collected, and ties come loose. Aunties from both sides claim the centerpieces. The band plays its last song.

And Steve, who still hasn’t opened his eyes, just keeps holding you.​‌‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‍‌‍‍‌‍‍‍‌‌‍‍‍‍‌‌‍​

· ─ ⋆⋅✶⋅⋆ ─ ·

[moonstruckme]

I've had this idea for Steve Harrington x shy!reader where she feels insecure about Steve and Nancy's whole ex relationship because she worries they still have feelings for each other and so she kind of goes into a little shell and how Steve would react to that! and she's really close with max and Dustin and the kids and just the dynamic

you write shy reader so well, and all your little fics are so fun to read 🫶🏻

Thanks for requesting angel <3

Steve Harrington x shy!reader ♡ 1k words

It’s windy on the roof of the squawk, which makes it easier not to talk. You can lean on the excuse that you’d need to nearly shout to be heard, and anyway this get-together is about Steve getting to catch up with old friends, not about you. You can feel Steve noticing, though. 

He’s discerning when he wants to be, and prone to worry when it comes to you. Each time you let a topic he knows you care about pass you by without comment, or one of his friends asks you a question and you reply only briefly, or he glances over and catches you watching him, Steve meets your eyes, a silent Everything okay? passing between you, and you smile for him. 

Yeah, fine. 

It doesn’t feel quite like a lie if you never voice it. And you know you should talk about it, but you’d really like not to, because you know you’re being stupid and everything is fine, really. You just want to go home and lick your imaginary wounds in peace. 

The sky is a bruise, purple and darkening, by the time Jonathan says he has to get home. You all follow him down, the chatter trailing you into the stairwell and Steve’s hand warming the small of your back as he takes up the rear. There are goodbyes, it was great meeting you and so good to see you again and we’ll have to do this again soon. You notice that Nancy gives Steve a quick rub between his shoulders when they hug, which is friendlier than the hug she gives you, but that makes sense because they are friends and you only just met for the first time tonight, so. It’s fine, actually. 

When Steve’s hand splays over her back in turn, you find yourself trying to remember how he hugs you. Is it as close? Does it last as long? Does distance really make the heart grow fonder? 

You forcibly derail that train of thought, refusing to tumble down into feelings you can’t easily claw your way out of.

“Hey,” says Steve, when he starts his car and you still haven’t reached for your seatbelt. 

You blink yourself back into focus, reaching for it. “Sorry.” 

“You okay?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Yeah?” He leans over, frowning when you find reason to mess with a rip in your jeans rather than meet his eyes. “You don’t feel good, or what?” 

You soften, guilty at his concern for you. “I’m good.” 

Steve is unconvinced. “Did you not like them?” 

“No, they were great.” 

“It’s okay if you didn’t.” 

“Steve.” You try to give him a smile. Steve slots his palm alongside your cheek, and your stomach flutters weakly. “They were really nice. That’s not it.” 

His eyes search yours. “Then what is it?” 

“They’re going to notice we’re just sitting here in the car and not leaving.” 

“I don’t care.” Steve’s got that notch between his brows. It should make him look severe, but his eyes are only softer than ever, melty brown. He strokes your cheek achingly slow, like he’s trying to coax something to the surface. “You’re being weird. What’s up with that?” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. Looking away from him again, if only so you don’t have to see the realization of your clichéd-ness register on your boyfriend’s face. “I think the whole Nancy thing just felt more real tonight.” 

“The whole Nancy thing?” Steve’s tone is edged with humor. 

You look at the floormat, silently pleading with him not to make you say it. 

“Baby,” he says, softer now. “That was forever ago. Do you want me to not hang out with her now because we went out in high school?” 

You shake your head, heat in your face. 

“Do you think I would cheat on you?” 

If it’s bait to get you to look at him, it works; you sit up, stricken. “No.” 

Steve looks relieved, though it does little to dilute the hurt in his expression. “Then what, honey? What are you worried about?” 

“There…” Your voice thins into nothingness, and you have to try again. “There are other things.” 

“Other things?” 

“Like you thinking about her, or…I don’t know…” You think this has to be the stupidest anyone’s ever felt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be—” Steve sighs, his hand leaving your cheek to bury its fingers in his hair. You try not to let it sting. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” you say, hardly above a whisper.

“You know I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t want to be, right?” 

Somewhere deep inside your ribcage, something trembles. “Right,” you lie. 

“Good.” Steve looks at you, firm in a way he isn’t usually. “‘Cause I wouldn’t. And not that it matters, but I’m pretty sure Nance would rather eat uncooked chicken than think about me that way again.” 

You gnaw your cheek as you ask, “Do you want her to?” 

“No,” says Steve. So easy, so certain. 

It’s the certainty that settles you. It doesn’t feel like a brush-off or a thoughtless denial, something said to end the argument. From Steve, it feels like an obvious truth. 

“I’m sorry,” you say again, sheepish. 

“Baby,” he sighs, but there’s a smile now playing on the ends of his mouth, “stop saying you’re sorry. Let’s just be honest here, okay? Even if I wanted to, I do not have the skills to run around with more than one girlfriend.” 

Your lips twitch. “Don’t be mean to yourself.” 

“I’m serious! I mean, you have to be a dick, first of all, but you also have to be a dick smart enough to keep two women happy and hide them from each other. I’m not that smart.” 

“So, that’s the only reason you won’t cheat on me?” you ask boldly. 

Steve rolls his eyes. You smile as his hand snakes across your shoulder, fingers wrapping around the back of your neck. “No. I’m just a one-woman man.” 

“Bummer for the other women,” you murmur, letting him bring you closer for a kiss. 

“They’ll be alright.”

[bluetimeombre]

Giving steve the BEST bj of his life. The reader and him have sex and for some reason she feels so much better than anyone else. He tried other girls but no one can make him feel like the reader does or get his mind off her so he shows up desperate for her

CRAWLIN' BACK TO YOU !

Staring to actually keep me up at night that I’ll never have the chance to give this guy head - language, oral 'm reciving, feral reader, feral Steve, light spanking, rip if your name is Natalie (it was the first name i could come up with) not proof read

"So, who's the lucky girl tonight?" you asked.

Steve looked back at you, eyes narrowed into dark slits. "Don't- don't say it like that."

"Say it like what?"

"Like- that!"

You shrugged as if you were innocent. You weren't.

You had come to Family video just to enquire about Steve's new date tonight. He'd kept in the low, incredibly mysterious and not like him at all. He bragged about every girl he got a date with, Stacy, Amy, Angie- whatever.

He forgot their names by the time he was inside of you, pulsing and only chanting yours in prayer.

"Natalie, she's moved back after collage, she was a year above in school," he said, re-piling the same old pile of tapes he had been all night.

"Nice.... Natalie," you said slow as if testing the name on your lips.

Steve watched.

It had been like this for you'd forgotten how long. It was sometime ago, after one of Steve's many failed dates and one too many drinks on both parts that had you detailing everything wrong with the girls, how you'd never deter Steve. Somewhere along those lines hands had been lost in hair and you had been pushed back on the bed, clothes stripped and thrown.

Every time Steve tried to date he ended up alone, with you. A girl he never dated.

"Anyway I was just asking cause I have a date tonight and I won't be home."

Steve couldn't have pretended to be less shocked. His elbow slipped on the counter, knocking a poster for a 'weekend only deal'. "A date?"

You nodded, a glint in your eyes. "Yeah."

"Who?" he asked. "Who? Where- where're you guys going?"

You watched as he tried to remain casual but Steve had never been much good at pretending (unless it came to inter-dimensional beings and places). His intentions to know made you a little happier about the date you hadn't wanted to go to in the first place. "I don't ask all these details for your dates, do I?"

Steve blushed. "No-no but-"

"But nothing," you leant over the counter a little bit more, just to push your chest up a little more, drawing his attention before pushing yourself up and heading out. "Hope the date goes well! Tell Robin I said bye!"

"Aw shit- fuck baby," Steve seethed as you bobbed your head around the tip of his cock just the way he liked.

How you knew he liked it done.

You'd escaped your date half way through after the guy had talked through the first half of the movie about himself and his goals and aspirations and everything he wanted in a woman. You fled to the 'bathroom' and quickly drove yourself home.

Where Steve was waiting at your steps, sat, hunched over.

You'd hardly got out the car before he had you pinned against it, arms circling your waist and kissing you like he was trying to steal your breath.

Steve moaned, hands running through his hair. "God baby take me good, so good."

Your lips curled up around him as you slowly released him, letting a trail of saliva run down his cock. You licked up the side of his hardness. "Better than Natalia?" you teased.

Steve reached down, taking your chin in his fingers. It wasn't harsh but hard enough to prove a point. His skin was glossy with sweat, shirt sticking to him. His lips were pink from the kisses and how hard he was biting down on his lip to stop the obscene noises that would fall from him. "Don't wanna hear any other name, okay?"

You nodded, a smirk forming on your lips as you bent your neck, taking Steve's thumb into the warmth of your mouth.

Steve fell back onto your bed. "Jesus..."

You released his thumb, flicking your tongue against the skin before you returned to worshiping his cock.

His own pants were a cushion for your knees, the rest of your clothes dumped around your room in a haphazard mess.

You swirled the tip of his cock with your tongue, working your hand around the base and running your hand up and down slowly.

Steve groaned. "God baby, take me in your mouth... c'mon, know you can do it." He looked down at you, lip bitten and you couldn't help but comply, opening your jaw and taking him in deep.

You gagged around him, the obscene noise driving you on further as you repeated.

"Oh-sh-shit!" Steve moaned out, hands falling into your hair to stir on your movements. It only lasted a minute before you were moving off him again.

He whined. "Baby, baby, please."

"Tell me about her," you said, jerking him off with one hand while the other made a home in fondling his balls, full with need.

"W-what?" Steve stuttered, eyes fluttering in pleasure.

"What was wrong with your date this time?" As much as you didn't want to hear the details of his date you wanted to try to match the patterns. What was it exactly that had Steve running to you every time.

Steve did not want to talk about it but he looked down, finding your wide pleading eyes next to his cock and he was a man floored. A man who'd do anything for you. "I didn't like her laugh, she spoke constantly about her ex, said-said she didn't like my car-"

You gasped. "What a bitch."

Steve chuckled breathless as you squeezed around the base of him. "I- mmph- I couldn't stop thinking about you. Of coming back to you. Of how much I love your laugh. Thinking of all- all the times we've screwed in the back of my car-"

"And the front," you added, licking a stripe up his cock and collecting the pre-cum you'd coaxed out of him.

In one swift movement Steve was sitting up, tugging at your hair until your face was in front of his.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you. All of you," he said low and breathless, eyes dark with want. "Wanted to end it as soon as it began so I could ruin that date you were only going onto mess with me."

You pursed your lips in attempts to stop a smile. "Did it work?"

His tongue poked out his cheek. "Yeah, it fucking worked. Drove myself mad thinking about it, almost crashed my car. Needed you so badly. And you needed me to, huh?"

Two fingers dragged through your pussy, curling in the right spot as Steve watched every contort of pleasure your face gave him.

"Right?"

You nodded, whimpering and melting into his hand. "Yes! Yes! God, yes!"

Steve smirked, his fingers slowly leaving you and smearing your want over your needy pussy. "Right. Now be a good girl and suck my cock."

His hand gently pushed you down but you sucked his cock into your mouth deep until you had him stuttering and groaning. Steve kept himself propped up on his hand to watch as you bent to take him in, gagging repeatedly and dragging your mouth up and down.

"Ah fuck-fuck-fuck-" he chanted, falling back onto his forearm as he smoothed back your hair.

Your ass wiggled in the air as you got yourself lower until you reached the hilt of him.

"Jus like that, jus like that babygirl," he uttered, watching you take him deep. "You can do it, my god-"

You released him, catching your breath.

Steve's hand found the flesh of your ass, pulling and pushing at the plump skin before he slapped it light enough to watch the flesh ripple but not to sting.

"Steve!" you moaned out.

"Like that baby?"

You nodded, eyes looking at him wide through your lashes as you lowered down on him again, sucking him deep and slow.

Steve's eyes fluttered shut, his mouth hanging open as you hollowed your cheeks. You felt his entire body clench at you.

You did it again, fingers curling low against the hairs of his stomach.

"Baby, if you do that again I'll- I won't-"

Whatever it is, you wanted him. You wanted everything that was Steve Harrington, that was why you never argued when he knocked or climbed the drain pipe to tap-tap at your window.

You gagged around him, hollowing your cheeks and digging your nails into his skin.

Steve's mouth hung open in a lifeless moan as he fisted the bed sheets in one hand, your hair in the other. "Sh-shit!"

He released down your throat in hot, thick ropes but you took him all, swallowing and licking the mess he was creating while he praised you, only getting you wetter where you needed him most.

"There you go baby, all for you, my girl, only girl, Steve's girl."

You licked up every last drop as you released his cock, taking a leak of his cum onto your finger and sucking it off while he watched.

He chuckled, cheeks flushed and shaking his head. "You-"

"What?" you asked, teasing as you fell back on the bed, legs spreading and showing off your heat, slick for him.

Steve didn't even look. For a moment, his eyes were warm and not with want but something else. Desire of a different kind. "I just..." but he didn't finish his sentence. In a way, he didn't have to.

You liked to think you knew what he was going to say.

At once Steve smirked, grabbing your ankles and pulling you until you were flat on the bed, laughing at the sudden boldness as Steve threw off his sweat stained shirt.

"My turn," he said before sinking his head of curls into your heat.

Safe to say... Natalie was missing out.

[suprclark]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫

— you ask steve harrington to be your fake date to your ex’s wedding to prove you’ve totally moved on, except steve has been secretly in love with you forever and pretending turns dangerously real when one drunken confession threaten to expose feelings neither of you are ready to admit, leaving steve determined to prove you were never just someone before “the one.”.

🍁 3.3k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fake dating, mutual pining, hopelessly whipped steve harrington, reader convinced she’s unlovable, yearning so obvious everyone suffers, robin buckley the voice of reason, rom-com energy, “just one wedding” famous last words, drunk honesty incoming, steve determined to love her loudly, friends to lovers kinda, everyone knows except them, potential multi parts series ( ? )

author's note — before anyone asks, the next part will be out in mid-march. enjoy <3

masterlist : navigation

gif by @yenvengerberg | divider by @/lavendergalactic

All previous doubt that the universe didn’t hate you personally had vanished today, because standing there with the wedding invitation in your hand, you had never been more certain that fate was, in fact, a petty, vindictive bitch with a personal grudge against you.

The card was thick and definitely expensive, the kind of paper people only used when they wanted everyone to know they were happy and financially doing great. Gold lettering shimmered under the kitchen light, obnoxiously shiny, and right there in the center was your ex’s name written in looping cursive.

You stared at it longer than necessary, hoping maybe the letters would rearrange themselves into a joke or a prank or literally anything else, but no. You flipped the card over as if maybe the back would say just kidding, wrong person, this is actually a coupon for free pizza. It did not. Just directions, a venue, and a cheerful little line about celebrating love.

You scoffed out loud.

You hated it.

You hated the creamy paper, the floral border, the tiny gold leaves curling around the edges like they were celebrating your suffering. You hated how formal it sounded. You hated how happy it sounded. Mostly, you hated how final it felt.

Because not that long ago, you had been the one talking about weddings. And he had laughed it off, said he wasn’t ready, that marriage wasn’t for him, that you wanted different things. And apparently what he meant was the same thing with someone who was not you.

The worst part — truly the absolute insult added on top of injury — was that you were painfully aware of several pairs of eyes burning into the back of your head.

Slowly, dread settling in your stomach, you noticed shapes hovering just slightly too close behind your shoulder. The boys were attempting subtlety, which meant they were failing spectacularly at it.

Dustin was practically leaning sideways to read the card. Will stood beside Mike, who was mouthing him what he was seeing. Lucas was trying to peek and Gareth hovered near the couch like he might need to duck for cover at any moment.

You didn’t even have to turn fully to know Eddie was right there too, eyes narrowed in interest, already invested in whatever drama this was about to become.

You slowly glanced at them from the corner of your eye.

Every single one froze.

Your glare worked instantly. They scattered backward in clumsy unison, suddenly fascinated by walls, furniture, and absolutely anything that was not the invitation.

You sighed, shoulders dropping as exhaustion replaced irritation, and finally turned around to face them properly, the card still clutched in your hand.

It was honestly impressive how quickly a group of boys who regularly fought interdimensional monsters could become terrified of one mildly upset woman.

For a moment, no one spoke. The boys exchanged looks, silently nominating a spokesperson the way people did before approaching a wild person.

Eddie, unfortunately for him, seemed to win that silent vote.

He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight as he eyed you cautiously. “So,” he started, gesturing vaguely toward the card, “uh. . . what’s wrong?”

You stared at him.

He winced a little but pushed forward anyway, or more correctly, was pushed forward by Garreth. “Well,” he added, “are you going to go?”

You planted your hands on your hips immediately. “Gee, I don’t know, Ed,” you said, pacing slowly across the room. “Do I want to go to the wedding of my ex who broke up with me because I wanted to get married and he didn’t?”

You turned, continuing before anyone could interrupt, frustration spilling out faster now.

“And now,” you added, gesturing at all of them, “now I’m here playing a stupid game with you stupid boys while he’s getting married to a probably gorgeous girl.”

Lucas slowly raised his hand like he was in class. “It sounds like you don’t.”

You stopped pacing and stared at him in disbelief.

“Of course I don’t.”

Mike blinked at you for a second before shrugging with complete sincerity. “Well,” he said, like the solution was painfully obvious, “then don’t go.”

You stared at him.

Then your face broke into the sweetest, most exaggerated smile imaginable, the kind that immediately made Dustin take one cautious step backward.

“Wow,” you said warmly, nodding slowly. “Why didn’t I think of that? You’re so smart, Michael.”

Mike straightened slightly, unsure whether he was being praised or threatened, but Dustin immediately clapped him on the shoulder with proud enthusiasm anyway. “That’s my boy,” Dustin said, beaming.

Your smile dropped instantly.

“Of course I have to go, you idiot!”

Dustin’s proud expression vanished as he smacked Mike lightly on the back of the head. “You ruined it,” he muttered.

You began pacing again. “Because if I don’t go,” you explained, “then it’s going to look like I still love him. Which I don’t. I absolutely do not. I am completely over him.” You paused, pointing at the card. “But I also can’t go because I’m not even dating anyone.”

The room absorbed this logic in silence.

Gareth frowned thoughtfully. “Since when did weddings become a thing people couldn’t go to if they weren’t dating someone?”

You turned your head slowly toward him and gave him a look.

Gareth visibly swallowed mid-breath, posture collapsing as survival instincts kicked in. “Okay,” he muttered quickly, sinking back into the couch cushions, “bad question. I see that now.”

Will spoke up cautiously. “Well. . . you could always pretend you’re dating someone,” he suggested. “Like take a fake date.”

Your head turned toward him slowly, eyes widening.

The boys immediately looked between the two of you. Dustin’s eyes went huge. “Abort, man. Abort,” he whispered urgently to Will, as if the suggestion could still be taken back.

Instead, you lit up completely.

A laugh escaped you as you crossed the room in two quick steps and pulled Will into a tight hug, nearly knocking him off balance. “I swear you’re the smartest person in this room,” you declared happily. “I always knew you were my favourite.”

Will turned pink instantly, awkward but pleased, while the rest of the boys protested at once.

“Rude,” Eddie said from behind you, sounding deeply offended.

You pulled back from Will and turned toward Eddie with mock innocence. “I’m sorry, do you have a problem, Edward?”

Eddie hesitated, clearly weighing his options very carefully. “I want to say no,” he admitted cautiously.

You stared at him for a moment, thinking, your gaze sharpening as an idea began forming. Slowly, your eyes traveled up and down him, assessing in a way that made Eddie immediately uncomfortable.

He pointed at himself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Your expression brightened suddenly. “Say, Edward,” you said sweetly, clasping your hands together, “how would you like to help out a girl in distress?”

Eddie recoiled instantly. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out,” he said, shaking his head before you even finished. “I’m terrible at gatherings. You know this. People expect eye contact and normal behavior. I can’t provide that.”

He looked at you expectantly, clearly waiting for reassurance, for you to insist he’d be perfect, for emotional persuasion to begin.

Instead, you nodded thoughtfully. “No, you’re right.”

Eddie blinked, caught completely off guard.

You turned away from him immediately, scanning the room until your eyes landed on Gareth.

Gareth sat upright. “No,” he said quickly. “No, no, not me.”

You stepped toward him anyway, smile widening. “C’mon, Gareth. I thought we had something.”

“Yes,” Gareth said firmly, scooting backward into the couch like he might disappear into it, “we do. It’s called fear. I’m scared of you.”

You looked around the room at the collection of boys and felt a deep disappointment settle into your bones. Your shoulders slumped as you pointed accusingly at all of them, one by one.

“You’re terrible,” you announced. “The lot of you. I need new friends. Except you Will, you're an angel.”

Will grinned as Dustin gasped, hand coming to his chest as if personally wounded.

You sighed heavily, pacing again. “I cannot believe none of you are willing to help me avoid humiliation,” you muttered. “Unbelievable. After everything I’ve done for this group.”

“What have you done?” Mike asked genuinely.

You ignored him completely.

There was a brief silence while everyone thought. Then Dustin suddenly straightened, eyes lighting up with the unmistakable excitement of someone who believed he had just solved everything.

“I have an idea,” he announced.

Every head turned toward him.

He grinned proudly. “You could take Steve.”

You blinked. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said eagerly, warming to his own brilliance. “He’s awesome. And he’s very good with the ladies.” He nodded confidently. “Like, he’s probably your best option.”

You stared at him for a second, processing.

Then your face slowly brightened, realization settling in.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, pointing at him, “there’s another genius. Good job, Dust.”

Dustin puffed up immediately under the praise, looking unbearably pleased with himself as the others groaned.

You grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair with sudden determination. “I’m going to talk to him,” you declared, already heading toward the door like this plan had been inevitable all along.

“Right now?” Lucas asked.

“Yes, right now,” you said, slipping your shoes on without slowing down. “Before I can think about it too much and realize this is probably a terrible idea.”

Eddie watched you go with narrowed eyes. “Oh, this is absolutely a terrible idea,” he called after you.

You pointed at him without turning around. “Too late!”

And then you were out the door.

Dustin frowned, leaning closer to Will with clear disappointment. “I didn’t get a hug,” he muttered.

Will shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The closer you got to WSQK, the more your confidence began quietly packing its bags and leaving without telling you.

At first, the walk had felt empowering. Of a woman with a plan. But somewhere between your street and the radio station, reality started creeping in.

This was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea.

Eddie had been right. Which was already upsetting enough on its own.

You slowed your pace as the building came into view, your steps losing momentum while doubts piled up one after another. You didn’t even know Steve that well. Sure, you existed in the same orbit. Group hangouts, occasional movie nights and there had been that one month at Scoops Ahoy.

But that was it.

You weren’t close-close.

Not fake-date-to-a-wedding close.

Steve Harrington had clearly moved on with his life. He had a job, responsibilities, hair that somehow always looked professionally styled despite zero visible effort, and absolutely no reason to get dragged into your revenge against fate.

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous this felt.

By the time you reached the front steps, you were already mentally backing out. Maybe you shouldn’t ask Steve. Maybe you should just. . . move to another country. Yes. That was mature. Or, you could ask Nancy instead. Nancy liked you. You were almost certain she would let you borrow Jonathan for a day if you explained the situation properly. Jonathan had a calm, trustworthy face. Wedding-appropriate.

You nodded to yourself, fully convincing your brain this was the new plan.

Okay. Good. Crisis averted.

You turned slightly, already preparing to leave before anyone noticed you had even come, when a voice cut cleanly through your thoughts.

“Hey?”

You blinked.

Your brain took a second to catch up. You looked up, refocusing, and suddenly realized Steve Harrington was standing directly in front of you at the WSQK door, one hand still resting on the handle like he had just opened it.

You froze.

When had he gotten there?

More importantly, when had you gotten there?

You glanced behind you briefly, as if retracing your steps might magically explain how you had apparently walked all the way here, approached the door, and knocked without registering any of it.

“Steve— hey,” you said, still slightly disoriented. “When did you get here?”

Steve frowned at you immediately, concern replacing confusion as he looked you over. “Are you sleepwalking again?” he asked, completely serious. “I told you to go to a doctor about that.”

You stared at him.

Not because of the question itself, but because he remembered.

Out of everything, that was what caught you off guard. The sleepwalking thing had come up once—one single conversation months ago during a late group hangout when you’d mentioned waking up in your kitchen holding a spoon for no reason. You hadn’t even thought he’d been listening.

And yet here he was, looking genuinely worried about it.

“I’m not sleepwalking,” you said slowly, still trying to catch up with reality. “I think.”

Steve’s frown deepened as he watched you and he leaned a little closer. “Okay,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

You blinked at him like you had almost forgotten why you were there in the first place. The weight of the invitation in your pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had a minute ago. “I might want to sit down for this,” you admitted.

That was apparently all the confirmation Steve needed that something was seriously wrong, because his posture shifted instantly into full caretaking mode. “Yeah, okay, yeah,” he said quickly, stepping aside and holding the door open wider. “Come in.”

You walked inside as Steve guided you toward the small seating area near the lobby. Your brain, meanwhile, had already begun spiraling again, rehearsing possible ways to ask someone to pretend to date you without sounding completely insane.

You glanced around automatically. “Where’s Robin?”

Steve froze for half a second.

“She’s out to see V—” he started, then abruptly stopped himself. “—Venus.”

You blinked. “Venus?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, nodding too firmly. “She’s out to see Venus. The planet.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You decided, very consciously, not to question it. Whatever that meant was a problem for another day. Right now you had a fake romantic proposal to survive.

You shifted on the couch, nerves rising fast. “Actually,” you said, glancing up at him, “you might want to sit down for this too.”

That definitely did not help.

His eyes widened slightly as he lowered himself into the chair across from you. “Is everything okay?”

You gave a small, helpless smile. “Not so much.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the wedding invitation and handed it to him Steve took it carefully, brows furrowing as he opened it and scanned the front.

There was a brief pause.

Then he looked back up at you, confused. “I think you got it wrong,” he said gently. “This is not mine. I don’t know this guy.”

You blinked. “What? No. This is my ex.”

Steve looked back down at the invitation, confusion deepening. “Then. . . why are you giving me your ex’s mail?” he asked. “Did the mailman send this to you by mistake and you want me to give it to him or something?”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “No, what are you talking about?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

You inhaled sharply, sitting up straighter. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself, hands gripping your knees as you forced the words out before courage could abandon you.

“Myexisgettingmarriedandineedyoutocomeasmyfakedate.”

Steve blinked.

Silence filled the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting a hand to his temple. “I think I just had a stroke hearing that. Could you say that more slowly?”

Your face burned, but you nodded, forcing yourself to repeat it, this time enunciating every word like it physically hurt. “My ex is getting married and I need you to come as my fake date.”

Steve stared at you.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “Wow. Okay. Uh.”

He leaned back slightly, processing.

“Uh,” he repeated.

You waited, hands clasped tightly together in your lap.

“Okay,” he tried again, nodding once like that might help his brain catch up. “Wow. Uh.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the ceiling like answers might be written there. “Okay,” he repeated again, voice drifting as he processed. “That’s. . . wow. That’s a sentence.”

You waited, hope and embarrassment wrestling violently inside your chest as he continued making small thinking noises.

“Okay uh. . . wow, fake date. . . wedding. . . okay.”

This went on for an impressive amount of time. He continued making variations of that exact noise for a solid five minutes, running a hand through his hair, blinking at the invitation.

Finally, he looked back at you.

Your expression must have betrayed exactly how much you were counting on this, because something in his face softened immediately.

He sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

The relief hit you so fast you practically launched out of your seat, a delighted sound escaping before you could stop it. You moved forward instinctively, arms lifting to hug him and then realization slammed into you halfway there.

You froze.

Awkwardly, painfully, you stopped yourself and stepped back instead, clearing your throat like nothing had happened. “Thanks,” you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Steve hid a small smile, pretending not to notice it. “On one condition,” he added.

You nodded immediately. “Okay.”

He pointed at you firmly. “You’re going to be the one telling Robin. Because she will actually kill me if I tell her.”

You considered that for approximately half a second. “Okay.”

Steve had been on the phone with Robin for exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, which was approximately twelve minutes longer than he had hoped the conversation would last.

He stood in the middle of his living room in a half-buttoned suit, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear while he aggressively polished one shoe against the back of his pant leg like the extra shine might somehow help his argument. His tie hung loose around his neck, crooked from multiple failed attempts at tying it properly, and every few seconds he paced a small anxious circle before stopping again.

“I know it sounds bad when you say it like that,” he insisted, lowering his voice even though you were still in the other room getting ready.

Robin’s voice crackled loudly through the receiver, disbelieving even from several feet away. She had been talking almost nonstop since the day you’d explained the situation.

“Steve,” she said, “it doesn’t just sound bad. It is bad. This is a terrible idea.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s just one wedding.”

“It’s a fake date to her ex’s wedding,” Robin corrected immediately. “Those words individually are terrible. You can imagine how they must be together.”

Steve hummed noncommittally, switching the shoe he was polishing. “Mm.”

“And don’t ‘mm’ me,” she continued. “You know why this is a disaster.”

He hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

Robin pounced. “Because you’re in love with her, Steve.”

He nearly dropped the shoe.

“I am not,” he said quickly, voice pitching higher than usual.

Robin laughed, the sound equal parts fond and exasperated. “You absolutely are. You have been for, like, forever. You do that thing where you pretend you’re not listening but then remember every tiny detail she’s ever said.”

“That’s just called being attentive,” he muttered weakly.

“You remembered her coffee order from that one time you brought it for her six months ago,” Robin shot back. “You don’t even remember my birthday half the time.”

“That’s different,” he said defensively, immediately regretting how guilty that sounded.

“Steve,” she said, “this is going to end terribly. You’re going to spend an entire night pretending to be her boyfriend while watching her deal with her ex, and then what? You think your feelings are just going to politely sit in the corner and behave?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, he knew she was right. Every logical part of his brain had screamed that this was a bad idea the moment you’d asked. But then he remembered the way you’d looked at him—hopeful and nervous and trying so hard not to seem like you needed the help as much as you did—and something in his chest had completely folded.

“She just. . . needed someone,” he said.

Robin groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

He smiled faintly despite himself, continuing to polish his shoe, humming absentmindedly as she continued listing all the consequences he was absolutely ignoring.

“And when this blows up,” she went on, “I want it officially on record that I warned you.”

“Mhm,” he said, distracted now as he checked his reflection in the window, adjusting his collar.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Mhm.”

“Steve—”

He never heard the rest because at that exact moment, your bedroom door opened.

He glanced up automatically and then completely forgot how functioning as a human being worked.

You stepped into the room in your dress, smoothing it nervously as you walked forward, clearly unsure whether it looked right, whether it was too much or not enough, whether this entire situation was as surreal as it felt.

Steve’s head snapped upright so fast it was almost audible.

The phone slipped straight from his shoulder and dangled by the cord, swinging gently near his chest.

His jaw followed shortly after.

For a long second, he just stared.

Every coherent thought left his brain at once. All Robin’s warnings, all his careful mental preparation, every argument he’d made about this being manageable vanished instantly. You looked. . . breathtaking.

He swallowed, attempting to stand straighter and immediately fumbling with his tie instead, fingers suddenly useless. “Uh—hi,” he managed, voice slightly hoarse.

You smiled shyly. “Is it too much?”

His brain short-circuited.

“No,” he said immediately. Then, realizing that sounded too fast, he added, “I mean, no. It’s— you look—” He gestured vaguely, words completely abandoning him. “Good. Really good.”

The phone swung slightly, and faintly, Robin’s voice could still be heard shouting through it.

“. . . Steve? Steve! Tell me you didn’t just zone out while I was making a very important point—”

She paused and there was a beat of silence.

Then, resigned and deeply unsurprised, her voice floated through faintly. “Oh my god, she walked in, didn’t she?”

Steve did not respond, still staring at you like he’d forgotten gravity existed.

Robin sighed. “Yeah. You’re on your own, dingus.”

A click followed.

The line went dead, the phone still hanging uselessly by its cord as Steve finally seemed to remember it existed, grabbing it awkwardly and setting it back in place without ever fully taking his eyes off you.

You shifted your weight nervously under his stare, suddenly hyperaware of every tiny detail about yourself. The dress had felt right when you picked it out, but now, standing in front of Steve while he looked at you like the concept of blinking had personally offended him, doubt crept in fast.

You smoothed your hands down the fabric for the hundredth time. “It’s not too formal, right?” you asked, turning slightly to check the hem even though you’d already checked it three times in the mirror. “I mean, it’s a wedding, but it’s not my wedding, so there’s probably like a criteria I’m supposed to follow.”

Steve nodded immediately.

Then realized he hadn’t actually processed a single word you’d said.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Totally.”

You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes a little. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” he lied automatically, still staring.

Because he was, unfortunately, completely gone.

There was something deeply unfair about how you looked right now. Not just pretty—Steve knew pretty—but real and nervous in a way that made his chest ache. You kept adjusting the dress like you weren’t sure you deserved to feel confident in it, and all he could think about was how insane it was that anyone had ever let you feel unsure about yourself at all.

His brain kept supplying unhelpful thoughts like she’s trusting you with this and you get to be the one standing next to her tonight and do not ruin this by being weird.

He was already being weird.

You turned back toward the small table, picking up a delicate pendant necklace and frowning at the clasp behind it. “Can you help me with this?” you asked casually, holding it up. “I can never get these stupid things on.”

Steve froze for half a second before walking over, every step suddenly careful, like he was approaching something fragile.

“Yeah,” he said.

You turned around, lifting your hair away from your neck without thinking, exposing the soft curve of your shoulders. The movement was simple, absentminded even, but Steve’s brain immediately stopped functioning again.

Up close, he could smell your perfume and the faint warmth of your skin. His hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before he carefully took the necklace from you, fingers brushing yours briefly.

The contact was quick but it still sent a small shock straight through him.

“Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself, focusing very hard on the clasp.

You stood still, waiting patiently, completely unaware of the internal crisis happening two inches behind you.

His fingers trembled slightly as he brought the chain around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone while he tried to line up the tiny hook, concentration intense but constantly disrupted by how close he was. Every small movement meant his knuckles brushed your skin and each touch made his breathing a little less steady.

“Sorry,” he muttered softly when his fingers slipped. “These things are. . . tiny.”

“It’s okay,” you said gently, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re doing great.”

That did not help him at all.

He swallowed, leaning closer without meaning to, breath brushing the back of your neck as he finally managed to hook the clasp into place. His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, adjusting the chain so it sat neatly.

Neither of you moved right away.

His hands slowly fell away, but he didn’t step back immediately, caught in that small space between finishing and letting go. Steve felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.

“Done,” he said softly, voice rougher than he intended.

You turned back toward him, smiling. “Thanks.”

And for a second, standing that close, Steve forgot this was supposed to be pretend.

You turned toward the mirror to check the necklace, fingertips brushing lightly over the pendant as you tilted your head from side to side, making sure it sat right. For a moment you were focused entirely on adjusting the chain, smoothing your hair back into place, trying to ignore the nervous flutter still bouncing around your stomach.

Then your eyes shifted slightly in the reflection and you paused.

Steve stood just behind you, still a little too close, looking like he had forgotten where to put his hands or how to exist normally. But that wasn’t what caught your attention.

His tie was, how do you put this politely, tragic.

It hung slightly crooked, the knot uneven and pulled too tight on one side while somehow still loose on the other.

You squinted at the mirror. “Oh my god.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

You turned toward him immediately, already reaching out. “Your tie. What did you do to it?”

He looked down defensively. “I tied it.”

“With what, hatred?” you muttered, stepping closer. “Hold still.”

He did.

Like someone had pressed a pause button.

Your fingers gently grabbed the knot, loosening it slightly before straightening the fabric. Steve’s entire body went rigid the second you touched him, shoulders locking as his brain short-circuited all over again.

Up close, you were focused, completely unaware of the effect you were having. You tugged lightly at the tie, smoothing it down his shirt, your brows pulling together in concentration.

“You were just going to leave it like this?” you asked, half amused, half horrified. “You’re supposed to be my impressive fake date.”

“I am impressive,” he said automatically, voice quieter than usual.

You hummed skeptically, adjusting the knot again. “Debatable.”

Your fingers brushed his collar as you fixed the fold beneath it, and Steve forgot how breathing worked for a second. He stood perfectly still, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, terrified that moving even slightly might break whatever this moment was.

He could see every detail up close now—the small crease between your brows when you focused, the way your lips moved slightly as you muttered to yourself, the soft shine of the pendant he had just fastened resting against your skin.

His heart was beating embarrassingly fast and he just hoped it didn't burst out and embarrass him in front of you.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere just above your head because looking directly at you felt dangerously overwhelming. His brain supplied one very clear thought: I am down catastrophically bad and Robin is never wrong.

“There,” you said, giving the tie one last satisfied adjustment. You leaned back slightly to inspect your work, nodding approvingly. “Much better.”

Steve didn’t respond.

You glanced up at him, noticing the way he’d completely frozen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, voice a little breathless. “Yeah. Totally.”

You smiled, oblivious, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his jacket before stepping back fully. “Good.”

Steve nodded, still trying to recover, watching you with the same soft, helpless expression he hadn’t been able to hide all evening.

[soulshaped]

₊˚⊹ take me out masterlist ₊˚⊹

F1 driver!steve harrington x F1 engineer fem!reader

series summary: you’ve waited your entire life for this moment, but steve thinks he’s waited his entire life to meet you

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

cw: 18+ mdni, smut (later in the series), enemies to lovers (kinda), angst!!! pining/yearning, parental death, fwb, steve is rich and a dick, playboy!steve kinda, mean!reader, grumpy!reader, cursing, violence related to cars/driving, smoking, drinking, sexism, coworkers to lovers lol

<3

[soulshaped]

take me out | chapter 1

F1 driver!steve harrington x F1 engineer fem!reader

series summary: you’ve waited your entire life for this moment, but steve thinks he’s waited his entire life to meet you

cw: steve is kind of a rich dick, fem!reader, mean!reader, enemies to lovers, tension, past parental death mentioned, injuries/accidents related to cars, lots of cursing, sexism, smoking, angst!!! multi-chapter slow burn

 a/n: i’ve been rewatching the netflix f1 series before the new season and i can not get this stupid idea out of my head. the title is inspired by the franz ferdinand song. this is suuuper out of my comfort zone for writing, i tried making this as accurate as possible but it’s going to be more modern than f1 in the 90s (sorry). hope you like it <3  i have a bunch of wip for steve lol like it is getting a little ridiculous

wc: 6.4k

1988

Barcelona, Spain - Pre-Season Testing 

The energy buzzes around you. It brews just below the surface of your skin, like a pot of water on the verge of boiling over. 

You’ve heard about the nervous anticipation of pre-season testing that arrives, without fail, every year. No matter how much money, how much planning, how much blood, sweat, and tears the team has put into building the best of the best, you can not engineer your way to a perfect performance. There are always unforeseen problems that arise on test day. You can only hope and pray that you’ve done everything you can. 

Nothing can be forgotten. Nothing can be left up to chance. You check your boxes, over and over again, up until the very moment your drivers step into their cars. 

And it’s all led up to this. The grand reveal. 

You can’t remember the last time you managed to get a full night’s rest. If you’re lucky, the work that will inevitably follow the next few hours won't lead to an all-nighter. Maybe you’ll actually be able to sleep for more than 4 hours at a time. But the odds are not in your favor. A girl can only dream. 

All you’ve been thinking about for the past year is building the fiery-red car sitting before you. It is your first year in F1, first year with Scuderia Ferrari—one of the best teams on the grid. This is the beginning of everything you’ve worked so tirelessly for. It’s hard not to feel the mounting pressure, like the car is a tangible artifact of your life’s work. 

The clock hanging on the back wall of the garage tells you that there’s only 15 minutes until testing. Every tick of the second hand feels like a threat. You put your head down and you work. 

You reach into the back of the car, near the gearbox. Grease quickly stains your hands, matching the smears streaked across your overalls. Your hip is starting to twinge in pain the longer you're bent into the hard metal side, but you need to double check the hydraulic valves and actuators before the time runs out. 10 minutes left. 

Someone clears their throat behind you. 

“What is it?” you mutter under your breath, continuing to work. You can not afford to lose focus.

“I could get used to this.” 

You snap your head towards the owner of the voice, your brows pulled in tight. 

Steve Harrington is standing behind you. Eddie Munson beside him. Both with matching grins.

You’ve seen them in passing at the Italy HQ. But you’ve never actually introduced yourself or spoken to them face-to-face. You didn’t bother. You had more pressing matters at the time, with building an entire F1 engine and all. Still, you know all about them. They’ve been the talk of the industry for the past few years—slated to be the hottest new team on the F1 circuit this season. 

Eddie Munson joined Ferrari a year prior, but Steve is a newbie, just like you. But he, unlike you, has the driving world in the palm of his hands. He is the poster child of next generation Formula 1 racing. The golden boy: young, undeniably talented, comes from new money, and a blessing to look at. 

His competitors wish to beat him, everyone else just wants a shot in bed with him. 

After Steve’s consecutive wins in the F2 championships, there were whispered rumors of his rich businessman disguised as a father attempting to acquire an F1 team for his pride and joy, his perfect son. But to everyone’s surprise, the rumors came to a stalling halt when Steve announced that he would be joining Ferrari for his Formula 1 debut. 

His life, luxurious and spoiled with riches, is the complete opposite of yours. You couldn’t be more different than him. By every metric, by every measure, you are worlds apart.

This belief of yours only solidifies as you watch him cross his arms over his chest, adorned in his pristine, grease-free race suit. 

Any shock you might have of actually speaking to him is quickly snuffed out by your disgust. 

“I’m sorry?” 

Steve smirks, appearing only amused by your tone. 

He shrugs carelessly, but his eyes trail your body from top and bottom, assessing. “I’m just saying, this is quite a view.” 

Before you can throw the nearest wrench at his stupid head, Eddie’s hand smacks the back of it. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Stevie’s just a dick to everyone he meets, he can’t help it.” 

Sweetheart? What a fucking load of—

Someone places a warm hand on your shoulder, your name coming out in a gruff voice. It’s Marco. The team principal and subsequently, everyone’s boss. Including Steve and Eddie. 

“I see you’ve met your drivers?” Marco smiles kindly at you. 

All things considered, he’s been a great boss. He keeps a cool-head through anything thrown his way, even during times when it seemed everything was falling apart, when deadlines kept getting pushed further back, when everyone else was busy having a mental breakdown. Marco still smiled and went about his day calmly, no matter what. 

You don’t want to be the outlier, the one that finally makes him break. So you plaster as genuine a smile as you possibly can muster in this moment and nod agreeably. 

“Fantastic. You’ll be Steve’s race engineer, but it’s important our engineers establish a good, working relationship with both drivers. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course. I’m really looking forward to working with these two.” 

You spare a glance over at the two in question and see that Steve is still smirking. Annoyingly. Eddie looks like he’s trying his best not to burst out laughing. 

“Great! See you all out there.” Marco pats your shoulder one last time before pulling Eddie away for a chat.

Steve speaks up first. “Looking forward to working with me? I’m flattered.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. 

He chuckles, moving in towards you until he’s inches away from your side. 

“Think I might race even better with your voice in my ears, firecracker,” he whispers. 

What a dick. 

-

Australian Grand Prix - Race 1

It’s not even noon yet and the sun is beating down on you. You don't know if you’ve ever felt heat like this. Maybe you’re too used to the mild temperatures of Northern California or maybe the switch between Barcelona March and Melbourne March was too drastic. 

To make things even worse, the past two weeks between pre-season testing and today have been complete chaos. You’ve done everything you can, but it still doesn’t feel like nearly enough. You don’t even want to think about what happens today. The first official race to the championships. 

Either way, you’ve made the executive decision to take a well-needed break. 

“Sooo… first race. Are you excited?”

You groan into the landline. “I think I might throw up.” 

The closest phone in the paddock is conveniently located near zero chairs. So you’ve settled on the nearby stairwell instead, just for a few minutes with Ella. 

“What’s wrong, sugarplum? Princess? Angel?” 

You roll your eyes fondly. Ella’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember. Her mom grew up with yours, so you suppose your friendship was always written in the stars. Womb to the tomb. She’s the only one who could possibly understand what it was like when you lost your mom—besides your dad, of course. 

Having her live so far away often feels like a phantom limb. Sometimes you forget she’s chasing her dreams in New York City, not attached to your hip. It makes it hurt even more when you do remember. 

“It’s so hot. I’m sweaty because it’s hot. I’m already tired, but I’m even more tired because it’s hot. Every step feels like I’m walking through a vat of gelatin.”

“Oh, boohoo. You don’t even want to know what the weather’s like in New York right now.”

“Just tell me. Maybe it’ll cool me down. By association. Over the phone.” 

“Well, for the past week, we’ve been stuck in a never-ending blizzard. I’m running out of food, so this might be the last time you ever hear from me.”

“That sounds nice.” You hum contentedly, thinking about the snow. 

Ella snorts, loud and unabashed into the phone. “Do you want to trade places?”

“Please? You don’t even have to learn anything about cars, just smile and nod.” 

“I don’t know if that’ll work. You’re the most beautiful engineer they have, they’ll notice if you disappear.”

You snort, about to tell her that they couldn’t give less of a rat’s ass about what you look like clearly, since they have you so overworked that you’re starting to think going bald from stress is just an inevitability at this point. But suddenly, a shadow hangs over you. 

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” 

A dark, dark shadow—a rain cloud personified. Steve Harrington. 

“Oh my god. Is that who I think it is?” The sheer volume of Ella’s gasp hurts your ear.

“Love you, gotta go.” You reply, hanging up aggressively. 

“Boyfriend?” Steve asks, a teasing glint in his eyes. 

You scoff, meeting his gaze challengingly. 

“You’re gonna have to lift and coast this race. Stay in clean air as much as possible, unless you want your car to explode. It was showing warning signs of overheating in Barcelona and again during qualifying yesterday. It’s too hot out, don’t push it over the edge.” 

You flash him a saccharine smile. “Got it?”

“Dirty talk already? At least buy me dinner first,” he grins back.

Standing up, you’re nearly his height. And that’s with the advantage of being two steps above where he stands. You try not to think about it. 

“Flirt with someone who cares, Harrington. You’re shit at it, you need all the help you can get.”

For a split second, Steve looks taken aback. Your heart drops to the pits of your stomach. 

What are you thinking? This is your career on the line. You’re at work. 

But Steve being Steve, he schools it into a sly smile again. “There she is.” 

You step around him, walking back towards the garage. When the AC finally hits your heated cheeks, you sigh in relief.  

“Why are you blushing so much?” 

You jump in shock. Eddie leans against the door of the garage, biting off a large chunk of his banana. 

“I’m… not.”

“Yes… you are.” 

You groan. “Leave me alone. It’s too hot for this shit.” 

“You’ve got a big potty mouth for a girl.” He whistles, then breaks out into a smile. “I like you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” 

“Don’t lie. I know you love me. And even if you don’t, you will by the end of the season.”

You walk away from the conversation and towards your tool box. Eddie trails behind you. 

“Don’t hold your breath, Munson.”

He throws his arm around your shoulders. “We’re going to be best friends. Nearly everyone else here is old and decrepit. You and Charlie are the only other fresh meat on the team.” 

He’s referring to the other engineer—Eddie’s race engineer, Charlie. He’s only a year or two older than you and Steve, around the same age as Eddie. 

“So go bother Charlie.”

“Charlie’s in a serious mood today. You’re grumpy all the time, but in a weirdly funny, cute way.”

“Weirdly, he says…” you mutter. 

“I also said funny. And cute.”

“That’s unprofessional—which isn’t any better.” 

“It’s Formula 1,” Eddie shrugs. “When it comes to racing almost to the death, nothing is fully professional. Lines get blurred, trauma bonds are formed. We’re friends for life now.” 

You huff in response. He might have a point, but right now, the blurring of lines isn’t on your radar. It’s time to race. 

-

Monaco Grand Prix - Race 6

“Gap to car ahead 0.7, gap to car behind 1.1. Keep pace.”

“Copy. I can overtake.”

“Negative. Defend against Williams behind.”

“I can do it.”

Your jaw clenches, and your words come out gritted through your teeth. “Don’t push it, Harrington. You’re P2. Water temp rising, tight corners.”

This isn’t any other grand prix track. This is Monaco, the narrowest on the entire F1 calendar. It’s basically a large, bent hairpin. Qualifying positions often determine the podium—it’s nearly impossible to overtake other cars. And Steve’s already in the second best position. 

“Just let me drive, firecracker.”

You watch on the screens as he whips around the Renault car in front of him. He nearly makes it. In a split second, the front of the competitor grazes against the rear of Steve’s car. But at these speeds, it’s not just a graze—it could be devastating. 

The tail of the Ferrari is pushed to the left aggressively by sheer force. You stop breathing. 

Then, either by Steve’s skill or a well-timed miracle, it straightens out and pushes. Full car ahead of Renault. All of the air from your lungs rushes out in relief. 

His voice comes through, loud and clear. “Rear left touched. Car stable.” 

“Copy. Tyre life?” 

“Feels fine. Can make it the final laps.” 

“Keep focus, maintain pace. Gap to car behind 1.8.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Impressed?” 

You can picture the pompous pride on his face, hidden behind his bulky helmet. 

“I’m going to fucking kill you, Harrington.”

-

Steve wins. Of course he does.

The entire team is out in the pit lane. Half of them have climbed to the tops of the metal gates, hanging over the track and cheering him on as he zooms past with a wave. 

When he finally gets out of the car, he runs into the team’s arms. Eddie is screaming his head off. He jumps excitedly up and down, lifts Steve completely off his feet and into the air with ease. It’s not Steve’s first P1 of the season, far from it actually. As intense as the racing culture is, the celebrations for any win match it tenfold. 

You stand back, watching it all with a grin you can’t wipe off even if you tried. There’s a reason why you’ve worked your ass off your whole life to be in F1—you love everything about it. The fight, the podium payoff from genuine teamwork, the excitement of crowds in every country, all over the world. It makes it all worth it. 

Steve pulls Eddie’s arms off of him, laughing. He scans the room, searching, until his eyes finally catch yours. He walks towards you, and on instinct, your arms cross over your chest and your brows furrow at him.

“Don’t tell me I got you worried about me?”

“You are one arrogant son of a bitch, anyone ever tell you that?”

Steve’s warm hand wraps around your forearm and he pulls you into him before you even have a chance to protest it. His body engulfs yours in a hug, damp and smelling like a mix of sweat and burnt rubber. 

You don’t push him off. Not yet. Instead, you reach up, tightly gripping the collar of his race suit to pull him closer. At this distance, your noses are practically grazing against one another. 

His eyes widen in surprise and in this light, maybe just a hint of interest. 

“Ignore my comms again, and you’re dead,” you snap. 

You push him off, cheeks burning. 

“And you stink.” You try to say it with just as much conviction, but under his intense gaze, it comes out more as a grumble than anything else. 

Steve laughs. Bright and loud. 

You blush even more. 

-

United States Grand Prix - Race 19

The entire paddock is rowdy this morning, but you’re positive that most of it is coming from the Ferrari section. 

With their only two drivers being from the States (not to mention some of the other pit members, yourself included), the first and only race in Texas is bound to cause a bit of chaos. It’s hard to even hear Steve—who’s only inches away at most—over all the noise. 

“Obviously, try to get at least P3 in qualifying, but we’re on track for championships before Abu Dhabi. Just maximize as many points on the board as you can, push as much as you can. There’s only three races left.” 

Steve nods, but his gaze is stuck somewhere behind you instead of on you. 

“Steve?” 

He hums thoughtlessly and stretches his neck, scanning the crowd.

“Hey!” You clap your hands loudly in his face. 

“Huh? What?” Steve blinks, finally looking down at you. “What is it? What?”

“What is wrong with you? Did you hear a single word I said?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

You stare him down. 

“Yes! Max out points, push hard, and win. I got it.” He smiles cockily. “I’m Steve Harrington, remember?” 

“You’re distracted is what you are. What are you even looking for?” 

“My, uh—my Robin.” He clears his throat. “My friend, I mean. Robin.” 

“Your Robin? What, is she your girlfriend?” You gasp for dramatic effect. “Does F1 King, Steve Harrington really have a girlfriend?”

“What? No, she’s—”

You grab his arm. “Someone has got to tell the press! This is huge news. Breaking, even.” 

He snatches his arm away with a grumpy frown. “Funny,” he mumbles. 

You drop the act, deadpan. “You’re right. I’m hilarious.” 

You point a finger at his chest—threateningly, you hope. It’s more muscly than you imagined it being, hard to the touch. 

“I don’t care if you’re dating the Queen of fucking England. Do not fuck this up for us, Harrington.” 

Unfortunately for you, your words only pull him closer. With the same, stupid smirk. 

You wish you could say you’re used to it by now, by race nineteen, but you’re not. If anything, it’s gotten worse. It twists and twirls in your stomach in ways that could only be explained by pure hatred. 

You hate Steve Harrington. He’s too cocky, too pretentious, and has everything he could ever ask for. Spoiled from the second he was conceived. 

“Eddie’s right. Maybe I should start calling you potty mouth instead, firecracker.” 

You actually want to hurt him, maybe punch him. You’re not sure yet. 

But before you can decide, you’re getting shoved into the wall beside you. 

“What the fuck?”

The perpetrator, dressed in an opposing team’s white overalls, turns around aggressively. 

“Maybe think about moving out of the fucking way,” he spits. 

“You think this is my fault? Are you stupid? Or are you just an asshole with no spatial awareness?”

“Sorry, I don’t argue with bitches.” His words hit like pure venom, staring at your own overalls. “What are you even doing here? Are you Ferrari’s team cheerleader or something?” 

It makes you pause, mouth agape in shock. 

You knew, going into this industry, that you’d never be fully accepted or respected. You’d thought, or hoped, that at the very least, people would have the basic human decency to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Steve acts before you can, grabbing a fistful of the man’s shirt. The man looks stunned to see him—he hadn’t noticed him standing there seconds prior.

“Apologize to her. Now,” Steve demands. “Or I swear to God, you’ll never see the inside of a garage for the rest of your pathetic life.”

You’ve never heard him speak to anyone this way, ever. 

“I-I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” 

Steve shoves him with full force, nearly knocking the taller man onto his ass. “Get the fuck out of here, you sexist pig.” 

The man scrambles away, completely out of sight before you can even blink. 

Steve turns to you with big, worried eyes. 

“Hey, you okay?”

You turn over this question in your head slowly, still in disbelief. You’re relieved that the man is gone. Embarrassed that you stood there frozen, that you didn’t stick up for yourself. Surprised that Steve even thought to defend you in the first place. Angry that he thought you needed defending at all. 

But most of all, you’re hurt. 

Because in a matter of minutes, a handful of words have completely dismantled all of your confidence, highlighted your worst fears. 

You cannot focus on that hurt. So instead, you choose to focus on the next best thing: anger. 

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I'll see you at the start of the race.”

You turn around to walk away, take a breather, but Steve grabs your wrist before you can. 

“Hey, hey! Woah, slow your roll, firecracker. What’s wrong?” Steve scrambles. “What did I do?”

“I don’t need you to defend me, Harrington.”

“What–are you serious? What did you want me to do? Stand there and let him speak to you like that?”

“Right.” You laugh bitterly. “Like you’re one to talk. You’re treating me like I’m someone you have to protect—some soft, little, incompetent thing to take care of.”

“That’s not true, I would’ve done that for anyone.” 

“Really? Do you also look at everyone the way you look at me? Do you call everyone firecracker too?” 

Steve flinches backwards, like you’ve just physically hit him. 

“At the end of the day, I will never be an equal to any of you. No wonder I’m the only woman in this entire fucking paddock,” you say, shaking your head, defeated. “Maybe I just don’t have enough self-respect to leave.” 

-

You want to die. 

For someone that claims to crave professionalism, you sure as hell don’t act like it. What the hell were you thinking? Steve Harrington has enough money and power to his name to bury you, both figuratively and literally. 

This might be your last few races. Your career in F1 ending with your first ever season. 

So you’re hiding out in one of the meeting rooms until the race, feeling sorry for yourself. Feeling like you have a big sign on your head flashing FAILURE in red, glowing letters.

“Hey.” It’s Charlie. “What happened to you?” 

“Don’t want to talk about it,” you mutter.

He sits down beside you, nudging your shoulder with his. 

“C’mon, don’t you want to confide in your best engineer buddy ever? That has to count for something.”

You scowl at him, but he doesn’t bristle. Not even remotely, to your dismay. He just wiggles his eyebrows at you. He looks ridiculous.

“I think I’m going to get fired.”

He snorts. “Yeah right. You getting fired before me? Unless you murdered Steve Harrington in cold blood, that’s never happening.”

You wince at the mention of him. 

“Oh.” Charlie pauses. “Did you… murder him in cold blood?”

“No,” you sigh wistfully. “This whole situation might be a lot easier to handle if I did.”

“Well… that just can’t be true.”

“It is. It really is.” You groan and start thumping your head against the hard wall behind you. 

Charlie says your name. You don’t respond. 

He repeats it, placing his hand between your head and the wall to halt your self-punishment. It wasn’t very effective anyway. 

You turn to him, his hand still squished uncomfortably between the two hard surfaces. 

“I was a bitch. Like a real bitch to him earlier. He was just trying to help me—this random guy in the paddock was being a dick and I just… took it out on Steve.”

Charlie laughs. In your face. Your frown deepens. 

“Well, that explains Steve moping around the garage.” 

Steve? Moping?

He ruffles your hair. “You’re not getting fired. Trust me. Steve looks like he’d rather fire himself at this rate.” 

“What are you talking about?”

“Hey, firecracker, listen, I–” 

You and Charlie look up to see Steve rushing through the open door. He stops in his tracks, eyes flitting between the two of you. Up to the hand Charlie still has in your hair, down to the lack of space between you.

“Steve? What–” 

In a flash, he’s gone again, rushing back out the door, his shirt pulled taut across his back. 

“What the hell was that?” you ask exasperated. 

Charlie pulls his hand back to his lap but doesn’t say anything. He just raises his eyebrows, glancing between the door and down to you again. 

You thump your head back against the wall once more. For good measure. 

-

You think maybe the universe took pity on you and granted you a single moment of solace in this overall shitshow of a weekend. 

Steve and Eddie finished P1 and P2 in the race, practically ensuring the Drivers’ Championship win for Ferrari. Unless they both finish dead last in the next few races (which they haven’t done all season), you could even win the Constructors’ Championship. It would be Ferrari’s fifth consecutive win, but still, you would have played a part in the making of history. It would be your win, just as much as the team’s. 

It was awkward with Steve initially. Especially when you re-entered the garage to find that he was decidedly not speaking to you. You weren’t sure what to do, exactly, considering the race was the very next day. 

But after a restless night of sleep, you returned to work to find that Steve was completely back to normal. As if nothing had ever happened. 

You decide not to question it further. Just like the saying goes, you’re not going to be the one to kick a gift horse in the mouth. Or something like that. 

Now, the entirety of the Ferrari team, along with their loved ones, is spread across a rooftop deck. Everyone’s talking, drinking, and celebrating to the fullest. It’s nice to be back on your home soil, even if your dad’s still hundreds of miles away to the west and your best friend is hundreds of miles away to the east. It’s still comforting, even then.  

You haven’t spoken to Steve again after the win, but you can see him across the space now. 

He’s with a girl with a caramel brown bob, her blonde highlights catching the moonlight with every turn. Eddie stands beside them, looking obviously comfortable. As if he’s known these people his entire life. Another curly haired boy is beside them as well. He looks young, probably no older than 18. A baseball cap with writing scribbled on the top is shoved tight onto his head, but you’re unable to make out the words from where you stand. 

They look so at home, so blissfully happy. It makes you miss yours even more. 

You walk toward a section partitioned off from the main event space, climb the stairs, and reach an empty upper deck. The autumn wind that blows against your skin is colder at this height and you wish you didn’t wear this stupid, short cocktail dress. Or, at the very least, you wish you’d brought a jacket. 

Staring down at the lights circling the race track, you think about how much your life has changed in the past year. You’ve been to places you’d only ever dreamed of, met people from all walks of life. You’re a better engineer now than you’ve ever been and by the end of next month, you might even have a Championship title to your name. 

You don’t know what happens next. What comes after fulfilling your life’s dream? Do you rest? Do you keep going and if so, for how long? Do you fall in love? Do you settle down, start a family? 

All you do know is that you love what you do. And you’ll keep doing it for as long as they let you. You’re never letting this feeling go. You’ll never let yourself feel like you did a couple of days ago, like it was something that could be lost, ever again. 

“Hey.” 

You turn to find Steve hesitating by the top of the stairs, moving his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Hey,” you respond neutrally. 

“I just, uh—wanted to smoke. For a bit,” he says, holding a pack of cigarettes between his fingers. 

You nod. “Yeah, of course. Go ahead.”

“Do you want one?”

“Sure, why not? When in Texas, huh?” 

Steve grins, coming closer until he’s at your side, a foot of distance between you. He offers you the pack, and you take one gratefully.

“Thanks.” 

He doesn’t respond, only nods once in acknowledgement.

You’re not sure how long it’s silent for. The only sounds are the party below and the steady repetition of inhale and exhale. 

“I wanted to apologize. For yesterday.” Steve speaks quietly, timidly. “You were right. You don’t need me to fight your battles for you. Trust me, I know that more than anyone. You’re capable of defending yourself and I know that.”

“It’s okay, Steve. Really. I mean–I was a bit… harsh.” You hesitate for a moment. “I guess sometimes I just feel so incapable. Because that’s what everyone else sees, y’know–like I’m just some, incompetent girl. Like they take one look at me here and wonder if I’m lost or something.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I mean, I can only imagine what that feels like. Sometimes I think that’s how my dad looks at me. Like I’m incompetent.”

“Well, he thought you were competent enough to nearly buy a whole F1 team for you, didn’t he?” You smile at him. 

“Yeah…yeah, I guess so,” he mumbles, looking away as he taps his cigarette against the railing. 

The quiet returns, but you welcome it with open arms. It’s peaceful. 

“I don’t think you’re incompetent, firecracker,” Steve says softly. “I think you’re the most interesting person in the room. And I think you’re better than all of us.”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him drop his cigarette and snub it out with his shiny, leather shoe. Then, he shrugs off his jacket and places it over your exposed shoulders. Warmth floods over you immediately. 

“And just for the record, I don’t look at everyone the way I look at you.”

A breeze hits you and when you turn to look at Steve, he’s already heading back down the stairs, drifting back into the arms of the party. 

You stay standing, silent, as your cigarette burns lower and lower, until it stings the tips of your fingers. 

The night is cold. 

-

Abu Dhabi Grand Prix - Race 21

It turns out that the final race is more of a victory lap than anything else. 

Ferrari officially cleared the threshold for any team to possibly pass them points, declaring them the 1988 winners of both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships. 

No one is surprised that Steve Harrington took home the trophy during his first year in Formula 1. Say whatever you want about his inflated ego, but the man is a damn good driver. 

After the prix in Austin, your relationship with Steve settled into something a little softer. He was still a pain in your ass—teasing you relentlessly, flirting just as badly—but there was a foundation of mutual respect now. You could even say you were almost friends. Almost. 

The way he’s staring a gaping hole into Billy Hargrove’s head says otherwise. 

Billy Hargrove is a driver for McLaren. He’s older, rougher around the edges compared to Steve. From what you’ve heard, he fought tooth and nail to get to where he is. He was born into a family living in a trailer park home in the middle of nowhere America, trying desperately to make ends meet. His rise to the top would be worthy of investigation, classified as a divine mystery, if he weren’t so talented. Hot, too. 

He approached you during practice on Friday. Smiling kindly and making small talk.

You’d thought nothing of it, but you did think Steve was snappier than usual.  

Then, he walked over to your side of the pit again after qualifying. He was asking about your home in California, saying that it was always his mom’s dream to move there, that you should show him around some time. 

Steve tripped over your toolbox just as Billy suggested it. 

Now, right before the last race, Billy’s leaning against Steve’s car and closer to you. And Steve is glaring at the spot where he rests, as if Billy had just keyed it. 

“Y’know, I’ve heard all about you.” Billy speaks in a low, teasing voice. His thigh is nearly brushing yours. 

“Oh, really?” you smirk. “And what exactly have you heard?” 

“Only good things. Heard you’ve got a sailor’s mouth.” 

“Gossiping about my mouth? Well, that’s not very polite, now, is it?”

Billy's face breaks into a big grin. 

Steve calls out your name. You ignore him.

“Firecracker.”

“What is it, Harrington?” 

“Stop flirting and come check this out. I think it’s a leak.”

“What?” You rush over in a panic, leaning over the gearbox. Steve hovers over you to look down as well. He’s close enough that you feel his shaggy, brown hair tickling your ear. His hand rests gently on the curve of your back. 

You can hear Billy scoff from behind you. 

“Got a problem, Hargrove?” Steve snaps. 

Billy chuckles. “Me? No, no. Not a problem at all.”

“Steve, I don’t see anything,” you murmur.

“Check again.”

You stand up so fast, you nearly take Steve’s head off with you. 

“There is nothing there,” you grit out between your teeth. “Now, stop wasting my time and get into your gear before I shove your head into the exhaust pipe.” 

He smiles, saluting you before borderline skipping away. 

You huff out a breath and bring your hand up to massage your temples. He will kill you one of these days, you’re sure of it.

“Doesn’t Harrington seem… a little possessive to you?” Billy asks genuinely.

“Him? No. He’s just–I don’t know what his problem is, actually. Maybe he wasn’t hugged enough as a child, I don’t fucking know.” 

He laughs, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Right…well, I should probably head back. See you after the race?”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Hargrove.” 

“If it means I get under Harrington’s skin like that again? I think I just might.”

With that, he leaves the Ferrari garage, whistling as he goes. 

What in the ever-loving fuck was that supposed to mean?

- 

“Box, box.”

“Hold on. I’m going to lose him. What’s the gap?”

“0.5. Harrington, you’re losing grip. Box, now.”

“I can control the understeer. He’s right there. I’m pushing.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You watch as Steve’s car gains speed towards Billy in the McLaren. 

But the turn is too tight and Billy sees him coming. He forces Steve off the track and with no grip on his tires, Steve can’t recover. 

The car behind the fight slams into Steve’s tail, sending him spinning at nearly 200 mph towards the barriers. 

The Ferrari hits the wall with a sickening crunch of metal. Debris flies everywhere. A red flag is waved by the marshals, bringing the race to a temporary halt. 

“Are you okay?” You press urgently. “Harrington, do you copy?”

The seconds of silence feel like an eternity. 

Finally, you hear him groan. 

“Yeah. I’m good, I’m fine.”

A sigh of relief escapes from your lips. 

“Medics are coming. Just–”

“I can get out, I’m okay.”

“Steve–”

Through your feed, you see his helmet pop out of the opening. His arms push his body out of the remaining carcass of a car and he walks to the medic car, allowing the lift to collect the metal remains. 

When he finally returns to the garage, after being thoroughly checked out, he’s limping slightly. You, on the other hand, are fuming. Eddie won the race, so everyone else is out on the track. 

Only you and Steve are left. 

You’re pacing the back of the garage, gnawing at the skin of your thumb. 

“Hey, firecracker.”

You whip your gaze towards him. 

“What’d the medics say?”

“Good to go. I’m okay, I swear.”

“Good.” You respond, stalking up to him. 

You smack him on the shoulder. 

“Ouch!”

You smack him again. 

“Stop it!” He grabs both your wrists tightly, in a single hand. 

“You stop it! Stop being so fucking reckless!”

“It was an accident! They happen all the time!”

“No, it was stupid and reckless. You knew you were on worn-out slicks, but you pushed anyway. Billy could’ve killed you.”

“It’s called racing, firecracker. It’s a dangerous sport, shit happens.”

“You call that racing? That was a fucking pissing contest between you and Billy and you know it.”

“Stop saying his name,” he scowls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you swear, rolling your eyes. “Tell me, is whatever vendetta you have against him worth your life?”

One second, you’re trying to pull your hands away from Steve. The next, you’re being pulled into him, your body flush against his, fingers trapped between your two chests. 

He looks down at you, eyes flicking between yours, then down to your mouth. Like he’s searching for something he can’t find. 

And then, his lips touch yours. Soft, gentle. Warm. Hesitant. You’re too in shock to kiss back. Too afraid of what it means if you did, if you allowed yourself to. 

Before you can decide, Steve pulls away. 

“Fuck. I–I’m sorry. That was a mistake.”

A mistake? 

“Firecracker? Say something. Please.” 

You close your eyes, breathing out through your nose. 

“You clearly don’t care about me—or my career.” You speak calmly, as if every bit of energy has been drained from your body. “Do you think the world revolves around you? Just because you have it all at your fingertips? Your dad, your name, your reputation might save you from whatever shit you get up to, but this is it for me. Do you understand that? This is my life.” 

“I know. I know, I’m sorry. I fucked up, I–”

You hold up a hand, unable to listen to him try to undo whatever he just destroyed.

“We can just forget it ever happened. Like you said, it was a mistake.”

He nods, gaze downcast. For a moment, you think you see Steve’s eyes flash with hurt, disappointment. You think you see his hands tremble before he shoves him into his pockets. But it must’ve been in your head. 

Steve Harrington only cares about himself. 

“I’ll see you next year.” 

You step around him, out of the garage, and into the pit lane. You can still hear the cheers from the track. 

Fireworks crackle loudly in the night sky above you.

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: angst... lack of communication. misunderstandings.... sex. drinking. weed. mean! steve, smut. breeding kink. creampie. sub! steve if u squint... very brief... saying everything under the sun BUT "i like you" words: 25k summary:When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it. a/n: okay, here is the long awaited chapter... it's a monster. and there's a bit of relationship building... i hope it's not boring... masterlist | Rules/Playlist

chapter 13

You can't shake the feeling from yesterday—sitting on Steve’s bedroom floor, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for those tests to tell you whether your life was about to change forever.

You can't shake how normal it felt. How right.

Last night, while Robin had sprawled on her bed talking excitedly about the camping trip for her birthday—who was bringing what, where you'd all set up tents, how Eddie promised to bring his guitar—you'd decided not to tell her about the scare. The guilt is already gnawing at you, sharp teeth in your stomach, because you could've been the cause for all their carefully constructed plans to fracture and collapse. Their future—Steve and Robin's marriage, Nancy living with them as a "roommate," the whole delicate fiction they're building—could've come crashing down because you couldn't keep your legs closed.

This morning you woke before Robin did. That alone is unusual—normally you're both up at the same time, talking while getting ready for class, sharing coffee from the pot on Robin's desk, complaining about professors or assignments or whatever drama is currently unfolding. But this semester you only have one class together, and that's Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Today is Tuesday.

You'd slipped out while she was still asleep, leaving before you had to lie to her face.

It's later in the evening now, the sun already setting, casting long shadows across campus. You've skipped all your classes today because—well, to be honest, you're still shaken. You wouldn't be able to concentrate. Especially if you saw Sammy, another person in the equation who has no idea how close he came to being part of something catastrophic.

You find Steve in the library, tucked into a corner on the third floor where hardly anyone goes. He's alone, actually has a book open in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he reads. There's a highlighter in his hand, uncapped, and you watch him mark something on the page with careful precision.

You wouldn't say you're stalking Steve, per se. You just happen to know where he is and end up being in the same spot— all day. Normally hiding behind a wall or a cluster of people, watching him from a distance like some kind of pathetic shadow.

It's such a mundane sight—Steve Harrington studying—and yet it makes your chest ache for reasons you don't want to examine.

You're standing between the stacks, peeking through the gap where you've pulled out a random book, when you hear your name.

You jump, nearly dropping the book, quickly shoving it back into the empty space on the shelf.

You turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Sammy.

"Oh. Hey." Your eyes dance to the side—toward where Steve is sitting, unaware—then back to Sammy's face.

He smiles awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, like he's unsure what to say. "Hey." He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "You... weren't in class today."

You swallow hard. "Yeah. I just wasn't feeling good. So, yeah."

The lie is terrible. You can see that he notices—the way his eyes narrow slightly, the way his smile becomes more forced.

"Right." He clears his throat. "Well... listen, I wanted to tell you that I was sorry for being kind of weird last week. I'm really stressed about midterms, especially the one we have on Thursday." He's rambling now, words coming faster, nervousness bleeding through. "And I was hoping I'd see you today, and I was actually going to come by your dorm to drop off the review sheet for class. And maybe even see if I could take you out this weekend?"

You used to find this cute and endearing—the shy rambling, the nervous energy, the genuine sweetness of him. But now it's kind of annoying, and you can't help the irritation that prickles under your skin.

"Yeah, maybe we can talk about it on Thursday after class."

Sammy smiles hopefully, looking around the library before leaning in to kiss your cheek. The touch is soft, brief, and makes you want to pull away. "Sounds good."

Before he walks off, he halts. "Oh shoot, wait." He fumbles in his satchel, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "The review sheet. Study hard."

He hands it to you and walks away, disappearing down the stairs.

You lean back against the bookshelf, releasing a breath you didn't know you were holding. Relief floods through you—relief that he's gone, that you don't have to keep pretending, that you can go back to watching Steve.

You pull the book out again, creating your spy-hole, and peek through the gap.

Steve is gone.

Your heart sinks, frustration flaring hot in your chest. You scan the area where he'd been sitting, but his books are gone too, his backpack, everything. Like he was never there at all.

The next day is better. Except with Robin.

Robin, who notices immediately that you're off about something. She suggests getting lunch together before your shared class, but you shake your head, telling her you need to go to a professor's office hours first. Which is a lie. You don't have any questions for any professors.

Robin looks disappointed, her face falling slightly before she covers it with a smile. "Okay. Rain check?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

After class, Robin catches you at the door. "Dinner tonight? We haven't eaten together in days."

"I can't," you say, already moving, nearly bolting out the classroom doors. "I have to—I promised I'd help someone study. Sorry!"

You don't look back to see her reaction.

Instead, you camp out in a small corner of the library, tucked behind the periodicals section where no one ever goes, watching the achingly slow clock on the wall. Each minute feels like an hour, each hour like a day, until finally it's 8:10 p.m.

You pack up your things and head to the parking lot, positioning yourself near the edge where you can see Steve's BMW.

At exactly 8:15, your smile is ear to ear when you see him there, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette. The ember glows orange in the darkness, and you can see the smoke curling up into the night air.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes something warm bloom in your chest, spreading through your ribs like sunlight.

You're about to call his name, already opening your mouth to say "Steve," when his head turns. He lifts his hand, waving at someone.

Not just anyone.

Polly.

Her red hair sways as she walks toward him, wearing a tight bright green yoga outfit that shows off every curve. Steve and Polly start walking together, away from his car, talking about something you can't hear from this distance.

Steve stops for a second, looking in your direction. Your breath catches.

You do the very adult thing and duck behind a car, crouching low, pressing your back against the cold metal.

You hear their footsteps getting closer, then stopping. You peek around the edge of the car and see them talking, Steve's hands in his pockets, Polly gesturing animatedly about something. She's smiling, laughing, reaching out to touch his arm.

Then she hugs him.

Your throat burns like you've swallowed acid. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging crescents into your palms.

You don't know why you're fueled with such jealousy. You knew what Steve was. You knew the rules. You knew there were other girls.

And you think you might even like Polly. She was kind and you have no reason not to. Except now, you were trying to find every reason to hate her. 

Robin was right. Steve wouldn't change. Not even for you. 

You storm into your dorm, don't even bother changing out of your clothes, just climb into bed and pull the covers over your head. When Robin comes back an hour later, you pretend to be asleep, evening out your breathing, keeping perfectly still even when you hear her sigh sadly before getting ready for bed.

The next day, you're grateful you studied despite your inner turmoil. You're a pretty natural test taker, always have been, and you breeze through the exam with time to spare. You turn it in with forty-five minutes left in the period and wait outside the building, leaning against the brick wall.

When you see Sammy emerge, you grab his hand and drag him behind your designated bush—the one you've used before, hidden from the main walkways.

You kiss him hard, desperately, trying to get his lips to burn away the memory of Steve's. Trying to replace the taste of Steve's mouth with Sammy's, trying to convince yourself that this is enough, that this is what you want.

After a few minutes of making out, breath coming hard, you pull back. "There's a party tomorrow night. At the Pike house. Eddie's band is playing. Want to go?"

Sammy's eyes light up. "Yeah. Definitely." He pauses, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want to hang out before?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

That night, again, you go to bed before Robin gets home. You hear her come in, hear her sigh—sad and resigned—and listen to her get ready for bed in the dark.

That next day, you show up to the Alpha Tau house around seven. Most of Sammy's brothers are home, along with a handful of girls you vaguely recognize from classes or other parties. The house smells like beer and pizza, music playing from somewhere upstairs.

About an hour in, you're sitting in Sammy's lap, nursing a drink that's stronger than it should be, when you lean in close to whisper in his ear. "You should take me upstairs."

Because whatever, your period stopped yesterday and Steve was out fucking other girls. You deserve to feel good. 

His eyes widen, pupils dilating with want, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

In his room, door locked, you're drunk enough to be brave. Drunk enough to say what you've been thinking about. "I want you to be rougher with me. Dirtier."

Sammy looks surprised but nods eagerly. "Yeah. Okay. I can do that."

And he does try. He kisses you harder, teeth catching your bottom lip. He digs his nails into your flesh—your hips, your thighs—leaving red marks. When he enters you, he's more forceful than usual, hips snapping harder.

Then he leans close, breath hot against your ear. "Do I fuck you better than the other one?"

The other one?

You furrow your brows, the words jarring you out of the moment. "That doesn't turn me on."

He stops, just for a second, processing. "Okay." Then he keeps going. The two of you only make dirty sounds, not speaking to each other. Not telling the other they feel good or what to do. 

When he turns you over, positioning you with your hands against the wall, you close your eyes. You imagine it's Steve behind you. Steve's hands on your hips. Steve's lips on your back, trailing kisses down your spine. Steve's lips...

You think about the kiss at Mardi Tau. The taste of him—cigarettes and want and something underneath that was purely Steve. The way his tongue had moved against yours, desperate and hungry.

Then you remember something he'd told you months ago, his voice rough and commanding: "You don't need me to touch you to come."

You let out a moan as your orgasm crashes through you, clenching around Sammy, your whole body shuddering.

After, Sammy doesn't say anything. Just helps you clean up with a damp towel, gentle and thorough. Another thing he checks off the list of good sex partner, you suppose. Considerate. Caring. Everything you should want.

He drives you to the Pike party, and two of his other brothers—Gary and Ryan—pile into the back seat, already drunk off their asses. They're loud, talking over each other about girls in other sororities, rating them on a scale of one to ten, laughing at jokes that aren't funny.

You lean toward Sammy. "Why won't you say anything?"

He shrugs, eyes on the road. "They're just being dumb."

You cross your arms across your chest, annoyed at his dismissiveness.

When you finally arrive at the Pike house, it's already packed. You can hear Corroded Coffin from the backyard—Eddie's voice cutting through the night, guitar wailing. The bass vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.

Sammy puts his hand on your lower back as you walk toward the front gate, and you shift uncomfortably. His hand feels wrong—too light, too uncertain, nothing like the way Steve touches you with possession and purpose.

The pledge at the entrance—PJ, you think his name is—smiles when he sees you. "Hot Shot! Welcome!"

"Hey, PJ." You smile back, moving to walk inside.

But PJ steps in front of Sammy, blocking his path. "Oh... wow. Mr. Samuel." His smile becomes apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I've been informed you aren't allowed at Pike parties until further notice."

Sammy looks confused, then laughs like it's a joke. "What?"

You think it's a joke too. "Very funny. Come on, Sammy." You hold out your hand for him to take.

But PJ stops him again, hand coming up. "Sorry. I'm being serious."

Sammy's confusion morphs into anger, jaw tightening. "And why the fuck not? I didn't do shit."

PJ just shrugs, genuinely apologetic. "I just work here, man. Those are the rules."

"This is bullshit." Sammy pivots, turning to his friends who are watching from a few feet away. "Come on, guys. We're leaving."

"Sammy, wait!" You run after him. "Hey! Let me go in and find Steve—"

Sammy snaps around, and there's something in his eyes you haven't seen before. Hurt mixed with anger mixed with resignation. "Harrington won't do shit." He turns to his friends. "You two, go wait in the car."

Gary and Ryan exchange glances but do as they're told, stumbling toward Sammy's car.

Once they're out of earshot, Sammy crosses his arms. "Well?"

You stutter, trying to find words. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. It won't take more than a few minutes. I'll just—"

Sammy laughs, but there's no humor in it. He says your name, flat and tired. "Harrington is the one who blacklisted me. Don't you see? He doesn't like me."

"I'm sure that's not—"

"Look, I know you've been sleeping with him too, alright? I know you're one of his girls." His voice drops lower, something bitter creeping in. "I saw you two disappear together at Mardi Tau."

The other one. 

You don't try to deny it. The words stick in your throat, useless and heavy. Now you know why you couldn't find Sammy after Steve had left the bathroom. Though, if you're being honest, you hadn't tried that hard to look for him in the first place.

What's more unsettling is how Sammy knows about Steve's multiple girls. "How do you know about that?"

Sammy rolls his eyes, scoffing. "It's Greek life. We know everyone's skeletons in the closet, even if we don’t talk about it. And everyone knows since Buckley is waiting for marriage, she lets Harrington do whatever.”

Oh, so he doesn’t know the entire truth. You found it startling that he didn’t look down on you either. Because from the outside, it looks like you’re a homewrecker. 

He pauses, licks his lips. "Look, this casual thing might be working for you, but it's not working for me."

You can see the hurt in his eyes—genuine pain mixed with embarrassment, with the realization that he was never going to be enough for you. Shit, did you even really give him the chance? 

"I'm sorry," you whisper, because what else can you say?

Sammy doesn't answer. Just looks at you for a long moment, like he's memorizing your face, then turns and walks to his car.

You watch him peel out of the driveway, tires squealing, gravel spitting up behind him.

And you're left standing there in front of the Pike house, alone, while Corroded Coffin plays and people laugh and drink inside like your world hasn't just tilted sideways again.

You still go into the party, pushing through the crowd gathered near the front door, following the sound of Corroded Coffin bleeding through from the backyard. The house is packed—more people than you've seen at a Pike party in weeks now that Steve got rid of the bullshit invite only rule—and you have to shoulder past bodies to make your way through.

You find Robin and Steve in the backyard, standing near the makeshift stage Eddie's band has set up. They're wrapped around each other, Steve's arms holding Robin upright while she sways to the music. She's clearly high or drunk or both—eyes red-rimmed and glassy, face loose and unguarded in a way that only comes from being completely gone. Steve is holding most of her weight, keeping her steady.

When Robin sees you, she squeals loud enough to be heard over the guitar. "Hot Shot!" She turns to Steve, grinning wide. "You know, I see why you like calling her that."

Steve catches your eyes but doesn't say anything. Just looks away, back toward Eddie's band, jaw working.

Robin tilts her head, swaying slightly. "Where's Sammy?"

You narrow your eyes at Steve, anger flaring hot in your chest. You don't say anything about his potential blacklist—not here, not now—but you reach over and take the red solo cup from his hand. You shoot the entire contents in one go, liquid burning down your throat, gasoline and bad decisions. You wipe the back of your hand across your mouth. 

You turn your attention to Robin. "We're not going to see each other anymore."

Robin's face crumples, arms immediately coming around you. "Aw, babe. Here, let's get you another drink to get your mind off it."

Steve looks at you—really looks, his eyes searching your face for something—and then away, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

For the first time in weeks, you're alone with Robin. Loose and carefree, four cups in, dancing with each other to Corroded Coffin's cover of some metal song you don't recognize but can feel in your bones. It feels easy and simple, like last semester. Right before you chose to let Steve fuck you in his room during Thanksgiving break.

You should've said no.

It was only meant to be fun. You were okay with the rules. You were okay with the other girls.

And you have no idea what changed.

You don't like him. Not like that. Not in any way that matters. It's just... you don't know. You feel so lost, unmoored, like you're floating in open water with no land in sight.

"Hey, what's wrong, babe?" Robin asks, having to lean close to be heard over the music.

You realize you're crying. Tears streaming down your face, hot and shameful, and you hadn't even noticed. "Oh." You wipe at your face with clumsy fingers, smiling half-heartedly. "I'm just... happy to see you."

Robin smiles, pulling you into a tight hug that smells like weed and the strawberry shampoo she uses. "Me too! I've been missing our time together. We should go have a girls' day tomorrow."

You nod against her shoulder, squeezing her tighter.

You pull apart and start dancing again, Robin spinning you under her arm in a move that's more enthusiasm than coordination, both of you laughing when you stumble.

When suddenly you feel another presence. To your side is a boy you've never seen before—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a backwards baseball cap—looking at Robin and you with a wicked smile, reeking of beer so strongly you can smell it from two feet away.

"Can we help you?" you ask, grabbing Robin's wrist protectively. Robin stops dancing, her loose, carefree expression fading.

"Just wondering how much it'd be to see you two make out," he slurs, leaning in closer.

Robin frowns, rolling her eyes. "Leave us alone."

"Oh, come on. Bet it'd be hot." He turns to you, grin widening. "Isn't that what they call you? Hot Shot?"

"In your dreams, asshole," you mutter, tugging on Robin's arm. "Come on, Rob."

But the man grabs Robin's wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to make her wince. "Come on, pretty girl."

You push the guy off Robin, shoving his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. "Don't fucking touch her."

"Yeah, get him!" Robin drunkenly rambles, pumping her fist in the air.

The guy grabs your wrist in retaliation, his grip painful, fingers like vices, and he's opening his mouth to say something when—

He falls to the ground.

A figure has appeared beside you, fist connecting with the guy's jaw with a sickening crack. The figure is Steve.

There are a few yelps around you, people nearest backing up, creating a circle, but not enough to make the entire party freeze. Eddie is still going at it on his guitar, oblivious.

Steve walks over to the guy who's trying to scramble backward on the grass, grabs a fistful of his collar, and hauls him half-upright. "Don't you dare touch my fucking girl again."

Your breath catches. Is he talking about you?

You can't ask before Robin steps closer, putting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "Uh... babe." You notice how she grimaces, and then she’s… laughing? "It's okay. Really."

Steve is panting, chest heaving, and he looks at Robin, then back at the guy, tightening his grip on the collar. "Tell them you're sorry. Now."

Of course it's not you. He would never say that about you.

"I—I'm sorry," the guy stammers.

Steve lifts him slightly and then shoves him back down to the ground. "If you know what's best for you, get out of here."

The guy nods frantically, scrambling to his feet, and scurries away, swaying dangerously from how drunk he is.

Steve stands there panting, eyes dark and wild, knuckles already starting to bruise. He looks at you.

"Steve—"

He cuts you off, voice loud enough to carry. "Alright, party's over. Everyone go home."

No one hears him over the music. He grumbles something under his breath, stomping toward the amps that belong to the band. He unplugs them with one violent yank.

The music dies instantly.

Eddie stops mid-solo, lowering his guitar. "What the hell, man?" he mouths.

Steve repeats, louder this time. "Everyone. Leave. Now!"

Protests and groans ripple through the crowd, but they listen. People start drifting out the backyard gate or back through the house. You hear complaints—"It’s not even that late," "What's his problem?"—but the yard is clearing.

You step closer to Steve, noticing his bruised hand, the knuckles already swelling. "Hey, are you—"

"Everyone includes you, Hot Shot." He snaps, stepping away from you like you've burned him.

"Steve, what's your deal?" Robin asks, stumbling slightly.

He glares at Robin—actually glares, something cold and furious in his expression. "Munson, take them home."

Then he storms away, slamming the back door hard enough to rattle the frame.

"Geez," Robin complains, waving her hand dismissively. "He has one bad phone call with his dad and he takes it out on all of us."

She approaches Eddie, who's packing up equipment with his band members—Gareth and Jeff, you think their names are. "Looks like you're our ride."

Eddie grins, pulling a joint from behind his ear. "Oh, ladies. The night has just started. What do you mean?"

"I love you, Eddie Munson," Robin says wistfully.

"Yeah, yeah." Eddie waves them off fondly. "Why don't you guys go wait in the van while we finish packing up, 'kay?"

He tosses Robin the keys, and she catches them with surprising coordination given her state. She hooks her arm through yours, grinning goofily. "Come on."

You walk the long way—out the backyard gate and around to the front driveway—not wanting to risk going through the Pike house and running into Steve again.

Once you're in Eddie's van—both of you claiming the front seats, Robin in the passenger side—you chew on your lip before speaking. "What was the phone call about?" You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. "I mean, with Steve's dad?"

Robin sighs, digging around in the console and finding a package of crackers. She tears into them, munching loudly. "Well, turns out the dingus finally figured out what he's gonna do for the rest of his life. Declared his major for teaching. He still has to apply to the College of Education, take some test after spring break and all that jazz.”

Robin crunches on another cracker, crumbs falling in her lap. 

She continues, “But anyway, he didn't tell his dad until today. Thought maybe his dad being on vacation would ease the news, but nope. His dad totally went berserk. Said teaching was a waste of time, blah blah bullshit." She shoves another cracker in her mouth. "Feel bad for him, but he's been a total grump all week anyway."

Your heart sinks, heavy and uncomfortable in your chest. Why are you sad that Steve hadn't told you about declaring his major? You'd been the one who suggested teaching in the first place, but whatever. You shouldn't care.

"When did he do all of this?" you ask, keeping your voice level.

Robin thinks for a moment, fumbling with Eddie's keys even though the van is already unlocked. "I think first thing Tuesday morning."

Tuesday. When you'd definitely not been following him.

He hadn't said anything Monday that he was going to do that. But then again, did he really have a chance?

Robin finds a package of tissues in the glove compartment and blows her nose loudly. "Also, he's pissy with me because I told him he needs to be more careful with sex."

"What?" Your head snaps toward her, a humorous smile painted on your face. "Why?"

Robin shrugs, unwrapping another cracker. "Went over yesterday evening to study, and I found a pregnancy test in the bin."

She freezes, cracker halfway to her mouth. "Shit. Shouldn't have told you that since you're hooking up with him and all."

Your blood goes cold. Static fills your ears. "I... uh... what?"

Had you not gotten them all when you left? 

"God, sorry. I just—" Robin shakes her head. "It pisses me off, you know? Sometimes he thinks more with his dick than what our plans are. I mean, can you imagine what I'd have to tell my parents if Steve got some babe pregnant? 'Oh no, guys, don't worry. I'm okay with my boyfriend who's not really my boyfriend having a kid with a girl I allow him to be with.'" She laughs bitterly. "Anyway, I found it and he wouldn't tell me who it was. Gosh, there I go again. I'm sure you don't want to hear it."

She turns to look at you, and something in her expression shifts. Softens. "I mean, at least I know it's not you." She laughs, but it sounds hollow. "I mean, you would've told me—"

"Robin, please stop." Your voice cracks, looking away. You run a hand through your hair, fingers trembling.

"Babe..." Robin's voice goes cold. Realization dawning. "Tell me it wasn't you."

Your eyes are glassy when you look at her, and the pain written on your face is answer enough.

"Holy shit."

"I know. I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Robin asks, voice flat and cold in a way you've never heard from her before.

Your mouth opens and closes. "I—I don't know. I—"

Robin's eyes widen, pieces clicking into place. "Monday. When you weren't feeling good and I came back to check on you, and you were gone all day. I knew you were lying." Her voice rises. "Am I right? Is this why you've been avoiding me all week?"

"Yes, but listen, Rob—" You reach for her, but she pulls away. "I didn't say anything because I didn't want it to be a big deal. I didn't want you to think that I'd do anything to jeopardize you and Steve and—"

Robin scoffs, shaking her head. She opens the van door and gets out, stumbling slightly on the curb.

"Robin, wait!" You scramble out after her. "Please, you have to understand where I'm coming from."

Robin snaps around, hair flying in her face, eyes red and furious. "You don't know how I would've reacted. You didn't give me a chance."

Your own defense boils over, spilling out before you can stop it. "Well, maybe it's because your head is so far up Nancy's ass and I never see you anymore. I would have given you one if you were ever around."

Robin looks like you've slapped her. "God, you don't get it." Her voice cracks. "Do you know how lucky you have it? You get to be with boys like Sammy, get to dance with him, and no one bats an eye. Make out at parties, be near them in public. But if I ever did that with Nancy..." 

She swallows hard. "Even if people were cool with it, it'll just be like tonight, where dipshits want to make it into a sick fantasy. When Nancy comes here, I don't actually get to be with her. When I go visit her, we can't do shit like hold hands until we get in her apartment. All I have where it feels normal is talking on the phone." Her eyes are shining with tears now. 

"God forbid you don't get any attention, 'cause clearly you enjoy it, Hot Shot." Your nickname is thick with venom, turned into an insult, a weapon.

"You know what? Screw you, Robin."

"Whatever." She turns away. "Tell Eddie I'm walking home. Forget about tomorrow.”

You immediately want to protest. Robin shouldn't walk home alone like this—drunk and upset and it's dark. But you're so mad at her, fury burning hot in your chest, that you just stand there.

You watch her disappear down the street, her silhouette getting smaller and smaller until she turns a corner and vanishes completely.

.-.-.-.

You wake up with your head pounding, each pulse of your heartbeat sending a spike of pain through your skull. Your stomach hurts—a deep, nauseous ache that makes you want to curl into a ball. You feel a creak in your neck as you slowly lift your head, vision blurry and unfocused.

You blink once, twice, trying to make sense of your surroundings.

You’re in the back of Eddie’s van. You recognize the faded band stickers on the interior walls, the ratty mattress beneath you that he keeps back here for—well, you’re not entirely sure what for, but it’s surprisingly comfortable. You’re laying back, body sprawled at an awkward angle that explains the neck pain.

You feel a breeze on your legs. You look down.

You’re wearing a shirt—not your shirt, you realize with dawning horror. It’s too big, hangs off one shoulder, smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne and someone else.

But your jeans are gone.

You’re only in your underwear.

Oh fuck.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Right when panic starts to claw up your throat, making your breath come faster, the back door to the van swings open with a metallic groan. Blinding light pours in, white and searing like a spotlight. Your eyes scrunch shut immediately, a groan escaping your throat as you throw your arm up to shield your face.

"Morning, sunshine!" Eddie's voice booms, way too loud, way too cheerful.

You peek through your fingers and see him standing there, backlit by what must be morning sun. He's grinning—that wide, toothy smile that takes up half his face—and he has a slice of pizza in his mouth. Cold pizza, judging by the way the cheese has congealed into a solid, waxy mass and the grease has turned opaque. Of course he eats cold pizza for breakfast. If it even is breakfast—you have no idea what time it is.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie," you mutter, covering your ears with both hands. "Inside voice."

He just chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest, and takes the pizza out of his mouth long enough to say, "This is my inside voice. You're just sensitive."

He doesn't climb into the van yet. Instead, he reaches to the side—probably the front seat—and grabs something, then tosses a greasy paper bag onto the floor near your feet. It lands with a soft thud. "Gotcha breakfast."

You sit up slowly, every movement making your head swim and your stomach lurch. You grab the bag with shaking hands, opening it with fumbling fingers. The smell hits you first—heavy, greasy, overwhelming. You grimace immediately. It's a sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit, the bread already soggy with grease, the cheese looks plastic, the sausage a questionable grayish-brown.

Why does every boy think this is appetizing?

You set the bag aside quickly, swallowing hard against the nausea, and Eddie finally crawls into the van. He moves with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times, ducking his head to avoid hitting the roof, settling cross-legged near the door. He tosses you a water bottle—which you catch clumsily—and then a small orange bottle that rattles with pills.

You don't argue. You rake your fingers through your hair—tangled and probably a disaster—rubbing your temple with your free hand. Your mouth tastes like something died in it. You desperately twist the cap off the water bottle, the plastic crunching under your grip, and drink half of it in one go. The cool liquid soothes your raw throat, washes away some of the terrible taste.

You fumble with the pill bottle, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, finally getting it open and shaking two pills into your palm. You swallow them dry, then chase them with more water.

Only then do you look at Eddie—really look at him. Then down at yourself. The too-big shirt that definitely isn't yours. Your bare legs reflecting in the morning light. The absence of your jeans.

"I... uh..." You swallow hard, your throat clicking. "Did we...?"

Eddie laughs—loud and sudden and completely without shame—making you wince and press your fingers to your temples. "You don't remember?"

"I'm... oh god, I'm so sorry—" The words tumble out in a rush, panic making your voice go high and thin.

He laughs again, shaking his head so his curls bounce. "Sweetheart, if we ever did anything like that, I would make damn sure you remembered." He waves his pizza slice at you, toppings threatening to slide off. "But no. We didn't do anything. Scout's honor."

He holds up three fingers in what might be a Boy Scout salute, though you're pretty sure Eddie was never a Boy Scout.

"Okay." You take a breath, trying to calm your racing heart. "So why am I in your van?" You look around again, taking in the cramped space with new eyes. "Did you sleep in here too?"

"You were passed out," Eddie explains, taking another massive bite. He talks around the food, which should be disgusting but somehow just seems very Eddie. "And you begged—like, actually begged—me not to take you to your dorm." He swallows, then continues. "And no, I didn't sleep here. I moved into the Pike basement a few weeks ago."

You blink at him. "What?"

"I mean, not like officially," he amends, gesturing with the pizza slice. "But Steve put a pullout couch down there for me, and I even got myself a bookshelf." His eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. "With all my little knickknacks. It's pretty sweet, actually. I was like, 'Aw, Steve-o, you love me?' And he was like—" Eddie drops his voice into a gruff impression of Steve—"'Shut up, Munson.'"

He grins at the memory, then pauses to chew and swallow. "Anyway, before you ask why you're half-naked in my van—" He holds up a hand to stop your incoming question. "You got absolutely shitfaced last night. Like, I've seen you drunk before, but this was something else."

You groan, dropping your face into your hands. "Oh god."

"Yeah. You threw up all over yourself after Gareth gave you your stick and poke." He gestures vaguely at your lower half with the pizza crust. "So that's why you're not wearing your clothes. They were... unsalvageable. I had to throw them in a dumpster."

"My jeans?" you ask weakly.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound particularly sorry. "I would've carried you inside the Pike house—would've been easier, honestly—but you said something about being too mad at Steve to be around him." He shrugs. "So I gave you the shirt off my back—literally, that's my favorite Dio shirt you're wearing—and gave you a kiss goodnight."

Your eyes widen.

"Not really," he adds quickly, grinning. "But I did pray I wouldn't find you dead this morning. That would've been a real downer."

You stare at him, blinking slowly, your brain trying to process all of that information at once. It comes in fragments—throwing up, begging not to see Steve. Then your brows furrow, catching on something he said.

"What do you mean stick and poke?"

Eddie chuckles again, that shit-eating grin spreading wider across his face. "Oh man. I tried to talk you out of it. I really did. But you were very insistent." He takes another bite of pizza. "And you already had your pants off at that point, so..."

Your eyes grow wide, heart dropping into your stomach. "No."

"Oh yes."

You move immediately, hands scrambling for the hem of the shirt you're wearing. You lift it up, twisting to look at your hip, and sure enough—right there, just above the waistline of your underwear—is dark ink. Fresh and slightly raised. The skin around it is pink and irritated, swollen like a fresh wound.

The words Hot Shot are etched into your skin in slightly wobbly, imperfect letters. Permanent. Forever.

You bite your bottom lip hard enough to hurt, staring at it. "Great. This is just... great."

You let the shirt fall back down and flop backward onto the mattress with a loud sigh, the springs creaking beneath you. Your arm comes up to cover your eyes, blocking out the too-bright light from the open van door.

"Your van isn't all that bad, you know," you mumble after a moment.

You can hear his pleased smile even without looking at him—hear it in the way he shifts, the slight huff of amusement. "High praise. I’ll let the next person I bring in here know."

"I'm serious. It's kind of cozy."

"Okay, well, cozy time is over." Eddie claps his hands together, making you flinch. "Get these clothes on so I can take you home." 

He tosses a pair of sweatpants and a new top— a silent way of telling you to give back his Dio shirt. 

You don't move. "I think I'm okay hiding in here the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of the semester."

"Nope." Eddie shifts forward, and you hear him moving around. "Not happening."

"Why not?" You peek out from under your arm. "You said it yourself—it's cozy."

Eddie rolls his eyes—you can see it now, the exaggerated way his whole head moves. "Look, the van is kind of a drama-free zone, and I don't want you ruining the vibe."

You move your arm fully now, propping yourself up on your elbows to give him a proper death glare. "You're literally best friends with drama queen one and drama queen two. You're pretty much their love child."

"And that's why you fit in so well," Eddie snides, finishing off his pizza and wiping his hands on his jeans.

You stare at one another for a long moment—him with that infuriating smirk, you with your best attempt at intimidation despite your pounding headache and disheveled state.

You break first. A smile tugs at your lips despite yourself, small and reluctant but real.

Then it falls.

"Last night..." You sit up fully now, pulling your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. "Did I... tell you anything?"

Eddie leans back against the side of the van, arms crossed. "Nah, not really. Just said Robin is mad at you. You're mad at Steve. Steve is mad at Robin, blah blah..." He starts circling his fingers in the air by his head, letting his eyes roll back dramatically. He flops backward onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated sigh. "Or wait, was Robin mad at Steve? Honestly, I can't keep up anymore. You three are like a soap opera."

You're quiet for a moment, then reach down to touch the tattoo again, lifting the shirt slightly. The letters are uneven—definitely done by someone drunk. But they're there. Irreversibly Hot Shot. 

"Eddie..." You bite your bottom lip, not looking at him. "Do you think I'm an attention seeker?"

The van goes quiet. You can hear traffic in the distance, birds chirping, the rustle of Eddie shifting beside you.

When you finally look at him, his face is completely serious for once—no smirk, no jokes, no deflection. His dark eyes are steady on yours.

"Sweetheart," he says in the most genuine tone you've ever heard from him. "Aren't we all?"

.-.-.-.

Robin doesn't say anything the morning they throw their belongings into Eddie's van to drive to the camping trip. She hasn't talked to you all week, and you haven't tried to force it. The only reason you even know you're still invited is because three days ago, Robin walked into your dorm—you were lying on your bed, pretending to read but mostly staring at the same page for twenty minutes—and said, "Eddie is picking us up at 4PM. sharp on Friday."

The air in the room had felt thick, suffocating. You'd looked up from your book, mouth opening to say something—anything—but she was already turning away.

She stopped at the door, hand on the knob. Didn't turn around. "Nancy's excited to see you."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut with a finality like a period.

You think maybe Nancy is your only saving grace for still going. Or maybe not really, because thinking about it—being in such close proximity to Robin who is clearly still furious with you, and to Steve who you're pissed at because you know he's pissed at you—makes your stomach churn with anxiety that tastes like battery acid.

Could you blame him, though?

Eddie had mentioned in passing that Steve and Robin aren't really speaking to each other either, except for some public appearances together for Greek life stuff. Things you weren't invited to this time. Things you wonder if Steve's other girls attended. If Polly was there in some tight dress, standing close to him, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm.

Maybe that's why you're pissed at Steve. Sammy ended things with you—and you still have to see him twice a week in Art Appreciation, where he now doesn't even blink in your direction, just stares straight ahead at the professor like you're made of glass or air or nothing at all—and Steve still gets to fuck whoever he wants. While you're not getting any. Not even from Steve.

At least you're not stuck in a car with him for the two-hour drive to the state park. Apparently he only had morning classes on Friday and left early to set up what he could.

But that doesn't mean the two-hour ride isn't one of the longest of your life.

Eddie does most of the talking—rambling about Corroded Coffin's upcoming gigs then about how he's pretty sure one of the Pike pledges is dealing weed and cutting into his business. His voice fills the van like smoke, impossible to escape.

You're in the back seat, watching the landscape blur past the window. Trees give way to fields give way to small towns with faded storefronts and gas stations. The vinyl seat is cracked beneath you, sticking to your bare legs where your shorts ride up. The van smells like stale cigarettes and the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror that does absolutely nothing to mask it.

Robin is in the front, arms crossed over her chest, staring out her own window the entire time like if she looks hard enough she can transport herself somewhere else. Anywhere else. Her hair catches the sunlight streaming through the windshield, turning auburn strands to copper and gold.

Occasionally though, when Eddie says something particularly ridiculous—comparing his guitar skills to Eddie Van Halen with zero irony, claiming he's "basically a guitar god in the making"—you and Robin make eye contact in the rearview mirror. The corners of your lips twitch, almost smiling, something familiar and warm flickering between you before you both erase it and look away quickly, back to your respective windows.

Eddie drives down a dirt road that kicks up dust in thick clouds behind the van, coating everything in a fine layer of grit that you can taste in the back of your throat. The state park spreads out around you—tall pines and oak trees creating a dense canopy overhead, dappled sunlight filtering through in golden shafts that look almost solid. The air smells different here—clean and sharp with pine resin, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss.

Campers and tents are spread out at different sites along the winding road, some with families already grilling—the smell of charcoal and cooking meat drifting on the breeze. Others with groups of college kids drinking beer from coolers, their laughter carrying through the trees.

Eddie finally backs into a spot next to Steve's BMW, which looks absurdly out of place here—all sleek lines and polished paint next to the dusty, beat-up van. On the other side of Steve's car is a light blue sedan you don't recognize—a Ford, maybe, with Indiana plates and a small dent in the rear bumper.

The three of you climb out of the van. Your legs are stiff from sitting for two hours, muscles protesting as you stretch. The ground beneath your feet is uneven—packed dirt and pine needles that crunch softly with each step. The air is cooler here in the shade of the trees, and you can hear water somewhere nearby, a stream or creek bubbling over rocks.

You follow Eddie and Robin toward the campsite, taking in the setup.

There are already two tents pitched—one larger, the fabric a dark green that blends with the surroundings. The other is smaller, a bright blue that stands out like a beacon. There's a fire pit ringed with large stones blackened from previous fires, and someone—probably Steve—has already laid kindling in the center. A wooden picnic table sits nearby, the kind that's permanently installed at campsites, its surface weathered gray and carved with decades of initials and crude drawings.

Lawn chairs—the collapsible kind with cup holders in the arms—are folded on the ground next to a substantial pile of firewood. The logs are fresh-cut, pale wood still showing where the bark was stripped away, and they smell sweet and sharp like sap. You can see a cooler partially hidden in the shade of a massive oak tree, condensation already beading on its blue plastic surface.

"Hey!"

The voice is warm and familiar, carrying easily through the clearing. Your attention snaps toward the tree line as Nancy emerges from between two pines, carrying an armful of sticks and small branches—probably meant for kindling. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, a few leaves caught in her short bob.

Next to her is a boy you've never met in person but have seen once before. In the picture on Steve's bathroom mirror, the one with Eddie, Nancy, Robin, and him all squeezed together and grinning like idiots. The last time you saw that picture, you'd been sitting on Steve's closed toilet seat, peeing on a pregnancy test with shaking hands, and you'd noticed Steve had added a new photo to the collection—Eddie, Robin, him, and you, taken at some party you barely remember but where everyone looks happy.

Robin's face transforms instantly. Whatever moodiness she's been carrying for the past week—that heavy, dark cloud—evaporates like morning fog burned away by sun. "Nance!" She beams, already moving forward with quick steps that kick up dust.

Nancy barely has time to hand the pile of sticks to the boy beside her before Robin reaches her, pulling her into a tight hug. They hold each other for a beat longer than necessary, Nancy's face buried in Robin's shoulder, Robin's hand cradling the back of Nancy's head with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. You can hear Nancy's small sound of relief, muffled against Robin's shirt.

The brown-haired boy—tall and lanky with shaggy hair that falls across his forehead, partially obscuring his eyes—trudges through the campsite with the kindling balanced precariously in his arms. He's wearing a worn flannel over a faded Talking Heads t-shirt despite the warmth, jeans that are torn at one knee, and beat-up Converse that have seen better days. His face is gentle, features soft and unassuming—brown eyes that look kind, a slight bump on the bridge of his nose like it's been broken before.

Eddie's face lights up when he sees him, practically glowing. "Jon-boy!" He proclaims, voice booming across the campsite as he approaches with open arms. He slings one around the boy's shoulders, nearly toppling the kindling. "My favorite future Spielberg!"

"Hey, Ed." The boy—Jon, apparently—smiles, the expression soft and a little shy, crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice is quiet, gentle. "How was the drive?"

"Exhausting!" Eddie shoots a look at Robin, then at you, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappear into his bangs. "The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Actually, forget a knife. You'd need a chainsaw. Maybe dynamite." He releases Jon and digs into his denim jacket pocket, pulling out a small tin that's definitely full of pre-rolled joints. The metal catches the sunlight, glinting. "How about we get started on the fun part?"

Jon laughs, a quiet sound that barely carries, shaking his head. But he also doesn't say no. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and you can see familiarity, but no idea where.

Eddie turns to you, grinning so wide it looks almost painful. "Hot Shot, what about you? Wanna join?"

You sigh, shifting your backpack on your shoulder. The strap is digging into your skin, and you can already feel the beginning of a bruise forming. "Can't. Need to build my tent first before it gets dark." You gesture at Eddie pointedly. "You should do the same, you know. Unless you want to be fumbling with tent poles in the pitch black."

Eddie waves a dismissive hand, clicking his tongue. "I'm all set. I'm sleeping in a hammock. The only right way to camp. You get to sway with the breeze, sleep under the stars—it's transcendent." His eyes go wide, and he smacks his forehead dramatically. "Wait, how rude of me. Hot Shot, let me introduce you to the one and only Jonathan Byers."

The name sounds familiar—you realize with sudden clarity that this must be Will's older brother. You'd heard stories about him, mostly about how he and Steve had a complicated history.

You step forward, and notice how similar his features are to Will's—the same gentle brown eyes, the same soft jawline, though Jonathan's face is more angular, more grown into itself. His hands are stained with something dark—maybe developing chemicals if the photography stories are true—and there's a small scar on his chin.

You hold out your hand. "Hi."

Jonathan takes it, his grip gentle and a bit uncertain, like he's afraid of hurting you. His palm is callused, warm. He doesn't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I've heard... well, I've heard a lot."

You smile despite the awkwardness thrumming under your skin. "All good things, I hope?"

"Mostly." He cracks a small smile, and you see a dimple appear in his left cheek.

And because the world apparently hates you, footsteps crunch on leaves and gravel behind you. You turn and Steve is walking back from wherever he disappeared to—probably gathering more firewood or checking something, his arms empty now. 

He stops when he sees you. His eyes—that golden hazel color that shifts in the light—land on where your hand is still clasped with Jonathan's. Something flickers across his face—too quick to read, gone before you can name it. His jaw tightens, muscle jumping beneath skin.

Then he looks away and slips into one of the tents like you don't exist, like you're part of the landscape he can ignore.

You drop Jonathan's hand quickly, heat rising to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the warm afternoon sun.

You look over at Nancy and Robin. They've separated slightly but Nancy's hand is still resting on Robin's lower back, a touch that looks casual but you know is anything but. Robin is glaring at the tent Steve disappeared into, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with an intensity that could burn holes through the fabric. Then her gaze catches yours for a split second—something complicated passing between you, hurt and anger and maybe a tiny bit of understanding—before she deliberately turns away, looping her arm through Nancy's more firmly.

"Come on, babe. Help me figure out where we're setting up our tent."

Eddie leads you back to the van, the metal hot under your hand when you grab the door handle. Nancy and Robin trail behind, still joined at the hip, and you can hear them talking quietly, Nancy's voice soothing whatever's churning in Robin's head.

The back of the van is cluttered—sleeping bags, a cooler, Eddie's guitar case covered in more stickers, some camping equipment that looks like it hasn't been used in years. 

Robin grabs her duffel bag, then her backpack. Eddie hands you yours.

But he makes no motion to hand you anything else.

You peek into the van, scanning the remaining contents, then look at your single duffel bag. A sick feeling starts in your stomach. "Uh, Eds. Is my other bag in there still?"

"I just handed it to you." Eddie points at the duffel, confused.

"Yeah, my other bag." You say slowly, enunciating each word like you're talking to a child.

"What other bag?" He blinks at you innocently, and you can see the exact moment realization dawns. His face goes from confused to oh shit. "Uh..."

"What's wrong?"

For the first time in a week, you hear Steve's voice directed at your general vicinity. You give him a sideways look, refusing to fully turn, your spine stiffening.

He's standing a few feet away now, and up close you can see more details—the way his hair has grown out, brown roots overtaking the blonde highlights so it looks honey-colored in the dappled sunlight. It's longer, curling slightly at the ends where it brushes his neck. He's wearing dark jeans that sit low on his hips, and that blue t-shirt that's slightly too short. You can see a sliver of his stomach when he shifts his weight, a line of tanned skin and the trail of dark hair leading down. The sleeves hug his biceps, fabric stretched across muscle, and more hair peeks out from the collar, dark against his chest.

His arms are crossed over his chest, defensive, and there are smudges of dirt on his forearms like he's been working. 

Nancy—still standing with Robin, their fingers now loosely intertwined—speaks for you. "She forgot her tent and sleeping bag."

You swivel to face her, defensive heat rising in your chest. "Correction; Munson here forgot my tent and sleeping bag. I put them right by the van because he told me to." You do air quotes, pitching your voice lower in a poor imitation of Eddie's gravel-rough tone. "'Have it all under control, sweetheart.'"

Eddie scratches the back of his neck, climbing out of the van with all the grace of a newborn giraffe learning to walk. His boots thud against the ground, disturbing the layer of pine needles. "Okay, yeah. Might have gotten... distracted. You see, I needed to take a smoke break while you and Robin went upstairs to double-check you had everything." He's rambling now, hands gesturing wildly in the air, nearly hitting the side of the van. "And then I saw this really cool beetle—or was it a moth? It had these incredible wings, all iridescent—doesn't matter. Point is, I, uh..." He grimaces. "Shit. Sorry, Hot Shot." He brightens slightly, like he's just had a brilliant idea. "You're welcome to share the hammock with me! It'll be cozy."

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose where a headache is starting to form. "I'll just sleep in your van again."

Nancy giggles, eyebrows raising with curiosity and amusement. "You slept in his van?"

You shrug, not elaborating, the memory of waking up in Eddie's shirt with a fresh tattoo on your hip making your face heat. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve's jaw tick, his posture going rigid, shoulders pulling back.

Eddie looks back into the van, assessing the cramped space. "I mean, you're welcome to it, but I took the mattress out after our wild night together." He winks obnoxiously, making smooching noises. "Made quite the mess, sweetheart."

"Shut up. Please." Your eyes drift to Steve despite yourself, despite knowing you shouldn't care what he thinks.

He doesn't seem bothered. His face is carefully blank, neutral, giving absolutely nothing away. Does he know the real story—that you'd gotten shitfaced and thrown up on yourself? Or does he not care anymore? Has he written you off completely, moved on to other girls who don't come with complications?

Steve sighs heavily, like this entire situation is a massive inconvenience he didn't sign up for. "Okay. She can take my tent and I'll just crash with Jonathan." He doesn't look at you. Doesn't address you directly. His gaze stays fixed somewhere over your left shoulder, like you're a problem to be solved rather than a person standing right there. "It's fine."

"It's fine, really—" you start, but your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.

But Steve has already moved. He's walking toward you, and before you can step back or protest, he's taking your duffel bag out of your hand. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm and callused, familiar in a way that makes your breath catch—and then he's moving past you. The scent of him washes over you: pine needles and campfire smoke and that cologne he wears, the one that makes you think of clean laundry and something warmer, spicier underneath.

He sets your bag inside one of the tents—the smaller blue one—then walks to the larger green tent and grabs his own stuff. He tosses it into what must be Jonathan's tent with more force than necessary, the duffel landing with a heavy thud. He walks over to Jonathan, says something low that you can't hear over the rustle of wind through the trees, probably explaining the new arrangement.

Jonathan nods, glancing at you with something that might be sympathy or pity or just general confusion about what the hell is going on.

"Good thing they're friends now," you hear Nancy tell Robin quietly, though not quite quietly enough.

Robin snorts, loud enough that you know she meant for you to hear. "I'm gonna go build our tent, babe. Which means I'm going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing until Harrington inevitably helps me." There's affection in her voice when she says his name.

"Sounds good!" Nancy's arm is suddenly looping through yours, and she's standing right next to you, practically vibrating with excitement. Her skin is warm against yours, and she smells like the lavender shampoo she uses and something like vanilla. "That means we get to stand around, look pretty, and catch up!"

Robin's face falls slightly when she catches your eye. Something passes between you—not quite forgiveness, but maybe an acknowledgment that you're both here, both trying. Then she turns toward the campsite, already calling for Steve in that bossy tone she uses when she wants him to do something.

Once Robin is out of earshot—already gesticulating wildly at Steve while pointing at a tent bag—and Eddie is wandering off toward the tree line with his hammock under one arm, Nancy spins to face you fully. "Okay, fill me in on everything. I know something is going on between you and Robin."

You scoff, defensive walls automatically going up. "She didn't tell you?"

Nancy shakes her head, curls bouncing with the movement. A few leaves are still caught in her hair from gathering kindling. "She won't talk about it. Clams up every time I try to ask. I tried to ask Steve when Jonathan and I got here, but he keeps running off." She searches your face with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. "What happened?"

You should tell her it's nothing. Should brush it off and change the subject to something safer, easier. But the more you think about it, the lonelier you feel. The weight of the secret pressing down on your chest like a physical thing. "Wanna go on a walk?"

Nancy beams, relief evident on her face. She swivels to look at the group scattered around the campsite—Robin and Steve already bickering over tent poles, Eddie climbing a tree to test its hammock-worthiness, Jonathan crouched by the fire pit arranging kindling—and shouts, "We'll be right back!"

You hike for a while, following a narrow trail that winds through the trees. The path is uneven, full of exposed roots and rocks that you have to watch out for. The air smells incredible here—pine resin sharp and clean, mixed with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and moss growing on the north side of tree trunks. You can hear birds calling to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance, that stream you heard earlier, water moving over rocks in a constant murmur.

The conversation is easy at first—Nancy tells you about one of her professors at Emerson being a total tightwad and misogynist but pretending not to be. "He talks over me in class," she says, voice tight with frustration. "Dismisses my ideas, calls them 'interesting' in that condescending tone. But then a guy says literally the exact same thing five minutes later and suddenly it's brilliant. Suddenly it's worth discussing."

"Sounds like an asshole," you offer, kicking at a pinecone on the trail. It rolls ahead of you, bouncing over roots.

"The biggest." Nancy's hands are clenched into fists at her sides. "But I've got an internship lined up for the summer at a newspaper in Boston. The Globe, actually."

You stop walking, turning to face her. "Nancy, that's amazing!"

She smiles, but it's tempered with realism, with an understanding of how the world works. "I'll probably be getting coffee the whole time and making copies. Maybe some light fact-checking if I'm lucky. But it's good for networking. And maybe, if I'm really lucky, I'll get to write something. Even if it's just an obituary." She laughs, but there's an edge to it.

You walk in comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds your footsteps on the packed dirt trail and the birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The sunlight filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating dust motes floating in the air. It smells like spring and growing things and the promise of evening to come.

Then, finally, you tell her. Not everything—not that Steve kissed you like you were the only person in the world, not that you're confused about what the rules even are anymore or if they ever meant anything in the first place. But you tell her about Sammy. 

How you feel guilty for using him when he clearly wanted more, even if he said he was okay with casual. How you'd liked him well enough but never thought about him when he wasn't right in front of you. How you'd used him to try to stop thinking about someone else, and how spectacularly that had failed.

You tell her about the pregnancy scare. About the way your stomach had dropped when you realized you were late, about the panic that had clawed up your throat, about how the first person you'd thought to go to was Steve. Only Steve. Not Robin, not Sammy, not even your mom. Just Steve.

You tell her about Robin finding the test in Steve's trash, about putting the pieces together, about the fight in Eddie's van where Robin had said things that cut like glass.

You stop walking. Nancy's chewing on her bottom lip, her short bob framing her face, moving slightly in the breeze that smells like pine and approaching evening. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt and denim shorts, practical and unfussy, but somehow she still looks put-together in a way you never manage. Her heart-shaped face glows in the golden late-afternoon light filtering through the trees, making her skin look warm and soft. There's dirt on her knees from kneeling to gather kindling, and a small scratch on her forearm from a branch.

Then she smiles—soft and a little sad and knowing in a way that makes your chest ache. "Can I tell you something?"

"Yeah, of course."

Nancy swallows hard, looking away toward the trees where birds are settling for the evening. She hugs herself, arms wrapped around her middle like she's cold even though it's still warm, even though sweat is beading at your hairline from the walk. The air smells like earth and green growing things and something darker, richer underneath—decay and new life all mixed together.

"I love Steve and Robin," she says quietly, each word careful and deliberate. "But I don't think they'll both be truly happy in this arrangement. And I don’t think the people around them will be either."

There's a tear rolling down her cheek, catching the light as it falls. She wipes it quickly with the back of her hand, laughing breathlessly. The sound is hollow, painful. "God, I've never said that out loud before. I've never let myself even think it completely through."

Your chest aches watching her. You step closer and link your arm through Nancy's, pulling her against your side. "It's safe with me."

She leans her head on your shoulder for a long moment, and you stand there together on the trail surrounded by pine trees and the smell of approaching evening. Two people holding secrets that are too heavy to carry alone, that cut into your hands with their weight.

The light is starting to change, going from golden to something softer, more amber. You can hear the campsite in the distance—Eddie's laugh carrying through the trees.

Then you squeeze Nancy's arm and smile. "Okay, enough heavy stuff. Tell me—have you been reading any new books lately?"

Nancy lights up immediately, the sadness lifting from her face like clouds parting. She launches into a detailed explanation of the mystery novel she just finished—something about a detective and a murder in a locked room and a twist ending she didn't see coming. Her voice picks up speed as she gets more animated, using her hands to gesture, and you let her words wash over you as you walk back toward the campsite.

.-.-.-.

Everyone is sitting around the campfire as the sky deepens from orange to purple to deep blue. The fire crackles and pops, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkening sky. The smell of burning wood is thick and pleasant, mixing with the pine scent of the forest and the faint smell of bug spray someone—probably Robin—sprayed liberally.

Beers are in hands, all of you in lawn chairs arranged in a loose circle around the fire pit. The flames cast flickering shadows on everyone's faces, making expressions hard to read. Eddie brought his guitar and he's strumming absentmindedly—not playing anything specific, just chords that blend with the crackling of the fire and the evening sounds of the woods. Crickets chirping, owls starting to call, the distant sound of other campers laughing.

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin are talking about something—you catch fragments about a movie Jonathan saw at some art house theater in LA and about Nancy's classes and her internship.

You're sitting next to Steve. There's a gap between your chairs—not huge, maybe a foot, but deliberate. Intentional. His chair is an old-fashioned folding one with green and white striped fabric, and yours is blue with a rip in one arm where the fabric has worn through.

He hasn't taken a sip of his beer. The bottle sits in the cup holder of his chair, condensation running down the glass, forming a small puddle on the plastic. He's just staring into the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes, turning them more gold than hazel, face expressionless. You can see the flicker of orange light playing across his features—the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, those long lashes that aren't fair for any guy to have.

When you and Nancy had gotten back to the campsite earlier—the sun starting to sink toward the horizon, the light going soft and golden—you'd found Steve standing apart from the group. He was facing the neighboring campsite, perfectly still, just watching.

There was a family there. A camper trailer painted white with blue racing stripes down the side, a striped awning pulled out to create shade. A picnic table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth that billowed slightly in the breeze. Paper plates and plastic cups, a cooler open showing ice and beer and juice boxes.

A little boy—maybe five or six with a gap-toothed grin—ran in and out of the camper, shrieking with laughter that was pure and unselfconscious. His parents stood together by a small charcoal grill, the dad flipping burgers with a metal spatula, wearing a t-shirt that said "World's Okayest Dad." The mom had her arms wrapped around his waist from behind, her chin resting on his shoulder, both of them laughing at something. Their faces were bright with genuine joy in the purple dusk, easy affection written in every line of their bodies.

The little boy was chasing fireflies with a mason jar, his small hands cupped around each one before gently placing them inside. You could hear him counting—"One, two, free, four"—his voice high and excited.

When Steve had noticed you and Nancy approaching, he'd immediately looked away, turning his attention to one of the tent stakes like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. He'd crouched down, pretending to check that it was secure, but you'd seen his hand trembling slightly.

You wonder if he was imagining his own childhood. Did he ever go camping with his parents? Did they ever act like that—easy affection, casual touches, genuine happiness in each other's presence? Did his dad ever wear a goofy t-shirt and flip burgers while his mom laughed? Did they ever chase fireflies together as a family?

From the stories you've heard, from the brief glimpse of his mother's carefully maintained distance and his father's cutting voice you heard at New Year’s, you're pretty sure the answer is no. Steve had none of that. His childhood was probably country clubs and stiff family dinners and being told to be quiet, to be perfect, to not embarrass the Harrington name.

Jonathan gets up from his chair, the metal creaking slightly. He stretches, his back popping audibly, and you see him grimace. "Hey, you want something?" He's looking at you, friendly and open, voice quiet and kind.

"Coke would be great, thanks." You smile politely, grateful for his easy presence.

He nods and heads toward the cooler tucked in the shadows. You turn your head slightly and catch Steve staring at you. The firelight makes his features look sharper, all angles and shadows, the flames dancing in his eyes. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath skin. He finally takes a long drink of his beer—Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows—then turns away again, back to staring at the fire like it holds answers to questions he won't ask out loud.

Nancy had told you more about Jonathan during your walk, filling in gaps and backstory. He's sweet but shy, just like his brother Will. Always observing, always thinking, taking mental photographs of moments before they disappear. She'd dated him right after breaking up with Steve—it had been messy, feelings still raw on all sides like an open wound. 

They'd even gotten in a physical fight, Steve and Jonathan, though Nancy hadn't gone into details. Something about words said in anger, about Nancy caught in the middle, about two boys who were both hurting and didn't know how else to express it. Now they don't act like it in front of people, but either one would kill for the other if it came down to it. Secret best friends, bonded through shared trauma and Nancy's– unrequited– love, through parallel experiences of feeling inadequate and out of place.

You'd asked Jonathan earlier—while helping him arrange firewood, building the structure for the fire—why he wasn't in Hawkins for the holidays. He'd looked surprised by the question, like most people don't ask about his life, before explaining that he works in California now, in film production. He's an assistant on some indie film, "basically the coffee boy with delusions of grandeur," he'd said self-deprecatingly while building a careful teepee of kindling.

But you'd seen the way his eyes lit up when he talked about it. About being on set, about watching the director work, about the way light and shadow create mood, about the script he's working on in his spare time.

He'd tried telling the group earlier about the plot of that script—something called "The Consumer" about capitalism and body horror and the ways we literally consume each other in American society. Everyone had worn knowing smiles, nodding along with varying degrees of genuine interest. Eddie had looked fascinated, asking questions. Robin had made jokes about it being "very Jonathan" which apparently meant pretentious but in an endearing way. Nancy had watched him with such open fondness it made your chest ache.

Even Steve had smiled a little—small and fond and resigned, the expression of someone who's heard this pitch before and knows it'll probably never get made but hopes anyway.

Eventually, as the fire burns down to glowing coals and someone adds another log that sends up a shower of sparks, Eddie produces a joint and a lighter with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. The joint is perfectly rolled, neat and tight.

"Alright, birthday girl," Eddie announces, standing and doing a little bow. "Your chariot awaits."

Everyone sings "Happy Birthday" to Robin—slightly off-key, the harmonies all wrong, Steve's voice a low rumble you can feel in your chest more than hear. Nancy's soprano climbs too high on the final note, and Eddie adds unnecessary vocal runs that make Robin laugh so hard she almost falls out of her chair.

She's smiling when they finish, genuinely happy, and she even looks at you during the last line—her eyes finding yours across the fire, her face saying I'm glad you're here, and you return it with your own expression saying I'm glad I'm here too, and something unknots slightly in your chest.

Robin lights the joint, taking the first ceremonial drag as the birthday girl. The cherry glows bright orange in the darkness, and smoke curls up into the night sky where stars are starting to appear. She passes it to Nancy, who takes a delicate hit and immediately coughs, her face scrunching up in a way that makes Robin laugh and rub her back.

Nancy passes it to Jonathan, who inhales deeply with the practiced ease of someone who's done this many times, probably in parking lots after his shifts at developing photos, probably alone in his apartment in California while working on his script. The smoke doesn't even seem to affect him.

Jonathan passes it to you.

You take a hit, the smoke harsh and burning in your lungs despite Eddie's claims that this is "the smooth stuff," and you look at Steve.

You make a thoughtless decision fueled by weed and firelight and the desperate want to fix something between you. You stick the joint between your lips, turn to Steve, and lean in. It's like that time months ago in the Pike basement when he'd done it to you— close enough to feel the heat of his lips when you slipped it in his mouth. 

You hope he remembers. Hope he understands it's a peace offering. That you're still friends, despite everything that's happened, despite all the rules broken and boundaries crossed and words left unsaid.

The corner of Steve's mouth betrays him, twitching like he wants to smile, like he's remembering the same moment you are. You see his hand start to reach toward you—fingers extending, moving through the smoke-hazy air—and then his eyes flicker from yours to your lips. You're certain he's not looking at the joint. He's looking at your mouth, at the way your lips are parted, at the space between you that's measured in inches but feels like miles.

Then something shutters in his expression. Something closes off, locks down. His hand drops back to the arm of his chair. He takes another sip of his beer—a long pull that drains half the bottle—stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the dirt and rocks, the metal legs leaving gouges in the ground.

"Happy birthday, Rob. Love you." His voice is soft, genuine, the tone he reserves for the people he actually cares about. He walks over to where Robin is sitting, bends down to press a kiss to the top of her head, ruffling her hair. She reaches up to squeeze his hand, their fingers tangling together briefly before he pulls away.

He pours out the remaining beer from his bottle—the liquid splashing on the ground, soaking into the dirt and pine needles—and tosses the empty into the trash bag Eddie had set out earlier for their hot dog wrappers and paper plates. The glass clinks against other bottles.

Then he walks to the tent he's sharing with Jonathan and disappears inside, the zipper loud in the relative quiet of the campfire. The fabric glows slightly from his flashlight inside before it clicks off, plunging the tent into darkness.

The group falls into awkward silence. Eddie chuckles—forced and uncomfortable, trying to salvage the mood—and stands up, taking the joint from your lips where it's still burning between them. He gives you a sympathetic smile that makes you want to punch him, that makes you want to scream, that makes you want to rewind time and not do something so stupid.

You see Nancy lean over to Robin, whispering something close to her ear. Robin's face goes through several expressions—surprise, resignation, frustration—before she sighs heavily and sets down her beer. She stands, brushing dirt and pine needles off the back of her jeans.

"Steve?" she calls softly, approaching the tent. The zipper opens and she slips inside, her silhouette visible through the thin fabric, backlit by the flashlight she must have turned back on.

You don't wait to see what happens. You grab your toiletry bag and a change of clothes from your—Steve's—tent, not making eye contact with anyone, and head toward the shower building without a word.

The path to the showers is marked with small solar lights that barely illuminate anything. You can hear other campers—laughter from a site nearby, someone playing acoustic guitar, the sound of children being called in for bed. The air has cooled significantly now that the sun is down, and you wish you'd brought a sweatshirt.

The shower building is cinder block painted an institutional beige, lit by fluorescent lights that buzz and flicker. It smells like chlorine and mildew and the industrial soap from the dispensers mounted on the walls. Your shower-shoed footsteps echo on the concrete floor.

The showers are communal but mercifully empty when you get there. You stand under hot water that never quite gets hot enough, washing away the day—the tension, the awkwardness, Steve's face when you'd tried to share the joint and he'd looked at you like you were offering him something poisonous. The water pressure is weak, more of a drizzle than a spray, but you stay under it until your skin turns pink and pruney, until the water starts to run cold.

You get dressed in your sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and flannel pajama pants covered in little stars. You brush your teeth at the sink, staring at your reflection in the spotted mirror. Your eyes are red-rimmed, whether from smoke or something else you're not ready to acknowledge. You look tired. You look like you need this weekend to be over already, like you need to go back to campus where you can avoid everyone more easily, where you're not trapped in close quarters with your mistakes.

When you come out of the building—toiletry bag clutched in one hand, your dirty clothes rolled up under your other arm—you nearly run directly into Robin.

You both stop. Look at each other. The light from the shower building casts long shadows across the ground, making Robin's face half-illuminated, half-hidden. She's wearing her sleep clothes too—boxers and an old Emerson College t-shirt that must be Nancy's. Her hair is messy, like she's been running her hands through it.

Robin nods at you. You do the same, a small dip of your chin.

You step to the side to walk around her, giving her space, not wanting to force proximity she doesn't want. But then you hear her say your name—quiet, almost tentative.

You turn. "Yeah?"

Robin shifts her weight from foot to foot, arms crossing over her chest then uncrossing, then crossing again. She won't quite meet your eyes, gaze sliding to the side to focus on something past your shoulder. "Are you good with kayaking tomorrow?"

You blink, thrown by the mundane question, by the normalcy of it. "Uh, yeah. Sounds fun."

"Cool. Okay." She crosses her arms again, defensive but less rigid than before. "We're going after lunch."

"Cool."

You both nod again—this weird, formal acknowledgment of each other's existence, of the fact that you're both here, both trying in your own broken ways.

You spin back around and start walking toward the campsite, following the little solar lights, listening to the sounds of the forest at night—things moving in the underbrush, owls calling, the distant sound of the stream. Then, on impulse, you stop. Turn back.

"Hey, Rob?"

Robin swivels around, eyes wide. Hopeful, maybe. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on your part.

You smile—small and genuine and meaning it. "Happy birthday."

Something in Robin's expression softens entirely, all the hard edges melting away. She smiles back—real and warm and familiar, like the Robin you know, the Robin who's your best friend even when you're fighting. "Goodnight, Hot Shot."

The nickname doesn't sound like an insult this time. It sounds like an olive branch.

When you walk back to the campsite, the path lit only by those weak solar lights and the moon overhead, you catch Steve leaning against a tree near the edge of the clearing. He's smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the darkness, smoke curling up into the night air where it disappears among the stars. He's staring at the neighboring campsite again—that family with their perfect trailer and their perfect laughter and their perfect life.

He catches your eye as you approach, standing up a little straighter, shoulders pulling back. He looks at you like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't, eyes dancing with something between guilt and defiance and exhaustion.

In the moonlight—stars twinkling overhead like they're watching, judging, bearing witness—you have the sudden, overwhelming urge to walk up to him and kiss the corner of his mouth. To taste the smoke and ask him to come join you in your tent. Well, technically his tent. To forget about rules and complications and just be close to him in the darkness where no one can see.

Because no matter how pissed off you are at him, no matter what reason your brain conjures up to justify the anger, the truth is simpler and more dangerous: you're addicted to Steve Harrington the way people get addicted to things that are bad for them. One taste is never enough. And now that you've had his lips on yours, his tongue sliding against yours, his breath mingling with yours—you want more. You want it so badly it makes your teeth ache, makes your chest feel too small to contain your heart.

You realize why you're upset. Why you're mad. You have to be angry at him because he's angry at you for almost ruining his future. Robin and Steve might have made up, talked it out in that tent while everyone pretended not to listen, but you're certain Steve will never want to see you the same way again. The pregnancy scare wasn't just about you—it was about threatening everything he and Robin have built, every carefully constructed plan for their future.

So you walk away, head bowed, not trusting yourself to get any closer to him. You unzip the tent and slip inside, zipping it back up behind you like you can seal yourself away from temptation.

But inside is worse. So much worse. The sleeping bag is Steve's—navy blue and worn soft with use. The pillow smells like cedar and aftershave and something indefinably Steve, that scent that clings to his clothes and his skin and now fills your lungs with every breath. You lie there staring at the tent ceiling, unable to sleep, drowning in the ghost of him.

.-.-.-.

You manage to sleep eventually, though it's fitful and broken. You wake to the sound of birds and muffled voices, the tent still dim but starting to glow with approaching dawn. The sun hasn't exactly risen yet—the light is that pale blue-gray of pre-morning, soft and uncertain. Your body aches from sleeping on the ground despite the sleeping pad, your neck stiff, mouth tasting like you licked the inside of a shoe.

You trudge out of the tent, squinting against even the weak light, and find Eddie and Jonathan already awake. Eddie's hair is pulled up in a messy bun at the crown of his head, curls escaping everywhere, and he's crouched by a morning campfire he's somehow coaxed to life. There's a makeshift camping stove set up on a flat rock, a pan sizzling with eggs and bacon that makes your stomach growl despite the early hour.

"Mornin', Hot Shot," Eddie greets sleepily, his voice gravelly and rough. He hasn't fully woken up yet, moving on autopilot and muscle memory.

You scrunch your face, the smell of coffee hitting you like a physical thing—rich and dark and exactly what you need. You walk away from your tent, noticing Jonathan's tent is half open. Inside you can see the tanned expanse of Steve's back, moles scattered across his shoulders and spine like constellations you've traced with your fingers in darkness. His sleeping body is curled on his side, face smushed into a pillow, hair sticking up at the back in a way that's stupidly endearing.

You force yourself to look away and keep walking, smiling at the cup of coffee Jonathan pours and hands to you. The mug is enamel camping ware, chipped at the rim, warm in your hands.

"Morning, boys." You climb onto the wooden picnic table, sitting on the surface with your feet dangling, taking a sip of the coffee. It's strong enough to strip paint, exactly what you need. "Everyone else still asleep?"

Eddie yawns so wide his jaw cracks, stretching his arms overhead. "Nancy and Robin, I have no idea. Just Steve-o is still out." He grins, something mischievous in his expression. "We men had a late night."

You raise a brow, taking another sip. "That's ambiguous, Munson."

He picks up a piece of bacon from the pan, biting it with his teeth, grease running down his chin. He looks at Jonathan, who suddenly finds the ground very interesting. "We went boat fishing last night. On the lake."

"Okay..." You raise both brows now. "Wait, how'd you get a boat?"

Jonathan snorts—actually snorts—and Eddie is grinning ear to ear, eyes dancing with barely contained glee. "Well, you see, sweetheart. You ever wonder why I got into legal trouble back in Hawkins?" He laughs, taking another bite, bacon crunching between his teeth. "Took Principal Higgins' car for a joyride when I was sixteen. My old man taught me how to hotwire."

"Oh god." Your eyes widen. "You didn't..."

"Oh, don't worry, Hot Shot. We returned it safe and sound. Even topped off the gas tank." His teeth are shining, a few bacon pieces stuck between them. "We're gentlemen thieves."

You turn to Jonathan, who's been quietly sipping his coffee. "I thought you were the sensible one."

Jonathan chuckles, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears. "Sometimes you just gotta live a little."

And despite everything—despite the tension and the awkwardness and the horrible night's sleep—you laugh. Really laugh, the sound startling birds from nearby trees.

Suddenly the cup in your hand is taken.

You look up and Steve is there—shirtless, wearing only pajama pants that hang low on his hips, bed head making his hair stick up in every direction, eyes still heavy with sleep. He takes a drink of your coffee, grimacing at the taste—too strong, no sugar—but giving it back to you anyway. His fingers brush yours, warm and callused.

"Is there a reason we're being loud this early in the morning?" he asks, voice rough with sleep. He stands close to you—so close you can feel the warmth radiating off his bare skin, can see the goosebumps on his arms from the cool morning air. He looks at you, then Jonathan, then away quickly like the eye contact burned.

You poke his bare shoulder, definitely not staring at the constellation of moles trailing up his arm, across his collarbone, disappearing into his chest hair. "Eddie was telling me about the crime you committed last night. And now I'm an accomplice."

Steve looks down at where you poked him, a smirk tugging at his lips. The corner of his mouth lifts, showing a hint of teeth. "Is it bad to say it's not the worst thing we've done?"

"Please don't tell me." You cover your ears with both hands. "I do not look good in orange."

Steve turns to face you more fully, and you notice a new development. Had it been there yesterday? It's the beginning of a mustache on his upper lip—patchy and uneven with a small gap in the middle, like he's growing it out just to see if he can. He mutters under his breath, so quiet you almost miss it. "Handcuffs maybe..."

His eyes dart to yours when he realizes you might've heard, and heat floods your face.

But there's no time to react because Jonathan chuckles, oblivious to the tension. "Oh yeah, what did you guys tell me happened a few months ago? You broke into a pig farm?"

Eddie laughs wildly, slapping his knee. "Oh man, I wish you'd been there, Jonathan. You could've documented it. Steve, remember the look on—"

Steve's eyes snap to Eddie, burning with intensity, warning. Eddie's mouth forms an O shape, realization dawning. He looks at you, then back at Steve, scratching his neck awkwardly. "Actually, you know what? I don't remember. I was really high that night and it's all fuzzy and—"

Your brows furrow, looking between Steve and Eddie, both of them with guilt written all over their faces like billboards. Anger bubbles inside you, hot and acidic, as you connect the dots. Pigs. The reason Sammy was late to your first date was because pigs had gotten loose in his frat house. Pigs that someone had to have put there.

Jonathan is the one to sense the tension thickening in the air, suffocating everyone. "Uh... so, I'm thinking about going on a hike in a few minutes. There's a trail that leads to an overlook. Anyone want to join?"

You snap your attention away from Steve, the tentative truce from the past five minutes—from the time he took a sip of your coffee and you poked his shoulder—evaporating like morning dew. He moves away from you immediately, like you're cold, or like you're on fire and will engulf him in flames if he gets too close.

"Yes," you say, voice tight. "I would love that. Let me go see if the lovebirds want to join."

You narrow your eyes at Steve as you pass him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his bare chest, and walk toward Robin and Nancy's tent.

"Nancy—look, I'm sorry."

Robin's voice comes from inside the tent, muffled but clear enough. There's rustling, sharp movements like someone sitting up quickly.

"Robin, I told you it's fine. Don't really want to talk about it right now." Nancy's voice is clipped, careful, holding something back.

There's more muffled conversation you can't make out, and then the zipper unzips hastily. Nancy steps outside in clothes that tell you she's been awake for a while and ready to start the day—jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, hiking boots already laced. She seems surprised to see you standing there but doesn't say anything. She sighs, the sound heavy, and walks past you toward where Jonathan is pouring more coffee.

Robin follows shortly after, her eyes dropping when she sees you, probably knowing you heard everything.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling like an intruder. "I, uh... we're going to go on a hike. Wanna join?"

Robin looks past your shoulder, seeing that Nancy must have been asked the same thing by Jonathan. She reaches into the tent and starts collecting snacks and water bottles, shoving them in a small backpack. "No, I think I'll stick around here and read." She won't look at you. "Not much of a hiker."

You know this is a lie. Sure, Robin isn't much into physical activity usually, but her natural hyperactivity makes her need constant stimulation, constant movement. She can't sit still for more than twenty minutes without bouncing her leg or drumming her fingers or getting up to pace.

"Okay," you say, because what else can you say?

The hike ends up being you, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve. Eddie had said something about trying to catch flying squirrels around the campsite—"They're fascinating creatures, nature's little gliders"—but really, as soon as you set off on the trail, you saw him crack open a beer and flop back into his hammock with a contented sigh.

The hike is pretty at least. The trail winds through dense forest, pine needles cushioning your footsteps, the morning air cool and fresh and smelling like earth and growing things. Birds call to each other overhead, and somewhere in the distance you can hear that stream again, water moving over rocks.

Nancy walks up ahead with Steve most of the time, their heads bent together, hushed whispers you can't quite make out. You catch fragments—"...she won't talk to me..." "...give her time..." "...don't know what to do..."—and realize they're talking about Robin.

Jonathan trails behind the group, stopping frequently to take photos with his camera—the way light filters through trees, a particularly interesting mushroom growing on a fallen log, a spider web strung between branches and covered in morning dew that catches the light like diamonds.

You're in the middle, enjoying the view, the rhythm of walking, the simple act of moving your body through space. Still cooling off from the reveal that Steve tried to sabotage your date with Sammy. I mean, it's not like you ever sabotaged any of his dates. Well, there was that one time you told him to cancel on a girl, but other than that, you respected his rules.

These goddamn rules.

The word makes you want to gouge your eyes out with a stick. What the fuck even are the rules anymore? And what kind of jeans is he wearing that make his ass look that good and—

Your attention is brought to the top of the hill you've been climbing. The trail opens up suddenly into a clearing, and the view steals your breath.

It's beautiful—genuinely, achingly beautiful. The overlook shows miles of forest stretching out below, pine trees swaying in the breeze like the strings of Eddie's guitar being plucked by invisible fingers. The sky is a perfect clear blue, and the sun has fully risen now, painting everything in warm golden light. You can see the lake in the distance, glittering like someone scattered diamonds across its surface.

You take a deep breath, feeling grounded for the first time since you arrived yesterday. The anger in your chest loosens slightly, makes room for something else—awe, maybe, or peace, or just the simple acknowledgment that the world is bigger than your problems.

You see Nancy and Steve doing the same thing—both of them breathing deeply, shoulders dropping from their ears. Steve's arm comes up to rub Nancy's back in small circles, clearly consoling her about whatever's happening with Robin. The gesture is tender, familiar, the kind of touch that speaks to years of friendship and history.

You feel your anger toward Steve evaporate, just a little. Just enough to remember that he's a person, not just an object of your frustration.

You turn to look at Jonathan, who's taking more photos of the view, his camera clicking steadily. You walk up to him, curious. "How long have you been behind a camera?"

Jonathan doesn't seem bothered by the conversation while he works, doesn't stop taking photos. "I don't know. Since I can remember, I guess." Click. "I've always been kind of quiet. Not great at talking." Click. "And, uh... as cliche as it is, a picture is worth a thousand words." He shrugs awkwardly, like he's embarrassed by the sentiment even though it's clearly true. Click.

"So why film then?" you ask. "Why not just stick with photography?"

He laughs—quiet and self-deprecating. "I... I don't know. I guess even though a picture can tell you something, can make you feel something..." He pauses, lowering the camera to look at you directly. "Movies can invoke deeper feelings that make you feel less alone, you know? Like you're part of something bigger than yourself."

You smile, understanding blooming warm in your chest. "That's how I feel about books. Like the author is speaking directly to me, like they understand something I couldn't put into words myself."

Jonathan smiles back, and you see that dimple in his cheek again. "Steve told me you like to read."

Your face falters, the smile freezing then melting. "He did?"

"Yeah. He talks about you all the time. Pretty much knew who you were before I met you." Jonathan shifts his camera bag on his shoulder, lifting the camera again. "Hey, uh... do you mind?" He motions the camera at you.

You look at him, a little surprised. "Oh... uh, sure. I don't mind. You want me to just...?"

"Yeah! Just stay right there and pretend I'm not here. Look at the view, think about something that makes you happy."

You do as you're told, turning back to face the overlook. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath, and somehow you can smell Steve's cologne even though he's several feet away. Cedar and something warmer, spicier. You smile despite yourself, your stomach flipping, chest tightening with something you're not ready to name.

You hear the click from Jonathan's camera. You turn to him, smile still in place.

Jonathan smiles back, lowering the camera. "Steve was right about you."

Your face flickers, confusion replacing contentment. "Right about what?"

"You two ready to go back?" Steve's voice cuts across the clearing, sharp and sudden. "It's almost lunchtime."

You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at you and Jonathan with an intensity that feels disproportionate to the moment.

So you make your way back down the trail, the mood noticeably cooler than the hike up.

Lunch is awkward in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Nancy and Robin are barely speaking to each other, even though they're sitting next to each other at the picnic table. They only call each other by first names—no nicknames, no "babe," no soft touches. The absence of their usual affection is glaring, makes everyone else uncomfortable.

Steve is avoiding looking at you entirely, keeping his gaze fixed on his sandwich or the trees or literally anywhere else. Jonathan seems to like the quiet, eating steadily without feeling the need to fill silence. Eddie, on the other hand, absolutely does not like the quiet, and makes it very obvious there are multiple elephants in the room.

"So!" he says loudly, gesturing with his sandwich. "Anyone want to address the fact that there's more tension here than a fucking... I don't know, a tightrope? A rubber band about to snap?"

No one responds.

"Cool, cool. Love that for us." Eddie takes another bite.

After lunch, plans for kayaking are still on. You pile into Eddie's van, driving down dirt roads to the lake access point. The only sound is music playing from the tape deck while Eddie and Steve talk quietly in the front seat about something you can't hear over Metallica.

When you arrive at the lake, everyone decides to do pairs for kayaking. And because you are ever so lucky, even when Robin and Nancy are secretly fighting—Nancy choosing Jonathan as her partner and Robin immediately asking Eddie—you end up in a kayak with Steve.

Steve, who has changed since the hike into clothes that make you want to commit crimes. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with your university logo across the chest, but the real problem is the jean shorts. They're cut off at mid-thigh, frayed at the edges, and they show off his legs in a way that should be illegal. His thighs are thick, muscular, covered in dark hair that you know is soft to the touch. You can't help but look at them every chance you get, eyes tracing the line of muscle, the way they flex when he moves.

His hair is pushed back by a red baseball cap worn backwards, eyes hidden beneath aviator sunglasses that make him look like a lifeguard or a model or some unholy combination of both. His shirt hugs him everywhere—across his chest, his shoulders, his stomach—and when he bends down to adjust their kayak before pushing it into the water, the shirt rides up on his back, showing a strip of tanned skin and the dimples at the base of his spine.

You feel that anger bubbling again, mixing with want, creating something volatile and dangerous.

He seems just as annoyed to be paired with you, his lips pressed into a thin line when he hands you a paddle. His fingers brush yours for a split second—warm, familiar—before he pulls away.

Steve climbs into the back of the kayak and you get in the front, and then you're off. The water is calm, glittering in the afternoon sun, cool spray occasionally hitting your arms.

Nancy and Jonathan are slowly trailing in front of you, their paddling synchronized and efficient. Robin and Eddie are already way up the stream, even though they've flipped their kayak twice—you can hear Robin's shrieking laughter carrying across the water, can see Eddie's hair dripping as he rights the kayak again.

The tension between you and Steve is suffocating despite the open air, despite the beauty of the surroundings. You can smell the sunscreen he's wearing—coconut-scented. You can feel his eyes on you even though you can't see them behind those sunglasses, boring into your back like lasers.

Occasionally you peek over your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes but you can feel the intensity of his stare, can see the set of his jaw, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the paddle.

Soon it's just the two of you. Nancy and Jonathan have disappeared around a bend in the stream, their laughter fading. Eddie and Robin are long gone, probably halfway to the next lake by now.

You're surprised that for how competitive Steve usually is—always needing to win, to be the best, to prove himself—he makes no effort to speed up. Even when you want to, to get this over with as quickly as possible, to get out of this godforsaken kayak with Steve Harrington and never look back.

"Wanna take a break?" he asks suddenly, his voice startling in the silence.

You turn to look at him, seeing him point toward a small bank where the water is shallow and trees provide shade. You swallow. "Okay."

You both adjust your paddles to head that way, working in tandem without speaking. You reach the bank and Steve is quick to get out, practically leaping from the kayak and rushing into the woods without a word.

It makes you laugh despite everything—he probably needs to pee. You take your shoes off, setting them on the bank, and dip your toes in the cool water. It feels incredible after the heat of paddling in the sun. You wade out knee-deep, the clear spring water refreshing against your skin, small fish darting away from your feet.

"Hot Shot, what are you doing?"

You don't turn around, just giggle at the panic in his voice. "Taking a break, Steve." Your voice drips with sarcasm. "Come join me. It feels great."

But Steve's voice goes sharp, loud. "Where the fuck is the kayak?"

You spin around, hand already raising to point at the bank where you left it. But it's not there. Your eyes scan the area frantically, then look down the stream. Your stomach drops. You can see the bright green kayak floating away downstream, bobbing in the current, already twenty yards away and picking up speed.

"Oh shit..."

Steve's large hands come up to rub his face in frustration or maybe grief or maybe murderous rage. You can see him weighing his options, deciding whether it's worth trying to swim after it. His sunglasses slip down his nose and you can see his eyes roll dramatically, his hands coming to rest on his hips, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he's trying to decide whether to kill you or figure out what to do next.

"I'm sorry," you offer weakly. "I thought I pulled it up far enough—"

"Just—" He holds up a hand. "Don't."

Luckily, Steve had grabbed his backpack when he got out of the kayak—some instinct or experience telling him not to leave it in the boat. The camp map is shoved in there along with water bottles and snacks, and now the two of you are trekking through the woods, trying to navigate back to the parking lot.

You don't know how long you've been hiking. The sun is lower now, late afternoon stretching shadows long across the forest floor. Steve keeps stopping abruptly, looking up at the sky like there's a huge compass up there that only he can read, like he's some kind of wilderness expert instead of a rich kid from Hawkins who probably went to summer camps with air conditioning.

By the third time he stops, you crash into his solid back, stumbling backward. He doesn't look at you when he turns and grabs your arm, steadying you before you can fall. "Do we need to stop for a bit?"

"No, Steve." You huff, pulling your arm free. "The quicker we find the parking lot, the better."

Steve straightens, jaw twitching. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was that an attitude while I'm trying to get us back?"

"Key word: trying, Harrington." You tap his chest, smiling sweetly in a way that's anything but sweet. "You're not really making much progress, are you?"

You start walking ahead, as if going by gut feeling is any better than his sky-reading method.

"Excuse me?" Steve's voice rises behind you. "Do we have a problem or something?"

"Nope." You pop the ‘p’, not looking back at him.

"Crazy, because it seems like you've been mad at me for no reason for over a week now." He walks ahead of you, eyes stuck on the map, holding it up like it'll reveal secrets. His voice sounds casual but there's bitterness underneath, sharp and cutting. "You didn't think I could tell you didn't want to be stuck with me today, but I could."

You stop walking, arms crossing over your chest. You scoff in disbelief. "Oh geez, you think because I didn't give you attention for a week means I'm mad at you?" You giggle, but it's full of venom. "Maybe you needed to wear those glasses, because maybe—just maybe—you're the one who was avoiding me."

Steve stops. He pivots to face you, and his lips turn upward in this infuriating smirk that makes you want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure. "Aw, look who's upset because I didn't whip out my dick for them."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

His lips purse, and he shrugs—one shoulder lifting in this exaggerated, sassy gesture that makes him look like a bitchy teenager. His head tilts, eyebrows raising above his sunglasses. "I dunno. You seemed just fine without me. With Sammy and all. Oh, I saw you two in the library, pretty much making out against the—"

"Oh please, Steve, he was giving me notes because I missed class—"

"—and since I didn't give you attention, you're trying to sleep with my friend—"

"—I didn't fucking sleep with Eddie! I don't want to sleep with Eddie!"

"Yeah, I'm not talking about Eddie." Steve's voice goes cold, sharp. "I'm talking about Jonathan, Hot Shot."

You stare at him, an incredulous sound escaping your mouth—half laugh, half scream. "Jesus Christ, Steve. I don't want to fuck any of your friends! It's not my fault you get jealous of any guy I speak to." Your voice rises, echoing through the trees. "You don't see me blacklisting your fuck buddies from parties or releasing pigs in their houses to sabotage dates. Really cool, Steve. Very mature."

Steve laughs, the sound bitter and harsh. "The Alpha Taus are douchebags, Hot Shot. That prank had nothing to do with you."

"Well, it doesn't make sense, because you weren't that upset about Sammy when you were off canoodling with Polly last Wednesday night." You cross your arms tighter. "Oh, don't give me that look. I saw you two in the parking lot."

He points at you, shaking his finger like he's just had an epiphany. "I knew that was you! You were spying on me!"

"I wasn't spying!" You throw your hands up. "God forbid I knew where you'd be and wanted an easy fuck."

Steve leans in close, invading your space, and you can smell him—sunscreen and sweat and anger. "I don't know why you think you're special. Is it because I kissed you, huh? Is that what this is all about?"

"Oh, give me a break, Steve." You push past him, following what you think might be a trail through the underbrush.

"Aha! See, there it is." He follows behind you, voice getting louder. "You think I'm going to break my rules just because I slipped up once. Even after I told you to forget it happened."

Your chest is heaving, face hot despite the shade of the trees. If you were a cartoon, steam would be rolling out of your ears. You spin around, storming up to him until you're chest to chest, and press your finger hard into his solid chest. "Oh, bullshit! Tell me, Steve—what does 'once a month' mean to you?"

"What?" His brows knit together in confusion.

You close your mouth, eyes going glassy. Tears threaten from how pissed off you are, from how much this hurts, from everything building inside you for weeks.

"I—" He swallows, face falling as realization dawns.

"Tell me," you demand, pushing his chest again. Harder this time.

He doesn't move from your force. Doesn't speak. His face has fallen completely, all the anger draining away into something that looks like guilt and sadness and fear.

You let out a breathy huff, scowling, turning back around to keep walking. To get away from him before you do something stupid like cry.

"Because I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck!" Steve's voice echoes through the trees, bouncing off trunks, scattering birds into flight.

You don't have time to reply. You turn around and he's already there—right behind you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the freckles scattered across his nose from sun exposure, the way his chest is heaving with emotion. His eyes search yours, desperate and afraid and hopeful all at once. Those puppy dog eyes that make your knees weak, that make you forget why you're angry in the first place.

"Steve? Hot Shot?" Eddie's voice comes from somewhere nearby, cutting through the moment like a knife.

Steve looks at your mouth, his body visibly deflating, shoulders sagging. "Over here!" he calls, voice rough. He moves past you, jogging up what must actually be the trail to meet Eddie.

The others are behind Eddie—all of them looking concerned and slightly annoyed.

.-.-.-.

Later, everyone is around the campfire again as darkness falls. Most of the evening was wasted looking for you and Steve. You're sitting far away from Steve this time, deliberately choosing a chair next to Robin instead. Nancy and Robin seem to be sort of talking—their shoulders aren't touching but they're not completely ignoring each other either—but you can see it's still careful interaction.

Jonathan is the one to try reaching an olive branch, suggesting s'mores. Everyone lights up at that—even Robin and Nancy exchange small smiles.

They start collecting the supplies—graham crackers, chocolate bars, marshmallows—when Eddie suddenly sniffs the air dramatically.

"My dear friends..." He stands, looking at the sky with fake solemnity. "I'm afraid a storm is coming."

Everyone looks up. The sky is completely clear, stars twinkling peacefully overhead.

They ignore him, laughing, going back to setting up for s'mores. But a few minutes later, thunder claps—loud and close, rattling through the air.

"Well, shit," Robin says, exasperated. "Guess no s'mores."

Eddie sighs dramatically, looking at you. "Guess I'm bunking with you tonight, Hot Shot."

"Absolutely not," you say immediately, ignoring the way Steve's eyes snap to you, something lighting up in his expression. "Your snoring kept me up all last night."

Eddie frowns, wounded. "Well, I'm not sleeping in my hammock in a storm. I'll blow away." He turns to Jonathan and Steve, spreading his arms wide. "Boys? Which one of you loves me most?"

Steve shakes his head quickly. "You kick in your sleep."

Nancy speaks up, looking at you with eyes that are slightly desperate. "You could just bunk with Robin and me." Her expression is pleading: please, I don't want to be alone with Robin, please help me, please.

But Robin groans loudly, throwing her head back. "Can we stop pretending? Steve and Hot Shot obviously want to share a tent but don't want to say it out loud."

You and Steve immediately look at one another across the fire, then at the group. Eddie wraps his arm around Jonathan's shoulders, grinning wickedly. "Looks like you're stuck with me tonight, Jon-boy! Hope you like cuddling."

Jonathan just sighs, resigned to his fate.

Really, you don't want to be stuck in a tent with Steve. But you don't want to say it out loud and admit there's something different between you, something beyond just fucking, something that terrifies you.

There's no more arguing because small droplets start hitting everyone's skin—fat raindrops that promise a real storm. Everyone rushes to their tents, laughing and cursing and trying not to slip in the mud already forming.

You have time to change in the tent before Steve opens the zipper. He's already changed too—back in those pajama pants that hang low on his hips, and a t-shirt that's seen better days. You're both in the small space now, moving around each other awkwardly, trying not to touch, adjusting sleeping bags and pillows until finally you're both lying down.

The rain starts in earnest, drumming against the tent fabric. Thunder rumbles in the distance, getting closer.

You're both on your backs, staring at the tent ceiling, the space between you measured in inches but feeling like miles. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds are the rain, the thunder, and your breathing—his deeper, slower, yours quick and nervous.

And you wait.

.-.-.-.

You're lying on your side in the tent, facing the nylon wall that shifts slightly with the wind. Behind you, Steve faces the opposite direction, and you can feel the solid warmth of his back against yours through the layers of fabric separating you. He's wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms. You're wearing the same.

The tension is unbearable.

You've done everything—had him inside you more times than you can count, felt his hands on every part of your body, come apart beneath his touch in ways that should've stripped away any possibility of shyness. You've kissed him now, desperately, in a grimy bathroom while a party raged outside.

But you've never slept this close.

Somehow this feels more intimate than all of it. Fully clothed, not even touching except for the accidental press of your backs, and yet your skin is on fire. Every breath he takes, you feel. Every small shift of his body sends awareness crackling down your spine.

You think about what he'd said earlier, “I wanted you more than just a once-a-month fuck." The words have rooted inside you, burrowing deep, and you're not sure how to ignore them anymore. Don't think you want to.

The rain patters against the tent, gentle at first, then harder. The sound fills the small space, making everything feel closer, more isolated from the rest of the world.

You hear his breath stutter behind you, the rhythm breaking and catching. You wonder if he's still angry, if he's regretting agreeing to share the sleeping bag, if—

"Hey." He says your name, barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches. For a second you think you imagined it, that it was just the rain creating phantom sounds. "Yes?" you whisper back.

He hesitates, and you feel him shift slightly. "I need you to know... I didn't hook up with Polly when you saw us."

There's a beat of silence. Rain drums steadily above you.

"Okay," you say quietly, not sure where he's going with this.

He continues, words coming faster now like he's afraid he'll lose courage. "I was... ending things with her.”

You’re not sure how to react, but your lips part, and without thinking you say, “Oh.” 

You wonder if he was finally bored of her. Or maybe she broke a rule and you didn’t know. 

Steve speaks again, his voice so soft you barely hear it against the crack of thunder. “I ended things with all of them."

You imagine the look on his face when he'd told you about the accident—how his downturned eyes had drooped further, how that permanent cocky assured smile had dissolved into pure, raw, unfiltered honesty.

"Why?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Steve doesn't speak for a moment. You hear the sound of his tongue pressing into his cheek, a nervous habit you've noticed. Then you feel movement—he's shifting in the sleeping bag, turning, and suddenly you can feel his eyes boring into the back of your head. But you can't look at him. Can't turn to face him.

His voice cracks when he says your name. And as much as you love it when he calls you Hot Shot, or moans your name in different degrees of pleasure and desperation, this feels so soft it prickles your skin, raises goosebumps along your arms.

"The night of the formal... when I came looking for you..." He drifts off, and you hear him swallow hard. "I didn't just look for you to hook up. I wanted to... I wanted to ask if we would only sleep with each other."

Your breath hitches, lungs forgetting how to expand. You think about that moment—seeing Steve in the hallway, the glasses on his face, and then going with Sammy to that hotel room. You'd told yourself you hadn't thought of Steve. Maybe you'd tried not to, but it had made it worse.

"There were never really any rules when it came to you," Steve says, voice low and rough.

Your heart pounds so hard you're certain he can hear it in the small space. You close your eyes, your lips burning at the memory of the kiss at Mardi Tau, the desperate way you'd clung to each other.

“I would’ve said yes,” you admit into the dark tent. 

Finally, you slowly roll over. Lightning strikes outside, illuminating his face in fragments—the sharp line of his jaw, the worried crease between his brows, those eyes watching you. You're both lying on your sides, hands tucked under your heads, noses inches apart because of the size of the tent and the sleeping bag you're sharing.

“I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m sorry for avoiding you,” your voice comes out even softer than his. "I thought you were mad at me."

"What? Why?" He's quick, shifting closer, and you see the shadow of his hand reaching out before he pulls it back like he's not sure he's allowed to touch you.

"I thought..." Tears rim your eyes, hot and unwelcome. "Maybe you were mad because I thought I was pregnant... and Robin found out... and I almost ruined your life, Steve."

Lightning strikes again, closer this time, and you see his hazel eyes lit with something fierce—rage maybe, or panic—and just as quickly they droop in worry. "No. No, you didn't. Fuck." His hand finally makes contact, cradling your face, thumb wiping away a tear that's escaped. "I wasn't angry with you."

You're not sobbing, but your breathing is erratic, sniffling sounds escaping despite your best efforts. "But I feel so guilty. Robin and you are fighting and she won't talk to me because I didn't tell her, and I don't want you thinking—I thought I scared you."

Steve's thumb pauses mid-stroke on your cheek. "I was scared," he admits quietly. "But not in the way you think." He takes a shaky breath. "I was scared because I sat there on my bedroom floor and for the first time in my life, I imagined having kids. Really imagined it. Like… I think I do want them and it fucking terrifies me." 

His voice drops lower. "I keep looking at that camper—the one you keep catching me staring at. I keep imagining it full of kids. My kids." 

He lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking you would hate that it could've been mine. If you were pregnant."

"Steve." Your voice breaks. "I would've prayed it was yours."

There would've been no hope otherwise. You would've wanted divine intervention, would've bargained with a god you're not sure you believe in, would've offered anything for it to be his.

You can see in the dark how his eyelashes fan against his cheek as he blinks, processing your words. He takes a deep breath, and you scoot closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face now, fingers gentle against his skin.

"What happened the night of Mardi Tau?" you ask softly.

Steve looks at you with such sadness it makes your chest ache. "I was so confused. I didn't want to be jealous, but seeing you with Sammy... and hearing you talk about him with Eddie or Robin, knowing that he was touching you..." His jaw tightens. "Since your date with him, it got harder and harder to be with the others. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't fucking finish with anyone else, and finally I just couldn't even..." He closes his eyes, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. "It's so fucking embarrassing."

You rake your fingers through his hair, and he immediately relaxes into the touch. "It's not embarrassing, Steve. I wish... I wish it was less complicated."

"Me too," Steve whispers.

You lay in silence for a moment longer, the rain getting heavier outside, more lightning illuminating the tent in brief, brilliant flashes. Thunder rumbles, close enough to feel in your chest.

"I don't really want to forget the kiss happened," you admit. "In fact, I haven't. It's all I can think about."

Steve's hand moves from your face to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. "I can't stop thinking about it either."

In the dark, you can see his eyes light up—crystal clear in another flash of lightning. His hand trails down your arm, pulling you closer, fingers wrapping around your wrist and gently pulling your hand from his hair. He brings your knuckles to his lips and kisses them slowly, deliberately. Then he kisses your palm, the touch soft and reverent. Your wrist next, then your forearm, working his way up to your shoulder until his face is inches from yours.

He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, his other fingers sliding under your jaw, tilting your face up toward his.

You see his eyes flicker to your lips and then back to your eyes.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says.

It's not a question. Not a can I? He's telling you. Maybe even telling himself. Giving you a heartbeat to object if you want to.

You don't want to.

You grip the fabric of his shirt and meet his lips in the middle.

This kiss is different from Mardi Tau. Slower. Softer. Still passionate—god, still so passionate it makes your toes curl—but measured. Intentional. His mouth moves against yours like he's savoring it, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use every second.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely Steve— sarcastic, fun, attentive. The kiss buzzes through you, electric and warm, spreading from your lips down through your chest and settling low in your belly. His lips are soft, the pressure perfect, and when his tongue traces the seam of your mouth, you open for him immediately.

The slide of his tongue against yours is slow, exploratory, like he's learning the shape of your mouth. You feel it everywhere—in your fingertips still gripping his shirt, in your chest where your heart is trying to beat out of your ribs, between your legs where heat is already pooling.

Steve shifts, moving slightly over you, one arm coming down to cage you in. The kiss deepens, tongues moving together with more purpose now, but still not fast. Never fast. Every movement is controlled, like he's determined to make this last.

Your hands slip under his shirt, palms splaying flat on his stomach. You feel the way he breathes—his round belly contracting and expanding beneath your touch. You feel the raised lines of his scars, the ones you've traced before but this time with new purpose. 

Tenderly your fingers ghost each soft tissue. You’ve told him before, how brave he was. And maybe you were only trying to make him feel better, but now you really believe it. He was brave then. He was brave when he told his dad about becoming a teacher. 

God, you want him. 

You tangle your legs with his, bodies aligning, and Steve starts to suck on your top lip. You buck your hips involuntarily, feeling him twitch against your thigh.

Steve pulls back, panting slightly. Lightning flashes, illuminating his face—flushed, pupils blown, lips swollen from kissing. "Honey," he says softly, voice rough. "I want to... I really do, but I didn't bring anything."

You understand what he means. There's nowhere he could finish except on you, and then you'd be gross, sticky— you’re not going to walk in the rain to the showers— and it might get everywhere in the confined space of the sleeping bag, on the tent floor...

You look up at him, seeing the same disappointment in his eyes that you feel in your chest. "It's okay."

He nods and starts to pull away, but you stop him, hand fisting tighter in his shirt.

"No, I mean..." Your heart is thumping so fast you can hear it in your ears. Maybe this is totally insane given the circumstances of this week—the pregnancy scare, the fight with Robin, everything complicated and messy. Maybe you're thinking only with lust and desire, being reckless and stupid. But you need him. "I want you to come in me."

Despite the way you feel his cock harden immediately against your hip, despite the shaky breath he releases, his brows furrow. "Babygirl, are... are you sure? I don't—not if..."

This is insane. This is entirely the stupidest thing you could choose to do.

You answer by kissing him deeply, pouring every ounce of want and need and certainty into it. Then you sit up, putting your arms up in offering.

Steve takes the top of the sleeping bag off you both, pushing it aside. Lightning streaks across the sky outside, illuminating the tent in brilliant white light for a split second before plunging you back into shadow. Thunder follows immediately after, so close it rattles through your bones.

He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and his movements are so slow, so different from every other time. His fingers drag up your skin as he peels the fabric higher, making you shiver. The shirt comes off over your head, and Steve's eyes immediately catch sight of your bare chest.

He smiles. "I knew you weren't wearing a fucking bra. It's like you wanted this the whole time."

You giggle, leaning forward, both hands cupping his face, and kiss him again. You feel him smile against your lips, his hands coming up to gently squeeze your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you gasp into his mouth. He pushes them together, massaging, his mouth kissing them, nipping, sucking. 

"Your turn," you murmur, and start working his shirt up his torso. You take your time, kissing his belly, dragging flesh between your teeth. Kissing freckles as more skin is revealed, then his navel, one of his pecs, his throat. The shirt gets awkwardly stuck on his nose as you try to pull it over his head, and you both dissolve into quiet laughter—his a low chuckle in his chest that sounds sweet and boyish, yours breathy and slightly hysterical.

And you can’t help but kiss him, drinking the sweet sounds of laughter, teeth clanking from smiling. His laughter is sweet like caramel, thick and smooth against your tongue. It’s something you can see yourself getting drunk on more often if he lets you.

He finally gets the shirt unstuck and tosses it aside, and then you're finding each other's lips again, mouths meeting in the darkness with the kind of accuracy that only comes from want. One of his hands cradles your face, so large, palm covering your entire cheek. His other hand pushes your lower back, pressing your chest flush with his. 

His skin is warm like sunshine, making you melt in his embrace. He smells like campfire and the river you two were lost in. Your fingers thread the hairs at the nape of his neck, twirling each strand, opening your mouth to capture his sigh. 

Steve lays you back down slowly, your head finding the bunched-up jacket you've been using as a pillow. His hands find the waistband of your pajama bottoms, and he starts sliding them down your hips.

"Wait—" you start, but it's too late.

He sees it. The dark ink on your hip, just above your pelvic bone.

Steve pauses, squinting at it in the dim light, and then a crooked smile spreads across his face.

"Shut up," you laugh, covering your face with your hands, looking at him through your fingers.

"Wasn't gonna say a word," Steve says, sticking out his bottom lip in mock innocence, holding his hands up in surrender. Then he laughs—quiet and fond—and finishes pulling your pajama bottoms off completely.

He plants a chaste kiss on the tattoo—the words Hot Shot in thoughtless script. 

"My Hot Shot," he whispers against your skin. "My girl."

Then he places a kiss over your underwear, right over your cunt, and the way his lips— now that they’ve touched your own, now that you know what he they taste like— plush against the fabric makes your breath catch.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly drags your panties down your legs. You tangle your fingers in his hair while he presses soft kisses to your bare skin—your hip bone, your inner thigh, higher until his breath ghosts over where you're already wet for him.

But then his eyes trail up, and his large hand splays on your ribs, trailing down past your belly button to rest on the soft flesh just above your womb. You feel a pool of warmth low in your belly at the tenderness in his touch.

He leans over, and you watch how his belly rolls, sticking over the waistband of his pajama pants. He kisses the spot on your belly softly. Once, twice, three times, his lips lingering on your skin. His thumb traces idle patterns there. 

"You would've looked so hot pregnant with my baby," he whispers against your stomach, then looks up at you—checking, making sure what he said wasn't weird, wasn't too much, didn't turn you off.

But you smile, tilting your head, biting your bottom lip. "Yeah?"

Steve grins, placing another kiss there, his eyes dark with something that looks like reverence. "So fucking hot. Would've loved seeing you like that. All round with my baby."

Heat floods through you at his words, settling low and insistent between your legs. "Steve..."

"What?" He kisses lower, just above where you're aching for him. "You don't like thinking about it? About me filling you up? Getting you pregnant?"

You whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. "I—"

"Because I think about it," he admits, voice rough. "Think about it all the fucking time now."

Before you can respond, he's working to pull down his own pajama pants. He grunts, shifting around in the limited space—it's harder than it looks, all awkward angles and elbows bumping into things—until he finally peels them off.

You realize he's not wearing any underwear. His cock slaps against his stomach, already hard and flushed dark. There’s another flash of lightning— he’s pumping himself, biting his lip, looking at you splayed out on his sleeping bag,

"Now look who wanted this," you tease.

He crawls up your body, caging you in with his arms. "I always want you," he mutters against your lips before kissing you again.

The kiss is still slow but hungry now, need building between you. Steve positions himself between your legs, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He doesn't push in yet, just rocks slightly, sliding through your wetness, and you both make sounds that are barely human.

"Ready?" he asks against your mouth. 

"Yes," you breathe. "Please."

He pushes in slowly—so slowly it's almost torture. You feel every inch as he enters you, the stretch and fullness, the way your body opens for him. He hadn’t prepared you with fingers. You feel the ache, making you wince. He kisses you again like it will help, and maybe it does. 

“You okay?” 

You nod. “Yeah, you’re just so big, Steve. But it feels so good.” 

He bottoms out with a groan that reverberates through his chest into yours, and for a moment you both just stay like that, completely joined, breathing the same air. You both pant in each other’s mouths. Steve brushes hair from your face, jaw slack, searching for something in your eyes. Or maybe he likes looking at them as much as you like looking into his. 

"You're perfect," you breathe, threading your fingers through his hair, blonde illuminating, refracting when lightning strikes. "Always so good to me."

A soft whimper escapes him at the praise, and he starts to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that have you both groaning. His soft stomach presses into yours, the thick thatch of hairs rubbing, dragging against your skin. 

It's nothing like before. Every other time has been fast, hard, desperate—chasing release with single-minded focus. But this is different. This is Steve pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in with agonizing slowness, his eyes locked on yours in the flashes of lightning, watching your every reaction.

"God, you feel so good," he breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that's making you see stars despite the measured pace.

You wrap your legs around his waist, changing the angle slightly, and he hits something inside you that makes you gasp and arch up into him. He notices immediately, adjusting to hit that spot again and again with each slow thrust.

"So do you," you murmur, pulling him down for a kiss. "You always make me feel amazing."

He smiles against your lips, the movement becoming something tender before deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours in the same rhythm as his hips, slow and purposeful, building pleasure with every thrust.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking gently, and you tilt your head to give him better access. One of his hands slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple while his other hand braces beside your head, holding his weight off you.

"Steve," you whimper, nails dragging down his back.

"I know, babygirl. I know." His nose rubs against yours, your foreheads pressed together. "You're so beautiful." 

He kisses you again. 

You smile shyly, pulling your knees closer to your chest, your fingers pressing into his ass, pushing him deeper. The new angle makes you both moan, the sound swallowed by another crack of thunder outside.

"Fuck, you're so good for me," he pants. "Such a good girl. My good girl."

You preen at the praise, and he notices, grinning. "You like that? Like being my good girl?"

"Yes," you admit, voice breathy.

Lightning illuminates the tent again, and in that brief flash you see his face clearly—lips parted, eyes dark with desire but soft with something else. Something that looks dangerously close to lo— you let out a wanton moan.

Steve maintains that slow, torturous pace, and you realize with startling clarity that you like this. You like slow sex—with him. Only with him. Because with anyone else, going slow felt boring, felt like waiting for something to happen. But Steve going slow feels intentional, feels like worship, feels like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every expression that crosses your face.

He reaches down between your bodies, and you think he's going to touch your clit, but instead he takes your hand. His fingers lace through yours, holding tight, and he brings your joined hands up beside your head, pressing them into the sleeping bag.

His hips continue their steady rhythm, in and out, in and out, your joined hands pressed into the fabric beside your head. His thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, such a small gesture but somehow more intimate than anything else.

He angles his face, capturing your lips in another kiss. 

"You feel perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "So perfect inside me."

Steve groans, his rhythm faltering slightly, cock pulsing inside you. "Don't—fuck—don't say things like that if you want this to last."

You giggle, the sound breathy. "Can't help it. You make me feel so good."

He smiles against your lips, kissing you again, soft and sweet. Then he angles his hips slightly, hitting that spot inside you with more purpose, and you gasp, your free hand flying to his shoulder.

"That's it," he encourages. "Let me hear you, honey. Love hearing all the pretty sounds you make."

Each slow thrust builds the pleasure higher, coiling tighter in your belly. You mewl breathily.

"Baby… Steve I—" your head lulls back. 

"I know," he says, and his free hand finally slides between your bodies to find your clit. "I've got you."

His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts, and the dual sensation has your eyes rolling back. Your hand squeezes his tighter, holding on like he's the only solid thing in a spinning world.

"Feels so good," you praise, one hand sliding down to rest on his lower back, feeling his muscles flex with each thrust. "You make me feel so good. Such a perfect boy."

Steve's rhythm falters, a broken moan escaping him. "I can't—you're gonna make me—"

"Not yet," you say gently but firmly, and watch him visibly struggle to obey. "Want to come with you. Can you do that for me? Be a good boy and wait for me?"

He nods frantically, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard you're afraid he'll draw blood. "I'll try. I'll be good. Promise I'll be good."

The rain pounds harder against the tent, matching the building tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. Lightning illuminates you both in brief snapshots—his face above you, eyes dark and reverent; your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization.

"Does Sammy make you cum like I do?" Steve asks, voice strained. His thumb circles your clit with the same measured pace as his thrusts. 

You bite your lip in a wave of pleasure, your fingertips dragging against his shoulders, feeling his skin and muscles. “No, not once. No one fucks me like you do, Steve.”

He falters briefly, whimpering, head bowing before he comes back. "So beautiful," he gasps. "So fucking perfect. Can't believe—can't believe I get to see you like this."

You moan, pleasure building rapidly. "Keep going. You're doing so good. Just a little longer."

The pleasure builds like a wave, slow and inexorable, rising higher with each roll of his hips, each pass of his thumb. You're making those sounds you made like in the bathroom—high, breathy whimpers of his name mixed with nonsense syllables.

"That's it," he encourages, and finally—finally—his pace picks up. Not frantically, but with more purpose, more urgency. His hips snap against yours, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the rain and thunder. 

"Want to—fuck—want to fill you up," he pants, and you can hear the desperation in his voice. "Please can I come? I've been good, haven't I? I've been good for you?"

“Yes, god yes. Please, Steve. I’m so close,” you cry. You kiss him sloppily, full of the filthy things you want to cry out but can’t form into coherent words. Your teeth graze his bottom lip, releasing it with a pop. 

His eyes snap to yours, something fierce and tender burning there. "Come for me, babygirl. Come on my cock while I fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Want to get you pregnant so badly. Want everyone to know you're mine."

You know it's fantasy talking—the heat of the moment, bodies wound tight with need, words spilling out unchecked. It probably wouldn't happen, the odds are slim, but thinking about it, imagining Steve's baby growing inside you, imagining him telling everyone you're his—

Your orgasm hits like lightning—sudden and all-consuming. Your whole body arches up into him, clenching around his cock, and you cry out his name into the small space of the tent. White-hot pleasure races through your veins, makes your vision go black at the edges, leaves you gasping and shaking beneath him.

Steve follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he comes. You feel it—the warmth flooding inside you, the pulse of his cock, the way he buries himself as deep as he can go and stays there, grinding against you through the aftershocks. His face drops to your neck, hot breath against your slick skin, and he lets out a sound that's half-moan, half-so. Your name follows, escaping his warm lips, leaving an entirely new tattoo on your skin. 

Thunder crashes directly overhead, so loud and close it feels like the sky is splitting open.

Steve pulls out slowly, carefully, but doesn't move off you. Instead, his face burrows between your breasts, arms sliding underneath you to hold you close. You feel his come leaking out, warm and wet between your thighs, but you can't bring yourself to care.

Your fingers immediately find his hair, threading through the sweat-damp strands, scratching gently at his scalp the way you know he likes. 

You smile, your other hand tracing patterns on his back, finally getting to know the moles there. 

He lifts his head slightly, reaching down with one hand to touch where you're still leaking his come. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin, and you gasp. "So pretty like this," he murmurs. "All full of me."

"Steve," you breathe, not sure if you're protesting or encouraging.

He brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting, and groans. "We taste good together." Never in your life would you think he would be okay with tasting his own spend. 

Steve then brushes his thumb where the tattoo is. "There’s no one like you, Hot Shot," 

You smile, kissing his head. “There’s no one like you, Steve Harrington.”

He presses a kiss to the space between your breasts, then another to your collarbone, working his way up to your jaw. When he reaches your mouth, the kiss is soft and sweet and nothing like the desperate ones from before. When his tongue catches yours, you taste the both of you, and it nearly sends you over the edge again. 

When Steve eventually rolls off you, it's not like before where your limbs tear apart in haste, where you're both scrambling for clothes and space and distance. Instead, he reaches for his discarded shirt and uses it to gently clean between your legs.

The gesture is so tender it makes your breath catch. His touch is careful, reverent almost, wiping away the evidence of what you've done with a gentleness that feels more intimate than anything that came before it. You feel your tummy flip and your heart stutter, and you’re sure it’s the afterwaves of your undoing. 

You're sure this would be a moment of weakness. Another slip in the rules where reality crashes back in and he realizes what you've both done, what he said. Maybe he'll freak out, remembering the things he told you during the heat of the moment—saying things that were empty promises because he could never actually get you pregnant, and he could never tell anyone you were his. 

I mean, it’s not like you two really wanted that. You both were still in school. You both were still too young. And you both couldn’t really be together like that.

Maybe he'll put distance between you, go back to the carefully constructed boundaries you've been dancing around and breaking for months now.

But Steve makes no effort to run.

Another lightning strike illuminates the tent, and you see his goofy smile—dopey and satisfied and completely unguarded. He tosses the shirt aside and plops down next to you, immediately grabbing you and pulling you toward him. He kisses your forehead, his arms wrapping around you as your limbs tangle together naturally, fitting like puzzle pieces.

You motion to the sleeping bag. "You're going to have to throw this out now," you mumble against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your cheek. 

"Mm, worth it," Steve chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours.

There's only the sound of rain now—steady and soothing—and the afterglow settling warm in your bones, and this moment suspended in your tent like a snow globe, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, there are rules and arrangements and complications. Outside, your friends are in their respective tents. Robin. 

But in here, it's just you and Steve and the ghost of what you just did hanging in the air between you.

You don't want to ask what this means for you both. It's not like you like each other—not like that. It's all possessiveness because you're the only ones who know how each other's bodies work. That's the only thing. Has to be the only thing.

But it is different. The rules are bent beyond recognition now, twisted into shapes you don't recognize anymore— and apparently don’t apply to you according to Steve. 

So you ask something else instead. "Why didn't you tell me you declared your major?"

Steve sighs, but he doesn't tense. His hand continues its path up and down your back, scratching gently, tracing patterns on your skin. "You were the first person I wanted to tell." His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. "I mean, shit, the moment you told me you thought you were pregnant, I had made a decision. Even if it's not in the cards for me—kids, a family, all of that—maybe I could have something that's just for me. Something I chose."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your throat tightens, tears prickling hot behind your eyes. You don't cry, but you feel it building in the middle of your throat, threatening to spill over.

Maybe because everyone else in his life has made decisions for him—his father pushing business, his arrangement with Robin dictating his future, even the rules he set for himself born out of fear and self-preservation rather than genuine desire.

You're sure everyone has asked him all the questions by now. Why teaching? Why not something more prestigious, more lucrative? Why would the guy who hasn't shown any real interest in direction or ambition suddenly choose something so decidedly... honorable?

"Are you happy, Steve?" you ask quietly into the darkness.

You don't mean just about his major. You mean everything. Is he happy with his arrangement with Robin? Is it actually benefiting him, or is he sacrificing pieces of himself for her happiness? And Robin—is it even benefiting her, or is she just as trapped in this elaborate fiction they've constructed?

But Steve doesn't answer.

His breathing has already evened out into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep, a gentle snore escaping him.

You lie there in his arms, listening to the rain and his breathing, and wonder if the question scared him into unconsciousness or if he simply had no answer to give.

[ddejavvu]

MAMA 😊 can i request a blurb for steve harrington where the reader has a really big and bold personality but when he's around she kind of shuts down and goes quiet which makes him all sad and confused because he thinks she hates him but everyone is like hello she likes u

Romantically, Maybe

pairing: steve harrington x reader

contents/warnings: fem!reader, pining, miscommunication, drinking (and subsequent vomit), angsty insecure steve, eventual fluff

wc: 9.1k / navigation / inbox

a/n: i wrote this all in one sitting... guys my legs are numb and my fingers are tired please enjoy this or i'll cry

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Steve goes through several stages of self-doubt when he finally meets the woman that those six walking disasters have been raving about for weeks. Apparently you're so cool that you've even won Max over, which is impressive to Steve because he doesn't even know if he's done that yet, and it's been four years since they've met.

It helps, of course, that you work at a movie theater. Steve tries to defend himself when Dustin says you've got the coolest job in the world, but the kid insists that the theater is better than Family Video because you give him free access to new movies, and you butter his popcorn halfway through instead of waiting until the end so that it's all on the top.

Apparently you're very versatile- you chat with Max about horror and chick flicks alike, and you even have a skateboard to match hers. But the boys eagerly recount the two hour gossip session they'd had with you about whatever nerd movie you'd snuck them in to see, and it seems like you'd given equal enthusiasm to both.

Will had even broken into a smile as he shrugged off the scrape on his arm, telling Jonathan he didn't have to worry about beating anyone up for shoving him because you'd already done it. Apparently you'd been tasked with picking the kids up from school because Steve was working, and you'd been there early enough to see Will get bumped into the brick wall he'd been sticking tight to. The boy says there's a bloodstain on the bricks that won't wash out from where you'd slammed the dick's face into it.

Additionally, he has reliable intel that you're gorgeous.

Robin said so, and she's always right about girls.

So, all things considered, Steve's happy to tell Mike he can invite you for movie night at his place. He's eager to finally meet you, the new addition to their ever-growing group of day-savers and monster-fighters. Words like amazing, awesome, and cool are thrown around constantly to describe you, and even Eddie nods thoughtfully, proclaiming you, 'pretty badass'.

It's why Steve's so thrown when you knock on his door looking like that.

You're shifting back and forth on your feet, eyes wide and nervous as they blink at him when he greets you. He's surprised none of the little shits draped all over his couch had gotten there before he had, but it's just the two of you in the massive entryway to his house.

"Hi," You smile, but it comes out looking like a grimace, like there's a dull ache in your back that won't go away, "Um, the kids said I could come to movie night? I hope that's okay."

Steve nods mechanically, his hair bouncing and dipping into his eyes on the upswing, "Yeah, yeah! You're Y/N, right?"

He's genuinely asking.

He hasn't once heard anyone describe you as timid but that's the only word for it, doe-eyed and cautious as you step in and your eyes flit around the foyer. It's a wide empty space, but it's dotted with photos and decor that makes it look like an art gallery more than a home. It's excessive to say the least, and Steve feels the urge to usher you through it before you think he's the curator.

He's about to say something, but it gets caught in his throat as you slowly inch towards the den. There's barely any lighting in the house, only the flicker of the tv from the next room over and the glow from the streetlamps outside that spills in through the front windows. But it's enough to see you with, and Steve curses the way he's such a sucker for girls.

He's so predictable. His eyes skate over your profile as you stare at a painting on the wall, watching the way your gaze hangs there like you're interested in it and not beelining for the den. He can tell it intrigues you because you gravitate towards it, body turning slowly and unconsciously, drifting towards the wall as you peer at the abstract, textured smears of paint. Steve's never thought it worthy of much contemplation before but he can admit it's visually appealing, and evidently it's working on you.

He glances at your hands, seeing them slowly curling into the fabric of your jeans and bunching them up at your thighs. He steps forwards like he's been beckoned, it's barely a conscious choice. He stops a foot behind you, but his voice carries enough that you still jolt, "I think that one's supposed to have some deeper meaning.

You turn bewilderedly, nearly bumping into his chest with how suddenly close he is. It means your eyes flare wide, and your lips part then squeeze shut with a gasp that turns Steve's heart to goop.

So predictable.

"Sorry," He breathes, smiling sheepishly, "The painting? I, uh- I think it just looks like a bunch of squares. Pretty squares," He cocks his head, finding immense difficulty in tearing his eyes away from you to nod pointedly back at the painting, "But squares."

"Oh." You nod dazedly, your hands resuming their scrunching of their jeans, "Yeah. I don't know if I can find some hidden message in it." You turn again, flashing the logo of the movie theaters whose vest you're still wearing, evidently straight off of your shift, "But it's really pretty."

Steve can't say thank you because he didn't buy it, or paint it. He also can't tell you that you're really pretty, because that would be fumbling, and he's determined not to do that anymore. So instead he reaches for the hem of your vest, the left front panel that hangs loosely off of your frame instead of sticking tight to it, "Did you want to take this off? You can hang it by the door."

You flounder when you realize Steve's got your vest in his hand. You do this awful side-step that pulls it out of his grip, like he's a mangy dog sniffing around you at a restaurant and you're gonna talk to the manager about him. His hand awkwardly drifts back down to his side, but you fumble for the meshy fabric of your vest with a deep swallow that sounds painfully dry.

"I forgot," You breathe out a laugh, "I didn't realize I still had it on. That's embarrassing." You note, then your eyes screw shut like saying it out loud was worse, "You don't have to hang it, it's- it's not that important." You bunch a corner of it up and tuck the entire thing into your back pocket, much like the way Eddie hangs a bandana from his, and you brush your palms off like it had been dirty.

"Movie room's this way," Steve gestures, pointing towards the flashing light coming from the den, "It's Risky Business. Hope that's okay."

"Mhm," Is all you say as you hightail it towards the den's doorway, a sudden urgency propelling you there.

Steve liked it better when you'd drifted through his foyer, giving him ample time to look at you.

He has to admit, everyone seems like they'd been wrong about you. Well, everyone but Robin, of course. He doesn't get chatterbox vibes from you, nor can he picture you punching out a leering high schooler for getting in Will's face. You seem like a spooked deer, one loud noise away from bolting and high tailing it down the street. But who knows- maybe you're not good with new people. Maybe all it'll take is some Steve Time to get you to loosen up, and he follows you to the den distinctly determined.

"Y/N!" El and Max shriek in unison as you pad over the threshold, and Lucas is promptly kicked off of the sofa to give you room. You apologize for it by squeezing the boy's shoulder, and when El and Max each drape themselves over one of your legs you draw them in closer with arms around their shoulders.

"Hey," Eddie calls, chucking a balled-up hershey's wrapper at you in lieu of a greeting. Steve stands by the doorway, surveying the room for a spot to sit. It looks like he's condemned to Robin's feet, but at least he'll be able to subtly glance at you out of the side of his vision.

Predictable. So fucking predictable, he fights the urge to scrub a hand over his face. He's got to get this under control, because he can't keep falling for girls that he's got no shot with. But if you're just shy, he reasons, that doesn't mean he doesn't have a shot. It means he's got to make one for himself, and he leans himself against the wall while Eddie scrounges around for another wrapper to chuck.

"Hey to you, too," You fling it back at him, and he's so caught up in finding more garbage that you hit him square in the forehead. He yelps, a garbled sound, and Steve snorts at the triumphant grin on your face. Your eyes dart to him at the sound, and widen as your smile dims.

Steve feels his stomach beginning to hurt.

"You were supposed to bring popcorn." Eddie gripes, "And unless you've got it in your bra I think we're all about to go hungry."

"I brought it!" You insist, nudging Max off of your shoulder carefully. You bend down, reaching into your bag with the arm that El has wrapped her own around. You retrieve a bag of kernels- a massive one, but definitely unpopped. There's a few groans that cut across the movie's dialogue but you defend yourself, "I know, I know! But I can't just steal from the popper, they'd totally know. And it doesn't take long to make," Your eyes flit over to Steve, and his stomach melts at the way you duck your head down a few degrees. Your voice comes out softer when you speak to him, "Um, do you have a big pan I could use to pop some? It'll take a few batches, but I can finish in about thirty minutes."

"I'll check." He bites his tongue, "I think so? I'll be back."

He rushes off towards the kitchen, bumping his shoulder into the doorframe on the way out and hissing at the pain.

Smooth.

He fumbles through a noisy cabinet of cookware, and finds a wide-mouthed pan that looks like it'll suit a big batch of popcorn. He even manages to extract a matching lid, and he's eager to provide you with them, even more eager to linger in the kitchen with you and try to sneak past that nervous air you've got about you. This will totally work, he decides, and he strides back into the movie room with a purpose.

You're standing when he enters. You've somehow extracted yourself from the gaggle of girls hanging off of your arms, and they're swinging wide, then joining to clasp your hands between them as you nearly shout. Everyone's gazes are trained on you, amusement tinging their features and Steve only catches nine measly words from you before you notice he's back.

"-so I'm like, sir, we don't sell movies, we-"

You turn to gesticulate in Steve's direction, and when you catch him there you freeze. It's heartbreaking, actually, the way the life leaves your body, your arms dropping back to your sides and your spine going stiff. It's like you've been turned to stone, and he marvels at the way he feels like an intruder in his own home. Now all of a sudden his stomach is dropping further, and not in a good way. How has he fumbled already?

He can barely speak, not while you're looking at him like you're a little afraid of him, "I- uh, I found the pans," He jerks a thumb backwards, "Can I show you to the kitchen?"

"Yeah." You murmur, your voice a far cry away from how boisterous it was mere seconds ago, and you scramble to grab the bag of kernels from El's lap before trailing after him back to the kitchen.

Your eyes rove across this room similar to the last, but they land on the pan and stay there. Before you can reach for them Steve grabs them himself, lid in one hand and pan in the other.

"These," He holds them out, like you couldn't see them before, "Will these work?"

You look cowed, perhaps because he's swinging around pans like he's trying to hit you with them. But you nod, a timid thing, and he sighs through his nose and prays you can't hear it.

"Perfect, I can- I can help you, if you want." He offers, setting the pans back on the counter and trying not to get his hopes up.

It doesn't work, because when you shake your head he feels a wave of shame roll over him like nausea. He's trying to pinpoint exactly what came across as too much to you- if he'd come on too strong with his greeting and triggered this cautious defense mechanism you've initiated.

"It's okay." You hum, voice still dim and low, "I do this all day at work. I don't need help."

"Right," Steve smiles, laughing off the awkward tension. But he pulls a barstool out anyways, sinking down onto the cushion and bracing himself on the counter, "No, I'm sure you know what you're doing. It's just- sometimes my stove is a little unpredictable," He lies through his grin, "So, I mean, I can hang out in case you need help with that."

"O-kay," You nod slowly, hands carefully arranging the pot over the burner, "Am I gonna, like, light myself on fire if I turn the dial?"

"No! No, that's not- it's fine." Steve shakes his head so hard it hurts, "Just- it's just, fire safety, y'know? I'll just stay."

"Okay." You repeat, head tucked nearly to your chest, "Sounds good."

It doesn't sound like it sounds good. It sounds like- it sounds like you're angry, almost, and Steve is hit with yet another wave of dread.

Are you angry at him? God, do you hate him already? This has gotta be the fastest that's ever happened, aside from that one time during the summer he worked at Scoops when he'd spilled a milkshake down a girl's new top just trying to hand it to her.

He's starting to feel hopeless.

Is there something wrong with him? He doesn't understand- he looks the same as he did when he was 'king'. Better, even, cooler hair and a fuller frame. What's wrong with him now that wasn't then? He thinks he's nicer now, even if he's lame, but are you really that put-off by his current demeanor to be irritated with him already?

Or, Steve thinks, and he's not sure which is worse, do you hate him because of his brief reign as king? Had he been rude to you? He'd been rude to a lot of people. The thought makes his chest sting on a normal day, but now it's all-encompassing, aching down to the tips of his toes as he tries frantically recalling if he'd messed around with you during school. He comes up empty, but there's gotta be a reason you're pulling so hard away from him now, and he stands up so suddenly that the barstool nearly tips over behind him.

"I actually- I gotta go make sure they don't break anything," He excuses himself, his voice tight with emotion, "Uh, let me know if you need me."

"Oh-okay!" You blurt, watching bewilderedly as he rushes for the door, "-thank you!"

He charges into the den fast enough to draw attention. Then he flounders, and Robin sits at attention when he nods towards her.

"Uh, can I talk to you outside?" Steve asks, and she throws a cautious glance to Eddie who shrugs minutely.

"Sure thing, dingus," She braces herself on Will's knee to stand, and Steve fights the urge to grab her hand and drag her outside so that she'll move faster and he can barf all the words in his brain out of his mouth.

"Yes, bozo?" She asks, when they're finally outside in the cold Hawkins night, "Why are you all jittery?"

"What did I do?" He asks expectantly, and her brows raise in the way that means sarcasm is imminent.

"What did you do, when?" She asks, "Are we playing this like Clue? Where, with what, what do you want me to say?"

"To Y/N," Steve sneers, "You didn't watch her, like, completely shut down when I walked in the room?"

"Oh. Yeah, I saw that," Robin's aloof posture slumps slightly, "But- she might just be tired after work."

"Only tired around me?" Steve asks, crossing his arms over his chest, "She seems fine around you guys."

"I know, but you barely know her! Just let her warm up to you," Robin shrugs, her voice far too light and airy for a situation of this magnitude, "I'm sure she'll be fine by the end of the night."

"I don't think i did anything to her." Steve speaks more to himself than to his friend, but she throws a sympathetic palm against his arm anyways.

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you." She reasons, "Seriously, not everyone can just jump into a conversation like you do. Even if you don't know what to say, you just- you just say it."

"What?" His brows furrow and his nose scrunches, "What are you talking about?"

"It's like a popular guy thing," She explains, "You can just talk to anyone like you've known them forever. I can't, though. And maybe Y/N can't either, maybe she just needs to get to know you first. So let her."

"Okay." Steve grumbles, because there's nothing else to do. He follows her back into the house still feeling discouraged, but he's softened slightly by the way you offer him the first bite of popcorn from the bowl you'd scrounged around for.

"I hope it's okay I'm using this," You hold up the bowl, and that downcast gaze you shoot through your lashes at Steve makes him forget anything but the way you're looking at him, "Try some?"

He reaches for the bowl, eating a few pieces as politely as he can. In the theater he might try shoving twelve above his molars but he savors the sparse mouthful, nodding appreciatively.

"It's good." He insists, and the smallest smile Steve's ever seen curls your lips at the corners, "It tastes just like the movies."

It's a stupid thing to say, considering that's where it came from. And Steve's glad that you don't say anything about it, though it's because you don't speak to him at all for the rest of the night. Nothing, not a single word, not a 'can you turn it up, please?' or a 'where's the bathroom?'. He's waiting for it all night, waiting to analyze your voice and see if it's brightened at all, strengthened, grown more confident but your mouth remains shut until you stand up to leave post-credits.

"Thanks for inviting me," You stretch out your stiff limbs, talking to the group as Dustin gravitates towards you for a ride home instead of making Steve leave his own house, "It was a good movie."

Steve knows he's fishing but he can't help it, not as you gather your bag to leave and he's about to lose you to the front door, "I can hook up with- I can hook you up with any movie." He offers, stammering over his slip of the tongue, "I mean- like, I can get 'em for you. If you want a tape, just call the store and I'll put something aside for you."

You don't thank him. You look at him, which is why he's such a blubbering mess in the first place, but all you grant him is a soft smile and a nod. It's better than nothing, but Steve's heart clenches as you deny him your voice, and he watches you leave helplessly with Dustin on your tail.

"Close call," Robin smacks his arm once the rest of the kids have migrated towards the door, "She definitely wouldn't warm up to you if you offered to hook up with her."

"I didn't mean to say that," Steve grunts, and Robin laughs, "Just- I figured she'd say thank you."

"I'm sure she meant to," Robin hums, "I mean, she kind of did. She nodded, that's enough."

Not for Steve. He wanted to hear your voice, he wanted you to ask for the store's number so that he could scrawl two down on a scrap of paper, hoping you'd call the wrong one first and his home landline would ring.

"I thought she was supposed to be this motormouth who likes everyone," Steve can't help but mumble, and the way that Robin sucks her lips between her teeth to bite them doesn't help the disheartening feeling Steve's throat is clogged with.

"Steve... she is," Robin sighs, "I don't know. She was- a little quiet tonight." She admits, "But that's not a guarantee that she hates you! Just give her time."

"How much time did it take you?" Steve asks, and Robin winces.

"Ten minutes."

Steve ushers her out within five short minutes so he can wallow in self-pity.

Clocking in at Family Video the next morning makes Steve's stomach churn. Part of it is dread, because he fucking hates the regular who comes on Wednesdays and he knows they'll be busting down the door as soon as he flicks the lights on. But the rest of it is because he'd found your vest on his couch when he'd turned the lights on to clean up stray popcorn kernels- it must have fallen out of your pocket the further you'd slouched into the cushions. It's your work uniform, and he'd brought it with him just in case you wanted to bound through the doors and reward him for returning it to you with a kiss. Probably not, but he's got it clutched in his fist anyways. It smells really nice, which is something he knows not because he'd smelled it on purpose, but because he'd flung it over his shoulder when leaving the house and a whiff of your perfume had hit him like a wave.

The morning is slow, and Steve suffers through the ramblings of their regular nuisance, but it gives him time to daydream, and he's so convinced that you're the one on the other line when the phone rings that he forgoes his company greeting and just blurts your name into the receiver.

"Y/N?" He asks, and a familiar sarcastic scoff comes from the other end.

"Is that how you answer the phones now?" Robin asks, and Steve rolls his eyes even if it's lost on her.

"Why are you calling your own store?" He asks, and Robin shifts around on the other end, muffling her words.

"What?" Steve asks, and she sighs into the phone like it's his problem.

"I said, Y/N asked me to ask you if she left her vest at your house last night. It's her uniform, she works in an hour."

"Yeah, actually," Steve glances at it under the counter, hope blooming in his chest, "I have it here. I figured she'd need it- tell her to stop by."

"Look at you, thinking ahead!" Robin gushes, and Steve has half a mind to hang up on her, "I'll send her over. Hey- I come in at four, don't leave a mess for me!"

The thirty minutes that it takes you to peel into the Family Video parking lot is agonizing for both parties. Steve's drumming his fingers against the counter, trying to keep them out of his hair that he's fluffed and ruffled ten times over. You're gunning it down the icy Hawkins roads, trying not to die from a car wreck before you get murdered for either showing up to work out of uniform, or showing up late.

The bell above the door jingles when you shove it open, and Steve smacks his thigh on the bottom of the counter in an effort to launch himself to his feet.

"Shit," He hisses, "Hi!"

"Hi," Your eyes flit wildly around the store, "Robin said you had my vest?"

Steve takes it as a good sign that you're talking to him now. But you're not as soft as last night, limbs tense and eyes wild. "Here-" He fumbles for your vest beneath the counter and as soon as it's in sight you snatch it up, halfway out the door before he can even register the way your fingers had brushed against his.

"Thanks!" You call, and Steve tries figuring out as he watches you speed away whether you'd been inside the store for more than thirty seconds, or less.

So definitely no reward kiss, then.

Barely any eye contact, either. You hadn't said anything you didn't need to, no small talk, no questions, no inquiries about movies. You'd run in, taken what you needed, and run back out again, and Steve feels frustration thick in his chest as he sits back down again.

He's really having trouble believing that you don't hate him.

"Rob," Steve scoffs, leftover popcorn ground beneath his teeth, a kernel lodged in his gums, "You don't understand. She ran in, she grabbed it, she ran out."

"And she didn't say anything?" Robin asks, balancing an armful of tapes that need rewinding, "Like, anything at all?"

"She said, 'hi' and 'thanks'." Steve recalls, "Oh- and! 'Robin said you had my vest?'. Seriously! Nothing!"

"She was running late for work, and she was panicked!" Robin shrugs, "I wouldn't read into it. Seriously, she's cool. She might just have to warm up to you like I said. It's not like she had time to chat. But she thanked you this time! And that's gotta mean something." Robin eyes him pointedly, "Don't start to spiral about this. Why does it matter, anyways?"

"Because!" Steve starts too strong, and has to rein himself back in, "Because, Robin, everyone's been talking my ear off about how fun and crazy she is, and whenever I walk into a room it's like someone takes her batteries out! I want to know why!"

"Why, though? Why do you care? Plenty of people in Hawkins don't like you," Robin reminds him, and Steve drops his head into his palm, blocking the light from his eyes.

"Yes, I'm aware. Thank you."

"I'm not saying it to be mean." Robin sighs, abandoning all hope of ever getting any actual work done and setting the tapes on the counter to rub a tentatively soothing hand down Steve's back. Their touches usually consists of punches or shoves, but she can tell the former king needs something nicer right now, "Just- don't let it bother you. Even if she does have some sort of crazy hatred for you, don't worry about it. Sometimes people just aren't gonna like you."

He gives her a despairing look, and one shared glance is all Robin needs.

"Oh, fuck." She declares, and Steve's brows furrow, "This again!"

"What?"

"You!" She gushes, "You fall in love with everyone!"

"What?" He sits ramrod straight on his stool, "What does that have to do with this conversation?"

"That's why you care," She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, "Because a new woman has entered your life and she's neither taken nor gay, so she's gotta be your girlfriend now."

"That's not fair," Steve tries, but it totally is, and Robin nails him with a deadly glare.

"Don't even start with me! Are you forgetting that I counted every swing and miss you committed at Scoops? You're a total player!"

"Not anymore," Steve argues, "I haven't done that in a while, okay? Because it wasn't working for me! And all I was ever really after was a date. You really think I saw my future in Jenny Bates or Christie Langfield? I just wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser in Hawkins!"

"You literally never got one 'yes'." Robin reminds him, and he groans despairingly.

"Yeah, I know. Again, that's why I stopped doing it! And- okay, I have a tendency to crush a lot, I don't know! I like women, sue me! So do you!"

Robin's eyes flash wide; he's got her there.

"But I'm not just asking out everything with boobs anymore, okay? I'm trying to only engage in relationships I think might actually work."

"And you think that's Y/N?" Robin asks, collapsing onto her own stool, deep in thought.

Steve flounders, blushes, "It would- I mean, it'd be nice if it was. I think she's really pretty, and she drives the kids around so I don't have to, and she's- y'know, everyone says she's awesome."

"You don't even know her," Robin glares scrutinizingly at him, "We've had this entire conversation because she's not herself when she's around you."

"Which is why I'm trying to get to know her better! I'm not gonna propose," Steve huffs, "I just- I just want a chance. I want one chance, and I want her to like me."

Robin doesn't speak- not right away. She chews on the info, mulling it over while her eyes are glued to Patrick Swayze on the cover of the tape she'd neglected to rewind. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, then drags her gaze towards Steve who looks entirely too downcast for her liking.

"Alright." She decides, "I'll help you. If you really mean this, and you're serious, and you're not gonna dump her and totally ruin our group dynamic, I'll try to get intel from her."

"Intel?" He asks, instantly nervous.

"I'm going to her place tomorrow," Robin nods, "We're having a sleepover. And sleepovers are, like, prime 'boy talk' time. I might not have anything to contribute myself, but I can definitely weasel something out of her. I promise," She offers a pinky to Steve, and he takes it with a soft, amused grin, "I'm gonna help you land this one, dingus."

"Y/N," El stares boldly at you from the backseat, meeting your eyes through the rearview mirror, "Why don't you kiss Steve?"

You nearly swerve off of the road, and Max snickers while you regain your composure.

"What?" You ask, and El cautiously explains.

"It said in Max's magazine that girls get shy when they like a boy. And you get very quiet around Steve. And that means you like him, and kissing is what you do when you like someone. So why don't you kiss Steve?"

"I don't get quiet around Steve." You defend yourself despite the heat in your cheeks, "I just don't know him."

"So?" Max scoffs, "You're all extroverted and stuff. It doesn't matter when you meet anyone else. It's just Steve that it happens around. You go dead silent and you stare at him with those ooey-gooey eyes, it's disgusting."

"That's so not true!" You're happy to pull into Max's driveway, the cool winter breeze filtering through the windows, "Now get out, before I lock you in here and torture you with bad music."

The girls fumble for the doors, but Max leans in before she leaves to gloat, "You're so, totally in love with Steve Harrington."

"I don't like Steve!" You shriek, clinging to the lie desperately like it'll come true if you say it with enough fervor.

Max blinks blankly at you. No- she blinks blankly behind you, and your head jerks to the side to see a maroon BMW that makes your heart sink.

Steve Harrington is leaning against it, and he's frozen in his tracks, eyes wide and cheek between his teeth. There's no way he hasn't heard you.

"Wow." Max snorts, and El shuts her door behind her, "What are you doing here, Steve?"

"Uh," He has trouble tearing his gaze away from you, his suspicions confirmed but at what cost? Looking away feels like a breakup, like shutting the door and never coming back, like throwing away a phone number. It feels like being alone, like a too-big empty house and no friends to fill it with. Like having no one that wants to be around him. "Your- your dad called, El, wanted to know if you were getting a ride home from me today or if you'd need one. And I said I could get you, so... so he said you'd probably be at Max's. So I'm here," He trails off, and you grip your steering wheel so tightly that you're surprised it doesn't snap, "And... I can drive you home."

There's got to be a reason. He just doesn't know what it is- maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe he's unlikeable, like he'd always worried about, and maybe he is just a glorified babysitter. He honestly can't remember the last time Dustin called him to do anything but beg him for a ride, and the fact that he has so few friends his own age that he has to rely on validation from a kid hits him like a semi-truck, nausea rushing to his stomach and roiling there so viciously he pales.

El ducks towards your window before joining Steve, and you fight down your own nausea and rushing blood through your ears to hear her.

"That sounded mean." She notes, "Do you want me to tell him you do like him? And that you want to kiss him?"

"No," You seethe, panic making your heart pound, "Just- go! Go and don't say anything!"

You're really not sure how much worse that could have gone. Of course, the girls were right. Unfortunately, those teeny bopper magazines do have the formula down to a science, and you've been crushing on Steve Harrington since you first saw him wait until Max's seatbelt was buckled before driving out of the school parking lot. You hadn't met him for months, but you'd seen him around, sometimes through the window at family video, sometimes at the gas station filling his car up.

He's undeniably handsome, and the exasperated masquerade that he uses when dealing with the kids doesn't fool you. They're your little friends too, and pairing a pretty face with a heart of gold did you in.

Now, however, that you've gone and ruined everything, you're quite certain you won't get any more chances. You hadn't even been able to work up the courage to actually say anything to him, despite having been in his house, and now you don't have a shot in hell, because he slams his door so hard the car shakes.

El would follow your instructions, but it would be rather rude to ride all the way to Hopper's cabin in Steve's car and not say anything. So she settles into the seat, awkward silence thick in the air as your tires screech against the road, and hums, "She does like you."

"That's-" Steve chokes out a laugh, "That's nice of you, El. Really, thanks, but I don't think there's anything you can say to fix that."

"Really," El's brows furrow, "I read it in a magazine. She likes you." She holds up fingers for each piece of evidence, "She doesn't talk to you, and she talks to everyone! And she avoids you, and she tells people she doesn't like you."

"Yeah- thank you," Steve sighs, his own grip on the wheel tight enough to pale his knuckles as he begins the trip to Hopper's cabin, "Now that you put it that way, things are really looking up for me."

You think you have the salesman beat when you ignore the bell three times, but then Robin Buckley falls through your window with an overnight bag, and you realize you're fucked.

"Oh my god!" You shriek, sinking to the floor to help her, "Oh my god, you- that was you! Shit, you were gonna sleep over," You remember as she rubs her stinging elbow, carpet burn evident on her skin, "Robin, I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Any indignation she might have felt is gone as soon as she gets a glimpse of your face, tear-stained a puffy, "What's wrong?"

"What?" You ask, but when you're unable to breathe through your nose you remember, "Oh. Oh, god, don't even ask, I- I can't talk about it."

"Did someone die?" She asks, eyes blown wide.

"No," You snort wetly, "I wish."

"Then we can fix it." She declares primly, her cheeks flushed from her second-story window adventure, "Tell me about it."

You should. You know Robin's closer to Steve than anyone else, and you're sure if you don't tell her now, she'll know the second she gets home and gets a phone call from him. And you don't want to lie to her, so you muscle up the courage to smear a tear off of your cheek and admit, "I fucked up."

"I gathered," She nods at the tissues scattered around your room, "Did you trip and fall and split your pants open? Did you drop your favorite ring down the gutter? Did you use your mom's leg razor on your peach fuzz?" She sticks out a finger to poke at your upper lip and it startles you so much you have to laugh.

Her responding grin is toothy and adorable, and you hope that after everything you tell her tonight, Robin still wants to be your friend.

"I messed up things with..." You breathe, in, out, "Steve."

She pales slightly.

"Steve?" She asks, "What- Steve Harrington?"

"What other Steve do you know?" You narrow your eyes at her, unfairly perhaps, because she's set out to help you, "Of course Steve Harrington."

"Sorry." She shakes her head, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as you two huddle on the floor together, "What happened?"

"He overheard me," You begin, a rather kind way to put it considering you'd shouted it to Max's whole neighborhood, "-saying that I didn't like him."

Her eyes dim.

"Oh. You don't- uh, you don't like him?" She asks, her voice forcibly casual, too tight and coiled like a snake about to strike.

"No, that's not-!" You struggle for the words, and accept defeat, "I do. I do like him, I-" You scrub your hand over your face, hiding behind it, "I said it because I was trying to keep it private, but Robin... I like him. Like- romantically. Maybe."

She's never been more grateful in her life than she is right now, because the way you're avoiding her gaze means you can't see the blinding grin she's sporting.

"Okay," She muscles it down, treading lightly, "Okay, so you like him! Who could blame you, what a guy!" She exclaims, reaching for your arms and tugging them away from your face, "I mean, he's got a nice car, he's got a steady job, he's got hair that's a foot tall- what else does a girl need!"

"Courage!" You wail, "I need to put on my big girl panties, apparently, because every time I'm around him it's like I'm all sweaty and nervous and blubbery," You recall the movie night where you'd absorbed maybe half of the dialogue, and even less of the plot, "He- like, drives me crazy or something. I'm a total loser around him," You despair, "And now he thinks I hate him!"

She neglects to inform you that he'd thought that from the beginning. It won't help. But she will, and she squeezes your hands with so much excitement they might bruise come morning.

"Okay, so, he heard you say something unflattering. But that doesn't mean he'll shoot you the next time he sees you! We can fix this!" She swears, "I'll call him right now, and you can-"

"No!" You gush, horrified, "Do not call him!"

"You have to fix this!" She moves her hands from your shoulders, shaking them violently, "You have to tell him!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes! You have to, I told him I'd help!"

Your brows furrow, and you push Robin's hands off of you.

"Help with what?"

Several silent seconds later, you snap, "Robin, now's not the time to develop the ability to shut your mouth. Open it, and tell me what you're talking about."

She groans low in her throat, "Fine. We were kind of sort of talking about you yesterday, and he was telling me that you seemed like maybe you weren't crazy about him. So today definitely didn't help," She reasons, "But the only reason he even cared about your opinion of him is 'cause he likes you too! Romantically," She gives you a suave smirk, "So call him, and tell him you didn't mean it, and then kiss!"

"You sound like El," You try griping at her, but the giddiness you feel at her words is undeniable. You're smiling, cheeks burning, chest heaving like you're a lovesick fool. "He really said that?"

"Oh yeah." She nods, tongue jabbing into her inner cheek, "We had a whole fight about it."

She reaches for your phone, finger spinning the dialer so fast she's not even sure she's hit the right numbers. She keeps it pressed to her ear, soothing your nerves with a hand on your knee.

"It's fine," She whispers when the line rings three times, "He's probably peeing or something."

"Oh." Your nose scrunches, and she eyes you pointedly.

"Hey, get used to it. You're about to get a boyfriend."

You shrug, the b-word igniting another wave of elation through you.

He doesn't answer.

"Okay," She hums, dialing again, "He's listening to really loud music, maybe?"

The third time, she guesses that he's taking a walk around the block.

"One more time," She speaks through gritted teeth, "Come on, Harrington."

"Hello?" A lazy voice answers.

"Steve!" She cheers, "Hey, are you busy?"

"No," He drawls, and her brows furrow, inching closer together, "No, I'm not busy. I'm never busy! Not unless someone needs a ride from me!"

"Are you drunk, Steve?" She asks, sharing a worried glance with you.

"Yep," He laughs, "Yeah, because- because why not? Because it's not like there's anyone around to stop me. I don't have any friends," He gripes, "Not besides you, and you're only still hanging out with me because we got tied together and drugged last summer!"

"You got what?" You ask, head rearing backwards.

"Later," Robin hisses, slamming the phone back to her ear, "Steve, listen to me, you're spiraling. You have tons of friends-"

"Yeah, that are all twelve years old." Steve's words run together, unsteady like you're sure he is on his feet, "Which is a great look for me. And nobody likes me, and I don't know why, because I'm trying so hard to be nice and good now, but nothing's working, so I'm drinking instead. And that's at least fun," He chuckles dryly, and your heart feels like it's being squeezed to the verge of pulverization, "Because when I lay on the floor, it feels like I'm spinning."

"Okay," Robin chirps, alarmingly cheery, "Stay on the floor, Steve. Don't drive anywhere, just stay there and spin around."

"Will do," He rasps dryly, "Buh-bye."

The line goes dead, and you share a petrified look with her.

"Let's go," You decide, springing to your feet, and she grins, racing after you.

"Hell yeah! Let's go." She grabs your keys and tosses them to you, "Are you squeamish around puke?"

"Why?" You stop dead in your tracks, so she beats you to your car."

"He's a lightweight," Robin reveals, her lips puffing out in a pout, "Come on! No time to waste."

You steel yourself against vomit, and speed to Steve's house.

It's just as ridiculously large as you remember it. You'd been so caught up in ogling the inside when you'd been here a few days ago that you hadn't remembered the outside much, but it's foreboding and empty with all of the lights off. You picture Steve laying alone in the dark, puking on the carpet, and you beeline for the front door.

"Ah-ah-ah," Robin grabs your elbow, tugging you to the side gate, "He always leaves this one open in case I stop by when he's out."

She holds open a sliding door for you, and you try not to stare at the gorgeous pool the opposite direction. You're here to help Steve, and if all goes well, you'll make it a point to have a pool party afterwards.

"Steve?" Robin calls, traipsing through the dark rooms and flicking lights on as she goes, "Steve, where are you?"

"Robin?" He answers, and you veer left to follow the sound of his garbled speech, "You- s'that you Rob? You come to- are you here my... house?"

You're the one that finds him, flat on his back in the bathroom, a trash can just out of reach. His head is pressed up against the bathtub, and you hope he hadn't hit it on the way to the floor.

"Steve," You breathe, and you wonder if Robin's on her way.

Steve's head shoots up, but the rest of him doesn't. He blinks blearily at you, neck craned, brows pinched in confusion, "Y/N?"

Then, he pukes.

You're quick enough to see it coming, but not quick enough to ensure there's no damage done. He coughs first, and you bolt for the trash can, but there's definitely going to be a stain on his shirt from the few precious nanoseconds you'd lagged in stuffing the can under his chin.

"Oh, fuck," You grunt, steeling yourself against your own queasiness at the sight and sound and smell, "Oh, Steve, how much did you drink?"

"I followed the sounds of retching," Robin declares, appearing behind you in the doorway, her mouth set in a firm grimace as Steve hurls into the bin you're still holding for him, "Well, look on the bright side. Romantic!"

"Robin," You hiss, and Steve hangs his head over the mouth of the trash can for ten seconds after he finishes puking, just to make sure there's nothing left. He dry heaves, but there's simply nothing else in his stomach, and you sympathize with the knotting his gut must be doing right now, uncomfortable and tight.

He groans, throaty and open-mouthed and pathetic. It's really the only sound that sums up the situation, and you wholeheartedly agree.

"Is there more?" You ask, and your voice comes out sweet and kind, doting, even, "Or do you want to go to bed?"

"Bed." He whines, head hanging even when you set the trash can aside, "It's so far."

"Walk with me, Harrington." Robin offers her arm, eyeing the puke stain on his shirt warily, "Just- don't try to give me a hug or anything."

You watch as Robin helps pull Steve off of the floor, giving him time to adjust to his new orientation before he starts barfing again. They inch towards the stairs and Robin calls back towards you, "Get water and pills! Meet us there, first door on the left."

You set off towards the kitchen, hands trembling as you root through the cabinets.

You feel ridiculously guilty.

Evidently you've sent Steve into some existential crisis about how no one likes him. That might honestly be the worst case scenario, the greatest fumble in the history of dating. Your heart gets choked out again as you think about Steve racing home and raiding the liquor cabinet, desperate to distract himself from his big empty house and from his own self-loathing.

You tuck two aspirin into your palm and fill a glass of water to the brim, making your way to Steve's bedroom.

It's... plaid.

Monstrously so, wallpaper and comforter and lampshade and curtains and rug. It's hideous, but you'll look past it for now. Later- if this miraculously works out, you're buying him some new drapes.

"There we go, big boy," Robin congratulates, propping him up shirtless against his headboard and dropping his stained shirt in the laundry, "Y/N brought you some medicine for tomorrow, and some water!"

"Y/N," He mumbles, eyes closed, head still hung, "Why's Y/N here? She- she doesn'even like me."

"That's my cue," Robin smiles sweetly, backing towards the door, "Hurry, before he crashes!"

"Steve," You step warily towards his bed, hearing the door click shut behind Robin, "Can I sit with you?"

"Yeah, sure," He breathes, his voice dull and lifeless, "I'on'care."

You purse your lips as you sit down, spotting a smear of puke on his chin.

"You're a little pukey, Steve." You note, "Do you want to brush your teeth?"

"I can't." He moans, "Bathroom's too far. And my arms don't work."

You march in, retrieve toothpaste and toothbrush and trash can, and march back out.

"Okay," You squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, wetting it with a splash of water from the glass you'd filled, "Open up, Steve."

"Huh?" He asks, finally lifting his head. You reach for his jaw, and he watches you with a dazed expression, his eyes half-lidded and dilated as he stares up at you.

"Open," You thumb across his lips, and they part to breathe a sigh onto the pad of your finger.

He widens his mouth, and you get to brushing.

You hadn't realized how awkward it is to brush someone else's teeth. But it's Steve, and he's narrowly avoided drinking himself to death because of you, so you scrub like he's about to see the dentist.

"Tongue," You say, "Show me your tongue."

He sticks it out, and foamy drool drips off of it into the trash can you'd stuffed beneath his chin again.

You scrub his tongue, and fight to keep it extended when he decides it feels weird and retracts it again.

"Steve, you've still got vomit back there." You coax him with another stroke to his jawline, "Stick your tongue out again."

"Why are you doing this?" He moans, but he does as he's told, and you ponder your response as you scrub away at his poor taste buds.

"Rinse," You hum quietly, holding the glass of water to his lips. When he's cleaned and rinsed and spit and swallowed you drop the trash can beside the bed, foreseeing a very nauseous morning in his future.

"I'm doing this because," You finally answer, "I don't- not like you. I don't dislike you, I like you," You insist, unable to stop yourself from guiding his upper body to the mattress and dragging the blankets up beneath his chin, "I was just embarrassed because Max was teasing me, so I said I didn't. And I said it loud, and you heard, and now we're here and you're going to have the hangover of a lifetime all week."

"Why was Max teasing you?" He asks groggily, a yawn eclipsing his features before they smooth again. You sigh, eyeing his hair and fighting to stop yourself from running your fingers through it to elicit a sleepy sigh from the man.

"Because I like you," You repeat, "Like- romantically. Maybe."

His brows raise.

"Romantically? That's-" He laughs, a puff of air from his chest, "'Cause, I like you, romantically. For sure."

"Yeah?" You can't help but grin, squeezing his hand when it erupts from the blankets in search of yours, "Good. I hope you still like me even after you heard me today. I'm sorry," You cringe, relishing the way his palm fits against yours, "I'm really sorry, Steve, I feel awful."

"No, I feel awful," He mumbles, "I've got- I'm drunk. But you- don't feel bad. We can- oh," HIs eyes widen, then scrunch shut, and he rips his hand out of yours to drag it down his face, "Oh, no."

"What? Steve," You reach for the bucket on instinct, "What's wrong?"

"I'm gonna forget this," He wails, "I'm gonna forget this in the morning because I'm stupid and drunk and you're not gonna tell me again because you're gonna run off and avoid me like you always do."

"Steve," You wince, "No, no that's- that's not what's gonna happen. I mean," You eye him carefully, "I'm pretty sure you're gonna forget this. But I'll tell you, I swear. And if I didn't," You reason, "Robin would. You know she almost shook me to death earlier trying to get me to confess to you? She wouldn't let me run away again. And," You sigh, "I'm sorry for running away earlier today. I was just embarrassed, and scared. You're a really good guy, and it's not your fault that I was afraid."

"Robin'll tell me," He nods along, and you wonder if he's absorbed any other information you've presented him with. But it doesn't matter, because it's a conversation better suited for tomorrow than tonight. And you'll have it- you will tell him, and he'll tell you, too, and you'll... kiss, hopefully.

It's an exciting prospect, kissing Steve. You're glad the feeling in your stomach is butterflies and not barf, and you stand up to re-smooth the covers around Steve's drowsy form.

"Go to sleep, Steve." You croon, "You'll need it, as much as you can get. And tomorrow, you can call me." You snag a pen and paper from his desk, "I'm leaving my phone number right here. Call me, and I'll come over, and we can talk."

"Y'swear?" He asks, squinting suspiciously at you. It's endearing, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed.

You nod like a bobblehead, "I swear, Steve." You offer him a pinky, and his teeth gleam in the low light of his bedroom when he grins, hooking his around yours.

"I'm tired," He announces, dragging his arm back under the blankets, and he's out in no more than five seconds as you pad quietly towards the door.

Robin's sitting on the top step. She turns when she hears you, and springs to her feet, "He's out?"

"He's out." You nod.

"You told him?" She asks, her eyes shining.

"I told him," You confirm, your own smile growing, "And I left my number, so he can call me tomorrow."

"And you'll tell him again," She leads you down the stairs, "Because he's probably gonna wake up with no memory of us even being here."

"I know," You laugh softly, "He told me the same thing. But yeah, I'll tell him again," You promise, "And if things really work out, again. And again, and again, and again, 'cause I really do think I like him a ton. I wouldn't brush just anyone's teeth."

"That is intense," Robin nods, accompanying you back out the side gate and crunching gravel beneath her feet as she heads for your car, "But it's cute, in a gross way. Romantic, maybe."

"Yeah," You grin, glancing back at Steve's dark window as you tug open your car door, "Maybe."

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[soulshaped]

have you been here all along?

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: you left town to figure out what life could look like outside of hawkins and now that you’re back, you’re hoping to finally be honest with steve, to choose love. but… steve’s planning to propose to the girl he met when you left. 

cw: smut (piv, 18+ ONLY mdni), cheating, jealous!steve/reader, slight breeding kink, they r pining hard so angst and then a whole lot of fluff

a/n: i think i actually entered a different plane of existence while writing this. i told myself i would go to sleep early so i could wake up early for a work meeting and then i blinked and it was 5am. hope you love reading this as much as i loved writing it. also!!! thank you for all the love on my last series <3 pls send ur thoughts as always, open to requests too!!!

wc: ~10k

-

The first thing you see when you leave the airport is Robin’s sign. From afar, all you can make out are two stick figures and little hearts scattered across the white poster, her messy handwriting impossible to decipher. Why are there so many words? It doesn’t help that she’s bouncing up and down on her toes, physically unable to contain her excitement. Still, it’s undeniably contagious and you wear a matching smile as you rush towards her, your suitcase bumping into your heels with every step, until you can finally read the sign. 

WELCOME HOME!!! MY BEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD IS BACK!!!

Once you’re within arm’s reach, Robin pulls you into her. Her arms wrap around you, squeezing all the air out of your lungs. 

“Hi, Robs,” you manage to croak out. 

She pulls back with a grin, completely unapologetic for nearly suffocating you. 

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re here! Like really, actually, genuinely here. How was your flight? I missed you so much, you have no idea. And I have so much to tell you—remember that idiot professor I told you about a few months ago, he actually…”

You let her ramble on as you place your suitcase into the trunk of her car. 

“And don’t even get me started on my mother. You know what she said to me? Within minutes, seriously minutes of walking back into her house, she says my tone makes me sound perpetually insincere. All I said was that I missed being back home! How could that possibly come off as insincere…”

And as you leave the airport. 

“What do you think I should do about Vickie? I’m getting really stressed out about the whole situation, I think I might break out into nervous hives. I mean, I get why she’s acting this way, y’know what they say about long distance relationships in college…but she calls me all the time now. I don’t even know if she’s going to any of her classes with how much she calls me. Am I the villain here? Be honest, because I feel like…”

And as she drives you both two hours back to Hawkins. 

It’s comforting. Hearing Robin’s voice—not filtered through miles of distance, in real life—feels like turning the radio onto a station you grew up on. All the little quips, the pauses of hesitation, the overused phrases—you know it all so well you can’t believe you ever forgot it existed. It’s a reminder of everything you left behind three years ago. 

You remember meeting Robin at the park, the summer before freshman year. Your family had just moved into Hawkins with hopes for a quieter, more settled life. You didn’t have any friends for weeks, no one to talk to but yourself (and your parents). You were too nervous to make prolonged eye contact with anyone, let alone strike up a conversation, so you would go to the park every day with a book and your Walkman, hoping that maybe someone would take pity and approach you. Just as the summer was coming to a close and you were ready to give up, you saw a girl you’d never seen before at the park. She was sitting alone on the bench next to yours. Her hair was messy from the humidity and her arms were crossed, guarded. But her bright-colored eyes were nervous, just like yours. You spent the next ten minutes giving yourself a pep talk, steeling yourself for possible rejection. But then, a shadow fell over you and when you looked up, it was the girl. 

“Hi, I’m Robin,” she mumbled, hesitantly reaching out her hand.

“Hi,” you introduced yourself, shaking her hand. “D-Do you like music? Do you wanna listen?” You offered up your headphones to her. 

She broke out into a smile that took up half of her face, her eyes brightening even more. 

“I love music! What are you listening to? Have you heard the new…” she starts rambling, gently putting your headphones over her head and nodding along to the beat. 

The two of you were each other’s emotional support from then on. Starting high school in a new town was scary, but a lot less so with Robin beside you. You were surprised when her summer job at Scoops Ahoy led to an unlikely friendship with Steve Harrington, but when she dragged you into fighting Russians and monsters from an alternate dimension, the whole friendship thing paled in comparison. 

In between trying to save the world though, you and Robin would do what normal best friends would. When the lockdown happened, your parents left Hawkins for Oregon and never looked back. You didn’t blame them, it was the complete opposite of the life they envisioned for themselves when they first moved here. They left the house to you; there was no demand in the housing market to sell it anyway, the town being in quarantine and all. It was lonely, being there all by yourself, but luckily you still had the group to keep you company. More importantly, you still had Robin. The two of you spent so many late nights at the Squawk—trading gossip, ranting about crushes, predicting your futures, sharing your new favorite movies and music. In a way, you owe it all to Robin. If she never came with you to the record store at least once a week back then, you don’t know if you’d be spending your days writing articles about up and coming artists now.

A part of you wants to give yourself over to the feeling, to let it consume your senses and make you forget about the life you’ve built in California. It’s the life you always dreamed about, even prayed for: writing about music, traveling halfway across the world, kissing strangers until your lips went numb, falling into bed with them and regretting it in the morning. But how can anything compare to being here again, next to your best friend, as if nothing ever changed? 

“God, why’d you let me talk for so long? I haven’t even asked you anything!” Robin huffs, just as her car passes by the familiar Welcome to Hawkins sign. 

“That’s not true. You asked how my flight was,” you respond, grinning at her. 

“How are you feeling about seeing… y’know?” 

“Who?”

She looks towards you pointedly and mocks your voice, “Who?” 

You roll your eyes and rest your head against the cold window, mumbling, “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please. You can’t be all cute and clueless with me, missy,” she sings, waving her finger in your face.

“I feel just fine about seeing him.” You wonder if she can hear the thundering of your heart in your chest. 

“Right, and that’s why you can’t say his name.” 

“I feel fine about seeing Steve. Why wouldn’t I?” 

But by the way Robin glances at you, she definitely doesn’t believe you. You never really talked to her about Steve, or at least, how you felt about Steve. It wasn’t for a lack of trying on her end, but every time she even came near the topic, you changed the subject. You’d convinced yourself there was no good time for it, not with everyone’s lives constantly on the line. It was a lame excuse. 

If you were being honest though, you are really nervous to see him. There wasn’t anything tangible, anything with substance, to be nervous about—you left on great terms with Steve. It was the most normal, let’s keep in touch goodbye ever. Still, there’s a feeling there you never managed to snuff out, like a campfire someone forgot about. You just hope that when you do see him, it doesn’t burn down your entire forest. 

“Oh, I almost forgot! Since everyone is back in town for a reunion, we’re having dinner tonight at the cabin.” 

Leave it to Robin to drop this onto your lap at the last minute. 

-

From what you’ve heard, Hopper and Joyce are still happily settled in Montauk. It’s been great for them; not only do they get to see Jonathan and Will regularly, but they’re also far removed from the mess of feelings that comes with being in Hawkins. You’re not surprised that neither of them wanted to come back. Maybe you should’ve gone to Montauk instead. 

Hopper’s cabin was left around in case anyone ever needed it. It was for the kids coming home from college and needing a place to themselves, or a place to crash. Tonight, however, it was for a long overdue reunion dinner. For the first time in years, all of you are back in Hawkins at the same time. The idea was passed around the grapevine a few months ago, a literal game of telephone. On one hand, you’re surprised it’s even happening at all. Everyone’s in different places, spread across different cities and operating on different schedules. But on the other hand, you’re more surprised it’s been three years. You’ve all kept in touch in one way or another, staying updated on each other’s lives for the most part. Though, you’ve personally refused to return to Hawkins until now. 

Seeing your childhood bedroom again was disorienting. It still smelled the same as you remembered it, somehow, even though no one’s been in the house since you left. You had to spend the past few hours cleaning out all the dust and cobwebs that had collected in your absence. By the time you were done, you had to start getting ready for dinner and before you knew it, Robin was back to pick you up. 

The second you enter the cabin, you smell the Wheeler’s famous roast chicken. Nancy’s rushing around the tiny kitchen (somehow making it look bigger than it is with her frantic movements), while Jonathan is setting the table. There’s a familiarity to them working side-by-side. It’s not awkward at all, given the breakup, but you’re not surprised. It’s the perk of what you’d all gone through together: really knowing someone, especially when you love each other as much as they did. 

The kids are arguing enthusiastically amongst themselves about something stupid probably and sharing tales from college. You stand there in silence, hoping to admire the entire scene for a little longer before they’ve noticed your arrival. It reminds you so much of home and you feel the comfort of it all wash over you in an instant. You want to take it all in, bottle it up and carry it with you forever. Unfortunately, El’s head turns to you and Robin, as if she sensed your presence. The other heads are quick to follow. They erupt into a cacophony of sounds as they run to embrace you. It feels more like a tackle. 

“Hey, guys,” you giggle, wrapping your arms around as much of them as you possibly can. 

“Where have you been?” Dustin practically wails, throwing his head onto your shoulder. 

“We missed you,” Will nods. 

“Did you go to see the flowers in Lenora yet?” El asks, head resting on your other shoulder. 

Mike reaches over her to pat your head, “Are you even real?” 

“What’s so good about California, anyway?” Lucas scoffs. 

“Thank you for all the free CDs, I listen to them every single day,” Max smiles warmly. 

“Enough, you guys. You’re going to suffocate my best friend!” Robin whines. 

They’re all talking over each other and you’d definitely be overstimulated by now if you didn’t miss them so damn much. Your cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so hard. When you look over their heads, you finally see Steve. He hangs back, watching the reunion with a fondness in his eyes. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. They are infinitely worse when Nancy announces dinner and the kids finally let you go—he’s right in front of you before you can even blink. 

“Hey, stranger,” he smirks.

“Hi.” 

He pulls you into a bear hug, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “Mike’s right, I can’t believe you're real.” 

When he pulls back to look at you, he gives you the warmest smile ever. You want to spill your guts right then and there. You want to tell him how much you liked him, how you might’ve even loved him if you had just let yourself. Maybe your subconscious knew all along that this is why you’re back in Hawkins now. Maybe you’ll finally tell him. You haven’t really kept in touch over the years, but you’d always remember to send him a postcard whenever you were somewhere new. And every now and again, he’d send you back a letter telling you about life back in Hawkins. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough. Being away, you never let yourself get too close to him. There’s a high probability that if you did, you would’ve thrown everything away and come running back into his arms. But now that you’re back, you don’t know how you could’ve ever left. 

Before sitting down for dinner, you go to hug Nancy and Jonathan. You’ve seen them a few times on the East Coast, usually in between traveling for gigs. You wonder if it’s easier to see them because they don’t remind you of Hawkins the same way the kids do, the way Steve does. They’ve built a life for themselves too, outside of Indiana. They’re chasing their dreams, same as you, and you respect them for it. But, so is Steve. For as long as you’ve known him, he’s always searched for purpose, for belonging, and now, he’s found it. Do you hold it against him that his dreams happen to be in the town you so desperately tried to leave behind? Could you be happy here? And if you could, then what’s changed?

 You’re all catching up over dinner, mostly everyone telling you what they’ve been up to. The kids rant about college, Robin talks about Vickie, Jonathan goes on a monologue about his movie in-progress, and Nancy complains about her shitty boss at the Herald. Steve is being uncharacteristically quiet. You’re about to ask how teaching is going when Dustin speaks up.

“Oh, Steve, I forgot to ask. How’s Mary?”

“Who’s Mary?” You ask casually, mid-bite. 

Dustin’s quick to respond, “Steve’s girlfriend? He didn’t tell yo–”

He trails off, however, once he sees the look in Steve’s eyes. If looks could kill, Dustin would be in hell. 

Steve’s eyes quickly flit to yours, and then down to his plate, like he can’t bear to look at you. 

“Oh?” You smile, trying your hardest to play it off. You’ve lost your appetite. 

Steve clears his throat, “Yeah, yeah… she’s good.” 

Mike, oblivious as ever, looks up from his plate. “Haven’t you guys been dating for, like—what is it—three years now?”

It takes everything in you not to scoff. Three years? Has it all been in your head this entire time? All of the moments between you and Steve, perhaps you’d fooled yourself into thinking there was something real when there wasn’t. You had thought that some of the kids might have known something then, or picked up on it. But you were sure that Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin did—they saw the two of you more, knew more about it. But now that you’re really thinking about it, there wasn’t really anything to know. What did it all amount to? A handful of longing glances, subtle touches?

While you’re lost in your thoughts, the subject changes. You meet Robin’s guilty eyes across the table, probably for not telling you sooner. You’re not mad at her, not even in the slightest. You wouldn’t expect her to tell you the intimate details of Steve’s romantic relationships when you couldn’t even be honest with her about how you felt towards him for years. You shrug back, giving her a smile. She knows you better than anyone in the world, she can tell you’re upset. But there’s nothing to be upset about, you remind yourself. If you wanted to be upset, maybe you shouldn’t have waited so long. You’re left wondering if you should’ve come back to Hawkins at all. 

-

Steve loves Robin. 

He would never admit it to her (or anyone else for that matter), but since she’s gone off to college, he’s really missed her. They talk on the phone, nearly every day, but it’s far from the same as it used to be. Most of the time, it’s just missing each other’s calls and being forced to listen to an entire day’s worth of voicemails. Or when they finally do manage to line up their timing, it’s a game of playing catch ups and what have you been up to, pretending like they aren’t disconnected by miles and miles of distance. Instead, he imagines they’re lying on the carpeted floor of Family Video again, waiting for Ketih to stroll in and berate them for not doing any work. 

It's a lot harder to go through life without your partner-in-crime right beside you, especially when they witnessed a planet-ending threat with you. It’s like having a matching battle scar with someone—even though you can never fully erase it, it’s a world of comfort to know that another person wakes up with it too. He thinks that his attempt at returning to normalcy would’ve been a lot easier if she’d stayed in Hawkins with him, but there’s no way to really know. Steve’s honestly just tired of feeling like he’s constantly flying blind. For once, just once, he’d like to know what it feels like to know when something is really, really right. 

“I’m obsessed with the end, y’know when Bill rides Silver again down the street? I swear to God, I nearly shed a tear,” Robin sighs happily, glancing over at Steve from the passenger seat. “What was your favorite part?”

“None of it.” Steve hates all horror movies, but particularly the ones with small town kids and monsters. “I don’t even know how you can stomach it.”

“Dunno,” she shrugs. “So what if my fondest memories are fucked up?”

“Weirdo,” Steve mutters under his breath. 

“Speaking of what I’m fond of, how was seeing…”

“Don’t start,” Steve cuts her off, taking one hand off the driving wheel to point it at her. 

“You must’ve felt something seeing her again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was fine, great even.”

“Wow, Harrington, that sure is convincing,” she says sarcastically.

“Why wouldn’t it be fine? It was fine.”

“God, you guys even react the same,” she mumbles.

What does that mean? Has she talked to you about him? Recently? What did she say? Steve’s not sure if he wants to know the answer, but luckily Robin continues before he can even ask.

“I don’t believe you, not even a little, but okay,” Robin sings. “Whatever you say, dingus.”

“What do you want me to say? I was nervous?” Steve snaps. “Yeah, I was nervous, Robin. Even though I have a girlfriend that I love, very much, mind you.”

Robin doesn’t respond, the car quickly filling with silence. Steve turns to her exasperated, just to see her with a similar expression, rolling her eyes and pulling down the overhead mirror to fix her hair. He looks back towards the long stretch of road in front of them. Does he even believe it himself?

Mary embodies everything Steve’s ever wanted. A promise of his dream life was on the horizon with her— a big family, a pretty wife on his arm, the RV. She’s the only thing that pulled him out of his bottomless pit of grief, of everyone leaving him behind. She deals with all the nightmares plaguing him in the middle of the night; even if he can never tell her what it is he finds so scary, she holds him until he can breathe again anyway. She loves him with his scars that will probably never fade, etched into his skin until he’s old and wrinkly. She kisses him over dinner like they’re just twenty-somethings on a perfectly normal date in the middle of their perfectly normal life. 

But then, there’s you. You, who waltzed back into town looking even more beautiful than he remembered. He’s tried desperately to forget you, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he ever succeeded. It’s not just the fact that he hears from you every now and again—through the kids, through Robin, through your cute handwriting scribbled onto the back of a postcard—it’s that you’ve been branded onto his heart from the very instant he met you. 

It hadn’t even been a full week of work at Scoops Ahoy before you came to visit Robin. You strolled up to the counter with a smile sweet enough to rival the ice cream and he was sure that you would take the entire store out of business if you stayed long enough. 

“Hey, Steve. Is Robin here?” You beamed, glancing at the frosted window behind him. 

Steve doesn’t remember how he responded, but he’s positive that it was mostly an incoherent stumbling of words. He couldn’t fathom that he’d never seen or met you around school before, but you somehow knew him. Steve knew he was popular, he knew that for a lot of his time at high school he was hung up on Nancy Wheeler. But for you to fly completely under his radar until now? Seeing as you’ve single-handedly dismantled his ability to speak with a simple smile, it’s a mystery how he’s never noticed you prior to this very moment.

After that, he continued to pine after you for the years to follow. Just as it became easier for him to hold an actual conversation with you without melting into a puddle of mush, it became even clearer how much he liked you. You were fiercely independent, but unguarded; though you took pride in paving your own way through life, you never failed to care for the people around you. You were so unafraid of loving out loud, you believed that love should be shouted from the rooftops if given the chance. It’s part of the reason why he never pursued anything beyond friendship with you—if you had felt something, anything for him, surely you would’ve said something by now. 

Robin knew, obviously, about his desperate state of yearning for you. He could never keep his mouth shut around her. But she never wanted to get involved. She’s my best friend and you’re also my best friend. Do I look like a matchmaker? Just grow a pair, dingus. But the world was always ending and there was never a good time, at least, that’s what he told himself so he could sleep at night. 

Now, he doesn’t need to tell himself that anymore. He has Mary and she’s good for him. He loves her. He really wants to believe it. He’ll grip onto it with white knuckles if he has to, to see it through to the end. 

Steve clears his throat, nervous to break through the silence, “I have a ring.”

In his periphery, he sees Robin’s head turn slowly to him. She slams the mirror to a close. He winces.

“Do not tell me you’re saying what I think you’re saying.”

“What? We’ve been dating for three years, Robin. Three. Years.”

“You know what,” she pushed, glaring at him.

And he does know, even if he doesn’t want to. He can’t even entertain the idea of letting that thought back in, of letting the idea of you back in. Not when the ring box is actively burning a hole through his jean pocket. He’s been too scared to leave it anywhere else, given how much of a fortune it cost (even on a teacher’s salary). Mary cares about that kind of thing—of how it would look, the weight of it against her finger—so he tried his very best. 

He sighs, “Robin, if it were going to happen between… us, it would’ve already. You know her, she’s moved on and is living the life she’s always wanted, the life that has nothing to do with me.”

Before Robin can respond, he adds quickly, “Also, Mary is great and you really like her! Remember?”

“I never said she wasn’t great or that I didn’t like her but… isn’t the love of your life supposed to feel more than—I don’t know—safe?”

Steve doesn’t know how to answer that because yeah, maybe at one point he thought so too. But that was all just childish thinking and now he was building a real future, a life for himself. Safety is everything, you all know that better than anyone. 

“She’s the first step to the life I’d always wanted, the life I need,” he exhales deeply. “I have the ring, Robs. I’m going to marry her, end of story.”

Robin flops back into her chair and leans against the passenger door. 

“You are an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

She can call him names all she wants, but Steve’s made up his mind. 

-

The Wheeler’s basement always smelled like home, or what you’d imagine your home could smell like one day. It was a mix of nostalgia and dust, something old and borrowed. Whenever Mrs. Wheeler was cooking dinner, the delicious scents would travel down the stairwell and right into the basement. It would entangle with the air of laundered blankets, just fresh out of the dryer and still warm to the touch. The sound of the kids only adds to the overwhelming sense of belonging you feel here, their voices getting more and more elevated by the second. 

“They’re going to get him!”

“He’s not going to make it! I can’t look, I can’t—”

“Run, Indi, Run!”

You’ve all seen this film dozens of times since it was released—Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade—but the boys still attempt to burst your eardrums with their “surprised” screams every time. By the fifth rewatch, you’d given up on trying to get them to shut the hell up. Instead, you’re resigned to the couch, decidedly not watching a film you could probably quote line for line at this point. 

An underground music zine you picked up at one of your last LA gigs rests on your lap. You flip through it lazily as “research” for work. Max and El aren’t watching the movie either, both of their heads leaning on each of your shoulders and reading along with you. They occasionally chime in to ask a question or point to a fun graphic on the page. All of them are miles past the babysitting age, so you don’t really need to be here, but they invited you anyway. You didn’t think when you first moved into town that you would graduate from Hawkins high with six little siblings, but you’ll always be eternally grateful that you did. Even though they’re a lot less cute and a lot more annoying now, you wouldn’t want to spend your night any other way, honestly. 

By the time the movie ends, half the kids are asleep. You’re about to nudge Mike awake with your toe (it being his house and all—thus, his responsibility to kick everyone out), when you hear a car beep from outside. They all wake up groggily, rubbing their eyes way too aggressively, and you get instant flashbacks to the younger, tinier versions of them.

Dustin grumbles, “It’s probably Steve. He’s here to drive me back.”

You all start to get up, trying to stand on legs that feel more like jelly now than legs. What time is it? How long have you been here?

“Don’t you have a license now?” You snort, yanking your purse strap out from underneath Will’s foot. 

“Yes. I do,” he deadpans. “But Mom’s at Bingo Night and I obviously don’t have a spare car lying around.”

“Okay, jeez,” you raise your hands up, defensively. “It was just a question, no need to get your panties in a twist over it.” 

“Because, why would you ask if I have my license that way—”

“In what way?”

“In that tone!”

“I didn’t have a tone.”

“You had a tone,” Dustin turns to Lucas, pointing at you accusatorily. “Didn’t she have a tone?”

You roll your eyes, looking over at the cat-shaped clock hanging on the opposite wall. It’s nearly midnight. And you don’t have your car. Robin had driven you over on her way to stay the night at Vickie’s. 

You hold a hand up to cut him off. “Wait, do you think Steve can drop me off too?” 

Dustin shrugs, completely forgetting his (baseless) argument. “Yeah, probably.” 

After cleaning up the mess of a basement haphazardly, you all head upstairs and out the door. As you say your goodbyes to everyone, Steve is honking the car horn, repeatedly. He’s half hanging out his window, looking agitated. Your heart skips a beat. 

“Took you long enough, Henderson.”

Walking towards his car, you notice someone you’ve never seen before sitting in the passenger seat.

She’s pretty. An overwhelming sense of dread settles into the pit of your gut—you have a sneaking suspicion of who she is. Steve looks at you with furrowed brows, etching deeper into his forehead as you keep approaching.

“Hey.”

“Hi… do you think you can give me a ride too? I don’t really feel like walking at this hour.”

It takes him a beat too long to respond.

“Yeah, yeah. Totally, of course, absolutely. Hop in.”

You look at him quizzically, but when Dustin opens the door and slides in, you follow. 

“Hey, Mary,” Dustin says, leaning over the center console. “Steve, can I drive?”

“Yeah, absolutely not. Nice try.” 

Dustin sighs dramatically, leans his head against the window, and promptly starts snoring. It must be the world’s fastest record and you’re annoyed at how peaceful he looks. How dare he abandon you right now in your time of need? Steve pulls away from the curb and you still haven’t greeted her, words caught in your throat. 

Just as you’re steeling yourself to utter some words, any words, she speaks up. 

“Stevie,” she murmurs. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” 

Steve moves his head as if to turn towards you, but decides against it at the last minute. He looks at her instead. 

“Oh my God, of course! I’m so sorry, honey.” 

Your stomach feels like it’s filled with rocks.

He clears his throat nervously before announcing your name, eyes meeting yours in the rearview. “Uh—this… this is Mary.” 

That’s it. He stops talking all together, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She turns in her seat to face you with an arm outstretched amicably. She gives you the brightest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen. 

“Hi, I’m Steve’s girlfriend. It’s nice to meet you!”

Every instinct is telling you that you should hate her, but she seems so, so nice. She’s making it impossible. Your hand meets hers over the console, and God, even her hands are buttery soft. They’ve never seen a second of battle with interplanetary monsters, you’re sure of it. You wish you could say the same for yourself. 

“Hi, it’s really nice to meet you.” You hope you sound sincere when you add, “Steve’s told me so much about you.” 

If you weren’t so hyperaware of him, down to his every breath, you wouldn’t have noticed the slight tilt of his head. You both know damn well he’s not told you a single thing about Mary. Luckily, she believes you. 

“Aw, Stevie! That’s so cute,” she says, cuddling into his arm. 

He chuckles nervously and you would laugh at how tense he is if it wasn’t for your body telling you that you might very well throw up right now. She’s whispering things in his ear, effectively blocking you out of their conversation. Before you puke your guts out all over Steve’s car, you sit back and look out the window. He’s driving you to yours first, even though Dustin’s was closer. You try not to think about when he used to loop around your block dozens of times before dropping you off—just so he could talk to you a little longer. It’s for the better this way; you don’t want to be in here any longer than necessary.

When he pulls into your driveway, you both mutter a tired goodbye. Mary, on the other hand, waves to you enthusiastically.

“We should totally get dinner sometime!”

You agree, even though there’s absolutely no chance in hell that’s ever happening. 

The safe comfort of your bed has never felt better. 

-

“And then, she called him Stevie. Like, unironically, honest to God, called him Stevie,” you cackle.

It’s a lot funnier now, in the daylight and not in the same car as Steve and Mary. Robin rolls her eyes at you from your bedroom floor. It’s just like old times. 

“I am so sick of the both of you,” she groans. 

“What the hell did I do?” You huff, offended. 

You can tell Robin is trying to hold her tongue for once. 

“Spit it out, Buckley.”

The dam breaks.

“You two have been so obviously, so blatantly in love with each other since, basically forever at this point, and you know it. Why neither of you have fessed up to it is literally beyond me and I’ve tried to stay out of it, I’ve tried to let the cards fall where they may, but I am sick of it. I can’t handle it anymore!”

And out of defensiveness, you ignore the part about Steve.

“What do you want me to do, huh? He’s in a long-term, very serious relationship! She calls him Stevie and he doesn’t make fun of her! What, am I supposed to just break them up?”

Robin sits up. “I don’t know! Maybe! If you don’t, then Steve is going to propose and they are going to get married and then I—”

She stops dead in her tracks. When she looks up and sees your face, your jaw is on the floor. 

“What?”

“Oh, fuck. You weren’t supposed to hear that, pretend you didn’t hear that.”

“Steve is… proposing?” 

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t know, this is all so confusing,” Robin shouts, throwing her hands up. 

“But he has a ring?” 

She winces. “Yeah. He does.”

You fall back onto your mattress, a million thoughts racing through your head. Ring. Wedding. Vows. Forever. House. Kids. They play in a flash like you’re witnessing a snapshot of the life he’s about to live. And you aren’t in any of it. You’re grieving something that was never even yours, all because you wanted to chase some potentially happier life. You start to think—as this dark, muddy feeling settles in your stomach—that the happiest life, out of all of them, might’ve been here in Hawkins the whole time. 

“Hey…hey, please don’t cry,” Robin begs, reaching over to lay her hand over yours. 

“No, no, don’t worry about it, honestly,” you brush the tears quickly, shaking your head. “I think this is what I needed. I have to move on. Let’s not talk about it anymore, okay?”

She hesitates, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. You can’t meet her eyes, choosing to preoccupy yourself by tugging at a loose string on your bedsheets instead. You change the subject.

“There’s actually this show in Chicago tomorrow I was thinking about covering, if you want to come? I have an extra ticket.” 

“I would love to, but I really have to figure this whole Vickie thing out before I leave again,” she pouts. 

“It’s okay. Maybe I’ll ask Nancy or Jonathan…”

Her eyes light up as she grabs your hand. “Wait, on second thought, I’ll take the ticket!”

“What about—”

Robin waves her hand in the air. “It’s fine! I can go after I see her.”

You smile at her gratefully. At least you have something to look forward to. You love what you do, but more importantly, you need a distraction. You need it now more than ever. You need a physical reminder of who you’ve become. But still, it hurts in a different way, like maybe you need to accept that you don’t belong in Hawkins anymore, that there’s nothing keeping you here. It’s time to let go. 

-

The music is loud and people keep bumping into you. When you called Robin before you left, she said she was going to meet you here. You keep glancing around the bar, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but no luck. You hope she didn’t get lost on her way over, that she didn’t get into an accident—

You feel someone tap you on the shoulder. 

When you turn around, you’re met with a familiar dark head of hair looking down at you. 

It’s Adam. You’ve met him here and there in the music scene, but always in passing. 

“Hey! Funny seeing you here, thought you were back in California still?”

He pulls you into a warm hug, arms coming around your waist. 

“I was visiting my hometown right outside of the city for a bit. What are you doing here?” You say, pulling back and resting your hands on his broad shoulders. 

“I’m actually opening for the band that’s on tonight. They asked if I could a few days ago; it was super last minute.” 

“I didn’t even know you guys knew each other.” You’re surprised, but not really. Over the years you’ve learned that the music scene is a lot more intertwined than most people realize. You’ve been lucky enough to witness it firsthand. 

“Yeah, we all grew up together back in Boston,” he smiles fondly. “I’m really glad you’re here. Your drink is on me tonight, okay?”

He’s cute. You wonder what Robin will think of him. It’s feeling serendipitous that he’s here—it’s the perfect time for a rebound given that you haven’t had good sex in what feels like forever. 

A girl with a headset on comes up to him, tapping a non-existent watch on her arm. 

He looks back at you with disappointment in his eyes. “Looks like I gotta run, but see you after?” 

“Yeah,” you grin. “If you’re lucky.” 

He laughs as his lips come down to your cheek for a kiss. “I don’t know, I’m feeling pretty lucky already,” he whispers.  

He takes a step back with a wink, then rushes off to the stage. 

You watch him leave, nearly jumping out of your skin when someone clears their throat right next to you. 

“Who’s the guy?”

You turn to see… Steve?

“What? What are you doing here?” 

He shrugs casually, “Robin said you needed company and nobody else could go with you. I didn’t want you to be here all alone.”

“What?” You repeat frustratedly. “I— you know what? Whatever. It’s fine, you don’t have to stay here with me, I’ve done this countless times alone. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, well… I already drove all the way here, so I can stay if you want… to keep you company…” He trails off, his hands fidgeting before he shoves them into his jean pockets. 

You huff, “Yeah, I guess. Sure, whatever.” 

It’s awkward. You should’ve pushed harder to get him to leave. Thankfully, the lights dim and the show starts before you’re able to think too hard about it. You love everything about live shows. No matter what insane situation you’re in, you will always flourish at a show. 

Adam’s band takes the stage and the mass of people rush forward. You stay leaning against the bar, it’s a small venue and you can see them perfectly from here. It seems that Adam can see you too, obvious when he looks up at the crowd and points to you. You flush, cheeks burning red. To make matters worse, you feel Steve’s stare piercing a hole into the side of your head. He shuffles closer to you before he turns his attention back to the stage, crossing his arms over his chest. 

-

The music is good. You spend the better half of the set jotting things down into your notepad, the article already writing itself. When the show comes to a close, you and Steve grab drinks and settle into a booth. The show had cleared through a lot of the initial awkwardness, the drinks handling the rest. You’re finally catching up with him, and it feels like old times again. 

You’re in the middle of reminiscing about the one time you accidentally knocked over an entire organized stack of VHS tapes at Family Video (one that Steve had been working on for over an hour), right before Keith walked in and almost had an aneurysm staring at all of the tapes on the floor. 

“Do you remember that vein that would always pop out of his neck when he was angry? I swear it was going to burst with the way he was—” 

Adam cuts Steve off, sliding into the booth beside you. 

“Hey, pretty girl.” 

You look up and blush profusely, but when you go to glance at Steve, his eyes are narrowed in on him. But Adam doesn’t realize, you guess, because there’s not a second of hesitation when he asks if you want another drink.

“No, I’m okay. I have to drive back tonight,” you say, shaking your head. 

He nods, understandingly. “Gotcha, I’ll be right back then. Don’t go anywhere!” 

He scoots out of his seat, walking over to the bar. Steve is watching him like a hawk and your stomach sinks at the thought of him being jealous. Is he jealous? Why are you even wondering if he’s jealous when he’s about to be a fiancé? You need some air. 

“I’m… gonna go to the bathroom real quick. If he comes back, just let him know, will you?” 

You don’t give him a chance to respond, your legs carrying you over to the dingy dive bar bathroom at record speed. You lock the door and turn to rest your hands on the sink. You look up at your reflection in the mirror, seeing the red hue littering your cheeks. God, what is wrong with you? 

“Jesus Christ, get a fucking grip,” you whisper to yourself. You wash your hands quickly, wiping the residual water onto the sides of your jean skirt. You take a few deep breaths before unlocking the door, preparing yourself for the inevitable tension. 

Pulling the door open, you’re greeted with Steve, leaning against the opposite wall. 

“What the hell? Steve, I told you to—” 

He nudges you back into the bathroom and locks the door. He’s not facing you; he has one hand flat on the door, as if to steady himself. You can see he’s breathing heavily by the way his shirt stretches against his back with each inhale. 

“Steve? Are you okay? Do you need—”

You don’t get to finish your line of questioning because, in an instant, he’s practically on top of you, crowding into your space. You instinctively move backwards until your back hits the sink counter. You look at him as if he’s grown seven heads. 

He looks back at you with desperate eyes, muttering, “Tell me to stop. Just tell me you don’t want this and I’ll leave.” 

But you don’t want to. Now that he’s in your reach, you never want him to be anywhere else. You don’t say anything. You look up at him, gaze switching between his eyes in an attempt to find any doubt at all, but there is none; he looks as sure of this as you feel. 

A beat that lasts an eternity passes, before he’s wrapping his arms around your waist, lifting you up to reach his lips. It’s a rushed kiss—his lips capturing yours in a heated embrace, pushing deeper and deeper until you blend into one. His mouth finds your bottom lip and tugs gently, just before you slip your tongue along the ridge of his. His hands urge your thighs to wrap around his hips so he can lift you higher, placing you onto the cold counter. You’re like putty in his hands, molding around him and you’re convinced of it now—you’re convinced that there’s no feeling as perfect as this, that there never will be. You feel him harden through his jeans and it rubs against your inner thigh in the best way possible. You grind your center against it and he moans loudly into your mouth. He reaches his hand beneath your skirt, pushing it up and out of the way. Just as he moves his fingers towards your heated core, someone knocks on the door. 

Both of you break apart suddenly as your hands retreat to yourselves, like you were burned by the other’s skin. His eyes are wide—in fear, in regret, you don’t know—but his lips are swollen and you relish in knowing that it was your doing. The feeling fades quickly, however, being enveloped in something much darker, more painful: Mary. You watch in real-time as her presence returns to his conscious thoughts, watch as he brings his hand up to drag down his face. 

He mumbles an apology, just under his breath, before he turns and unlocks the door. And just like that, he’s gone. You hop off the counter and glance at the mirror. Your hair is a tangled mess, your eyeliner smudged along your lower lash line. Though you miss the feeling of his fingers tangled in between the strands at the nape of your neck, all the good is snuffed out by the bad, like pinched fingers to a lit match. A tear falls and hits the back of your hand, gripping onto the sink. 

“Fuck.” 

-

You’ve barely left your bed, let alone your house. Your last day in town is tomorrow, and you feel awful for dodging everyone’s calls. You’ve been telling them that you’re sick, down with the flu. You feel even worse when you realize you don’t know when you’ll be seeing everyone again; with everyone split up across the country, it’s rare to have you all in Hawkins at the same time. But you feel the worst when you think about Mary, so you’d rather just stay in bed until you can run back to the life you’ve built somewhere else, far away from here. 

Even though a part of you doesn’t even want to go back, you’ve run out of options. There’s no way you could ever stay here when there’s a chance you’ll bump into Steve, into Mary—potentially with a new, shiny diamond ring on her finger. When you think about it, you really do feel sick, so maybe you haven’t been lying at all. You’d rather have the flu.

You hear a light clack against your window. Maybe you’re going stir-crazy, maybe it’s just cabin fever. Another clack. Or maybe you’ve just completely lost your mind. 

You ignore it for a few minutes, but it doesn’t stop. Finally, you get up and pull back your curtains. You see Steve standing outside, holding pebbles in his hand. 

With a pull, you lift up the window. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Let me come up,” he says. When you don’t hesitate, he whispers, “Please.” 

You nod slowly, backing away from the opening as an invitation. 

He climbs up and you’re suddenly faced with Steve Harrington back in your bedroom again. After years of not seeing him standing against your childhood wallpaper, you’re hit with a wave of nostalgia. You have so many memories of him in this very room—from bandaging him up after a lost fight to forcing him to hear all of your favorite songs to letting him complain about his shitty parents. He told you once about his RV dream, indescribable hope in his eyes for the future even in the face of war. Remembering how he looked then hurts a lot more when you see how swollen his eyes are. 

He still hasn’t said anything, so you come to a seat on the edge of the bed, leaving him to stand there awkwardly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and he’s unsteady on his feet. 

“Steve,” you sigh wearily. “What are you doing here?”

“I broke up with Mary,” he blurts out. 

It’s the last thing you thought he’d say. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“God, I don’t want you to be sorry. It’s my fault. All of it.”

“Is she…okay?”

Steve shrugs, “She was pissed. ‘M not surprised—I mean, I would be too.”

You hesitate before responding. “Did you… tell her about…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he exhales. “I told her everything.”

You nod. “Are you okay?”

He scoffs, “No, I’m not okay. None of this is okay.”

“I-I’m sorry—”

“Stop. Just stop apologizing.”

“What do you want me to say? You’re the one that showed up here!” You yell, gesturing wildly at him. 

“I know! Jesus Christ, I know, okay?” He starts pacing.

“What do you want from me?” 

“Something! Anything! I don’t know—”

Steve kneels down in front of you, grabbing your hands from your lap. “I don’t know, tell me you hate me, that you never want to see me again, or—” He rests his forehead against your hands, wrapped in between his, like he’s saying a prayer. 

“Or tell me you feel something for me, for us.” He glances up at you between watery, red-rimmed lashes. 

He smiles sadly, almost humiliated, “I feel like I’ve been going crazy these past few days. Everything was fine, it was better than fine. I was building a life, a real one, for myself—the one I’ve always wanted. And then you came back. You finally came back just when I thought I was finally over you, and it’s like these past three years never happened. I’m right back where I started, chasing after you as you chase after the world.”

“Steve…”

“I know… I know you have a life for yourself. You’re chasing after your dreams, why would you settle down in this shithole town with a guy like me. But I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep pretending like I felt even a fraction of what I feel for you, for Mary or anyone for that matter. Even if this is the last time I ever see you, I just needed to tell you. I needed to be selfish, just this once. I think… I think you’re the love of my life.”

His words settle around you like fresh winter snow, the first snowfall of the year. Unexpected, but welcoming nonetheless. You’re breathing in the crisp air for the first time in a long time and you feel it travel through every vein in your body, from the top of your head down to the very bottom of your feet. It makes you feel awake, alive. You place a hand on his cheek, dampened by his tears. 

You speak almost in a whisper, afraid of disrupting the fragility of the air around you, “I thought I knew what I wanted when I left Hawkins. I thought that there was a happier path somewhere out there for me and once I found it, I would know that I made the right decision, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. But that feeling never came and I’ve looked for it everywhere. I’ve been to so many different places, I’ve met so many different people, but I never found it. Maybe I had to leave to figure that out because then I came back and I realized. It’s not in any of those places, I don’t even know if it’s Hawkins, necessarily.”

You touch your forehead to his, reeling in the feeling of his hair brushing against your skin. 

“It’s you, Steve. That happy path, the one that I was supposed to find? It’s always just been you,” you smile. “I lov—”

You’re cut off by his lips meeting yours. Steve holds your face gently, making sure not to break apart from you as he comes to a stand. He crowds into your space until you lean back onto the mattress with him hovering over you. He pulls away to effortlessly lift you onto the bed entirely. 

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you smile. You reach your hand to the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down until his body is flush with yours. His kisses deepen as he exhales through his nose, pushing you further into the softness of the bed. He begins to trail his lips from the corner of your mouth down to the edge of your jaw, quickly finding your weak spot between your neck and your collarbone. He suctions his lips to it until it reddens, until it blooms into something darker, and then licks over the mark possessively. 

“I couldn’t stand watching him flirt with you. I swear I was seconds away from beating the shit out of him.”

You choke out a laugh, but it quickly turns into a moan as he sucks another mark onto your neck. “You don’t have a really good track record with getting into fights, Harrington.”

Steve’s eyes noticeably darken with your words. His hand reaches down to the hem of your shirt and pulls it over your head. 

“I would’ve won this one. Trust me.” He smirks cockily, bending down to capture your nipple in between his teeth. You arch your back, pushing yourself further into his mouth. He moans against your skin and presses a few more kisses against your sternum before sitting up and pulling off his shirt. 

“Let me see you, baby,” he whispers as he tugs on your shorts. You quickly rid them from your legs, leaving you in your underwear. Steve stares at the wet spot in between your thighs, mesmerized. 

“Jesus, you’re soaked.” He leans down and runs his tongue over the damp fabric before kissing it with an open mouth. He sucks the wetness out of the fabric, needing a taste of you. You throw your head back with a moan, “Please, Steve.”

“What? Tell me what you want.” 

“Need your mouth. Need you inside of me,” you beg. 

You nearly protest when he pulls away. He rids himself of his jeans, his underwear going with it. You’re barely able to process how big he is before he lies down head down on your pillows. 

“C’mon, sit on my face.”

“What?”

He pulls you by your hand until you're straddling his waist. “Please, baby. I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”

You take off your underwear, and then climb forward on your knees until your thighs are beside his ears. Steve’s hands come to a bruising grip on your hips and he pulls you straight down onto his open mouth without warning.

“Fuck!” You scream, gripping onto your headboard. 

His tongue dives straight into you, flicking back and forth along your slit. When he suckles harshly on your clit, your legs start to shake. He dips his tongue fully inside of you, then out again, on repeat. His nose presses against you in the best way. It digs into your clit and when he moves his head side-to-side, he nudges it impossibly deeper into you. You feel your climax approaching you quickly. Steve can tell. 

“You taste like heaven, I could do this all fucking day.”

He brings one of his hands to rub your clit and you fight the urge to scream. 

“Cum for me, baby, I need it. Need you dripping all over me.”

Your vision turns into stars as you release onto his tongue, and he licks up all of it without even a drop to spare. Steve won’t let you go far as you slide off of his face, instead pushing you back down onto his lap. His hard length presses against your wet opening and you feel every ridge, every vein against your sensitive core. You gasp loudly, wanting to lift off of him out of oversensitivity. He pulls you in with a tight grip on the nape of your neck, pushing his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss as you taste yourself on him. 

“Wanna be inside you, fuck, I need you so bad.”

“Then, fuck me, Steve.” 

He’s seemingly lost all patience too, his body buzzing like a live wire. He lines himself up with you, pushing the tip of his dick past your walls. He shudders from your warmth, from your residual cum dripping onto him as he goes deeper. Even after all these years in a relationship, he’s never fucked without a condom. But with you, he can’t be bothered—the thought of you swollen with his baby is enough to make him finish right then and there. 

Once he’s fully inside of you, you press down on your lower abdomen as you adjust to his size. You can practically feel him in your stomach. Steve nearly passes out, his vision clouding. He moans your name, the sound of it like music to your ears. You’re desperate to hear it again. You lift yourself up until his tip is just barely in and drop down in an instant. 

“Holy fuck,” he groans under his breath. 

You keep riding him until your knees give out, until the obscene sound of wet slapping of skin is all you can hear.  Steve pushes you down onto him with a hand on your back and pins his feet onto the mattress as leverage. He thrusts up into you quickly as you tuck your head into his neck. You moan his name over and over again, drawing him closer to the edge with just the sound of you. 

“Who do you belong to?” Steve demands. 

“You,” you whine back, unable to form any other words.

“Say it, baby.”

“I–I belong to you, Steve,” you choke out.

“You’re fucking mine,” he moans, his hot breath against your ear. 

With that, you come for the second time, sending Steve barreling towards his own orgasm. As you clench around him, tighter than a fist, he releases inside of you and paints your walls with his hot cum. You can feel the heat of it swirling inside of you—there’s so much of it, it comes leaking down the side of his dick still buried inside of you. He whispers I love you on repeat, speaking it into your skin like a promise. You echo it back to him and press soft kisses onto his chest, damp with sweat. 

It’s hard to believe, in this moment, that you ever thought happiness could be found anywhere else. 

Everything you’ve ever wanted has been here all along—right under your nose.